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diff --git a/old/68503-0.txt b/old/68503-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 42d7cad..0000000 --- a/old/68503-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14273 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The end of the house of Alard, by -Sheila Kaye-Smith - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The end of the house of Alard - -Author: Sheila Kaye-Smith - -Release Date: July 11, 2022 [eBook #68503] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE END OF THE HOUSE OF -ALARD *** - - - - - - THE END OF - THE HOUSE OF ALARD - - - - - _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ - - TAMARISK TOWN - JOANNA GODDEN - GREEN APPLE HARVEST - THE CHALLENGE TO SIRIUS - THE FOUR ROADS - THE TRAMPING METHODIST - - E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY - - - - - THE END OF THE HOUSE OF ALARD - - - BY - - SHEILA KAYE-SMITH - AUTHOR OF “JOANNA GODDEN,” ETC. - -[Illustration] - - “_We only know that the last sad squires ride slowly towards the sea, - And a new people takes the land._...” - —G. K. CHESTERTON. - - - NEW YORK - E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY - 681 FIFTH AVENUE - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1923 - - BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY - - - _All Rights Reserved_ - - First printing Aug., 1923 - Second „ Nov., 1923 - Third-Sixth printing Dec., 1923 - - - Printed in the United States of America - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PART ONE - PAGE - CONSTER MANOR 1 - - PART TWO - LEASAN PARSONAGE 79 - - PART THREE - FOURHOUSES 145 - - PART FOUR - STARVECROW 237 - - - - - _PART I_ - CONSTER MANOR - - - - - THE END OF THE HOUSE - OF ALARD - - - - - _PART I_ - CONSTER MANOR - - - § 1 - -There are Alards buried in Winchelsea church—they lie in the south aisle -on their altar tombs, with lions at their feet. At least one of them -went to the Crusades and lies there cross-legged—the first Gervase -Alard, Admiral of the Cinque Ports and Bailiff of Winchelsea, a man of -mighty stature. - -Those were the days just after the Great Storm, when the sea swallowed -up the first parish of St. Thomas à Becket, and King Edward laid out a -new town on the hoke above Bukenie. The Alards then were powerful on the -marsh, rivals of De Icklesham and fighters of the Abbot of Fécamps. They -were ship-owners, too, and sent out to sea _St. Peter_, _Nostre Dame_ -and _La Nave Dieu_. Stephen Alard held half a knight’s fee in the manors -of Stonelink, Broomhill and Coghurst, while William Alard lost thirty -sailors, thirty sergeants-at-arms, and anchors and ropes, in Gascony. - -In the fifteenth century the family had begun to dwindle—its power was -passing into the hands of the Oxenbridges, who, when the heiress of the -main line married an Oxenbridge, adopted the Alard arms, the lion within -a border charged with scallop shells. Thus the trunk ended, but a branch -of the William Alards had settled early in the sixteenth century at -Conster Manor, near the village of Leasan, about eight miles from -Winchelsea. Their shield was argent, three bars gules, on a canton azure -a leopard’s head or. - -Peter Alard re-built Conster in Queen Elizabeth’s day, making it what it -is now, a stone house with three hipped gables and a huge red sprawl of -roof. It stands on the hill between Brede Eye and Horns Cross, looking -down into the valley of the river Tillingham, with Doucegrove Farm, -Glasseye Farm and Starvecrow Farm standing against the woods beyond. - -The Alards became baronets under Charles the First, for the Stephen -Alard of that day was a gentleman of the bedchamber, and melted down the -Alard plate in the King’s lost cause. Cromwell deprived the family of -their lands, but they came back at the Restoration, slightly Frenchified -and intermarried with the Papist. They were nearly in trouble again when -Dutch William was King, for Gervase Alard, a son in orders, became a -non-juror and was expelled from the family living of Leasan, though a -charge of sedition brought against him collapsed from lack of substance. - -Hitherto, though ancient and honourable, the Alards had never been rich, -but during the eighteenth century, successful dealings with the East -India Company brought them wealth. It was then that they began to buy -land. They were no longer content to look across the stream at -Doucegrove, Glasseye and Starvecrow, in the hands of yeomen, but one by -one these farms must needs become part of their estate. They also bought -all the fine woodlands of the Furnace, the farms of Winterland and -Ellenwhorne at the Ewhurst end of the Tillingham valley, and Barline, -Float and Dinglesden on the marshes towards Rye. They were now big -landowners, but their land-hunger was still unsatisfied—Sir William, the -Victorian baronet, bought grazings as far away as Stonelink, so that -when his son John succeeded him the Alards of Conster owned most of the -land between Rye and Ewhurst, the Kent Ditch and the Brede river. - -John Alard was about thirty years old when he began to reign. He had -spent most of his grown-up life in London-the London of gas and -crinolines, Disraeli and Nellie Farren, Tattersalls and Caves of -Harmony. He had passed for a buck in Victorian society, with its -corruption hidden under outward decorum, its romance smothered under -ugly riches in stuffy drawing-rooms. But when the call came to him he -valiantly settled down. In Grosvenor Square they spoke of him behind -their fans as a young man who had sown his wild oats and was now an -eligible husband for the innocent Lucy Kenyon with her sloping shoulders -and vacant eyes. He married her as his duty and begat sons and -daughters. - -He also bought more land, and under him the Alard estates crept over the -Brede River and up Snailham hill towards Guestling Thorn. But that was -only at the beginning of his squireship. One or two investments turned -out badly, and he was forced to a standstill. Then came the bad days of -the landowners. Lower and lower dropped the price of land and the price -of wheat, hop-substitutes became an electioneering cry in the Rye -division of Sussex and the noble gardens by the river Tillingham went -fallow. Then came Lloyd George’s Land Act—the rush to the market, the -impossibility of sale. Finally the European war of 1914 swept away the -little of the Alard substance that was left. They found themselves in -possession of a huge ramshackle estate, heavily mortgaged, crushingly -taxed. - -Sir John had four sons—Hugh, Peter, George and Gervase—and three -daughters, Doris, Mary and Janet. Hugh and Peter both went out to fight, -and Hugh never came back. George, following a tradition which had ruled -in the family since the days of the non-juring Gervase, held the living -of Leasan. Gervase at the outbreak of hostilities was only in his second -term at Winchester, being nearly eighteen years younger than his brother -George. - -Of the girls, only Mary was married, though Doris hinted at a number of -suitors rejected because of their unworthiness to mate with Alard. Jenny -was ten years younger than Mary—she and Gervase came apart from the rest -of the family, children of middle age and the last of love. - - - § 2 - -A few days before Christmas in the year 1918, most of the Alards were -gathered together in the drawing-room at Conster, to welcome Peter the -heir. He had been demobilised a month after the Armistice and was now -expected home, to take on himself the work of the estate in the place of -his brother Hugh. The Alards employed an agent, and there were also -bailiffs on one or two of the farms, but the heir’s presence was badly -needed in these difficult days. Sir John held the authority, and the -keenness of his interest was in no wise diminished by his age; but he -was an old man, nearly seventy-five, and honourably afflicted with the -gout. He could only seldom ride on his grey horse from farm to farm, -snarling at the bailiff or the stockman, winking at the chicken -girl—even to drive out in his heavy Wolsey car gave him chills. So most -days he sat at home, and the work was done by him indeed, but as it were -by current conducted through the wires of obedient sons and servants. - -This afternoon he sat by the fire in the last patch of sunlight, which -his wife hankered to have shut off from the damasked armchair. - -“It really is a shame to run any risks with that beautiful colour,” she -murmured from the sofa. “You know it hasn’t been back from Hampton’s a -week, and it’s such very expensive stuff.” - -“Why did you choose it?” snarled Sir John. - -“Well, it was the best—we’ve always had the best.” - -“Next time you can try the second best as a new experience.” - -“Your father really is hopeless,” said Lady Alard in a loud whisper to -her daughter Doris. - -“Sh-sh-sh,” said Doris, equally loud. - -“Very poor as an aside, both of you,” said Sir John. - -The Reverend George Alard coughed as a preliminary to changing the -conversation. - -“Our Christmas roses are better than ever this year,” he intoned. - -His wife alone supported him. - -“They’ll come in beautifully for the Christmas decorations—I hope -there’s enough to go round the font.” - -“I’d thought of them on the screen, my dear.” - -“Oh no! Christmas roses are so appropriate to the font, and -besides”—archly—“Sir John will let us have some flowers out of the -greenhouse for the screen.” - -“I’m damned if I will.” - -Rose Alard flushed at the insult to her husband’s cloth which she held -to lie in the oath; none the less she stuck to her coaxing. - -“Oh, but you always have, Sir John.” - -“Have I?—Well, as I’ve just told my wife, there’s nothing like a new -experience. I don’t keep three gardeners just to decorate Leasan church, -and the flowers happen to be rather scarce this year. I want them for -the house.” - -“Isn’t he terrible?” Lady Alard’s whispered moan to Doris once more -filled the room. - -Jenny laughed. - -“What are you laughing at, Jenny?” - -“Oh, I dunno.” - -She was laughing because she wondered if there was anything she could -say which would not lead to a squabble. - -“Perhaps Gervase will come by the same train as Peter,” she ventured. - -“Gervase never let us know when to expect him,” said her mother. “He’s -very thoughtless. Now perhaps Appleby will have to make the journey -twice.” - -“It won’t kill Appleby if he does—he hasn’t had the car out all this -week.” - -“But Gervase is very thoughtless,” said Mrs. George Alard. - -At that moment a slide of wheels was heard in the drive, and the faint -sounds of a car coming to anchor. - -“Peter!” cried Lady Alard. - -“He’s been quick,” said Doris. - -George pulled out his watch to be sure about the time, and Jenny ran to -the door. - - - § 3 - -The drawing-room was just as it had always been.... The same heavy -dignity of line in the old walls and oak-ribbed ceiling spoilt by undue -crowding of pictures and furniture. Hothouse flowers stood about in pots -and filled vases innumerable ... a water-colour portrait of himself as a -child faced him as he came into the room. - -“Peter, my darling!” - -His mother’s arms were stretched out to him from the sofa—she did not -rise, and he knelt down beside her for a moment, letting her enfold him -and furiously creating for himself the illusion of a mother he had never -known. The illusion seemed to dissipate in a faint scent of lavender -water. - -“How strange you look out of uniform—I suppose that’s a new suit.” - -“Well, I could scarcely have got into my pre-war clothes. I weigh -thirteen stone.” - -“Quite the heavy Squire,” said Sir John. “Come here and let’s have a -look at you.” - -Peter went over and stood before his father’s chair—rather like a little -boy. As it happened he was a man of thirty-six, tallish, well-built, -with a dark, florid face, dark hair and a small dark moustache. In -contrast his eyes were of an astounding blue—Saxon eyes, the eyes of -Alards who had gone to the Crusades, melted down their plate for the -White King, refused to take the oath of allegiance to Dutch William; -eyes which for long generations had looked out on the marshes of -Winchelsea, and had seen the mouth of the Rother swept in spate from -Romney sands to Rye. - -“Um,” said Sir John. - -“Having a bad turn again, Sir?” - -“Getting over it—I’ll be about tomorrow.” - -“That’s right, and how’s Mother?” - -“I’m better today, dear. But Dr. Mount said he really was frightened -last week—I’ve never had such an attack.” - -“Why didn’t anyone tell me? I could have come down earlier.” - -“I wanted to have you sent for, dear, but the children wouldn’t let me.” - -The children, as represented by George Alard and his wife, threw a -baffled glance at Peter, seeking to convey that the “attack” had been -the usual kind of indigestion which Lady Alard liked to enoble by the -name of Angina Pectoris. - -Meanwhile, Wills the butler and a young footman were bringing in the -tea. Jenny poured it out, the exertion being considered too great for -her mother. Peter’s eyes rested on her favourably; she was the one thing -in the room, barring the beautiful, delicate flowers, that gave him any -real pleasure to look at. She was a large, graceful creature, with a -creamy skin, wide, pale mouth, and her mother’s eyes of speckled brown. -Her big, beautifully shaped hands moved with a slow grace among the -teacups. In contrast with her Doris looked raddled (though she really -was moderate and skillful in the make-up of her face and hair) and Rose -looked blowsy. He felt glad of Jenny’s youth—soft, slow, asleep. - -“Where’s Mary?” he asked suddenly, “I thought she was coming down.” - -“Not till New Year’s eve. Julian can’t come with her, and naturally he -didn’t want her to be away for Christmas.” - -“And how is the great Julian?” - -“I don’t know—Mary didn’t say. She hardly ever tells us anything in her -letters.” - -The door opened and the butler announced— - -“Dr. Mount has come to see her ladyship.” - -“Oh, Dr. Mount” ... cried Peter, springing up. - -“He’s waiting in the morning room, my lady.” - -“Show him in here—you’d like him to come in, wouldn’t you, Mother?” - -“Yes, of course, dear, but I expect he’ll have had his tea.” - -“He can have another. Anyhow, I’d like to see him—I missed him last -leave.” - -He crossed over to the window. Outside in the drive a small green Singer -car stood empty. - -“Did Stella drive him over?—She would never stay outside.” - -“I can’t see anyone—Hello, doctor—glad you’ve come—have some tea.” - -Dr. Mount came into the room. He was a short, healthy little man, -dressed in country tweeds, and with the flat whiskers of an old-time -squire. He seemed genuinely delighted to see Peter. - -“Back from the wars? Well, you’ve had some luck. They say it’ll be more -than a year before everyone’s demobbed. You look splendid, doesn’t he, -Lady Alard?” - -“Yes—Peter always was healthy, you know.” - -“I must say he hasn’t given me much trouble. I’d be a poor man if -everyone was like him. How’s the wound, Peter? I don’t suppose you even -think of it now.” - -“I can’t say I do—it never was much. Didn’t Stella drive you over?” - -“No—there’s a lot of medicine to make up, so I left her busy in the -dispensary.” - -“What a useful daughter to have,” sighed Lady Alard. “She can do -everything—drive the car, make up medicines——” - -“Work in the garden and cook me a thundering good dinner besides!” The -little doctor beamed. “I expect she’ll be over here before long, she’ll -be wanting to see Peter. She’d have come today if there han’t been such -a lot to do.” - -Peter put down his teacup and walked over again to the window. Rose -Alard and her husband exchanged another of those meaning looks which -they found a useful conversational currency. - - - § 4 - -Jenny soon wearied of the drawing-room, even when freshened by Dr. -Mount. She always found a stifling quality in Conster’s public rooms, -with their misleading show of wealth, and escaped as early as she could -to the old schoolroom at the back of the house, looking steeply up -through firs at the wooded slope of Brede Eye. - -This evening the room was nearly dark, for the firs shut out the dregs -of twilight and the moon that looked over the hill. She could just see -the outlines of the familiar furniture, the square table on which she -and Gervase had scrawled abusive remarks in the intervals of their -lessons, the rocking chair, where the ghost of Nurse sometimes still -seemed to sit and sway, the bookcase full of children’s books—“Fifty-two -Stories for Girls” and “Fifty-two Stories for Boys,” the “Girls of St. -Wode’s” and “With Wallace at Bannockburn”—all those faded gilded rows -which she still surreptitiously enjoyed. - -Now she had an indefinite feeling that someone was in the room, but had -scarcely realised it when a shape drew itself up against the window -square, making her start and gasp. - -“It’s only me,” said an apologetic voice. - -“Gervase!” - -She switched on the light and saw her brother standing by the table. - -“When did you come?” - -“Oh, twenty minutes ago. I heard you all gassing away in the -drawing-room, so thought I’d come up here till you’d finished with -Peter.” - -“How sociable and brotherly of you! You might have come in and said how -d’you do. You haven’t seen him for a year.” - -“I thought I’d be an anti-climax—spoil the Warrior’s Return and all -that. I’ll go down in a minute.” - -“How was it you and Peter didn’t arrive together? There hasn’t been -another train since.” - -“I expect Peter came by Ashford, didn’t he? I came down on the other -line and got out at Robertsbridge. I thought I’d like the walk.” - -“What about your luggage?” - -“I left that at Robertsbridge.” - -“Really, Gervase, you are the most unpractical person I ever struck. -This means we’ll have to send over tomorrow and fetch it—and Appleby has -something better to do than tear about the country after your traps.” - -“I’ll fetch ’em myself in Henry Ford. Don’t be angry with me, Jenny. -Please remember I’ve come home and expect to be treated kindly.” - -He came round the table to her and offered her his cheek. He was taller -than she was, more coltish and less compact, but they were both alike in -being their mother’s children, Kenyons rather than Alards. Their eyes -were soft and golden-brown instead of clear Saxon-blue, their skins were -pale and their mouths wide. - -Jenny hugged him. She was very fond of Gervase, who seemed specially to -belong to her at the end of the long, straggled family. - -“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she murmured—“come for good. Though I suppose -you’ll be off to a crammer’s before long.” - -“I daresay I shall, but don’t let’s worry about that now. I’m here till -February, anyway. Who’s at home?” - -“Everybody except Mary, and she’s coming after Christmas.” - -“I wish she’d come before. I like old Mary, and I haven’t seen her for -an age. Is Julian coming too?” - -“I don’t suppose so. He and Father have had a dreadful row.” - -“What about?” - -“He wouldn’t lend us any of the money he profiteered out of those -collapsible huts.” - -“Well, I call it rather cheek of Father to have asked him.” - -“It was to be on a mortgage of course; but I quite see it wouldn’t have -been much of an investment for Julian. However, Father seems to think it -was his duty as a son-in-law to have let us have it. We’re nearly on the -rocks, you know.” - -“So I’ve been told a dozen times, but the place looks much the same as -ever.” - -“That’s because Father and Mother can’t get out of their grooves, and -there are so few economies which seem worth while. I believe we need -nearly fifty thousand to clear the estate.” - -“But it’s silly to do nothing.” - -“I don’t see what we can do. But I never could understand about -mortgages.” - -“Nor could I. The only thing I can make out is that our grandfather was -a pretty awful fool.” - -“He couldn’t read the future. He couldn’t tell the price of land was -going down with a bump, and that there would be a European war. I -believe we’d have been all right if it hadn’t been for the war.” - -“No we shouldn’t—we were going down hill before that. The war only -hurried things on.” - -“Well certainly it didn’t do for us what it did for Julian—Seventy -thousand pounds that man’s made out of blood.” - -“Then I really do think he might let us have some of it. What’s Mary’s -opinion?” - -Jenny shrugged. - -“Oh, I dunno. He’s had a row with her too.” - -“What?—about the same thing?” - -“No—about a man she’s friends with. It’s ridiculous really, for he’s -years and years older than she is—a retired naval officer—and awfully -nice; I lunched with them both once in town. But it pleases Julian to be -jealous, and I believe poor Mary’s had a hideous time.” - -“Lord! What upheavals since I was home last! Why doesn’t anyone ever -write and tell me about these things?” - -“Because we’re all too worried and too lazy. But you’ve heard everything -now—and you really must come down and see Peter.” - -“I’m coming in a moment. But tell me first—has he changed at all? It’s -more than a year since I saw him.” - -“I don’t think he’s changed much, except that he’s got stouter.” - -“I wonder what he’ll do with himself now he’s home. Is there really a -rumour, or have I only dreamed, that he’s keen on Stella Mount?” - -“Oh, I believe he’s keen enough. But she hasn’t got a penny. Father will -be sick if he marries her.” - -She switched off the light, and the window changed from a deep, -undetailed blue to a pallid, star-pricked grey, swept across by the -tossing branches of trees. - - - § 5 - -At Conster Manor dinner was always eaten in state. Lady Alard took hers -apart in her sitting-room, and sometimes Doris had it with her. On his -“bad days” Sir John was wont to find Doris a convenient butt, and as she -was incapable either of warding off or receiving gracefully the arrows -of his wrathful wit, she preserved her dignity by a totally -unappreciated devotion to her mother. Tonight, however, she could hardly -be absent, in view of Peter’s return, and could only hope that the -presence of the heir would distract her father from his obvious -facilities. - -George and Rose had stayed to dinner in honour of the occasion or rather -had come back from a visit to Leasan Vicarage for the purpose of -changing their clothes. Rose always resented having to wear evening -dress when “just dining with the family.” At the Rectory she wore last -year’s summer gown, and it seemed a wicked waste to have to put on one -of her only two dance frocks when invited to Conster. But it was a -subject on which Sir John had decided views. - -“Got a cold in your chest, Rose?” he had inquired, when once she came in -her parsonage voile and fichu, and on another occasion had coarsely -remarked: “I like to see a woman’s shoulders. Why don’t you show your -shoulders, Rose? In my young days every woman showed her shoulders if -she’d got any she wasn’t ashamed of. But nowadays the women run either -to bone or muscle—so perhaps you’re right.” - -Most of the Alard silver was on the table—ribbed, ponderous stuff of -eighteenth century date, later than the last of the lost causes in which -so much had been melted down. Some fine Georgian and Queen Anne glass -and a Spode dinner-service completed the magnificence, which did not, -however, extend to the dinner itself. Good cooks were hard to find and -ruinously expensive, requiring also their acolytes; so the soup in the -Spode tureen might have appeared on the dinner-table of a seaside -boarding-house, the fish was represented by greasily fried plaice, -followed by a leg of one of the Conster lambs, reduced by the black -magic of the kitchen to the flavour and consistency of the worst New -Zealand mutton. - -Peter noted that things had “gone down,” and had evidently been down for -a considerable time, judging by the placidity with which (barring a few -grumbles from Sir John) the dinner was received and eaten. The wine, -however, was good—evidently the pre-war cellar existed. He began to -wonder for the hundredth time what he had better do to tighten the Alard -finances—eating bad dinners off costly plate seemed a poor economy. Also -why were a butler and two footmen necessary to wait on the family party? -The latter were hard-breathing young men, recently promoted from the -plough, and probably cheap enough, but why should his people keep up -this useless and shoddy state when their dear lands were in danger? -Suppose that in order to keep their footmen and their silver and their -flowers they had to sell Ellenwhorne or Glasseye—or, perhaps, even -Starvecrow.... - -After the dessert of apples from Conster orchard and a dish of ancient -nuts which had remained untasted and unchanged since the last -dinner-party, the women and Gervase left the table for the drawing-room. -Gervase had never sought to emphasise his man’s estate by sitting over -his wine—he always went out like this with the women, and evidently -meant to go on doing so now he had left school. George on the other hand -remained, though he rather aggressively drank nothing but water. - -“It’s not that I consider there is anything wrong in drinking wine,” he -explained broad-mindedly to Sir John and Peter, “but I feel I must set -an example.” - -“To whom?” thundered Sir John. - -“To my parishioners.” - -“Well, then, since you’re not setting it to us, you can clear out and -join the ladies. I won’t see you sit there despising my port—which is -the only good port there’s been in the Rye division since ’16—besides I -want a private talk with Peter.” - -The big clergyman rose obediently and left the room, his feelings -finding only a moment’s expression at the door, when he turned round and -tried (not very successfully) to tell Peter by a look that Sir John must -not be allowed to drink too much port in his gouty condition. - -“He’s a fool,” said his father just before he had shut the door. “I -don’t know what the church is coming to. In my young days the Parson -drank his bottle with the best of ’em. He didn’t go about being an -example. Bah! who’s going to follow Georgie’s example?” - -“Who, indeed?” said Peter, who had two separate contempts for parsons -and his brother George, now strengthened by combination. - -“Well, pass me the port anyhow. Look here, I want to talk to you—first -time I’ve got you alone. What are you going to do now you’re back?” - -“I don’t know, Sir. I’ve scarcely had time to think.” - -“You’re the heir now, remember. I’d rather you stayed here. You weren’t -thinking of going back into Lightfoot’s, were you?” - -“I don’t see myself in the city again. Anyhow I’d sooner be at Conster.” - -“That’s right. That’s your place now. How would you like to be Agent?” - -“I’d like it very much, Sir. But can it be done? What about Greening?” - -“He’s an old fool, and has been muddling things badly the last year or -two. He doesn’t want to stay. I’ve been talking to him about putting you -in, and he seemed glad.” - -“I’d be glad too, Sir.” - -“You ought to know more about the estate than you do. It’ll be yours -before long—I’m seventy-five, you know. When Hugh was alive I thought -perhaps a business career was best for you, so kept you out of things. -You’ll have to learn a lot.” - -“I love the place, Sir—I’m dead keen.” - -“Yes, I remember you always wanted.... Of course I’ll put you into -Starvecrow.” - -“Starvecrow!” - -“Don’t repeat my words. The Agent has always lived at Starvecrow, and -there are quite enough of us here in the house. Besides there’s another -thing. How old are you?” - -“Thirty-six.” - -“Time you married, ain’t it?” - -“I suppose it is.” - -“I was thirty, myself, when I married, but thirty-six is rather late. -How is it you haven’t married earlier?” - -“Oh, I dunno—the war I suppose.” - -“The war seems to have had the opposite effect on most people. But my -children don’t seem a marrying lot. Doris ... Hugh ... there’s Mary, of -course, and George, but I don’t congratulate either of ’em. Julian’s a -mean blackguard, and Rose——” Sir John defined Rose in terms most -unsuitable to a clergyman’s wife. - -“You really must think about it now,” he continued—“you’re the heir; and -of course you know—we want money.” - -Peter did not speak. - -“We want money abominably,” said Sir John, “in fact I don’t know how -we’re to carry on much longer without it. I don’t want to have to sell -land—indeed, it’s practically impossible, all trussed up as we are. -Starvecrow could go, of course, but it’s useful for grazing and timber.” - -“You’re not thinking of selling Starvecrow?” - -“I don’t want to—we’ve had it nearly two hundred years; it was the first -farm that Giles Alard bought. But it’s also the only farm we’ve got in -this district that isn’t tied—there’s a mortgage on the grazings down by -the stream, but the house is free, with seventy acres.” - -“It would be a shame to let it go.” - -Peter was digging into the salt-cellar with his dessert knife. - -“Well, I rely on you to help me keep it. Manage the estate well and -marry money.” - -“You’re damn cynical, Sir. Got any especial—er—money in your mind?” - -“No, no—of course not. But you ought to get married at your age, and you -might as well marry for the family’s advantage as well as your own.” - -Peter was silent. - -“Oh, I know there’s a lot to be said against getting married, but in -your position—heir to a title and a big estate—it’s really a duty. I -married directly my father died. But don’t you wait for that—you’re -getting on.” - -“But who am I to marry? There’s not such a lot of rich girls round -here.” - -“You’ll soon find one if you make up your mind to it. My plan is first -make up your mind to get married and then look for the girl—not the -other way round, which is what most men do, and leads to all kinds of -trouble. Of course I know it isn’t always convenient. But what’s your -special objection? Any entanglement? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I know -there’s often a little woman in the way.” - -Peter squirmed at his father’s Victorian ideas of dissipation with their -“little women.” He’d be talking of “French dancers” next.... - -“I haven’t any entanglement, Sir.” - -“Then you take my words to heart. I don’t ask you to marry for money, -but marry where money is, as Shakespeare or somebody said.” - - - § 6 - -Peter found a refreshing solitude in the early hours of the next day. -His mother and Doris breakfasted upstairs, his father had -characteristically kept his promise to “be about tomorrow,” and had -actually ridden out before Peter appeared in the morning room at nine. -Jenny, who was a lazy young woman, did not come down till he had -finished, and Gervase, in one of those spasms of eccentricity which made -Peter sometimes a little ashamed of him, had gone without breakfast -altogether, and driven off in the Ford lorry to fetch his luggage, -sustained by an apple. - -The morning room was full of early sunlight—dim as yet, for the mists -were still rising from the Tillingham valley and shredding slowly into -the sky. The woods and farms beyond the river were hidden in the same -soft cloud. Peter opened the window, and felt the December rasp in the -air. Oh, it was good to be back in this place, and one with it now, the -heir.... No longer the second son who must live away from home and make -his money in business.... He stifled the disloyalty to his dead brother. -Poor old Hugh, who was so solemn and so solid and so upright.... But -Hugh had never loved the place as he did—he had never been both -transported and abased by his honour of inheritance. - -As soon as he had eaten his breakfast Peter went out, at his heels a -small brown spaniel, who for some reason had not gone with the other -dogs after Sir John. They went down the garden, over the half melted -frost of the sloping lawns, through the untidy shrubbery of fir, larch -and laurel, to the wooden fence that shut off Conster from the marshes -of the Tillingham. The river here had none of the pretensions with which -it circled Rye, but was little more than a meadow-stream, rather full -and angry with winter. Beyond it, just before the woods began, lay -Beckley Furnace with its idle mill. - -And away against the woods lay Starvecrow ... just as he had dreamed of -it so many times in France, among the blasted fields. “Starvecrow”—he -found himself repeating the name aloud, but not as it was written on the -map, rather as it was written on the lips of the people to whom its -spirit belong—“Starvycrow ... Starvycrow.” - -It was a stone house built about the same time as Conster, but without -the compliment to Gloriana implied in three gables. It lacked the grace -of Conster—the grace both of its building and of its planting. It stood -foursquare and forthright upon the slope, with a great descent of wavy, -red-brown roof towards the mouth of the valley, a shelter from the winds -that came up the Tillingham from the sea. It seemed preeminently a home, -sheltered, secure, with a multitude of chimneys standing out against the -background of the woods. From one of them rose a straight column of blue -smoke, unwavering in the still, frost-thickened air. - -Peter crossed the stream by the bridge, then turned up Starvecrow’s -ancient drive. There was no garden, merely an orchard with a planting of -flowers under the windows. Peter did not ring, but walked straight in at -the side door. The estate office had for long years been at Starvecrow, -a low farmhouse room in which the office furniture looked incongruous -and upstart. - -“I’ll change all this,” thought Peter to himself—I’ll have a gate-legged -table and Jacobean chairs. - -The room was empty, but the agents wife had heard him come in. - -“That you, Mr. Alard? I thought you’d be over. Mr. Greening’s gone to -Winterland this morning. They were complaining about their roof. He said -he’d be back before lunch.” - -Peter shook hands with Mrs. Greening and received rather abstractedly -her congratulations on his return. He was wondering if she knew he was -to supplant them at Starvecrow. - -She did, for she referred to it the next minute, and to his relief did -not seem to resent the change. - -“We’re getting old people, and for some time I’ve been wanting to move -into the town. It’ll be a good thing to have you here, Mr. Alard—bring -all the tenants more in touch with the family. Not that Sir John doesn’t -do a really amazing amount of work....” - -She rambled on, then suddenly apologised for having to leave him—a -grandchild staying in the house was ill. - -“Shall you wait for Mr. Greening? I’m afraid he won’t be in for an hour -at least.” - -“I’ll wait for a bit anyway. I’ve some letters to write.” - -He went into the office and sat down. The big ugly rolltop desk was -littered with papers—memoranda, bills, estimates, plans of farms, lists -of stock-prices. He cleared a space, seized a couple of sheets of the -estate note-paper, and began to write. - -“My loveliest Stella,” he wrote. - - - § 7 - -He had nearly covered the two sheets when the rattle of a car sounded in -the drive below. He looked up eagerly and went to the window, but it was -only Gervase lurching over the ruts in the Ford, just scraping past the -wall as he swung round outside the house, just avoiding a collision with -an outstanding poplar, after the usual manner of his driving. - -The next minute he was in the office. - -“Hullo! They told me you were over here. I’ve just fetched my luggage -from Robertsbridge.” - -He sat down on the writing-table and lit a cigarette. Peter hastily -covered up his letter. Why did Gervase come bothering him now? - -“I wanted to speak to you,” continued his brother. “You’ll be the best -one to back me up against Father.” - -“What is it now?” asked Peter discouragingly. - -“An idea came to me while I was driving over. I often get ideas when I -drive, and this struck me as rather a good one. I think it would be just -waste for me to go to a crammer’s and then to Oxford. I don’t want to go -in for the church or the bar or schoolmastering or anything like that, -and I don’t see why the family should drop thousands on my education -just because I happen to be an Alard. I want to go in for engineering in -some way and you don’t need any ’Varsity for that. I could go into some -sort of a shop....” - -“Well, if the way you drive a car is any indication——” - -“I can drive perfectly well when I think about it. Besides, that won’t -be my job. I want to learn something in the way of construction and all -that. I always was keen, and it strikes me now that I’d much better go -in for that sort of thing than something which won’t pay for years. -There may be some sort of a premium to fork out, but it’ll be nothing -compared to what it would cost to send me to Oxford.” - -“You talk as if we were paupers,” growled Peter. - -“Well, so we are, aren’t we?” said Gervase brightly. “Jenny was talking -to me about it last night. She says we pay thousands a year in interest -on mortgages, and as for paying them off and selling the land, which is -the only thing that can help us....” - -“I don’t see that it’s your job, anyway.” - -“But I could help. Really it seems a silly waste to send me to Oxford -when I don’t want to go.” - -“You need Oxford more than any man I know. If you went there you might -pick up some notions of what’s done, and get more like other people.” - -“I shouldn’t get more like other people, only more like other Oxford -men.” - -Peter scowled. He intensely disapproved of the kid’s verbal nimbleness, -which his more weighty, more reputable argument could only lumber after. - -“You’ve got to remember you’re a gentleman’s son,” he remarked in a -voice which suggested sitting down just as Gervase’s had suggested a -skip and a jump. - -“Well, lots of them go in for engineering. We’re in such a groove. I -daresay you think this is just a sudden idea of mine——” - -“You’ve just told me it is.” - -“I know, but I’ve been thinking for ages that I didn’t want to go to -Oxford. If I took up engineering I could go into a shop at Ashford.... -But I’ll have to talk to Father about it. I expect he’ll be frightfully -upset—the only Alard who hasn’t been to the Varsity and all that ... -but, on the other hand, he’s never bothered about me so much as about -you and George, because there’s no chance of my coming into the estate.” - -“I wouldn’t be too sure,” gibed Peter. - -“Yes, of course, you might both die just to spite me—but it wouldn’t be -sporting of you. I don’t want to be Sir Gervase Alard, Bart.—I’d much -rather be Alard and Co., Motor-engineers.” - -“You damn well shan’t be that.” - -“Well, it’s a long time ahead, anyway. But do back me up against Father -about not going to Oxford. It really ought to help us a lot if I don’t -go—a son at the ’Varsity’s a dreadful expense, and when that son’s me, -it’s a waste into the bargain.” - -“Well, I’ll see about it. My idea is that you need Oxford more -than—hullo, who’s that?” - -“Dr. Mount,” said Gervase looking out of the window. - -Peter rose and looked out too, in time to see the doctor’s car turning -in the sweep. This morning he himself was not at the wheel, but was -driven by what looked like a warm bundle of furs with a pair of bright -eyes looking out between collar and cap. - -Peter opened the window. - -“Stella!” he cried. - - - § 8 - -A minute later Stella Mount was in the room. Gervase had not seen her -for several years; during the greater part of the war she had been away -from home, first at a munition factory, then as an auxiliary driver to -the Army Service Corps. When last they had met the gulf between the -schoolboy of fourteen and the girl of twenty had yawned much wider than -between the youth of eighteen and the young woman of twenty-four. Stella -looked, if anything, younger than she had looked four years ago, and he -was also of an age to appreciate her beauty which he had scarcely -noticed on the earlier occasions. - -In strict point of fact Stella was not so much beautiful as pretty, for -there was nothing classic in her little heart-shaped face, with its wide -cheek-bones, pointed chin and puckish nose. On the other hand there was -nothing of that fragile, conventional quality which prettiness is -understood to mean. Everything about Stella was healthy, warm and -living—her plump little figure, the glow on her cheeks, the shine of her -grey eyes between their lashes, like pools among reeds, the decision of -her chin and brows, the glossy, tumbling masses of her hair, all spoke -of strength and vigour, a health that was almost hardy. - -She came into the room like a flame, and Gervase felt his heart warming. -Then he remembered that she was Peter’s—Jenny had said so, though she -had not blessed Peter’s possession. - -“How d’you do, Stella?” he said, “it’s ages since we met. Do you know -who I am?” - -“Of course I do. You haven’t altered much, except in height. You’ve left -Winchester for good now, haven’t you?” - -“Yes—and I’ve just been arguing with Peter about what I’m to do with -myself now I’m home.” - -“How very practical of you! I hope Peter was helpful.” - -“Not in the least.” - -He could feel Peter’s eyes upon him, telling him to get out of the way -and leave him alone with his bright flame.... - -“Well, I must push off—they may be wanting the Ford at home.” - -He shook hands with Stella, nodded to Peter, and went out. - -For a moment Peter and Stella faced each other in silence. Then Peter -came slowly up to her and took her in his arms, hiding his face in her -neck. - -“O Stella—O my beauty!...” - -She did not speak, but her arms crept round him. They could scarcely -meet behind his broad back—she loved this feeling of girth which she -could not compass, combined as it was with a queer tender sense of his -helplessness, of his dependence on her—— - -“O Peter,” she whispered—“my little Peter....” - -“I was writing to you, darling, when you came.” - -“And I was on my way to see you at Conster. Father was going there after -he’d called on little Joey Greening. I wouldn’t come yesterday—I thought -your family would be all over you, and I didn’t like....” - -She broke off the sentence and he made no effort to trim the ragged end. -Her reference to his family brought back into his thoughts the -conversation he had had with his father over the wine. She had always -felt his family as a cloud, as a barrier between them, and it would be -difficult to tell her that now he was the heir, now he was home from the -war, instead of being removed the cloud would be heavier and the barrier -stronger. - -“I’m so glad you came here”—he breathed into her hair—“that our first -meeting’s at Starvecrow.” - -“Yes—I’m glad, too.” - -Peter sat down in the leather-covered office chair, holding Stella on -his knee. - -“Child—they’re going to give me Starvecrow.” - -“O Peter!”... - -“Yes—Greening wants to leave, and my father’s making me agent in his -place.” - -“How lovely! Shall you come and live here?” - -“Yes.” - -The monosyllable came gruffly because of the much more that he wanted to -say. It was a shame to have such reserves spoil their first meeting. - -“I’m so awfully, wonderfully glad, Peter darling.” - -She hid her soft, glowing face in his neck—she was lying on his breast -like a child, but deliciously heavy, her feet swung off the floor. - -“Stella—my sweetheart—beautiful....” - -His love for her gave him a sweet wildness of heart, and he who was -usually slow of tongue, became almost voluble—— - -“Oh, I’ve longed for this—I’ve thought of this, dreamed of this.... And -you’re lovelier than ever, you dear.... Stella, sweetheart, let me look -into your eyes—close to—like that ... your eyelashes turn back like the -petals of a flower.... O you wonderful, beautiful thing ... And it’s so -lovely we should have met here instead of at home—the dearest person in -the dearest place ... Stella at Starvecrow.” - -“Starvycrow,” she repeated gently. - -For a moment he felt almost angry that she should have used his name—his -private music. But his anger melted into his love. She used his name -because she, alone in all the world, felt his feelings and thought his -thoughts. Perhaps she did not love Starvecrow quite as he did, but she -must love it very nearly as much or she would not call it by its secret -name. They sat in silence, her head upon his shoulder, his arms about -her, gathering her up on his knees. On the hearth a log fire softly -hummed and sighed. Ages seemed to flow over them, the swift eternities -of love.... Then suddenly a voice called “Stella!” from the drive. - -She started up, and the next moment was on her feet, pushing away her -hair under her cap, buttoning her high collar over her chin. - -“How quick Father’s been! I feel as if I’d only just come.” - -“You must come again.” - -“I’m coming to dinner on Christmas day, you know.” - -“That doesn’t count. I want you here.” - -“And I want to be here with you—always.” - -The last word was murmured against his lips as he kissed her at the -door. He was not quite sure if he had heard it. During the rest of the -morning he sometimes feared not—sometimes hoped not. - - - § 9 - -“It will be a green Christmas,” said Dr. Mount. - -Stella made no answer. The little car sped through the lanes at the back -of Benenden. They had driven far—to the very edge of the doctor’s -wide-flung practice, by Hawkhurst and Skullsgate, beyond the Kent Ditch. -They had called at both the Nineveh farms—Great Nineveh and Little -Nineveh—and had now turned south again. The delicate blue sky was -drifted over with low pinkish clouds, which seemed to sail very close to -the field where their shadows moved; the shadows swooped down the lane -with the little car, rushing before it into Sussex. Stella loved racing -the sky. - -On her face, on her neck, she could still feel cold places where Peter -had kissed her. It was wonderful and beautiful, she thought, that she -should carry the ghosts of his kisses through Sussex and Kent. And now -she would not have so long to be content with ghosts—there would not be -those terrible intervals of separation. She would see Peter again soon, -and the time would come—must come—when they would be together always. -“Together always” was the fulfilment of Stella’s dream. “They married -and were together always” sounded better in her ears than “they married -and lived happy ever after.” No more partings, no more ghosts of kisses, -much as she loved those ghosts, but always the dear, warm bodily -presence—Peter working, Peter resting, Peter sleepy, Peter hungry, Peter -talking, Peter silent—Peter always. - -“It will be a green Christmas,” repeated Dr. Mount. - -“Er—did you speak, Father dear?” - -“Yes, I said it would be a gr——but never mind, I’m sure your thoughts -are more interesting than anything I could say.” - -Stella blushed. She and her father had a convention of silence between -them in regard to Peter. He knew all about him, of course, but they both -pretended that he didn’t; because Stella felt she had no right to tell -him until Peter had definitely asked her to be his wife. And he had not -asked her yet. When they had first fallen in love, Hugh Alard was still -alive and the second son’s prospects were uncertain; then when Hugh was -killed and Peter became the heir, there was still the war, and she knew -that her stolid, Saxon Peter disapproved of war-weddings and grass -widows who so often became widows indeed. He had told her then he could -not marry her till after the war, and she had treated that negative -statement as the beginning of troth between them. She had never -questioned or pressed him—it was not her way—she had simply taken him -for granted. She had felt that he could not, any more than she, be -satisfied with less than “together always.” - -But now she felt that something definite must happen soon, and their -tacit understanding become open and glorious. His family would -disapprove, she knew, though they liked her personally and owed a great -deal to her father. But Stella, outside and unaware, made light of -Conster’s opposition. Peter was thirty-six and had five hundred a year -of his own, so in her opinion could afford to snap his fingers at Alard -tyranny. Besides, she felt sure the family would “come round”—they would -be disappointed at first, but naturally they wouldn’t expect Peter to -give up his love-choice simply because she had no money. She would be -glad when things were open and acknowledged, for though her secret was a -very dear one, she was sometimes worried by her own shifts to keep it, -and hurt by Peter’s. It hurt her that he should have to pretend not to -care about her when they met in public—but not so much as it would have -hurt her if he hadn’t done it so badly. - -“Well, now he’s back, I suppose Peter will take the eldest son’s place,” -said Dr. Mount, “and help his father manage the property.” - -“Yes—he told me this morning that Sir John wants him to be agent instead -of Mr. Greening, and he’s to live at Starvecrow.” - -“At Starvecrow! You’ll like that—I mean, it’s nice to think Peter won’t -have to go back and work in London. I always felt he belonged here more -than Hugh.” - -“Yes, I don’t think Hugh cared for the place very much, but Peter always -did. It always seemed hard lines that he should be the second son.” - -“Poor Hugh,” said Dr. Mount—“he was very like Peter in many ways—Sober -and solid and kind-hearted; but he hadn’t Peter’s imagination.” - -“Peter’s very sensitive,” said Stella—“in spite of his being such a big, -heavy thing.” - -Then she smiled, and said in her heart—“Peter’s mine.” - - - § 10 - -Christmas was celebrated at Conster in the manner peculiar to houses -where there is no religion and no child. Tradition compelled the various -members of the family to give each other presents which they did not -want and to eat more food than was good for them; it also compelled them -to pack unwillingly into the Wolsey car and drive to Leasan church, -where they listened in quite comprehensible boredom to a sermon by -brother George. Peter was able to break free from this last -superstition, and took himself off to the office at Starvecrow—his -family’s vague feeling of unrest at his defection being compensated by -the thought that there really wouldn’t have been room for him in the -car. - -But Starvecrow was dim and sodden on this green Christmas day, full of a -muggy cloud drifting up from the Tillingham, and Peter was still sore -from the amenities of the Christmas breakfast table—that ghastly effort -to be festive because it was Christmas morning, that farce of exchanging -presents—all those empty rites of a lost childhood and a lost faith. He -hated Christmas. - -Also he wanted Stella, and she was not to be had. She too had gone to -church—which he would not have minded, if she had not had the -alternative of being with him here at Starvecrow. He did not at all -object to religion in women as long as they kept it in its proper place. -But Stella did not keep hers in its proper place—she let it interfere -with her daily life—with his ... and she had not gone to church at -Leasan, which was sanctified to Peter by the family patronage and the -family vault, but to Vinehall, where they did not even have the -decencies of Dearly Beloved Brethren, but embarrassing mysteries which -he felt instinctively to be childish and in bad taste. - -In Stella’s home this Christmas there would be both religion and -children, the latter being represented by her father and herself. Last -night when he called at Hollingrove—Dr. Mount’s cottage on the road -between Leasan and Vinehall—to ask her to meet him here today at -Starvecrow, he had found her decorating a Christmas tree, to be put in -the church, of all places. She had asked him to stop and go with her and -her father to the Midnight Mass—“Do come, Peter—we’re going to make such -a lovely noise at the Gloria in Excelsis. Father Luce has given the boys -trays to bang this year.” But Peter had declined, partly because he -disapproved of tray-banging as a means of giving glory to God, but -mostly because he was hurt that Stella should prefer going to church to -being with him at Starvecrow. - -She had made a grave mistake, if only she’d known it—leaving him here by -himself today, with his time free to think about her, and memories of -her dark side still fresh in his mind. For Stella had her dark side, -like the moon, though generally you saw as little of it as the moon’s. -In nearly all ways she was Peter’s satisfaction. He loved her with body -and mind, indeed with a sort of spiritual yearning. He loved her for her -beauty, her sense, her warmth, her affectionate disposition which -expressed itself naturally in love, her freedom from affectation, and -also from any pretensions to wit or cleverness, and other things which -he distrusted. But for two things he loved her not—her religion and her -attitude towards his family. - -Hitherto neither had troubled him much. Their meetings had been so few -that they had had but little talk of anything save love. He had merely -realised that though she held the country round Vinehall and Leasan as -dear as even his idolatry demanded she was very little impressed with -the importance of the family to whom that country belonged. But up in -London that had scarcely mattered. He had also realised that Stella, as -she put it, “tried to be good.” At first he had thought her wanton—her -ready reception of his advances, her ardent affection, her unguarded -manner, had made him think she was like the many young women filling -London in those years, escaped from quiet homes into a new atmosphere of -freedom and amorousness, making the most of what might be short-lived -opportunities. But he was glad when he discovered his mistake. Peter -approved of virtue in women, though he had occasionally taken advantage -of its absence. He certainly would never have married a woman who was -not virtuous, and he soon discovered that he wanted to marry Stella. - -But in those days everything flowed like a stream—nothing was firm, -nothing stood still. Things were different now—they could flow no -longer, they must be established; it was now that Peter realised how -much greater these two drawbacks were than they had seemed at first. -Stella’s religion did not consist merely in preserving his treasure -whole till he was ready to claim it, but in queer ways of denial and -squander, exacting laws, embarrassing consecrations. And her attitude -towards the family gave him almost a feeling of insult—she was so -casual, so unaware ... she did not seem to trouble herself with its -requirements and prohibitions. She did not seem to realise that the -House of Alard was the biggest thing on earth—so big that it could crush -her and Peter, their hope and romance, into dust. But she would soon -find out what it was—whether they married or not, she would find out. - -Sometimes—for instance, today—he was almost savagely glad when he -thought how sure she was to find out. Sometimes he was angry with her -for her attitude towards the family, and for all that she took for -granted in his. He knew that she expected him to marry her whatever -happened—with a naïvety which occasionally charmed but more often -irritated him. She imagined that if his father refused to let them live -at Starvecrow, he would take her and live with her in some cottage on -five hundred a year ... and watch the place go to ruin without him. She -would be sorry not to have Starvecrow, but she would not care about -anything else—she would not fret in the least about the estate or the -outraged feelings of those who looked to him to help them. She would not -even have cared if his father had had it in his power—which he had -not—to prevent her ever becoming Lady Alard. Stella did not care two -pins about being Lady Alard—all she wanted was to be Mrs. Peter. He had -loved her for her disinterestedness, but now he realised that it had its -drawbacks. He saw that his choice had fallen on a woman who was not a -good choice for Alard—not merely because she had no money, but because -she had no pride. He could not picture her at Conster—lady of the Manor. -He could picture her at Starvecrow, but not at Conster. - -... He bowed his head upon the table—it felt heavy with his thought. -Stella was the sweetest, loveliest thing in life, and sometimes he felt -that her winning was worth any sacrifice, and that he would pay her -price not only with his own renunciation but with all the hopes of his -house. But some unmovable, fundamental part of him showed her to him as -an infatuation, a witch-light, leading him away from the just claims of -his people and his land, urging him to a cruel betrayal of those who -trusted to him for rescue. - -After all, he had known her only a year. In a sense, of course, he had -known her from her childhood, when she had first come with her father to -Vinehall, but he had not loved her till he had met her in London a year -ago. Only a year.... To Peter’s conservative soul a year was nothing. -For nearly two hundred years the Alards had owned Starvecrow—and they -had been at Conster for three hundred more. Was he going to sacrifice -those century-old associations for the passion of a short year? He had -loved her only a year, and these places he had loved all his life—and -not his life only, but the lives of those who had come before him, -forefathers whose spirit lived in him, with love for the land which was -his and theirs. - - - § 11 - -The Christmas tension at the Manor was relieved at dinnertime by the -arrival of George Alard and his wife, Dr. Mount and Stella, and a young -man supposed to be in love with Jenny. A family newly settled at the -Furnace had also been invited and though it had always been the custom -at Conster to invite one or two outside people to the Christmas dinner, -Rose Alard considered that this year’s hospitality had gone too far. - -“It’s all very well to have Dr. Mount and Stella,” she said to Doris, -“but who are these Hursts? They haven’t been at the Furnace six months.” - -“They’re very rich, I believe,” said Doris. - -“They may be—but no one knows how they made their money. I expect it was -in trade,” and Rose sniffed, as if she smelt it. - -“There’s a young man, I think; perhaps he’ll marry Jenny—he’s too young -for me.” - -“But Jenny’s engaged to Jim Parish, isn’t she?” - -“Not that it counts—he hasn’t got a bean, or any prospects either. We -don’t talk of them as engaged.” - -“Is she in love with him?” - -“How can I possibly tell?” snapped Doris, who had had a trying afternoon -with her mother, and had also been given “The Christian Year” for the -second time as a present from Rose. - -“Well, don’t bite my head off. I’m sure I hope she isn’t, and that -she’ll captivate this young Hurst, whoever he is. Then it won’t be -so bad having them here, though otherwise I should feel inclined -to protest; for poor George is worn out after four services and -two sermons, and it’s rather hard to expect him to talk to -strangers—especially on Christmas day.” - -Doris swallowed her resentment audibly—she would not condescend to -quarrel with Rose, whom she looked upon much as Rose herself looked upon -the Hursts, George having married rather meanly in the suburb of his -first curacy. - -When the Hursts arrived, they consisted of agreeable, vulgar parents, a -smart, modern-looking daughter and a good-looking son. Unfortunately, -the son was soon deprived of his excuse as a possible husband for Jenny -by his mother’s ready reference to “Billy’s feeonsay”—but it struck both -Rose and Doris separately and simultaneously that it would do just as -well if the daughter Dolly married Peter. She really was an -extraordinarily attractive girl, with her thick golden hair cut square -upon her ears like a mediæval page’s. She was clever, too—had read all -the new books and even met some of the new authors. Never, thought Rose -and Doris, had wealth been so attractively baited or “trade” been so -effectively disguised. It was a pity Peter was in such bad form tonight, -sitting there beside her, half-silent, almost sullen. - -Peter knew that Dolly Hurst was attractive, he knew that she was clever, -he knew that she was rich, he knew that she had come out of the -gutter—and he guessed that his people had asked her to Conster tonight -in hopes that through him her riches might save the house of Alard. All -this knowledge crowned by such a guess had the effect of striking him -dumb, and by the time Wills and the footmen had ushered in with much -ceremony a huge, burnt turkey, his neighbour had almost entirely given -up her efforts to “draw him out,” and had turned in despair to George -Alard on her right. - -Peter sat gazing unhappily at Stella. She was next to Gervase, and was -evidently amusing him, to judge by the laughter which came across the -table. That was so like Stella ... she could always make you laugh. She -wasn’t a bit clever, but she saw and said things in a funny way. She was -looking devilish pretty tonight, too—her hair was done in such a pretty -way, low over her forehead and ears, and her little head was round and -shining like a bun ... the little darling ... and how well that blue -frock became her—showing her dear, lovely neck ... yes, he thought he’d -seen it before, but it looked as good as new. Stella was never -tumbled—except just after he had kissed her ... the little sweet. - -He was reacting from his thoughts of her that morning—he felt a little -ashamed of them. After all, why shouldn’t she have gone to church if she -wanted to? Wasn’t it better than having no religion at all, like many of -the hard young women of his class who shocked his war-born agnosticism -with theirs?—or than having a religion which involved the whole solar -system and a diet of nuts? And as for her treatment of his family—surely -her indifference was better than the eager subservience more usually -found—reverence for a title, an estate, and a place in the charmed -exclusiveness of the “County.” No, he would be a fool if he sacrificed -Stella for any person or thing whatsoever. He had her to consider, too. -She loved him, and he knew that, though no troth had yet passed between -them, she considered herself bound to the future. What would she say if -she knew he did not consider himself so bound?... Well, he must bind -himself—or let her go free. - -He longed to talk to her, but his opportunity dragged. To his -restlessness it seemed as if the others were trying to keep them apart. -There was Gervase, silly fool, going out with the women as usual and -sitting beside her in the drawing-room—there was George, sillier fool, -keeping the men back in the dining-room while he told Mr. Hurst exactly -why he had not gone for an army chaplain. Then directly they had joined -the ladies, both Doris and Rose shot up simultaneously from beside Dolly -Hurst and disposed of themselves one beside Lady Alard, the other beside -Stella. He had to sit down and try again to be intelligent. It was worse -than ever, for he was watching all the time for Miss Hurst to empty her -coffee-cup—then he would go and put it down on the Sheraton table, which -was not so far from Stella, and after that he would sit down beside -Stella no matter how aggressively Rose was sitting on her other side. - -The coffee-cup was emptied in the middle of a discussion on the relative -reputations of Wells and Galsworthy. Peter immediately forgot what he -was saying.... - -“Let me put your cup down for you.” - -He did not wait for a reply, but the next minute he was on the other -side of the room. He realised that he had been incredibly silly and -rude, but it was too late to atone, for Jim Parish, Jenny’s ineligible -young man, had sat down in the chair he had left. - -Stella was talking to Rose, but she turned round when Peter came up and -made room beside her on the sofa. Rose felt annoyed—she thought Stella’s -manner was “encouraging,” and began to say something about the sofa -being too cramped for three. However, at that moment Lady Alard called -her to come and hear about Mrs. Hurst’s experiences in London on -Armistice Day, and she had regretfully to leave the two ineligibles -together, with the further complication that the third ineligible was -sitting beside Dolly Hurst—and though Jim Parish was supposed to be in -love with Jenny, everyone knew he was just as much in need of a rich -wife as Peter. - -“Stella,” said Peter in a low voice—“I’m sorry.” - -“Sorry! What for, my dear?” - -He realised that of course she did not know what he had been thinking of -her that morning. - -“Everything,” he mumbled, apologizing vaguely for the future as well as -the past. - -Stella had thought that perhaps this evening “something would happen.” -At Conster—on Christmas night ... the combination seemed imperative. But -Peter did not, as she had hoped, draw her out of that crowded, -overheated room into some quiet corner of the house or under the cold, -dark curtains of the night. Peter could not quite decide against the -family—he must give it time to plead. He leaned back on the sofa, his -eyes half-closed, tired and silent, yet with a curious peace at his -heart. - -“You’re tired, boy,” said Stella—“what have you been doing today?” - -“I’ve had a hateful day—and I _was_ tired—dog tired; but I’m not tired -any longer now—now I’m with you.” - -“Oh, Peter, am I restful?” - -“Yes, my dear.” - -Stella was satisfied. She felt that was enough—she did not ask anything -more of the night. - - - § 12 - -It was Gervase, not Peter, who lay awake that night, thinking of Stella -Mount. He had been glad when he was told to take her in to dinner, and -the meal which had been so unspeakably trying to his brother had passed -delightfully for him. On his other side sat Doris, deep in conversation -with Charles Hurst, so he did not have to bother about her—he could talk -to Stella, who was so easy to talk to.... - -Afterwards in the drawing-room he had not felt so easy. He knew that he -must not monopolise Stella, for she was Peter’s. So when he heard the -men crossing the hall, he made some excuse and left her, to see Rose sit -down by her side directly Peter came in. He was glad when poor old Peter -had managed to get near her at last ... though he hadn’t seemed to make -much of his opportunities. He had sat beside her, stupid and silent, -scarcely speaking a word all the evening through. - -Upstairs in bed, in his little misshapen room under the north gable, -where he had slept ever since the night-nursery was given up, Gervase -shut his eyes and thought of Stella. She came before the darkness of his -closed eyes in her shining blue dress—a dress like midnight.... She was -the first woman he had really noticed since in far-back childish days he -had had an infatuation for his rather dull daily governess—his -“beautiful Miss Turner” as he had called her and thought of her -still.... But Stella was different—she was less of a cloud and a -goddess, more of a breathing person. He wondered—was he falling in love? -It was silly to fall in love with Stella, who was six years older than -he ... though people said that when boys fell in love it was generally -with women older than themselves. But he mustn’t do it. Stella was -Peter’s.... Was she?... Or was it merely true that he wanted to take her -and she wanted to be taken? - -He did not think there was any engagement, any promise. Circumstances -might finally keep them apart. Rose, Doris, Jenny, his father and -mother—the whole family—did not want Peter to marry Stella Mount whose -face was her fortune. It was the same everlasting need of money that was -making the same people, except Jenny of course, shrug at poor Jim -Parish, whose people in their turn shrugged at portionless Jenny. -Money—money ... that was what the Squires wanted—what they must have if -their names were to remain in the old places. - -Gervase felt rather angry with Peter. He was angry to think that he who -had the power was divided as to the will. How was it possible that he -could stumble at such a choice? What was money, position, land or -inheritance compared to simple, solid happiness?... He buried his face -in the pillow, and a kind of horror seized him at the cruel ways of -things. It was as if a bogey was in the room—the kind that used to be -there when he was a child, but no longer visible in the heeling shadows -round the nightlight, rather an invisible sickness, the fetish of the -Alards dancing in triumph over Stella and Peter. - -It was strange that he should be so hurt by what was after all not his -tragedy—he was not really in love with Stella, only felt that, given -freedom for her and a few more years for him, he could have been and -would have been. And he was not so much hurt as frightened. He was -afraid because life seemed to him at once so trivial and so gross. The -things over which people agonised were, after all, small shoddy -things—earth and halfpence; to see them have such power to crush hopes -and deform lives was like seeing a noble tree eaten up by insects. In -time he too would be eaten up ... No, no! He must save himself, somehow. -He must find happiness somewhere. But how? - -When he tried to think, he was afraid. He remembered what he used to do -in the old days when he was so dreadfully afraid in this room. He used -to draw up his knees to his chin and pray—pray frantically in his fear. -That was before he had heard about the Ninety-nine Just Sheep being left -for the one that was lost; directly he had heard that story he had given -up saying his prayers, for fear he should be a Just Sheep, when he would -so much rather be the lost one, because the shepherd loved it and had -carried it in his arms.... He must have been a queer sort of kid. Now -all that was gone—religion ... the school chapel, confirmation classes, -manly Christians, the Bishop’s sleeves ... he could scarcely realise -those dim delicate raptures he had had as a child—his passionate -interest in that dear Friend and God walking the earth ... all the -wonderful things he had pondered in his heart. Religion was so different -after you were grown up. It became an affair of earth and halfpence like -everything else. - -Stella’s religion still seemed to have some colour left in it, some -life, some youth. It was more like his childhood’s faith than anything -he had met so far. She had told him tonight that there were two -Christmas trees in church, one each side of the Altar, all bright with -the glass balls and birds that had made his childhood’s Christmas trees -seem almost supernatural.... Yggdrasils decked for the eternal Yule ... -he was falling asleep.... He was sorry for Stella. She had told him too -about the Christmas Crib, the little straw house she had built in the -church for Mary and Joseph and the Baby, for the ox and the ass and the -shepherds and their dogs and the lambs they could not leave behind.... -She had told him that she never thought of Christ as being born in -Bethlehem, but in the barn at the back of the Plough Inn at Udimore.... -He saw the long road running into the sunrise, wet and shining, red with -an angry morning. Someone was coming along it carrying a lamb ... was it -the lost sheep—or just one of the lambs the shepherds could not leave -behind? ... all along the road the trees were hung with glass balls and -many-coloured birds. He could feel Stella beside him, though he could -not see her. She was trying to make him come with her to the inn. She -was saying “Come, Peter—oh, do come, Peter,” and he seemed to be Peter -going with her. Then suddenly he knew he was not Peter, and the earth -roared and the trees flew up into the sky, which shook and flamed.... He -must be falling asleep. - - - § 13 - -Gervase’s feelings towards Alard being what they were, anybody might -wonder he should think of giving up Oxford for the family’s sake. -Indeed, he almost changed his mind in the throes of that wakeful, -resentful night, and resolved to take his expensive way to Christ’s or -Balliol. But by morning he had come to see himself more clearly and to -laugh at his own pretences. He wasn’t “giving up” Oxford—he didn’t want -to go there—he had always shrunk from the thought of Oxford life with -its patterns and conventions—and then at the end of it he would still be -his father’s youngest son, drawing a youngest son’s allowance from -depleted coffers. He would far rather learn his job as an engineer and -win an early independence. Going to his work every morning, meeting all -sorts of men, rough and smooth, no longer feeling irrevocably shut up in -a class, a cult, a tradition ... in that way he might really win freedom -and defy the house of Alard. “My name’s Gervase Alard,” he said to -himself—“and I’m damned if Gervase shall be sacrificed to Alard, for -he’s the most important of the two.” - -If only he could persuade his father to see as he saw—not quite, of -course, but near enough to let him make a start. Peter had not seen very -well, still he had nearly agreed when the argument was broken up. Sir -John must be found in a propitious hour. - -The next day provided none such, for Christmas had not unexpectedly -brought a return of the Squire’s twinges, but these passed off with -unusual quickness, and on Innocents’ Day his indomitable pluck mounted -him once again on his grey horse to ride round the farms. Gervase found -him finishing his breakfast when he came down for his own, and seeing by -whip and gaiters what was planned, he realised that a favourable time -had come. So he rushed into his request while he was helping himself to -bacon. - -To his surprise his father heard him without interruption. - -“Have you any bent for engineering?” he asked at the end. - -“Oh, yes, Sir. I can drive any sort of car and mess about with their -insides. I always was keen.” - -“You’ve been keen on a good many things if I remember right, but not -always proficient. All my sons have been to Oxford.” - -“But think what a lot it ’ud cost you, Sir, to send me.” - -“I expect it ’ud cost me nearly as much to make an engineer of you.” - -“Oh, no, Sir—you’ll only have to plank down about a hundred to start -with, and in time they’ll pay me some sort of a screw. And if I go into -a shop at Ashford I can live at home and cost you nothing.” - -“You think you’ll cost nothing to keep at home? What ull you live on, -you damned fool?” - -“Oh, relatively I meant, Sir. And if I get, say, fifteen bob a week, as -I shall in time....” - -“It’ll be a proud day for me, of course.” - -“Things have changed since the war, and lots of chaps who’d have gone up -to the ’Varsity now go straight into works—there’s Hugh’s friend, Tom -Daubernon, opened a garage at Colchester....” - -“That will be your ambition in life—to open a garage?” - -“No, Sir—Alard and Co., motor-engineers and armament makers—that’s my -job, and not so bad either. Think of Krupps.” - -Sir John laughed half angrily. - -“You impudent rascal! Have it your own way—after all, it’ll suit me -better to pay down a hundred for you to cover yourself with oil and -grease than a thousand for you to get drunk two nights a week at -Oxford” ... a remark which affected Gervase in much the same way as the -remark on “little women” had affected Peter. - -The conversation was given a more romantic colour when Sir John retailed -it to Peter on the edge of the big ploughed field by Glasseye Farm. -Peter was going out after duck on the Tillingham marshes—he had that -particularly solitary look of a man who is out alone with a gun. - -“I must say I think the boy has behaved extremely well,” said his -father—“it must have cost him a lot to give up Oxford. He thinks more of -our position than I imagined.” - -“I don’t see that it’ll add much to the dignity of our position to have -him in a workshop.” - -“It mayn’t add much to our dignity—but he’s only the youngest son. And -what we want more than dignity is money.” - -“Gervase giving up Oxford won’t save you more than a few hundred, and -what’s that when it’ll take fifty thousand to pay off the mortgages?” - -“You’re a sulky dog, Peter,” said Sir John. “If you’d only do as well as -your brother, perhaps you could pull us out of this.” - -“What d’you mean, Sir?” - -“Gervase has done his best and given up the only thing he had to give -up—Oxford. If you could sink your personal wishes for the family’s -sake....” - -Peter turned crimson and his pale Saxon eyes darkened curiously. - -“D’you know what I mean?” continued his father. - -“You mean marry a rich woman ... you want me to marry Dolly Hurst.” - -For a moment Sir John was silent, then he said in an unexpectedly -controlled voice—— - -“Well, what’s wrong with Dolly Hurst?” - -“Nothing that I know of ... but then I know nothing ... and I don’t -care.” - -“I’m told,” continued the baronet, still calmly, “that you have already -formed an attachment.” - -“Who told you?” - -“Never mind who. The point is, I understand there is such an -attachment.” - -Peter sought for words and found none. While he was still seeking, Sir -John shook the reins, and the grey horse moved off heavily up the side -of the field. - - - § 14 - -On the spur of the hill below Barline stands that queer edifice known as -Mocksteeple. It has from the distance a decided look of a steeple, its -tarred cone being visible for many miles down the river Tillingham. It -was built early in the eighteenth century by an eccentric Sir Giles -Alard, brother of non-juring Gervase and buyer of Starvecrow. A man of -gallantries, he required a spot at which to meet his lady friends, and -raised up Mocksteeple for their accommodation—displaying a fine cynicism -both towards the neighbours’ opinion—for his tryst was a landmark to all -the district—and towards the ladies themselves, whose comforts could -have been but meagrely supplied in its bare, funnel-shaped interior. - -Today it had sunk to a store-house and was full of hop-poles when Peter -approached it from the marshes and sat down to eat his sandwiches in the -sunshine that, even on a December day, had power to draw a smell of tar -from its walls. At his feet squatted the spaniel Breezy, with -sentimental eyes fixed on Peter’s gun and the brace of duck that lay -beside it. Peter’s boots and leggings were caked with mud, and his hands -were cold as they fumbled with his sandwiches. It was not a good day to -have lunch out of doors, even in that tar-smelling sunshine, but -anything was better than facing the family round the table at -Conster—their questions, their comments, their inane remarks.... - -It was queer how individually and separately his family irritated him, -whereas collectively they were terrible with banners. His father, his -mother, Doris, Jenny, George, Gervase—so much tyranny, so much -annoyance ... the Family—a war-cry, a consecration. It was probably -because the Family did not merely stand for those at Conster now, but -for Alards dead and gone, from the first Gervase to the last, a whole -communion of saints.... If Conster had to be sold, or stripped to its -bare bones, it would not be only the family now sitting at luncheon that -would rise and upbraid him, but all those who slept in Leasan churchyard -and in the south aisle at Winchelsea. - -Beside him, facing them all, would stand only one small woman. Would her -presence be enough to support him when all those forefathers were -dishonoured, all those dear places reproached him?—Glasseye, Barline, -Dinglesden, Snailham, Ellenwhorne, Starvecrow ... torn away from the -central heart and become separate spoil ... just for Stella, whom he had -loved only a year. - -Leaning against the wall of the Mocksteeple, Peter seemed to hear the -voice of the old ruffian who had built it speaking to him out of the -tar—deriding him because he would take love for life and house it in a -Manor, whereas love is best when taken for a week and housed in any -convenient spot. But Peter had never been able to take love for a week. -Even when he had had adventures he had taken them seriously—those -independent, experience-hunting young women of his own class who had -filled the place in his life which “little women” and “French dancers” -had filled in his father’s. They had always found old Peter -embarrassingly faithful when they changed their minds. - -Now at last he had found love, true love, in which he could stay all his -life—a shelter, a house, a home like Starvecrow. He would be a fool to -renounce it—and there was Stella to be thought of too; he did not doubt -her love for him, she would not change. Their friendship had started in -the troublesome times of war and he had given her to understand that he -could not marry till the war was over. Those unsettled conditions which -had just the opposite effect on most men, making them jump into -marriage, snatch their happiness from under the cannon wheels, had made -Peter shrink from raising a permanent relation in the midst of so much -chaos. Marriage, in his eyes, was settling down, a state to be entered -into deliberately, with much background.... And Stella had agreed, with -her lips at least, though what her heart had said was another matter. - -But now the war was over, he was at home, the background was ready—she -would expect.... Already he was conscious of a sharp sense of treachery. -At the beginning of their love, Hugh had been alive and the Alard -fortunes no direct concern of Peter’s—he had expected to go back into -business and marry Stella on fifteen hundred a year. But ever since -Hugh’s death he had realised that things would be different—and he had -not told her. Naturally she would think his prospects improved—and he -had not undeceived her, though on his last leave, nine months ago, he -had guessed the bad way things were going. - -He had not behaved well to her, and it was now his duty to put matters -right at once, to tell her of his choice ... if he meant to choose.... -Good God! he didn’t even know yet what he ought to do—even what he -wanted to do. If he lost Stella he lost joy, warmth, laughter, love, the -last of youth—if he lost Alard he lost the First and Last Things of his -life, the very rock on which it stood. There was much in Stella which -jarred him, which made him doubt the possibility of running in easy yoke -with her, which made him fear that choosing her might lead to failure -and regret. But also there was much in Alard which fell short of -perfection—it had an awkward habit of splitting up into its component -parts, into individuals, every separate one of which hurt and vexed. -That way, too, might lead to emptiness. It seemed that whichever choice -he made he failed somebody and ran the risk of a vain sacrifice. - -But he must decide. He must not hold Stella now if he did not mean to -hold her forever. He saw that. His choice must be made at once, for her -sake, not in some dim, drifting future as he had at first imagined. He -was not going to marry the Hurst girl—he almost hated her—and to marry a -girl for her money was like prostitution, even though the money was to -save not him but his. But if he was not going to marry Stella he must -act immediately. He had no right to keep her half bound now that the -time had come to take her entirely. Oh, Stella!... - -Breezy the spaniel came walking over Peter’s legs, and licked his hands -in which his face was hidden. - - - § 15 - -That night Peter wrote to Stella:— - - _My own dear_— - - I’ve been thinking about you all today—I’ve been thinking about you - terribly. I took my gun out this morning after duck, but I had a - rotten day because I was thinking of you all the time. I had lunch - down by the Mocksteeple, and Stella, I wanted you so that I could have - cried. Then afterwards when I was at home I wanted you. I went in to - Lambard and we cut some pales, but all the time I was thinking of you. - And now I can think no longer—I must write and tell you what I’ve - thought. - - Child, I want to marry you. You’ve known that for a long time, haven’t - you? But I wanted to wait till the end of the war. I don’t believe in - marrying a girl and then going out and getting killed, though that is - what a lot of chaps did. Well, anyhow the war’s over. So will you - marry me, Stella child? But I must tell you this. My people will be - dead against it, because they’re looking to me to save the family by - making a rich marriage. It sounds dreadful, but it’s not really so bad - as it sounds, because if we don’t pick up somehow we shall probably go - smash and lose almost everything, including Starvecrow. But I don’t - care. I love you better than anything in the world. Only I must - prepare you for having to marry me quietly somewhere and living with - me in London for a bit. My father won’t have me as agent, I’m quite - sure, if I do this, but perhaps he’ll come round after a time. Anyhow - Stella, darling, if we have each other, the rest won’t matter, will - it? What does it matter even if we have to sell our land and go out of - Conster? They’ve got no real claim on me. Let Jenny marry somebody - rich, or Doris—it’s not too late. But I don’t see why I should - sacrifice my life to the family, and yours too, darling child. For I - couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe that you love me as much as I - love you. - - I think this is the longest letter than I have ever written to you, - but then it is so important. Dearest, we must meet and talk things - over. The Greenings are going into Hastings on Tuesday to look at a - house, so will you come to me at Starvecrow? - - My kisses, you sweet, and all my love. PETER. - -It was nearly midnight when he had finished writing at the table in his -bedroom. He folded up the letter and slipped it under the blotting -paper, before getting into bed and sleeping soundly. - -But the next morning he tore it to pieces. - - - § 16 - -On the last day of the old year Mary Pembroke came down to Conster -Manor, arriving expensively with a great deal of luggage. Her beauty was -altogether of a more sophisticated kind than Jenny’s and more exotic -than Doris’s—which, though at thirty-eight extinct in the realm of -nature, still lived in the realm of art. Mary was thirty-one, tall and -supple, with an arresting fineness about her, and a vibrant, ardent -quality. - -The family was a little restless as they surrounded her in the -drawing-room at tea. She had that same element of unexpectedness as -Gervase, but with the difference that Gervase was as yet raw and young -and under control. Mary gave an impression of being more grown up than -anyone, even than Lady Alard and Sir John; life with her was altogether -a more acute affair. - -Only Lady Alard enquired after the absent Julian. - -“I wonder he didn’t come down with you,” she murmured. “I sent him a -very special invitation.” - -“Bah!” said Sir John. - -“Why do you say ‘Bah,’ dear?” - -“Doris, tell your mother why I said ‘Bah.’” - -“Oh, Father, how do I know?” - -“You must be very stupid, then. I give leave to any one of you to -explain why I said ‘Bah,’” and Sir John stumped out of the room. - -“Really, your father is impossible,” sighed Lady Alard. - -Mary did not talk much—her tongue skimmed the surface of Christmas: the -dances they had been to, the people they had had to dinner. She looked -fagged and anxious—strung. At her first opportunity she went upstairs to -take off her travelling clothes and dress for dinner. Of dressing and -undressing Mary made always a lovely ceremony—very different from -Jenny’s hasty scuffle and Doris’s veiled mysteries. She lingered over it -as over a thing she loved; and Jenny loved to watch her—all the careful, -charming details, the graceful acts and poses, the sweet scents. Mary -moved like the priest of her own beauty, with her dressing table for -altar and her maid for acolyte—the latter an olive-skinned French girl, -who with a topknot of black hair gave a touch of chinoiserie to the -proceedings. - -When Mary had slipped off her travelling dress, and wrapped in a -Mandarin’s coat of black and rose and gold, had let Gisèle unpin her -hair, she sent the girl away. - -“Je prendrai mon bain à sept heures—vous reviendrez.” - -She leaned back in her armchair, her delicate bare ankles crossed, her -feet in their brocade mules resting on the fender, and gazed into the -fire. Jenny moved about the room for a few moments, looking at brushes -and boxes and jars. She had always been more Mary’s friend than Doris, -whose attitude had that peculiar savour of the elder, unmarried sister -towards the younger married one. But Jenny with Mary was not the same as -Jenny with Gervase—her youth easily took colour from its surroundings, -and with Mary she was less frank, more hushed, more unquiet. When she -had done looking at her things, she came and sat down opposite her on -the other side of the fire. - -“Well—how’s life?” asked Mary. - -“Oh, pretty dull.” - -“What, no excitements? How’s Jim?” - -“Oh, just the same as usual. He hangs about, but he knows it’s no good, -and so do I—and he knows that I know it’s no good, and I know that he -knows that I know—” and Jenny laughed wryly. - -“Hasn’t he any prospects?” - -“None whatever—at least none that are called prospects in our set, -though I expect they’d sound pretty fine to anyone else. He’ll have Cock -Marling when his father dies.” - -“You shouldn’t have fallen in love with a landed proprietor, Jen.” - -“Oh, well, it’s done now and I can’t help it.” - -“You don’t sound infatuated.” - -“I’m not, but I’m in love right enough. It’s all the hanging about and -uncertainty that makes me sound bored—in self-defence one has to grow a -thick skin.” - -Mary did not speak for a moment but seemed to slip through the firelight -into a dream. - -“Yes,” she said at last—“a thick skin or a hard heart. If the average -woman’s heart could be looked at under a microscope I expect it would be -seen to be covered with little spikes and scales and callouses—a regular -hard heart. Or perhaps it would be inflamed and tender ... I believe -inflammation is a defence, against disease—or poison. But after all, -nothing’s much good—the enemy always gets his knife in somehow.” - -She turned away her eyes from Jenny, and the younger sister felt -abashed—and just because she was abashed and awkward and shy, for that -very reason, she blurted out—— - -“How’s Julian?” - -“Oh, quite well, thank you. I persuaded him not to come down because he -and father always get on so badly.” - -“It’s a pity they do.” - -“A very great pity. But I can’t help it. I did my best to persuade him -to advance the money, but he’s not a man who’ll lend without good -security, even to a relation. I’m sorry, because if he would stand by -the family, I shouldn’t feel I’d been quite such a fool to marry him.” - -Though the fiction of Mary being happily married was kept up only by -Lady Alard, it gave Jenny a faint shock to hear her sister speak openly -of failure. Her feelings of awkwardness and shyness returned, and a deep -colour stained her cheeks. What should you say?—should you take any -notice?... It was your sister. - -“Mary, have you ... are you ... I mean, is it really quite hopeless?” - -“Oh, quite,” said Mary. - -“Then what are you going to do?” - -“I don’t know—I haven’t thought.” - -Jenny crossed and uncrossed her large feet—she looked at her sister’s -little mules, motionless upon the fender. - -“Is he—I mean, does he—treat you badly?” - -Mary laughed. - -“Oh, no—husbands in our class don’t as a rule, unless they’re qualifying -for statutory cruelty. Julian isn’t cruel—he’s very kind—indeed probably -most people would say he was a model husband. I simply can’t endure him, -that’s all.” - -“Incompatibility of temperament.” - -“That’s a very fine name for it, but I daresay it’s the right one. -Julian and I are two different sorts of people, and we’ve found it -out—at least I have. Also he’s disappointed because we’ve been married -seven years and I haven’t had a child—and he lets me see he’s -disappointed. And now he’s begun to be jealous—that’s put the lid on.” - -She leaned back in her chair, her hands folded on her lap, without -movement and yet, it seemed, without rest. Her body was alert and -strung, and her motionlessness was that of a taut bowstring or a -watching animal. As Jenny’s eyes swept over her, taking in both her -vitality and her immaculacy, a new conjecture seized her, a sudden -question. - -“Mary—are you ... are you in love?—with someone else, I mean.” - -“No—what makes you think so?” - -“It’s how you look.” - -“Jen, you’re not old enough yet to know how a woman looks when she’s in -love. Your own face in the glass won’t tell you.” - -“It’s not your face—it’s the way you behave—the way you dress. You seem -to worship yourself....” - -“So you think I must be in love—you can’t conceive that my efforts to be -beautiful should be inspired by anything but the wish to please some -man! Jen, you’re like all men, but, I’d hoped, only a few women—you -can’t imagine a woman wanting to be beautiful for her own sake. Oh, my -dear, it’s just because I’m not in love that I must please myself. If I -was in love I shouldn’t bother half so much—I’d know I pleased somebody -else, which one can do with much less trouble than one can please -oneself. I shouldn’t bother about my own exactions any more. The day you -see me with untidy hair and an unpowdered skin you’ll know I’m in love -with somebody who loves me, and haven’t got to please myself any more.” - -“But, Mary ... there’s Charles. Don’t you love Charles?” - -“No, I don’t. I know it’s very silly of me not to love the man my -husband’s jealous of, but such is the fact. Nobody but Julian would have -made a row about Charles—he’s just a pleasant, well-bred, oldish man, -who’s simple enough to be restful. He’s more than twenty years older -than I am, which I know isn’t everything, but counts for a good deal. I -liked going about with him because he’s so remote from all the fatigue -and fret and worry of that side of life. It was almost like going about -with another woman, except that one had the advantage of a man’s -protection and point of view.” - -“Does he love you?” - -“I don’t think so for a moment. In fact I’m quite sure he doesn’t. He -likes taking out a pretty woman, and we’ve enough differences to make us -interesting to each other, but there the matter ends. As it happens, I’m -much too fond of him to fall in love with him. It’s not a thing I’d ever -do with a man I liked as a friend. I know what love is, you see, and not -so long ago.” - -“Who was that?” - -“Julian,” said Mary dryly. - -A feeling of panic and hopelessness came over Jenny. - -“Oh, God ... then one can never know.” - - - § 17 - -Gervase’s scheme of going into a workshop materialised more quickly than -his family, knowing his rather inconsequent nature, had expected. The -very day after he had obtained his father’s consent he drove into -Ashford and interviewed the manager of Messrs. Gillingham and Golightly, -motor engineers in the station road. After some discussion it was -arranged that he should be taken into the works as pupil on the payment -of a premium of seventy-five pounds to cover three years’ instruction, -during which time he was to receive a salary starting at five shillings -a week and rising to fifteen. - -The sarcasm that greeted his first return on Saturday afternoon with his -five shillings in his pocket was equalled only by his own pride. Here at -last was money of his own, genuinely earned and worked for—money that -was not Alard’s, that was undimmed by earth, having no connection with -the land either through agriculture or landlordism. Gervase felt free -for at least an hour. - -“We can launch out a bit now,” said Sir John at luncheon—“Gervase has -come to our rescue and is supporting us in our hour of need. Which shall -we pay off first, Peter?—Stonelink or Dinglesden?...” - -Peter scowled—he seemed to find his father’s pleasantry more offensive -than Gervase, who merely laughed and jingled the coins in his pocket. - -The youngest Alard threw himself with zest into his new life. It -certainly was a life which required enthusiasm to make it worth living. -Every morning at nine he had to be at the works, driving himself in the -Ford farm-lorry, which had been given over to his use on its supplanting -by a more recent make. He often was not back till seven or eight at -night, worn out, but with that same swelling sense of triumph with which -he had returned from his first day’s work. He was still living at home, -still dependent on his people for food and clothing if not for pocket -money, but his feet were set on a road which would take him away from -Conster, out of the Alard shadow. Thank God! he was the youngest son, or -they wouldn’t have let him go. He enjoyed the hardness of the way—the -mortification of those early risings, with the blue, star-pricked sky -and the deadly cold—the rattling drive in the Ford through all -weathers—the arrival at the works, the dirt, the din, the grease, the -breaking of his nails, his filthy overalls, his fellow workmen with -their unfamiliar oaths and class-grievances, the pottering over bolts -and screws, the foreman’s impatience with his natural carelessness—the -exhausted drive home over the darkness of the Kent road ... Gable Hook, -Tenterden, Newenden, Northiam, Beckley, going by in a flash of red -windows—the arrival at Conster almost too tired to eat—the welcome haven -of bed and the all too short sweet sleep. - -Those January days in their zeal and discipline were like the first days -of faith—life ceased to be an objectless round, a slavery to -circumstances. Generally when he was at home he was acutely sensitive to -the fret of Conster, to the ceaseless fermentation of those lives, so -much in conflict and yet so combined—he had always found his holidays -depressing and been glad to go back to school. Now, though he still -lived in the house, he did not belong to it—its ambitions and its strife -did not concern him, though he was too observant and sensitive not to be -affected by what was going on. - -He saw enough to realise that the two main points of tension were Mary -and Peter. Mary was still at Conster, though he understood that Julian -had written asking her to come home—February was near, and she stayed -on, though she spoke of going back. As for Peter, he had become sulky -and self-absorbed. He would not go for walks on Sundays, or shooting on -Saturday afternoons—he had all the painful, struggling manner of a plain -man with a secret—a straightforward man in the knots of a decision. -Gervase was sorry for him, but a little angry too. Over his more -monotonous jobs at the works, in his rare wakeful moments, but most of -all in his long familiar-contemptible drives to and from Ashford, he -still thought of Stella. His feeling for her remained much the same as -it had been at Christmas—a loving absorption, a warm worship. He could -not bear that she should suffer—she was so very much alive that he felt -her suffering must be sharper than other people’s. He could guess by his -own feelings a little of what she suffered in her love for Peter—and -once he got further than a guess. - -During those weeks he had never met her anywhere, either at Conster or -outside it; but one Saturday at noon, as he was coming away from the -shop, he met her surprisingly on foot in the station road. He pulled up -and spoke to her, and she told him she was on her way to the station in -hopes of an early train. The Singer had broken down with magneto trouble -and she had been obliged to leave it for repair—meantime her father -wanted her back early, as there was always a lot of dispensary work to -do on a Saturday afternoon. - -“Well, if you don’t mind a ride in a dying Ford....” - -He hardly dared listen to her answer, he tried to read it as it came -into her eyes while he spoke. - -“Of course I don’t mind. I should love it—and it’s really most -frightfully good of you.” - -So she climbed up beside him, and soon her round bright eyes were -looking at him from between her fur cap and huge fur collar, as they had -looked that first morning at Starvecrow.... He felt the love rising in -his throat ... tender and silly ... he could not speak; and he soon -found that she would rather he didn’t. Not only was the Ford’s -death-rattle rather loud but she seemed to find the same encouragement -to thought as he in that long monotonous jolt through the Weald of Kent. -He did not have to lift himself far out of the stream of his thoughts -when he looked at her or spoke, but hers were evidently very far away. -With a strange mixture of melancholy and satisfaction, he realised that -he must count for little in her life—practically nothing at all. Even if -she were not Peter’s claim she could never be his—not only on account of -her age, six years older than he, but because the fact that she loved -Peter showed that it was unlikely she could ever love Gervase, Peter’s -contrast.... In his heart was a sweet ache of sorrow, the thrill which -comes with the first love-pain. - -But as they ran down into Sussex, across the floods that sheeted the -Rother levels, and saw the first outposts of Alard-Monking and Horns -Cross Farms with the ragged line of Moat Wood—his heart suddenly grew -cold. In one of his sidelong glances at Stella he saw a tear hanging on -the dark stamen of an eyelash ... he looked again as soon as he dared, -and saw another on her cheek. Was it the cold?... - -“Stella, are you cold?” he asked, fearing her answer. - -“No, thank you, Gervase.” - -He dared not ask “Why are you crying?” Also there was no need—he knew. -The sweetness had gone out of his sorrow, he no longer felt that -luxurious creep of pain—instead his heart was heavy, and dragged at his -breast. It was faint with anger. - -When they came to the Throws where the road to Vinehall turns out of the -road to Leasan, he asked her if she wouldn’t come up to Conster for -tea—“and I’ll drive you home afterwards.” But again she said in her -gentle voice “No thank you, Gervase.” He wished she wouldn’t say it like -that. - - - § 18 - -What did Peter mean? - -That was the question Stella had asked herself at intervals during the -past month, that she had been asking herself all the way from Ashford to -Vinehall, and was still asking when Gervase set her down on the doorstep -of Hollingrove and drove away. What did Peter mean? - -She would not believe that he meant nothing—that their friendship had -been just one of those war-time flirtations which must fade in the light -of peace. It had lasted too long, for one thing—it had lasted a year. -For a whole year they had loved each other, written to each other almost -every day, hungered for meetings, and met with kisses and passionate -playful words. It is true that he had never spoken to her of marriage -except negatively, but she knew his views and had submitted if not -agreed. All that was over now—he was no longer a soldier, holding his -life on an uncertain lease; and more, he was now the heir—their -prospects had improved from the material and practical point of view. He -might, like so many men, have found it difficult to get back into -business, recover his pre-war footing in the world; but there need be no -concern for that now—he was not only the heir, but his father’s agent, -already established with home and income, and his home that dearest of -all places, Starvecrow.... - -She would not believe that he had been playing with her, that he had -only taken her to pass the time, and now was looking for some decent -pretext for letting her go. He was not that sort of man at all. Peter -was loyal and honest right through. Besides, she saw no sign that his -love had grown cold. She was sure that he loved her as much as ever, but -more painfully, more doubtingly. Their meetings had lately been given -over to a sorrowful silence. He had held her in his arms in silent, -straining tenderness. He would not talk, he would not smile. What did he -mean? - -Probably his family was making trouble. She had been only once to -Conster since she had dined there on Christmas Day, and it had struck -her then that Doris and Lady Alard had both seemed a little unfriendly. -Everyone in Leasan and Vinehall said that the Squire’s son would have to -marry money if he meant to keep the property going. She had often heard -people say that—but till now she had scarcely thought of it. The idea -had seemed impossible, almost grotesque. But now it did not seem quite -impossible—Peter’s behaviour, his family’s behaviour, all pointed to its -being a factor in the situation; and since she could not refuse to see -that something was keeping him silent when he ought to speak, it was -easier to believe in a difficulty of this kind than in any commonplace -cooling or change. Once she had thought that nothing, not even Alard, -could come between them—now she must alter her faith to the extent of -believing that nothing could come between them except Alard. - -She could not help being a little angry with Peter for this discovery. -It seemed to her a shameful thing that money should count against love. -As for herself, she did not dare think what she would not sacrifice for -love—for Peter if occasion arose. And he, apparently, would not -sacrifice for her one acre of Conster, one tile of Starvecrow.... Was it -the difference between men and women which made the difference here? If -she was a man would she be able to see the importance of Peter’s family, -the importance of keeping his property together even at the expense of -happiness and faith? She wondered.... Meanwhile she was angry. - -She wished he would have things out with her, try to explain. That he -did not was probably due to the mixture of that male cowardice which -dreads a “scene” with that male stupidity which imagines that nothing -has been noticed which it has not chosen to reveal. But if he didn’t -tell her soon she would ask him herself. She knew that such a step was -not consistent with feminine dignity either ancient or modern. According -to tradition she should have drooped to the masculine whim, according to -fashion she should have asserted her indifference to it. But she could -do neither. She could not bear her own uncertainty any longer—this fear -of her hopes. Oh, she had planned so materially and wildly! She had -planned the very furnishing of Starvecrow—which room was to be which—the -dining-room, the best bedroom, the spare bedroom, Peter’s study ... -cream distemper on the walls and for each room different colours ... and -a kitchen furnished with natural oak and copper pots and pans.... - -The tears which up till now had only teased the back of her eyes, -brimmed over at the thought of the kitchen. The dark January afternoon, -clear under a sky full of unshed rain, was swallowed up in mist as -Stella wept for her kitchen and copper pans. - -She was still on the doorstep, where she had stood to see the last of -Gervase, and even now that she was crying she did not turn into the -house. The iron-black road was empty between its draggled hedges, and -she found a certain kinship in the winter twilight, with its sharpness, -its sighing of low, rain-burdened winds. After a few moments she dried -her eyes and went down the steps to the gate. Thanks to Gervase, she had -come home nearly an hour earlier than she need—she would go and sit for -a few minutes in church. She found church a very good place for thinking -her love affairs into their right proportion with all time. - -The village of Vinehall was not like the village of Leasan, which -straggled for nearly a mile each side of the high road. It was a large -village, all pressed together like a little town. Above it soared the -spire of Vinehall church, which, like many Sussex churches, stood in a -farmyard. Its lovely image lay in the farmyard pond, streaked over with -green scum and the little eddies that followed the ducks. - -Stella carefully shut out a pursuing hen and went in by the tower door. -The church was full of heavy darkness. The afternoon sun had left it a -quarter of an hour ago, showing only its pale retreat through the slats -of the clerestory windows, white overhead, and night lay already in the -aisles. She groped her way to the east end, where the white star of a -lamp flickered against a pillar guarding a shrine. She flopped down on -the worn stones at the foot of the pillar, sitting back on her heels, -her hands lying loosely and meekly in her lap. - -She had no sense of loneliness or fear in the dark—the white lamp spoke -to her of a presence which she could feel throughout the dark and empty -church, a presence of living quiet, of glowing peace. Outside she could -hear the fowls ducking in the yard, with every now and then the shrill -gobble-gobble of a turkey. She loved these homely sounds, which for -years had been the accompaniment of her prayers—her prayers which had no -words, but seemed to move in her heart like flames. Oh, it was good to -be here, to have this place to come to, this Presence to seek. - -Now that she was here she could no longer feel angry with Peter, however -stupid, obstinate and earthy he was. Poor Peter—choosing it for himself -as well as for her ... she could not be angry with him, because she knew -that if he pulled catastrophe down upon them, he of the two would suffer -the most. Unlike her, he had no refuge, no Presence to seek, no unseen -world that could become real at a thought.... His gods were dead Squires -who had laid up wealth to be his poverty. Her God was a God who had -beggared Himself, that she through His poverty might become rich. - -This beggar and lover and prisoner, her God, was with her here in the -darkness, telling her that if she too wished to be a lover she too must -become a beggar and a prisoner. She would be Peter’s beggar, Peter’s -slave. She would not let him go from her without pleading, without -fighting, but if he really must go, if this half-known monster, Alard, -was really strong enough to take him, he should not go wounded by her -detaining clutch as well as by its claws. He should not go shamed and -reproached, but with goodwill. If he really must go, and she could no -longer hold him, she would make his going easy.... He should go in -peace.... Poor Peter. - - - § 19 - -At the end of January Mary left Conster. She could not in any spirit of -decorum put off her return longer—her husband had wired to her to come -home. - -“Poor Julian,” said Lady Alard—“he must be missing you dreadfully. I -really think you ought to go back, Mary, since he can’t manage to come -here.” - -Mary agreed without elaboration, and her lovely hats and shoes with the -tea-gowns and dinner-frocks which had divided the family into camps of -admiration and disapproval, were packed away by the careful, brisk -Gisèle. The next day she was driven over to Ashford, with Jenny and -Peter to see her off. - -There had been no intimate talks between the sisters since the first -night of her coming. Jenny was shy, and typically English in her dislike -of the exposure of anything which seemed as if it ought to be hidden, -and Mary either felt this attitude in her sister or else shrank from -disillusioning her youth still further. They had arrived a little too -early for the train, and stood together uneasily on the platform while -Gisèle bought the tickets and superintended the luggage. - -“I wish you didn’t have to go,” said Jenny politely. - -“So do I—but it couldn’t be helped after that telegram.” - -“Julian sounded rather annoyed—I hope he won’t make a fuss when you get -back.” - -“I’m not going back.” - -There was a heavy silence. Neither Peter nor Jenny thought they had -quite understood. - -“Wh-what do you mean?” stammered Jenny at last—“not going back to Chart? -Isn’t Julian there?” - -“Of course he’s there. That’s why I’m not going back. Gisèle is taking -the tickets to London.” - -“But”—It was Peter who said ‘But,’ and had apparently nothing else to -say. - -“Do you mean that you’re leaving him?” faltered Jenny. - -“I’m not going to live with him any more. I’ve had enough.” - -“But why didn’t you tell us?—tell the parents?” - -“I’d rather not bring the family into it. It’s my own choice though -Julian is sure to think you’ve been influencing me. I didn’t make up my -mind till I got his telegram; then I saw quite plainly that I couldn’t -go back to him.” - -“You’re not going to that other fellow—what’s his name—Commander Smith?” -cried Peter, finding his tongue rather jerkily. - -“Oh, no. As I’ve told Jenny, making a mess of things with one man -doesn’t necessarily encourage me to try my luck with another. Besides, -I’m not fond of Charles—in that way. I shall probably stay at my Club -for a bit, and then go abroad.... I don’t know.... All I know is that -I’m not going back to Julian.” - -“Shall you—can you divorce him?” - -“No. He hasn’t been cruel or unfaithful, nor has he deserted me. I’m -deserting him. It’s simply that I can’t live with him—he gets on my -nerves—I can’t put up with either his love or his jealousy. I couldn’t -bear the thought even of having dinner with him tonight ... and yet—” -the calm voice suddenly broke—“and yet I married for love....” - -Both the brother and sister were silent. Peter saw Gisèle coming up with -a porter and the luggage, and went off like a coward to meet them. Jenny -remained uneasily with Mary. - -“I’m sorry to have had to do this,” continued the elder sister—“it’ll -upset the parents, I know. They don’t like Julian, but they’ll like a -scandal still less.” - -“Do you think he’ll make a row?” - -“I’m sure of it. For one thing, he’ll never think for a minute I haven’t -left him for someone else—for Charles. He won’t be able to imagine that -I’ve left a comfortable home and a rich husband without any counter -attraction except my freedom. By the way, I shall be rather badly -off—I’ll have only my settlements, and they won’t bring in much.” - -“Oh, Mary—do you really think you’re wise?” - -“Not wise, perhaps—nor good.” She pulled down her veil. “I feel that a -better or a worse woman would have made a neater job of this. The worse -would have found an easier way—the better would have stuck to the rough. -But I—oh, I’m neither—I’m neither good nor bad. All I know is that I -can’t go back to Julian, to put up with his fussing and his love and his -suspicion—and, worse still, with my own shame because I don’t love him -any more—because I’ve allowed myself to be driven out of love by -tricks—by manner—by outside things.” - -“—London train—Headcorn, Tonbridge and London train—” - -The porter’s shouting was a welcome interruption, though it made Jenny -realise with a blank feeling of anxiety and impotence that any time for -persuasion was at an end. - -“Do you want us to tell Father and Mother?” she asked as Mary got into -the train. - -“You needn’t if you’d rather not. I’ll write to them tonight.” - -She leaned back in the carriage, soft, elegant, perfumed, a little -unreal, and yet conveying somehow a sense of desperate choice and mortal -straits. - -Peter and Jenny scarcely spoke till they were back in the car driving -homewards. Then Jenny said with a little gasp— - -“Isn’t it dreadful?” - -“What?—her going away?” - -“No, the fact that she married Julian for love.” - -Peter said nothing. - -“If she’d married out of vanity, or greed, or to please the family, it -would have been better—one would have understood what’s happened now. -But she married him for love.” - -Peter still said nothing. - - - § 20 - -He sat waiting at Starvecrow on an early day in February. Outside the -rain kept the Feast of the Purification, washing down the gutters of -Starvecrow’s mighty roof, lapping the edges of the pond into the yard, -and further away transforming all the valley of the Tillingham into a -lake—huge sheets and spreads of water, out of which the hills of Barline -and Brede Eye stood like a coast. All the air was fresh and washed and -tinkling with rain. - -The fire was piled high with great logs and posts, burning with a blue -flame, for they had been pulled out of the barns of Starvecrow, which -like many in the district were built of ships’ timbers with the salt -still in them. The sound of the fire was as loud as the sound of the -rain. Both made a sorrowful music together in Peter’s head. - -He sat with his hands folded together under his chin, his large light -blue eyes staring without seeing into the grey dripping world framed by -the window. The clock in the passage struck three. Stella would not come -till a quarter past. He had arranged things purposely so that he should -be alone for a bit at Starvecrow before meeting her, strengthening -himself with the old loyalties to fight the brief, sweet faithfulness of -a year. - -He felt almost physically sick at the thought of what lay before him, -but he had made up his mind to go through with it—it had got to be done; -and it must be done in this way. Oh, how he had longed to send Stella a -letter, telling her that they must never see each other again, begging -her to go away and spare him! But he knew that was a coward’s escape—the -least he owed her was an explanation face to face.... What a brute he -had been to her! He had no right to have won her love if he did not mean -to keep it—and though when he had first sought her he had thought -himself free to do so, he had behaved badly in not telling her of the -new difficulties created by his becoming the heir. It was not that he -had meant to hide things from her, but he had simply shelved them in his -own mind, hoping that “something would turn up,” that Alard’s plight -would not be as bad as he had feared. Now he saw that it was infinitely -worse—and he was driven to a definite choice between his people and -Stella. If he married Stella he would have failed Alard—if he stood by -Alard he would have failed Stella. It was a cruel choice—between the two -things in the world that he loved best. But he must make it now—he could -not keep Stella hanging on indefinitely any longer. Already he could see -how uncertainty, anxiety and disappointment were telling on her. She was -looking worn and dim. She had expected him, on his return home after the -wars, to proclaim their love publicly, and he was still keeping it -hidden, though the reasons he had first given her for doing so were at -an end. She was wondering why he didn’t speak—she was hesitating whether -she should speak herself.... He guessed her struggle and knew he must -put an end to it. - -Besides, now at last his choice was made. He no longer had any -uncertainty, any coil of argument to encumber him. Mary’s words on -Ashford platform had finally settled his difficulty—“And yet I married -for love.” Seven years ago Mary had loved this man from whom she was now -escaping, the very sight of whom in her home she could not bear. Love -was as uncertain as everything else—it came and it was gone. Mary had -once loved Julian as Peter now loved Stella—and look at her!... Oh, you -could never be sure. And there was so much in Stella he was not sure -of—and she might change—he might change; only places never changed—were -always the same. Starvecrow would always be to him, whether at eighteen, -thirty-eight or eighty, the same Starvecrow.... How could he fail the -centuries behind him for what might not live more than a few years? How -could he fail the faithful place for that which had change for its -essence and death for its end? - -Far away he could hear the purring of a car—it drew nearer, and Peter, -clenching his hands, found the palms damp. All his skin was hot and -moist—oh, God, what had he to face? The scene that was coming would be -dreadful—he’d never get through it unless Stella helped him, and he’d no -right to expect help from her. Here she was, driving in at the gate ... -outside the door ... inside the room at last. - - - § 21 - -He sought refuge in custom, and going up to her, laid his hands on her -shoulders and kissed her gravely. Then he began to loosen the fur -buttons of her big collar, but she put up her hand and stopped him. - -“No—I’ll keep it on. I can’t stop long. Father’s waiting for me at -Barline.” - -“It’s good of you to come—there’s something I’ve got to say.” - -“You want to tell me we must end it.” - -He had not expected her to help him so quickly. Then he suddenly -realised that his letter had probably told her a lot—his trouble must -have crept between the lines—into the lines ... he wasn’t good at hiding -things. - -“Oh, Stella.” - -He stood a few paces from her, and noticed—now that his thoughts were -less furiously concentrated on himself—that she was white, that all the -warm, rich colour in her cheeks was gone. He pulled forward one of the -office chairs, and she sank into it. He sat down opposite her, and took -her hand, which she did not withdraw. - -“Oh, Stella, my darling ... my precious child ... it’s all no use. I’ve -hoped and I’ve tried, but it’s no good—I must let you go.” - -“Why?” - -The word came almost sharply—she wasn’t going to help him, then, so -much. - -“Darling, I know I’m a cad. I ought never to have told you I loved you, -knowing that ... at least when Hugh died I should have told you straight -out how things were. But I couldn’t—I let myself drift, hoping matters -would improve ... and then there was the war....” - -“Peter, I wish you would tell me things straight out—now’s better than -never. And honestly I can’t understand why you’re not going to marry -me.” - -He was a little shocked. Tradition taught him that Stella would try to -save her face, and he had half expected her to say that she had never -thought of marrying him. After all, he had never definitely asked her, -and she might claim that this was only one of those passionate -friendships which had become so common during the war. If she had done -so, he would have conceded her the consolation without argument—a girl -ought to try and save her face; but Stella apparently did not care about -her face at all. - -“Why aren’t you going to marry me? You’ve never given me any real -reason.” - -“Surely you know”—his voice was a little cold. - -“How can I know? I see you the heir of a huge estate, living in a big -house with apparently lots of money. You tell me again and again that -you love me—I’m your equal in birth and education. Why on earth should I -‘know’ that you can’t marry me?” - -“Stella, we’re in an awful mess—all the family. The estate is mortgaged -almost up to the last acre—we can hardly manage to pay the yearly -interest, and owing to the slump in land we can’t sell.” - -Stella stared at him woodenly. - -“Can’t you understand?” - -“No—” she said slowly—“I can’t. I’ve heard that the war has hit you—it’s -hit all the big landowners; but you’re—good heavens! you’re not poor. -Think of the servants you keep, and the motor-cars——” - -“Oh, that’s my hopeless parents, who won’t give up anything they’ve been -accustomed to, and who say that it’s not worth while making ourselves -uncomfortable in small things when only something colossal can save us. -If we moved into the Lodge tomorrow and lived on five hundred a year it -would still take us more than a lifetime to scrape up enough to free the -land.” - -“Then what do you propose to do?” - -“Well, don’t you see, if I live at home I can manage somehow to keep -down expenses, so that the interest on the mortgages gets paid—and when -Greening’s gone and I’m agent I can do a lot to improve the estate, and -send the value up so that we can sell some of the outlying farms over by -Stonelink and Guestling—that’ll bring in ready money, and then perhaps -I’ll be able to pay off some of the mortgages.” - -“But couldn’t you do all that if you married me?” - -“No, because for one thing I shouldn’t be allowed to try. Father -wouldn’t have me for agent.” - -“Why?” - -“Oh, Stella darling, don’t make it so difficult for me. It’s so hard for -me to tell you ... can’t you see that my people want to get money above -all things—lots of it? If I marry you it’ll be the end of all their -hopes.” - -“They want you to marry money.” - -“They want us all to marry money. Oh, don’t think I’m going to do it—I -couldn’t marry anyone I didn’t love. But I feel I’ve got my duty to them -as well as to you ... and it’s not only to them ... oh, Stella -sweetheart, don’t cry!” - -“I—I can’t help it. Oh, Peter, it all sounds so—so dreadful, so -sordid—and so—so cruel, to you as well as to me.” - -He longed to take her in his arms, but dared not, partly for fear of his -own weakness, partly for fear she would repulse him. - -“Darling—I’m not explaining well; it’s so difficult. And I know it’s -sordid, but not so sordid as you think. It’s simply that I feel I must -stand by my family now—and I don’t mean just my people, you know; I mean -all the Alards ... all that ever were. I can’t let the place be sold up, -as it will have to be if I don’t save it. Think of it ... and the first -part to be sold would have to be Starvecrow, because it’s the only free, -unmortgaged land we’ve got. Oh, Stella, think of selling Starvycrow!” - -She took away her hands and looked at him through her streaming tears. - -“Oh, don’t look at me like that—don’t reproach me. What I’m doing is -only half selfish—the other half is unselfish, it’s sacrifice.” - -“But, Peter, what does it matter if the land is sold? What good is the -land doing you?—what good will it ever do you, if it comes to that? Why -should we suffer for the land?” - -“I thought you’d have understood that better.” - -“I don’t understand at all.” - -“Not that I must stand by my people?” - -“I don’t understand why your people can’t be happy without owning all -the land in three parishes.” - -“Oh, my dear....” - -He tried to take her hand, but this time she pulled it away. - -“It’s no good, Peter. I understand your selfish reason better than your -unselfish one. I fail to see why you should sacrifice me and yourself to -your family and their land. I can see much better how you can’t bear the -thought of losing Starvecrow. I know how you love it, because I love it -too-but much as I love it, I never could sacrifice you to it, my dear, -nor any human soul.” - -“I know—I know. I’m a beast, Stella—but it’s like this ... human beings -change—even you may change—but places are always the same.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“Well, I love you now—but how do I know ... Mary married for love.” - -“What’s Mary got to do with it?” - -“She’s shown me that one can never be sure, even with love.” - -“You mean to say you’re not sure if you’d be happy with me?” - -“Darling, I’m as sure as I can ever be with any human being. But one -never can be quite sure, that’s the terrible thing. And oh, it would be -so ghastly if you changed—or I changed—and I had left the unchanging -place for you.” - -Stella rose quietly to her feet. - -“I understand now, Peter.” - -For a moment she stood motionless and silent, her mouth set, her eyes -shining out beyond him. He wondered if she was praying. - -“Stella—don’t hate me.” - -“I don’t hate you—I love you. But I quite understand that you don’t love -me. Your last words have shown me that. And your not loving me explains -it all. If you really loved me all these difficulties, all these -ambitions would be like—like chaff. But you don’t love me, at least not -much; and I don’t want you, if you only love me a little. I’m relieved -in a way—I think you’d be doing a dreadful thing if you gave me up while -you really loved me. But you don’t really love me, so you’re quite right -to give me up and stand by your family and Starvecrow. Oh, I know you -love me enough to have married me if everything had been easy....” - -“Stella, don’t—It isn’t that I don’t love you; it’s only that I can’t -feel sure of the future with you—I mean, there are so many things about -you I can’t understand—your way of looking at life and things....” - -“Oh, I know, my dear—don’t trouble to explain to me. And don’t think I’m -angry, Peter—only sick—sick—sick. I don’t want to argue with you any -more—it’s over. And I’ll make things as easy for you as I can, and for -myself too. I’ll go away—I’ll have to. I couldn’t bear meeting you after -this—or seeing Starvecrow....” - -She went to the door, and he hoped she would go straight out, but on the -threshold she suddenly turned—— - -“I’m not angry, Peter—I’m not angry. I was, but I’m not now ... I’m only -miserable. But I’ll be all right ... if I go away. And some day we’ll be -friends again....” - -The door crashed behind her. She was gone. - - - - - INTERLUDE - - - § 1 - - May 29, 1919. - - Conster Manor, - Leasan, - Sussex. - - _My dear Stella_, - -I hope you won’t think it awful cheek of me to write to you, but I’ve -been thinking of doing so for a long time—ever since you left, in fact. -I felt so very sorry that just after I’d begun to know you again you -should go away. You see I’m rather odd-man-out in the family, for though -Jenny and I have always been pals, she’s frightfully preoccupied with -things just now, and I get back so late and start off again so early -next morning that I see very little of people at home. The same fact -makes it difficult for me to keep up with the people I knew at school—I -can’t have them at Conster, anyway. And at the works—oh, Gee! I can’t -think where they come from. Either they’re of quite a bit different -class, which I can get on with, though I don’t think I could ever make a -friend of it, or else they’re a type of man I’ve never struck before, -the kind that’s always talking of horses and girls, and the way he talks -it’s rather difficult to tell ’tother from which. So may I—now it’s -coming out!—may I write to you now and then? It would make such a -difference to me, and you needn’t answer—at least, not so often as I -write. I’d never dare ask you this to your face, but I can write things -I can’t say. So please let me—it would be such a relief, and I’d be so -grateful. I don’t pretend for a minute that it’ll be entertaining for -you—I’ll simply be getting things off my chest. You see, I do such a -frightful lot of thinking on the way to and from Ashford and you’ve done -a lot of thinking too—I’m sure of it—so perhaps you’ll understand my -thoughts, though I can tell you some of ’em are precious silly. This -letter is a pretty fair specimen of what you’d have to expect, so if you -don’t like it, squash me at once, for I’d hate to be a nuisance to you. - -I hope you’re still liking the clinic. Your father told us about it last -Sunday. I expect he’s given you all the Leasan and Vinehall news. He’ll -have told you about Dolly Hurst’s wedding, anyhow. It was a simply -terrible affair. I had to go, because they heartlessly chose a Saturday -afternoon, and I was nearly stifled with the show. The church reeked of -flowers and money and Israelites. In spite of my decided views on the -filthiness of lucre, I can’t help thinking it a waste that a rich -Gentile should marry a rich Jew when there are plenty of poor Gentiles -in the neighbourhood. However, the bridegroom looks a decent fellow, and -not so violently a son of Abraham. He had three sisters who were -bridesmaids, and all treats, as we say at the shop. Forgive these vulgar -musings on a solemn subject, but the occasion provokes them—and anyhow -write and tell me if I may write again. - - Yours in hope and fear, - GERVASE ALARD. - - - June 3. - - 15, Mortimer Street, - Birmingham. - - _My dear Gervase_, - -Very many thanks for your letter. Of course go on writing—I shall love -hearing from you, though please don’t think I’m clever and “do a lot of -thinking”—because I don’t. And I’m glad you say you won’t be exacting in -the way of answers for I’m frightfully busy here. I have to be at the -clinic at nine every morning, and often don’t get away till after six. I -do all the dispensary work, weigh babies, etc.—it’s all most amusing, -and I love it, and would be ever so happy if I felt Father was getting -on all right without me. Now you might help me here and tell me what you -think of Miss Gregory. Father of course makes out that he’s perfectly -satisfied, but I feel that may be only because he doesn’t want me to -worry or think I ought to come back. So you tell me if you think she’s a -dud, though of course I don’t expect you’ll have much opportunity for -finding out. - -Yes, Father told me about the Hurst wedding, and I had a letter too from -Mrs. George Alard. It seems to have been a regular Durbar. I’m rather -surprised they found it possible to get married in church, the -bridegroom not being a Christian. But perhaps he’s Jewish only by race. -I hope so, because Mrs. George said Peter seemed very much smitten with -his sister, who was chief bridesmaid. Of course this may be only her -imagination. I wonder if you noticed anything. I suppose Peter’s living -at Starvecrow now. I hope so much he’ll be able to do all he wanted for -the estate. - -Excuse more, but I’m frightfully busy this week, as there are one or two -cases of smallpox in the city and a lot of vaccination being done. - - Yours, - STELLA MOUNT. - - - § 2 - - Nov. 16. - - Hollingrove, - Vinehall, - Sussex. - - _My dear Little Girl_, - -When we were together in the summer you told me you had quite “got over” -Peter Alard, and I was so glad. All the same I want to send you the -enclosed newspaper cutting before you have a chance of hearing the news -from any other source—I feel it might still be a shock. I wish I had -been less of a dull fellow and had my suspicions beforehand—then I might -have prepared you—but I assure you I never thought of it. He met her for -the first time at her brother’s wedding to Miss Hurst in May—she was one -of the bridesmaids—and I’m told now that she stayed at Conster for a -fortnight while we were away in August. She was down again this last -week and I met her once or twice—she seems a very nice girl, quiet and -well-bred and decidedly above the average in brains, I should think. -Lady Alard told me she is writing a book. I was asked up to dinner last -night, and Sir John announced the engagement, and this morning it was in -the _Times_, so I’m writing off to you at once. My darling, you know how -sorry I am that things did not turn out as we had both so fondly hoped. -But I think that what has happened may be a comfort to you in many ways, -as you were so afraid he would marry Dolly Hurst to please his family -and we both agreed she could never make him happy. Miss Asher seems much -more likely to be the kind of wife he wants—she is not so cold and -intellectual, but seems warm-hearted and friendly, though as I’ve told -you she’s decidedly clever. Peter seemed extremely happy when I -congratulated him—it’s so nice to think that I can tell you this, and -that your love was always of a kind which wanted his happiness more than -its own. But I’m afraid this will be a blow to you, dear; in spite of -what you have told me, and I heard Mass this morning with a special -intention for you. I will write again in a day or two and tell you how -the Elphicks are getting on and the rest of the news, but I must stop -now as I hear Miss Gregory trying to crank up the car. It’s funny how -she never seems able to manage it when the engine’s cold, while a little -bit of a thing like you never failed to get it started. Goodbye, my -darling, and God bless you. - - Your loving father, - HORACE J. MOUNT. - - -Cutting from the _Times_ of Nov. 16, 1919: - - Mr. P. J. Alard and Miss V. L. I. Asher. - -A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Peter -John Alard, eldest son of Sir John and Lady Alard of Conster Manor, -Leasan, Sussex, and Vera Lorna Isabel, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lewis -Asher of 91, Orme Square, Bayswater. - - - NOV. 20. - - 15, Mortimer Street, - Birmingham. - - _Dearest Father_, - - Thank you so much for writing to me the way you did, because in spite - of what I said at Grasmere I think it would have been rather a shock - if I’d seen it in the paper. Of course I have “got over” Peter in a - way, but, oh, dear, it always gives one rather a pang to see one’s old - love marrying—you remember all the lovely things he said to _you_, and - you wonder if he’s now saying just the same to the other girl. I’m - afraid this sounds rather cynical and sad, and a bit selfish, because - I had definitely broken off with Peter, and since he can’t have really - and truly loved me I ought to be glad he’s found someone he can really - and truly love. Oh, I do hope he really and truly loves her, but one’s - always afraid in a case like this when there’s money. It may have - influenced him unconsciously, though I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have - married her if he hadn’t been fond of her as well. Still “fond of” - isn’t enough—oh, it would be dreadful to think he’d given me up and - then married another woman whom he didn’t love even as much as he - loved me. But do believe me, Father dear, I’m being sensible. - Yesterday I went to confession and this morning I went to the Altar, - and I feel ever so much better than I did at first. Of course, after - what I said it seems ridiculous to mind so much, but it’s only when a - thing is utterly finished that one realises how one has been stupidly - hoping against hope the whole time. - - I had a letter from Gervase yesterday, telling me a lot about Vera - Lorna Isabel. I think she sounds nice, though rather brainy for old - Peter. She and Dolly Hurst were both in a sort of literary set up in - London and have met lots of authors and authoresses. Gervase says she - has read them some of her book, and it’s frightfully clever, but he - doesn’t think she’ll finish it now she’s engaged. I still hear - regularly from Gervase; he writes once a week and I write once a - fortnight, which sounds unfair, but you know how busy I am—though, for - the matter of that, so is he. I think he’s an awfully nice boy, and I - admire him for breaking free from the family tradition and striking - out a line of his own. - - Really Miss Gregory’s an awful ass if she can’t crank up the car—I - never knew a car start easier, even on a cold morning. Father, when - Peter’s safely married I think I’ll come home. I can’t bear being away - from you, and I know nobody looks after you as well as I do (said she - modestly). It’ll be quite all right—I came away partly for Peter’s - sake as well as my own—I thought it would help the thing to die - easier—but really I’d be a hopeless fool if I could never bear to meet - him again, and whatever would become of you without me? How good of - you to hear Mass for me. How is Father Luce? Please give him my love, - though I don’t suppose he wants it. Does he talk any more now? I wish - he’d be a more entertaining companion for you on Sunday evenings. - - Lots of love and kisses and thanks and bless-yous from - - STELLA. - - - - - _PART II_ - LEASAN PARSONAGE - - - § 1 - -February was nearly over when Peter came back from his Algerian -honeymoon, and found Starvecrow waiting to receive him. It was the mild -end of a rainy day, with the air full of yellow sunshine, which was -reflected in the floods of the Tillingham marshes. The house was faintly -bloomed with it, and its windows shone like golden pools. Peter caught -his first glimpse from the top of Brede Eye hill, and his heart grew -warm in the chill English dusk as no African sun had made it. “Look!” he -said to Vera, and pointed over the top of Conster’s firs at the grey and -golden house with its smoking chimneys—for the first time the smoke of -his own fires was going up from Starvecrow. - -The car—the splendid Sunbeam which Vera’s parents had given as their -wedding-present—swept down into the valley, over the Tillingham bridge, -and up Starvecrow’s twisting drive, reflecting the rushing hazels and -apple-trees in the mirror of its polished sides. Without noise or jar it -stopped outside the porch—“Wait for the man, dear,” said Vera, but Peter -was out, staring enraptured at his own front door. He had a foolish, -ridiculous feeling that he wanted to carry her across the threshold, but -was deterred by the appearance of a smart parlourmaid, also by Vera’s -obvious unpreparedness for so primitive an entrance. - -So he contented himself with kissing her in the delightful drawing-room -that led out of the hall. A large wood fire burned in the open -fireplace, and bright cretonnes were in rather sophisticated contrast to -oak beams and pure white walls. The house had been thoroughly -overhauled, and amazing treasures had come to light in the way of Tudor -fireplaces and old oak. It seemed to Peter that it was now more like a -small country house than the farmhouse of his love and memory, but -certainly these things were more appropriate than the Greenings’ rather -ramshackle furniture, Victorian wallpapers and blackleaded grates. - -“Isn’t it lovely?” breathed Vera, crouching down by the fire and warming -her delicate hands. - -“Yes, it is,” said Peter—“and so are you.” - -He put his hand on her little close-fitting hat and tilted back her head -till her full, rather oriental lips were under his. He loved her long, -satisfying kisses, so unlike the uneasy ones of most English girls—he -told himself that it was this Eastern quality in her love, inherited -through the Jewish blood of her fathers, which had made the last few -weeks so wonderful. - -A minute later the parlourmaid brought in tea, and they had it together -beside the singing hearth. There was no light in the room except the -dancing glow on beams and walls, the reflections from polished silver -and lustre-ware. Vera did not talk much, for she was tired, and after -tea she said she would like to go up to her room and lie down before -dinner. Peter offered to go with her and read her to sleep—he could not -bear to be away from her very long—but Vera said she would rather be -quiet, in which no doubt she was wise, for the gods had not given Peter -the gift of reading aloud. - -Well, perhaps it was all to the good that she did not want him, because -he would have to go up to Conster some time this evening, and he would -rather go now than after dinner, when he could be sitting on the -hearthrug at Vera’s feet keeping their first watch together by their own -fire. So though he was feeling a bit fagged himself after the journey, -he put on his overcoat again and went out into the early darkness which -was thick with a new drizzle. - -Starvecrow was lost in the night, except for a golden square which was -Vera’s room, and the distant sulky glow of a lantern among the barns. -Only a gleaming of puddles and the water in the ruts showed him the farm -drive—which had remained a farm-drive in spite of the Asher’s wish that -it should become an avenue; for, as he pointed out to them, his traffic -of wagons would do for nothing more genteel. As he reached the bottom, -the distant murmur of a car, far away in the network of lanes between -Starvecrow and Vinehall, made him unaccountably think of Stella. -Queer ... it must be just a year since he had seen her last. How many -things had happened since then, and how seldom he thought of her -now—poor little girl!... And yet he had loved her—there was no good -making out that he hadn’t—and he had been grief-stricken when she had -gone away—thought a dozen times of calling her back and letting -Starvecrow and the rest go hang.... It merely showed that Mary was -right, and love, like everything else, could die. Would his love for -Vera die?—why not, since his love for Stella had died?—But his love for -Vera was so warm and alive—So had his love for Stella been once. Oh, -damn! he was getting into a melancholy mood—it must be the effect of the -journey. Thank God! here he was at Conster and wouldn’t have much more -time for the blues, though the thought of seeing his family again did -not give him any overwhelming pleasure. - - - § 2 - -He found his father and mother and two sisters in the drawing-room, and -it seemed to him that their greeting had a queer, uneasy quality about -it, a kind of abstraction—as if their thoughts were centred on something -more engrossing than his return. When he had gone his round of kisses -and handshakes, Lady Alard seemed suddenly to express the real interest -of the party by crying in a heartbroken voice—— - -“Peter! what _do_ you think has happened?” - -“What?” cried Peter sharply. He had a vision of a foreclosing mortgagee. - -“It’s Mary!” wailed Lady Alard—“Julian is divorcing her.” - -“Mary!” - -Peter was genuinely shocked—the Alards did not appear in the divorce -court; also his imagination was staggered at the thought of Mary, the -fastidious, the pure, the intense, being caught in the coarse machinery -of the state marriage laws. - -“Yes—isn’t it utterly dreadful? It appears he’s had her watched by -detectives ever since she left him, and now they’ve found something -against her—at least they think they have. It was that time she went -abroad with Meg Sellons, and Charles joined them at Bordighera—which I -always said was unwise. But the worst of all, Peter, is that she says -she won’t defend herself—she says that she’s done nothing wrong, but she -won’t defend herself—she’ll let Julian put her away, and everyone will -think she’s—oh, Peter, this will finish me—it really will. When I got -Mary’s letter I had the worst attack I’ve had for years—we had to send -for Dr. Mount in the middle of the night. I really thought——” - -Sir John interrupted her—— - -“You’d better let me finish, Lucy. The subject is legal, not -medical. Mary has behaved like a fool and run her head into Julian’s -trap. I don’t know how much there is in it, but from what she says I -doubt if he has much of a case. If she’ll defend it, she’ll probably -be able to clear herself, and what’s more I bet she could bring a -counter-petition.” - -“That would be a nasty mess, wouldn’t it, Sir?” said Peter. - -“Not such a nasty mess as my daughter being held up in all the -newspapers as an adulteress!” - -“Oh, John!” cried Lady Alard—“what a dreadful thing to say before the -girls!” - -“Doris is old enough to hear the word now if she’s never heard it -before, and Jenny—she’s Emancipated, and a great deal older than you and -me. I tell you I object to my daughter being placarded in the penny -papers as an adulteress, and I’d much rather she proved Julian an -adulterer.” - -“Is that possible, sir?” asked Peter. - -“Of course it is—the man’s been on the loose for a year.” - -“If that’s all your evidence——” - -“Well, I haven’t had him followed by detectives, but I can turn a few on -now, and——” - -“Really, Sir, I do agree with Mary that it would be better to leave the -matter alone. An undefended case can be slipped through the papers with -very little fuss, while if you have a defence, to say nothing of a -cross-petition ... it isn’t as if she particularly wanted to keep Julian -as a husband—I expect she’s glad to have the chance of getting rid of -him so easily.” - -“I daresay she is. I daresay she wants to marry that old ass Charles -Smith. But what about her reputation?—what about ours? I tell you I’m -not going to stand still and have filth thrown at me by the press. I’m -proud of my name if you aren’t.” - -“It really seems to me that the matter rests with Mary—if she doesn’t -want to defend herself....” - -“Mary must think of her family—it ought to come before her private -feelings.” - -The words seemed an echo of a far-back argument—they reminded Peter -dimly of his own straits last year. The family must come first.... That -time it was money, now it was reputation. After all, why not? There was -no good holding to the one and letting the other go. But he was sorry -for Mary all the same. - -“Well, I can’t stay any longer now. I must be getting back to dinner. -I’ll bring Vera up tomorrow morning.” - -“Mary’s coming down in the afternoon.” - -“Oh, is she?” - -“Yes—I’ve wired for her. I insist on her listening to reason.” - -So Mary would have to face Peter’s choice—family duty against personal -inclination.... Well, after all he hadn’t made such a bad thing of -it.... He thought of Vera waiting for him at Starvecrow, and in spite of -the fret of the last half-hour a smile of childlike satisfaction was on -his face as he went home. - - - § 3 - -Peter was out early the next morning, when the first pale sunshine was -stealing up the valley of the Tillingham, flooding all the world in a -gleam of watery gold. He had awoken to the music of his farm, to the -crowing of his cocks, to the stamping of his cattle in their stalls, to -the clattering of his workmen’s feet on the cobbles of the yard. -Starvecrow was his home, his place for waking up and falling asleep, for -eating his food and warming himself at his fire, for finding his wife at -the end of the day, for the birth of his children.... He had, as he -stood that morning in the yard, a feeling both of proud ownership and -proud adoption. - -The whole farm, house and buildings, looked tidy and prosperous. It had -lost that rather dilapidated, if homely, air it had worn before his -marriage. Though the Ashers might have neither enough capital nor -inclination to pay off the debts of their son-in-law’s family, they had -certainly been generous in the matter of their daughter’s home. But for -them the place could never have been what it was now—trimmings and -clippings, furnishings and restorings had been their willingly paid -price for Alard blood. The whole farm had been repaired, replanted and -restocked. Indeed Starvecrow was now not so much a farm as a little -manor, a rival to Conster up on the hill. Was this exactly what Peter -had intended for it?—he did not stop to probe. No doubt his imagination -had never held anything so solid and so trim, but that might have been -only because his imagination had planned strictly for the possible, and -all that had been possible up to his falling in love with Vera was just -the shelter of that big kindly roof, the simplicity of those common -farmhouse rooms, with the hope and labour of slow achievement and slow -restoration. - -Still, he was proud of the place, and looked round him with satisfaction -as he walked down the bricked garden path, beside the well-raked -herbaceous border. He went into the yard where his men were at work—he -now employed two extra hands, and his staff consisted of a stockman, a -shepherd, a ploughman, and two odd men, as well as the shepherd’s wife, -who looked after the chickens and calves. - -Going into the cowhouse he found Jim Lambard milking the last of the -long string of Sussex cows. He greeted his master with a grin and a -“good marnun, sur”—it was good to hear the slurry Sussex speech again. -Peter walked to the end of the shed where two straw-coloured Jerseys -were tethered—one of them, Flora, was due to calve shortly, and after -inspecting her, he went out to interview the stockman. John Elias had -held office not only in Greening’s time, but in the days before him when -Starvecrow was worked by a tenant farmer—he was an oldish man who -combined deep experience and real practical knowledge with certain -old-fashioned obstinacies. Peter sometimes found him irritating to an -intense degree, but clung to him, knowing that the old obstinacies are -better than the new where farm-work is concerned, and that the man who -insists on doing his work according to the rules of 1770 is really of -more practical value than the man who does it according to the rules of -the Agricultural Labourers’ Union. Elias had now been up a couple of -nights with the Jersey, and his keen blue eye was a trifle dim from -anxiety and want of sleep. Peter told him to get off to bed for a few -hours, promising to have him sent for if anything should happen. - -He then sent for the ploughman, and discussed with him the advisability -of giving the Hammer field a second ploughing. There was also the wheat -to be dressed in the threshing machine before it was delivered to the -firm of corn-merchants who had bought last year’s harvest. A final talk -with his shepherd about the ewes and prospects for next month’s -lambing—and Peter turned back towards the house, sharp-set for breakfast -and comfortably proud of the day’s beginning. He liked to think of the -machinery of his farm, working efficiently under his direction, making -Starvecrow rich.... Conster might still shake on its foundations but -Starvecrow was settled and established—he had saved Starvecrow. - -The breakfast-room faced east, and the sunshine poured through its long, -low window, falling upon the white cloth of the breakfast table, the -silver, the china and the flowers. The room was decorated in yellow, -which increased the effect of lightness—Peter was thrilled and dazzled, -and for a moment did not notice that breakfast had been laid only for -one. When he did, it gave him a faint shock. - -“Where’s your mistress?” he asked the parlourmaid, who was bringing in -the coffee—“isn’t she coming down?” - -“No, sir. She’s taking her breakfast upstairs.” - -Peter felt blank. Then suddenly he realised—of course she was tired! -What a brute he was not to think of it—it was all very well for him to -feel vigorous after such a journey, and go traipsing round the farm; but -Vera—she was made of more delicate stuff.... He had a feeling as if he -must apologise to her for having even thought she was coming down; and -running upstairs he knocked at her door. - -“Come in,” said Vera’s rather deep, sweet voice. - -Her room was full of sunshine too, but the blind was down so that it did -not fall on the bed. She lay in the shadow, reading her letters and -smoking a cigarette. Peter had another shock of the incongruous. - -“My darling, are you dreadfully tired?” - -“No—I feel quite revived this morning,” and she lifted her long white -throat for him to kiss. - -“Have you had your breakfast?” - -“All I want. I’m not much of a breakfast eater, that’s one reason why I -prefer having it up here.” - -“But—but aren’t you ever coming down?” - -“Poor boy—do you feel lonely without me?” - -“Yes, damnably,” said Peter. - -“But, my dear, I’d be poor company for you at this hour. I’m much better -upstairs till ten or eleven—besides it makes the day so long if one’s -down for breakfast.” - -Peter looked at her silently—her argument dispirited him: “the day so -long.”... For him the day was never long enough. He suddenly saw her as -infinitely older and tireder than himself. - -“Run down and have yours, now,” she said to him, “and then you can come -up and sit with me for a bit before I dress.” - - - § 4 - -The next day Mary Pembroke came to Conster, and that same evening was -confronted by her family. Sir John insisted on everyone being present, -except Gervase—whom he still considered a mere boy—and the -daughters-in-law. Vera was glad to be left out, for she had no wish to -sit in judgment on a fellow woman, in whose guilt she believed and with -whose lies she sympathised, but Rose was indignant, for she detected a -slight in the omission. - -“Besides,” she said to her husband, “I’m the only one who considers the -problem chiefly from a moral point of view—the rest think only of the -family, whether it will be good or bad for their reputation if she -fights the case.” - -“What about me?” asked her husband, perhaps justly aggrieved—“surely you -can trust me not to forget the moral side of things.” - -“Well, I hope so I’m sure. But you must speak out and not be afraid of -your father.” - -“I’m not afraid of him.” - -“Indeed you are—you never can stand up to him. It’s he who manages this -parish, not you.” - -“How can you say that?” - -“What else can I say when you still let him read the lessons after he -created such a scandal by saying ‘damn’ when the pages stuck together.” - -“Nobody heard him.” - -“Indeed they did—all the three first rows, and the choir boys. It’s so -bad for them. If I’d been in your place he shouldn’t have read another -word.” - -“My dear, I assure you it wasn’t such a scandal as you think—certainly -not enough to justify a breach with my father.” - -“That’s just it—you’re afraid of him, and I want you to stand your -ground this time. It’s not right that we should be looked down upon the -way we are, but we always will be if you won’t stick up for yourself—and -I really fail to see why you should countenance immorality just to -please your father.” - -Perhaps it was owing to this conversation with his wife that during most -of the conference George sat dumb. As a matter of fact, nobody talked -much, except Sir John and Mary. Mary had a queer, desperate volubility -about her—she who was so aloof had now become familiar, to defend her -aloofness. Her whole nature shrank from the exposure of the divorce -court. - -“But what have you got to expose?” cried Sir John when she used this -expression, “you tell me you’ve done nothing.” - -“I’ve loved Julian, and he’s killed my love for him—I don’t want that -shown up before everybody.” - -“It won’t be—it doesn’t concern the case.” - -“Oh, yes, it does—that sort of thing always comes out—‘the parties were -married in 1912 and lived happily together till 1919, when the -respondent left the petitioner without any explanation’—it’ll be all to -Julian’s interest to show that he made me an excellent husband and that -I loved him devotedly till Something—which means Somebody—came between -us.” - -“He’ll do that if you don’t defend the case.” - -“But it won’t be dwelt on—pored over—it won’t provide copy for the -newspapers. Oh, can’t anybody see that when a woman makes a mistake like -mine she doesn’t want it read about at the breakfast tables of thousands -of—of——” - -“One would understand you much better,” said Doris, who for a few -moments had been swallowing violently as a preliminary to speech—“one -would understand you much better if what you objected to was thousands -of people reading that you’d been unfaithful to the husband you once -loved so much.” - -“But it wouldn’t be true.” - -“They’d believe it all the same—naturally, if the decree was given -against you.” - -“I don’t care about that—it’s what’s true that I mind people knowing.” - -“Don’t be a fool,” interrupted Sir John—“you’re not going to disgrace -your family for an idea like that.” - -“I’ll disgrace it worse if I give the thing all the extra publicity of a -defended suit.” - -“But, Mary dear,” said Lady Alard—“think how dreadful it will be for us -as well as for you if the decree is given against you. There’s Jenny, -now—it’s sure to interfere with her prospects—What did you say, Jenny?” - -“Nothing, Mother,” said Jenny, who had laughed. - -“But you don’t seem to consider,” persisted Mary, “that even if I defend -the case I may lose it—and then we’ll all be ever so much worse off than -if I’d let it go quietly through.” - -“And Julian have his revenge without even the trouble of fighting for -it!” cried Sir John. “I tell you he’s got nothing of a case against you -if you choose to defend it.” - -“I’m not so sure of that. Appearances are pretty bad.” - -“Egad, you’re cool, Ma’am!—But I forgot—you don’t care tuppence what -people think as long as they don’t think what’s true. But, damn it all, -there’s your family to be considered as well as yourself.” - -“Is it that you want to marry Charles Smith?” asked Peter. “If she does, -Sir, it’s hardly fair to make her risk....” - -“Listen to me!” George had spoken at last—the voice of morality and -religion was lifted from the chesterfield. “You must realise that if the -decree is given against her, she will not be free in the eyes of the -Church to marry again. Whereas if she gets a decree against her husband, -she would find certain of the more moderate-minded clergy willing to -perform the ceremony for the innocent partner.” - -“I don’t see that,” said Peter rudely—“she’d be just as innocent if she -lost the suit.” - -“She wouldn’t be legally the innocent partner,” said George, “and no -clergyman in the land would perform the ceremony for her.” - -“Which means that the Church takes the argument from law and not from -facts.” - -“No—no. Not at all. In fact, the Church as a whole condemns, -indeed—er—forbids the re-marriage of divorced persons. But the Church of -England is noted for toleration, and there are certain clergy who would -willingly perform the ceremony for the innocent partner. There are -others—men like Luce, for instance—who are horrified at the idea of such -a thing. But I’ve always prided myself on——” - -“Hold your tongue, George,” broke in his father, “I won’t have you and -Peter arguing about such rubbish.” - -“I’m not arguing with him, Sir. I would scarcely argue with Peter on an -ecclesiastical subject. In the eyes of the Church——” - -“Damn the eyes of the Church! Mary is perfectly free to re-marry if she -likes, innocent or guilty. If the Church won’t marry her, she can go to -the registrar’s. You think nothing can be done without a clergyman, but -I tell you any wretched little civil servant can do your job.” - -“You all talk as if I wanted to marry again—” Mary’s voice shot up with -a certain shrill despair in it. “I tell you it’s the last thing in the -world I’d ever do—whatever you make me do I would never do that. Once is -enough.” - -“It would certainly look better if Mary didn’t re-marry,” said Doris, -“then perhaps people would think she’d never cared for Commander Smith, -and there was nothing in it.” - -“But why did you go about with him, dear?” asked Lady Alard—“if you -weren’t really fond of him?” - -“I never said I wasn’t fond of him. I am fond of him—that’s one reason -why I don’t want to marry him. He’s been a good friend to me—and I was -alone ... and I thought I was free.... I saw other women going about -with men, and nobody criticising. I didn’t know Julian was having me -watched. I didn’t know I wasn’t free—and that now, thanks to you, I’ll -never be free.” - -She began to cry—not quietly and tragically, as one would have expected -of her—but loudly, noisily, brokenly. She was broken. - - - § 5 - -The next morning Sir John drove up to London to consult his solicitors. -The next day he was there again, taking Mary with him. After that came -endless arguments, letters and consultations. The solicitors’ advice was -to persuade Julian Pembroke to withdraw his petition, but this proved -impossible, for Julian, it now appeared, was anxious to marry again. He -had fallen in love with a young girl of nineteen, whose parents were -willing to accept him if Mary could be decorously got rid of. - -This made Sir John all the more resolute that Mary should not be -decorously got rid of—if mud was slung there was always a chance of some -of it sticking to Julian and spoiling his appearance for the sweet young -thing who had won the doubtful prize of his affections. He would have -sacrificed a great deal to bring a counter-petition, but very slight -investigations proved that there was no ground for this. Julian knew -what he was doing, and had been discreet, whereas Mary had put herself -in the wrong all through. Sir John would have to content himself with -vindicating his daughter’s name and making it impossible for Julian to -marry his new choice. - -Mary’s resistance had entirely broken down—the family had crushed her, -and she was merely limp and listless in their hands. Nothing seemed to -matter—her chance of a quiet retreat into freedom and obscurity was -over, and now seemed scarcely worth fighting for. What did it matter if -her life’s humiliation was exposed and gaped at?—if she had to stand up -and answer dirty questions to prove her cleanness?... She ought to have -been stronger, she knew—but it was difficult to be strong when one stood -alone, without weapon or counsellor. - -Jenny and Gervase were on her side, it is true, but they were negligible -allies, whether from the point of view of impressing the family, or of -any confidence their advice and arguments could inspire in herself. Vera -Alard, though she did not share the family point of view, had been -alienated by her sister-in-law’s surrender—“I’ve no sympathy with a -woman who knows what she wants but hasn’t the courage to stand out for -it,” she said to Peter. In her heart she thought that Mary was -lying—that she had tried Charles Smith as a lover and found him wanting, -but would have gladly used him as a means to freedom, if her family -hadn’t butted in and made a scandal of it. - -As for Peter, he no longer felt inclined to take his sister’s part. He -was angry with her for her forgetfulness of her dignity. She had been -careless of her honour, forgetting that it was not only hers but -Alard’s—she had risked the family’s disgrace, before the world and -before the man whose contempt of all the world’s would be hardest to -bear. Peter hated such carelessness and such risks—he would do nothing -more for Mary, especially as she had said she did not want to marry -Charles Smith. If she had wanted that he would have understood her -better, but she had said she did not want it, and thus had lost her only -claim to an undefended suit. For Peter now did not doubt any more than -his family that Julian would fail to prove his case. - -Outside the family, Charles Smith did his best to help her. He came down -to see her and try to persuade her people to let the petition go through -undefended. But he was too like herself to be much use. He was as -powerless as she to stand against her family, which was entering the -divorce court in much the same spirit as its forefathers had gone to the -Crusades—fired by the glory of the name of Alard and hatred of the Turk. - -“I’m disappointed in my first co-respondent,” said Gervase to Jenny -after he had left—“I’d expected something much more spirited—a blend of -Abelard, Don Juan and Cesare Borgia, with a dash of Shelley. Instead of -which I find a mild-mannered man with a pince-nez, who I know is simply -dying to take me apart and start a conversation on eighteenth-century -glass.” - -“That’s because he isn’t a real co-respondent. You’ve only to look at -Charles Smith to be perfectly sure he never did anything wrong in his -life.” - -“Well, let’s hope the Judge and jury will look at him, then.” - -“I hope they won’t. I’m sure Mary wants to lose.” - -“Not a defended case—she’d be simply too messed up after that.” - -“She’ll be messed up anyhow, whether she wins or loses. There’ll be -columns and columns about her and everything she did—and didn’t do—and -might have done. Poor Mary ... I expect she’d rather lose, and then she -can creep quietly away.” - -“Do you think she’ll marry Smith?” - -“No, I don’t. He’d like to marry her, or he thinks he’d like to, but I’m -pretty sure she won’t have him.” - -“Then she’d better win her case—or the family will make her have him.” - -“George says she can’t marry again unless she’s the ‘innocent party.’” - -“I don’t think what George says will make much difference. Anyhow, it’s -a silly idea. If the marriage is dissolved, both of ’em can marry -again—if the marriage isn’t dissolved, neither of ’em can, so I don’t -see where George’s innocent party comes in. That’s Stella’s idea—part of -her religion, you know—that marriage is a sacrament and can’t be -dissolved. I think it’s much more logical.” - -“I think it’s damned hard.” - -“Yes, so do I. But then I think religion ought to be damned hard.” - -“I’ll remind you of that next time I see you lounging in front of the -fire when you ought to be in church. You know you hurt George’s feelings -by not going.” - -“I’m not partial to George’s sort of religion.” - -“I hope you’re not partial to Stella’s—that would be another blow for -this poor family.” - -“Why?—it wouldn’t make any difference to them. Not that you need ever be -afraid of my getting religion ... but if I did I must say I hope it -would be a good stiff sort, that would give me the devil of a time. -George arranges a nice comfortable service for me at eleven, with a -family pew for me to sleep in. He preaches a nice comfortable sermon -that makes me feel good, and then we all go home together in the nice -comfortable car and eat roast beef and talk about who was there and how -much there was in the collection. That isn’t my idea of the violent -taking the Kingdom of Heaven by storm.” - -“Are you trying to make me think that you’d be pious if only you were -allowed to wear sandals and a hair shirt?” - -“Oh, no, Jenny dear. But at least I can admire that sort of religion -from a distance.” - -“The distance being, I suppose, from here to Birmingham?” - -“May I ask if you are what is vulgarly called getting at me?” - -“Well, I’d like to know how long this correspondence between you and -Stella has been going on.” - -“Almost ever since she left—but we’ve only just got on to religion.” - -“Be careful—that’s all. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” - -“How?—with Stella or with Stella’s ideas?” - -“Both,” said Jenny darkly. - - - § 6 - -Charles Smith was not allowed to come down again. The solicitors -declared it advisable that Mary should see nothing of him while -proceedings were pending. Indeed it was necessary to guard her -reputation like a shrine. She stayed at Conster while the weeks dragged -through the spring, and when in May Sir John and Lady Alard went for -their yearly visit to Bath, it was decided that she should go to the -Vicarage, so that a polish of sanctity and ecclesiastical patronage -might be given to her stainlessness. - -So she packed her belongings—helped by Jenny instead of Gisèle, whose -wages had been beyond her means ever since her plunge for freedom—and -they were taken to where Leasan Parsonage stood hidden among May trees -and lilac bushes down Leasan lane. - -Mary was not personally looking forward to the change, though the -atmosphere of Conster was eruptive, and though one felt the family -solidarity more strongly at the Manor than at the Parsonage, and was -also—in spite of luxury—more conscious of the family’s evil days. Her -feeling for Rose was almost fear—her bustle, her curiosity, her love of -rule, her touch of commonness provoked an antipathy which was less -dislike than alarm. She also shrank from the ugliness and discomforts of -the Vicarage life—Rose was supposed to have a gift for training Raw -Girls, and, as Gervase once said even when the girls ceased to be -actually raw, they were still remarkably underdone. Chatter, scoldings, -creaking footsteps, and the smell of bad cooking filled the house all -day—George, whom Mary was inclined to like in spite of his stupidity, -took the usual male refuge in flight, and spent most of his time shut up -in his study, which shared the sanctity of Leasan church and could be -invaded by no one but his wife. - -There were also two rather colourless children, Lillian and Edna, whose -governess—a more cultured type of Raw Girl—made a sixth at luncheon. It -had always been a secret grief to Rose that she had never had a son; her -only comfort was that no other Alard had done so up till now. But this -comfort would probably be taken from her soon. Vera would be sure to -have a son—Jewesses always did.... Rose thought vaguely about -Abraham.... - - - § 7 - -The day started early at Leasan Parsonage—not that there was any -particular reason why it should, but eight o’clock breakfast was Rose’s -best protest against the sloppy ways of Conster, where you came down to -breakfast when you liked, or had it upstairs. Mary was addicted to the -latter vice, and on her first morning at Leasan came down heavy-eyed, -with that especial sense of irritation and inadequacy which springs from -a hurried toilet and a lukewarm bath. - -“So you wear a tea-gown for breakfast,” said Rose, who wore a sports -coat and a tweed skirt. - -“A breakfast gown.” - -“It’s the same thing. In fact you might call it a dressing-gown with -those sleeves. Edna, don’t drink your tea with a spoon.” - -“It’s too hot, Mother.” - -“Well, leave it till it gets cooler. Don’t drink it with a spoon—you’ll -be pouring it into your saucer next. George, what are your letters about -today?” - -“Income tax mostly—and there’s Mr. Green writing again about a Choral -Celebration.” - -“Well, you must be firm with him and tell him we can’t possibly have -one. I told you what it would be, engaging an organist who’s used to -such things—they won’t give them up.” - -“I thought it might be possible to arrange it once a month, at an hour -when it won’t interfere with Matins.” - -“Nonsense, dear. The boys’ voices could never manage it and the men -would go on strike.” - -“They’re becoming fairly general, you know, even in country churches.” - -“Well, I think it’s a pity. I’ve always distrusted anything that tends -to make religion emotional.” - -“I can’t understand anyone’s emotions—at least voluptuous emotions—being -stirred by anything our choir could do.” - -“George!—‘voluptuous’”—a violent shake of the head—“pas devant les -enfants. Who’s your cheque from?” - -“Dr. Mount. He’s very generously subscribing to the Maternity Fund. He -says ‘I feel I’ve got a duty to Leasan as well as Vinehall, as I have -patients in both parishes.’” - -“I call that very good of him, for I know he never makes more than five -hundred a year out of the practice. By the way, have you heard that -Stella’s back?” - -“No—since when?” - -“I saw her driving through Vinehall yesterday. Edna and Lillian, you may -get down now for a great treat, and have a run in the garden before Miss -Cutfield comes.” - -“May we go to meet Miss Cutfield?” - -“If you don’t go further than the end of the lane. That’s right, -darlings—say your grace—‘for what we _have_ received,’ Edna, not ‘about -to’—now run away.” - -“Why are you sending away the children?” asked George. - -“Because I want to talk about Stella Mount.” - -“But why is Stella unfit to discuss before the children?” - -“Oh, George—you must know!—it was simply dreadful the way she ran after -Peter.” - -“You don’t think she’s still running after him?” - -“I think it’s a bad sign she’s come back.” - -“Her father wanted her, I expect. That chauffeur-secretary he had was no -good. Besides, I expect she’s got over her feeling for Peter now.” - -“I’m sure I hope she has, but you never know with a girl like Stella. -She has too many ways of getting out of things.” - -“What do you mean, dear?” - -“Oh, confession and all that. All she has to do is to go to a Priest and -he’ll let her off anything.” - -“Come, come, my dear, that is hardly a fair summary of what the Prayer -Book calls ‘the benefit of absolution.’ My own position with regard to -confession has always been that it is at least tolerable and -occasionally helpful.” - -“Not the way a girl like Stella would confess,” said Rose darkly—“Oh, I -don’t mean anything wrong—only the whole thing seems to me not quite -healthy. I dislike the sort of religion that gets into everything, even -people’s meals. I expect Stella would rather die than eat meat on -Friday.” - -“But surely, dear,” said George who was rather dense—“that sort would -not encourage her to run after a married man.” - -“Well, if you can’t use your eyes! ... she’s been perfectly open about -it.” - -“But she hasn’t been here at all since he married.” - -“I’m talking of before that—when she was always meeting him.” - -“But if he wasn’t married you can hardly accuse her of running after a -married man.” - -“He’s married now. Don’t be so stupid, dear.” - - - § 8 - -Peter was a little annoyed to find that Stella had come back. It would -perhaps be difficult to say why—whether her return was most disturbing -to his memory or to his pride. He would have angrily denied that to see -her again was in any sense a resurrection—and he would just as angrily -have denied that her attitude of detached friendliness was disagreeable -to his vanity. Surely he had forgotten her ... surely he did not want to -think that she could ever forget him.... - -He did not press these questions closely—his nature shrank from -unpleasant probings, and after all Stella’s presence did not make -anything of that kind necessary. He saw very little of her. She came to -tea at Starvecrow, seemed delighted with the improvements, was -becomingly sweet to Vera—and after that all he had of her was an -occasional glimpse at Conster or on the road. - -It could not be said, by any stretch of evidence, that she was running -after a married man. But Rose Alard soon had a fresh cause for alarm. -Stella was seeing a great deal too much of Gervase. She must somehow -have got into touch with the younger brother during her absence from -home, for now on her return there seemed to be a friendship already -established. They were occasionally seen out walking together in the -long summer evenings, and on Sundays he sometimes went with her to -church at Vinehall—which was a double crime, since it disparaged -George’s ministrations at Leasan. - -“I should hate to say she was mercenary,” said Rose reflectively, “but I -must say appearances are against her—turning to the younger brother as -soon as she’s lost the elder.” - -“I don’t see where the mercenariness comes it,” said Mary—“Gervase won’t -have a penny except what he earns, and there’s Peter and his probable -sons, as well as George, between him and the title.” - -“But he’s an Alard—I expect Stella would like to marry into the family.” - -“I fail to see the temptation.” - -“Well, anyhow, I think it very bad taste of her to take him to church at -Vinehall—it’s always been difficult to get him to come here as it is, -and George says he has no influence over him whatever.” - -Mary only sighed. She could not argue with Rose, yet she had a special -sympathy for a woman who having had love torn out of her heart tried to -fill the empty aching space as best she could. Of course it was -selfish—though not so selfish in Stella as it had been in herself, and -she hoped Stella would not have to suffer as she had suffered. After -all, it would do Gervase good to be licked into shape by a woman like -Stella—he probably enjoyed the hopelessness of his love—if indeed it was -hopeless ... and she could understand the relief that his ardent, -slightly erratic courtship must be after Peter’s long series of stolid -blunders. - -But Stella was not quite in the position Mary fancied. She was not -letting Gervase court her, indeed he would never have thought of doing -so. She seemed definitely apart from any idea of love-making—she set up -intangible barriers round herself, which even his imagination could not -cross. Perhaps some day ... but even for “some day” his plans were not -so much of love as of thinking of love. - -Meanwhile she fulfilled a definite need of his, just as he fulfilled a -need of hers. She gave him an outlet for the pent-up thoughts of his -daily drives, and the society of a mind which delighted him with its -warmth and quickness. Gervase too had a quick mind, and his and Stella’s -struck sparks off each other, creating a glow in which he sometimes -forgot that his heart went unwarmed. Their correspondence had been a -slower, less stimulating version of the same process. They had discussed -endless subjects through the post, and now Stella had come home in the -midst of the most interesting. It was the most interesting to him -because it was obviously the most interesting to her. She had bravely -taken her share in their other discussions, but he soon discovered that -she was too feminine to care about politics, too concrete to grasp -abstractions, and that in matters of art and literature her taste was -uncertain and often philistine. But in the matter of religion she showed -both a firmer standing and a wider grasp. Indeed he was to find that her -religion was the deepest, the most vital and most interesting part of -her—in it alone did the whole Stella come alive. - -The topic had been started by the tragedy of Mary’s marriage, and at -first he had been repulsed by her attitude, which he thought strangely -unlike her in its rigidity. But as time went on he began to contrast it -favourably with George’s compromises—here was a faith which at least was -logical, and which was not afraid to demand the uttermost.... They -continued the discussion after she had come home, and he was surprised -to see what he had hitherto looked upon equally as a fad and a -convention, a collection of moral and intellectual lumber, show itself -almost shockingly as an adventure and a power. Not that Stella had felt -the full force of it yet—her life had always run pretty smoothly through -the simplicities of joy and sorrow, there had been no conflict, no -devastation. But strangely enough he, an outsider, seemed able to see -what she herself possibly did not realise—that she carried in her heart -a force which might one day both make and break it. - -It had been his own suggestion that he should go with her to church, -though he did not know whether it was to satisfy a hope or dismiss a -fear. He had lost the detached attitude with which he had at first -approached the subject, much as he would have approached Wells’s new -novel or the Coalition Government. To his surprise he found himself at -ease in the surroundings of Vinehall’s Parish Mass. Its gaiety and -homeliness seemed the natural expression of instinctive needs. Vinehall -church was decorated in a style more suggestive of combined poverty and -enterprise than of artistic taste; the singing—accompanied rather -frivolously on a piano—was poor and sometimes painful; the sermon was -halting and trite. These things were better done by brother George at -Leasan. But the Mass seemed strangely independent of its outward -expression, and to hold its own solemn heart of worship under -circumstances which would have destroyed the devotions of Leasan. Here, -thought Gervase, was a faith which did not depend on the beauty of -externals for its appeal—a faith, moreover, which was not afraid to make -itself hard to men, which threw up round itself massive barriers of -hardship, and yet within these was warm and sweet and friendly—which was -furthermore a complete adventure, a taking of infinite risks, a gateway -on unknown dangers.... - -As he knelt beside Stella in a silence which was like a first kiss, so -old in experience did it seem, in spite of the shock of novelty, he -found that the half-forgotten romances of his childhood were beginning -to take back their colours and shine in a new light. Those figures of -the Mother and her Child, the suffering Son of Man, the warm-hearted, -thick-headed, glorious company of the apostles, which for so long had -lived for him only in the gilt frames of Renaissance pictures, now -seemed to wake again to life and friendliness. Once more he felt the -thrill of the Good Shepherd going out to see the lost sheep ... and all -the bells of heaven began to ring. - - - § 9 - -George Alard could not help being a little vexed at Gervase’s new -tendencies. He told himself that he ought to be glad the boy was going -to church at all, for he had been negligent and erratic for a long time -past—he ought not to feel injured because another man had won him to -some sense of his duty. But he must say he was surprised that Luce had -succeeded where he himself had failed—Luce was a dry, dull fellow, and -hopelessly unenterprising; not a branch in his parish of the C.E.M.S. or -the A.C.S. or the S.P.G., no work-parties or parish teas, and no -excitement about the Enabling Act and the setting up of a Parochial -Church Council which was now occupying most of George’s time. Still, he -reflected, it was probably not so much Luce as Stella Mount who had done -it—she was a pretty girl and perhaps not too scrupulous, she had -persuaded Gervase. Then there had always been that curious streak in his -brother’s character which differentiated him from the other Alards. -George did not know how to describe it so well as by Ungentlemanliness. -That part of Gervase which had revolted from a Gentleman’s Education and -had gone into an engineering shop instead of to Oxford was now revolting -from a Gentleman’s Religion and going to Mass instead of Dearly Beloved -Brethren. There had always seemed to George something ungentlemanly -about Catholicism, though he prided himself on being broad-minded, and -would have introduced one or two changes on High Church lines into the -services at Leasan if his father and his wife had let him. - -“Apart from every other consideration, I’m surprised he doesn’t realise -how bad it looks for him to go Sunday to Vinehall when his brother is -Vicar of Leasan.” - -“He goes with Stella,” said Mary. - -“I think that makes it worse,” said Rose. - -“Why?” asked Peter. - -He had come in to see George about his election to the Parochial Church -Council, which his brother was extremely anxious should take place, but -for which Peter had no wish to qualify himself. George had hoped that -the bait of a seat on the Council, with the likelihood of being elected -as the Parish’s representative at the Diocesan Conference, might induce -Peter to avail himself once more of the church privileges which he had -neglected for so long. It was uphill work, thought poor George, trying -to run a parish when neither of one’s brothers came to church, and one’s -father said ‘damn’ out loud when reading the lessons.... - -“Why?” asked Peter, a little resentful. - -Rose looked uneasy—— - -“Well, everyone knows she used to run after you and now she’s running -after Gervase.” - -“She didn’t run after me and she isn’t running after Gervase,” said -Peter; then he added heavily—“I ran after her, and Gervase is running -after her now.” - -“Oh!” Rose tossed her head—“I own I once thought ... but then when you -married Vera ... well, anyhow I think she ought to discourage Gervase -more than she does, and I insist that it’s in extremely bad taste for -her to take him to church at Vinehall.” - -“Perhaps he likes the service better,” said Mary, who during this -discussion had been trying to write a letter and now gave up the effort -in despair. - -“Oh, I daresay he does—he’s young and excitable.” - -“There’s nothing very exciting at Vinehall,” said George—“I don’t think -Luce has even a surpliced choir these days.” - -“Well, there’s incense and chasubles and all that—Gervase always did -like things that are different.” - -“I must say,” said Mary, who was perhaps a little irritated at having -nowhere to write her letter (the Raw Girl being in devastating -possession of her bedroom)—“I must say that if I had any religion -myself, I’d like a religion which at least was religion and not soup.” - -“What do you mean?” - -Both George and Rose sat up stiffly, and even Peter looked shocked. - -“Well, your religion here seems chiefly to consist in giving people -soup-tickets and coal-tickets, and having rummage sales. Stella Mount’s -religion at least means an attempt at worship, and at least.... Oh, -well—” she broke down rather lamely—“anyhow it makes you want something -you haven’t got.” - -“We can most of us do that without religion,” said Peter, getting up. - -Rose looked meaningly after him as he went out of the room, then she -looked still more meaningly at her husband—it was as if her eyes and -eyebrows were trying to tell him her conviction that Peter was finding -life unsatisfactory in spite of Vera and Starvecrow, indeed that he -regretted Stella—had he not championed her almost grotesquely just -now? ... and he had talked of wanting something he had not got.... - -George refused to meet her eyes and read their language. He too rose and -went out, but he did not follow Peter. He felt hurt and affronted by -what Mary had said—“soup” ... that was what she had called the religion -of her parish church, of her country, indeed, since George was convinced -that Leasan represented the best in Anglicanism. Just because he didn’t -have vestments and incense and foreign devotions, but plain, hearty, -British services—because he looked after people’s bodies as well as -their souls—he was to be laughed at by a woman like Mary, who—but he -must not be uncharitable, he was quite convinced of Mary’s innocence, -and only wished that her prudence had equalled it. - -He walked out through the French windows of his study, and across the -well-kept Vicarage lawn. Before him, beyond the lilacs Leasan’s squat -towers stood against a misty blue sky. With its wide brown roof -spreading low over its aisles almost to the ground the church was -curiously like a sitting hen. It squatted like a hen over her brood, and -gave a tender impression of watchfulness and warmth.... The door stood -open, showing a green light that filtered in through creeper and stained -glass. George went in, and the impression of motherly warmth was changed -to one of cool emptiness. Rows of shining pews stretched from the west -door to the chancel with its shining choir-stalls, and beyond in the -sanctuary stood the shining altar with two shining brass candlesticks -upon it. - -George went to his desk and knelt down. But there was something -curiously unprayerful in the atmosphere—he would have felt more at ease -praying in his study or at his bedside. The emptiness of the church was -something more than an emptiness of people—it was an emptiness of -prayer. Now he came to think of it, he had never seen anyone at prayer -in the church except at the set services—a good collection of the -neighbouring gentlefolk at Matins, a hearty assembly of the villagers at -Evensong, a few “good” people at the early celebration, and one or two -old ladies for the Litany on Fridays—but never any prayer between, no -farm lad ever on his knees before his village shrine, or busy mother -coming in for a few minutes’ rest in the presence of God.... - -But that was what they did at Vinehall. He had looked into the church -several times and had never seen it empty—there was always someone at -prayer ... the single white lamp ... that was the Reserved Sacrament of -course, theologically indefensible, though no doubt devotionally -inspiring ... devotion—was it that which made the difference between -religion and soup? - -George felt a sudden qualm come over him as he knelt in his stall—it was -physical rather than mental, though the memory of Mary’s impious word -had once again stirred up his sleeping wrath. He lifted himself into a -sitting position—that was better. For some weeks past he had been -feeling ill—he ought to see a doctor ... but he daren’t, in case the -doctor ordered him to rest. It was all very well for Mary to gibe at his -work and call it soup, but it was work that must be done. She probably -had no idea how hard he worked—visiting, teaching, sitting on -committees, organising guilds, working parties, boy scouts, Church of -England Men’s Society ... and two sermons on Sunday as well.... He was -sure he did more than Luce, who had once told him that he looked upon -his daily Mass as the chief work of his parish.... Luce wouldn’t wear -himself out in his prime as George Alard was doing.... Soup! - - - § 10 - -Mary went back to Conster for the uneasy days of the Summer. Her heart -sickened at the dragging law—her marriage took much longer to unmake -that it had taken to make. She thought of how her marriage was -made—Leasan church ... the smell of lilies ... the smell of old lace ... -lace hanging over her eyes, a white veil over the wedding-guests, over -her father as he gave her away, over her brother as he towered above her -in surplice and stole, over her bridegroom, kneeling at her side, -holding her hand as he parted her shaking fingers ... “with this ring I -thee wed” ... “from this day forward, till death do us part.”... How her -heart was beating—fluttering in her throat like a dove ... now she was -holding one fringed end of George’s stole, while Julian held the -other—“that which God hath joined together let not man put asunder.” - -And now the unmaking—such a fuss—such a business this putting asunder! -Telegrams, letters, interviews ... over and over again the story of her -disillusion, of her running away, of her folly ... oh, it was all -abominable, but it was her own fault—she should not have given in. Why -could she never endure things quite to the end? When she had found out -that Julian the husband was not the same as Julian the lover, but an -altogether more difficult being, why had her love failed and died? And -now that love was dead and she had run away from the corpse, why had she -allowed her family to persuade her into this undignified battle over the -grave? Why had she not gone quietly out of her husband’s life into the -desolate freedom of her own, while he turned to another woman and parted -her fingers to wear the pledge of his eternal love. - -If only she had been a little better or a little worse!... A little -better, and she could have steadied her marriage when it rocked, a -little worse and she could have stepped out of it all, cast her memories -from her, and started the whole damn thing over again as she had seen so -many women do. But she wasn’t quite good enough for the one or bad -enough for the other, so she must suffer as neither the good nor the bad -have to suffer. She must pay the price for being fine, but not fine -enough. - -In Autumn the price was paid. For three days counsel argued on the -possibility or impossibility of a woman leaving one man except for -another—on the possibility or impossibility of a woman being chaste when -in the constant society of a male friend—on the minimum time which must -be allowed for misconduct to take place. Waiters, chambermaids, -chauffeurs gave confused evidence—there was “laughter in court”—the -learned judge asked questions that brought shame into the soft, secret -places of Mary’s heart—Julian stood before her to tell her and all the -world that she had loved him once.... She found herself in the -witness-box, receiving from her counsel the wounds of a friend.... Of -course Julian must be blackened to account for her leaving him—was she -able to paint him black enough? Probably not, since the verdict was -given in his favour. - -Most of the next day’s papers contained photographs of Mrs. Pembroke -leaving the divorce court after a decree nisi had been obtained against -her by her husband, Mr. Julian Pembroke (inset). - - - § 11 - -In spite of the non-committal attitude of his solicitors, Sir John Alard -had been sure that to defend the suit would be to vindicate Mary and her -family against the outrageous Julian. He would not believe that judgment -could go against his daughter except by default, and now that this -incredible thing had happened, and Mary had been publicly and -argumentatively stripped of her own and Alard’s good name, while Julian, -with innocence and virtue proclaimed by law, was set free to marry his -new choice, he felt uncertain whether to blame most his daughter’s -counsel or his daughter herself. - -Counsel had failed to make what he might out of Julian’s -cross-examination ... what a fruitful field was there! If only Sir John -could have cross-examined Julian himself! There would have been an end -of that mirage of the Deceived and Deserted Husband which had so -impressed the court.... But Mary was to blame as well as counsel. She -really had been appallingly indiscreet ... her cross-examination—Lord! -what an affair! What a damn fool she had made of herself!—Hang it all, -he’d really have thought better of her if she’d gone the whole hog ... -the fellow wasn’t much good in the witness-box either ... but he’d -behaved like a gentleman afterwards. He had made Mary a formal proposal -of marriage the morning after the decree was given. The only thing to do -now was for her to marry him. - -Lady Alard marked her daughter’s disgrace by sending for Dr. Mount in -the middle of the night, and “nearly dying on his hands” as she -reproachfully told Mary when she returned to Conster the next afternoon. -Mary looked a great deal more ill than her mother—dazed and blank she -sat by Lady Alard’s sofa, listening to the tale of her sorrows and -symptoms, only a slow occasional trembling of her lip showing that her -heart was alive and in torment under the dead weight of her body’s -stupefaction. All her mind and being was withdrawn into herself, and -during the afternoon was in retreat, seeking strength for the last -desperate stand that she must make. - -After tea, Peter arrived, looking awkward and unhappy—then George, -looking scared and pompous. Mary knew that a family conclave had been -summoned, and her heart sank. What a farce and a sham these parliaments -were, seeing that Alard was ruled by the absolute monarchy of Sir John. -No one would take her part, unless perhaps it was Gervase—Uranus in the -Alard system—but he would not be there today; she must stand alone. She -gripped her hands together under the little bag on her lap, and in her -dry heart there was a prayer at last—“Oh, God, I have never been able to -be quite true to myself—now don’t let me be quite untrue.” - -As soon as the servants had cleared away the last of the tea -things—there had been a pretence of offering tea to Peter and George, as -if they had casually dropped in—Sir John cast aside all convention of -accident, and opened the attack. - -“Well,” he said to his assembled family—“it’s been a dreadful -business—unexpectedly dreadful. Shows what the Divorce Court is under -all this talk about justice. There’s been only one saving clause to the -whole business, and that’s Smith’s behaviour. He might have done better -in the witness-box, but he’s stuck by Mary all through, and made her a -formal offer of marriage directly the decree was given.” - -“That was the least he could do,” said Peter. - -“Of course; you needn’t tell me that. But I’ve seen such shocking -examples of bad faith during the last three days.... It’s a comfort to -find one man behaving decently. I’m convinced that the only thing Mary -can do is to marry him as soon as the decree is made absolute.” - -George gave a choking sound, and his father’s eye turned fiercely upon -him. - -“Well, sir—what have _you_ to say?” - -“I—I—er—only that Mary can’t marry again now—er—under these new -circumstances ... only the innocent partner....” - -“You dare, Sir! Damn it all—I’ll believe in my own daughter’s innocence -in spite of all the courts in the country.” - -“I don’t mean that she isn’t innocent—er—in fact—but the decree has been -given against her.” - -“What difference does that make?—if she was innocent before the decree -she’s innocent after it, no matter which way it goes. Damn you and your -humbug, Sir. But it doesn’t matter in the least—she can marry again, -whatever you say; the law allows it, so you can’t stop it. She shall be -married in Leasan church.” - -“She shall not, Sir.” - -A deep bluish flush was on George’s cheek-bones as he rose to his feet. -Sir John was for a moment taken aback by defiance from such an -unexpected quarter, but he soon recovered himself. - -“I tell you she shall. Leasan belongs to me.” - -“The living is in your gift, Sir, but at present I hold it, and as -priest of this parish, I refuse to lend my church for the marriage of -the guil—er—in fact, for—the marriage.” - -“Bunkum! ‘Priest of this parish’—you’ll be calling yourself Pope next. -If you can’t talk sense you can clear out.” - -George was already at the door, and the hand he laid upon it trembled -violently. - -“Don’t go!”—it was Mary who cried after him—“there’s no need for you to -upset yourself about my marriage. I haven’t the slightest thought of -getting married.” - -But George had gone out. - - - § 12 - -There was an uneasy shuffle of relief throughout the room. The -situation, though still painful, had been cleared of an exasperating -side-issue. But at the same time Mary was uncomfortably aware that she -had changed the focus of her father’s anger from her brother to herself. - -“What do you mean?” he rapped out, when the sound of George’s protesting -retreat had died away. - -“I mean that you and George have been arguing for nothing. As I told you -some time ago, I haven’t the slightest intention of marrying Charles.” - -“And why not, may I ask?” - -“Because I’ve had enough of marriage.” - -“But Mary, think of us—think of your family,” wailed Lady Alard—“what -are we going to do if you don’t marry?” - -“I can’t see what difference it will make.” - -“It will make all the difference in the world. If you marry Charles and -go abroad for a bit, you’ll find that after a time people will receive -you—I don’t say here, but in London. If you don’t marry, you will always -be looked upon with suspicion.” - -“Why?” - -“Married women without husbands always are.” - -“Then in spite of all the judges and juries and courts and decrees, I’m -still a married woman?” - -“I don’t see what else you’re to call yourself, dear. You’re certainly -not a spinster, and you can’t say you’re a widow.” - -“Then if I marry again I shall have two husbands, and in six months -Julian will have two wives.” - -Lady Alard began to weep. - -“For God’s sake! let’s stop talking this nonsense,” cried Sir John. -“Mary’s marriage has been dissolved, and her one chance of reinstating -herself—and us—is by marrying this man who’s been the cause of all the -trouble. I say it’s her duty—she’s brought us all into disgrace, so I -don’t think it’s asking too much of her to take the only possible way of -getting us out, even at the sacrifice of her personal inclinations.” - -“Father—I never asked you to defend the case. I begged you not to—all -this horror we have been through is due to your defence.” - -“If you’d behaved properly there would have been no case at all, and if -you had behaved with only ordinary discretion the defence could have -been proved. When I decided that we must, for the honour of the family, -defend the case, I had no idea what an utter fool you had been. Your -cross-examination was a revelation to me as well as to the court. You’ve -simply played Old Harry with your reputation, and now the only decent -thing for you to do is to marry this man and get out.” - -“I can get out without marrying this man.” - -“And where will you go?” - -“I shall go abroad. I have enough money of my own to live on quietly, -and I needn’t be a disgrace to anyone. If I marry Charles I shall only -bring unhappiness to both of us.” - -“Oh, Mary, do be reasonable!” cried Lady Alard—“do think of the -girls”—with a wave that included both twenty-two and thirty-eight—“and -do think how all this is your own fault. When you first left Julian, you -should have come here and lived at home, then no one would ever have -imagined anything. But you would go off and live by yourself, and think -you could do just the same as if you weren’t married—though I’m sure I’d -be sorry to see Jenny going about with anyone as you went about with -Charles Smith. When I was engaged to your father, we were hardly ever so -much as left alone in a room together——” - -“Your reminiscences are interesting, my dear,” said Sir John, “but cast -no light on the situation. The point is that Mary refuses to pay the -price of her folly, even though by doing so she could buy out her family -as well as herself.” - -“I fail to see how.” - -“Then you must be blind.” - -“It seems to me it would be much better if I went right away. I’ve made -a hideous mess of my life, and brought trouble upon you all—I -acknowledge that; but at least there’s one thing I will not do—and that -is walk with my eyes open into the trap I walked into ten years ago with -my eyes shut.” - -“Then you need expect nothing more from your family.” - -“I won’t.” - -“Father,” said Peter—“if she isn’t fond of the chap....” - -Mary interrupted him. - -“Don’t—it isn’t quite that. I am fond of him. I’m not in love with him -or anything romantic, but I’m fond of him, and for that very reason I -won’t take this way out. He’s twenty years older than I am, and set in -his bachelor ways—and I firmly believe that only chivalry has made him -stand by me as he has done. He doesn’t in his heart want to marry a -woman who’s ruined and spoiled ... and I won’t let him throw himself -away. If I leave him alone, he can live things down—men always can; but -if I marry him, he’ll sink with me. And I’ve nothing to give him that -will make up to him for what he will suffer. I won’t let him pay such a -price for ... for being ... kind to me.” - -Nobody spoke a word. Perhaps the introduction of Charles Smith’s future -as a motive for refusing to use him to patch up the situation struck the -Alards as slightly indecent. And Mary suddenly knew that if the argument -were resumed she would yield—that she was at the end of her resources -and could stand out no longer. Her only chance of saving Charles’s -happiness and her own soul now lay in the humiliation of flight. There -is only one salvation for the weak and that is to realise their -weakness. She rose unsteadily to her feet. A dozen miles seemed to yawn -between her and the door.... - -“Where are you going, Mary?” asked Sir John—“we haven’t nearly finished -talking yet.” - -Would anybody help her?—yes—here was Jenny unexpectedly opening the door -for her and pushing her out. And in the hall was Gervase, his Ford lorry -throbbing outside in the drive. - -“Gervase!” cried Mary faintly—“if I pack in ten minutes, will you take -me to the station?” - - - § 13 - -It was a very different packing from that before Mary’s departure -eighteen months ago. There was no soft-treading Gisèle, and her clothes, -though she had been at Leasan six months, were fewer than when she had -come for a Christmas visit. They were still beautiful, however, and Mary -still loved them—it hurt her to see Jenny tumbling and squeezing them -into the trunk. But she must not be critical, it was as well perhaps -that she had someone to pack for her who did not really care for clothes -and did not waste time in smoothing and folding ... because she must get -out of the house quickly, before the rest of the family had time to find -out what she was about. It was undignified, she knew, but her many -defeats had brought her a bitter carelessness. - -The sisters did not talk much during the packing. But Mary knew that -Jenny approved of what she was doing. Perhaps Jenny herself would like -to be starting out on a flight from Alard. She wondered a little how -Jenny’s own affair was going—that unacknowledged yet obsessing affair. -She realised rather sadly that she had lost her sister’s confidence—or -perhaps had never quite had it. Her own detachment, her own passion for -aloofness and independence had grown up like a mist between them. And -now when her aloofness was destroyed, when some million citizens of -England were acquainted with her heart, when all the golden web she had -spun round herself was torn, soiled and scattered, her sister was gone. -She stood alone—no longer set apart, no longer veiled from her fellows -by delicate self-spun webs—but just alone. - -“Shall I ring for Pollock?” said Jenny. - -“No, I’d much rather you didn’t.” - -“Then how shall we manage about your trunk?—it’s too heavy for us to -carry down ourselves.” - -“Can’t Gervase carry it?” - -“Yes—I expect he could.” - -She called her brother up from the hall, and he easily swung up the -trunk on his shoulder. As he did so, and Mary saw his hands with their -broken nails and the grime of the shop worked into the skin, she -realised that they symbolised a freedom which was more actual than any -she had made. Gervase was the only one of the family who was really -free, though he worked ten hours a day for ten shillings a week. Doris -was not free, for she had accepted the position of idle daughter, and -was bound by all the ropes of a convention which had no substance in -fact. Peter was not free because he had, Mary knew, married away from -his real choice, and was now bound to justify his new choice to his -heart—George was not free, he was least free of all, because individual -members of the family had power over him as well as the collective -fetish. Jenny was not free, because she must love according to -opportunity. Slaves ... all the Alards were slaves ... to Alard—to the -convention of the old county family with its prosperity of income and -acres, its house, its servants, its ancient name and reputation—a -convention the foundations of which were rotten right through, which was -bound to topple sooner or later, crushing all those who tried to shelter -under it. So far only two had broken away, herself and Gervase—herself -so feebly, so painfully, in such haste and humiliation, he so calmly and -carelessly and sufficiently. He would be happy and prosperous in his -freedom, but she ... she dared not think. - -However, Jenny was thinking for her. - -“What will you do, Mary?” she asked, as they crossed the hall—“where are -you going?” - -“I’m going back to London. I don’t know yet what I’ll do.” - -“Have you enough money? I can easily lend you something—I cashed a -cheque yesterday.” - -“Oh, I’m quite all right, thanks.” - -“Do you think you’ll go abroad?” - -“I’ll try to. Meg is going again next month. I expect I could go with -her.” - -They were outside. Mary’s box was on the back of the lorry, and Gervase -already on the driver’s seat. It was rather a lowly way of leaving the -house of one’s fathers. Mary had never been on the lorry before, and had -some difficulty in climbing over the wheel. - -Jenny steadied her, and for a moment kept her hand after she was seated. - -“Of course you know I think you’re doing the only possible thing.” - -“Yes ... thank you, Jenny; but I wish I’d done it earlier.” - -“How could you?” - -“Refused to defend the case—spared myself and everybody all this muck.” - -“It’s very difficult, standing up to the family. But you’ve done it now. -I wish I could.... Goodbye, Mary dear, and I expect we’ll meet in town -before very long.” - -“Goodbye.” - -The Ford gargled, and they ran round the flower-bed in the middle of -Conster’s gravel sweep. Jenny waved farewell from the doorstep and went -indoors. Gervase began to whistle; he seemed happy—“I wonder,” thought -Mary, “if it’s true that he’s in love.” - - - § 14 - -During the upheaval which followed Mary’s departure, George Alard kept -away from Conster. He wouldn’t go any more, he said, where he wasn’t -wanted. What was the good of asking his advice if he was to be -insulted—publicly insulted when he gave it? He brooded tenaciously over -the scene between him and his father. Sir John had insulted him not only -as a man but as a priest, and he had a right to be offended. - -Rose supported him at first—she was glad to find that there were -occasions on which he would stand up to his father. George had been -abominably treated, she told Doris—really one was nearly driven to say -that Sir John had no sense of decency. - -“He speaks to him exactly as if he were a child.” - -“He speaks to us all like that.” - -“Then it’s high time somebody stood up to him, and I’m very glad George -did so.” - -“My dear Rose—if you think George stood up....” - -After a time Rose grew a little weary of her husband’s attitude, also -though she was always willing to take up arms against the family at -Conster, she had too practical an idea of her own and her children’s -interests to remain in a state of war. George had made his protest—let -him now be content. - -But George was nursing his injury with inconceivable perseverance. -Hitherto she had often had to reproach him for his subservience to his -father, for the meekness with which he accepted his direction and -swallowed his affronts. - -“If you can put up with his swearing in church, you can put up with what -he said to you about Mary.” - -“He has insulted me as a priest.” - -“He probably doesn’t realise you are one.” - -“That’s just it.” - -She seemed to have given him fresh cause for brooding. He sulked and -grieved, and lost interest in his parish organisations—his Sunday School -and Mothers’ Union, his Sewing Club and Coal Club, his Parochial Church -Council—now established in all its glory, though without Peter’s name -upon the roll, his branches of the S.P.G., the C.E.M.S., all those -activities which used to fill his days, which had thrilled him with such -pride when he enumerated them in his advertisements for a locum in the -_Guardian_. - -He developed disquieting eccentricities, such as going into the church -to pray. Rose would not have minded this if he had not fretted and upset -himself because he never found anyone else praying there. - -“Why should they?” she asked, a little exasperated—“They can say their -prayers just as well at home.” - -“I’ve never been into Vinehall church and found it empty.” - -“Oh, you’re still worrying about Gervase going to Vinehall?” - -“I’m not talking about Gervase. I’m talking about people in general. -Vinehall church is used for prayer—mine is always empty except on -Sundays.” - -“Indeed it’s not—I’ve often seen people in it, looking at the old glass, -and the carving in the South Aisle.” - -“But they don’t pray.” - -“Of course not. We English don’t do that sort of thing in public. They -may at Vinehall; but you know what I think of Vinehall—it’s un-English.” - -“I expect it’s what the whole of England was like before the -Reformation.” - -“George!” cried Rose—“you must be _ill_.” - -Only a physical cause could account for such mental disintegration. She -decided to send for Dr. Mount, who confirmed her diagnosis rather -disconcertingly. George’s heart was diseased—had been diseased for some -time. His case was the exact contrast of Lady Alard’s—those qualms and -stabs and suffocations which for so long both he and his wife had -insisted were indigestion, were in reality symptoms of the dread angina. - -He must be very careful not to overstrain himself in any way. No, Dr. -Mount did not think a parish like Leasan too heavy a burden—but of -course a complete rest and holiday would do him good. - -This, however, George refused to take—his new obstinacy persisted, and -though the treatment prescribed by Dr. Mount did much to improve his -general condition, mental as well as physical, he evidently still -brooded over his grievances. There were moments when he tried to -emphasise his sacerdotal dignity by a new solemnity of manner which the -family at Conster found humorous, and the family at Leasan found -irritating. At other times he was extraordinarily severe, threatening -such discipline as the deprivation of blankets and petticoats to old -women who would not come to church—the most irreproachable Innocent -Partner could not have cajoled the marriage service out of him then. He -also started reading his office in church every day, though Rose pointed -out to him that it was sheer waste of time, since nobody came to hear -it. - - - § 15 - -Social engagements of various kinds had always filled a good deal of -George Alard’s life—he and Rose received invitations to most of the -tea-parties, tennis-parties and garden-parties of the neighbourhood. He -had always considered it part of his duty as a clergyman to attend these -functions, just as he had considered it his duty to sit on every -committee formed within ten miles and to introduce a branch of every -episcopally-blessed Society into his own parish. Now with the decline of -his interest in clubs and committees came a decline of his enthusiasm -for tennis and tea. Rose deplored it all equally—— - -“If you won’t go to people’s parties you can’t expect them to come to -your church.” - -“I can and I do.” - -“But they won’t.” - -“Then let them stop away. The Church’s services aren’t a social return -for hospitality received.” - -“George, I wish you wouldn’t twist everything I say into some ridiculous -meaning which I never intended—and I do think you might come with me to -the Parishes this afternoon. You know they’re a sort of connection—at -least everyone hopes Jim won’t marry Jenny.” - -“I don’t feel well enough,” said George, taking a coward’s refuge—“not -even to visit such close relations,” he added with one of those stray -gleams of humour which were lost on Rose. - -“Well, this is the second time I’ve been out by myself this week, and I -must say.... However, if you don’t feel well enough.... But I think -you’re making a great mistake—apart from my feelings....” - -She went out, and George was left to the solitude and peace of his -study. It was a comfortable room, looking out across the green, cedared -lawn to the little church like a sitting hen. The walls were lined with -books, the armchairs were engulfing wells of ease—there was a big -writing-table by the window, and a rich, softly-coloured carpet on the -floor. Rose’s work-bag on a side-table gave one rather agreeable -feminine touch to the otherwise masculine scene. The room was typical of -hundreds in the more prosperous parsonages of England, and George had up -till quite recently felt an extraordinarily calm and soothing glow in -its contemplation. It was ridiculous to think that a few words from his -father—his father who was always speaking sharp, disparaging words—could -have smashed all his self-satisfaction, all his pride of himself as -Vicar of Leasan, all his comfortable possession of Leasan Vicarage and -Leasan Church.... But now he seemed to remember that the dawn of that -dissatisfaction had been in Leasan Church itself, before his father had -spoken—while he was kneeling there alone among all those empty, shining -pews.... - -He would go out for a walk. If he stopped at home he would only brood—it -would be worse than going to the Parishes. He would go over and see Dr. -Mount—it would save the doctor coming to the Vicarage, perhaps—there -must be a visit about due—and they could have a chat and some tea. He -liked Dr. Mount—a pleasant, happy, kind-hearted man. - -The day was good for walking. The last of Autumn lay in ruddy veils over -the woods of Leasan and Brede Eye. The smell of hops and apples was not -all gone from the lanes. George walked through his parish with a -professional eye on the cottages he passed. Most of the doors were shut -in the afternoon stillness, but here and there a child swinging on a -gate would smile at him shyly as he waved a Vicarial hand, or a woman -would say “Good afternoon, Sir.” The cottages nearly all looked -dilapidated and in want of paint and repair. George had done his duty -and encouraged thrift among his parishioners, and the interiors of the -cottages were many of them furnished with some degree of comfort, but -the exterior structures were in bad condition owing to the poverty of -the Manor. He cleared his throat distressfully once or twice—had one the -right to own property when one could not afford to keep it in repair?... -His philanthropic soul, bred in the corporal works of mercy, was in -conflict with his racial instinct, bred in the tradition of the Squires. - -When he came to Vinehall, he found to his disappointment that Dr. Mount -was out, and not expected to be home till late that evening. George felt -disheartened, for he had walked three miles in very poor condition. He -would have enjoyed a cup of tea.... However, there was nothing to be -done for it, unless indeed he went and called on Luce. But the idea did -not appeal to him—he and the Rector of Vinehall were little more than -acquaintances, and Luce was a shy, dull fellow who made conversation -difficult. He had better start off home at once—he would be home in time -for a late tea. - -Then he remembered that the carrier’s cart would probably soon be -passing through Vinehall and Leasan on its way from Robertsbridge -station to Rye. If he went into the village he might be able to pick it -up at the Eight Bells. Unfortunately he had walked the extra half-mile -to the inn before he remembered that the cart went only on Tuesdays, -Thursdays and Saturdays, and today was Wednesday. He would have to walk -home, more tired than ever. However, as he passed through the village, -he thought of the church, partly because he was tired and wanted to -rest, partly because Vinehall church always had a perverse fascination -for him—he never could pass it without wanting to look in ... perhaps he -had a secret, shameful hope that he would find it empty. - -He crossed the farmyard, wondering why Luce did not at all costs provide -a more decent approach, a wonder which was increased when, on entering -the church, he found he had admitted not only himself but a large -turkey, which in the chase that followed managed somehow to achieve more -dignity than his pursuer. After three laps round the font it finally -disappeared through the open door, and George collapsed on a chair, -breathing hard, and not in the least devout. - -The church had none of the swept, shiny look of Leasan, nor had it -Leasan’s perfume of scrubbing and brass-polish; instead it smelt of -stale incense, lamp-oil and old stones—partly a good smell and partly an -exceedingly bad one. It was seated with rather dilapidated chairs, and -at the east end was a huge white altar like a Christmas cake. There were -two more altars at the end of the two side aisles and one of them was -furnished with what looked suspiciously like two pairs of kitchen -candlesticks. But what upset George most of all were the images, of -which, counting crucifixes, there must have been about a dozen. His -objections were not religious but aesthetic—it revolted his artistic -taste to see the Christ pointing to His Sacred Heart, which He carried -externally under His chin, to see St. Anthony of Padua looking like a -girl in a monk’s dress, to see the Blessed Virgin with her rosary -painted on her blue skirt—and his sense of reverence and decency to see -the grubby daisy-chain with which some village child had adorned her. -Luce must have bought his church furniture wholesale at a third-rate -image shop.... - -George wished he could have stopped here, but he was bound to look -further, towards the white star which hung in the east Yes ... it was -just as usual ... a young man in working clothes was kneeling there ... -and an immensely stout old woman in an apron was sitting not far off. -Certainly the spectacle need not have inspired great devotional envy, -but George knew that in his own parish the young man would probably have -been lounging against the wall opposite the Four Oaks, while the old -woman would have been having a nap before her kitchen fire. Certainly -neither would have been found inside the church. - -There was a murmur of voices at the back of the south aisle, and looking -round George saw one or two children squirming in the pews, while behind -a rather frivolous blue curtain showed the top of a biretta. Luce was -hearing confessions—the confessions of children.... George stiffened—he -felt scandalised at the idea of anyone under twelve having any religious -needs beyond instruction. This squandering of the sacraments on the -young ... as if they were capable of understanding them.... - -He turned to go out, feeling that after all the scales had dropped on -the debit side of Vinehall’s godliness, when he heard behind him a heavy -tread and the flutter of a cassock. Luce had come out of his -confessional. - -“Why—Mr. Alard.” - -George was a little shocked to hear him speak out loud, and not in the -solemn whisper he considered appropriate for church. The Rector seemed -surprised to see him—did he want to speak to him about anything? - -“Oh, no—I only looked in as I was passing.” - -“Seen our new picture?” asked Luce. - -“Which one?” The church must have contained at least a dozen pictures -besides the Stations of the Cross. - -“In the Sacrament Chapel.” - -They went down to the east end, where Luce genuflected, and George, -wavering between politeness and the Bishop of Exeter’s definition of the -Real Presence, made a sort of curtsey. There was a very dark oil -painting behind the Altar—doubtful as to subject, but the only thing in -the church, George told himself, which had any pretence to artistic -value. - -“Mrs. Hurst gave us that,” said Luce—“it used to hang in her -dining-room, but considering the subject she thought it better for it to -be here.” - -He had dropped his voice to a whisper—George thought it must be out of -respect to the Tabernacle, but the next minute was enlightened. - -“She’s asleep,” he said, pointing to the stout old woman. - -“Oh,” said George. - -“Poor old soul,” said Luce—“I hope the chair won’t give way—they -sometimes do.” - -He genuflected again, and this time the decision went in favour of the -Bishop of Exeter, and George bowed as to an empty throne. On their way -out his stick caught in the daisy-chain which the Mother of God was -wearing, and pulled it off. - - - § 16 - -He and Luce walked out of the church together and through the farmyard -without speaking a word. The silence oppressed George and he made a -remark about the weather. - -“Oh, yes, I expect it will,” said Luce vaguely. - -He was a tall, white-faced, red-headed young man, who spoke with a -slight stutter, and altogether, in his seedy cassock which the unkind -sun showed less black than green, seemed to George an uninspiring -figure, whose power it was difficult to account for. How was it that -Luce could make his church a house of prayer and George could not? How -was it that people thought and talked of Luce as a priest, consulted him -in the affairs of their souls and resorted to him for the -sacraments—whereas they thought of George only as a parson, paid him -subscriptions and asked him to tea? - -He was still wondering when they came to the cottage where the Rector -lived—instead of in the twenty-five-roomed Rectory which the Parish -provided, with an endowment of a hundred and fifty pounds a year. They -paused awkwardly at the door, and the awkwardness was increased rather -than diminished by Luce inviting him to come in. George’s first impulse -was to decline—he felt he would rather not have any more of the other’s -constraining company—but the next minute he realised that he now had the -chance of a rest and tea without the preliminary endurance of a long and -dusty walk. So he followed him in at the door, which opened -disconcertingly into the kitchen, and through the kitchen into the -little study-living-room beyond it. - -It was not at all like George’s study at Leasan—the floor had many more -books on it than the wall, the little leaded window looked out into a -kitchen garden, and the two armchairs both appeared so doubtful as -possible supports for George’s substantial figure that he preferred, in -spite of his fatigue, to sit down on the kitchen chair that stood by the -writing-table. He realised for the first time what he had always -known—that Luce was desperately poor, having nothing but what he could -get out of the living. Probably the whole did not amount to two hundred -pounds ... and with post-war prices ... George decided to double his -subscription to the Diocesan Fund. - -Meantime he accepted a cigarette which was only just not a Woodbine, and -tried to look as if he saw nothing extraordinary in the poverty-stricken -room. He thought it would be only charitable to put the other at his -ease. - -“Convenient little place you’ve got here,” he remarked—“better for a -single man than that barrack of a Rectory.” - -“Oh, I could never have lived in the Rectory. I wonder you manage to -live in yours.” - -George muttered something indistinct about private means. - -“It’s difficult enough to live here,” continued Luce—“I couldn’t do it -if it wasn’t for what people give me.” - -“Are your parishioners generous?” - -“I think they are, considering they’re mostly poor people. The Pannells -across the road often send me over some of their Sunday dinner in a -covered dish.” - -George was speechless. - -“And I once found a hamper in the road outside the gate. But after I’d -thanked God and eaten half a fowl and drunk a bottle of claret, I found -it had dropped off the carrier’s cart and there was no end of a fuss.” - -“Er—er—hum.” - -There was a knock at the outer door, and before Luce could say “Come -in,” the door of the study opened and a small boy stuck his head in. - -“Please, Father, could you lend us your ink?—Mother wants to write a -letter.” - -“Oh, certainly, Tom—take it—there it is; but don’t forget to bring it -back.” - -The small boy said nothing, but snatched his booty and went out. - -“Are your people—er—responsive?” asked George. - -“Responsive to what?” - -“Well—er—to you.” - -“Oh, not at all.” - -“Then how do you get them to come to church?” - -“I don’t—Our Lord does.” - -George coughed. - -“They come to church because they know they’ll always find Him there—in -spite of me.” - -George could not keep back the remark that Reservation was theologically -indefensible. - -“Is it?” Luce did not seem much interested. “But I don’t keep the -Blessed Sacrament in my church for purposes of theology, but for -practical use. Suppose you were to die tonight—where would you get your -last Communion from if not from my tabernacle?” - -George winced. - -“This is the only church in the rural deanery where the Blessed -Sacrament is reserved and the holy oils are kept. The number of people -who die without the sacraments must be appalling.” - -George had never been appalled by it. - -“But why do you reserve publicly?” he asked—“that’s not primitive or -catholic—to reserve for purposes of worship.” - -“I don’t reserve for purposes of worship—I reserve for Communion. But I -can’t prevent people from worshipping Our Lord. Nobody could—not all the -Deans of all the cathedrals in England. Oh, I know you think my church -dreadful—everybody does. Those statues ... well, I own they’re hideous. -But so are all the best parlours in Vinehall. And I want the people to -feel that the church is their Best Parlour—which they’ll never do if I -decorate it in Anglican good taste, supposing always I could afford to -do so. I want them to feel at home.” - -“Do you find all this helps to make them regular communicants?” - -“Not as I’d like, of course; but we’re only beginning. Most of them come -once a month—though a few come every week. I’ve only one daily -communicant—a boy who works on Ellenwhorne Farm and comes here every -evening to cook my supper and have it with me.” - -George was beginning to feel uncomfortable in this strange -atmosphere—also he was most horribly wanting his tea. Possibly, as Luce -had supper instead of dinner, he took tea later than usual. - -“Of course,” continued the Rector, “some people in this place don’t like -our ways, and don’t come to church here at all. Some of my parishioners -go to you, just as some of yours come to me.” - -“You mean my brother Gervase?” - -“I wasn’t thinking of him particularly, but he certainly does come.” - -“The Mounts brought him.” - -“In the first instance, I believe. I hope you don’t feel hurt at his -coming here—but he told me he hadn’t been to church for over a year, so -I thought....” - -Not a sign of triumph, not a sign of shame—and not a sign of tea. It -suddenly struck George as a hitherto undreamed-of possibility that Luce -did not take tea. His whole life seemed so different from anything -George had known that it was quite conceivable that he did not. Anyhow -the Vicar of Leasan must be going—the long shadows of some poplars lay -over the garden and were darkening the little room into an early -twilight. He rose to depart. - -“Well, I must be off, I suppose. Glad to have had a chat. Come and -preach for me one day,” he added rashly. - -“With pleasure—but I warn you, I’m simply hopeless as a preacher.” - -“Oh, never mind, never mind,” said George—“all the better—I mean my -people will enjoy the change—at least I mean——” - -He grabbed desperately at his hat, and followed his host through the -kitchen to the cottage door. - -“Here’s Noakes coming up the street to cook supper,” said Luce—“I didn’t -know it was so late.” - -George stared rather hard at the Daily Communicant—having never to his -knowledge seen such a thing. He was surprised and a little disappointed -to find only a heavy, fair-haired young lout, whose face was the face of -the district—like a freckled moon. - -“I’m a bit early tonight, Father; but Maaster sent me over to Dixter wud -their roots, and he said it wun’t worth me coming back and I’d better go -straight on here. I thought maybe I could paint up the shed while the -stuff’s boiling.” - -“That’s a good idea—thanks, Noaky.” - -“Father, there’s a couple of thrushes nesting again by the Mocksteeple. -It’s the first time I’ve seen them nest in the fall.” - -“It’s the warm weather we’ve been having.” - -“Surelye, but I’m sorry for them when it turns cold.... Father, have you -heard?—the Rangers beat the Hastings United by four goals to one....” - - - § 17 - -When George had walked out of the village he felt better—he no longer -breathed that choking atmosphere of a different world, in which lived -daily communicants, devout children, and clergymen who hadn’t always -enough to eat. It was not, of course, the first time that he had seen -poverty among the clergy, but it was the first time he had not seen it -decently covered up. Luce seemed totally unashamed of his ... had not -made the slightest effort to conceal it ... his cottage was, except for -the books, just the cottage of a working-man; indeed it was not so -comfortable as the homes of many working men. - -George began to wonder exactly how much difference it would have made if -he had been poor instead of well-to-do—if he had been too poor to live -in his comfortable vicarage, too poor to decorate his church in -“Anglican good taste” ... not that he wouldn’t rather have left it bare -than decorate it like Vinehall ... what nonsense Luce had talked to -justify himself! The church wasn’t the village’s Best Parlour ... or was -it?... - -He felt quite tired when he reached Leasan, and Rose scolded him—“You’d -much better have come with me to the Parishes.”... However, it was good -to sit at his dinner-table and eat good food off good china, and drink -his water out of eighteenth-century glass that he had picked up in -Ashford.... Luce was not a total abstainer, judging by that story of the -claret.... It is true that the creaking tread of the Raw Girl and the -way she breathed down his neck when she handed the vegetables made him -think less disparagingly of the domestic offices of the Daily -Communicant; but somehow the Raw Girl fitted into the scheme of -things—it was only fitting that local aspirants for “service” should be -trained at the Vicarage—whereas farm-boys who came in to cook your -supper and then sat down and ate it with you ... the idea was only a -little less disturbing than the idea of farm-boys coming daily to the -altar.... He wondered if Rose would say it was un-English. - -“Oh, by the way, George”—Rose really was saying—“a message came down -from Conster while you were out, asking you to go up there after dinner -tonight.” - -George’s illness had brought about a kind of artificial peace between -the Manor and the Vicarage. - -“What is it now? Have you been invited too?” - -“No—I think Sir John wants to speak to you about something.” - -“Whatever can it be?—Mary’s in Switzerland. It can’t be anything to do -with her again.” - -“No—I believe it’s something to do with Gervase. I saw Doris this -evening and she tells me Sir John has found out that Gervase goes to -confession.” - -“Does he?—I didn’t know he’d got as far as that.” - -“Yes—he goes to Mr. Luce. Mrs. Wade saw him waiting his turn last -Saturday when she was in Vinehall church taking rubbings of the -Oxenbridge brass. I suppose she must have mentioned it when she went to -tea at Conster yesterday.” - -“And my father wants me to interfere?” - -“Of course—you’re a clergyman.” - -“Well, I’m not going to.” - -“George, don’t talk such nonsense. Why, you’ve been complaining about -your father’s disrespect for your priesthood, and now when he’s showing -you that he does respect it——” - -“He’s showing it no respect if he thinks I’d interfere in a case like -this.” - -“But surely you’ve a right—Gervase is your brother and he doesn’t ever -come to your church.” - -“I think it would be unwise for me to be my brother’s confessor.” - -“It would be ridiculous. Whoever thought of such a thing?” - -“Then why shouldn’t he go to Luce?—and as for my church, he hasn’t been -to any church for a year, so if Luce can get him to go to his ... or -rather if Our Lord can get him to go to Luce’s church....” - -“I do hope it won’t rain tomorrow, as I’d thought of going into Hastings -by the ’bus.” - -Rose had abrupt ways of changing the conversation when she thought it -was becoming indelicate. - - - § 18 - -George went up to Conster after all. Rose finally persuaded him, and -pushed him into his overcoat. She was anxious that he should not give -fresh offence at the Manor; also she was in her own way jealous for his -priestly honour and eager that he should vindicate it by exercising its -functions when they were wanted instead of when they were not. - -There was no family council assembled over Gervase as there had been -over Mary. Only his father and mother were in the drawing-room when -George arrived. Gervase was a minor in the Alard household, and religion -a minor matter in the Alard world—no questions of money or marriage, -those two arch-concerns of human life, were involved. It was merely a -case of stopping a silly boy making a fool of himself and his family by -going ways which were not the ways of squires. Not that Sir John did not -think himself quite capable of stopping Gervase without any help from -George, but neither had he doubted his capacity to deal with Mary -without summoning a family council. It was merely the Alard tradition -that the head should act through the members, that his despotism should -be as it were mediated, showing thus his double power both over the -rebel and the forces he employed for his subjection. - -“Here you are, George—I was beginning to wonder if Rose had forgotten to -give you my message. I want you to talk to that ass Gervase. It appears -that he’s gone and taken to religion, on the top of a dirty trade and my -eldest son’s ex-fiancée.” - -“And you want me to talk him out of it?” George was occasionally -sarcastic when tired. - -“Not out of religion, of course. Could hardly mean that. But there’s -religion and religion. There’s yours and there’s that fellow Luce’s.” - -“Yes,” said George, “there’s mine and there’s Luce’s.” - -“Well, yours is all right—go to church on Sundays—very right and proper -in your own parish—set a good example and all that. But when it comes to -letting religion interfere with your private life, then I say it’s time -it was stopped. I’ve nothing against Luce personally——” - -“Oh, I think he’s a perfectly dreadful man,” broke in Lady Alard—“he -came to tea once, and talked about God—in the drawing-room!” - -“My dear, I think this is a subject which would be all the better -without your interference.” - -“Well, if a mother hasn’t a right to interfere in the question of her -child’s religion....” - -“You did your bit when you taught him to say his prayers—I daresay that -was what started all the mischief.” - -“John, if you’re going to talk to me like this I shall leave the room.” - -“I believe I’ve already suggested such a course once or twice this -evening.” - -Lady Alard rose with dignity and trailed to the door. - -“I’m sure I hope you’ll be able to manage him,” she said bitterly to -George as she went out, “but as far as I’m concerned I’d much rather you -argued him out of his infatuation for Stella Mount.” - -“There is always someone in my family in love with Stella Mount,” said -Sir John, “and it’s better that it should be Gervase than Peter or -George, who are closer to the title, and, of course, let me hasten to -add, married men. But this is the first case of religious mania we’ve -ever had in the house—therefore I’d rather George concentrated on that. -Will you ask Mr. Gervase to come here?”—to the servant who answered his -ring. - -“Mr. Gervase is in the garage, sir.” - -“Send him along.” - -Gervase had been cleaning the Ford lorry, having been given to -understand that his self-will and eccentricity with regard to Ashford -were to devolve no extra duties on the chauffeur. His appearance, -therefore, when he entered the drawing-room, was deplorable. He wore a -dirty suit of overalls, his hands were black with oil and grime, and his -hair was hanging into his eyes. - -“How dare you come in like that, sir?” shouted Sir John. - -“I’m sorry, sir—I thought you wanted me in a hurry.” - -“So I do—but I didn’t know you were looking like a sweep. Why can’t you -behave like other people after dinner?” - -“I had to clean the car, sir. But I’ll go and wash.” - -“No, stay where you are—George wants to speak to you.” - -George did not look as if he did. - -“It’s about this new folly of yours,” continued Sir John. “George was -quite horrified when I told him you’d been to confession.” - -“Oh, come, not ‘horrified’,” said George uneasily—“it was only the -circumstances.... Thought you might have stuck to your parish church.” - -“And _you_’d have heard his confession!” sneered Sir John. - -“Well, sir, the Prayer Book is pretty outspoken in its commission to the -priest to absolve——” - -“But you’ve never heard a confession in your life.” - -This was true, and for the first time George was stung by it. He -suddenly felt his anger rising against Luce, who had enjoyed to the full -those sacerdotal privileges which George now saw he had missed. His -anger gave him enough heat to take up the argument. - -“I’m not concerned to find out how Luce could bring himself to influence -you when you have a brother in orders, but I’m surprised you shouldn’t -have seen the disloyalty of your conduct. Here you are forsaking your -parish church, which I may say is also your family church, and traipsing -across the country to a place where they have services exciting enough -to suit you.” - -“I’m sorry, George. I know that if I’d behaved properly I’d have asked -your advice about all this. But you see I was the heathen in his -blindness, and if it hadn’t been for Father Luce I’d be that still.” - -“You’re telling me I’ve neglected you?” - -“Not at all—no one could have gone for me harder than you did. But, -frankly, if I’d seen nothing more of religion than what I saw at your -church I don’t think I’d ever have bothered about it much.” - -“Not spectacular enough for you, eh?” - -“I knew you’d say something like that.” - -“Well, isn’t it true?” - -“No.” - -“Then may I ask in what way the religion of Vinehall is so superior to -the religion of Leasan?” - -“Just because it isn’t the religion of Vinehall—it’s the religion of the -whole world. It’s a religion for everybody, not just for Englishmen. -When I was at school I thought religion was simply a kind of gentlemanly -aid to a decent life. After a time you find out that sort of life can be -lived just as easily without religion—that good form and good manners -and good nature will pull the thing through without any help from -prayers and sermons. But when I saw Catholic Christianity I saw that it -pointed to a life which simply couldn’t be lived without its help—that -it wasn’t just an aid to good behaviour but something which demanded -your whole life, not only in the teeth of what one calls evil, but in -the teeth of that very decency and good form and good nature which are -the religion of most Englishmen.” - -“In other words and more briefly,” said Sir John, “you fell in love with -a pretty girl.” - -Gervase’s face darkened with a painful flush, and George felt sorry for -him. - -“I don’t deny,” he said rather haltingly, “that, if it hadn’t been for -Stella I should never have gone to Vinehall church. But I assure you the -thing isn’t resting on that now. I’ve nothing to gain from Stella by -pleasing her. We’re not on that footing at all. She never tried to -persuade me, either. It’s simply that after I’d seen only a little of -the Catholic faith I realised that it was what I’d always unconsciously -believed ... in my heart.... It was my childhood’s faith—all the things -I’d ‘loved long since and lost awhile.’” - -“But don’t you see,” said George, suddenly finding his feet in the -argument, “that you’ve just put your finger on the weak spot of the -whole thing? This ‘Catholic faith’ as you call it was unconsciously your -faith as a child—well, now you ought to go on and leave all that behind -you. ‘When I became a man I put away childish things.’” - -“And ‘whosoever will not receive the kingdom of heaven as a little child -shall in no wise enter therein.’ It’s no good quoting texts at me, -George—we might go on for ever like that. What I mean is that I’ve found -what I’ve always been looking for, and it’s made Our Lord real to me, as -He’s never been since I was a child—and now the whole of life seems real -in a way it didn’t before—I don’t know how to explain, but it does. And -it wasn’t only the romantic side of things which attracted me—it was the -hard side too. In fact the hardness impressed me almost before I saw all -the beauty and joy and romance. It was when we were having all that -argument about Mary’s divorce.... I saw then that the Catholic Church -wasn’t afraid of a Hard Saying. I thought, ‘Here’s a religion which -wouldn’t be afraid to ask anything of me—whether it was to shut myself -up for life in a monastery or simply to make a fool of myself.’” - -“Well, on the whole, I’m glad you contented yourself with the latter,” -said Sir John. - -George said—“I think it’s a pity Gervase didn’t go to Oxford.” - -“Whether he’s been to Oxford or not, he’s at least supposed to be a -gentleman. He may try to delude himself by driving off every morning in -a motor lorry, but he does in fact belong to an old and honourable -house, and as head of that house I object to his abandoning his family’s -religion.” - -“I never had my family’s religion, Sir—I turned to Catholicism from no -religion at all. I daresay it’s more respectable to have no religion -than the Catholic religion, but I don’t mind about being respectable—in -fact, I’d rather not.” - -“You’re absorbing your new principles pretty fast—already you seem to -have forgotten all family ties and obligations.” - -“I can’t see that my family has any right to settle my religion for -me—at least I’m Protestant enough to believe I must find my own -salvation, and not expect my family to pass it on to me. I think this -family wants to do too much.” - -“What d’you mean, Sir?” - -“It wants to settle all the private affairs of its members. There’s -Peter—you wouldn’t let him marry Stella. There’s Mary, you wouldn’t let -her walk out by the clean gate——” - -“Hold your tongue! Who are you to discuss Peter’s affairs with me? And -as for Mary—considering your disgraceful share in the business....” - -“All right, Sir. I’m only trying to point out that the family is much -more autocratic than the Church.” - -“I thought you said that what first attracted you to the Church was the -demands it made on you. George!” - -“Yes, Sir.” - -“Am I conducting this argument or are you?” - -“You seem better able to do it than I, Sir.” - -“Well, what did I send you to Oxford for, and to a theological college -for, and put you into this living for, if you can’t argue a schoolboy -out of the Catholic faith?” - -“I’ve pointed out to Gervase, Sir, that the so-called Catholic movement -is not the soundest intellectually, and that I don’t see why he should -walk three miles to Vinehall on Sundays when he has everything necessary -to salvation at his parish church. I can’t go any further than that.” - -“How d’you mean?” - -“I can’t reason him out of his faith—why should I? On the contrary, I’m -very glad he’s found it. I don’t agree with all he believes—I think some -of it is extravagant—but I see at least he’s got a religion which will -make him happy and keep him straight, and really there’s no cause for me -to interfere with it.” - -George was purple. - -“You’re a fool!” cried Sir John—“you’re a much bigger fool than Gervase, -because at least he goes the whole hog, while you as usual are sitting -on the fence. It’s just the same now as when I asked you to speak to -Mary. If you’d go all the way I’d respect you, or if you’d go none of -the way I’d respect you, but you go half way.... Gervase can go all the -way to the Pope or to the devil, whichever he pleases—I don’t care -now—he can’t be as big a fool as you.” - -He turned and walked out of the room, banging the door furiously behind -him. The brothers were left alone together. Gervase heaved a sigh of -relief. - -“Come along with me to the garage,” he said to George, “and help me take -the Ford’s carburetor down.” - -“No, thanks,” said George dully—“I’m going home.” - - - § 19 - -He had failed again. As he walked through the thick yellow light of the -Hunter’s Moon to Leasan, he saw himself as a curiously feeble and -ineffective thing. It was not only that he had failed to persuade his -brother by convincing arguments, or that he had failed once more to -inspire his father with any sort of respect for his office, but he had -somehow failed in regard to his own soul, and all his other failures -were merely branches of that most bitter root. - -He had been unable to convince Gervase because he was not convinced -himself—he had been unable to inspire his father because he was not -inspired himself. All his life he had stood for moderation, toleration, -broad-mindedness ... and here he was, so moderate that no one would -believe him, so tolerant that no one would respect him, so broad-minded -that the water of life lay as it were stagnant in a wide and shallow -pond instead of rushing powerfully between the rocky, narrow banks of a -single heart.... - -He found Rose waiting for him in the hall. - -“How late you are! I’ve shut up. They must have kept you an awful time.” - -“I’ve been rather slow coming home.” - -“Tired?” - -“I am a bit.” - -“How did you get on? I expect Gervase was cheeky.” - -“Only a little.” - -“Have you talked him round?” - -“I can’t say that I have. And I don’t know that I want to.” - -“George!” - -Rose had put out the hall lamp, and her voice sounded hoarse and ghostly -in the darkness. - -“Well, the boy’s got some sort of religion at last after being a heathen -for years.” - -“I’m not sure that he wouldn’t be better as a heathen than believing the -silly, extravagant things he does. I don’t suppose for a minute it’s -gone really deep.” - -“Why not?” - -“The sort of thing couldn’t. What he wants is a sober, sensible, -practical religion——” - -“Soup?” - -“George!” - -“Well, that’s what Mary called it. And when I see that the boy has found -adventure, discipline and joy in faith, am I to take it away and offer -him soup?” - -“George, I’m really shocked to hear you talk like that. Please turn down -the landing light—I can’t reach it.” - -“Religion is romance,” said George’s voice in the thick darkness of the -house—“and I’ve been twelve years trying to turn it into soup....” - - - § 20 - -Rose made up her mind that her husband must be ill, therefore she -forebore further scolding or argument, and hurried him into bed with a -cup of malted milk. - -“You’ve done too much,” she said severely—“you said you didn’t feel well -enough to come with me to the Parishes, and then you went tramping off -to Vinehall. What can you expect when you’re so silly? Now drink this -and go to sleep.” - -George went to sleep. But in the middle of the night he awoke. All the -separate things of life, all the differences of time and space, seemed -to have run together in one sharp moment. He was not in the bed, he was -not in the room ... the room seemed to be in him, for he saw every -detail of its trim mediocrity ... and there lay George Alard on the bed -beside a sleeping Rose ... but he was George Alard right enough, for -George Alard’s pain was his, that queer constricting pain which was part -of the functions of his body, of every breath he drew and every beat of -his heart ... he was lying in bed ... gasping, suffering, dying ... this -was what it meant to die.... Rose! Rose! - - * * * * * - -Rose bent over her husband; her big plaits swung in his face. - -“What’s the matter, George?—are you ill?” - -“Are you ill?” she repeated. - -Then she groped for a match, and as soon as she saw his face, jumped out -of bed. - -No amount of bell-ringing would wake the Raw Girls, so Rose leaped -upstairs to their attic, and beat on the door. - -“Annie! Mabel! Get up and dress quickly, and go to Conster Manor and -telephone for Dr. Mount. Your master’s ill.” - -Sundry stampings announced the beginning of Annie’s and Mabel’s toilet, -and Rose ran downstairs to her husband. She lit the lamp and propped him -up in bed so that he could breathe more easily, thrusting her own -pillows under his neck. - -“Poor old man!—Are you better?” Her voice had a new tender quality—she -drew her hand caressingly under his chin—“Poor old man!—I’ve sent for -Dr. Mount.” - -“Send for Luce.” - -It was the first time he had spoken, and the words jerked out of him -drily, without expression. - -“All right, all right—but we want the doctor first. There, the girls are -ready—hurry up, both of you, as fast as you can, and ask the butler, or -whoever lets you in, to ’phone. It’s Vinehall 21—but they’re sure to -know.” - -She went back into the room and sat down again beside George, taking his -hand. He looked dreadfully ill, his face was blue and he struggled for -breath. Rose was not the sort of woman who could sit still for long—in a -moment or two she sprang to her feet, and went to the medicine cupboard. - -“I believe some brandy would do you good—it’s allowed in case of -illness, you know.” - -George did not seem to care whether it was allowed or not. Rose gave him -a few drops, and he seemed better. She smoothed his pillows and wiped -the sweat off his face. - -She had hardly sat down again when the hall door opened and there was -the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It must be the girls coming -back—Rose suddenly knew that she was desperately glad even of their -company. She went to the door, and looked out on the landing. The light -that streamed over her shoulder from the bedroom showed her the scared, -tousled faces of Gervase and Jenny. - -“What’s up, Rose?—Is he very bad?” - -“I’m afraid so. Have you ’phoned Dr. Mount?” - -“Yes—he’s coming along at once. We thought perhaps we could do -something?” - -“I don’t know what there is to do. I’ve given him some brandy. Come in.” - -They followed her into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. Jenny, -who had learned First Aid during the war, suggested propping him higher -with a chair behind the pillows. She and Gervase looked dishevelled and -half asleep in their pyjamas and great-coats. Rose suddenly realised -that she was not wearing a dressing-gown—she tore it off the foot of the -bed and wrapped it round her. For the first time in her life she felt -scared, cold and helpless. She bent over George and laid her hand on -his, which were clutched together on his breast. - -His eyes were wide open, staring over her shoulder at Gervase. - -“Luce ...” he said with difficulty—“Luce....” - -“All right,” said Gervase—“I’ll fetch him.” - -“Wouldn’t you rather have Canon Potter, dear?—He could come in his car.” - -“No—Luce ... the only church.... Sacrament....” - -“Don’t you worry—I’ll get him. I’ll go in the Ford.” - -Gervase was out of the room, leaving Jenny in uneasy attendance. A few -minutes later Doris arrived. She had wanted to come with the others, but -had felt unable to leave her room without a toilet. She alone of the -party was dressed—even to her boots. - -“How is he, Rose?” - -“He’s better now, but I wish Dr. Mount would come.” - -“Do you think he’ll die?” asked Doris in a penetrating whisper—“ought I -to have woken up Father and Mother?” - -“No—of course not. Don’t talk nonsense.” - -“I met Gervase on his way to fetch Mr. Luce.” - -“That’s only because George wanted to see him—very natural to want to -see a brother clergyman when you’re ill. But it’s only a slight -attack—he’s much better already.” - -She made expressive faces at Doris while she spoke. - -“There’s Dr. Mount!” cried Jenny. - -A car sounded in the Vicarage drive and a few moments later the doctor -was in the room. His examination of George was brief. He took out some -capsules. - -“What are you going to do?” asked Rose. - -“Give him a whiff of amyl nitrate.” - -“It’s not serious? ... he’s not going to....” - -“Ought we to fetch Father and Mother?” choked Doris. - -“I don’t suppose Lady Alard would be able to come at this hour—but I -think you might fetch Sir John.” - -Rose suddenly began to cry. Then the sight of her own tears frightened -her, and she was as suddenly still. - -“I’ll go,” said Jenny. - -“No—you’d better let me go,” said Doris—“I’ve got my boots on.” - -“Where’s Gervase?” asked Dr. Mount. - -“He’s gone to fetch Mr. Luce from Vinehall—George asked for him.” - -“How did he go? Has he been gone long?” - -“He went in his car—he ought to be back quite soon. Oh, doctor, do you -think it’s urgent ... I mean ... he seems easier now.” - -Dr. Mount did not speak—he bent over George, who lay motionless and -exhausted, but seemingly at peace. - -“Is he conscious?” asked Rose. - -“Perfectly, I should say. But don’t let him speak.” - -With a queer abandonment, unlike herself, Rose climbed on the bed, -curling herself up beside George and holding his hand. The minutes -ticked by. Jenny, feeling awkward and self-conscious, sat in the basket -armchair by the fireplace. Dr. Mount moved quietly about the room—as in -a dream Rose watched him set two lighted candles on the little table by -the bed. There was absolute silence, broken only by the ticking of the -clock. Rose began to feel herself again—the attack was over—George would -be all right—it was a pity that Gervase had gone for Mr. Luce. She began -to feel herself ridiculous, curled up with George in the bed ... she had -better get out before Sir John came and sneered at her very useful -flannel dressing-gown ... then suddenly, as she looked down on it, -George’s face changed—once more the look of anguish convulsed it, and he -started up in bed, clutching his side and fighting for his breath. - -It seemed an age, though it was really only a few minutes, that the -fight lasted. Rose had no time to be afraid or even pitiful, for Dr. -Mount apparently could do nothing without her—as she rather proudly -remembered afterwards, he wouldn’t let Jenny help at all, but turned to -Rose for everything. She had just begun to think how horrible the room -smelt with drugs and brandy, when there was a sound of wheels below in -the drive. - -“That’s Gervase,” said Jenny. - -“Or perhaps it’s Sir John....” - -But it was Gervase—the next minute he came into the room. - -“I’ve brought him,” he said—“is everything ready?” - -“Yes, quite ready,” said Dr. Mount. - -Then Rose saw standing behind Gervase outside the door a tall stooping -figure in a black cloak, under which its arms were folded over something -that it carried on its breast. - -The Lord had come suddenly to Leasan Parsonage. - -Immediately panic seized her, a panic which became strangely fused with -anger. She sprang forward and would have shut the door. - -“Don’t come in—you’re frightening him—he mustn’t be disturbed.... Oh, -he’d be better, if you’d only let him alone....” - -She felt someone take her arm and gently pull her aside—the next moment -she was unaccountably on her knees, and crying as if her heart would -break. She saw that the intruder no longer stood framed in the -doorway—he was beside the bed, bending over George, his shadow thrown -monstrous on the ceiling by the candle-light.... What was he saying?... - -“Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest come under my roof....” - - - - - _PART III_ - FOURHOUSES - - - § 1 - -George Alard’s death affected his brother Peter out of all proportion to -his life. While George was alive, Peter had looked upon him rather -impatiently as a nuisance and a humbug—a nuisance because of his -attempts to thrust parochial honours on his unwilling brother, a humbug -because religion was so altogether remote from Peter’s imagination that -he could not credit the sincerity of any man (he was not so sure about -women) who believed in it. But now that George was dead he realised -that, in spite of his drawbacks, he had been a link in the Alard chain, -and that link now was broken. If Peter now died childless, his heir -would be Gervase—Gervase with his contempt of the Alard traditions and -ungentlemanly attitude towards life. Gervase was capable of selling the -whole place. It would be nothing to him if Sir Gervase Alard lived in a -villa at Hastings or a flat at West Kensington, or a small-holding at -his own park gates, whatever was the fancy of the moment—no, he had -forgotten—it was to be a garage—“Sir Gervase Alard. Cars for hire. -Taxies. Station Work.” - -These considerations made him unexpectedly tender towards his -sister-in-law Rose when she moved out of Leasan Parsonage into a small -house she had taken in the village. Rose could not bear the thought of -being cut off from Alard, of being shut out of its general councils, of -being deprived of its comfortable hospitality half as daughter, half as -guest. Also she saw the advantages of the great house for her children, -the little girls. Her comparative poverty—for George had not left her -much—made it all the more necessary that she should prop herself against -Conster. Living there under its wing, she would have a far better -position than if she set up her independence in some new place where she -would be only a clergyman’s widow left rather badly off. - -Peter admired Rose for these tactics. She would cling to Alard, even in -the certainty of being perpetually meddled with and snubbed. He lent her -his car to take her and her more intimate belongings to the new house, -promised her the loan of it whenever she wanted, and gave her a general -invitation to Starvecrow, rather to Vera’s disquiet. He had hated Rose -while his brother was alive—he had looked upon her as a busybody and an -upstart—but now he loved her for her loyalty, self-interested though it -was, and was sorry that she had for ever lost her chance of becoming -Lady Alard. - -He made one or two efforts to impress Gervase with a sense of his -responsibility as heir-apparent, but was signally unsuccessful. - -“My dear old chap,” said his irreverent brother—“you’ll probably have -six children, all boys, so it’s cruel to raise my hopes, which are bound -to be dashed before long.” - -Peter looked gloomy. Gervase had hit him on a tender, anxious spot. He -had now been married more than a year, and there was no sign of his -hopes being fulfilled. He told himself he was an impatient fool—Jewish -women were proverbially mothers of strong sons. But the very urgency of -his longing made him mistrust its fulfilment—Vera was civilised out of -race—she ran too much to brains. She had, to his smothered -consternation, produced a small volume of poems and essays, which she -had had typed and sent expectantly to a publisher. Peter was not used to -women doing this sort of thing, and it alarmed him. If they did it, he -could not conceive how they could also do the more ordinary and useful -things that were expected of them. - -His father laughed at him. - -“Peter—you’re a yokel. Your conception of women is on a level with -Elias’s and Lambard’s.” - -“No, it isn’t, Sir—that’s just what’s the matter. I can’t feel cocksure -about things most men feel cocksure about. That’s why I wish you’d -realise that there’s every chance of Gervase coming into the property——” - -“My dear Peter, you are the heir.” - -“Yes, Sir. But if I don’t leave a son to come after me....” - -“Well, I refuse to bother about what may happen forty years after I’m -dead. If you live to my age—and there’s no reason you shouldn’t, as -you’re a healthy man—it’ll be time to think about an heir. Gervase may -be dead before that.” - -“He’s almost young enough to be my son.” - -“But what in God’s name do you want me to do with him? Am I to start -already preparing him for his duties as Sir Gervase Alard?” - -“You might keep a tighter hand on him, Sir.” - -“Damn it all! Are you going to teach me how to bring up my own son?” - -“No, Sir. But what I feel is that you’re not bringing him up as you -brought up George and me and poor Hugh—you’re letting him go his own -way. You don’t bother about him because you don’t think he’s a chance of -coming into the property. And two of the three of us have got out of his -way since he was sixteen.... He’s precious near it now. And yet you let -him have his head over that engineering business, and now you’ve given -way about his religion.” - -“The engineering business was settled long ago, and has saved us a lot -of money—more than paid for that fool Mary’s fling. What we’ve spent on -the roundabouts we’ve saved on the swings all right. As for the -religion—he’ll grow out of that all the quicker for my leaving him -alone. I got poor George to talk to him, but that didn’t do any good, so -I’ve decided to let him sicken himself, which he’s bound to do sooner or -later the way he goes at it.” - -“The fact is, Sir—you’ve never looked upon Gervase as the heir, and you -can’t do so now, though he virtually is the heir.” - -“Indeed he isn’t. The heir is master Peter John Alard, whose christening -mug I’m going to buy next Christmas”—and Sir John made one or two other -remarks in his coarse Victorian fashion. - -Peter knew he was a fool to be thinking about his heir. His father, -though an old man, was still hale—his gout only served to show what a -fighter he was; and he himself was a man in the prime of life, healthy -and sound. Was it that the war had undermined his sense of security?—He -caught uneasy glimpses of another reason, hidden deeper ... a vague -sense that it would be awful to have sacrificed so much for Alard and -Starvecrow, and find his sacrifice in vain—to have given up Stella Mount -(who would certainly not have given him a book instead of a baby) only -that his brother Gervase might some day degrade Alard, sell Starvecrow -and (worst of all) marry Stella. - - - § 2 - -For in his heart Peter too expected Gervase to marry Stella. He knew -there was a most unsuitable difference in their ages, but it weighed -little against his expectation. He expected Gervase to marry Stella for -the same reason that he expected to die without leaving an heir—because -he feared it. Besides, his family talked continually of the possibility, -and here again showed that obtuseness in the matter of Gervase that he -deplored. They had no objection to his marrying Stella Mount, because he -was the younger son, and it wasn’t imperative for him to marry money, as -it had been for Peter. Another reason for Peter’s expectation was -perhaps that he could not understand a man being very much in Stella’s -society and not wanting to marry her. She was pretty, gentle, capable, -comfortable, and oh! so sweet to love—she would make an excellent wife, -even to a man many years younger than herself; she would be a mother to -him as well as to his children. - -This did not mean that Peter was dissatisfied with Vera. His passion for -her had not cooled at the end of a year. She was still lovely and -desirable. But he now realised definitely that she did not speak his -language or think his thoughts—the book of poems was a proof of it, if -he had required other proof than her attitude towards Starvecrow. Vera -was all right about the family—she respected Alard—but she was -remarkably out of tune with the farm. She could not understand the -year-in-year-out delight it was to him. She had even suggested that they -should take a house in London for the winter—and miss the ploughing of -the clays, the spring sowings, and the early lambing! “The country’s so -dreary in winter,” she had said. - -This had frightened Peter—he found it difficult to adjust himself to -such an outlook ... it was like the first morning when he had found she -meant always to have breakfast in bed.... Stella would never have -suggested that he should miss the principal feasts of the farmer’s -year.... But Stella had not Vera’s beauty or power or brilliance—nor had -she (to speak crudely) Vera’s money, and if he had married her -Starvecrow would probably now have been in the auction market. - -Besides, though loyal to Starvecrow, Stella had always been flippant and -profane on the subject of the family, and in this respect Vera was all -that Peter could wish. She was evidently proud of her connection with -Alard—she kept as close under its wing as Rose, and for more -disinterested reasons. She had her race’s natural admiration for an -ancient family and a noble estate, she felt honoured by her alliance and -her privileges—she would make a splendid Lady Alard of Conster Manor, -though a little unsatisfactory as Mrs. Peter Alard of Starvecrow Farm. - -As part of her lien with Alard, Vera had become close friends with -Jenny. It was she who told Peter that Jenny had broken off her -engagement to Jim Parish. - -“I didn’t know she was engaged to him.” - -“Oh, Peter, they’ve been engaged more than three years.” - -“Well, I never knew anything about it.” - -“You must have—you all did, though you chose to ignore it.” - -“I always thought it was just an understanding.” - -“That’s the same thing.” - -“Indeed it isn’t!”—At that rate he had been engaged to Stella and had -behaved like a swine. - -“Well, whatever it was, she’s through with it now.” - -“What did she turn him down for?” - -“Oh, simply that there was no chance of their marrying, and they were -getting thoroughly tired of each other.” - -“A nice look-out if they’d married.” - -“That would have been different. They might not have got tired of each -other then. It’s these long engagements, that drag on and on without -hope of an ending. I must say I’m sorry for poor Jenny. She’s been kept -hanging about for three years, and she’s had frightfully little sympathy -from anyone—except perhaps Mary. They were all too much afraid that if -they encouraged her she’d dash off and get married on a thousand a year -or some such pittance.” - -“I’ve always understood Parish paid three hundred a year towards the -interest on the Cock Marling mortgages—that would leave him with only -seven hundred,” said Peter gravely. - -“Impossible, of course. They’d have been paupers. But do you know that -till I came down here I’d no idea how fashionable mortgages are among -the best county families?” - - - § 3 - -Peter did not meet Jenny till some days later. She had been to see Vera, -and came out of the house just as Peter was talking to young Godfrey, -the farmer of Fourhouses. This farm did not belong to the Alards—it -stood on the southern fringe of their land in Icklesham parish. At one -time Sir William Alard had wanted to buy it, but the owners held tight, -and his grandchildren lived to be thankful for the extra hundred acres’ -weight that had been spared them. Now, the situation was reversed, and -the Godfreys were wanting to buy the thirty acres of Alard land -immediately adjoining Fourhouses. - -Sir John was willing to sell, and the only difficulty was the usual one -of the mortgage. Godfrey, however, still wished to buy, for he believed -that the land would double its value if adequate money was spent on it, -and this he was prepared to do, for his farm had prospered under the -government guarantees. For generations the Godfreys had been a -hard-working and thrifty set, and the war—though it had taken Ben -Godfrey himself out to Mesopotamia—had made Fourhouses flourish as it -had never done since the repeal of the Corn Laws. - -The problem became entirely one of price, and Peter had done his best to -persuade his father not to stand out too stiffly over this. The family -badly needed hard cash—the expenses of Mary’s suit had been heavy, and -as their money was tied up in land it was always difficult to put their -hand on a large sum. Here was a chance which might never happen -again—for no one was likely to want the Snailham land under its present -disabilities, except Godfrey, whose farm it encroached on. If they did -not sell it now, it might become necessary (and this was Peter’s great -fear) to sell the free lands of Starvecrow. Therefore if the Snailham -land brought in the ready money they wanted, they must try to forget -that it was going for little more than half what Sir William had given -for it seventy years ago. - -“Well, I’ll talk it over with Sir John,” he said to Godfrey, who was on -horseback in the drive. It was then he saw Jenny coming towards them out -of the house. - -“Wait a minute,” he said to her—“I want to speak to you.” - -He was uncertain whether or not he ought to introduce the young farmer -to his sister. Godfrey did not call himself a gentleman farmer—indeed he -was inclined to despise the title—but he came of good old yeoman stock, -and his name went back nearly as far as Alard into the records of -Winchelsea. - -“Jenny, this is Mr. Godfrey of Fourhouses—my sister, Miss Jenny Alard.” - -Godfrey took off his soft hat. He had the typical face of the Sussex and -Kent borders, broad, short-nosed, blue-eyed; but there was added to it a -certain brownness and sharpness, which might have come from a dash of -gipsy blood. A Godfrey had married a girl of the Boswells in far-back -smuggling days. - -He and Peter discussed the Snailham snapes a little longer—then he rode -off, and Peter turned to Jenny. - -“I didn’t know you’d come over,” he said, “and I wanted to talk to you a -bit—it’s an age since I’ve seen you.” - -He was feeling a little guilty about his attitude towards her and Jim -Parish—he had, like all the rest of the family, tried to ignore the -business, and he now realised how bitter it must have been to Jenny to -stand alone. - -“Vera told me that you’d broken off your engagement,” he added as they -walked down the drive. - -“So it was an engagement, was it?” said Jenny rather pertly. - -“Well, you yourself know best what it was.” - -“I should have called it an engagement, but as neither his family nor -mine would acknowledge it, perhaps it wasn’t.” - -“There was no chance of your getting married for years, so it seemed -better not to make it public. I can’t tell you I’m sorry you’ve broken -it off.” - -“I should hardly say it’s broken off—rather that it’s rotted away.” - -Her voice sounded unusually hard, and Peter felt a little ashamed of -himself. - -“I’m frightfully sorry, Jenny”—taking her arm—“I’m afraid we’ve all been -rather unsympathetic, but——” - -“Gervase hasn’t. It was he who advised me to end things.” - -“The deuce it was!” - -“Yes—he saw it as I did—simply ridiculous.” - -“So it was, my dear—since you couldn’t get married till the Lord knows -when.” - -“That wasn’t what made it ridiculous. The ridiculous part was that we -could have got married perfectly well if only I hadn’t been Jenny Alard -of Conster Manor and he Jim Parish of Cock Marling Place.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“Well, he’s got over seven hundred a year. Most young couples would look -upon that as riches, but it’s poverty to us—partly because he has to pay -away half of it in interest on mortgages, and partly because we’ve got -such an absurd standard of living that we couldn’t exist on anything -less than two or three thousand.” - -“Well, I hope you’d never be such a fool as to marry on seven hundred.” - -“That’s just it—I’m refusing to marry on seven hundred. But I’ll tell -you, Peter—I’d do it like a shot for a man who didn’t look upon it as a -form of suicide. If ever I meet a man who thinks it enough for him, I -promise you it’ll be enough for me.” - -“That’s all very well, Jenny. But Parish must think of Cock Marling.” - -“He is thinking of it. It’s Cock Marling that’s separated us just as -Conster separated you and Stella.” - -Peter was annoyed. - -“You’ve no right to say that. What makes you think I wanted to marry -Stella? It’s not fair to Vera to suggest such a thing.” - -“I’m sorry, Peter. I oughtn’t to have said it. But I did once think.... -But anyhow, I’m glad you didn’t.” - -“So am I.” - -“And I’m glad I’m not going to marry Jim.” - -“Then you needn’t be angry with Cock Marling.” - -“Yes, I am—because I know I could have been happy with Jim if there’d -been no Cock Marling. It’s all very well for you to talk, Peter—but I -think.... Oh, these big country houses make me sick. It’s all the -same—everywhere I go I see the same thing—we’re all cut to a pattern. -There’s always the beautifully kept grounds and the huge mortgaged -estate that’s tumbling to pieces for want of money to spend on it. Then, -when you go in, there are hothouse flowers everywhere, and beautiful -glass and silver—and bad cooking. And we’re waited on badly because -we’re too old-fashioned and dignified to employ women, so we have the -cheapest butler we can get, helped by a footman taken from the plough. -Upstairs the bedrooms want painting and papering, but we always have two -cars—though we can’t afford motor traction for our land. We’re falling -to pieces, but we hide the cracks with pots of flowers. Why can’t we -sell our places and live in comfort? We Alards would be quite well-to-do -if we lived in a moderate sized house with two or three women servants -and either a small car or none at all. We could afford to be happy -then.” - -“Jenny, you’re talking nonsense. You’re like most women and can’t see -the wood for the trees. If we gave up the cars tomorrow and sacked -Appleby and Pollock and Wills, and sold the silver and the pictures, it -wouldn’t do us the slightest good in the world. We’d still have the -estate, we’d still have to pay in taxes more than the land brings in to -us. You can’t sell land nowadays, even if it isn’t mortgaged. -Besides—damn it all!—why should we sell it? It’s been ours for -centuries, we’ve been here for centuries, and I for one am proud of it.” - -“Well, I’m not. I’m ashamed. I tell you, Peter, our day is over, and -we’d better retire, while we can retire gracefully—before we’re sold -up.” - -“Nonsense. If we hang on, the value of the land will rise, we’ll be able -to pay off the mortgages—and perhaps some day this brutal government -will see the wickedness of its taxation and——” - -“Why should it? It wants the money—and we’ve no right to be here. We’ve -outlived our day. Instead of developing the land—we’re ruining it, -letting it go to pieces. We can’t afford to keep our tenants’ farms in -order. It’s time we ceased to own half the country, and the land went -back to the people it used to belong to.” - -“I see you’ve been talking to Gervase.” - -“Well, he and I think alike on this subject.” - -“I’m quite sure you do.” - -“And we’ve made up our minds not to let the family spoil our lives. It’s -taken Jim from me—but that was his fault. It’s not going to smash me a -second time. If I want to marry a poor man, I shall do so—even if he’s -really poor—not only just what we call poor.” - -“Well, you and Gervase are a precious couple, that’s all I’ve got to -say.” - -The next moment he softened towards her, because he remembered that she -was unhappy and spoke out of the bitterness of her heart. But though he -was sorry for her, he had a secret admiration for Jim Parish, who had -refused to desert the Squires. - - - § 4 - -He was intensely worried that his sister and brother could take up such -an attitude towards the family. They were young socialists, anarchists, -bolsheviks, and he heartily disapproved of them. He brooded over Jenny’s -words more than was strictly reasonable. She wasn’t going to let the -family spoil her life, she said—she wasn’t going to sacrifice herself to -the family—she wasn’t going to let the family come between her and the -man she loved as he had let it come between him and Stella. She’d no -right to say that—it wasn’t true. He couldn’t really have loved Stella -or he wouldn’t have sacrificed her to Alard and Starvecrow. Yes, he -would, though—yes, he had. He had loved her—he wouldn’t say he hadn’t, -he wouldn’t deny the past. He had loved her, but he had deliberately let -her go because to have kept her would have meant disloyalty to his -family. So what Jenny had said was true. - -This realisation did not soothe, though he never doubted the rightness -of what he had done. He wondered how much he had hurt Stella by putting -her aside ... poor little Stella—she had loved him truly, and she had -loved Starvecrow. He had robbed her of both.... He remembered the last -scene between them, their goodbye—in the office at Starvecrow, in the -days of its pitch-pine and bamboo, before he had put in the Queen Anne -bureau and the oak chests. He wondered what she would think of it now. -She would have fitted into Starvecrow better than Vera ... bah! he’d -always realised that, but it was just as well to remind himself that if -he had married her, there would have been no Starvecrow for her to fit -into. He hadn’t sacrificed her merely to Alard but also to -Starvecrow—and she had understood that part of the sacrifice. He -remembered her saying, “I understand your selfish reason much better -than your unselfish one.” - -Well, there was no good brooding over her now. If he had loved her once, -he now loved her no longer ... and if she had loved him once, she now -loved him no longer. She was consoling herself with Gervase. She might -be Lady Alard yet, and save Starvecrow out of the wreck that her husband -would make of the estate. Peter felt sick. - -The next day he met her at tea at Conster Manor, whither he had been -asked with Vera to meet George’s successor, the new Vicar of Leasan. She -was sitting on the opposite side of the room beside the Vicar’s wife—a -faded little woman, in scrappy finery, very different from her -predecessor who was eating her up from her place by Lady Alard. Peter -had met Stella fairly often in public, but had not studied her closely -till today. Today for some reason he wanted to know a great deal about -her—whether she was still attractive, whether she was happy, whether she -was in love with Gervase, though this last was rather difficult to -discover, as Gervase was not there. On the first two points he soon -satisfied himself. She was certainly attractive—she did not look any -older than when he had fallen in love with her during the last year of -the war. Her round, warmly coloured face and her bright eyes held the -double secret of youth and happiness—yes, he saw that she was happy. She -carried her happiness about with her. After all, now he came to think of -it, she did not lead a particularly happy life—dispensing for her father -and driving his car, it was dull to say the least. He could not help -respecting her for her happiness, just as he respected her for her -bright neat clothes contrasting so favourably with the floppy fussiness -of bits and ends that adorned the Vicar’s wife. - -He could not get near her and he could not hear what she was saying. The -floor was held by Mr. Williams, the new Vicar. The Parsonage couple were -indeed the direct contrast of their predecessors—it was the husband who -dominated, the wife who struggled. Mr. Williams had been a chaplain to -the forces, and considered Christianity the finest sport going. A -breezy, hefty shepherd, he would feed his flock on football and -billiards, as George had fed them on blankets and Parochial Church -Councils. It was inconceivable that anyone in Leasan should miss the way -to heaven. - -“I believe in being a man among men,” he blew over Sir John, who was -beginning to hate him, though he had chosen him out of twenty-one -applicants—“that’s what you learnt in France—no fuss, no frills, just -playing the game.” - -“You’d better have a few words with my youngest son,” said Sir John, -resolving to give him a hard nut to crack—“he’s turned what used to be -called a Puseyite in my young days, but is now called a Catholic, I -believe.” - -“A Zanzibarbarian—what? Oh, he’ll grow out of that. Boys often get it -when they’re young.” - -“And stay young all their lives if they keep it,” said Stella—“I’m glad -Gervase will be always young.” - -The Vicar gave her a look of breezy disapproval. Peter was vexed too—not -because Stella had butted into the conversation and thrown her opinion -across the room, but because she had gone out of her way to interfere on -behalf of Gervase. It was really rather obvious ... one couldn’t help -noticing ... and in bad taste, too, considering Peter was there. - -“Here he is,” said Sir John, as the Ford back-fired a volley in the -drive—“you can start on him now.” - -But Gervase was hungry and wanted his tea. He sat down beside his mother -and Rose, so that he could have a plate squarely set on the table -instead of balancing precarious slices of cake in his saucer. Peter -watched him in a manner which he hoped was guarded. There was no sign of -any special intelligence between him and Stella—Gervase had included her -in his general salutation, which he had specialised only in the case of -the Vicar and his wife. At first this reassured Peter, but after a while -he realised that it was not altogether a reassuring sign—Gervase should -have greeted Stella more as a stranger, shaken hands with her as he had -shaken hands with the strangers, instead of including her in the family -wave and grin. They must be on very good terms—familiar terms.... - -Stella rose to go. - -“Have you got the car?” asked Gervase. - -“No—Father’s gone over to Dallington in her.” - -“Let me drive you back—I’ve got Henry Ford outside.” - -“But have you finished your tea? You’ve only eaten half the cake.” - -“I’ll eat the other half when I come back—it won’t take me more than a -few minutes to run you home.” - -“Thanks very much, then,” said Stella. - -She had never been one to refuse a kindness, or say “No, thanks,” when -she meant “Yes, please.” None the less Peter was angry. He was angry -with her for accepting Gervase’s offer and driving off in his -disreputable lorry, and he was angry with her for that very same -happiness which he had admired her for earlier in the afternoon. It was -extremely creditable of her to be happy when she had nothing to make her -so, when her happiness sprang only from the soil of her contented heart; -but if she was happy because of Gervase.... - -“He’s an elegant fellow, that young son of mine,” said Sir John, as the -lorry drove off amidst retchings and smoke—“No doubt the day will come -when I shall see him drink out of his saucer.” - - - § 5 - -The woman Peter loved now left Conster more elegantly than the woman he -had loved once. The Sunbeam floated over the lane between Conster and -Starvecrow, and pulled up noiselessly outside the house almost directly -it had started. Peter was beginning to feel a little tired of the -Sunbeam—he had hankerings after a lively little two-seater. An -eight-cylindered landaulette driven by a man in livery was all very well -for Vera to pay calls in, or if they wanted to go up to town. But he -wanted something to take him round to farms on business, and -occasionally ship a bag of meal or a load of spiles. He couldn’t afford -both, and if they had the two-seater Vera could still go out in it to -pay her calls—or up to London, for that matter. But she refused to part -with the Sunbeam—it was her father and mother’s wedding present, and -they would be terribly hurt if she gave it up. Two-seaters were always -uncomfortable. And why did Peter want to go rattling round to -farms?—Couldn’t he send one of his men?—Vera never would take him -seriously as a farmer. - -This evening, thanks to the Sunbeam, they reached home too early to -dress for dinner. Peter asked Vera to come for a stroll with him in the -orchard, but she preferred the garden at the back of the house. The -garden at Starvecrow used to be a plot of ragged grass, surrounding a -bed of geraniums from the middle of which unexpectedly rose a pear-tree. -Today it was two green slips of lawn divided by a paved pathway shaded -by a pergola. The April dusk was still warm, still pricked with the -notes of birds, but one or two windows in the house were lighted, orange -squares of warmth and welcome beyond the tracery of the pergola. - -“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” murmured Peter, taking Vera’s arm under her -cloak—“Oh, my dear, you surely wouldn’t be in London now.” - -“No,” said Vera—“not when it’s fine.” - -“What did you think of Williams?” - -“Oh, he seemed all right—I didn’t talk to him much. But his wife’s a -bore.” - -“I felt sorry for poor Rose, having to welcome her.” - -“You needn’t worry—she didn’t do much of that.” - -“She had to sit there and be polite, anyhow.” - -“I didn’t notice it. But I tell you what really interested me—and that -was watching Stella Mount and Gervase.” - -“Oh!” - -“They were most amusing.” - -“I never noticed anything.” - -“No, my dear old man, of course you didn’t, because you never do. But -it’s perfectly plain that it’s a case between them. I’ve thought so for -a long time.” - -“He may be in love with her, but I’m sure she isn’t in love with him.” - -“Well, she seemed to me the more obviously in love of the two. She had -all the happy, confident manner of a woman in love.” - -“She couldn’t be in love with him—he’s a mere boy.” - -“Very attractive to women, especially to one past her early youth. -Stella must be getting on for thirty now, and I expect she doesn’t want -to be stranded.” - -For some reason Peter could not bear to hear her talked of in this way. - -“I know she’s not in love with him,” he said doggedly. - -“How can you know?” - -“By the way she looks and behaves and all that—I know how Stella looks -when she’s in love.” - -“Of course you do. But since she couldn’t get you perhaps she’d like to -have Gervase.” - -Peter felt angry. - -“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. Stella isn’t that sort at all—and -she didn’t love me any more than I loved her.” - -“Really!” - -“You all talk—I’ve heard Doris and Rose at it as well as you—you all -talk as if Stella had been running after me and I wouldn’t have her. But -that isn’t the truth—I loved her, and I’d have had her like a shot if it -had been possible, but it wasn’t.” - -He felt a stiffening of Vera’s arm under his, though she did not take it -away. He realised that he had said too much. But he couldn’t help it. -There in the garden of Starvecrow, which Stella had loved as well as he, -he could not deny their common memories ... pretend that he had not -loved her ... he had a ridiculous feeling that it would have been -disloyal to Starvecrow as well as to Stella. - -“You needn’t get so angry,” Vera was saying—“I had always been given to -understand that the affair wasn’t serious—a war-time flirtation which -peace showed up as impossible. There were a great many like that.” - -“Well, this wasn’t one of them. I loved Stella as much as she loved me.” - -“Then why didn’t you marry her?” - -“I couldn’t possibly have done so—and anyhow,” shamefacedly, “I’m glad I -didn’t.” - -“Then I still say you didn’t really love her. If you had, you’d have -married her even though the family disapproved and she hadn’t a penny. -She’d have done it for you—so if you wouldn’t do it for her, it shows -that you didn’t love her as much as she loved you.” - -“I did”—almost shouted Peter. - -Vera took her arm away. - -“Really, Peter, you’re in a very strange mood tonight. I think I’ll go -indoors.” - -“I’m only trying to make you understand that though I don’t love Stella -now, I loved her once.” - -“On the contrary—you’re making me understand that though you didn’t love -her once, you love her now.” - -“How can you say that!” - -“Because you’re giving yourself away all round. You’re jealous of your -brother, and you’re angry with me because I don’t speak of Stella in a -way you quite approve of. Don’t worry, my dear boy. We’ve been married -over a year, and I can hardly expect your fancy never to stray. But I’d -rather you weren’t quite such a boor over it.” - -She walked quickly into the house. - -Peter felt as if he had been struck. He told himself that Vera was -unjust and hard and cynical. How dare she say he was jealous of Gervase? -How dare she say he had never really loved Stella?—that was her own -infernal jealousy, he supposed. How dare she say he loved Stella -now?—that again was her infernal jealousy. He took one or two miserable -turns up and down the path, then went in to dress for dinner. - -A wood fire was burning sweetly in his dressing-room, and his clothes -had been laid out by the parlourmaid, who was as good a valet as only a -good parlourmaid can be. Under these combined influences Peter learned -how material comforts can occasionally soothe a spiritual smart, -dressing there in warmth and ease, he began to slip out of those -distressing feelings which had raged under the pergola. After all, Vera -had made him supremely happy for a year. It was ungrateful to be angry -with her now, just because she had taken it into her head to be a little -jealous. That was really a compliment to him. Besides, now he came to -think of it, he had not spoken or behaved as he ought. What a fool he -had been to kick up such a dust just because Vera had doubted the -reality of his dead love for Stella. No wonder she had drawn -conclusions ... and instead of trying to soothe and reassure her, he had -only got angry. - -He made up his mind to apologise at once, and paused at her door on his -way downstairs. But he heard the voice of the maid inside, and decided -to wait till they were alone in the drawing-room before dinner. She was -nearly always down a few minutes before eight. - -However, tonight, perversely, she did not appear. The clock struck -eight, and to Peter’s surprise, Weller, the parlourmaid, came into the -room. - -“Dinner is served, sir.” - -“But your mistress isn’t down yet.” - -“She has ordered her dinner to be sent up to her room, Sir.” - - - § 6 - -Peter was not to be let off so easily as in the simplicity of his heart -he had imagined. He had transgressed the laws of matrimony as Vera -understood them, by refusing to say that he had never really loved -Stella. He ought properly to have said that he had never really loved -anyone until he met his wife, but that, Peter told himself, was nonsense -in a man of his age. He told it to himself all the more vehemently -because he had an uneasy feeling that a year ago he would have said what -Vera wanted, that he himself would have believed she was the only woman -he had really loved. - -The next morning he went into her room as usual while she was having her -breakfast, and they said the usual things to each other as if nothing -had happened. But Peter felt awkward and ill at ease—he wanted, -childishly, to “make it up,” but did not know how to get through the -invisible wall she had built round herself. Also he knew that she would -accept nothing less than a recantation of all that he had said -yesterday—he would have to tell her that he had never loved Stella, that -all that part of his life had been dreaming and self-deception. And he -would not say it. With a queer obstinacy, whose roots he would not -examine, he refused to deny his past, even to make the present happier -and the future more secure. - -“What are you doing today?” asked Vera coolly, as she stirred her -coffee. - -“I’m going over to an auction at Canterbury—they’re selling off some old -government stuff.” - -As a matter of fact, he had not meant to go, but now he felt that he -must do something to get himself out of the house for the day. - -“Then you won’t be in for lunch?” - -“No—not much before dinner, I expect.” - -“Shall you go in the car?” - -“Only as far as Ashford—I’ll take the train from there.” - -It was all deadly. Going out of her room, going out of the house, he was -conscious of a deep sense of depression and futility. Vera was -displeased with him because he would not be disloyal to the past.... -After all, he supposed it was pretty natural and most women were like -that ... but Vera was different in the way she showed her displeasure—if -only she’d say things!—become angry and coaxing like other women—like -Stella when he had displeased her. He remembered her once when she had -been angry—how differently she had behaved—with such frankness, such -warmth, such wheedling.... Vera had just turned to ice, and expressed -herself in negations and reserves. He hated that—it was all wrong, -somehow. - -He fretted and brooded the whole way to Ashford. It was not till he was -nearly there that he remembered he had an appointment with Godfrey at -Starvecrow that afternoon. Vera was making him not only a bad husband -but a bad farmer. - - - § 7 - -Godfrey did not forget his appointment. He arrived punctually at three -o’clock, and not finding Peter at home, waited with the patience of his -kind. A further symptom of Peter’s demoralization was his forgetting to -tell anyone at Starvecrow when he would be back, so Godfrey, who was -really anxious to have his matter settled and could scarcely believe -that anything so important to himself should seem trivial in the stress -of another’s life, felt sure that Mr. Alard would soon come in, and -having hitched his reins and assured himself that Madge would stand for -ever, went into the office and waited. - -Here Jenny Alard found him at about half-past three, just wondering -whether it would be good manners for him to smoke. She had come up to -see Vera, but finding she had gone out in the car, looked in at the -office door in hopes of finding Peter. Godfrey was sitting rather -stiffly in the gate-backed chair, turning his box of gaspers over and -over in his large brown hands. Jenny came into the room and greeted him -at once. She and her family always took pains to be cordial to their -social inferiors. If the man in the office had been an acquaintance of -her own rank, she would probably have bowed to him, made some excuse and -gone out to look for her brother—but such behaviour would never do for -anyone who might imagine it contained a slight. - -“Good afternoon. Are you waiting for my brother? Do you know when he’ll -be in?” - -He rose to greet her, and as they shook hands she realised what a shadow -his inferiority was. He stood before her six feet high, erect, -sun-burned—his thick hair and bright eyes proclaiming his health, his -good clothes proclaiming his prosperity, a certain alert and simple air -of confidence speaking of a life free from conflict and burden. - -“Mr. Alard made an appointment for three. But they tell me he’s gone to -Canterbury.” - -“It’s a shame to keep you waiting. You’re busy, I expect.” - -“Not so terrible—and it’s the first time he’s done it. I reckon -something’s gone wrong with the car.” - -“He hasn’t got the car—Mrs. Alard is out in it. Perhaps he’s missed his -train.” - -“If he’s done that he won’t be here for some time, and I can’t afford to -wait much longer. I’ve a man coming to Fourhouses about some pigs after -tea.” - -“I expect there’s a time-table somewhere—let’s look.” - -She rummaged among the papers at the top of the desk—auction catalogues, -advertisements for cattle foods and farm implements—and at last drew out -a local time-table. Their heads bent over it together, and she became -conscious of a scent as of straw and clean stables coming from his -clothes. She groped among the pages not knowing her way, and then -noticed that his hands were restless as if his greater custom were -impatient of her ignorance. - -“No—it’s page sixty-four—I remember ... two pages back ... no, not -there—you’ve missed it.” - -His hands hovered as if they longed to turn over the leaves, but -evidently he forbade them—and she guessed that he shrank from the chance -of touching hers. She looked at his hands—they were well-shaped, except -for the fingers which work had spoiled, they were brown, strong, -lean—she liked them exceedingly. They were clean, but not as Peter’s or -Jim’s or her father’s hands were clean; they suggested effort rather -than custom—that he washed when he was dirty in order to be clean rather -than when he was clean in order to prevent his ever being dirty.... What -a queer way her thoughts were running, and all because of his hands—— -Well, she would like to touch them ... it was funny how he held back -even from such a natural contact as this—typical of his class, in which -there was always consciousness between the sexes ... no careless, casual -contacts, no hail-fellow and hearty comradeship, but always man and -woman, some phase of courtship ... romance.... - -“I can’t find it.” - -She thrust the book into his hands, and their fingers touched· He begged -her pardon—then found the page. She did not notice what he said—her -pulses were hammering. She was excited not so much by him as by herself. -Why had her whole being lit up so suddenly?—What had set it alight? Was -it just this simple deferential consciousness of sex between them, so -much more natural than the comradeship which was the good form of her -class? Sex-consciousness was after all more natural than -sex-unconsciousness, the bridling of the flirt more natural than the -indifference of the “woman who has no nonsense about her.” She felt a -deep blush spreading over her face—she became entirely conscious before -him, uneasy under his alert, dignified gaze. - -He was picking up his hat—he was saying something about the -two-forty-five being in long ago and his having no time to wait till the -four-forty. - -“I’ll call in tomorrow—I’ll leave word with Elias that I’ll call in at -twelve tomorrow.” - -“I’m so sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing,” she faltered. - -“Oh, it’s no matter. I’m not busy today. Mr. Alard must have missed his -train.” - -She found herself going out of the room before him. His smart gig stood -outside the door—the mare whinnied at the sight of him. Jenny thought -how good it must be to drive horse-flesh instead of machinery. - -“You haven’t taken to a motor-car yet, I see.” - -“I don’t think I ever shall. It ud feel unfriendly.” - -“Yes, I expect it would after this”—and she patted the mare’s sleek -neck. - -“A horse knows you, you see—and where you go wrong often he’ll go -right—but a car, a machine, that’s got no sense nor kindness in it, and -when you do the wrong thing there’s nothing that’ll save you.” - -Jenny nodded. He warmed to his subject. - -“Besides, you get fond of an animal in a way you can’t of a machine. -This Madge, here. I’ve raised her from a filly, and when I take her out -of the shafts she’ll follow me round the yard for a bit of sugar—and you -heard her call to me just now when I came out? That’s her way. You may -pay three thousand pounds for a Rolls Royce car but it won’t never say -good evening.” - -He laughed at his own joke, showing his big splendid teeth, and giving -Jenny an impression of sweetness and happiness that melted into her -other impressions like honey. - -“Did she recognise you when you came back from the war?—You were in -Mesopotamia weren’t you?” - -“Yes—three years. I can’t say as she properly recognised me, but now -I’ve been back a twelve-month I think she fits me into things that -happened to her before I left, if you know what I mean.” - -“Yes, I understand.” - -He had been talking to her with his foot on the step, ready to get into -his gig. Then suddenly he seemed to remember that she did not live at -Starvecrow, that she too had a journey before her and no trap to take -her home. - -“Can I give you a lift, Miss Alard?—I’m passing Conster.” - -“Yes—thank you very much,” said Jenny. - - - § 8 - -That evening, sitting at dinner with her family, she felt vaguely -ashamed of herself—she had let herself go too far. As she watched her -mother’s diamond rings flashing over her plate, as she listened to her -father cynically demolishing the Washington conference, as she -contemplated Doris eating asparagus in the gross and clumsy manner -achieved only by the well-bred, the afternoon’s adventure took -discreditable colours in her mind. What had made her feel like that -towards Godfrey? Surely it was the same emotion which draws a man -towards a pretty housemaid. The young farmer was good-looking and -well-built—he had attracted her physically—and her body had mocked at -the barriers set up by her mind, by education, birth, breeding and -tradition. - -She wondered guiltily what Jim would think of her if he knew. He would -probably see a fresh reason for congratulating himself on the rupture of -those loose yet hampering ties which had bound them for so long. She had -never felt like that towards Jim, though she had accepted the physical -element in their relation—thought, indeed, sometimes, that it was unduly -preponderating, holding them together when ideas and ambitions would -have drawn them apart. Was it possible after all that Godfrey’s -attraction had not been merely physical—that there had been an allure in -his simple, unaccustomed outlook on life as well as in his splendid -frame? - -Gervase came in late to dinner, and being tired did not talk much. After -the meal was over, and Jenny was playing bridge with her parents and -Doris, he sat in the window, turning over the pages of a book and -looking out between the curtains at the pale Spring stars. When Lady -Alard’s losses made her decide she was too tired to play any more and -the game was broken up, Jenny went over and sat beside him. It had -struck her that perhaps his life at the works, his association with -working men, might enable him to shed some light on her problem. Not -that she meant to confide in him, but there seemed to be in Gervase now -a growing sanity of judgment; she had a new, odd respect for the -experiences of the little brother’s mind. - -“Gervase,” she said—“I suppose you could never make friends with anyone -at the shop?” - -“No—I’m afraid I couldn’t. At least not with anyone there now. But we -get on all right together.” - -“I suppose it’s the difference in education.” - -“Partly—but chiefly the difference in our way of looking at things.” - -“Surely that’s due to education.” - -“Yes, if by education you mean breeding—the whole life. It’s not that we -want different things, but we want them in a different way.” - -“Do all men want the same things?” - -He smiled. - -“Yes—we all want money, women, and God.” - -Jenny felt a little shocked. - -“Some want one most, and some want another most,” continued Gervase—“and -we’re most different in our ways of wanting money and most alike in our -ways of wanting God.” - -“How do you want money in different ways?” - -“It’s not only the fact that what’s wealth to them is often poverty to -us—it’s chiefly that they get their pleasure out of the necessities of -life and we out of the luxuries. It’s never given you any actual -pleasure, I suppose, to think that you’ve got a good house to live in -and plenty to eat—but to those chaps it’s a real happiness and I’m not -talking of those who’ve ever had to go without.” - -Jenny was silent a moment. She hesitated over her next question. - -“And what’s the difference in your ideas about women?” - -He shrugged his shoulders. - -“Their talk about women makes me sick—I feel in that matter we’ve got -the pull over them. When men of our own set get on the subject, it’s -different altogether, even at its worst. But I sometimes think that this -is because their ideal of women is really so high that they don’t look -upon a certain class of them as women at all.” - -“You think their ideal of women in general is high?” - -“Yes, that’s why their women are either good or bad. They won’t stand -the intervening stages the way we do. They expect a great deal of the -women they make their wives.” - -“I suppose that a friendship between a woman of our class and a man of -theirs would be much more difficult than a friendship between two men of -different classes.” - -“It would be quite impossible. They don’t understand friendship between -men and women for one thing. I’m not sure that they haven’t got too much -sense.” - -Jenny rose and moved away. She found the conversation vaguely -disturbing. Though, after all, she cried impatiently to herself, why -should she? They hadn’t been discussing Godfrey—only the men where -Gervase worked, who belonged altogether to a different class. But -Godfrey, yeoman farmer of Fourhouses, solid, comfortable, respectable, -able to buy land from impoverished Alard ... why should she think of him -as in a class beneath her? Her parents would think so certainly, but -that was because their ideas had grown old and stiff with Alard’s -age ... mentally Alard was suffering from arterial sclerosis ... oh, for -some new blood! - - - § 9 - -Peter was vexed with himself for having forgotten Godfrey’s -appointment—not that he thought his forgetfulness would jeopardise the -business between Conster and Fourhouses, but such a lapse pointed -degradingly to causes beneath it. He had been careless and forgetful as -a farmer because he was unhappy as a husband. His private life was -hurting him and its convulsions had put his business life out of order. - -On his return from Canterbury there was a reconciliation between him and -Vera. His long day of futile loneliness had broken his spirit—he could -endure their estrangement no longer, and in order to make peace was -willing to stoop to treacheries which in the morning he had held beneath -his honour. He had made Stella a burnt offering to peace. No—he said to -Vera—he had never really loved her—she had just been “one of the others” -before he met his wife.... He took her glowing memory and put it in the -prison house where he had shut up the loves of a month and a week and a -day ... he saw her in that frail company, looking at him from between -the bars, telling him that she did not belong there. But he spoke to her -roughly in his heart—“Yes you do—you’re one of the thieves who stole a -bit of the love I was keeping for Vera—just that.” - -Vera, after the first frigidities, graciously accepted his contrition. -As he was willing to acknowledge that he had never really loved Stella, -she was willing to drop the other half of the argument and allow that he -was not belatedly in love with her now. Once more there was love and -harmony at Starvecrow—warmth in the low rooms, where the firelight -leaped on creamy walls and the rustle of Vera’s silk seemed to live like -an echo, a voluptuous ghost. The cold, thin Spring seemed shut outside -the house—the interior of Starvecrow, its ceilings, doors, walls and -furniture meant more to Peter now than its barns and stacks and cobbled -yard, even than its free woods and fields. - -The cold, thin Spring warmed and thickened in the woods. The floods -receded from the Tillingham marshes, and the river ran through a golden -street of buttercups to the sea. The winter sowings put a bloom of vivid -green into the wheat fields, the blossom of apple, cherry, pear and plum -drifted from the boughs of the orchard to the grass, leaving the first -green hardness of the fruits among the leaves; and as the outer world -grew warm and living, once more the heart of the house grew cold. Peter -and Vera were not estranged, but the warm dusk of their rapture had -given place to the usual daylight, in which Peter saw the ugly things -his peace contained. - -He was not blinded by the wonder that had happened, by the knowledge -that probably, almost certainly, Vera was to have a child—that there -would be an heir to Conster and Alard, and lovely Starvecrow would not -go to strangers. He felt intensely relieved that his fears would not be -realised, that he was not inevitably building for Gervase to throw -down—but there was less glamour about the event than he had anticipated, -it could not set his heart at rest, nor make Vera shine with all the old -light of the honeymoon. - -He had always thought and heard that expecting a child brings husband -and wife even closer together than the first days of love—he was vexed -that the charm did not work. Was it because of his feeling that if the -child were a girl it might just as well not be born? That was certainly -the wrong thing to feel, for much as he longed for an heir, he should -not forget that a girl would be his child, the child of the woman he -loved. Then one day he had a dreadful realisation—the conviction that if -he were waiting for Stella’s child it would all have been different, -that he would have thought of the child as much as now he thought of the -heir. Of course he would still have wanted an heir, but he would not -have had the feeling that if it did not give him a boy his wife’s -childbearing was in vain.... In vain—in vain.... He would not have known -that word which now he found in his mind so often—“Marriage in vain if -there is no child ... childbearing in vain if there is no heir.” He saw -his marriage as a mere tool of Alard’s use, a prop to that sinking -edifice of the Squires.... He felt as miserable as in the first days of -the cold, thin Spring. - - - § 10 - -He now no longer denied that in one sense he had made a mistake in -marrying Vera. He still found her brilliant and beautiful, a charming if -sometimes a too sophisticated companion. But she was not the wife of his -heart and imagination. Her personality stood queerly detached from the -rest of his life—apart from his ideas of home and family. He felt coldly -angry with her for the ways in which she refused or failed to fulfil his -yearnings, and he could never, he felt, quite forgive her for having -demanded Stella as a sacrifice. His denial of his love for Stella, which -he had made in the interests of peace, now pierced his memory like a -thorn—partly he reproached himself, and partly he reproached Vera. And -there was a reproach for Stella too. - -But he still told himself that he was glad he had married Vera. After -all, he had got what he wanted. All he no longer had was the illusion -that had fed him for a year after marriage, the illusion that in taking -Vera he had done the best thing for himself as a man as well as an -Alard. He could no longer tell himself that Vera was a better wife and a -sweeter woman than he would have found Stella—that even without family -considerations he had still made the happiest choice. That dream had -played its part, and now might well die, and yet leave him with the -thought that he had chosen well. - -He need not look upon his marriage as mercenary because it was practical -rather than romantic, nor himself as a fool because he had been heated -and dizzied into taking a step he could never have taken in cold blood. -He had always planned to marry money for the sake of Alard and -Starvecrow, and he could never have done so without the illusion of -love. Nature had merely helped him carry out what he had unnaturally -planned.... And Starvecrow was safe, established—and under his careful -stewardship the huge, staggering Conster estate would one day recover -steadiness. The interest on the mortgages was always punctually paid, -and he had hopes of being able in a year or two to pay off some of the -mortgages themselves. By the time he became Sir Peter Alard he might be -in a fair way of clearing the property.... So why regret the romance he -had never chosen? - -He told himself he would regret nothing if he was sure that Stella would -not marry Gervase—that having very properly shut romance out of his own -house, he should not have to see it come next door. In his clearer -moments he realised that this attitude was unreasonable, or that, if -reasonable, it pointed to an unhealthy state of affairs, but he could -never quite bully or persuade himself out of it. He had to confess that -it would be intolerable to have to welcome as a sister the woman he had -denied himself as a wife. Anything, even total estrangement, would be -better than that—better than having to watch her making his brother’s -home the free and happy place she might have made his own, throwing her -sweetness and her courage into the risks of his brother’s life, bearing -his brother’s children, made after all the mother of Alards ... perhaps -the mother of Alard’s heir. This last thought tormented him most. He saw -a preposterous genealogical table: - - JOHN ALARD - | - +----------------+----------------+ - | | - Peter Alard = Vera Asher Gervase Alard = Stella Mount - (died without male issue) | - +-----+-------+---------+ - | | | | - John Peter George Gervase - -From the family’s decaying trunk he saw a new healthy branch springing -through the grafting in of Stella’s life—healthy but alien, for the -children Stella gave Gervase would not be Alards in the true sense of -the children she might have given Peter. They would be soaked in their -father’s disloyal ideas. His bad sense, his bad form. John, Peter, -George and Gervase would probably smash up what was left of the -tradition and the estate.... Peter saw them selling Starvecrow, selling -Conster, opening shops and works, marrying indiscriminately.... He hated -these insurgent nephews his mind had begotten. - -Now and then he told himself that his fears were ill-founded. If Stella -was going to marry Gervase surely something definite would be known -about it by this time. She was not so young that she could afford to -wait indefinitely. But against this he knew that Gervase was scarcely -twenty-one, and that neither of them had a penny. A long, public -engagement would be difficult for many reasons. There might be some -secret understanding. His brother still spent most of his Sundays at -Vinehall... better not deceive himself with the idea that he went merely -for devotional reasons, to gratify this newly-formed taste which to -Peter smacked as unseemly as an appetite. No, he went to see Stella, sit -with her, talk with her ... kiss her, hold her on his knee, feel the -softness of her hair between his fingers ... oh damn!—if only he knew -definitely one way or the other, he could choke down his imagination.... -His imagination was making a hopeless fool of him with its strokings and -its kisses—with its John, Peter, George and Gervase.... - -His uneasiness finally drove him to take what a little earlier would -have seemed an impossible way out of his difficulties. One day, at the -end of the brooding of a lonely walk, he met Stella unexpectedly in -Icklesham street, and after the inevitable platitudes of greeting -followed the first wild plunges of his mind. - -“I say, Stella—forgive my asking you—but am I to congratulate you and -Gervase?” - -The colour rushed over her face, and he had an uneasy moment, wondering -whether he had guessed right or merely been impertinent. - -“No—you’ll never have to do that,” she answered firmly the next minute. - -“I—I beg your pardon.” - -He was flushing too, partly with relief, partly with apprehension at the -rejoiced, violent beating of his heart. - -“Oh, it doesn’t matter a bit. Other members of your family have been -half-asking—hinting ... so I’d rather you asked outright. Of course, -seeing that I’m seven years older than Gervase, one would have -thought ... but I suppose people must have something to talk about.” - -He assented weakly—and it suddenly struck him that she was wondering why -he had asked her instead of Gervase. - -“As a matter of fact,” she continued, “I don’t see so much of him as -people think. He comes over to us on Sundays, but that’s partly for -Father Luce. He serves the Parish Mass, and they both have lunch with us -afterwards—and in the afternoon he helps with the children.” - -Peter felt inexpressibly relieved that there was no truth in his picture -of Gervase and Stella in the afternoon—no kisses, no strokings of her -hair, which was like fine silk between your fingers ... like a child’s -hair.... Fresh and bright and living as ever, it curled up under the -brim of her hat ... he wondered if she saw how he was staring at it—yes, -she must, for she put up her hand rather nervously and pushed a curl -under the straw. - -“Please contradict anything you hear said about him and me,” she said. - -“Yes, I promise I will. It was Vera put it into my head. She said she -was quite sure Gervase was in love with you.” - -“Well, please contradict it—it will be annoying for Gervase as well as -for me.” - -A sudden fear seized Peter—a new fear—much more unreasonable and selfish -than the old one. It expressed itself with the same suddenness as it -came, and before he could check himself he had said— - -“Stella ... there isn’t ... there isn’t anyone else?” - -He knew that moment that he had given himself away, and he could not -find comfort in any thought of her not having noticed. For a few seconds -she stared at him silently with her bright perplexed eyes. Then she -said— - -“No, there isn’t.... But, Peter, why shouldn’t there be?” - -He murmured something silly and surly—he was annoyed with her for not -tactfully turning the conversation and covering his blunder. - -“I’m nearly twenty-eight,” she continued—“and if I can manage to fall in -love, I shall marry.” - -“Oh, don’t wait for that,” he said, still angry—“you can marry perfectly -well without it. I have, and it’s been most successful.” - -He knew that he had hurt her in the soft places of her heart; and with -his knowledge a fire kindled, setting strange hot cruelties ablaze. - -“Besides, it’s easy enough to fall in love, you know—I’ve done it lots -of times, and so have you, I expect—easy enough to fall in love and just -as easy to fall out.” - -She answered him sweetly. - -“Oh, I can do both—I’ve done both—but it’s not been easy, not a bit.” - -“Well, I’ll wish you luck.” - -He took off his hat and passed on. For a quarter of a mile he hated her. -He hated her because he had wounded her, and because she would not be -proud enough to hide the wound—because from outside his life she still -troubled it—because he had lied to her—because he had treated her -badly—because he had once loved her and because he had denied it—because -he loved her still and could not deny it any more. - - - § 11 - -He was so busy hating and loving her that he did not notice the large -car that passed him at the cross roads till he heard it slithering to a -stop. Then he looked up and saw it was his mother’s. Jenny stuck her -head out of the window. - -“Hullo, Peter! Like a lift home?” - -“No thanks, I’m not going home. I’ve got to call at Fourhouses.” - -“Haven’t you finished that dreadful business yet?” asked Lady Alard in a -tragic voice. The selling of thirty acres to the farm which had -originally owned them struck her as the deepest humiliation the family -had had yet to swallow. - -“Yes—the agreement’s been signed, but there’s a few minor matters -cropped up over the transfer.” - -“Why don’t you make him come and see you? Why should you walk six miles -across country to interview a man like Godfrey?” - -“Because I wanted a walk,” said Peter shortly. - -“You’ve got terribly restless lately. This is the second time I’ve met -you tramping about like a—like a——” - -“I call it very sensible of him,” said Jenny—“we’re a lazy lot—rolling -about in cars. I’ve half a mind to get down and walk with him.” - -“But he’s going to Fourhouses, dear.” - -“Never mind—I’d like to see Fourhouses.” - -“Your shoes are too thin for walking.” - -“Not on a day like this.” - -Peter opened the door—he was anxious for Jenny’s company, she would take -his thoughts off recent complications. He helped her out, and signed to -Appleby to drive on. - -“We’ve been paying calls in Winchelsea,” said Jenny with a grimace—“Oh, -Peter, this is a dog’s life.” - -Peter would not have liked himself to spend an afternoon paying calls, -but he regarded it as part of a woman’s duty, and rather disapproved of -Jenny’s rebellion. He liked her, and admired her for her young well-bred -loveliness, but lately he had begun to think she was getting too like -Gervase.... - -“Somebody must pay calls,” he said a little gruffly. - -“Why?” asked Jenny. - -“Don’t be silly, my dear. You know it’s a social necessity.” - -“Well, it oughtn’t to be—just knowing a lot of dull people because they -live in the same neighbourhood and are of the same social standing as -ourselves—keeping up our intercourse by means of perfunctory visits -which we hate paying as much as they hate receiving ... carefully -dodging the tea-hour, so that there’ll be no chance of any real -hospitality...” - -“So that’s how you choose to describe it——” - -“That’s how it is.” - -Peter said nothing. He told himself emphatically that Stella probably -had exactly the same ideas. Now Vera, for all her intellect and -modernity, never shirked her social obligations. Oh, he had done right, -after all. - -Jenny was enjoying the walk, in spite of her thin shoes and the -gruffness of her companion—in spite of some feelings of trepidation at -her own recklessness. She was going to see Godfrey again after an -interval of nearly two months ... she was going to see him through her -own deliberate choice and contrivance. Directly Peter had mentioned -Fourhouses she had made up her mind to go with him. If Godfrey’s -attraction had not been merely good health and good looks, but his -character, his circumstances, she would know more of her own feelings -when she saw him in his proper setting, against the background of -Fourhouses. His background at present was her own revolt against the -conditions of her life—for two months she had seen him standing like a -symbolic figure of emancipation among the conventions, restrictions and -sacrifices which her position demanded. Life had been very hard for her -during those months, or perhaps not so hard as heavy. She had missed the -habit of her relation to Jim Parish and felt the humiliation of its -breaking off—the humiliation of meeting him casually as he dangled after -an heiress.... “He’ll do like Peter—he’ll make himself fall in love with -a girl with money and live happy ever afterwards.” She had felt the -galling pettiness of the social round, the hollowness of the disguises -which her family had adopted, the falseness of the standards which they -had set up. “We must at all costs have as many acres of land as we can -keep together—we must have our car and our menservants—our position as a -‘county family.’ We call ourselves the New Poor, though we have all -these. But we’re not lying, because in order to keep them we’ve given up -all the really good things of life—comfort and tranquillity and freedom -and love. So we’re Poor indeed.” - -She was frankly curious to see the home of the man whose values were not -upside down, who had not sacrificed essentials to appearances, who found -his pleasure in common things, who, poorer than the poverty of Alard, -yet called himself rich. Godfrey had captured her imagination, first no -doubt through his virile attraction, but maintaining his hold through -the contrast of her brief glimpse of him with the life that was daily -disappointing her. She asked Peter one or two questions about -Fourhouses. It ran to about four hundred acres, mostly pasture. Godfrey -grew wheat, as well as conservatively maintaining his hop-gardens, but -the strength of the farm was in livestock. His father had died twelve -years ago, leaving the place in surprisingly good condition for those -days of rampant free trade—he had a mother and two sisters living with -him, Peter believed. Yes, he had always liked Godfrey, a sober, steady, -practical fellow, who had done well for himself and his farm. - - - § 12 - -Fourhouses showed plainly the origin of its name. The original -dwelling-house was a sturdy, square structure to which some far-back -yeoman had added a gabled wing. An inheritor had added another wing, and -a third had incorporated one of the barns—the result was many sprawling -inequalities of roof and wall. No one seemed to have thought about the -building as a whole, intent only on his own improvements, so that the -very materials as well as the style of its construction were -diverse—brick, tile, stone, timber—Tudor austerity, Elizabethan -ornament, Georgian convention. - -There was no one about in the yard, so Peter walked up to the front door -and rang the bell. It was answered by a pretty, shy young woman whose -pleasant gown was covered by an apron. - -“Good afternoon, Miss Godfrey. Is your brother in?” - -“Yes, Mr. Alard. If you’ll step into the parlour I’ll tell him you’re -here.” - -Jenny glanced at Peter, asking silently for an introduction. But her -brother seemed abstracted, and forgot the courtesy he had practised at -Starvecrow. - -The young woman ushered them into a little stuffy room beside the door. -There was a table in the middle of it covered by a thick velvet cloth, -in the midst of which some musky plant was enthroned in a painted pot. -There were more plants in the window, their leaves obscuring the -daylight, which came through them like green water oozing through reeds. -Jenny felt a pang of disappointment—this little room which was evidently -considered the household’s best showed her with a sharp check the -essential difference between Alard and Godfrey. Here was a worse -difference than between rough and smooth, coarse and delicate, vulgar -and refined—it was all the difference between good taste and bad taste. -Ben Godfrey’s best clothes would be like this parlour—he would look far -more remote from her in them than he looked in his broadcloth and -gaiters. - -Fortunately he was not wearing his best clothes when he came in a few -minutes later. He came stooping under the low door, all the haymaking’s -brown on his face since their last meeting. - -“Well, this is good of you, Mr. Alard, coming all this way. Why didn’t -you send me a line to call around at Starvecrow? Good evening, Miss -Alard—have you walked all the way from Conster too?” - -“Oh no, I drove as far as Icklesham. The car’s making me lazy.” - -“Well, you’ve had a good walk anyway. Won’t you come in and have a cup -of tea? We’re just sitting down to it.” - -It was six o’clock and neither Peter nor Jenny had remembered that there -were human beings who took tea at this hour. - -“Thank you so much,” said Jenny—“I’ll be glad.” She had had her tea at -Conster before leaving to pay the calls, but she said to herself “If I -go in now and see them all having six o’clock tea together, it’ll finish -it.” Since she had seen the parlour she had thought it would be a good -job if she finished it. - -Godfrey led the way down a flagged passage into the oldest part of the -house. The room where his family were having tea had evidently once been -a kitchen, but was now no longer used as such, though the fireplace and -cupboards remained. The floor was covered with brick, and the walls -bulged in and out of huge beams, evidently ship’s timber and riddled -with the salt that had once caked them. Similar beams lay across the -ceiling and curved into the wall, showing their origin in a ship’s -ribs—some Tudor seafarer had settled down ashore and built his ship into -his house. Long casement windows let in the fullness of the evening sun, -raking over the fields from Snowden in the west—its light spilled on the -cloth, on the blue and white cups, on the loaf and the black teapot, on -the pleasant faces and broad backs of the women sitting round. - -“This is my mother—Miss Alard; and my sister Jane, and my sister -Lily....” He performed his introductions shyly. The women stood up and -shook hands—Jane Godfrey found a chair for Jenny, and Mrs. Godfrey -poured her out a cup of very strong tea. There was a moment’s constraint -and some remarks about the weather but soon an easier atmosphere -prevailed. This was partly due to Peter, who was always at his best with -those who were not socially his equals. Jenny had often noticed how -charming and friendly he was with his father’s tenants and the village -people, whereas with his own class he was often gruff and inarticulate. -She knew that this was not due to any democratic tastes, but simply to -the special effort which his code and tradition demanded of him on such -occasions. She had never realised so plainly the advantages of birth and -breeding, as when at such times she saw her unsociable brother exert -himself, not to patronage but to perfect ease. - -She herself found very little to say—she was too busy observing her -surroundings. The “best parlour” atmosphere had entirely vanished—the -contrast which the kitchen at Fourhouses presented with the drawing-room -at Conster was all in the former’s favour. She found a comfort, dignity -and ease which were absent from the Alard ceremonial of afternoon tea, -in spite of Wills and the Sèvres china. Whether it was the free spill of -the sunshine on table and floor, the solid, simple look of the -furniture, the wonder of the old ship’s beams, or the sweet unhurried -manners of the company, she could not say, but the whole effect was safe -and soothing—there was an air of quiet enjoyment, of emphasis on the -fact that a good meal eaten in good company was a source of pleasure and -congratulation to all concerned. - -She ate a substantial tea of bread and butter and lettuce, listening -while Peter and Ben Godfrey talked post-war politics, now and then -responding to a shy word from one of the Godfrey women. She was -reluctant to praise what she saw around her, to comment on the charm and -dignity of the house, for fear she should seem to patronize—but a remark -ventured on its age found Mrs. Godfrey eager to talk of her home and -able to tell much of its history. After tea she offered to show Jenny -the upstairs rooms. - -“This is a fine old house, I’ve been told. The other day a gentleman -came over from Rye on purpose to see it.” - -They walked up and down a number of small twisting passages, broken with -steps and wanting light. Rooms led inconveniently out of one -another—windows were high under the ceiling or plumb with the floor. -There was a great deal of what was really good and lovely—old -timber-work, old cupboards, a fine dresser, a gate-legged table and a -couple of tallboys—and a great deal that recalled the best parlour, the -iron bedsteads, marble-topped washstands, flower-painted mirrors and -garlanded wall-paper of the new rural tradition. All, however, was good -of its kind, comfortable and in sound repair. Mrs. Godfrey was proud of -it all equally. - -“But I suppose, Miss Alard, you don’t find it much of a house compared -to your own.” - -“I think it’s lovely,” said Jenny—“much more exciting than Conster.” - -Mrs. Godfrey was not sure whether a house had any right to be exciting, -so she made no reply. They went downstairs again, and fearing the best -parlour, Jenny suggested that they should go out into the yard and find -the men. - -“They must have finished their business by now.” - -“They’ll be in Ben’s office—leastways in what he calls his office,” said -Mrs. Godfrey with a small tolerant laugh. - -She led the way into one of the barns where a corner was boarded off -into a little room. Here stood a second-hand roll-topped desk and a -really good yew-backed chair. The walls were covered with scale-maps of -the district and advertisements for cattle food, very much after the -style of the office at Starvecrow. Jenny looked round for some -individual mark of Ben, but saw none, unless the straightness and order -of it all were an index to his character. - -“He’ll be showing Mr. Alard the stock—he’s proud of his stock,” said -Mrs. Godfrey, and sure enough the next minute they heard voices in the -yard, and saw Godfrey and Peter coming out of the cow-shed. - -“Here you are,” cried Peter to his sister—“I want you to look at Mr. -Godfrey’s Sussex cattle. He’s got the finest I’ve seen in the district.” - -Jenny could not speak for a moment. She had seen a look in Godfrey’s -eyes when they fell on her that deprived her of speech. Her heart was -violently turned to the man from his surroundings in which she had -sought a refuge for her self-respect—Fourhouses, its beauties and its -uglinesses, became dim, and she saw only what she had seen at first and -been ashamed of—the man whom she could—whom she must—love. - - - § 13 - -Having tea at Fourhouses had not “finished it”; and she was glad, in -spite of the best parlour. The Godfreys’ life might be wofully lacking -in ornament, but she had seen enough to know that it was sound in -fundamentals. Here was the house built on a rock, lacking style perhaps, -but standing firm against the storms—while Alard was the house built on -the sand, the sand of a crumbled and obsolete tradition, still lovely as -it faced the lightning with its towers, but with its whole structure -shaken by the world’s unrest. - -She did not take in many impressions of her last few minutes at the -farm. The outhouses and stables, tools and stock, were only a part of -this bewildered turning of herself. They scarcely seemed outside her, -but merged into the chaotic thought processes which her mind was slowly -shaking into order. A quarter of an hour later she found herself walking -with Peter along the road that winds at the back of Icklesham mill.... - -“Uncommon good sort of people, those Godfreys,” her brother was saying. - -“Yes, I liked them very much.” - -“I think there’s no class in England to equal the old-fashioned yeoman -farmer. I’d be sorry to see him die out.” - -“Do you think he will die out?” - -“Well—land is always getting more and more of a problem. There aren’t -many who can keep things up as well as Godfrey. He’s had the sense to go -for livestock—it’s the only thing that pays nowadays. Of course the -farmers are better off than we are—they aren’t hit the same way by -taxation. But rates are high, and labour’s dear and damn bad. I really -don’t know what’s going to become of the land, but I think the yeoman -will last longer than the Squire. Government supports him, and won’t do -a thing for us.” - -Jenny said nothing. She felt unequal to a discussion in her present -mood. - -“I envy Godfrey in a lot of ways,” continued Peter—“he’s been able to do -for his place things that would save ours if only we could afford them. -He’s broken fifteen acres of marsh by the Brede River and gets nine -bushels to the acre. Then you saw his cattle.... Something to be proud -of there. If we could only go in for cattle-breeding on a large scale we -might get the farms to pay.” - -“I like the way they live,” said Jenny—“they seem so quiet and -solid—so—so without a struggle.” - -“Oh, Godfrey must be pretty well off, I suppose. I don’t know how he’s -made his money—I expect his father did it for him. But he paid us cash -down for the land, and doesn’t seem to feel it.” - -“I don’t suppose they’re better off than we are. It’s simply that they -aren’t in the mess we’re in—and they haven’t got to keep up appearances. -They’re free, so they’re contented.” - -Peter evidently suspected a fling at Alard in this speech, for he -answered gravely. - -“All the same, it’s up to us to stand by our own class. I daresay the -Godfreys are happier and more comfortable than we are, but we can’t ever -be like them. We can’t shelve our responsibilities. We’ve got a -tradition as old as theirs, and we have to stick to it, even if at -present it seems to be going under. Personally I’m proud of it.” - -Again Jenny felt herself unable to argue, to tell Peter, as Gervase -would have done, that what he called responsibilities were only -encumbrances, that what he called tradition was only a false standard. -Instead she was acutely conscious of her disloyalty to her people’s -cause, of how near she stood to betraying it. - -She had not quite realised this before, she had not grasped the full -implications of the inward movements of her heart. She had seen herself -first, in bitter shame, as a young woman whose sexual consciousness had -been stirred by a young man of a lower class; then she had seen herself -as enticed not merely by his health and comeliness but by his happy -independence, his freedom from the shackles that bound her—till at last -he had become a symbol of the life outside the Alard tradition, of the -open country beyond the Alard estate, a contrast to all that was petty, -arbitrary and artificial in her surroundings. And now, this evening, at -Fourhouses, she had met the man again, and met him without shame. She -knew now that she was attracted to him not merely in spite of his class -but because of it—because he belonged to the honourable class of the -land’s freemen. He appealed to her as a man, speaking to her with his -eyes the language that is common to all men, and he appealed to her as a -freeman, because she knew that if she went to him she would be free—free -of all the numberless restrictions and distresses that bound her youth. - -The problem before her now was not whether she should be ashamed or not -ashamed of his attraction, but whether she should yield to it or turn -away. She faced these new thoughts during the rest of her walk with -Peter, between the dry, abstracted phrases of her conversation—during -dinner and the long dreary evening of cards and desultory talk—and at -last, in greater peace, when she had gone to bed and lay watching the -grey moonlight that moved among the trees of the plantation. - -What was she to do? What had she done? Had she fallen in love with -Godfrey? Was she going to tear her life out of its groove and merge it -with his, just on the strength of those three meetings? She did not -know—she was not sure. She could not be in love yet, but she felt sure -that she was going to be. At least so she should have said if he had -been a man of her own class. Then why should she act any differently -because he was not? Her defiance grew. Godfrey’s class was a good -class—his family was old, substantial and respected. It was silly and -snobbish to talk as if he belonged to some menial order—though, hang it -all, any order was better than the order of impoverished country -families to which she belonged. - -Resentfully Jenny surveyed her tribe. She saw the great families of the -Kent and Sussex borders struggling to show the world the same front that -they had shown before they were shaken. She saw them failing in that -struggle one by one—here a great house was closed, and for sale, with no -buyers because of its unwieldy vastness and long disrepair—here another -was shorn of its estate stripped off it in building plots and small -holdings—yet another had lost its freedom in mortgages, and kept its -acres only at the price of being bound to their ruin. There was no need -for Gervase to tell that the Squires, having outlived their day, were -going under—her broken romance with Jim Parish had shown her that. She -had realised then that it was not likely that she would ever marry into -her own class. The young men who were her friends and associates in the -life of the county must marry wealth. Peter had gone outside the county -and married money—she too one day would have to go outside and marry -money—or marry where money did not matter. The days were gone when Manor -mated with Manor and Grange with Grange—mighty alliances like the -marriages of Kings. Nowadays, just as Kings could no longer mate with -the blood royal but sought consorts among their subjects, so the Squires -must seek their wives outside the strict circle of the “county”—and not -even in the professional classes, which were nearly as hard-hit as -themselves, but in the classes of aspiring trade, nouveaux-riches, -war-profiteers.... - -Jenny grimaced—yet, after all, what else was there to do? Remain a -spinster like Doris, or induce some hot-blooded heir of impoverished -acres to forget them in a moment of romance, from which he would wake -one day to reproach her.... No, she would have to be like the rest and -marry outside the tribe. But since she must go out, why shouldn’t she go -out in the direction she chose? Why was it very right and proper to -marry into trade as long as it is wealthy, and somehow all wrong if it -is not? Why was Peter without reproach for marrying Vera Asher, whose -grandfather had kept a clothes-mart in the city, while she would never -be forgiven if she married Ben Godfrey, whose grandfather, with his -father and fathers before him, had been a yeoman farmer of ancient land? - -The answer of course was plain, and she must not be cynical in giving -it. If she acknowledged that the excuse was money she must also -acknowledge that it was money for the family’s sake—money to keep the -family alive, to save its estates from dispersal and its roof from -strangers. These men and women married into a class beneath them to save -their families. But if they did so to save their families, why shouldn’t -she do so to save herself? Why was there always this talk of the group, -the tribe, the clan, while the individual was sacrificed and pushed -under? Both she and Jim Parish had been sacrificed to his family.... -Doris had been sacrificed to hers ... and there was Mary, sacrificed to -the family’s good name, escaping, it is true, at the last, but not till -after her wings had been broken ... there was Peter, marrying a rich -woman and becoming dull and stuffy and precise in consequence. Only -Gervase so far had not been sacrificed—probably he would never be, for -he had already chosen his escape. And she—she now had her chance ... but -she did not know if she would take it. - -Lying there in the white break of the dawn, her mind strung with -sleeplessness, she faced the danger. If she did not escape Alard would -have her—she would have to offer herself to it either as Doris had -offered herself or as Peter had offered himself.... Why should she? Why -should she sacrifice her youth to prop its age—an age which must -inevitably end in death. “Things can’t go on much longer—it’s only a -question of putting off the end.” If the house was bound to fall, why -should she be buried in the ruins?... She had a momentary pang—for she -knew that Peter had great schemes for Alard, great dreams for it—that he -hoped to save it and give it back, even in the midst of the world’s -shaking, some of its former greatness. But she could not help that. For -Peter the family might be the biggest thing in life—for her it was not, -and she would be betraying the best of herself if she did not put it -second to other things. What she wanted most in the world was love—love, -peace, settlement, the beauty of content ... these no one but Ben -Godfrey could give her. - -The sky was faintly pink behind the firs. A single bird’s note dropped -into the still air. She heard a movement in the room next to hers—she -and Gervase still slept at the top of the house in the two little rooms -they had had as girl and boy. Her brother was getting up—first, she -knew, to serve the altar at Vinehall, then to drive away over the -Kentish hills to his work among bolts and screws and nuts and rods and -grease ... there is more than one way out of the City of Destruction. - - - § 14 - -After that she must have slept, for when she next opened her eyes she -had made up her mind. Jenny was not naturally irresolute but she was -diffident, and this problem of escape was the biggest she had ever had -to tackle. However, sleep had straightened out the twisted workings of -her thought—the way was clear at last. - -She sprang out of bed, alive with a glowing sense of determination. She -knew that she had a great deal to plan and to do. This love affair, -apart from its significance, was entirely different from any other she -had had. Her intuition told her that she would have to make the -openings, carry on all the initial stages of the wooing. She would have -to show Godfrey that she cared, or his modesty would make him hang back. -In common language she would have to “make the running.” Rather to her -surprise, she found that she enjoyed the prospect. She remembered once -being a little shocked by Stella Mount, who had confided that she liked -making love herself just as much as being made love to.... Well, Jenny -was not exactly going to make love, but she was going to do something -just as forward, just as far from the code of well-bred people—she was -going to show a man in a class beneath her that she cared for him, that -she wanted his admiration, his courtship.... - -She hurried over her bath and dressing, urged by the conviction that she -must act, take irretraceable steps, before she had time to think again. -She had already thought enough—more thought would only muddle her, wrap -her in clouds. Action would make things clearer than any amount of -reflection. She would go over to Fourhouses—a litter of collie pups she -had confusedly admired the day before would give her an excuse for a -visit, an excuse which would yet be frail enough to show that it alone -had not brought her there. - -She was the first at breakfast that morning, and hoped that no one else -would come down while she was in the room. Her father was generally the -earliest, but today she did not hear his footstep till she was leaving -the table. There were two doors out of the breakfast-room, and Jenny -vanished guiltily through one as Sir John came in at the other. She was -ashamed of herself for such Palais Royal tactics, but felt she would -stoop to them rather than risk having her resolution scotched by the -sight of her father. - -She had decided to go on foot to Fourhouses—not only would it mean a -more unobtrusive departure from Conster, but it would show Godfrey her -determination. The purchase of a puppy she had scarcely noticed the day -before was a flimsy excuse for walking five miles across country the -first thing next morning. He would be bound to see at least part of its -significance—and she had known and appraised enough men to realise that -his was the warm, ready type which does not have to see the whole road -clear before it advances. - -The early day was warm; a thick haze clotted the air, which was full of -the scents of grass and dust, of the meadowsweet and the drying hay. The -little lanes were already stuffy with sunshine, and before Jenny had -come to Brede she realised that the light tweed suit she had put on was -too heavy, and her summer-felt hat was making a band of moisture round -her head, so that her hair lay draggled on her brows. She took off her -coat and slung it over her arm ... phew! how airless this part of the -country was, with its old, old lanes, trodden by a hundred generations -of hobnails to the depth of fosses ... when she was across the marsh -with its trickery of dykes she would leave the road and take to the -fields. The way had not seemed so long yesterday in the cool of the -evening.... What would Peter say if he could see her now?—Poor old -Peter! It would be dreadful for him if she carried out her scheme. He -felt about things more strongly than anyone.... She was sorry for Peter. - -Then she wondered what Godfrey would think when he saw her, arriving hot -and tired and breathless, with her trumped up excuse for seeing him -again. Would he despise her?—Perhaps, after all, he did not particularly -care about her—she was a fool to be so sure that he did. He probably had -that slow, admiring way with all women. Besides, it’s ridiculous to go -by the look in a man’s eyes ... silly ... schoolgirlish ... -novel-reading-old-maidish ... she was losing her balance in her hatred -of things. She would probably find out that he was in love with some -girl of his own class.... Her heart beat painfully at such an idea and -her ridiculous mind denied it, but she knew that her mind was only -obeying her heart. - -... Or he might fail to see anything significant in her coming. He -probably had one of those slow-moving country brains on which everything -is lost but the direct hit. He most likely was a dull dog ... and she -had thought he could make her happy—Jenny Alard, with her quick mind, -high breeding and specialised education. Her longing to escape had -driven her into fancying herself in love. All she wanted was to get away -from home—and this door stood open. Beyond it she might find even worse -restrictions and futilities than those from which she fled. - -She was losing heart, and almost lost purpose as well. She stopped in -the lane at the foot of Snailham hill, and looked back towards the -north. Conster was hidden behind the ridge of Udimore but she was still -on Alard ground—there was Crouch’s Farm beside the Brede River—and -Little Float and Cockmartin, both Alard farms—and all that green width -of marsh was Alard’s, with its dotted sheep. She had a preposterous -feeling that if she walked off the estate on to Godfrey’s land it would -be too late to turn back ... if she was going back she must go back now. - -She stood in the pebbly marle, looking over the marsh to the trees where -Udimore church showed a hummock of roof. She tried to examine herself, -to find out in a few giddy seconds why she was going to Fourhouses. Was -it simply because she was tired of convention—of county shams—of having -to go without things she wanted in order to have things she didn’t -want?—or was she in love with Ben Godfrey, and going to him in spite of -the efforts of her class instinct to keep her back? She suddenly knew -that the latter was the only good reason. If it was true that she had -fallen in love with Godfrey the second time she had seen him—that -afternoon, weeks back, at Starvecrow—and if all this hatred of Alard -ways, this ramp against convention, was no genuine revolt against either -but just the effort of her mind to justify her heart—then she had better -go forward. But if, on the other hand, she really hated her life and was -willing to take any way of escape—particularly if her unrest was due to -the collapse of her affair with Jim Parish—if she was going to -Fourhouses only to escape from Conster—then she had better turn back. - -She stood for a moment hesitating, her heels deep in the silt of the -lane, her eyes strained towards Udimore. Then a footstep made her start -and turn round. She had the confused impression of a man and a gun, of a -recognition and a greeting, all blurred together in the mists of her -surprise. She had not expected to meet him so far from his farm, right -off his own land ... she felt a quake of disappointment, too; for the -boundaries of the two estates had now a mysterious significance, and she -was sorry that she had met him before she had left Alard ground, before -she had escaped. - -“Good morning, Miss Alard. You’ve come a long way so early.” - -“Yes; I was coming to Fourhouses—it struck me that you might be willing -to sell one of those collie pups you showed me yesterday.” - -This was not how she had meant to speak. She knew her voice was clipped -and cold. Hang it! she might have managed to break through the wall on -this special occasion. First words are the most significant, and she had -meant hers to have a more than ordinary warmth, instead of which they -had a more than ordinary stiffness. But it was no good trying—she would -never be able so to get rid of the traditions of her class and of her -sex as to show this young man that she loved him ... if indeed she -really did love him. - -He was speaking now—she forced herself to listen to what he said. - -“I’d never sell you one of those—they’re not worth paying for. It’s only -I’m that soft-hearted I couldn’t think of drowning them. I got rid of -the last litter quite easily, just giving them away. So I’ll be grateful -if you’ll accept one.” - -“Thank you—but I really couldn’t allow—I mean....” - -“Won’t you come up to the place and look at them? You’ll see for -yourself they’re not much. I could let you have a really good -retriever-pup later, but these collies—it’s just my sister’s Lizzie that -one of our old men gave her years ago, and she’s no particular breed, -and the sire’s their dog at Wickham.” - -“Thanks ever so much—but you’re out with your gun, so I won’t trouble -you to turn back.” - -She wondered if he would make any explanation, offer some apology for -carrying his gun over Alard fields. But he merely urged her again to -come up to Fourhouses, and slack after her conflict, she gave way and -turned with him. - -“Are you bothered much with rabbits?” she asked as they walked up the -hill. “We’re simply over-run with them at Conster.” - -“They’re pretty bad, especially now the corn’s up. I generally take out -my gun when I go round the place.” - -“But is this your land?—I thought I was still on ours.” - -“This is the land I have just bought from your father, Miss Alard. It -was yours three months ago, but it belongs to Fourhouses now.” - - - § 15 - -Jenny had known before that love could make her superstitious—only under -its influence had she occasionally respected the mascots, charms, black -cats and other gods of the age, or yielded to the stronger, stranger -influences of buried urgencies to touch and try.... But she was -surprised at the sudden relief which she felt at Godfrey’s words. She -tried to reason herself out of the conviction that she had definitely -crossed the frontier and could now never go back. She could not help -feeling like one of those escaped prisoners of war she had sometimes -read of during the last five years, who passed unaware the black and -orange boundary posts of Holland, and, after hiding for hours from what -they took for German sentries, found themselves at last confronted by -the friendly Dutch guards. In vain she told herself that it made no -difference whether she met Godfrey on land belonging to Conster or to -Fourhouses—she was in the grip of something stronger than reason; she -could not argue or scold herself out of her follies. - -The answer to all her questionings was now pretty plain. She was coming -to Fourhouses for the man, not for escape. No need of her own could have -made a fool of her like this. She was not fancying herself in love with -Ben Godfrey—she really loved him, attracted physically at first, no -doubt, but as she advanced finding ever more and more solid reason for -attachment. She wanted him, and why in the world shouldn’t she have -him?—if he had been rich, not even the lowest rank would have made him -ineligible in her people’s eyes. But because he was only “comfortable,” -only had enough to live on in peace and happiness and dignity, her -family would be horrified at such an alliance—“a common farmer,” she -could hear them calling him, and her cheeks reddened angrily as she -walked up the hill. - -“Are you tired?” asked Godfrey—“let me carry your coat—it’s a terrible -hot day.” - -She let him relieve her, pleased at the accidental touch of his hand -under the stuff. She wondered if he would say “I beg your pardon” as he -had said the first time. But he was silent, indeed the whole of the way -to Fourhouses he said very little, and she wondered if he was pondering -her in his mind, perhaps asking himself why she had come, trying to -argue away his surprise, telling himself it was just a lady’s way to be -impulsive and tramp five miles to buy a mongrel pup she had scarcely -noticed the day before. Now and then his glance crept towards her, -sweeping sideways from deepset blue eyes, under the fringe of dark -lashes. She liked his eyes, because they were not the brown bovine eyes -of the mixed race who had supplanted the original South Saxons, but the -eyes of the Old People, who had been there before the Norman stirred -French syllables into the home-brew of Sussex names. They were the eyes -of her own people, though she herself had them not, and they would be -the eyes of her children ... she felt the colour mounting again, but -this time it was not the flush of indignation, and when next she felt -his gaze upon her, her own was impelled to meet it. For the first time -on that walk to Fourhouses their eyes met, and she saw that his face was -as red as hers with the stain of a happy confusion. - -When they came to the farm, he invited her in, saying that he would -bring her the puppies. For a moment she saw him hesitate at the parlour -door, but to her relief he passed on, leading the way to the kitchen. - -“Mother, here’s Miss Alard come again to see Lizzie’s pups”—he ushered -her in rather proudly, she thought, standing back against the door which -he flung wide open. - -“You’re welcome,” said Mrs. Godfrey—“please sit down.” - -She was ironing at the table, but stopped to pull forward a chair to the -window, which was open. There was no fire in this, the big outer room, -but from a smaller one within came the sound of cracking wood and -occasional bursts of singing. - -“I’m afraid I’ve come at an awkward time,” said Jenny. - -“Oh, no—we’re never too busy here—and Ben ull be proud to show you the -little dogs, for all he makes out to look down on them, they being no -sort of class and him a bit of a fancier as you might say. You’ve had a -hot walk, Miss Alard—can I get you a drink of milk? It’s been standing -in the cool some while and ull refresh you.” - -Jenny was grateful and glad. Mrs. Godfrey fetched her the milk in a -glass from the dairy, then went back to her ironing. She was a stout, -middle-aged woman, bearing her years in a way that showed they had not -been made heavy by too much work or too much childbearing. She could -still show her good white teeth, and her hair had more gloss than grey -in it. She talked comfortably about the weather and the haymaking till -her son came back with the two most presentable of Lizzie’s family. - -“If you’ll be kind enough to take one of these little chaps, Miss -Alard....” - -They spent twenty minutes or so over the puppies, and in the end Jenny -made her choice and accepted his gift. - -“He won’t be ready to leave his mother for a week or two yet.” - -“I’ll come back and fetch him.” - -“Won’t you come before then?” - -They were alone in the great kitchen—Mrs. Godfrey had gone into the -inner room to heat her iron, and they stood between the table and the -window, Jenny still holding the puppy in her arms. The moment stamped -itself upon her memory like a seal. She would always remember that faint -sweet scent of freshly ironed linen, that crack of a hidden fire, that -slow ticking of a clock—and Ben Godfrey’s face before her, so brown, -strong and alive, so lovable in its broad comeliness. The last of her -reserve dropped from her—he ceased to be a problem, a choice, a -stranger; he became just a fond, friendly man, and her heart went out to -him as to a lover, forgetting all besides. - -“Yes, of course I’ll come”—she said gently—“when ever you want me.” - - - § 16 - -The rest of that day did not seem quite real—perhaps because she would -not let herself think of what she had done in the morning, what she had -committed herself to. And when the day was over and she lay flat on her -back in her bed, with the bedclothes up to her chin, the morning still -seemed like something she had watched or dreamed rather than something -she had lived. - -She did not actually live till the next day at breakfast, when she -turned over the letters beside her plate. Among them lay one in -handwriting she did not know, small and laborious. She looked at the -postmark and saw it was from Icklesham, and immediately found herself -tingling and blushing. Her first impulse was to put it away and read it -in solitude later on, but a contrary impulse made her open it at -once—partly because she could not bear the suspense, and partly because -she could not bear the shame of her own foolishness. Why should she be -so sure it was from Fourhouses? Ben Godfrey was not the only person she -knew in Icklesham ... though the only person she knew who was likely to -write in that careful, half-educated hand.... Yes, it was from -Fourhouses. - - _My dear Miss Alard_, - - I hope this letter finds you in the best of health, and I hope you - will not think I am taking a liberty to ask if you could meet me by - the Tillingham Bridge on the road from Brede Eye to Horns Cross next - Thursday afternoon at three p.m. I have something very particular to - say to you. Ever since you were kind enough to call this morning and - said you would come back any time I wanted I have been thinking that - perhaps you would like my freindship. Dear Miss Alard, I hope you do - not think I am taking a liberty, and if you do not want my freindship - perhaps you will kindly let me know. But ever since you came over with - Mr. Peter Alard I thought perhaps you would like my freindship. I must - not say any more. But I would like to talk to you on Thursday at three - p.m. if you will meet me on the Tillingham Bridge by Dinglesden Farm. - I think that is better than me coming to your house—[“yes, I think so - too,” said Jenny]—and I should be very much obliged if you would come. - My dear Miss Alard I hope you do not think I am taking a liberty on so - short an acquaintance, but I feel I should like to be your friend. If - you would rather not have my freindship perhaps you will kindly let me - know. Having no more to say, I will now draw to a close. - - Yours sincerely, - BENJAMIN GODFREY. - -Jenny was half surprised to find herself choking with laughter. - -“Here I am, down to brass tacks,” she thought to herself—“I must put -this letter with the best parlour and the Sunday clothes” ... then -suddenly, deep in her heart—“Oh, the darling! the darling!” - -“Your letters seem to be amusing,” said Doris from the other end of the -table. - -“Yes, they are.” - -“I wish mine were. I never seem to get anything but bills. I’m glad -you’re more lucky—though I expect it makes a difference not hearing from -Jim.” - -“Oh, we never corresponded much—we met too often.” - -“It was always the other way round with me ... the piles of letters I -used to get.... I expect you remember.” - -Jenny could remember nothing but a fat letter which appeared every other -day for about three weeks, from an Indian civil servant who was -presumptuous enough to think himself fit to mate with Alard. - -“Well, I’ve had my good times,” continued Doris, “so I oughtn’t to -grumble. Things seem to have been different when I was your age. Either -it was because there were more men about, or”—she smiled reminiscently. -“Anyhow, there weren’t any gaps between. I put an end to it all a little -while ago—I had to—one finds these things too wearing ... and I didn’t -want to go on like Ninon de l’Enclos—I don’t think it’s dignified.” - -“Perhaps not,” said Jenny absently. She was wondering what Doris would -say to her letter if she could see it. - -After breakfast she took it up to the old schoolroom and read it again. -This time it did not make her laugh. Rather, she felt inclined to cry. -She thought of Ben Godfrey sitting at the kitchen table with a sheet of -note-paper and a penny bottle of ink before him—she saw him wiping his -forehead and biting his penholder—she saw him writing out the note over -and over again because of the blots and smudges that would come. Yes, -she must remember the debit side—that he was not always the splendid -young man she saw walking over his fields or driving his trap. There -were occasions on which he would appear common, loutish, ignorant.... -But, and this was the change—she saw that she loved him all the better -for these occasions—these betraying circumstances of letter writing, -best parlour and best clothes, which seemed to strip him of his -splendour and show him to her as something humble, pathetic and dear. - -“Dear Mr. Godfrey,” she said to herself—“I shall be very humbly grateful -for your freindship ... and I can’t imagine it spelt any other way.” - -She found it very difficult to answer the letter, as she was uncertain -of the etiquette which ruled these occasions. Evidently one said little, -but said it very often. In the end all she did was to write saying she -would meet him on the Tillingham bridge, as he suggested. She thought it -was rather rash of him to appoint a tryst on her father’s land, but they -could easily go off the road on to the marsh, where they were not likely -to be seen. - -She posted the letter herself in the box at the end of the drive, then -gave herself up to another twenty-four hours’ in reality of waiting. - - - § 17 - -The next day was heavy with the threat of thunder. The ragged sky hung -low over the trees, and clouds of dust blew down the lanes, through the -aisles of the fennel. Jenny was exactly punctual at her tryst. She did -not know whether or not he would expect to be kept waiting, but she had -resolved to weigh this new adventure by no false standards of coquetry, -and walked boldly on to Dinglesden bridge just as the thin chimes of -Conster’s stable-clock came across the fields. - -He was nowhere in sight, but in a couple of minutes he appeared, riding -this time on a big-boned brown horse, who swung him along at a slow, -lurching pace. Evidently he had not expected to find her there before -him. - -Directly he caught sight of her he jerked the reins and finished the -last hundred yards at a canter, pulling up beside her on the crest of -the bridge. - -“Good-day, Miss Alard. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” - -She was pale with shyness. Hitherto she had never, under any -circumstances, felt ill at ease with a man, but now she was -incomprehensibly too shy to speak. He had dismounted, and was leading -his horse towards the gate opening on the marsh by Dinglesden Farm. She -found herself walking beside him. - -“Bit thundery,” he remarked—“maybe we’ll have a storm.” - -“Do you think so?” - -“I’m not sure—it may blow over. I hope it does, for I’ve still a couple -of fields uncut.” - -“The hay’s been good this year.” - -“Not so bad—but a bit stalky.” - -They were through the gate now, walking side by side over the -grass-grown, heavy rutted track that leads past the barns of Dinglesden -down the Tillingham marsh, between the river and the hop-gardens. Jenny -was glad they were off the road—soon they would be out of sight of it. -The hop-gardens that covered the slope and threw a steamy, drowsy scent -into the heaviness of the day, would hide them completely from anyone -who went by. She began to feel very much alone with Godfrey ... and -still neither of them spoke. They had not spoken since they had left the -road. - -Only a few hundred yards brought them to the turn of the valley, where -the Tillingham swings southward towards Rye. Behind them the farm and -the bridge were shut out by the sloping hop-gardens, before them the -marsh wound, a green street, between the sorrel-rusted meadows, with the -Mocksteeple standing gaunt and solitary on the hill below Barline. - -“It’s very good of you to have come,” said Ben. - -“I—I wanted to come.” - -He checked his horse, and they stood still. - -“You—you don’t think it cheek—I mean, that I’m taking a liberty—in -wanting to know you?” - -“No....” - -“When you came that evening to the farm, I—I wanted to say all sorts of -things, and I didn’t like ... for I didn’t know....” - -“I should like to be your friend.” - -Her voice came firmly at last. - -“I should like to be your friend,” she repeated. - -She knew what the word “friend” meant in his ears. “My friend” was what -a girl of his class would say when she meant “my lover.” - -“Well, then....” - -He took her hand and blushed. - -“Let’s sit down for a bit,” he said. - -A stripped and fallen tree lay on the grass, and they sat down on it -when he had hitched his horse to the fence of the hop-garden. Long hours -seemed to roll by as they sat there side by side ... the sun came out -for a moment or two, sending the shadow of the hop-bines racing over the -ground. There was a pulse of thunder behind the meadows in the north. -Then suddenly, for some unfathomable reason, Jenny began to cry. - -At first he seemed paralysed with astonishment, while she leaned forward -over her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. But the next moment his arms -came round her, drawing her gently up against him, her cheek against his -homespun coat that smelt of stables. - -“My dear ... my little thing ... don’t cry! What is it?—Are you unhappy? -What have I done?” - -She could not speak—she could only lift her face to his, trying to -smile, trying to tell him with her streaming eyes that she was not -unhappy, only silly, only tired. He seemed to understand, for he drew -her closer, and she could feel his whole body trembling as he put his -mouth shyly against hers. - -One or two drops of rain splashed into the ruts, and a moan of wind -suddenly came through the hop-bines. He lifted his head, still -trembling. He looked at her sidelong, as if for a moment he expected her -to be angry with him, to chide his presumption. He would have taken away -his arm, but she held it about her. - -“You’ll get wet,” he said reluctantly—“we should ought to move.” - -“I don’t care—I don’t want to move. Let me stay like this.” - -“Then you aren’t angry with me for——” - -“Why should I be?” - -“Well, we aren’t long acquainted....” - - - § 18 - -During the next two months Jenny grew sweetly familiar with that strip -of marsh between the hop-gardens and the River Tillingham. The -Mocksteeple, standing out on the hill above the river’s southward bend, -had become one of many joyful signs. Once more the drab, ridiculous -thing looked down on Alard loves, though now it was not a cynical Alard -Squire making sport of the country girls, but an Alard girl tasting true -love for the first time with a yeoman. Her earlier love affairs, even -that latest one with Jim Parish, became thin, frail things in -comparison. - -Godfrey was contemptuous of Jim. - -“He couldn’t have loved you, or he’d never have let you go. He’d have -let his place go first.” - -“Would you let Fourhouses go for me, Ben?” - -“Reckon I would.” - -“Thank God you haven’t got to choose.” - -“I’m sorry I haven’t got to choose, for I’d like to show you.” “Well, -I’m glad, for whichever way you chose it ud be hard for you.” - -“No—not hard.” - -“You don’t know, because you’re safe; you haven’t even got to think of -it. But I’m sorry for some of our men—yes, for Jim Parish, and even for -Peter. You see, it’s not merely choosing for themselves. They have their -families to consider. You can’t dish all your relations just because you -want to get married.” - -Love was making her soft in judgment. - -“No relation that had any heart would stand in the way of a young chap’s -marrying a good girl. My mother ud sooner turn out and live in a cottage -than see me go without a wife.” - -“But would you turn your mother out, Ben?” - -“We’d all go out together—for my wife.” - -His love-making was a delightful blend of diffidence and ardour. At -first it had been difficult to show him that she was touchable, -approachable to caresses. Yet once she had shown him the way, he had -required no more leading. He had a warm, gentle nature, expressing -itself naturally in fondness. His love for her seemed to consist in -equal parts of passion and affection. It lacked the self-regarding -element to which she was accustomed, and though it held all the eager -qualities of fire, there was about it a simplicity and a shyness which -were new to her. After a time she discovered that he had a mind like a -young girl’s, and an experience very nearly as white. He had spent his -life in the society of animals and good women, and the animals had -taught him to regard them not as symbols of license but as symbols of -order, and the women had taught him that they were something more than -animals. He had the fundamental cleanness of a man who takes nature -naturally. - -There had been another surprise for her, too, and this had lain in his -attitude towards her position and her family. She discovered that his -deference for her was entirely for her as a woman, and he had no -particular respect for her as an Alard. His courtship would have been as -diffident if she had been the daughter of the farmer of Glasseye or the -farmer of Ellenwhorne. He was grateful to her for loving him, and -infinitely careful of her love, as a privilege which might be withdrawn, -but he saw no condescension in her loving him, no recklessness in her -seeking him. Indeed, the only time she found a stiffness in him was when -she told him that their love would have to be secret as far as her -family was concerned. He had come to see her openly and innocently at -Conster, and though luckily her people had been out, and she had been -able to convey to the servants that he had only called on business, she -had had to warn him that he must not come again. - -“But why not?—I’m not ashamed of loving you.” - -“It isn’t that, Ben.” - -“Nor ashamed of myself, neither.” - -“Oh, darling, can’t you understand that it’s because of my parents—what -they’ll think and say—and do, if they get the chance?” - -“You mean they won’t hold with us marrying?” - -“No—they won’t hold with it at all.” - -“I expect they’d like you to marry a lord.” - -“It isn’t so much a lord that they want as someone with money.” - -“Well, I’ve got plenty of that, my lovely.” - -“Not what they’d call plenty—they want a really rich man, who’ll be able -to put us on our feet again.” - -“Reckon he’d be hard to find. You’d need fifty thousand to do that, I -reckon.” - -Jenny nodded. - -“Thank God,” he said, “my lands free.” - -“You’re lucky.” - -“It’s only because I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew, nor my -father before me. That piece I bought from your father is the first that -Fourhouses has bought for sixty years. We’re not grand landlords, us. -Maybe” ... he hesitated a moment ... “your father and mother ud think -you were marrying beneath you to marry me. I reckon we’re not gentry, -and I was sent to the National School. But my folk have had Fourhouses -two hundred year, and we’ve kept ourselves honest, for all that my -grandfather married a gipsy. There was a lady I met on leave in Egypt -asked me to marry her,” he added naïvely, “and Lord! she was beautiful -and had lovely gowns, and was a great man’s widow. But I couldn’t feel -rightly towards her, so I declined the favour she would do me, but was -honoured all the same. What are you laughing at, duck?” - -“Not at you.” - -She realised that the war was probably in part responsible for his -failure to see the barriers between them—its freedoms coupled with his -own inherited consciousness of a good inheritance and an honest history. -She was not sorry for this—it showed that he was aware of no -maladjustments in their comradeship, in their tastes, views, thoughts, -ideas, which now they exchanged freely. It made their courtship much -more natural. All she feared was his resentment at her family’s -attitude. - -But she found him unexpectedly mild on this point. His self-respect was -solid and steady enough not to be shaken by what would have upset a man -standing less securely. He was proud of his yeoman birth, his prosperous -farm and free inheritance, and could laugh at the contempt of -struggling, foundering Conster. Moreover, he loved Jenny, and, since she -loved him, could forgive those who did not think him good enough for -her. He agreed that their engagement should be kept from her people, -though it was known to his, till she could find a proper time for -disclosing it. Meanwhile they met either at Fourhouses, where the -kindly, dignified welcome of his mother and sisters saved their love -from any sordid touch of the clandestine, or else, nearer Jenny’s home, -at Brede Eye or the Mocksteeple. - -As time went on she felt the necessity of taking at least one member of -her family into her confidence—partly to make contrivance more easy, and -partly as a help in the ultimate crisis which must come before long. Ben -was slow in his methods, and did not belong to a class who made -marriages in haste, but she knew that the last months of the year would -probably be crucial. She would then have somehow to declare herself, and -she saw the need for an ally. - -Of course there was only Gervase. She knew that he alone was in the -least likely to take her part; and in spite of her growing approach to -Peter, she realised that it would be folly to turn to him now. He had -married a girl whose grandfather Ben Godfrey’s grandfather would have -despised, nevertheless he would be horror-stricken at the marriage she -proposed to make—he would talk as if she was marrying beneath her, as if -she was making herself cheap and degrading her name. She could not bear -it.... No, Peter would have to stay outside. Gervase was altogether -different—he had accomplished his own revolt, and would encourage hers. -Besides, he had always been her special brother, and though lately his -new interests and long absences had a trifle estranged them, she knew -she had only to turn to him to find their old alliance standing. - -It was with this special decision that she came from the Mocksteeple one -evening in September. She had told Ben that she meant to confide in -Gervase, and he had agreed, though she knew that he too was sorry it -could not be Peter. She felt the approach of relief—it would be a relief -to have someone with whom she could discuss her difficulties, on whose -occasional co-operation she could depend, and whose goodwill would -support her during the catastrophic days of disclosure. Gervase seemed -greater to her in all these capacities than he seemed to Ben. She knew -that Ben thought him a mere boy, whose knowledge of their circumstances -might, far from giving them support, actually lead to their confusion. -But Jenny still had her queer new respect for Gervase. No doubt he was a -hothead, a rather uncritical revolutionary; but his ideas seemed lately -to have grown more stable; they seemed less ready-made, more the fruit -of his own thinking. His contempt of his people’s gods had no longer -such a patent origin in youthful bumptiousness, but seemed rather due to -the fact of his having built his own holy places. She wondered what had -taught him wisdom—which of the new elements that had lately come into -his life. Was it work, religion, love, or merely his growing older? - - - § 19 - -She did not find an opportunity for speaking to him alone till after -dinner. He went out, saying that he had some work to do at the garage, -and as Rose Alard had dined at Conster and now made the fourth at -bridge, Jenny was soon able to slip away after him. - -She found him guiding an electric light bulb to and fro among the inward -parts of the Ford. Gervase always did his own cleaning and repairs, -which meant a lot of hard work, as the run to Ashford must be made every -day, no matter how dirty the roads and the weather, and the lorry, which -had long lost its youth when he first took it over, was now far advanced -in unvenerable old age. - -“Hullo, Jenny,” he cried when he saw her—“so you’ve escaped from the -dissipations of the drawing-room.” - -“Yes, Rose is playing tonight, thank heaven! and I’ve come out to talk -to you.” - -“That’s good. I’m sorry to be in this uncivilised place, but I can’t -help it. Henry Ford has appendicitis, and I must operate at once. He’s -got one wheel in the grave, I’m afraid, but with a little care and -coddling I can make him last till I’m through with Ashford.” - -“When will that be?” - -“Next January.” - -“And what will you do then?” - -“Get some sort of a job, I suppose.” - -She thought he looked fagged and jaded, though it might have been the -light, and the ugliness of his dirty blue slops buttoned up to his -collarless chin. After all, now she came to think of it, he must have a -pretty hard life—up every morning at six or earlier, driving fifteen -miles to and fro in all weathers, working hard all day, and then coming -home late, generally to finish the day with cleaning and repairs. - -“Gervase,” she said abruptly—“are you happy?” - -“Yes, Jen—quite happy. Are you?” - -“Oh, Gervase....” - -He looked up at the change in her voice. - -“I’ve something to tell you,” she said hurriedly—“I’m going to be -married.” - -“What! To Jim Parish?” - -“Oh, no, not to him. That’s all over. Gervase, I want you to stand by -me; that’s why I’m telling you this. I’m making a great venture. I’m -marrying Ben Godfrey.” - -“Ben Godfrey....” - -He repeated the name vaguely. Evidently it conveyed nothing to him. He -was so much away that he heard little of the talk of the estate. - -“Yes. The farmer of Fourhouses. Don’t you know him? I’ve known him three -months, and we love each other. Father and Mother and Peter and everyone -will be wild when they know. That’s why I want to have you on my side.” - -“Jenny, dear....” He carefully deposited Henry Ford’s appendix on the -shelf, wiped his oily fingers on a piece of rag, and came and sat beside -her on the packing case where she had perched herself—“Jenny, dear, this -is too exciting for words. Do tell me more about it.” - -Jenny told him as much as she could—how meeting Ben Godfrey had set her -mind on a new adventure and a new revolt—how she had resolved not to let -her chance slip by, but had let him know she cared—how eager and sweet -his response had been, and how happy life was now, with meeting and -love-making. Her manner, her looks, her hesitations told him as much as -her words. - -“You will stand by me, won’t you, Gervase?” - -“Of course I will, Jen. But do you mind if I ask you one or two -questions?” - -“Ask whatever you like. As you’re going to help me, you’ve a right to -know.” - -“Well, are you quite sure this is going to last?” - -“My dear! I never thought you’d ask that.” - -“I daresay it sounds a silly and impertinent question. But I must ask -it. Do you think he’s pulled your heart away from your judgment? And do -you think it’s possible that you may have been driven towards him by -reaction, the reaction from all that long, meandering, backboneless -affair with Jim Parish, and all the silly, trivial things that did for -it at last? Don’t be angry with me. I must put that side of the question -to you, or I’d never forgive myself.” - -“Do you think I’ve never put it to myself? Oh, Gervase, it was exactly -what I thought at the beginning. I told myself it was only reaction—only -because I was bored. But when I met him at Fourhouses I couldn’t help -seeing it was more than that, and now I know it’s real—I know, I -_know_.” - -“Have you tastes and ideas in common?” - -“Yes, plenty. He has very much the same sort of abstract ideas as I -have—thinks the same about the war and all that. And he’s read, too—he -loves Kipling, and Robert Service’s poems, though he reads boys’ books -as well. He really has a better literary taste than I have—you know what -Vera thinks of my reading. And he’s travelled much more than I have, -seen more of the world. He’s been in Mesopotamia, and Egypt, and Greece, -and France. And yet he’s so simple and unassuming. He’s much more of a -‘gentleman’ in his speech and manners than lots of men I know.” - -“Have you ever seen him in his Sunday clothes?” - -“Yes, I have, and survived. He wears a ready-made brown suit with a -white stripe in it. And that’s the worst there is about him.” - -“What are his people like?” - -“They’re darlings. His mother is solid and comfortable and motherly, and -the girls are about my own age, but with much better manners. When Ben -and I are married, the others will live in a part of the house which is -really quite separate from the rest—has a separate door and kitchen—the -newest of the four houses. Oh, I tell you, Gervase, I’ve faced -everything—tastes, ideas, family, Sunday clothes—and there’s nothing -that isn’t worth having, or at least worth putting up with for the sake -of the rest, for the sake of real comfort, real peace, real freedom, -real love....” - -Her eyes began to fill, and he felt her warm, sobbing breath on his -cheek. - -“Jennie, I want to kiss you. But I should have to make too many -preparations first—take off my slops, wash my hands with soda, and clean -my teeth, because I’ve been smoking woodbines all day. So I think I’d -better put it off till Sunday. But I do congratulate you, dear—not only -on being in love but on being so brave. I think you’re brave, Jenny; -it’s so much more difficult for a woman to break away than for a man. -But you’d never have found happiness in the family groove, and sometimes -I was afraid that ... never mind, I’m not afraid now.” - -“And you’ll stand by me, Gervase?” - -“Of course I will. But you’ve got to show me the young man. I won’t -stand by an abstraction. I want to see if I like him as flesh and -blood.” - -“I’ll take you over to Fourhouses on Saturday afternoon. And I’m quite -sure you’ll like him.” - -“I’ve made up my mind to, so he’ll be a pretty hopeless washout if I -don’t. I wonder that I haven’t ever met him, but I expect it’s being -away so much.” - -Jenny was about to enlarge further on her young man’s qualities, when -she remembered that there is nothing more tiresome to an unprosperous -lover than the rhapsodies of someone whose love is successful and -satisfied. Gervase had loved Stella Mount for two years—everybody said -so—but nothing seemed to have come of it. It must distress him to hear -of her happiness which had come so quickly. She wondered if his worn, -fagged look were perhaps less due to hardship than to some distress of -his love. She was so happy that she could not bear to think of anyone -being miserable, especially Gervase, whom, next to Ben, she loved better -than all the world. She checked her outpourings, and took his grimy, -oil-stained hand in hers, laying it gently in her satin lap. - -“Kid—do tell me. How are things between you and Stella?” - -“There aren’t any ‘things’ between me and Stella.” - -“Oh, Gervase, don’t tell me you’re not in love with her.” - -“I won’t tell you anything so silly. Of course I’m in love with her, but -it’s not a love that will ever give her to me. It can’t.” - -“Why?” - -“Because she doesn’t care for me in that way. I don’t suppose she thinks -of me as anything but a boy.” - -“Doesn’t she know you love her?” - -“She may—I daresay she does. But I’m sure she doesn’t love me.” - -“Have you ever asked her?” - -“No.” - -“Well, then ... Gervase!” - -“One can find out that sort of thing without asking.” - -“Indeed one can’t—not with a girl like Stella. If you didn’t speak, -she’d probably try very hard not to influence you in any way, because -she realises that there are difficulties, and would be afraid of leading -you further than you felt inclined.” - -“I haven’t seen so very much of her lately. We never meet except on -Sundays. I can’t help thinking that she’s trying to keep me at a -distance.” - -“Perhaps she’s surprised at your not speaking. How long have you been -friends?” - -“About three years, I suppose.” - -“And all that time people have been bracketing you together, and you’ve -said nothing. I expect she’s wondering why on earth you don’t make love -to her.” - -“I shouldn’t dare.” - -“Not to Stella?—She seems to me a girl one could make love to very -easily.” - -“I agree—once she’d said ‘yes.’ But she’s a girl one couldn’t take risks -with—she’d be too easily lost. I’ve a feeling that if I made a move in -that direction without being sure of her, she’d simply go away—fade out. -And I’m terrified of losing the little I’ve got of her.” - -“But you may lose her through not being bold enough. It sickens a girl -frightfully when a man hangs round and doesn’t speak. The reason that -she seems to avoid you now may be that she’s offended.” - -“Jenny, you don’t know Stella. She’s so candid, so transparent, that if -she had any such feelings about me, I’d be sure to see it. No, I think -she stands away simply because she’s found out that people are talking, -and wants to keep me at a distance.” - -“But you can’t be sure. You may be quite mistaken. If I was a man I’d -never let things go by default like that. She won’t ‘fade out’ if you do -the thing properly. Women are always pleased to be asked in marriage—at -least if they’re human, and Stella’s human if she’s nothing else.” - -“And so am I. That’s why I can’t bear the thought of her saying ‘no.’” - -“I’ll be surprised if she says ‘no.’ But anyhow I’d rather lose a good -thing through its being refused me than through not having the spirit to -ask for it.” - -“Yes, I think you’re right there.” - -He fell into a kind of abstraction, stroking his chin with one hand, -while the other still lay in her lap. Then he rose suddenly and went -over to the shelf where he had put his tools. - -“Well, I can’t leave Henry Ford with his inside out while I talk about -my own silly affairs. You may be right, Jen—I dunno. But I’m -frightfully, ever so, glad about you—you dear.” - -“Thank you, Gervase. It’s such a relief to have you on my side.” - -“When are you going to spring it on the family?” - -“Oh, not just yet—not till Christmas, perhaps. We want to have -everything settled first.” - -“I think you’re wise.” - -“Remember, you’re coming with me to Fourhouses on Saturday.” - -“Rather! That’s part of the bargain. I must see the young man.” - -“And I’m sure you’ll like him.” - -“I can very nearly promise to like him.” - -She went up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. - -“Good night, old boy. I must be going in now—I suppose you’re here till -bed time?” - -“And beyond—good night, Jenny.” - -“Gervase, you’re getting thin—I can feel your bones.” - -“I’d be ashamed if you couldn’t. And do run along—I’ve just had a vision -of Wills carrying in the barley water tray. Clairvoyantly I can see him -tripping over Mother’s footstool, clairaudiently I can hear Father -saying ‘Damn you, Wills. Can’t you look where you’re going?’... Leave -the busy surgeon now, there’s a dear.” - -He stepped back from under her hands, and thoughtfully held up Henry -Ford’s appendix to the light. - - - § 20 - -Jenny had made more impression than she knew on Gervase’s ideas of -Stella. Hitherto he had always tacitly accepted a tolerated position—she -had allowed him to go for walks with her, to come and see her on -Sundays, to write to her, to talk to her endlessly on the dull topic of -himself; she had always been friendly, interested, patient, but he had -felt that if she loved him she would not have been quite all these—not -quite so kind or friendly or patient. And lately she had withdrawn -herself—she had found herself too busy to go for walks, and in her -father’s house there was always the doctor or the priest. He respected -and thought he understood her detachment. People were “talking,” as long -ago they had “talked” about her and Peter, and she wanted this new, -unfounded gossip to die. - -Now it struck him that there was a chance that Jenny might be right, and -that Stella fled before the gossip not because she wanted to disprove -it, but because she wished it better founded, was perhaps a little vexed -with him that it was not. Of course, if all these three years she had -been wanting him to speak.... For the first time he saw a certain -selfishness in his conduct—he was ashamed to realise that he had been -content with his position as hopeless lover, so content that he had -never given a thought to wondering if it pleased her. There had been a -subtle self-indulgence in his silent devotion.... “Lord! I believe it’s -as bad as if I’d pestered her.” - -But he really could not believe that if Stella loved him he would not -know it. One of her chief qualities was candour, and she was impulsive -enough to make him think that she would readily give expression to any -attraction that she felt. If Jenny, who was so much more cold and -diffident, could have been quickened by love into taking the first step -towards Ben Godfrey, how much more swiftly and decisively would ardent -Stella move when her heart drove her. Of course she might see the -drawbacks and dangers of marrying a man so much younger than herself—she -might have held back for his sake ... perhaps that was why she was -holding back now.... But he did not really think so—love was the last -emotion that a nature like Stella’s could hide, however resolute her -will. - -There seemed no way of solving his doubts but to do as Jenny suggested -and to ask her. He shrank from putting his fate to the test.... But that -was only part of this same selfishness he had discovered. By speaking, -he could harm nobody but himself. He might indeed turn himself out of -Paradise, that garden of hopeless loving service which was home to him -now. But he could not hurt or offend Stella—she could not accuse him of -precipitancy after three years—and if it was true that she cared, as -might be just possible, then he would have put an end to a ridiculous -and intolerable state of things. - -In this indecision he went with Jenny to Fourhouses on Saturday. He did -not talk to her about his own affairs—for hers were too engrossing for -both of them. She was desperately anxious that he should like Ben -Godfrey, not only because it would put their alliance on firm and -intimate ground, but because she wanted her brother’s friendship to -apologise and atone to her lover for the slights of the rest of her -family. As she grew in love for Ben and in experience of his worth she -came fiercely and almost unreasonably to resent what she knew would be -the attitude of her people towards him. She came more and more to see -him from his own point of view—a man as good as Alard, and more -honourably planted in the earth. She marvelled at herself now because -she had once thought that she was stooping—she laughed at her scheme for -holding out the sceptre. - -But though she was anxious, she was not surprised that the two men -should like each other. Ben Godfrey had all the qualities that Gervase -admired, and young Alard was by this time quite without class -consciousness, having lost even the negative kind which comes from -conscientious socialism. He had had very little of congenial male -society during the last two and a half years, as his work at Ashford had -kept him chiefly among men with whom he had little in common. The farmer -of Fourhouses belonged altogether to a different breed from the -self-assertive young mechanics at Gillingham and Golightly’s ... there -was no need to warn Jenny here of fatal differences in the pursuit of -wealth, women and God. - -Gervase was very favourably impressed by all he saw, and came home a -little envious of his sister. She had found a happiness which -particularly appealed to him, for it was of both common and adventurous -growth. She would be happy in the common homely things of life, and yet -they would not be hers in quite the common way—she would hold them as an -adventurer and a discoverer, for to win them she would have dared and -perhaps suffered much. - -That was how Gervase wanted happiness—with double roots in security and -daring. He wondered if only the kingdom of heaven was happy in that way, -and if he could not find homeliness and adventure together on earth. He -did not want one without the other, he did not want peace with dullness, -nor excitement with unrest. He had learned that the soul could know -adventure with profoundest quiet—might not the body know it too? Walking -home in the sunset from Fourhouses, Gervase longed for the resurrection -of the body—for his body to know what his soul knew; and his heart told -him that only Stella could give him this, and that if she would not, he -must go without it. - - - § 21 - -On Sunday mornings Gervase always went to see his mother before -breakfast. It was to make up, he said, for seeing so little of her -during the rest of the week. Lady Alard was subtly pleased and flattered -by these visits. No one else ever paid them. He would sit on the bed and -talk to her—not as the rest of the family talked, in a manner carefully -adapted to her imbecility, but as one intelligent being to another, -about politics and books and other things she could not understand. This -pleased her all the more because he was careful to suggest her part of -the conversation as well as carrying on his own; he never let her expose -her ignorance. And though she secretly knew he was aware of it, and that -he knew that she knew, the interview never failed to raise her in her -own esteem, as a mother in whom her son confided. - -This particular Sunday he stayed rather longer than usual, giving her -the right attitude towards Queen Victoria, as to which she had always -been a little uncertain. He had just been reading Lytton Strachey’s -_Life_, and they laughed together over the tartan upholstery of -Balmoral, and shook their heads and wondered over John Brown. From John -Brown the conversation somehow wandered to Gervase’s work at Ashford, -and finally ended in a discussion of the days not so very far ahead when -he should have finished at the workshop and be his own master. - -“What shall I do with myself then, Mother? Shall I open a garage in -Leasan, so that you can sack Appleby and sell the car, and hire off me? -Or would you like just to sack Appleby and let me drive the car? You’d -find me most steady and reliable as a shuvver, and it would be such fun -having tea with the maids when you went calling.” - -“I wish you’d taken up a more dignified profession. There really doesn’t -seem to be anything for you to do now that isn’t rather low.” - -“I’m afraid I like doing low things, Mother. But I really don’t know -what I’m going to do when I leave Gillingham’s. It’s funny—but my life -seems to stop at Christmas. I can’t look any further. When I first went -into the works I was always making plans for what I’d do when I came out -of them. But now I can’t think of anything. Well, anyhow, I’ve got more -than three months yet—there’ll be time to think of something before -then. Did you know that I start my holiday next week?—Ten whole, giddy -days—think of that!” - -“Shall you be going away?” - -“No, I don’t think so. A man I was with at Winchester asked me to come -and stop with his people. But he lives in Scotland, and I can’t afford -the journey. Besides it wouldn’t be worth it just for a week.” - -“I thought you said you’d got ten days.” - -“Yes—but I’m going to spend four of them at Thunders Abbey near -Brighton. Father Luce thought it would be a good idea if I went to a -retreat.” - -“Oh, Gervase!—is it a monastery?” - -“The very same. It’s the chief house of the Order of Sacred Pity.” - -“But, my dear—are you—oh, you’re not going to become a monk?” - -“No fear—I’m just going into retreat for four days, for the good of my -soul.” - -“Well, I don’t know what a retreat is, but I feel it would do you much -more good if you went to Scotland. You’re looking quite white and seedy. -Are you sure your heart’s all right? You know we’ve got angina in the -family. I’ve had it for years and years, and poor George died of it. I’m -so afraid you’ve got it too.” - -“I haven’t—honour bright. I’m looking white because I want a holiday—and -I’m going to have one—for both body and soul.... And now I really must -go down to breakfast or I shan’t be able to get more than my share of -the kidneys.” - -Sunday breakfast was an important contrast with the breakfasts of the -week. On week-days he either scrambled through a meal half-cooked by the -kitchen-maid, or shared the dry short-commons of Father Luce’s cottage. -On Sundays he ate his way exultingly through porridge, bacon, kidneys, -toast and honey, with generally three cups of coffee and a slice of -melon. As a rule the family were all down together on Sunday, having no -separate engagements, but an hour of united loafing before Appleby -brought round the car to take to church such of them as felt inclined -for it. - -Gervase had to start earlier—directly breakfast was over. His Parish -Mass was at half-past ten, in consideration for Vinehall’s Sunday -dinners, since there the rich and the poor were not separated into -morning and evening congregations. Also he was Master of the Ceremonies, -and had to be in the sacristy well before the service began, to make the -usual preparations, and exhort and threaten the clumsy little servers, -who came tumbling in at the last moment with their heads full of -Saturday’s football. Gervase was not a ritualist, and his aim was to -achieve as casual an effect as possible, to create an atmosphere of -homeliness and simplicity round the altar. But so far he had got no -nearer his ideal than a hard-breathing concentration—the two -torch-bearers gripped their torches as if they were to defend their -lives with them, and the panting of the thurifer mingled with the racket -of his cheap brass censer. - -It was not till the sermon began that he had time to look for Stella. -When he had taken his seat in the Sanctuary with his arms folded, and -had seen that the three little boys were also sitting with their arms -folded instead of in more abandoned attitudes, he was free to search for -her face through the incense-cloud that floated in the nave. He found -her very soon, for a ray of golden, dusty sunshine fell upon her as she -sat with her arm through Dr. Mount’s. The sunshine had dredged all the -warm brown and red tints out of her hair and face, giving her a queer -white and golden look that made her unreal. As he looked at her, she -smiled, and he found that her smile had come in response to a smile of -his which had unknowingly stolen over his face as he watched her. Her -smile was rather sad, and he wondered if the sadness too was a response. - -Mr. Luce was delivering one of Newman’s Parochial Sermons in his own -halting words, and though Gervase always made it a point of discipline -to listen to sermons, however much they bored him, he found that this -morning attention was almost impossible. Stella seemed to fix his -thoughts so that he could not drag them from her. He knew that his -attitude towards her was changing—it was becoming more disturbed, more -desperate. His heart must have been ready for this change, for he did -not think that Jenny’s words would have had power to work it of -themselves. He wondered where it was leading him ... he wondered if it -had anything to do with this feeling as of a ditch dug across his life -at the end of the year.... But probably his leaving the works after -Christmas would account for that. Well, anyhow, he would have to put an -end to the present state of affairs—they were the result of mere -selfishness and cowardice on his part. Perhaps he ought to go away—leave -Stella altogether, since she did not love him and his heart was unquiet -because of her ... he would have his chance to go away in January—right -away.... But he could not—he could never bear to live away from her. And -he had no certain knowledge that she did not love him—perhaps she -did—perhaps Jenny was right after all.... “In the Name of the Father and -of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” - - - § 22 - -After Mass, Gervase and the Vicar walked together to Hollingrove. - -“I’ve heard from Thunders Abbey,” said Gervase to Luce, “and there’s a -vacancy for the eighteenth. So I shall go.” - -“I wonder how you’ll like it.” - -“So do I. But I’m glad I’m going. They’re full up really, but Father -Lawrence said I could sleep at the farm.” - -“Then you’ll have to get up early. It’s fifteen minutes’ walk from the -Abbey, and Mass is at half-past six and of obligation.” - -“Never mind—I’m used to hardships, though I know you think I wallow in -unseemly luxuries. But I’m getting keen on this, Father. Whether I like -it or not, I know it will be exciting.” - -“Exciting! That’s a nice thing to expect of a retreat.” - -“Well, religion generally is exciting, isn’t it, so the more I get the -more exciting it’s likely to be.” - -“Um—too exciting perhaps.” - -“What do you mean, Father?” - -But Luce would not tell him, and in another minute they were at Dr. -Mount’s cottage, where they always had mid-day dinner on Sundays. It was -cooked by Stella herself, helped by the little maid, so she did not -appear till it was ready. She had changed her frock and bore no traces -of her labours beyond a face heated by the fire. Her cheeks were flushed -and her eyes bright—she looked absurdly young. How old was she, Gervase -wondered? Twenty-eight or twenty-nine? But she did not look a bit over -twenty. She did not look as old as he did. It must be her vitality which -kept her young like this—her vitality ... and the way she did her hair. -He smiled. - -“What are you smiling at, Gervase?” - -“At you, Stella.” - -“And why at me?” - -“Because you look so absurdly young. And I’ve been very knowing, and -have decided that it’s the way you do your hair.” - -“Really, Gervase, you’re not at all gallant. Surely I look young because -I am young. If you think different you oughtn’t to say so.” - -“This is a poor beginning for your career as a ladies’ man,” said Dr. -Mount. - -“Just as well he should start it on me,” said Stella—“then he’ll know -the technique better by the time it really matters.” - -Her words stabbed Gervase—they showed him how he stood with her. She did -not take him seriously—or if she did, she was trying to show him that it -was all no use, that he must give up thinking of her. The result was -that he thought of her with concentrated anxiety for the rest of the -meal, his thoughts making him strangely silent. - -He was not wanted at Catechism that afternoon, so he could spend it with -her, and for the first time he found the privilege unwelcome. He -remembered other Sunday afternoons when he had lain blissfully slack in -one of the armchairs, while Stella curled herself up in the other with a -book or some sewing. They had not talked consecutively, but just -exchanged a few words now and then when the processes of their minds -demanded it—it had all been heavenly and comfortable and serene.... He -found himself longing almost angrily to be back in his old attitude of -contented hopelessness. But he knew that he could never go back, though -he did not exactly know why. What had happened that he could no longer -find his peace in her unrewarded service? Had he suddenly grown up and -become dependent on realities—no longer to be comforted with dreams or -to taste the sweet sadness of youth? - -He had half a mind to go for a walk this afternoon and leave her—he knew -that she would not try to make him stay. But, in spite of all, he -hankered after her company; also there was now growing up in him a new -desire to come to grips with her, to know exactly where he -stood—whether, though she did not want his love she still wanted his -friendship, or whether she would like him to go away. So when Father -Luce went off to his Catechism, and the doctor to see a couple of -patients at Horns Cross, Gervase stayed behind in the sitting-room where -they had had their coffee, and asked Stella, according to custom, if she -would mind his pipe. - -“You know, Gervase, you’re always allowed to smoke your pipe if I’m -allowed to mend my stockings. Neither is exactly correct behaviour in a -drawing-room, but if you dispense me from the rules of feminine -good-breeding, I’ll dispense you from the rules of masculine etiquette.” - -“Thank you.” - -He took out his pipe, and she fetched her work-basket from the back of -the sofa. Nothing could have looked more domestic than the two of them -sitting each side of the fire, he smoking, she darning, both silent. But -the unreality of it vexed him this afternoon. He could not play the -childish game he had sometimes played, of pretending they were married, -and being content. “When I became a man I put away childish things....” -He wanted to have the power to go over to her as she sat absorbed in her -work, turn up her face and kiss her—or else pick her off the chair and -set her on his knee.... - -“Stella,” he said gruffly. - -“Well?” - -“I want to speak to you.” - -“What is it?” - -“Well ... our friendship isn’t the same as it used to be.” - -He would be furious if she contradicted him—or if she said ‘Oh, really? -I haven’t noticed anything.’ But she said at once— - -“I know it isn’t.” - -“And what do you put that down to?” - -She hedged for the first time. - -“I don’t know.” - -“You’re trying to keep me at a distance.” - -She did not speak, but he saw the colour burning on the face that she -bent hurriedly over her work. - -He edged his chair closer, and repeated— - -“Yes, you are, Stella—trying to keep me off.” - -“I—I’m sorry.” - -“You needn’t be sorry; but I wish you’d tell me why you’re doing it. It -isn’t that you’ve only just discovered that I love you—you’ve always -known that.” - -“I’m wasting your time, Gervase. I shouldn’t keep you dangling after -me.” - -“You mean that I’ve hung about too long?” - -“Oh, no....” She was obviously distressed. - -“Stella, I’ve loved you for years, and you know it—you’ve always known -it. But I’ve never asked anything of you or expected anything. All I’ve -wanted has been to see you and talk to you and do anything for you that -I could. It hasn’t done me any harm. I’m only just old enough to marry, -and I have no means.... And up till a little while ago I was content. -Then you changed, and seemed to be trying to put me off—it hurt me, -Stella, because I couldn’t think why....” - -“Oh, I can’t bear to hurt you.” To his surprise he saw that her tears -were falling. She covered her face. - -“Stella, my little Stella.” - -By leaning forward he could put his hand on her knee. It was the first -caress that he had ever given her, and the unbearable sweetness of it -made him shiver. He let his hand lie for a few moments on her warm knee, -and after a time she put her own over it. - -“Gervase, I’m so sorry—I’m afraid I’ve treated you badly. I let you love -me—you were so young at first, and I saw it made you happy, and I -thought it would pass over. Then people began to talk, as they always -do, and I took no notice—it seemed impossible, me being so much older -than you—until I found that ... I mean, one day I met Peter, and he -really thought we were engaged....” - -It was not her words so much as the burst of bitter weeping that -followed them which showed Gervase the real state of her heart. She -still loved Peter. - -“It’s nothing to regret, dear,” he said hurriedly—“you were perfectly -right. And now I understand....” - -“But it’s wrong, Gervase, it’s wrong....” By some instinct she seemed to -have discovered that he guessed her secret ... “it’s wrong; but oh, I -can’t help it! I wish I could. It seems dreadful not to be able to help -it after all these years.” - -She had gripped his hand in both hers—her body was stiff and trembling. - -“Stella, darling, don’t be so upset. There’s nothing wrong in loving—how -could there be? Surely you know that.” - -“Yes I do. It’s not the loving that’s wrong, but letting my whole life -be hung up by it. Letting it absorb me so that I don’t notice other men, -so that I can’t bear the thought of marrying anyone else—so that I treat -you badly.” - -“You haven’t treated me badly, my dear. Get that out of your head at -once.” - -“I have—because I’ve spoilt our friendship. I couldn’t go on with it -when I knew....” - -“It’s high time our friendship was spoilt, Stella. It was turning into a -silly form of self-indulgence on my side, and it ought to be put an end -to. Hang it all! why should I get you talked about?—apart from other -considerations. You’ve done me good by withdrawing yourself, because -you’ve killed my calf-love. For the last few weeks I’ve loved you as a -man ought—I’ve known a man’s love, though it’s been in vain....” - -“Oh, Gervase....” - -“Don’t think any more about me, dear; you’ve done me nothing but good.” - -She had hidden her face in the arm of the chair, and he suddenly saw -that he must leave her. Since she did not love him, his own love was not -enough to make him less of an intruder. There were dozens of questions -he wanted to ask her—answers he longed to know. But he must not. He rose -and touched her shoulder. - -“I’m going, my dear. It’s nearly time for Adoration. I shan’t come back -next Sunday—and later, next year, I’ll be going away ... don’t fret ... -it’ll all be quite easy.” - -It wasn’t easy now. She held out one hand without lifting her head, and -for a moment they held each other’s hands in a fierce clasp of farewell. -He felt her hot, moist palm burning against his, then dropped it quickly -and went out. - -So that was the end. He had finished it. But Stella herself had taught -him that one did not so easily finish love. He supposed that he would go -on loving her as she had gone on loving Peter. - -It was a quarter to four as he went into church. Quietly and -methodically he lit the candles for Devotions, and watched the slight -congregation assemble in the drowsy warmth of the September afternoon. -He could not feel acutely—he could not even turn in his sorrow to the -Sacred Victim on the Altar, whose adoration brought the children’s -service to a close. - - “O Sacred Victim, opening wide - The gate of heaven to men below ...” - -The well-known words rose out of the shadows of the aisles behind him. -They bruised his heart with their familiar sweetness. - - “Our foes press round on every side, - Thine aid supply, thy strength bestow.” - -The candles that jigged in the small draughts of the sanctuary blurred -into a cloud of rising incense, and then more thickly into a cloud of -unshed tears. He fought them back, ashamed. He was beginning to feel -again, and he would rather not feel—like this. It was intolerable, this -appeal to his bruised emotion—it was like compelling him to use a -wounded limb. He felt as if he could not bear any more of the wan, -lilting music, the faint, sweet voices of the faithful, the perfumed -cloud that rose like smoke before the altar and then hung among the -gilding and shadows of the chancel roof. And now the virile tenor of the -Priest seemed to bring a definitely sexual element into the tender -dream.... What was this he was saying about love?... - -“O God, who has prepared for them that _love_ thee, such good things as -pass man’s understanding, pour into our hearts such _love_ towards thee, -that we, _loving_ thee above all things....” - - - § 23 - -The clear pale sunlight of late October glittered on the River -Tillingham, and seemed to be all light. No warmth was in the evening -ray, and Jenny’s woollen scarf was muffled to her throat as she came to -the Mocksteeple. From far off she had seen the tall figure waiting -beside the kiln. She wondered if he would hear her footsteps in the -grass, or whether till she had called his name he would stand looking -away towards where the light was thickening at the river’s mouth. - -Her feet made a sucking noise in the ground which was spongy with autumn -rains. He turned towards her and immediately held out his arms. - -“My lovely....” - -She was enfolded. - -His warmth and strength made her think of the earth, and there was a -faint scent of earth about him as she hid her face on his breast. There -was also that smell of the clean straw of stables which she had noticed -when she first met him. She rubbed her cheek childishly and fondly -against the roughness of his coat then lifted her mouth for his slow, -hard kisses.... “My lovely—oh, my lovely.” - -“How long can you stay?” he asked her a few minutes later, when they had -huddled down together under the wall of the Mocksteeple, from which came -a faint radiation of warmth, as the tar gave out the heat it had -absorbed during the day. - -“Not very long, I’m afraid, Benjie. There are people coming to dinner -tonight, and I’ll have to be back in good time. But we must fix about -Monday. I’ve already told them I’m going up to town for a day’s -shopping, and I’ve written to a friend to choose me a couple of frocks -at Debenham’s and send them down—to make the lie hold water. I’m afraid -I’m getting quite a resourceful liar.” - -“But you _are_ going shopping, dear.” - -“Yes, but I can’t tell them it’s furniture, stupid. Oh, Ben, won’t it be -wildly exciting choosing things for Fourhouses! But we mustn’t be -extravagant, and you’ve got some lovely bits already.” - -“I want you to have the whole house to please you—nothing in it that you -don’t like.” - -“I like everything except the parlour, and those iron bedsteads they -have upstairs. We’ll want some chests too, to use instead of the -washstands. Then Fourhouses will be perfect inside and out.” - -“You have real taste—that’s what you have,” he said admiringly. - -“It’s so dear of you to give me what I want.” - -“It’s my wedding-present to you, sweetheart; and Mother and the girls -are giving you sheets and table linen, so reckon we’ll be well set up in -our housekeeping.” - -She drowsed against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his -knees. He put his mouth to her ear. - -“My sweet,” he murmured—“my little sweet—when is it going to be?” - -“I’ve told you, Ben. At the beginning of January.” - -“That’s your faithful word?” - -“My faithful word.” - -“I’m glad—for oh, my dearest, it seems I’ve waited long enough.” - -“It won’t seem so very long now—and, Ben, I’ve made up my mind about one -thing. I’m not going to tell the family till it’s all over.” - -“You’re not!” - -“No—because if I told them before it happened they’d try to stop it; and -though they couldn’t stop it, it would be a nuisance having them try.” - -“Does your brother agree with this?” - -“It was he that suggested it.” - -“Well, I’ve a great respect for that brother of yours. But, sweetheart, -it seems so dreadful, us marrying on the quiet, when I’m so proud of you -and ud like to hold you before all the world.” - -“You shall hold me before all the world—after our marriage. But there’s -no good having a row with the parents, especially as they’re old. It’ll -be bad enough for them anyhow, but I think they’ll take it easier if -they know it’s too late to do anything.” - -He acquiesced, as he usually did, for he respected her judgment, and his -natural dignity taught him to ignore this contempt of Alard for Godfrey. -The rest of their short time together must not be spoiled by discussion. -Once more he drew her close, and his kisses moved slowly from her -forehead to her eyes, from her eyes to her cheeks, then at last to her -mouth. His love-making gave her the thrill of a new experience, for she -knew what a discovery and a wonder it was to him. It was not stale with -repetition, distressed with comparison, as it was to so many men—as it -was to herself. She felt a stab of remorse, a regret that she too was -not making this adventure for the first time. She was younger than he, -and yet beside him she felt shabby, soiled.... She strained him to her -heart in an agony of tender possession. Oh, she would make his adventure -worth while—he should not be disappointed in experience. They would -explore the inmost heart of love together. - - - § 24 - -Jenny was glad that the numbers in the drawing-room made it unnecessary -for her to sit down to cards. She and Rose Alard had both cut out, and -as Rose liked to sit and watch the play, Jenny felt she had an excuse to -mutter something about “having one or two things to see to,” and escape -from the room. She wanted to be alone if only for half an hour, just to -savour again in memory the comfort of her lover’s arms, his tender -breathing, the warmth of his kisses and the darkness of his embrace. She -shut her eyes and heard him say “My lovely ... oh, my lovely!” - -A full moon was spilling her light over the garden, and instinctively -Jenny turned out of doors. She had put on her fur coat, and the still, -moon-dazzled night was many degrees from frost. In the garden she would -be sure of solitude, and at the same time would not be without the -response of nature, so necessary to her mood. “One deep calleth -another,” and her heart in its new depth of rapture called to the moon -and trees and grass, and received from them an answer which those -self-absorbed human beings, crowded over cards, could never give. - -She walked to and fro on the wide path beside the tennis lawn then -turned into the darkness of the shrubbery, threading her way through -moon-spattered arbutus and laurel till she came to a little garden-house -which had been built in the reign of Queen Anne. It had the -characteristics of its age—solid brick walls, high deepset windows, and -a white pediment which now gleamed like silver in the light of the moon. -It had been built by the non-juring Gervase Alard, and here he had -studied after his deprivation of the Vicarage of Leasan, and written -queer crabbed books on a revised liturgy and on reunion with the Eastern -Church. No one ever worked in it now, and it contained nothing but a -bench and a few dilapidated garden chairs—it would hold only just enough -warmth for her to sit down and rest. - -To her surprise she found it was not empty; a movement startled her as -she crossed the threshold, and the next moment she discovered Gervase, -leaning back in one of the chairs. He was just a blot of shadow in the -deeper darkness, except where his face, hands and shirt front caught the -moonshine in ghostly patches of white. - -“Hullo, Gervase—I’d no notion you’d come here.” - -He had left the drawing-room before coffee was brought in. - -“I’ve been strolling about and got rather cold.” - -“Same here. Is there a whole chair beside you?” - -At first she had been sorry to find him and had meant to go away, but -now she realised that he was the only person whose company would not be -loss. - -“If not, there’s one under me, and you shall have that.... Ah, here’s -something luxurious with rockers. Probably you and I are mad, my dear, -to be sitting here. But I felt I simply must run away from the party.” - -“So did I.” - -She sat down beside him. In spite of the ghastly moonlight that poured -over his face, he looked well—far less haggard than he had seemed in the -kinder light a month ago. It struck her that he had looked better ever -since his holiday, and his parting from Stella Mount, which he had told -her of a few days after it happened. He had had a bad time, she knew, -but he seemed to have come through it, and to have found a new kind of -settlement. As she looked at him more closely in the revealing light, -she saw that his mouth was perhaps a little too set, and that there were -lines between nose and chin which she had not noticed before. He looked -happy, but he also looked older. - -“And how goes it, my dear?” he asked. - -“Well, Gervase—extremely well.” - -She was too shy of intimate things to enquire how it went with him. - -“I saw Ben this afternoon,” she continued, “and I told him what you and -I thought about not telling the parents till afterwards.” - -“And did he agree?” - -“Yes, he agreed. I really think he’s been wonderful about it all—when -you consider how he must feel....” - -“He’s got some sense of proportion—he’s not going to let his love be -spoilt by family pride. Jenny, if I’ve learnt anything in these first -years of my grown-up life, it is that love must come before everything -else.” - -She was surprised at this from him. - -“You would put it before religion?” - -“Religion is the fulfilment of love.” - -She repelled the awkward feelings which invariably oppressed her at the -mention of such things. She wanted to know more of this young brother of -hers, of the conflicts in which he triumphed mysteriously. - -“Gervase, I wish I understood you better. I can’t make out how it is -that you, who’re so modern and even revolutionary in everything else, -should be so reactionary in your religion. Why do you follow tradition -there, when you despise it in other things.” - -“Because it’s a tradition which stands fast when all the others are -tumbling down. It’s not tradition that I’m out against, but all the -feeble shams and conventions that can’t stand when they’re shaken.” - -“But does religion stand? I thought it was coming down like everything -else.” - -“Some kinds are. Because they’re built on passing ideas instead of on -unchanging instincts. But Catholic Christianity stands fast because it -belongs to an order of things which doesn’t change. It’s made of the -same stuff as our hearts. It’s the supernatural satisfaction of all our -natural instincts. It doesn’t deal with abstractions, but with everyday -life. The sacraments are all common things—food, drink, marriage, birth -and death. Its highest act of worship is a meal—its most sacred figures -are a dying man, and a mother nursing her child. It’s traditional in the -sense that nature and life are traditional....” - -It was many months since she had heard him talk like this. It reminded -her of the old days when they were both at school, and he had brought -her all his ideas on men and things, all his latest enthusiasms and -discoveries. - -“Jenny,” he continued, “I believe that we’ve come to the end of false -traditions—to the ‘removing of those things which are shaken, that those -things which cannot be shaken may remain.’” - -“Is there anything besides religion which can’t be shaken?” - -“Yes—my dear, the earth. The land will still be there though the Squires -go, just as the faith will still be there though the Parsons go. The -Parson and the Squire will go, and their places will be taken by the -Yeoman and the Priest who were there before them.” - -“Go back to the Middle Ages?” - -“Lord, no! Too much has happened since then. We’ve got industry and -machinery and science—we can’t go back to sack and maypoles. What I mean -is that, instead of the country being divided among a few big landlords -who don’t and can’t farm their own land, it will be divided into a lot -of small farms of manageable size. Instead of each country parish being -in the charge of a small country gentleman who has to keep up state on -an income of two hundred a year, and is cut off from his parishioners by -his social position and the iron gates of his parsonage, there’ll be a -humble servant living among them as one of themselves, set above them -only by his vocation. It’ll be a democracy which will have the best of -aristocracy kept alive in it. The Parson and the Squire don’t belong to -any true aristocracy—they’re Hanoverian relics—and they’re going, and -I’m glad.” - -“Yes, I think they’re going all right, but I can’t feel so glad as you, -because I’m not so sure as to who will take their place. The yeoman -isn’t the only alternative to the squire—there’s also the small-holder -and the garden-city prospector. As for the parson—I don’t know much -about church affairs, but I should think he’s just as likely to lose the -spiritual side of himself as the material, and we’ll have men that -aren’t much better than relieving officers or heads of recreation -clubs.” - -“Don’t try and burst my dream, Jenny. It’s a very good sort of dream, -and I like to think it will come true. And I know it will come true in a -sense, though possibly in a sense which will be nonsense to most people. -That’s a way some of the best dreams have.” - -He was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Perhaps he was thinking of -another Gervase Alard, who had long ago sat where he sat, and dreamed a -dream which had not come true. - -“But don’t let’s have any more of me and my dreams,” he said after a -while. “Talk to me about Ben. We started talking about him, you know, -and then drifted off into Utopia. I should think that was a good sign.” - -“I’m meeting him in London on Monday to do some shopping.” - -“What are you going to buy?” - -“Furniture. I want to pick up one or two really nice old pieces for -Fourhouses. They’re to be his wedding-present to me. First of all we’ll -go to Duke Street, and then to Puttick and Simpson’s in the afternoon.” - -“Are you going to refurnish the house?” - -“No, only get rid of one or two abominations. I had thought of doing up -the Best Parlour, but now I’ve decided to let that stand. If I’m to be a -farmer’s wife I must get used to the Family Bible and aspidistras and -wool mats.” - -“I think you’re wise. It’s just as well not to try to alter more of his -life than you can help.” - -“I don’t want to alter his life. I’m quite persuaded that his life is -better than mine. And as for him not having our taste, or rather a -different kind of bad taste from what we’ve got—it doesn’t matter. I’ve -made up my mind I must take Ben as he comes and as a whole, and not try -to ignore or alter bits of him. I’m going to do the thing properly—make -his friends my friends, pour out tea for the old ladies of Icklesham, -ask the farmers who call round on business to stay to dinner or supper, -go to see them at their farms and make friends with their wives. I know -I can do it if only I do it thoroughly and don’t make any reservations. -Of course I’ll go on being friends with our set if they’ll let me, but -if they won’t, it’s they who’ll have to go and not the others. Gervase, -I’m sick of Jenny Alard, and I’m thankful that she’s going to die early -next year, and a new creature called Jenny Godfrey take her place.” - -“My dear, you’re going to be very happy.” - -“I know I am. I’m going to be the only happy Alard.” - -“The only one?” - -“Yes—look at the others. There’s Doris, a dreary middle-aged spinster, -trodden on by both the parents, and always regretting the lovers she -turned down because they weren’t good enough for the family. There’s -Mary, living alone in private hotels and spending all her money on -clothes; there’s Peter, who’s married a rich girl who’s too clever for -him, and who—worst of all—thinks he’s happy and has become conventional. -No—I can’t help it—I pity them all.” - -“And what about me, Jenny? You’ve left me out. Do you pity me?” - -She had ignored him deliberately—perhaps because she did not quite know -where to place him. - -“O Gervase, I hope you’ll be happy—I’m sure you will, because you’re -different from the rest.” - -“Yes, I’m sure too. I’m going to be happy—as happy as you. I don’t quite -know how”—and he gave her a wry smile—“but I know that I shall be.” - - - - - _PART IV_ - STARVECROW - - - § 1 - -“Father,” said Stella Mount—“I’m afraid I must go away again.” - -“Go away, child? Why?” - -“I—I can’t fall out of love with Peter.” - -“But I thought you’d fallen out of love with him long ago.” - -“Yes—I thought so too. But I can’t have done it really, or if I did I -must have fallen in again. I’m frightfully sorry about it ... leaving -you a second time, just because I’m not strong-minded enough to.... But -it’s no use.... I can’t help....” - -“Don’t worry, dear. If you’re unhappy you shall certainly go away. But -tell me what’s happened. How long have you been feeling like this?” - -“Ever since I knew Peter still cared.” - -“Peter!—he hasn’t said anything to you, has he?” - -“Oh, no—not a word. But I could see—I could see he was jealous of -Gervase.” - -“How could he possibly be jealous of Gervase?” - -“He was. I met him one day in Icklesham street, and he congratulated -me ... he said someone had told him Gervase and I were engaged....” - -“The idea!—a boy six years younger than yourself!” - -“Yes, I know. I never took him seriously—that was my mistake. Peter was -ever so worked up about it, and when I told him it wasn’t true he seemed -tremendously relieved. And every time I’ve met him since his manner’s -been different. I can’t describe it, but he’s been sort of shy and -hungry—or else restless and a bit irritable; and for a long time I could -see he was still jealous—and it worried me; I felt I couldn’t bear doing -anything Peter didn’t like, and I was wild at people talking, and -upsetting him, so I pushed off poor Gervase and became cold and -unfriendly.” - -“Is that why he’s given up coming here on Sundays?” - -“No—not exactly. We had rather a scene when he last came, just before -his holiday, and he said he wouldn’t come back. You see he cares, -Father—he cares dreadfully. I’m ever so sick with myself for not having -realised it. I was so wrapped up in Peter.... I thought it was only a -rave, like what the Fawcett boy had—but now I’m sure he really cares, -and it must be terrible for him. That’s why I want to go away, for I’ll -never be able to care for anyone else while I feel for Peter as I do.” - -“But, my dear, it’s just as well you shouldn’t fall in love with -Gervase. He’s a nice boy, but he’s much too young.” - -“Yes, I know—it isn’t that. It’s being sure that however much he was the -right age I couldn’t have cared—not because of anything lacking in -him—but because of what’s lacking in me ... because of all that I’ve -given to Peter, and that Peter can’t take.... Oh, Father, I’ve made some -discoveries since Gervase went. I believe I refused Tom Barlow because -of Peter. The reason I’m single now is because for years I’ve been in -love with a man I can’t have. And that’s wrong—I know it’s wrong. It -sounds ‘romantic’ and ‘faithful’ and all that—but it isn’t really—it’s -wrong. Not because Peter’s a married man, but because I’m an unmarried -woman. He’s keeping me unmarried, and I ought to get married—I don’t -like Spinsters—and I know I was meant to be married.” - -“So do I; and I’m sure that one day you will be.” - -“But I can’t fall in love with anyone while I love Peter ... that’s why -I must go away. I ought to go somewhere really far, out of the country -perhaps. I feel dreadful leaving you, daddy, but I know I must go. It’s -even more necessary than it was the first time. And there’s no good -saying I could help Peter if I stayed—I don’t help him—I can see that I -only make him unhappy; I’m not cold enough to be able to help him. A -calm strong dignified woman might be able to help him, but I’m not that -sort. I want his love, his kisses, his arms round me.... I want to -give.... O Father, Father....” - -She sobbed breathlessly, her face hidden in the back of her chair. Dr. -Mount stood beside her in silence; then he touched her gently and said— - -“Don’t cry like that my dear—don’t—I can’t bear it. You shall go -away—we’ll both go away. I’ve been in this place twenty years, and it’s -time I moved on.” - -“But you don’t want to go, and you mustn’t. You’re happy here, and I’d -never forgive myself if you left because of me.” - -“I’d like to see a bit more of the world before I retire. This isn’t the -first time I’ve thought of a move, and if you want to go away, that -settles it. I might get a colonial practice....” - -Stella thought of some far away country with flat roofs and dust and a -devouring sun, she thought of hundreds of miles of forest and desert and -ocean lying between her and Peter, and her tears were suddenly dried up -as with the hot breath of that far land. Dry sobs tore her throat, as -she clutched the back of the chair. She pushed her father away— - -“Go, dear—don’t stay—when I’m like this.” - -He understood her well enough to go. - -For a few seconds she sobbed on, then checked herself, and perfunctorily -wiped her eyes. The four o’clock sun of early November was pouring into -the room, showing all its dear faded homeliness, giving life to the -memories that filled it. Long ago Peter had sat in that chair—she had -sat on the arm ... she seemed to feel his warm hand on her cheek as he -held her head down to his shoulder. O Peter, Peter—why had he left her -when he loved her so?... Oh, yes, she knew he had treated her badly, and -had only himself to blame. But that didn’t make her love him less. She -felt now that she had been in love with him the whole time—all along—all -through and since their parting. All the time that she thought she was -indifferent, and was happy in her busy life—driving the car, seeing her -friends, talking and writing to Gervase, cooking and sewing and going to -church, wearing pretty frocks at the winter dances and summer -garden-parties—all that time her love for Peter was still alive, growing -and feeding itself with her life. It had not died and been buried as she -had thought but had entered a second time into its mother’s womb to be -born. She had carried it secretly, as a mother carries her child in her -womb, nourishing it with her life, and now it was born—born again—with -all the strength of the twice-born. - - - § 2 - -It would be difficult to say how the rumour got abroad in Vinehall and -Leasan that the Mounts were going away. It may have been servants’ -gossip, or the talk of some doctor come down to view the practice. But, -whatever the source, the story was in both villages at the end of the -month, and in the first week of December Rose Alard brought it to -Starvecrow. - -She had come to have tea with Vera, and Peter was there too. Vera was -within three months of the heir, and displayed her condition with all -the opulence of her race. Not even her purple velvet tea-gown could hide -lines reminiscent of Sarah’s and Hannah’s exulting motherhood. Her very -features seemed to have a more definitely Jewish cast—she was now no -longer just a dark beauty, but a Hebrew beauty, heir of Rebecca and -Rachel and Miriam and Jael. As Jenny had once said, one expected her to -burst into a song about horses and chariots. She had for the time lost -those intellectual and artistic interests which distinguished her from -the other Alards. She no longer seemed to care about her book, for which -she had so far been unable to find a publisher, but let it lie forgotten -in a drawer, while she worked at baby clothes. Nevertheless she was -inclined to be irritable and snap at Peter, and Peter himself seemed -sullen and without patience. Rose watched him narrowly—“He’s afraid it’s -going to be a girl.” - -Aloud she said— - -“Have you heard that the Mounts are leaving Vinehall?” - -Her news caused all the commotion she could have wished. - -“The Mounts leaving!”—“When?”—“Why?”—“Both of them?” - -“Yes, both. I heard it at the Hursts; they seemed quite positive about -it, and you know they’re patients.” - -“But where are they going?” asked Vera. - -“That I don’t know—yet. The Hursts said something about a colonial -appointment.” - -“I’m surprised, I must say. Dr. Mount’s getting old, and you’d think -he’d want to stay on here till he retired—not start afresh in a new -place at his age.” - -“If you ask me, it’s Miss Stella’s doing. She’s lived here nearly all -her life and hasn’t got a husband, so she thinks she’ll go and try -somewhere else before it’s too late.” - -“Then they’d certainly better go to the Colonies—there are no men left -in England. But I’m sorry for Dr. Mount.” - -“I suppose you know it’s all over between her and Gervase?” - -“Oh, is it—at last?” - -“Yes—he hasn’t been there since his holiday in September. He has his -dinner on Sundays either at the Church Farm or alone with Mr. Luce.” - -“Rose, how do you find out all these things?” - -“The Wades told me this. They say she’s been looking awful.” - -“Peter!” cried Vera irritably, as a small occasional table went to the -ground. - -“No harm done,” he mumbled, picking it up. - -“But you’re so clumsy. You’re always knocking things over....” She -checked herself suddenly, pleating angry folds in her gown. - -Peter got up and went out. - -“I’m glad he’s gone,” said Rose—“it’s much easier to talk without a man -in the room. I really do feel sorry for Stella—losing her last chance of -becoming Lady Alard.” - -“You think it’s Gervase who’s cooled off, not she who’s turned him -down?” - -“Oh, she’d never do that. She’s much too keen on getting married.” - -“Well, so I thought once. But I’m not so sure now. I used to think she -was in love with Gervase, but now I believe she only kept him on as a -blind.” - -“To cover what?” - -“Peter.” - -“You mean....” - -“That they’ve been in love with each other the whole time.” - -“Vera!” - -Excitement at the disclosure was mingled in Rose’s voice with -disappointment that she had not been the one to make it. - -“Yes,” continued her sister-in-law in a struggling voice—“they’ve always -been in love—ever since he married me—ever since he gave her up. They’ve -never been out of it—I know it now.” - -“But I always thought it was all on her side.” - -“Oh, no, it wasn’t. Peter was infatuated with her, for some strange -reason—she doesn’t seem to me at all the sort of girl a man of his type -would take to. Being simple himself, you’d think he’d like something -more sophisticated.” - -“But Stella is sophisticated—she’s artful. Look how she got Gervase to -change his religion, and break his poor brother’s heart. I often think -that it was Gervase’s religion which killed poor George, and Stella was -responsible for that. She may have pretended to be in love with him just -to get him over. You see she can be forgiven anything she does by just -going to confession.” - -“Well, she needs forgiveness now if she never did before. So it’s just -as well she knows where to get it.” - -“But, Vera, do you really think there’s anything—I mean anything wicked -between them?” - -“I don’t know what you call wicked, Rose, if keeping a man’s affections -away from his wife who’s soon going to have her first child ... if that -isn’t enough for you.... No, I don’t suppose he’s actually slept with -her”—Vera liked shocking Rose—“She hasn’t got the passion or the spunk -to go so far. But it’s bad enough to know Peter’s heart isn’t mine just -when I need him most—to know he only married me just to put the estate -on its legs, and now is bitterly regretting it”—and Vera began to cry. - -“But how do you know he’s regretting it? He doesn’t go about with -Stella, I can tell you that. I’d be sure to have heard if he did.” - -“No, I daresay he doesn’t go about with her. I shouldn’t mind if he did, -if only his manner was the same to me. But it isn’t—every time we’re -together I can see he doesn’t love me any more. He may have for a bit—he -did, I know—but Stella got him back, and now every time he looks at me I -can see he’s regretting he ever married me. And if the baby’s a girl ... -my only justification now is that I may be the mother of an heir ... if -the baby’s a girl, I hope I’ll die. Oh, I tell you, Stella may be Lady -Alard yet.” - -She threw herself back among the cushions and sobbed unrestrainedly. -Rose felt a thrill. She had always looked upon Vera as a superior being, -remote from the commonplaces of existence in Leasan; and here she was -behaving like any other jealous woman. - -“Oh, I wish I’d never married,” sobbed Vera—“at least not this sort of -marriage. My life’s dull—my husband’s dull—my only interests are bearing -his children and watching his affair with another woman. I’m sick of the -County families—they’ve got no brains, they’ve got no guts—I’d much -better have married among my own people. They at least are alive.” - -Rose was shocked. However, she valiantly suppressed her feelings, and -patted the big olive shoulder which had shrugged abandonedly out of the -purple wrappings. - -“Don’t worry, dear,” she soothed—“you’re upset. I’m sure Peter’s all -right. It’s often rather trying for men in times like these ...” she -heaved on the edge of an indelicate remark ... “so they notice other -women more. But I’m quite sure there’s nothing really wrong between him -and Stella; because if there was,” she added triumphantly, “Stella -wouldn’t be going away.” - -“Oh, wouldn’t she!” - -“No, of course not. I expect she’s going only because she knows now -definitely that she’ll never get Peter back.” - -“Nonsense.” - -“It isn’t nonsense, dear. Don’t be so cross.” - -“I’m sorry, Rose, but I’m ... anyhow Dr. Mount can’t go before I’m -through, and that’s three months ahead. I’ve half a mind not to have him -now. I feel sick of the whole family.” - -“That would be very silly of you, Vera. Dr. Mount’s the best doctor -round here for miles, and it would only be spiting yourself not to have -him. After all he’s not responsible for Stella’s behaviour.” - -“No, I suppose not. Oh, I daresay I’m an ass, going on like this.” - -She sat up, looking more like the author of “Modern Rhymes.” Rose, who -had always been a little afraid of her, now had the privileged thrill of -those who behold the great in their cheaper moments. - -“You’ll be all right, dear,” she said meaningly “in three months’ time.” - -“All right, or utterly done in. O God, why can’t someone find out a way -of deciding the sex of children? I’d give all I possess and a bit over -to be sure this is going to be a boy. Not that I want a boy myself—I -like girls much better—but I don’t want to see Peter go off his head or -off with Stella Mount.” - -“I don’t believe she’s got a single chance against you once you’re -yourself again. Even now I could bet anything that it’s all on her -side.” - -“She’s got no chance against me as a woman, but as an Ancient Habit she -can probably do a lot with a man like Peter. But I’m not going to worry -about her any more—I’ve given way and made an utter fool of myself, and -it’s done me good, as it always does. Rose, you promise not to say a -word of this to anyone.” - -“Of course I won’t. But I might try to get at the facts....” - -“For God’s sake don’t. You’ll only make a mess.” - -As she revived she was recovering some old contempt for her -sister-in-law. - - - § 3 - -The post arrived just as Stella was setting out with the car one day -early the next month to meet her father in Ashford. He had been in -Canterbury for a couple of days, attending a dinner and some meetings of -the Medico-Chirurgical Society, and this afternoon she was to meet him -at Ashford Station and drive him home. She was in plenty of time, so -when she saw Gervase’s writing on the envelope handed to her, she went -back into the house and opened it. - -It was now three months since she had spoken to Gervase or heard -anything directly from him. He still came over to Vinehall on Sundays -and to certain early masses in the week, but he never called at Dr. -Mount’s cottage, nor had she seen him out of church, not heard his voice -except in dialogue with the Priest—“I will go unto the Altar of God” ... -“Even unto the God of my joy and gladness”.... - -She wondered what he could have to say to her now. Perhaps he had -recovered, and was coming back. She would be pleased, for she missed his -company—also it would be good to have his letters when she was out in -Canada.... But Stella knew what happened to people who “recovered” and -“came back,” and reflected sadly that it would be her duty to discourage -Gervase if he thought himself cured. - -But the letter did not contain what she expected. - - Conster Manor - Leasan. - Sussex. - - “Jan. 2, 1922 - “_My dear Stella_, - - “I’m writing to tell you something rather funny which has happened to - me. I don’t mean that I’ve fallen out of love with you—I never shall - and don’t want to. But I’m going to do something with my love which I - never expected. - - “You know that in September, I went ‘into retreat’ for four days at - Thunders Abbey. I was sure I’d hate it—and so I did in a way—but when - I’d got there I saw at once that it was going to be more important - than I’d thought. At first I thought it was just a dodge of Father - Luce’s for making me uncomfortable—you know he looks upon me as a - luxury-loving young aristocrat, in need of constant mortification. I - don’t know what it was exactly that made me change—it was partly, I - think, the silence, and partly, I know, the Divine Office. At the end - of my visit I knew that Office as the great work of prayer, and - Thunders Abbey as just part of that heart of prayer which keeps the - world alive. And, dear, I knew that my place was in that heart. I - can’t describe to you exactly what I felt—and I wouldn’t if I could. - But you’re a Catholic, so you won’t think I’m talking nonsense when I - say that I feel I belong there, or, in plainer language, that I have a - vocation. You don’t believe that vocations come only to priggish - maidens and pious youth, but much more often to ordinary healthy, - outdoor people like you and me. Of course I know that even you will - think (as Father Luce and the Father Superior have thought) that my - vocation may possibly be another name for disappointment in love. I’ve - thought it myself, but I don’t believe it. Anyhow it’s at last been - settled that I’m going to be allowed to try. As soon as I’ve finished - at Gillingham’s I shall go. You know the Community, of course. It’s an - order for work among the poor, and has houses in London, Birmingham - and Leeds. At Thunders Abbey there’s a big farm for drunkards, - epileptics, idiots, and other pleasant company. I’d be useful there, - as they’ve just started motor traction, but I don’t know where they’ll - send me. Of course I may come out again; but I don’t think so. One - knows a sure thing, Stella, and I never felt so sure about anything as - about this—and it’s all the more convincing, because I went in without - a thought of it. I expect you will be tremendously surprised, but I - know you won’t write trying to dissuade me, and telling me all the - good I could do outside by letting out taxis for hire and things like - that. You dear! I feel I owe everything to you—including this new - thing which is so joyful and so terrifying. For I’m frightened a - bit—I’m not just going in because I like it—I don’t know if I do. And - yet I’m happy. - - “Don’t say a word to anyone, except your father. I must wait till the - time is ripe to break the news to my family, and then, I assure you, - the excitement will be intense. But I felt I must write and tell you - as soon as I knew definitely they’d let me come and try, because you - are at the bottom of it all—I don’t mean as a disappointment in love, - but as the friend who first showed me the beauty of this faith which - makes such demands on us. Stella, I’m glad you brought me to the faith - before I’d had time to waste much of myself. It’s lovely to think that - I can give Him all my grown-up life. I can never pay you back for what - you’ve done, but I can come nearest to it by taking my love for you - into this new life. My love for you isn’t going to die, but it’s going - to become a part of prayer. - - “May I come and see you next Sunday? I thought I would write and tell - you about things first, for now you know you won’t feel there are any - embarrassments or regrets between us. Dear Stella, I think of you such - a lot, and I’m afraid you must still be unhappy. But I know that this - thing I am going to do will help you as much as me. Perhaps, too, some - day I shall be a Priest—though I haven’t thought about that yet—and - then I shall be able to help you more. Oh my dear, it isn’t every man - who’s given the power to do so much for the woman he loves. I bless - you, my dear, and send you in anticipation one of those free kisses we - shall all give one another in Paradise.” - - “GERVASE. - - P.S. There is a rumour that you are going away, but as I can’t trace - its succession back further than Rose, I pronounce it of doubtful - validity. - - P.P.S. Dear, please burn this—it’s more than a love-letter. - - P.P.P.S. I hope I haven’t written like a prig.” - -Stella let the letter fall into her lap. She was surprised. Somehow she -had never thought of Gervase as a religious; she had never thought of -him except as a keen young engineer—attractive, self-willed, eccentric, -devout. His spiritual development had been so like hers—and she, as she -knew well, had no vocation to the religious life—that she was surprised -now to find such an essential difference. But her surprise was glad, for -though she brushed aside his words of personal gratitude, she felt the -thrill of her share in the adventure, and a conviction that it would be -for her help as well as for his happiness. Moreover, this new -development took away the twinges of self-reproach which she could not -help feeling when she thought of her sacrifice of his content to Peter’s -jealousy. - -But her chief emotion was a kind of sorrowful envy. She envied Gervase -not so much the peace of the cloister—not so much the definiteness of -his choice—as his freedom. He was free—he had made the ultimate -surrender and was free. She knew that he had now passed beyond her, -though she had had a whole youth of spiritual experience and practice -and he barely a couple of years. He was beyond her, not because of his -vocation, but because of his freedom. His soul had escaped like a bird -from the snare, but hers was still struggling and bound. - -She would never feel for Peter as Gervase felt for her. Her utmost hope -was, not to carry her love for him into a new, purged state, but to -forget him—if she aimed at less she was deceiving herself, forgetting -the manner of woman she was. She had not Gervase’s transmuting -ecstasy—nor could she picture herself giving Peter “free kisses” in a -Paradise where flesh and blood had no inheritance. Her loves would -always be earthly—she would meet her friends in Paradise, but not her -lovers. - - - § 4 - -Well, there was no time for reflection, either happy or sorrowful—she -must start off for Ashford, or her father would be kept waiting. Once -again, after many times, she experience the relief of practical action. -Her disposition was eminently practical, and the practical things of -love and life and religion—kisses and meals and sacraments—were to her -the realities of those states. A lover who did not kiss and caress you, -a life which was based on plain living and high thinking, a religion -without good outward forms for its inward graces, were all things which -Stella’s soul would never grasp. - -So she went out to the little “tenant’s fixture” garage, filled the -Singer’s tank and cranked her up, and drove off comforted a little in -her encounter with life’s surprises. The day was damp and mild. There -was a moist sweetness in the air, and the scent of ploughed and -rain-soaked earth. Already the spring sowings had begun, and the slow -teams moved solemnly to and fro over the January fields. Surely, thought -Stella, ploughing was the most unhurried toil on earth. The plough came -to the furrow’s end, and halted there, while men and horses seemed -equally deep-sunk in meditation. Whole minutes later the whip would -crack, and the team turn slowly for the backward furrow. She wouldn’t -like to do a slow thing like that—and yet her heart would ache terribly -when it was all gone, and she would see the great steam ploughs tearing -over the mile-long fields of the West ... she would then think -sorrowfully of those small, old Sussex fields—the oldest in the -world—with their slow ploughing; she would crave all the more for the -inheritance which Peter might have given her among them.... - -She was beginning to feel bad again—and it was a relief to find that the -car dragged a little on the steering, pulling towards the hedge, even -though she knew that it meant a punctured tyre. The Singer always -punctured her tyres like a lady—she never indulged in vulgar bursts, -with a bang like a shot-gun and a skid across the road. Stella berthed -her beside the ditch, and began to jack her up. - -Well, it was a nuisance, seeing that her father would be kept waiting. -But she ought to be able to do the thing in ten minutes ... she wished -she was wearing her old suit, though. She would make a horrible mess of -herself, changing wheels on a dirty day.... The car was jacked up, and -Stella was laying out her tools on the running board when she heard a -horse’s hoofs in the lane. - -It seemed at first merely a malignant coincidence that the rider should -be Peter; yet, after all, the coincidence was not so great when she -reflected that she was now on the lane between Conster and Starvecrow. -She had heard that Peter had lately taken to riding a white horse—it was -all part of the picture he was anxious to paint of himself as Squire. He -would emphasize his Squirehood, since to it he had sacrificed himself as -freeman and lover. - -She had never seen him looking so much the Squire of tradition as he -looked today. He wore a broadcloth coat, corduroy breeches, brown boots -and leggings and a bowler hat. Of late he had rather increased in girth, -and looked full his forty years. Unaccountably this fact stirred up -Stella’s heart into a raging pity—Peter middle-aged and getting stout, -Peter pathetically over-acting his part of country gentleman—it stirred -all the love and pity of her heart more deeply than any figure of -romance and youth. She hoped he would not stop, but considering her -position she knew she was hoping too much. - -He hitched the white horse to the nearest gate and dismounted. They had -not been alone together since the summer, though they had met fairly -often in company, and now she was conscious of a profound embarrassment -and restraint in them both. - -“Have you punctured?” he asked heavily. - -“No, but the tyre has,” said Stella. - -The reply was not like herself, it was part of the new attitude of -defence—a poor defence, since she despised herself for being on guard, -and was therefore weaker. - -“You must let me help you change the wheel.” - -“I can do it myself, quite easily. Don’t bother, Peter—you know I’m used -to these things.” - -“Yes, but it’s dirty work for a woman. You’ll spoil your clothes.” - -She could not insist on refusing. She went to the other side of the car, -where her spare wheel was fastened, and bent desperately over the -straps. She wondered how the next few minutes would pass—in heaviness -and pertness as they had begun, or in technical talk of tyres and nuts -and jacks, or in the limp politeness of the knight errant and distressed -lady. - -The next moment Peter made a variation she had not expected. - -“Stella, is it true that you’re going away?” - -“I—I don’t know. It isn’t settled.... Who told you?” - -“Rose told me—but it can’t be true.” - -“Why not?” - -“Your father surely would never go away at his time of life—and Rose -spoke of the Colonies. He’d never go right away and start afresh like -that.” - -“Father’s heard of a very good billet near Montreal. We haven’t settled -anything yet, but we both feel we’d like a change.” - -“Why?” - -“Well, why shouldn’t we? We’ve been here more than twenty years, and as -for Father being old, he’s not too old to want to see a bit more of the -world.” - -Peter said nothing. He was taking off the wheel. When he had laid it -against the bank he turned once more to Stella. - -“It’s queer how I always manage to hear gossip about you. But it seems -that this time I’m right, while last time I was wrong.” - -“Everyone gets talked about in a little place like this.” - -She tried to speak lightly, but she was distressed by the way he looked -at her. Those pale blue eyes ... Alard eyes, Saxon eyes ... the eyes of -the Old People looking at her out of the Old Country, and saying “Don’t -go away....” - -The next minute his lips repeated what his eyes had said: - -“Don’t go away.” - -She trembled, and stepped back from him on the road. - -“I must go.” - -“Indeed you mustn’t—I can’t bear it any longer if you do.” - -“That’s why I must go.” - -“No—no——” - -He came towards her, and she stepped back further still. - -“Don’t go, Stella. I can’t live here without you.” - -“But, Peter, you must. What good am I doing you here?” - -“You’re here. I know that you’re only a few miles away. I can think of -you as near me. If you went right away....” - -“It would be much better for both of us.” - -“No, it wouldn’t. Stella, it will break me if you go. My only comfort -during the last six hellish months has been that at least you’re not so -very far from me in space, that I can see you, meet you, talk to you now -and then....” - -“But, Peter, that’s what I can’t bear. That’s why I’m going away.” - -Her voice was small and thin with agitation. This was worse, a hundred -times worse, than anything she had dreaded five minutes ago. She prayed -incoherently for strength and sense. - -“If that’s what you feel, you’ve got to stay,” Peter was saying. -“Stella, you’ve shown me—Stella, you still care.... Oh, I’ll own up, -I’ll own that I’ve been a fool, and a blackguard to you. But if you -still care, I can be almost happy. We’ve still something left. Only -you’ll have to stay.” - -“You mustn’t talk like this.” - -“Why not—if you still care? Oh, Stella, say it’s true—say you still -care ... a little.” - -She could not deny her love, even though she was more afraid of his -terrible happiness than she had been before of his despair. To deny it -would be a profaning of something holier than truth. All she could say -was— - -“If I love you, it’s all the more necessary for me to go away.” - -“It’s not. If you love me, I can be to you at least what you are to me. -But if you go away, you’ll be as wretched as I shall be without you.” - -“No ... if I go away, we can forget.” - -“Forget!—What?—each other?” - -“Yes.” - -The word was almost inaudible. She prayed with all her strength that -Peter would not come to her across the road and take her in his arms. -His words she could fight, but not his arms.... - -“Stella—you’re not telling me that you’re going away to forget me?” - -“I must, Peter. And you’ll forget me, too. Then we’ll be able to live -instead of just—loving.” - -“But my love for you is my life—all the life I’ve got.” - -“No—you’ve got Vera, and soon you’ll have your child. When I’ve gone you -can go back to them.” - -“I can’t—you don’t know what you’re talking about. If you think I can -ever feel again for Vera what I felt when I was fool enough——” - -“Oh, don’t....” - -“But I will. Why should you delude yourself, and think I’m just being -unfaithful to my wife? It’s to you I’ve been unfaithful. I was -unfaithful to you with Vera—and now I’ve repented and come back.” - -They faced each other, two yards apart in the little muddy lane. Behind -Peter the three-wheeled car stood forlornly surrounded by tools, while -his horse munched the long soaking tufts under the hedge. Behind Stella -the hedge rose abruptly in a soaring crown. Looking up suddenly, she saw -the delicate twigs shining against a sheet of pale blue sky in a faint -sunlight. For some reason they linked themselves with her mind’s effort -and her heart’s desire. Here was beauty which did not burn.... She -suddenly found herself calm. - -“Peter, dear, there’s no good talking like that. Let’s be sensible. -Rightly or wrongly you’ve married someone else, and you’ve got to stand -by it and so have I. If I stay on here we will only just be -miserable—always hankering after each other, and striving for little -bits of each other which can’t satisfy. Neither of us will be able to -settle down and live an ordinary life, and after all that’s what we’re -here for—not for adventures and big passions, but just to live ordinary -lives and be happy in an ordinary way.” - -“Oh, damn you!” cried Peter. - -It was like the old times when he used to rail against her “sense,” -against the way she always insisted that their love should be no star or -cloud, but a tree, well rooted in the earth. It made it more difficult -for her to go on, but she persevered. - -“You’ve tried the other thing, Peter—you’ve tried sacrificing ordinary -things like love and marriage to things like family pride and the love -of a place. You’ve found it hasn’t worked, so don’t do the whole thing -over again by sacrificing your home and family to a love which can never -be satisfied.” - -“But it can be,” said Peter—“at least it could if you were human.” - -Stella, a little to his annoyance, didn’t pretend not to know what he -meant. - -“No, it couldn’t be—not satisfied. We could only satisfy a part of -it—the desire part—the part which wants home and children would always -have to go unsatisfied, and that’s as strong as the rest, though it -makes less fuss.” - -“And how much satisfaction shall we get through never seeing each other -again?” - -“We shall get it—elsewhere. You will at least be free to go back to -Vera—and you did love her once, you can’t deny it—you did love her once. -And I——” - -“—Will be free to marry another man.” - -“I don’t say that, Peter—though also I don’t say that I won’t. But I -shall be free to live the life of a normal human being again, which I -can’t now. I shan’t be bringing unrest and misery wherever I go—to -myself and to you. Oh, Peter, I know we can save ourselves if we stop -now, stop in time. We were both quite happy last time I was away—I was a -fool ever to come back. I must go away now before it’s too late.” - -“You’re utterly wrong. When you first went away I could be happy with -Vera—I couldn’t now. All that’s over and done with for ever, I tell you. -I can never go back to her, whether you go or stay. It’s nothing to do -with your coming back—it’s her fault—and mine. We aren’t suited, and -nothing can ever bring us together again now we’ve found it out.” - -“Not even the child?...” - -“No—not even that. Besides, how do I know.... Stella, all the things -I’ve sacrificed you to have failed me, except Starvecrow.” - -“You’ve still got Starvecrow.” - -“Yes, but I.... Oh, Stella, don’t leave me alone, not even with -Starvecrow. The place wants you, and when you’re gone I’m afraid.... -Vera doesn’t belong there; it’s your place. Oh, Stella, don’t say you -can live without me, any more than I can live without you.” - -She longed to give him the answer of her heart—that she could never, -never live without him, go without the dear privilege of seeing him, of -speaking to him, of sacrificing to him all other thoughts and loves. But -she forced herself to give him the answer of her head, for she knew that -it would still be true when her heart had ceased to choke her with its -beating. - -“Peter, I don’t _feel_ as if I could live without you, but I _know_ I -can—and I know you can live without me, if I go away. What you’ve said -only shows me more clearly that I must go. I could never stop here now -you know I love you.” - -“And why not?—it’s your damned religion, I suppose—teaching you that -it’s wrong to love—that all that sort of thing’s disgusting, -unspiritual—you’ve got your head stuffed with all the muck a lot of -celibate priests put into it, who think everything’s degrading.” - -She felt the tears come into her eyes. - -“Don’t, my dear. Do you really believe—you who’ve known me—that I think -love is degrading?—or that my religion teaches me to think so? Why, it’s -because all that is so lovely, so heavenly and so good, that it mustn’t -be spoilt—by secrecy and lies, by being torn and divided. Oh, Peter, you -know I love love....” - -“So much that you can apparently shower it on anyone as long as you get -the first victim out of the way.” - -They both turned suddenly, as the jar of wheels sounded up the hill. It -would be agony to have the discussion broken off here, but Stella knew -that she mustn’t refuse any opportunity of ending it. No longer afraid -of Peter’s arms, she crossed swiftly to the dismantled car. - -“Please don’t wait. I can manage perfectly now. Please go, Peter—please -go.” - -“I’ll go only if you promise to see me again before you leave.” - -“Of course I will—I’ll see you again; but you must go now.” - -The wagon of Barline, heavy with crimson roots, was lurching and -skidding down the hill towards them. Peter went to his standing horse, -and rode him off into the field. Stella turned to the car, and, crouched -in its shelter, allowed herself the luxury of tears. - - - § 5 - -She dried her eyes, came up from behind the car, and lost herself in the -sheer labour of putting on the wheel. She was late, she must hurry; she -strove, she sweated, and at last was once more in her seat, the damaged -wheel strapped in its place, all the litter of tools in the dickie. She -switched on the engine, pressed the self-starter pedal, slid the gear -lever into place, and the little car ran forward. Then she realised what -a relief it was to find herself in motion—some weight seemed to lift -from her mind, and her numb thoughts began to move, to run to and fro. -She was alive again. - -But it hurt to be alive. Perhaps one was happier dead. For the thoughts -that ran to and fro were in conflict, they formed themselves into two -charging armies, meeting with horrible impact, terror and wounds. Her -mind was a battle-field, divided against itself, and as usual the -movement of the car seemed to make her thoughts more independent, more -free of her control. They moved to the throb and mutter of the engine, -as to some barbaric battle-music, some monotonous drum. She herself -seemed to grow more and more detached from them. She was no longer -herself—she was two selves—the self that loved Peter and the self that -loved God. She was Stella Mount at prayer in Vinehall church—Stella -Mount curled up on Peter’s knees ... long ago, at Starvecrow—Stella -Mount receiving her soul again in absolution ... Stella Mount loving, -loving, with a heart full of fiery sweetness.... Well, aren’t they a -part of the same thing—love of man and love of God? Yes, they are—but -today there is schism in the body. - -During the last few months love had given her nothing but pain, for she -had seemed to be swallowed up in it, away from the true richness of -life. She had lost that calm, cheerful glow in which all things, even -the dullest and most indifferent, had seemed interesting and worth -while. Love had extinguished it. The difference she saw between religion -and love was that religion shone through all things with a warm, soft -light, making them all friendly and sweet, whereas love was like a -fierce beam concentrated on one spot, leaving the rest of life in -darkness, shining only on one object, and that so blindingly that it -could not be borne. - -She felt a sudden spasm of revolt against the choice forced upon her. -Why should she have to choose between heaven and earth, which she knew -in her heart were two parts of one completeness? Why should God want her -to give up for His sake the loveliest thing that He had made?... Why -should He want her to _burn_? - -Now had come the time, she supposed, when she would have to pay for the -faith which till then had been all joy, which in its warmth and -definiteness had taught her almost too well how to love. It had made her -more receptive, more warm, more eager, and had deprived her of those -weapons of self-interest and pride and resentment which might have armed -her now. Perhaps it was because they knew religion makes such good -lovers that masters of the spiritual life have urged that the -temptations of love are the only ones from which it is allowable to run -away. It was her duty to run away from Peter now, because the only -weapons with which she could fight him were more unworthy than -surrender. With a grimmer, vaguer belief she might have escaped more -easily—she might have seen evil in love, she might have distrusted -happiness and shunned the flesh. But then she would not have been Stella -Mount—she owed her very personality to her faith—she owed it all the -intense joy she had had in human things. Should she stumble at the -price? - -If only the price were not Peter—Peter whom she loved, whom the love of -God had taught her to love more than her heart could ever have compassed -alone. Why must he be sacrificed? After all, she was offering him up to -her own satisfaction—to her anxiety to keep hold of heavenly things. Why -should he be butchered to give her soul a holiday? She almost hated -herself—hated herself for her odious sense, for her cold-blooded -practicalness. She proposed to go away not only so as to be out of -temptation—let her be honest—but so that she could forget him and live -the life of a normal happy woman ... which of course meant some other -man.... No wonder he was disgusted with her—poor, honest, simple, -unsatisfied Peter. She was proposing to desert him, sure of interior -comforts he had never known, and secretly sure that the detestable -adaptability of her nature would not allow her to mourn him long once he -was far away. Oh, Peter—Peter!... “I will give you back the years that -the locust hath eaten—I have it in my power. I can do it—I can give you -back the locust’s years. I can do it still....” - -She could do it still. She could tell her father that she did not want -to go away after all—and he would be glad ... poor Father! He was only -going for her sake. He would be glad to stay on among the places and the -people that he loved. And she ... she could be a good, trusty friend to -Peter, someone he could turn to in his loneliness, who would understand -and help him with his plans for Alard and Starvecrow.... What nonsense -she was talking. Silly hypocrite! Both sides of her, the Stella who -loved Peter and the Stella who loved God, saw the futility of such an -idea. She could never be any man’s friend—least of all Peter’s. If she -stayed, it would be to love Peter, to be all that it was still possible -for her to be to him, all that Vera was and the more that she was not. - -But could she? Had she the power to love Peter with a love unspoilt by -regret? Would she be able to bear the thought of her treachery to the -Lord whose happy child she had been so long?—to His Mother and hers—to -all His friends and hers, the saints—to all the great company of two -worlds whom she would betray? For her the struggle contained no moral -issue. It was simply a conflict between love and love. And all the while -she knew in the depth of her heart that love cannot really be divided, -and that her love of God held and sustained her love of Peter, as the -cloud holds the rain-drop, and the shore the grain of sand. - -The first houses of Ashford slid past, and she saw the many roofs of the -railway-works. Traffic dislocated the strivings of her mind, and in time -her thoughts once more became numb. They lay like the dead on the -battle-field, the dead who would rise again. - - - § 6 - -Gervase came to see Stella, according to promise, the following Sunday. -He found her looking tired and heavy-headed, and able only mechanically -to sustain her interest in his plans. Also he still found her -unapproachable—she was not cold or contrary, but reserved, feeding on -herself. - -He guessed the source of her trouble, but shrank from probing it—keeping -the conversation to his own affairs with an egotism he would normally -have been ashamed of. What he noticed most was the extinction of joy in -her—she had always seemed to him so fundamentally happy, and it was her -profound and so natural happiness which had first attracted him towards -her religion. But now the lamp was out. He was not afraid for her—it did -not strike him that she could possibly fail or drop under her burden; -but his heart ached for her, alone in the Dark Night—that very Dark -Night he himself had come through alone.... Now he stood, also alone, in -a strange dawn which had somehow changed the world, as the fields are -changed in the whiteness of a new day. - -It was not till he got up to go that he dared try to come closer. They -had been talking about the difficulties of the life he had chosen. - -“I’m afraid Christianity’s a hard faith, my dear,” he said as he took -her hand—“the closer you get to the Gospel the harder it is. You’ve no -idea what a shock the Gospels gave me when I read them again last year, -not having looked at them since I was a kid. I was expecting something -rather meek-and-mild, with a gentle, womanly Saviour, and all sorts of -kind and good-natured sentiments. Instead of which I find that the -Kingdom of Heaven is for the violent, while the Lion of Judah roars in -the Temple courts ... He built His Church upon a Rock, and sometimes we -hit that Rock mighty hard.” - -“But I do hope you’ll be happy, Gervase.” - -“I’m sure of that, though whether it will be in a way that will be -easily recognised as happiness I’m not so sure.” - -“When are you going?” - -“It’s not quite settled yet. I leave off at Gillingham’s on the -twenty-fifth, and I expect I’ll go to Thunders early in February. I’ll -come and see you again before then. Goodbye, my dear.” - -He kissed her hand before letting it go. - - - § 7 - -He had said nothing to her about his sister Jenny, though her marriage -was so close as to seem almost more critical than his own departure. He -felt the unfairness of sharing with Stella so difficult a secret, also -he realised that the smaller the circle to which it was confined the -smaller the catastrophe when it was either accidentally discovered or -deliberately revealed. - -About a week before the day actually fixed for the wedding, the former -seemed more likely. Jenny met Gervase on his return from Ashford with a -pale, disconcerted face. - -“Father guesses something’s up,” she said briefly. - -“What?—How?—Has anyone told him?” - -“No—he doesn’t really know anything, thank heaven—at least anything -vital. But he’s heard I was at tea at Fourhouses twice last week. One of -the Dengates called for some eggs, I remember, and she must have told -Rose when Rose was messing about in the village. He’s being heavily -sarcastic, and asking me if I wouldn’t like Mrs. Appleby asked in to -tea, so that I won’t have to walk so far to gratify my democratic -tastes.” - -“But Peter’s had tea with them, too—you told me it was he who introduced -you.” - -“Yes, but that only makes it worse. Peter’s been at me as well—says he’d -never have taken me there if he’d thought I hadn’t a better sense of my -position. He was very solemn about it, poor old Peter.” - -“But of course they don’t suspect any reason.” - -“No, but I’m afraid they will. I’m not likely to have gone there without -some motive—twice, too—and, you see, I’ve been so secret about it, never -mentioned it at home, as I should have done if I’d had tea at Glasseye -or Monkings or anywhere like that. They must think I’ve some reason for -keeping quiet.... I hope they won’t question me, for I’m a bad liar.” - -“You’ll be married in ten days—I don’t suppose they’ll get really -suspicious before that.” - -However, a certain amount of reflection made him uneasy, and after -dinner he drove over to Fourhouses, to discuss the matter with Ben -Godfrey himself. - -When he came back, he went straight up to Jenny’s room—she had gone to -bed early, so as to give her family less time for asking questions. - -“Well, my dear,” he said when she let him in, “I’ve talked it over with -Ben, and we both think that you’ll have to get married at once.” - -“At once!—But can we?” - -“Yes—the law allows you to get married the day after tomorrow. It’ll -cost thirty pounds, but Fourhouses can rise to that, and it’s much -better to get the thing over before it’s found out. Not that anyone -could stop you, but it would be a maddening business if they tried, and -anyhow I think the parents will take it easier if it’s too late to do -anything.” - -“I think you’re quite right—absolutely right. But——” - -“But what?” - -“Oh, nothing—only it seems such a jump, now I’m standing right on the -edge.” - -“You’re not afraid, Jenny?” - -“No—only in the way that everyone’s afraid of a big thing. But you’re -absolutely right. Now there’s a chance of us being found out, we must -act at once. I don’t want to have to tell any lies about Ben. I suppose -he’ll go up to town tomorrow.” - -“Yes, and you and I will follow him the day after. I must see about a -day off. I’m not quite clear as to what one does exactly to get a -special license, but he’ll go to the Court of Faculties and they’ll show -him how. He’s going to wire me at Gillingham’s—lucky I’m still there.” - -“I don’t envy you, Gervase, having to break the news to Father and -Mother.” - -“No, I don’t think it’ll be much fun. But really it will be better than -if you wrote—I can let them down more gently, and they won’t feel quite -so outraged. As for the row—there’ll be one about my own little plan in -a short time, so I may as well get used to them.” - -Jenny said nothing. She had known of Gervase’s “little plan” only for -the last week, and she had for it all the dread and dislike which the -active Englishwoman instinctively feels for the contemplative and -supernatural—reinforced now by the happy lover’s desire to see all the -world in love. The thought of her brother, with all his eager -experimental joy in life, all his profound yet untried capacity for -love, taking vows of poverty and celibacy, filled her with grief and -indignation—she felt that he was being driven by the backwash of his -disappointment over Stella Mount, and blamed “those Priests,” who she -felt had unduly influenced him at a critical time. However, after her -first passionate protest, she had made no effort to oppose him, feeling -that she owed him at least silence for all that he had done to help her -in her own adventure, and trusting to time and recovery to show him his -folly. She was a little reassured by the knowledge that he could not -take his final vows for many years to come. - -He was aware of this one constraint between them, and coming over to her -as she lay in bed, he gave her a kiss. For some unfathomable reason it -stung her, and turning over on her side she burst into tears. - -“Jenny, Jenny darling—don’t cry. Oh, why ... Jenny, if you’ve any -doubts, tell me before it’s too late, and I’ll help you out—I promise. -Anything rather than....” - -“Oh, don’t, Gervase. It isn’t that. Can’t you understand? It’s—oh, I -suppose all women feel like this—not big enough ... afraid....” - - - § 8 - -The wedding had always been planned to take place in London, so it was -merely the time that was being altered. Both Gervase and Jenny had seen, -and Ben Godfrey had been brought reluctantly to see, that to be married -at home would double the risks; so a room had been taken and a bag of -Godfrey’s clothes deposited in a Paddington parish, where the Vicar was -liberal in his interpretation of the laws of residence, and an ordinary -licence procured. The change of plans necessitated a special licence, -and Jenny had to wait till Gervase came home the next evening to know if -all was in order. However, after the shock of its inception, the new -scheme worked smoothly. Jenny came down early the next morning and -breakfasted with Gervase, then drove off in Henry Ford, leaving a -message with Wills that she had gone to London for the day, and her -brother was driving her as far as Ashford. - -Everything was so quiet and matter-of-fact as to seem to her almost -normal—she could not quite realise that she had left her old life behind -her at Conster, even more completely than most brides leaving their -father’s house; that ahead of her was not only all the difference -between single and married, but all the difference between Alard and -Godfrey, Conster and Fourhouses. She was not only leaving her home, but -her class, her customs, her acquaintance. It was not till she was -standing beside Godfrey in a strange, dark church, before a strange -clergyman, that she realised the full strangeness of it all. For a -moment her head swam with terror—she found herself full of a desperate -longing to wake up in her bed at Conster and find it was a dream—she -thought of the catastrophe of Mary’s marriage, and she knew that she was -taking far bigger risks than Mary.... And through all this turmoil she -could hear herself saying quite calmly—“I, Janet Christine, take thee, -Benjamin, to be my wedded husband.” Some mechanical part of her was -going on with the business, while her emotions cowered and swooned. Now -she was signing her name in the register—Janet Christine Godfrey—now she -was shaking hands with the clergyman and answering his inane remarks -with inanities of her own. It was too late to draw back—she had -plunged—Jenny Alard was dead. - -They had lunch at a restaurant in Praed Street, and afterwards Gervase -went with them to Paddington Station and saw them off to Cornwall. They -were not going to be away long, partly on account of Godfrey’s spring -sowings, and partly because Jenny felt that she could not leave her -brother any length of time to stand the racket. She would still have -liked to suppress his share in the business, but Gervase was firm—“It’s -treating them better,” he said, “and, besides, it will help them a lot -to have a scapegoat on the premises.” - -Jenny felt almost sentimental in parting from the little brother, who -had helped her so much in the path she had chosen, and who had taken for -himself so rough and ridiculous a road. She kissed him in the carriage -doorway, made him promise to write to her, and then did her best to put -him out of her head for the first happy hours of the honeymoon. - -Circumstances made this fairly easy. By the time they were at Mullion, -watching the low lamps of the stars hanging over the violet mists that -veiled Poldhu, even Gervase seemed very far away, and the household and -life of Conster Manor almost as if they had never been. Nothing was real -but herself and Ben, alone together in the midst of life, each most -completely the other’s desire and possession. When she looked into his -eyes, full of their new joy and trouble, the husband’s eyes which held -also the tenderness of the father and the simplicity of the child, there -was no longer any past or future, but only the present—“I love.” - -The next day, however, recalled her rather abruptly to thoughts of her -scapegoat. She received a telegram— - - “Father kicked me out address Church Cottage Vinehall don’t worry - Gervase.” - -Jenny was conscience-stricken, though she knew that Gervase would not be -much hurt by his exile. But she was anxious to hear what had happened, -and waited restlessly for a letter. None came, but the next morning -another telegram. - - “Father had stroke please come home Gervase.” - -So Jenny Godfrey packed up her things and came home after two days’ -honeymoon. Happiness is supposed to make time short, but those two days -had seemed like twenty years. - - - § 9 - -Gervase reproached himself for having done his part of the business -badly, though he never felt quite sure how exactly he had blundered. He -had reached Conster two hours before dinner, and trusted that this -phenomenon might prepare his father for some surprise. But, -disappointingly, Sir John did not notice his return—he had grown lately -to think less and less about his youngest son, who was seldom at home -and whom he looked upon as an outsider. Gervase had deliberately -alienated himself from Alard, and Sir John could never, in spite of -Peter’s efforts, be brought properly to consider him as an heir. His -goings out and his comings in were of little consequence to the head of -the house. So when at six o’clock Gervase came into the study, his -father was quite unimpressed. - -“May I speak to you for a minute, Sir?” - -“Well, well—what is it?” - -Sir John dipped _Country Life_ the fraction of an inch to imply a -temporary hearing. - -“It’s about Jenny, Sir.” - -“Well, what about her?” - -“She’s—I’ve been with her in town today. I’ve just come back. She asked -me to tell you about her and young Godfrey.” - -“What’s that? Speak up, Sir, can’t you? I can’t hear when you mumble. -Come and stand where I can see you.” - -Gervase came and stood on the hearthrug. He was beginning to feel -nervous. Uncomfortable memories of childhood rushed up confusedly from -the back of his mind, and gave him sore feelings of helplessness and -inferiority. - -“It’s about Jenny and young Godfrey, Sir.” - -“Godfrey! Who’s Godfrey?” - -“Benjamin Godfrey of Fourhouses—the man who bought your Snailham land.” - -“Well, what about him?” - -“It’s about him and Jenny, Sir.” - -“Well, _what_ about ’em? What the devil’s he got to do with Jenny?” - -“Don’t you remember she went to tea at Fourhouses last week?” - -“She hasn’t been there again, has she?” - -Gervase considered that the subject had been sufficiently led up -to—anyhow he could stand no more of the preliminaries. - -“Well, yes, Sir—at least she’s having tea with him now—at least not -tea.... I mean, they were married this morning.” - -Sir John dropped _Country Life_. - -“Married this morning,” he repeated in a lame, normal voice. - -“Yes, Sir, at St. Ethelburga’s, Paddington. They’ve been in love with -each other for some time, but as they didn’t expect you’d quite see -things as they did, they thought they’d better wait to tell you till -after the ceremony.” - -“And where—where are they now?” - -“At Mullion, Sir—in Cornwall.” - -Sir John said nothing. His face turned grey, and he trembled. Gervase -was distressed. - -“Don’t take it so dreadfully to heart, Father. I’m sure it’s really for -the best. He’s a decent chap, and very well-to-do—he’ll be able to give -her everything she’s been accustomed to”—remembering an old tag. - -“Get out!” said Sir John suddenly. - -“I’m frightfully sorry if you think we’ve treated you badly, Sir. But -really we tried to do it in the way we thought would hurt you least.” - -“Get out!” repeated his father—“get out of here. This is your doing, -with your socialism, with your contempt for your own family, with -your.... Get out of the room, or I’ll....” - -His shaking hand groped round for a missile, and Gervase moved hastily -to the door, too late, however, to escape a bound volume of _Punch_, -which preceded him into the hall. - -Wills was standing outside the dining-room door with a tray, and Gervase -found it very difficult to look dignified. Such an attitude was even -more difficult to keep up during the alarms that followed. He retreated -to his bedroom, taking _Punch_ with him, partly as a solace, partly in a -feeble hope of persuading Wills that to have a book thrown at your head -is a normal way of borrowing it. He had not been alone a quarter of an -hour before he was summoned by Speller, his mother’s maid. There -followed an interview which began in reproaches, passed on to an enquiry -into Jenny’s luggage—had she bought brushes and sponges in London, since -she had taken nothing away?—and ended cloudily in hysterics and lavender -water. Gervase went back to his room, which ten minutes later was -entered by the sobbing Doris, who informed him he had “killed Mother,” -who apparently required a post-mortem interview. Once again he went down -to the boudoir with its rose-coloured lights and heavy scents of -restoratives, and to the jerky accompaniment of Doris’s weeping told his -story over again. He had to tell it a fourth time to Peter, who had been -summoned from Starvecrow, and found that it was hardening into set -phrases, and sounded rather like the patter of a guide recounting some -historic elopement from a great house. - -“They’ve been in love for some time, but as they didn’t expect you’d -quite see things as they did——” - -“My God!” said Peter. - -He was perhaps the most scandalised of all the Alards, and had about him -a solemn air of wounding which was more distressing to Gervase than his -father’s wrath. - -“I introduced him to her,” he said heavily—“I introduced him. I never -thought ... how _could_ I think ... that she held herself so cheap—all -of us so cheap.” - -“You really needn’t treat the matter as if Jenny had married the -rag-and-bone man——” began Gervase. - -“I know Godfrey’s position quite well.” - -“He farms his own land, and comes of good old stock. He’s well off, and -will be able to give her everything she’s been accustomed to——” - -“He won’t. She’s been accustomed to the society of gentlepeople, and -he’ll never be able to give her that. She’s gone to live on a farm, -where she’ll have her meals in the kitchen with the farm-men. I tell you -I know the Godfreys, and they’re nothing more than a respectable, good -sort of farming people who’ve done well out of the war. At least, I -won’t call them even that now,” he added fiercely—“I won’t call a man -respectable who worms himself into intimacy with my sister on the -strength of my having introduced him.” - -“However, it’s some comfort to think they’ve gone to the Poldhu hotel at -Mullion,” said Lady Alard; “the Blakelocks were there once, you know, -Doris, and the Reggie Mulcasters. She won’t notice the difference quite -so terribly since he’s taken her there.” - -“Yes, she will,” said Peter—“she’ll notice the difference between the -kind of man she’s been used to meeting here and a working farmer, who -wasn’t even an officer during the war. If she doesn’t—I’ll think worse -of her even than I do now. And as for you——” turning suddenly on -Gervase—“I don’t trust myself to tell you what I think of you. I expect -you’re pleased that we’ve suffered this disgrace—that a lady of our -house has married into the peasantry. You think it’s democratic and all -that. You’re glad—don’t say you’re not.” - -“Yes, I am glad, because Jenny’s happy. You, none of you, seem to think -of that. You don’t seem to think that ‘the kind of man she’s been -meeting here’ hasn’t been the slightest use to her—that all he’s done -has been to trouble her and trifle with her and then go off and marry -money—that now at last she’s met a man who’s treated her honourably——” - -“Honourably! He’s treated her like the adventurer he is. Oh, it’s a fine -thing of him to marry into our family, even if she hasn’t got a -penny—his ancestors were our serfs—they ran at our people’s stirrups, -and our men had the _droit du seigneur_ of their women——” - -“And pulled out the teeth of your wife’s forefathers,” said Gervase, -losing his temper. “If you’re going back five hundred years, I don’t -think your own marriage will bear the test.” - -He knew that if he stayed he would quarrel with them all, and he did not -want to do that, for he was really sorry for them, wounded in their most -sensitive feelings of family pride. He walked out of the room, and made -for the attic stairs, seeking the rest and dignity of solitude. But it -was not to be. The door of his father’s dressing-room opened as he -passed, and Sir John came out on the landing, already dressed for -dinner. - -“You understand that after what has happened I cannot keep you here.” - -He was quite calm now, and rather terrifying. - -“I—oh, no—I mean yes, of course,” stammered Gervase. - -“You have work at Ashford, so you can go and lodge near it. Or you can -go to your Ritualist friends at Vinehall. I refuse to have you here -after your treachery. You are a traitor, Sir—to your own family.” - -“When—when would you like me to go?” - -“You can stay till tomorrow morning.” - -“Thanks—I’ll leave tonight.” - -So the day’s catastrophe ended in Gervase driving off through the -darkness in Henry Ford, his suit-case and a few parcels of books behind -him. He had decided to go to Luce—the Priest would take him in till he -was able to go to Thunders Abbey. - -“Well, anyhow, I’m spared that other row,” he thought to himself; “or, -rather, I’ve got through two rows in one. Father won’t mind what I do -with myself after this.” - -He felt rather forlorn as the lorry’s lights swept up the Vinehall road. -During the last few months he had been stripped of so many things—his -devotion to Stella, his comradeship with Jenny—he knew that he could -never be to her what he had been before she married—and now his family -and his home. And all he had to look forward to was a further, more -complete stripping, even of the clothes he wore, so that in all the -world he would own nothing. - - - § 10 - -Any lack of cordiality in Luce’s welcome was made up by his quite -matter-of-fact acceptance of this sudden descent upon him at a late hour -of a young man and all his worldly goods, including a Ford lorry. The -latter was given the inn stable as a refuge, while Gervase was told he -could have the spare bedroom as long as he liked if he would clear out -the apples. This done and some porridge eaten, he went to bed, utterly -worn out, and feeling less like Gervase Alard than he had ever felt in -his life. - -The next day he went off to work as usual, sending a telegram to Jenny -on his way. When he came back he found a message had arrived from -Conster—he must go home at once; his father had had a stroke. - -“I’ve a ghastly feeling it was brought on by this row,” he said to Luce, -as he filled up the lorry’s tank for the new journey. - -“It must have been,” was all the reassurance he got. - -Gervase felt wretched enough. The message, which had been left by Dr. -Mount, gave no details, and as the cottage was empty when he called, -there had been no verbal additions or explanations. He thought of -calling at the doctor’s on his way to Leasan—he had meant to go there -anyhow this evening and tell them about Jenny’s marriage—but he decided -it was best to lose no time, and drove straight to Conster. - -Here he received his first respite. The stroke was not a severe one, and -Dr. Mount was practically certain Sir John would get over it. However, -he seemed to think the other members of the family ought to be sent for, -and Doris had telegraphed to Mary but not to Jenny, as she didn’t think -Jenny deserved it after what she had done. She did not think Gervase -deserved it, either, but evidently Dr. Mount had taken it upon himself -to decide, and left a message without consulting her. - -He was not allowed to go near his father that night, and spent the hours -intermittently sleeping and waking in his little cold bedroom, now empty -of everything that was really his. The next morning he went out and sent -a telegram to Jenny. But by the time she arrived her presence was -useless. Sir John had recovered consciousness and would see none of his -erring children. Mary, Gervase and Jenny waited together in the -drawing-room in hopes that the edict would be revoked. But, as Doris -came down to tell them at intervals, it was no use whatever. He refused -to let them come near him—indeed, the mere mention of their names seemed -to irritate him dangerously. Towards evening Dr. Mount advised them to -go away. - -“I’m afraid there’s no hope, at present anyhow—and it’s best not to -worry him. There’s often a very great irritability in these cases. He -may become calmer as his condition improves.” - -So Jenny, scared and tired, was taken away by her husband to the shelter -of Fourhouses, and Gervase prepared to go back to Vinehall. They were -both rather guiltily conscious that they did not pity those who had been -denied the presence so much as those who were bound to it—Doris, who as -unofficial nurse and substitute scapegoat, was already beginning to show -signs of wear and tear—and Peter, worn with a growing sense of -responsibility and the uncertain future brought a step nearer ... no -doubt the younger ones had made an easy escape. - -Only Mary looked a bit wistful. - -“It’s so long since I’ve seen him,” she said as she stood on the steps, -waiting for the car which was to take her back to Hastings. - -“Cheer up, my dear—he’ll change his mind when he gets better,” said -Gervase. - -Mary shook her head. She had altered strikingly since he had seen her -last. She seemed all clothes—faultless, beautiful clothes, which seemed -mysteriously a part of herself so that it was difficult to imagine her -without them. Her real self had shrunk, faded, become something like a -whisper or a ghost—she was less Mary Pembroke than a suit of lovely grey -velvet and fur which had somehow come alive and taken the simulacrum of -a woman to show off its beauty. - -“Where are you going?” he asked her, moved with a sudden anxious pity. - -“Back to Hastings. I’ve found a very comfortable small hotel, and I -think I’ll stay there till I know more how things are going with Father. -I expect I shall run over and see Jenny now and then.” - -“I’m glad you’re going to do that,” he cried warmly—“it’ll mean a lot to -her to have one of the family with her—especially when I’m gone.” - -“You?—where are you going?” - -He found himself quite unable to tell her of what he was looking forward -to. - -“Oh, my work at Ashford comes to an end in a week, and I’ll have to pack -off somewhere else.” - -He kissed her before she went away, and found an unexpected warmth in -her lips. After all, the real Mary had always lived very far beneath the -surface, and as years went by and the surface had become more and more -ravaged she had retreated deeper and deeper down. But he was glad to -think that at the bottom, and perhaps by queer, perverse means, she had -somehow managed to keep herself alive. - - - § 11 - -Jenny’s sudden return had the disadvantage of bringing her back into the -midst of her family while the scandal of her marriage was still hot. As -her father refused to see her, Ben had suggested taking her away again, -but Jenny did not like to leave while Sir John was still in any danger, -and by the time all danger was past, her husband’s affairs had once more -fast bound him to the farm—besides, the various members of her family -had adjusted themselves to her defection, and settled down either into -hostility or championship, according to their own status in the tribe. - -It was characteristic of the house of Alard that even its revolted -members camped round it in its evil hour, held to it by human feeling -after all other links were broken. No one would leave the neighbourhood -while Sir John continued ill and shaken. Mary stayed at Hastings, and -Gervase stayed at Vinehall, even after his apprenticeship to -Gillingham’s had finally come to an end, and the men had given him a -farewell oyster supper at the White Lion, with a presentation -wrist-watch to add to the little stock of possessions he would have to -give up in a few weeks. - -However, by the beginning of February, Sir John had so far recovered as -to make any waiting unnecessary. He still refused to see his disloyal -son and rebellious daughters. His illness seemed to have hardened his -obstinacy, and to have brought about certain irritable conditions which -sometimes approached violence and made it impossible to attempt any -persuasion. - -He came downstairs and took up his indoor life as usual, though out of -doors he no longer rode about on his grey horse. The entire overseership -of the estate devolved on Peter, with the additional burden that his -responsibility was without authority—his father insisted on retaining -the headship and on revising or overthrowing his decisions. Nothing -could be done without reference to him, and his illness seemed to have -made him queerly perverse. He insisted that an offer from a firm of -timber-merchants for the whole of Little Sowden Wood should be refused, -though Peter explained to him that at present the wood actually cost -more in its upkeep than was realised by the underwood sales in the local -market. - -“Why should I have one of the finest woods on my estate smashed up by a -firm of war-profiteers? Confound you, Sir! Many’s the fox that hounds -have put up in Sowden, and the place was thick when Conster started -building.” - -“But we’re in desperate need of ready money, Father. We can’t afford to -start repairs at Glasseye, and this is the third year we’ve put off. -There’s Monkings, too,—the place is falling to pieces, and Luck says -he’ll quit if he has to wait any longer.” - -“Quit?—Let him. He needn’t threaten me. Tenants aren’t so scarce.” - -“Good tenants are. We aren’t likely to get a man who farms the land as -well as Luck. He got the Penny field to carry seven bushel to the acre -last year. He’s clockwork with the rent, too—you know the trouble we -have over rent.” - -“But I won’t have Sowden cut down to keep him. Timber! I thought we were -done with that shame when the war ended, and we’d lost Eleven Pounder -and Little Horn.” - -“But I can’t see anything more shameful in selling timber than in -selling land, and you sold that Snailham piece last year to——” - -Peter tried to retrieve his blunder, but his mind was not for quick -manœuvres and all he could do was to flush and turn guiltily silent. His -father’s anger blazed at once. - -“Yes—we sold land last year, and a good business we made of it, didn’t -we! The bounder thought he’d bought my daughter into the bargain. He -thought he’d got the pull of us because we were glad to sell. I tell -you, I’ll sell no more of my land, if it puts such ideas into the heads -of the rascals that buy it, if it makes all the beastly tenants and -small-holders within thirty miles think they can come and slap me on the -back and make love to my daughters and treat me as one of themselves. -I’ll not sell another foot as long as I live. When I die, Sir, you may -not get a penny, but you’ll get the biggest estate in East Sussex.” - -Peter groaned. - - - § 12 - -Gervase did not think it advisable to go near his family when the time -came for him to leave Vinehall for Thunders Abbey. He would have liked -to see his mother, but knew too well that the interview would end only -in eau de Cologne and burnt feathers. Since he was exiled, it was best -to accept his exile as a working principle and not go near the house. He -knew that later on he would be given opportunities to see his parents, -and by then time might have made them respectively less hostile and less -hysterical. - -So he wrote his mother a very affectionate letter, trying to explain -what he was going to do, but not putting any great faith in her -understanding him. He told her that he would be able to come and see her -later, and sent his love to Doris and Peter and his father. He also -wrote a line to Mary. His personal farewells were for Stella and Jenny -only. - -To Stella he said goodbye the day before he left. He found her making -preparations for her own departure. She and her father were leaving for -Canada as soon as Mrs. Peter Alard was through her confinement, which -she expected in a couple of weeks. The practice had been sold, and the -escape into a new life and a new country was no longer a possible resort -of desperation but a fixed doom for her unwilling heart. - -All she had been able to do during the last weeks had been to let her -father act without interference. Her entire conflict had been set in -withholding herself from last-moment entreaties to stay, from attempts -at persuading him to withdraw from negotiations over the practice, from -suggestions that their departure should be put off to the end of the -summer. So negative had been her battle that she had never felt the -thrill of combat—instead she felt utterly crushed and weary. She felt -both dead and afraid ... the only moments in which she seemed to live -were the moments in which she encountered Peter, passing him -occasionally on the road or meeting him in a neighbour’s house. They -were terrible moments of fiery concentrated life—she was glad afterwards -to fall back into her stupor. She and he had had no more private -conversations—she was able to pursue her negative battle to the extent -of avoiding these—but his mere presence seemed to make alive a Stella -Mount who was dying, whose death she sometimes thought of as a blessing -and sometimes as a curse. - -When she saw Gervase, so quiet and sweet-tempered and happy, she -wondered if she would possibly be like that when her love for Peter was -dead, as his for her was dead. But then his love for her was not -dead—that was the whole point; like Enoch, it was translated—it was not, -because God had taken it. As she looked into his peaceful eyes, her own -filled with tears. She wondered if he had won his battle so quickly -because it had been a slighter one than hers, or because he was better -armed. Probably because of both. He was younger than she, his passions -still slept in his austere, hard-working youth—and would probably awake -only to find themselves reborn in his religious life—also, she realised -that he might be naturally spiritual, whereas she had never been more -than spiritually natural—a distinction. He was a man born to love God as -she had been born to love men, and she knew that, in spite of all he -said, he would have found his beloved sooner or later without any help -of hers. - -“Goodbye, dear Gervase,” she said, and pressed his hand. - -“Goodbye, Stella”—surprisingly he kissed her, like another girl. She had -not thought he would dare kiss her at all, and this warm, light, natural -kiss—the kiss of a gentle friend—showed her a self-conquest more -complete than any she had imagined—certainly than any she would ever -know. She might be strong enough to deny her kisses to Peter, but she -would never be able to give him the kiss of a friend. - - - § 13 - -The next day Gervase drove off to Thunders Abbey, and went by way of -Icklesham. It was a windless afternoon; the first scent of primroses hid -in the hollows of the lanes, and the light of the sun, raking over the -fields, was primrose-coloured on the grass. The browsing sheep and -cattle cast long shadows, and the shadows of the leafless trees were -clear, a delicate tracery at their roots. - -As he drove up and down the steep, wheel-scarred lanes he watched -familiar farms and spinneys go by as if it were for the last time. He -knew that he would see them all many times after this, but somehow it -would not be the same. Gervase Alard would be dead, as Jenny Alard was -dead, and he felt as Jenny had felt the night before her wedding—glad -and yet afraid. He remembered her words—“Can’t you understand?—It’s -because I don’t feel big enough ... afraid.” He, too, felt afraid of his -new life, and for the same reason—because he knew he was not big enough. -Yet, in spite of her fear, Jenny had gone on, and now she was happy. And -he was going on, and perhaps he would be happy, too. - -He found her baking little cakes for tea. She tapped on the kitchen -window when the lorry rattled into the yard, and he came in and took her -in his arms, in spite of her protest that she was all over flour. - -“Hullo, Gervase! this is splendid—I haven’t seen you for ages.” - -She was wearing a blue gingham overall, and with her face flushed at the -fire, and her background of brick, scrubbed wood and painted canisters, -she looked more like a farmer’s wife than he could ever have imagined -possible. She had grown plump, too, since her marriage, and her eyes had -changed—they looked bright, yet half asleep, like a cat’s eyes. - -“I’ve come to say goodbye, Jen. I’m off to Thunders.” - -“When?—Tomorrow?” - -“No—this very evening. I’ll go straight on from here.” - -“Gervase!” - -She looked sad—she understood him less than ever now. - -“Father Lawrence wrote two days ago and said they were able to take -me—and I’ve nothing to wait for. Father won’t see me. I’ve written to -Mother—I thought it better than farewells in the flesh.” - -“And Stella?” - -“I’ve said goodbye to her.” - -“Gervase, I know—I feel sure you’re only doing this because of her.” - -“Well, I can’t show you now that you’re wrong, but I hope time will.” - -“I hope it won’t show you that you’re wrong—when it’s too late. My -dear——” she went up to him and put her hands on his shoulders—“My dear, -you’re so young.” - -“Don’t, Jen.” - -“But it’s true. Why can’t you wait till you’ve seen more of life—till -you’ve lived, in fact?” - -“Because I don’t want to give God just the fag-end of myself, the -leavings of what you call life. I want to give Him the best I’ve got—all -my best years.” - -“If Stella had accepted you, you would have married her, and we -shouldn’t have heard anything about all this.” - -“That’s true. But she refused me, and it was her refusal which showed me -the life I was meant for. The fact that I loved Stella, and she would -not have me, showed me that God does not want me to marry.” - -He seemed to Jenny transparent and rather silly, like a child. - -“But you’re only twenty-one,” she persisted gently, as she would with a -child. “You’d have been sure to fall in love again and marry someone -else.” - -“And there’s no good telling you I’m sure I shouldn’t. However, my dear, -I’m not going to prison on a life sentence—I can come out tomorrow if I -don’t like it; and probably for a year or so the whole community will be -trying to turn me out—they’re as much afraid of a mistake as you are.” - -“I don’t trust them. They only too seldom get hold of men in your -position.” - -“My dear, don’t let’s talk any more about me. It’s making us quarrel, -and probably this is the last time I shall see you for months. Tell me -how you’ve been getting on. Has the County called yet?” - -“Not so as you’d notice. As a matter of fact, the Fullers left cards the -other day. Agney’s far enough off for it not to matter very much, and I -think Mrs. Fuller has a reputation for being broad-minded which she’s -had to live up to. But I’m getting to like Ben’s friends—I told you I -should. There’s the Boormans of Frays Land and the Hatches of Old Place, -and a very nice, well-educated bailiff at Roughter, who collects prints -and old furniture. I see a lot of them—they’ve been here and I’ve been -to their houses; and as Mrs. Godfrey and the girls keep to their own -part of the house, I’ve got my hands full from morning to night, and -don’t have much time to think about anything I may have lost.” - -“It seems to suit you, anyhow. You look fine.” - -“I feel splendid. Of course, I couldn’t do it if it wasn’t for Ben. I -don’t pretend I’ve found everything in the life agreeable, after what -I’ve been used to. But Ben makes everything worth doing and worth -bearing.” - -“And that’s how it is with me. Can’t you understand now, Jen?—I’ve got -something, too, which makes it all worth doing and worth bearing—though -I don’t pretend, any more than you do, that I expect to find everything -in my life agreeable.” - -“I’ll try to understand, Gervase; but I don’t suppose I’ll succeed—and -you really can’t expect it of me.” - -“All right, I won’t, just yet.” He picked his cap and gloves off the -table—“I really must be going now.” - -“Won’t you stay and have some tea? I’ve got over the failure stage in -cakes—I really think these will be quite eatable.” - -“No, thanks very much, I mustn’t stay. It’ll take Henry quite two hours -to get to Brighton.” - -She did not seem to hear him—she was listening. He could hear nothing, -but a moment later a footstep sounded in the yard. - -“There he is,” said Jenny. - -She went out into the passage and closed the door behind her. - -He was left alone in the big kitchen. The fire and the kettle hummed -together to the ticking of the clock, and there was a soft, sweet smell -of baking cakes. The last of the sunshine was spilling through the -window on to the scrubbed, deal table, and over all the scene hung an -impalpable atmosphere of comfort, warmth and peace. Outside in the -passage he could hear the murmuring of a man’s and a woman’s voices.... -His eyes suddenly filled with tears. - -They were gone when Jenny came back into the room with Ben, who had -evidently been told the reason for his brother-in-law’s visit, for he -shook hands in clumsy silence. - -“How do you do?” said Gervase—“and goodbye.” - -Ben still said nothing. He neither approved nor understood young Alard’s -ways. Religion was for him the ten commandments, Parson’s tithes, and -harvest thanksgivings—anything further smacked of Chapel and the piety -of small-holders. But he was too fond of Gervase to say openly what was -in his heart, and as he was not used to saying anything else, he was -driven into an awkward but well-meaning silence. - -“I’m glad you’re taking Henry with you,” said Jenny, attempting -lightness—“It would have been dreadful if you’d had to leave him -behind.” - -“Yes—‘The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed’ wouldn’t have been in it. But -I’m taking him as my dowry. They’ll find some use for him at -Thunders—he’s got at least one cylinder working. If they hadn’t wanted -him I’d have given him to Ben—just to encourage him to start machinery -on the farm.” - -“I’d sooner keep my horses, thank you,” said Ben, relieved at having -something to say at last. “Give me a horse-ploughed field, even if it -does take twice the labour.” - -“But you’ll be getting a tractor soon, won’t you? That’s another idea -altogether, and you’ll never find horses to beat that.” - -Thus talking of machinery the three of them went to the door, and said -goodbye under cover of argument. - -“You’ll see me again before long,” cried Gervase, as he drove off. - -“Will you be able to write to us?” - -“Of course I will—look out for a letter in a day or two.” - -With hideous grindings, explosions and plaints, the lorry went off down -the drive. As it disappeared between the hedgerows, Jenny felt her heart -contract in a pang of helpless pity. - -“Oh, Ben ... he’s so young—and he’s never had anything.” - -She would have cried, but her husband’s arm slipped round her, drawing -her back into the darkening house. - - - § 14 - -Jenny had been candid with Gervase in her account of herself. She was -happy—supremely so—but there was much that would have been difficult -were it not for the love which “made everything worth doing and worth -bearing.” She had nothing to complain of in Ben himself. He was after -marriage the same as he had been before it—gentle, homely, simple and -upright, with a streak of instinctive refinement which compensated for -any lack of stress on the physical cleanliness which was the god of her -former tribe. It is true that he expected more of her than Jim Parish, -for instance, would have done. The sight of Jenny rising at half-past -six to light the kitchen fire, cooking the breakfast, and doing all the -housework with the help of one small girl, did not strike him as the act -of wifely devotion and Spartan virtue that it seemed to her and would -have seemed to Jim. It was what the women of his experience did -invariably, and with a certain naïve thickheadedness he had not expected -Jenny, taken from a home of eight o’clock risings, to be different. But -in all other ways he was considerate—ways in which the men of her class -would most probably not have considered her; and she soon became used to -the physical labour of her days. Indeed, after the first surprise at his -attitude, she realised that anything else would have brought an -atmosphere of unreality into the life which she loved because it was so -genuine. Farmers’ wives—even prosperous farmers’ wives—did not lie in -bed till eight, or sit idle while the servants worked; and Jenny was now -a farmer’s wife—Mrs. Ben Godfrey of Fourhouses—with her place to keep -clean, her husband and her husband’s men to feed, her dairy and her -poultry to attend to. - -But though she loved Ben, and loved working for him, there were other -things that were hard, and she was too clear-headed not to acknowledge -the difficulties she had chosen. She often longed to be alone with her -husband, instead of having to share him with his mother and sisters. -According to yeoman custom, his wife had been brought into his home, -which was also his family’s home, and she must take what she found -there. Jenny realised that she might have been worse off—she was -genuinely fond of Mrs. Godfrey and Lily and Jane, and their separate -quarters gave her a privacy and a freedom she would not have had on many -farms—but she would have been less sensitive to the gulf between her new -life and the old if she had been alone with Ben. His women, with their -constant absorption in housework—making it not so much a duty to be done -and then forgotten as a religion pervading the whole life—with their -arbitrary standards of decorum, and their total lack of interest in any -mental processes—often begot in her revolt and weariness, especially -when her husband was much away. She had not known till then how much she -depended on stray discussions of books and politics, on the interchange -of abstract and general ideas. Ben himself could give her these -stimulations, for the war had enlarged his education, and his love for -her made him eager to meet her on the ground she chose. But his work -often took him into the fields soon after dawn, and he would not be -privately hers again till night, for the meals at Fourhouses were -communal and democratic; not only Mrs. Godfrey and her daughters, but -the stockman, the cow-man, the carter and the ploughboys sat down to -table with the master. - -Moreover, after a month or two, she began to feel her estrangement from -her people. She did not miss her old acquaintances among the county -families, but she felt the silence of her home more than she would ever -have imagined possible. No one from Conster—her father or mother or -Doris—had come near her or sent her a word. There had been the same -silence up at Starvecrow which surprised her more, for she and Vera had -always been friends—though of course Vera had her own special -preoccupations now. Rose had called, but evidently with a view to -replenishing her stores of gossip for Leasan tea-parties, and Jenny had -done all she could to discourage another visit. Mary generally came over -from Hastings once a week, but hers were only the visits of a -fellow-exile. - -In her heart, the estrangement which Jenny felt the most was between -herself and Peter. She had not expected such treatment from him. She had -expected anger and disappointment, certainly, a stormy interview, -perhaps, but not this blank. Sometimes she told herself he was anxious -about Vera, and that his own troubles had combined with her misbehaviour -to keep him away. She forced herself to patience, hoping uncertainly -that the fortunate birth of an heir would bring old Peter to a better -frame of mind. - -Meanwhile, she was reviving her friendship with Mary, or rather was -building up a new one, for in old times she had felt a little afraid of -her elegant, aloof sister. She was not afraid of Mary now—indeed, from -the vantage of her own happy establishment she almost pitied this woman -who had left so much behind her in dark places. - -Mary liked Ben—but her temperament had set her at a great distance from -his homely concreteness. Though she stood by her sister in her -adventure, she evidently could not think “what Jenny saw in him,” and -she was openly full of plans for his improvement and education. - -“Why don’t you lift him up to your level instead of stooping to his? You -could easily do it. He’s deeply in love with you, and, in my opinion, -very much above his own way of life. Fourhouses is a good estate and -he’s got plenty of money to improve it—with a little trouble he could -make it into a country house and himself into a small squire.” - -“Thanks,” said Jenny—“that’s what I’ve just escaped from—country houses -and squires—and I don’t want to start the whole thing over again. Why -should Ben try to make himself a squire, when the squires are dying out -all over the country, and their estates are being broken up and sold -back to the people they used to belong to?” - -“Jenny, you talk like a radical!—‘God gave the land to the people’ and -all that.” - -“My husband’s a vice-president of the Conservative Club. It isn’t for -any political reasons that I don’t want to fight my way back into the -county. It’s simply that I’m sick of two things—struggle and pretence. -Situated as I am, I’ve got neither—if I tried to keep what I gave up -when I married Ben, I’d have both.” - -“It’s all very well for you to talk like this now—when everything’s new. -Even I know what the first months of marriage can be like.... But later -on, when things have sobered down, you’ll feel different—you’ll want to -see some of your old friends again, and wish you hadn’t shut them out.” - -“If you mean the Parishes and the Hursts and the Wades and all that lot, -nothing I could ever do would make them my friends again. You see, -they’re friends of Father’s, and, considering his attitude towards my -marriage—which would be the same whatever I did to ‘raise’ myself—they -can never be friends of mine. It isn’t as if I’d moved thirty miles off -and had a new sort of ‘county’ to visit me. I’m in the middle of the old -crowd, and they can never be friendly with me without offending my -people. No, I must be content with Ben’s friends—if I tried to ‘improve’ -him we’d lose those, too, and then I’d have nobody.” - -“I daresay you’re right, my dear—you sound practical, anyway. And I’ve -no right to teach anyone how to arrange their lives.... It’s queer, -isn’t it, Jen? I took, generally speaking, no risks when I married. I -married a man I loved, a man of my own class, whom my people approved -of—and look at me now. You, on the other hand, have taken every -imaginable risk—a runaway match, a different class, and the family -curse....” - -“You’ll have to look at me twelve years hence to compare me with you.” - -“I think you’re going to be all right, though—even if you don’t take my -advice.” - -“I’m sure I shall be all right. You see, I’m doing everything with my -eyes open. You didn’t have your eyes open, Mary.” - -“I know I didn’t. Very few women do. Most brides are like newborn -kittens with their eyes shut.” - -“Are you happy now?” - -It was the first time she had dared ask the question. Mary hesitated— - -“Yes, I suppose I am happy. I have enough to live on, I have my -friends—I travel about, and see places and people.” - -“Have you ever regretted that you didn’t marry Charles?” - -“Regretted! Good Lord, no! The very opposite. I didn’t love him in that -way, and we’d both have been wretched. Poor old dear! I’m glad I’d -strength enough to spare him that, though I spared him nothing else....” - -“Do you ever see him now?” - -“Sometimes. He’s married, you know—a very young thing, who doesn’t like -me too much. I didn’t expect him to marry, but I believe he’s happy. I -hear that Julian is happy, too—he has two little boys and a baby girl. -So I haven’t really done either of my men much harm.” - -“No—it’s you who’ve suffered the harm. Why haven’t you married again, -Mary? I’ve always expected you to.” - -Her sister shook her head. - -“I can’t—there’s something in me lacking for that. I can’t explain, and -it sounds an extraordinary thing to say, but I feel as if I’d left it -with Julian. I don’t mean that I still love him or any nonsense like -that—I hadn’t loved him for a year before I left him ... but somehow one -doesn’t get rid of a husband as easily as the divorce-courts and the -newspapers seem to suppose.” - -“If you’d married again you’d have forgotten Julian.” - -“No, I shouldn’t, and I should have made another man unhappy—because of -what’s lacking in me. I know there are lots of women who can go from the -church to the divorce court and from the divorce court to the -registrar’s, and leave nothing behind them in any of these places. But -I’m not like that—I left my love with Julian and my pride with Charles. -Sometimes I feel that if only I’d had the strength to stick to Julian a -little longer, we’d have weathered things through—I’d have got back what -I’d lost, and all this wouldn’t have happened. But it’s waste of time to -think of that now.... Don’t worry about me, Jen. I’m happy in my own -way—though it may not be yours, or many women’s, for that matter. I’ve -just managed to be strong enough not to spoil Charles’s life—not to drag -him down—so I’ve got one good memory.... And I’m free—that means more to -me than perhaps you can realise—and I enjoy life as a spectator. I’ve -suffered enough as an actor on the stage, and now I’m just beginning to -feel comfortable in the stalls.” - -“Don’t,” said Jenny. - -She could not bear any more—this was worse than Gervase. To have spent -all the treasure of life on dust and wind was even worse than to give up -that treasure unspent. She found the tears running out of her eyes as -she put her arms round Mary—softness of furs and sweetness of violets, -and in the midst of them a sister who was half doll and half ghost. - - - § 15 - -Towards the end of March, Peter’s daughter was born. He bore the -disappointment better than anyone had expected. But lately it had not -seemed to him to matter very much whether the child were a boy or a -girl. His horizons were closing in upon him—they had even shut out his -own inheritance, with the new powers and freedoms it would bring, and he -could not look so far ahead as the prospects of his heir. Even Gervase’s -defection had not stirred him long. In his first shock of outrage and -disgust he had motored over to Thunders Abbey and tried to persuade his -brother to come back with him, but finding him obdurate, his emotions -had collapsed into a contempt which was queerly mixed with envy. If -Gervase preferred these debased states of life—first in a garage and -then in a monastery—to the decencies of his position as an Alard, then -let him have what he wanted. It was something to know what one wanted -and take it unafraid. Gervase might be a traitor, but he was not a fool. - -So Peter heard unmoved Dr. Mount’s announcement that a little girl had -been born, and only a trifle less unmoved received the woolly bundle of -his little daughter into his arms. He did not, as some men, awake to a -new sense of fatherhood at the touch of his first-born. His failure as a -husband seemed to affect him as a father. He did not ask himself what he -would have felt if the child had been a boy. The only question in his -heart was what he would have felt if it had been Stella’s child ... but -that was a useless question. - -Vera was secretly glad to have a girl. She had always wanted a daughter, -and lately, as her mind had detached itself more and more from her -husband’s wishes, the want had become anxious. A boy she always pictured -as a second Peter—heavy, obstinate, his heart set on things she did not -care about—but a girl would be a companion, and her own. There would be, -she felt, some chance of her growing up like her mother and sharing her -mother’s adventures in intellect and beauty; also, in that new -florescence of her race which had accompanied her pregnancy, she felt -that her daughter would be truly a daughter of Abraham, whereas her son -would be born into a public-school tradition and the heirship of a big -estate—a child of the Goyim. So she stretched out her arms gladly when -the baby girl was put into them, and as she looked down into the -mysterious, ancient little face of the newborn, her heart leapt with joy -and pride to see the tokens of her blood already discernible, not so -much in its later Hebraic characteristics as in some general oriental -quality, older than Abraham. - -“There’s nothing of the Goy about her, is there?” she said to her -mother, who had come to be with her in her confinement. - -“No, indeed, there’s not. She takes after us. It’s curious how they -nearly always do in a mixed marriage.” - -But, in the midst of her own gratification, Vera was glad to find that -her husband was not bitterly disappointed. Poor old Peter! He had been -estranged from her, she knew, and had wanted to marry the Mount woman, -but she could forgive him in the triumph of her recovery. She had the -child, and was rapidly getting well. When she was herself again she -would win him back. She knew how ... it never failed. - -In her presence Peter made his disappointment seem even less than it -really was. The sight of her lying there in loveliness both opulent and -exhausted—knowing vaguely what she had suffered and accepted—stirred in -him a strange, admiring pity which forbade an unthankful word. He bore -no resentment against her now. It was not her fault that she stood -between him and Stella. Probably he had treated her badly—she might have -suffered nearly as much as he.... And he was glad she had her reward. - -But even when looking tenderly down on her, speaking tenderly to her, he -could not picture himself going on with their marriage again. When his -family and acquaintance tried to cheer him up for the disappointment of -having a girl, they always said, “But it’s only the first, Peter...” -“The first never really matters....” and all the time he was feeling -that there could not be another. It was a preposterous feeling, he knew, -for, after Gervase’s defection, it was imperative that he should have an -heir; and men are not like women in these things. He had never had -Stella—he could never have Stella. Why should he feel this aversion from -doing his duty as a husband and an Alard? He did not know—but he felt -it, almost to shrinking. He felt that his marriage was at an end—broken -and yet binding—for Stella could not take him after divorce any more -than she could take him without it. And everyone said “It’s only the -first”.... “It’s just as well for the girl to come first—to be the -oldest.”... - -A few days after the baby’s birth Vera had a letter from Jenny, -congratulating her and sending her love to Peter. She did not ask her -brother to come over and see her, but Peter guessed what was behind her -message. In the loneliness of those first days when the house seemed -full of women and affairs from which he was shut out, he had a longing -to go over to Fourhouses, and see Jenny and be friends again. But he was -held back, partly by a feeling of awkwardness, a sense of the -explanations and reproaches his visit would involve, partly by a -remaining stiffness against her treachery, and most of all by a dull -stirring sense of envy—the same as, though more accountable than, the -envy he had felt for Gervase. Here again was someone who knew what she -wanted and had got it, whom the family had not bound fast and swallowed -up—and the worst of it all was that, unlike Gervase, she had got what -Peter wanted, too. In vain he told himself that she could never be happy -with Godfrey, could never adapt herself to the life she had chosen, that -her plunge would be no more justified than his withdrawal. He dared not -go near Fourhouses all the same. - - - § 16 - -The hopes on which the baby’s birth seemed to have fallen heaviest were -Sir John’s. The old man had had none of Peter’s uncertainty or anxiety -before the event—he had felt sure the child would be a boy. The news -that it was a girl had been a terrible shock, and though it had not, as -was feared at first, brought on another seizure, it was soon seen to -have increased the nervous unsteadiness of his constitution. He alone, -of all the Alards, did not join in the cry of “This is the first.” First -or last, it was probably the only grandchild he would live to see, and -he expressed his disappointment with the candid selfishness of old age. - -“Here have I been waiting for a boy—counting on a boy—and it’s a girl -after all. What good’s a girl to us? We’ve got plenty of girls—or those -who were once girls”—and he glared at Doris—“all they do is either to -disgrace us in the divorce-courts, marry the sweep, or turn into -bad-tempered old maids. We’ve got enough girls. It’s a boy we want—with -that Gervase gone off to be a monk. I’ve been badly served by my -children.” - -“But, Father, it wasn’t Peter’s fault,” urged Doris unskilfully. - -“Wasn’t it, Ma’am? You _do_ know a lot—more than an unmarried woman -ought to know about such things. I believe you even know that the baby -wasn’t found under a gooseberry bush.” - -“Oh, Father, don’t talk in such a dreadful way—He’s really getting quite -awful,” she said as she let Peter out—“I sometimes think there’s -something wrong with his brain.” - -“There probably is,” said Peter. - -Indeed, of late Sir John had grown alarmingly eccentric. His love of -rule had passed beyond the administration of his estate, and showed -itself in a dozen ways of petty dominion. He seemed resolved to avenge -his authority over the three rebellious children on the two who had -remained obedient. Not only did he put up a forest of forbidding notices -over his estate, to keep out the general public, which had hitherto had -free entrance to most of his fields and woods, but he forbade his own -children to use certain paths. He would not let Peter come by the field -way from Starvecrow, but insisted on his going round by the road. He -would stop Doris on the threshold of an afternoon’s calling, and compel -her to sit and read to him, by choice books which he calculated to -offend her old-maidish susceptibilities. He found Doris better game than -Peter, for whereas the son remained silent under his kicks, Doris never -failed to give him all the fun he wanted in the way of protests, -arguments, laments and tears. But from both he obtained obedience, -through their dread of exciting him and bringing on another stroke. - -His warfare was less open with his wife. He attacked her indirectly -through the servants, who were always giving notice owing to his -intimidation. Even Wills had once distantly informed his mistress that -since Sir John did not seem to appreciate his services he might soon -have to consider the advisability of transferring them elsewhere. -Appleby had actually given notice, after a mysterious motor drive, from -which Sir John had returned on foot—but had been persuaded by Peter to -reconsider it and stay on. The female staff was in a state of perpetual -motion. No cook would stand her master’s comments on her performances, -no housemaid endure his constant bullying and bell-ringing. He had -perversely moved into a top-floor bedroom, so as to be out of reach of -his wife and Speller, who disliked stairs. Here he would make tea at -five o’clock every morning with water from his hot-water bottle boiled -up on a spirit lamp. This procedure filled Lady Alard with a peculiar -horror when she discovered it; indeed, from her remarks it would appear -that all her husband’s other misdoings were negligible in comparison. - - - § 17 - -A few days before Easter, Peter came suddenly to Fourhouses. He came -early in the afternoon, and gave no explanation either of his coming or -of his staying away. Jenny was upstairs, helping her mother-in-law turn -out the conjugal bedroom, when she heard the sound of hoofs in the yard. -She ran to the window, thinking it was Ben come home unexpectedly from -an errand to Wickham Farm, but had no time to be disappointed in the -rush of her surprise at seeing Peter. - -“There’s Peter—my brother—come at last!” she cried to Mrs. Godfrey, and, -tearing off her dusting cap, she ran downstairs, still in her gingham -overall. She wanted to open the door to him herself. - -He could not have expected her to do this, for he was staring -uninterestedly at his boots. Her gingham skirts evidently suggested a -servant to him, for he lifted his eyes slowly, then seemed surprised to -see her standing all bright and blowzed before him. - -“Jenny!” - -“Hullo, Peter! So you’ve come to see me at last.” - -He mumbled something about having been passing through Icklesham. - -“Won’t you come in?—the man’ll take your horse. Hi! Homard—take Mr. -Alard’s horse round to the stable.” - -“I can’t stop long,” said Peter awkwardly. - -“But you must, after all this time—come in.” - -She had meant to ask him why he had kept away so long and why he had -come now; but when she found herself alone with him in the kitchen, she -suddenly changed her mind, and decided to let things be. He probably had -no reasonable explanation to offer, and unless she meant to keep the -breach unhealed, she had better treat this visit as if there was nothing -to explain about it. - -“How’s Vera?” she asked. - -“She’s getting on splendidly, thanks.” - -“And the baby?” - -“That’s getting on too.” - -“Do tell me about it—is it like her or like you?” - -“It’s like her—a regular little Yid.” - -“Never mind—she will probably grow up very beautiful.” - -Peter mumbled inaudibly. - -Jenny looked at him critically. He seemed heavier and stupider than -usual. He gave her the impression of a man worn out. - -“You don’t look well.... Are you worried? I do hope you aren’t -dreadfully disappointed the baby’s a girl.” - -“It doesn’t really matter.” - -“Of course not. The first one never does. You’re sure to have others ... -boys.” - -Peter did not answer, and Jenny felt a little annoyed with him. If this -was the way he behaved at home she was sorry for Vera. It was curious -how nervy these stolid men often were.... - -“How are Father and Mother?” she asked, to change the subject—“I suppose -you go up to Conster every day.” - -“Twice most days. They’re not up to much—at least Father isn’t. He’s had -some pretty good shocks lately, you know. He was dreadfully upset the -baby’s being a girl—and that fool Gervase’s business was a terrible blow -for him.” - -“It was a blow for me too. I did my best to put him off it, but it was -no use. My only comfort is that apparently it’ll be some time before -he’s really let in for it. He may come to his senses before then.” - -“I don’t think so. He’s as obstinate as the devil.” - -“What—have _you_ tried arguing with him?” - -“Yes—when I heard what he’d done, I drove over to Thunders Abbey or -whatever it’s called, and did my level best to bring him back with me. -But it was all no good—you might as well try to argue with a dead owl.” - -“Good Lord!—you went over to Thunders, and tried to bring him back! Poor -old Peter! But do tell me how he is, and what he’s doing. What sort of -place is it?” - -“Oh a great big barrack, spoiling the country for miles round. But -they’ve got some fine land and absolutely all the latest ideas in -farming—motor traction and chemical fertilisation and all that.” - -“And was Gervase working on the farm?” - -“No, Brother Joseph—that’s what the fool’s called now—Brother Joseph, -when I saw him, was scrubbing out the kitchen passage on his hands and -knees like a scullery maid. A dignified occupation for an Alard!” - -“Poor old Gervase, how he’d hate that! But he’ll be all the more likely -to come to his senses and give it up, especially when he’s got over his -disappointment about Stella. I feel it’s really that which was at the -bottom of it all.” - -Peter did not speak for a moment. He leaned back in his wooden armchair, -staring at the fire, which was leaping ruddily into the chimney’s -cavern. - -“Do you mind if I light my pipe?” he asked after a bit. - -“Of course not—do. I’m glad you’re going to stay.” - -He took matches and his tobacco pouch out of his pocket, and she noticed -suddenly that his hands were shaking. For the first time a dreadful -suspicion seized her. His heaviness—his nerviness—his queer, lost -manner ... was it possible, she wondered, that Peter _drank_? - -“Have you heard when the Mounts are leaving?” she asked him, stifling -her thoughts. - -“No, I haven’t.” - -“Stella was here three days ago, and she said that they’ve at last -settled about the practice. She seemed to think they might be free to go -at the end of May.” - -“Oh.” - -“I expect Vera’s glad they didn’t go off in a hurry, and leave her with -a new man for the baby. Dr. Mount’s the best maternity doctor for miles -round.” - -“Yes, I’ve heard that.” - -He was falling back into silence, and no remark of hers on any topic -seemed able to rouse him out of it, though she tried once or twice to -re-animate him on the subject of Gervase. He lounged opposite her in his -armchair, puffing at his pipe, and staring at the fire, now and then -painfully dragging out a “yes” or a “no.” She was beginning to feel -bored with him and to think about her work upstairs. Was this all he had -to say to her after three months’ estrangement?—an estrangement which he -had never troubled to explain. She had been weak with him—let him off -too easily—she ought to have “had things out with him” about her -marriage. She had a right to know his reasons for forgiving her just as -she had a right to know his reasons for shunning her.... He had treated -her inexplicably. - -She was working herself up to wrath like this when Peter suddenly spoke -of his own accord. - -“This place is like what Starvecrow used to be.” - -“Used to be?—when?” - -“Before Vera and I came to it—when the Greenings had it. Do you remember -the kitchen fireplace?—it was just like this.” - -“Starvecrow is far grander than Fourhouses now. I’m just a plain -farmer’s wife, Peter—I’m never going to pretend to be anything else.” - -“And Starvecrow was just a plain farm; but we’ve changed it into a -country house.” - -“Mary’s been wanting me to do the same for Fourhouses, but I’ve told her -I’d be very sorry to. I like it best as it is.” - -“So do I.” - -“Then are you sorry you’ve altered Starvecrow?” - -“Yes.” - -“But it’s a lovely place, Peter. You’ve made a perfect little country -house out of it. I’m sure you wouldn’t be pleased to have it the -ramshackle old thing it used to be.” - -“Yes, I should.” - -“Well, Vera wouldn’t, anyhow. You and she are in a totally different -position from us. I’m not keeping Fourhouses as it is because I don’t -think it’s capable of improvement, but because I don’t want to put -myself outside my class and ape the county. You’re just the -opposite—you’ve got appearances to keep up; it would never do if you -lived in the funny hole Starvecrow used to be in the Greenings’ time.” - -“I loved it then—it was just like this—the kitchen fire ... and the fire -in the office—it used to hum just like this—as if there was a kettle on -it. The place I’ve got now isn’t Starvecrow.” - -“What is it, then?” - -“I don’t know—but it isn’t Starvecrow. I’ve spoilt Starvecrow. I’ve -changed it, I’ve spoilt it—Vera’s people have spoilt it with their -damned money. It isn’t Starvecrow. Do you remember how the orchard used -to come right up to the side wall? They’ve cut it down and changed it -into a garden. The orchard’s beyond the garden—then it doesn’t look so -much like a farm. A country house doesn’t have an orchard just outside -the drawing-room windows....” - -He had left his chair, and was pacing up and down the room. His manner -seemed stranger than ever, and Jenny felt a little frightened. - -“I’m glad you don’t want me to change Fourhouses,” she said -soothingly—“I must tell Mary what you’ve said.” - -“But I do want you to change it,” he cried—“I can’t bear to see it as it -is—what Starvecrow used to be.” - -“Don’t be silly, Peter. Starvecrow is much better now than it ever used -to be.” - -He turned on her almost angrily— - -“Goodbye.” - -She felt glad he was going, and still more glad to hear her husband’s -voice calling her from the yard. - -“There’s Ben. Must you really be going, Peter?” - -“Yes—I must.” - -He walked out of the room, and she followed him—both meeting Ben on the -doorstep. Young Godfrey was surprised to see his elder brother-in-law—he -had made up his mind that Peter would never come to Fourhouses. He was -still more surprised at his abstracted greeting. - -“Hullo, Godfrey. Glad to see you—that’s a fine mare. Jenny, will you -tell them to bring my horse round?” - -“Yes.... Carter! Mr. Alard’s horse.... Peter can’t stay any longer, Ben. -I told him you’d be sorry.” - -“I’m sure I’m very sorry, Sir”—he blushed at his slip into deference, -but was quite unable to say “Peter”—“Is Mrs. Alard doing well?” he asked -clumsily. - -“Very well, thank you.” - -“I hope you’ll come and see us again soon,” said Jenny—“I’d like to show -you the house.” - -“Yes, I’ll come,” he returned absently, and went to meet his horse, -which was being led to him across the yard. - - - § 18 - -The sun was still high as Peter rode back through the crosscountry lanes -to Starvecrow. The days were lingering now, and the fields were -thickening for May. In the hay-fields the young crops were already -marking their difference from the pastures with a rust of sorrel and a -gilding of buttercups, and the hedges were losing their traceried -outline in smothers of vetch and convolvulus. - -Peter mechanically noted the progress of the winter sowings on Scragoak, -Stonelink, and other farms he passed. These were all dependencies of -Alard, and their welfare was bound up with Conster. Pleasant, homely -places, their sprawling picturesqueness made up for any want of repair -to all but the eye of his father’s agent. Peter saw the needs of most of -them—rebuilding, rethatching, redraining—and his mind, mechanically and -from force of habit, deplored the impossibility of taking action. The -position seemed quite hopeless, for he could do nothing now, and things -would be even worse at his father’s death, when the weight of -death-duties and the pressure of mortgage holders would probably choke -out the little life there was left in the Alard estates. But even this -ultimate foreboding was only mechanical—his real emotions, his most -vital pains, were all centred in himself. - -He had spoken truly when he told Jenny that he could not bear the sight -of Fourhouses. He could not even bear the thought of it. When he thought -of that quiet, ancient house, with its bricked floors and wide, sunny -spaces, with its humming kitchen fire and salt-riddled beam-work—above -all when he thought of it as the home of loving hearts and the peace -which follows daring—he felt unendurably the contrast of what he had -made of Starvecrow. It was what Starvecrow used to be—it was what -Starvecrow might have been ... for even if he had renounced the place he -loved for the woman he loved, Starvecrow would have still gone on being -the same, either as the home of another agent, or—if his father had -really fulfilled his threat of selling it—the home of some honest farmer -like Ben Godfrey, a man who would not only live in it but possess it, -and give it back the yeoman dignity it had lost. - -Starvycrow—Starvycrow. - -What was it now? What had he made it? It was a small country house, -perfectly furnished and appointed, with a set of model buildings -attached. It was the home of a burnt-out love, of the husks of marriage, -of a husband and wife whose hearts were foes and whose souls were -strangers, of lost illusions, of dead hopes, and wasted sacrifices. That -was what it was now. That was what he had made it. - -He remembered words which long ago he had spoken to Stella.... “Places -never change—they are always the same. Human beings may change, but -places never do.” Those words were untrue—places can change, do -change—Starvecrow had changed, he had changed it. While Stella, the -woman, had not changed. She was still the same—the dear, the lovely ... -and the unchanged, unchanging Stella might have been his instead of this -changed Starvecrow. He had sacrificed the substance of life to a dream, -a shadow, which without the substance must go up in smoke. He had sold -his birth-right for a morsel of bread—or rather he had given away his -bread for the sake of an inheritance in the clouds, which he could never -hold. - -His old hopes and his old fears had died together. Neither the fact that -his newborn child was a girl, nor the final defection of Gervase the -heir-apparent could make him hold his breath for Alard. These things had -not killed his dreams, as once he had thought, but had merely shown that -they were dead. The thought of his father’s death, which could not now -be far off, and his own succession to the property, with all the freedom -and power it would bring, no longer stirred his flagging ambition. When -he became Sir Peter he could probably save the House of Alard in spite -of death-duties and mortgagees. Without restrictions, master of his own -economies, he could put new life into the failing estate—or at least he -could nurse and shelter it through its difficult times till the days -came when the government _must_ do something to set the Squires on their -legs again.... But the thought had no power to move him—indeed Alard -hardly seemed worth saving. It was a monster to which he had sacrificed -his uttermost human need. Gervase had been a wise man, after all. And -Jenny ... Jenny had done what Peter might have done. He and Stella might -now have been together in some wide farmhouse, happy, alive and free. -This child might have been her child.... Oh, how could he have been so -blind? He had not known how much he really loved her—he had thought she -was just like other women he had loved, and that he could forget her. -She would go away, and she would manage at last to forget him; but he -who stayed behind would never be able to forget her. He would live on -and on, live on her memory—the memory of her touch and voice, her narrow -shining eyes, her laughter and her kisses—live on and on until even -memory grew feeble, and his heart starved, and died. - -Riding over the farms between Leasan and Vinehall it suddenly struck him -how easily he might turn aside and go to see Stella. She had promised -that she would see him again before she went away. Should he go now and -ask her to redeem that promise? Should he go and plead with her as he -had never pleaded before? She could still save him—she could still be to -him what she might have been. In one mad moment he saw himself and -Stella seeking love’s refuge at the other end of the country, in some -far, kindly farm in Westmoreland or Cornwall. Vera would divorce him—she -would be only too glad to get her freedom—and by the time he became Sir -Peter Alard he would have lived the scandal down. Stella still loved -him—she was awake, alive, and passionate—she had none of the scruples -and conventions, reserves and frigidities which keep most women -moral—she had only her religion to stand between them, and Peter did not -think much of that. A collection of dreams, traditions and prohibitions -could not stand before his pleading—before the pleading of her own -heart. He had not really pleaded with her yet.... - -For a moment he reined in his horse, hesitating at the mouth of the -little lane which twists through the hollows of Goatham and Doucegrove -towards Vinehall. But the next minute he went on again, driven by a -question. What had he to offer Stella in exchange for all that he -proposed to take from her?—What had he to give her in exchange for her -father, her home, her good name, her peace of mind? The answer was quite -plain—he had nothing but himself. And was he worth the sacrifice? Again -a plain answer—No. He was worn, tired, disillusioned, shop-soiled, no -fit mate for the vivid woman whom some hidden source of romance seemed -to keep eternally young. Even suppose he could, by storming and -entreaty, bend her to his desire, he would merely be bringing her to -where he stood today. A few years hence she might stand as he stood -now—looking back on all she had lost.... He would not risk bringing her -to that. Three years ago he had sacrificed her to his desires—he had -made her suffer.... It would be a poor atonement to sacrifice her -again—to another set of desires. The least he could do for her was to -let her follow her own way of escape—to let her go ... though still he -did not know how he was to live without her. - - - § 19 - -When he reached home he went upstairs to see Vera. Her mother and Rose -were with her, and they were having tea. - -“Hullo!” said his wife—“Where have you been all day?” - -“I lunched over at Becket’s House—Fuller asked me to stay. And in the -afternoon I went to see Jenny.” - -He had not meant to tell them, but now he suddenly found he had done so. -Vera lifted her eyebrows. - -“Oh. So you’ve forgiven her at last. I think you might have told me -before you went there. I want to thank her for writing to me, and you -could have saved me the fag of a letter. She’ll think it odd my not -sending any message.” - -“I’m sorry, but I never thought of going till I found myself over -there.” - -“And how is Jenny?” asked Rose. - -“She seemed very well.” - -“And happy?” - -“Yes—and happy.” - -“Is she still living like the wife of a working-man, with only one -maid?” - -“No, not like the wife of a working-man, who doesn’t keep even one maid, -but like the wife of a well-to-do farmer, which she is.” - -“You needn’t bite my head off, Peter,” said Rose. - -“Your tea’s in the drawing-room,” said Vera—“I asked Weller to put it -there ready for you when you came in. Nurse thinks it would be too much -of a crowd if you had it up here. Besides, I know you’d rather be -alone.” - -Peter rose from his seat at the bedside. - -“All right—I’ll go downstairs.” - -“I didn’t mean now, you old silly,” said Vera, pulling at his coat. -“Hang it all, I haven’t seen you the whole day.” - -Peter looked down at her hopelessly—at her large, swimming brown eyes, -at her face which seemed mysteriously to have coarsened without losing -any of its beauty, at the raven-black braids of her hair that showed -under her lace nightcap, and last of all at her mouth—full, crimson, -satisfied, devouring.... He became suddenly afraid—of her, with this -additional need of him, this additional hold on him, which her -motherhood had brought—and of himself, because he knew now that he hated -her, quite crudely and physically hated her. - -“I’m afraid I can’t stay—I’ve got rather a headache ... and I’m going -out directly to pot rabbits.” - -“That’s an odd cure for a headache,” said Vera. She looked hurt and -angry, and he felt a brute to have upset her at such a time. But he -could not help it—he had to go, and moved towards the door. - -“Aren’t you going to take any notice of your little daughter?” purred -Mrs. Asher—“Baby dear, I don’t think your daddy’s very proud of you. He -hasn’t been near you since breakfast.” - -Speechlessly Peter went to the cradle and gazed down on the little -wizened face. His heart felt hard; not one pang of fatherhood went -through it. “You little sheeny—you little Yid”—he said to the baby in -his heart. - -“Isn’t she a darling?” his mother-in-law breathed into his neck—“isn’t -she a love? Do you know, Vera thinks now that Miriam would do better -than Rachel—it goes better with Alard.” - -Peter did not think that either went particularly well with Alard, but -he said nothing. Wasn’t there a Jewish name which meant “The glory is -departed from my house”? - -He kissed the baby and went out, thankful to have escaped kissing the -mother. - -Some truth-loving providence had insisted on afflicting him with the -headache he had claimed as an excuse for not sitting with Vera. His head -ached abominably as he went into the drawing-room where his tea was -laid. The firelight ruddied the white walls, the silver and the -furniture, where comfort and cretonne were skilfully blended with oak -and antiquity. His thoughts flew back to the evening when he and Vera -had first come into this room on their return from their honeymoon. He -had thought it beautiful then—though even then he had realised it was -not the right room for Starvecrow. It used to be one of the kitchens, -and in the old days when he had first known it, had had a bricked floor -and a big range, like the kitchen at Fourhouses. Tonight he hated it—it -was part of the processes which had changed Starvecrow out of -recognition. He rang the bell impatiently. He would have his tea carried -into the office. That was the room which had altered least. - -Even here there were changes, but they were of his own choice and -making—he had planned them long before his marriage. The furniture of -Greening’s day—the pitch-pine desk and cane-seated chairs—had been -impossible; he had always meant to get a good Queen Anne bureau like -this one, and some gate-backed chairs like these. There was nothing -un-farmlike in this plainly furnished office, with its walls adorned -with scale-maps and plans of fields and woods, and notices of auctions -and agricultural shows. - -Nevertheless today he found himself wishing he had it as it used to be. -He would like to see it as it used to be—as Stella used to see it, when -she came in fresh and glowing on a winter’s afternoon, to sit beside the -fire ... he could almost feel her cold cheek under his lips.... - -Then for one moment he saw it as it used to be. For an instant of -strangeness and terror he saw the old scratched desk, with Greening’s -files and account-books upon it, saw Greening’s book-shelves, with their -obsolete agricultural treatises—saw the horse-hair armchair and the two -other chairs with the cane seats, and the picture-advertisement of -Thorley’s cake on the wall.... He stood stock still, trembling—and then -suddenly the room was itself again, and it didn’t even seem as if it had -altered.... But he felt dreadfully queer. He hurried to the door and -went out through the passage into the little grass space at the back. -God! he must be ill. What a fright he’d had! Suppose the hallucination -had continued a moment longer, should he have seen Stella come into the -room, unbuttoning her fur collar, her face all fresh with the wind?... - -He went round to the front of the house, and fetched his hat and -overcoat and gun. He’d go out after the rabbits, as he’d said. There -were too many of them, and he’d promised Elias ... anyhow he couldn’t -stand the house. He whistled for Breezy, and the spaniel ran out to him, -bounding and whimpering with delight. The sky was turning faintly green -at the rims. The dusk was near. - -He passed quickly through the yard. From the open doorway of the -cowhouse came cheerful sounds of milking, and he could see his cows -standing in shafts of mote-filled sunlight. The cowhouse had been -enlarged and modernised—Starvecrow could almost now be called a model -farm. But he knew that the place wanted to be what it was in the old -days—before his wife’s money had been spent on it. It was not only he -who was dissatisfied with the changes—Starvecrow itself did not like -them. He knew that tonight as he walked through the barns.... Starvecrow -had never been meant for a well-appointed country house, or a model -farm. It ought to have been, like Fourhouses, the home of happy lovers. -It was meant to be a home.... It was not a home now—just a place where -an unhappy man and woman lived, desiring, fleeing, mistrusting, failing -each other. He could have made it a home—brought Stella to it somehow, -some day, at last. Perhaps—seeing his father’s condition, that day would -not have been far off now.... But like everything else, Starvecrow had -been sacrificed to Alard. He had sacrificed it—he had betrayed the -faithful place. He saw now that he had betrayed not only himself, not -only Stella, but also Starvecrow. - -Starvycrow—Starvycrow. - -Peter walked quickly, almost running, from the reproach of Starvycrow. - - - § 20 - -At about seven o’clock that evening a message came up from Conster, and -as Peter was still out, it was brought to Vera. It was marked -“immediate,” so she opened it. - -“Who brought this, Weller?” - -“The gardener’s boy, Ma’am.” - -“Tell him Mr. Alard is out at present, but I’ll send him over as soon as -he comes home——Sir John’s had another stroke,” she told her mother. - -“Oh, my dear! How dreadful—I wish you hadn’t opened the letter. Shocks -are so bad for you.” - -“It wasn’t a shock at all, thanks. I’ve been expecting it for weeks. -Besides, one really can’t want the poor old man to live much longer. He -was getting a perfect nuisance to himself and everybody, and if he’d -lived on might have done some real damage to the estate. Now Peter may -just be able to save it, in spite of the death-duties.” - -“But, my dear, he isn’t dead yet!” cried Mrs. Asher, a little shocked. -She belonged to a generation to which the death of anybody however old, -ill, unloved or unlovely, could never be anything but a calamity. - -“He’s not likely to survive a second stroke,” said Vera calmly. “I’m -sorry for the poor old thing, but really it’s time he went. And I want -Peter to come into the estate before he’s quite worn out and embittered. -It’s high time he was his own master—it’ll pull him together again—he’s -been all to pieces lately.” - -“And it’ll quite settle the Stella Mount business,” she added secretly -to herself. - -The next hour passed, and Weller came up to ask if she should bring in -the dinner. - -“What _can_ have happened to Peter!” exclaimed Vera. - -“I daresay he met the messenger on his way back, and went straight to -Conster.” - -“Then it was very inconsiderate of him not to send me word. Yes, Weller, -bring the dinner up here. You’ll have it with me, won’t you, Mother, as -Peter isn’t in?” - -They were eating their fruit when Weller came in with another “Urgent.” -It was from Doris, and ran— - - “Hasn’t Peter come back yet? Do send him over at once whenever he - does. Father is dying. Dr. Mount does not expect him to last the - night. We have wired to Jenny and Mary and even Gervase. Do send Peter - along. He ought to be here.” - -“How exactly like Doris to write as if we were deliberately keeping -Peter away! _I_ don’t know where he is. Doris might realise that I’m the -last person who’d know.” - -Her hands were trembling, and she whimpered a little as she crushed up -the note and flung it across the room into the fireplace. - -“Don’t be upset, Vera darling. Nothing could possibly have happened to -him—we should have heard. He’s probably accepted a sudden invitation to -dinner, the same as he did to lunch.” - -“I know nothing’s happened to him—I’m not afraid of that. I know where -he is....” - -“Then if you know ...” - -“He’s with Stella Mount,” and Vera hid her face in the pillow, sobbing -hysterically. - -Mrs. Asher tried to soothe her, tried to make her turn over and talk -coherently, but with that emotional abandonment which lay so close to -her mental sophistication, she remained with her face obstinately -buried, and sobbed on. Her mother had heard about Stella Mount, chiefly -from Rose, but had never given the idea much credit. She did not credit -it now. But to pacify Vera she sent over a carefully worded message to -Dr. Mount’s cottage, asking that if Mr. Peter Alard was there he should -be told at once that he was wanted over at Conster. - -The boy came back with the reply that Mr. Alard was not at Vinehall, and -had not been there that day. Everyone but the maid was out—Dr. Mount at -Conster Manor and Miss Mount in church. - -“That proves nothing,” said Vera—“he needn’t have met her at the house.” - -“But if she’s in church——” - -“How do we know she’s in church? She only left word with the maid that -she’s gone there——” and Vera’s sobs broke out again until the nurse -begged her to calm herself for the sake of the child. Which she promptly -did, for she was a good mother. - - - § 21 - -At Conster all the family was by now assembled, with the exception of -Peter and Gervase. Ben Godfrey had brought Jenny over from Fourhouses, -and Mary had motored from Hastings; Rose was there too, with a -daughter’s privileges. They were all sitting in the dining-room over a -late and chilly meal. They had been upstairs to the sick-room, where the -prodigals had entered unforbidden, for Sir John knew neither sheep nor -goat. His vexed mind had withdrawn itself to the inmost keep of the -assaulted citadel, in preparation for its final surrender of the -fortress it had held with such difficulty of late. - -“There is no good saying that I expect him to recover this time,” Dr. -Mount had said. “I will not say it is impossible—doctors are shy of -using that word—but I don’t expect it, and, in view of his former -condition which would be tremendously aggravated by this attack, I don’t -think anyone can hope it.” - -“Will it be long?” asked Doris, in a harsh, exhausted voice. - -“I don’t think it will be longer than forty-eight hours.” - -Doris burst into tears. Her grief was, the family thought, excessive. -All her life, and especially for the last three months, her father had -victimised her, browbeaten her, frustrated her, humiliated her—she had -been the scapegoat of the revolted sons and daughters—and yet at his -death she had tears and a grief which none of the more fortunate could -share. - -“I found him—it was I who found him”—she sobbed out her story for the -dozenth time. “I came into the study with his hot milk—Wills has refused -to bring it ever since poor Father threw it in his face—and I saw him -sitting there, and he looked funny, somehow. I knew something was -wrong—he was all twisted up and breathing dreadfully.... And I said -‘Father, is anything the matter?—aren’t you feeling well?’ And he just -managed to gasp ‘Get out.’ Those were the last words he uttered.” - -Sir John had not been put to bed in his attic-bedroom, the scene of his -ignoble tea-making, but in his old room downstairs, leading out of Lady -Alard’s. She and the nurse were with him now while the others were at -supper. She had a conviction that her husband knew her, as he made -inarticulate sounds of wrath when she came near. But as he did the same -for the nurse, the rest of the family were not convinced. - -“When _is_ Peter coming?” groaned Doris—“I really call it heartless of -him to keep away.” - -“But he doesn’t know what’s happened,” soothed Jenny—“he’ll come -directly he’s heard.” - -“I can’t understand what he’s doing out at this hour. It’s too late for -any business, or for shooting—where can he have gone?” - -“You’ll be getting an answer to your second message soon,” said Ben -Godfrey. - -“I daresay Peter thought he’d have his dinner first,” continued Doris—“I -expect he thought it didn’t matter and he could come round afterwards.” - -“I don’t think that’s in the least likely,” said Mary. - -“Then why doesn’t he come?—he can’t be out at this hour.” - -“He must be out—or he would have come.” - -“It’s not so very late,” said Jenny, “only just after nine.” - -“He may have gone out to dinner somewhere,” said Rose. - -“Yes, that’s quite possible,” said Jenny—“he may have gone somewhere on -business and been asked to stay—or he may have met someone when he was -out.” - -“I’ve a strong feeling that it mightn’t be a bad plan to ’phone to -Stella Mount.” - -“But Dr. Mount ’phoned there an hour ago, saying he’d be here all night. -She’d have told him then if Peter was there.” - -“I think it quite probable that she would not have told him.” - -“What exactly do you mean by that, Rose?” - -“Mean?—oh, nothing.” - -“Then there’s no use talking of such a thing. I’m quite sure that if -Peter had been at the Mounts’, Stella would have sent him over directly -she heard about Father.” - -At that moment Wills came into the room with a note for Doris. - -“That must be from Starvecrow,” she said, taking it. “Yes, it’s from -Mrs. Asher—‘Peter hasn’t been in yet, and we are beginning to feel -anxious. He told us he was going out to shoot rabbits and one of the -farm men saw him start out with his gun and Breezy. Of course he may -have met someone and gone home with them to dinner. As you have a -’phone, perhaps you could ring up one or two places.” - -“We could ring up the Parishes,” said Jenny—“he may have gone there. Or -the Hursts—aren’t they on the ’phone? I don’t think the Fullers are.” - -“It’s an extraordinary thing to me,” said Rose, “that he should stop out -like this without at least sending a message to his wife. He might know -how anxious she’d be.” - -“Peter isn’t the most thoughtful or practical being on earth. But -there’s no good making conjectures. I’m going to ’phone every place I -can think of.” - -Jenny spoke irritably. Rose never failed to annoy her, and she was -growing increasingly anxious about Peter. She had told the others of his -visit that afternoon, but she had not told them of his queer, gruff, -silent manner. Not that she had seen, or saw now, anything sinister in -it, but she could not rid herself of the thought that Peter had been -“queer,” and that to queer people queer things may happen. - -The telephone yielded no results. Neither the Parishes nor the Hursts -were harbouring Peter, nor could she hear of him at the Furnace or -Becket’s House, or at the Vinehall solicitor’s, or the garage at Iden, -the final resorts of her desperation. Of course he had friends who were -not on the telephone, but it was now after ten o’clock, and it was -difficult to believe that if he had accepted a casual invitation to dine -he would not have come home or sent word. - -“Lord! how ghastly it is,” she cried, as she hung up the receiver for -the last time—“Father dying and Peter disappeared. What _are_ we to do, -Ben?” - -“I think we ought to go and have a look for him,” said her husband. - -“How?—and who’d go?” - -“I’ll get a chap or two from here, and the men at Starvecrow. If he was -only out after conies he wouldn’t have gone far—down to the Bridge, most -likely. We ought to search the fallows.” - -“Yes, do go,” said Doris—“it’s the only thing to be done now. I know -something dreadful has happened to him. And perhaps tomorrow he’ll be -Sir Peter Alard....” - -She had forgotten that Godfrey was the presumptuous boor who had -disgraced her name. She saw in him only the man of the family—the only -man of the family now. - -“I’ll ring for Wills, and he’ll see about lanterns—and perhaps Pollock -would go with you. And Beatup and Gregory know the district well—I’ll -have them sent for from the farm.” - -“Reckon I’d better go up to Starvecrow, John Elias would come with me, -and Lambard and Fagge.” - -“If you’re going to Starvecrow,” said Jenny, “I’ll go too, and see if I -can do anything for poor Vera. I expect she’s dreadfully worried and -frightened.” - -“Don’t go!” cried Doris—“suppose Father died....” - -“I can’t see what good I should be doing here. Vera needs me more than -you do.” - -“She’s got her mother. And it would be dreadful if Father died while you -were out of the house.” - -“Not more dreadful than if I was in it. He doesn’t know me, and wouldn’t -see me if he did.” - -“I think you’re very heartless,” and Doris began to cry—“Father might -recover consciousness just before the end and want to forgive you.” - -“I don’t think either is the least likely. Come along, Ben.” - -Her husband fetched her coat from the hall, and they set out together. -Doris sat on in her chair at the head of the table, sobbing weakly. - -“I think this is a terrible thing to have happened. Father and Peter -going together.... It makes me almost believe there isn’t a God.” - -“But we’ve no reason to think Peter’s dead,” said Mary—“a dozen other -things may have happened. He may have broken his leg out in the fields -and be unable to get home, in which case the men will soon find him. I -don’t see why you need take for granted that he’s killed.” - -“I think it far more likely that he’s gone off with Stella Mount,” said -Rose, relieved of Jenny’s repressing presence. - -“Why ever should you think that?” said Mary. “I wasn’t aware that he was -in love with her—now.” - -“He’s been in love with her for the last year. Poor Vera’s had a -dreadful time. I’m sure she thinks Peter’s gone with Stella.” - -“Really, Rose, you surprise me—and anyhow, Stella answered her father’s -’phone call a short time ago, so she must be at home.” - -“She might just have been going to leave when he rang up.” - -“Well, the ’phone’s in the next room if you like to give her a call—and -know what to say to her. Personally I should find the enquiry rather -delicate.” - -“It won’t do any good my ringing up,” sulked Rose—“if they’re gone we -can’t stop them. If they’ve not gone then Doris is right, and Peter’s -probably killed or something. I don’t know which would be the worst. -It’s dreadful to think of him chucking everything over when if he’d only -waited another hour he’d have heard about Father’s illness. He’d never -have gone if he’d known he was to be Sir Peter so soon.” - -“Well, I’d rather he’d gone than was killed,” said Doris—“the other -could be stopped and hushed up—but if he’s dead ... there’s nobody -left.” - -“What about Gervase?” asked Mary. - -“He’s no good.” - -“Surely he’d come out of his convent or whatever it is, if he knew he -had succeeded to the property.” - -“I don’t know. Gervase never cared twopence about the property. I don’t -think he’d come out for that.” - -“They wouldn’t let him out,” said Rose. - -“Is he coming here now?” asked Mary. - -“I wired to him when I wired to you and Jenny. But I don’t know whether -he’ll come or not, and anyhow he can’t be here for some time.” - -“What time is it?” - -“Nearly twelve.” - -The three women shivered. The fire had gone out. - - - § 22 - -The night wore on, and Sir John was still alive. Nobody thought of going -to bed, but after a time Doris, Mary and Rose went upstairs to the -greater warmth of their father’s dressing-room. Here through the open -door they could see the firelight leaping on the bedroom ceiling, and -hear the occasional hushed voices of the nurse and Dr. Mount. Lady Alard -sat by the fire, mute and exhausted. For the first time that they could -remember she gave her family the impression of being really ill. Speller -made tea, cocoa and soup on the gas-ring in the dressing-room. Hot -drinks were at once a distraction and a stimulant. The night seemed -incredibly long—nobody spoke above whispers, though every now and then -Rose would say—“There’s no good whispering—he wouldn’t hear us even if -we shouted.” - -“I do hope he really is unconscious,” said Doris. - -“Dr. Mount says he is.” - -“But how can he know? He knows Father can’t speak, but he doesn’t know -he can’t hear us.” - -“I expect there are signs he can tell by.” - -“The last words he ever spoke were said to me. That’ll be something -comforting to remember.... But oh, it was dreadful finding him like -that! I do hope it hadn’t lasted long ... that he hadn’t been like that -for a long time, all alone....” - -Doris bowed her head into her hands and sobbed loudly. As she sat there, -crouched over the fire, her face with the merciful powder and colour -washed off by tears, all haggard and blotched, and the make-up of her -eyes running down her cheeks, her hair tumbling on her ears, and -revealing the dingy brown roots of its chestnut undulations—she looked -by far the most stricken of the party, more even than the sick man, who -but for his terrible breathing lay now in ordered calm. - -A clock in the house struck three. - -“I wonder when we’ll hear about Peter,” whispered Rose. - -“I’m surprised we haven’t heard already,” said Mary—“They must have gone -all over the Starvecrow land by now.” - -“Um....” said Rose, “that seems to point to his not being anywhere about -the place.” Then she added—“I wonder if Gervase will come. I shouldn’t -be at all surprised if he didn’t.” - -“I should. They’d never keep him back when his father’s dying.” - -“Well—why isn’t he here? He’s known about it for over six hours.” - -“I shouldn’t think there were any trains running now. It’s not so easy -as all that to come from Brighton.” - -Rose relapsed into silence. After a time she said— - -“Religion is a great consolation at a time like this.” - -“Do you think we ought to send for Mr. Williams to come and see Father?” -choked Doris. - -“No—of course not. What good could he do? Poor Sir John’s quite -unconscious.” - -“But he may be able to hear. How _do_ you know he can’t? Perhaps he -would like to hear Mr. Williams say a prayer or a hymn.” - -“My dear Doris, I tell you he doesn’t know a thing, so what’s the good -of dragging poor Mr. Williams out of his bed at three o’clock in the -morning? I had no patience with the people who did that sort of thing to -George. Sir John couldn’t understand anything, and if he did he’d be -furious, so it doesn’t seem much good either way. When I said religion -was a consolation I was thinking of Mary.” - -“And why of me?” asked Mary. - -“Well, I often think you’d be happier if you had some sort of religion. -You seem to me to lead such an aimless life.” - -“Of course I’d be happier. Most people are happier when they believe in -something. Unfortunately I never was taught anything I could or cared to -believe.” - -“Mary! How can you say that, when poor George....” - -She broke off as the door opened and Jenny suddenly appeared. - -“Hullo, Jenny!” cried Doris—“have you come back?—Have they found Peter?” - -Jenny did not speak. She shut the door behind her, and stood with her -back against it. Her face was white and damp. It was evidently raining, -and wet strands of hair were plastered on her cheeks. - -“Is Dr. Mount in there?” she asked. - -“Yes—but Jenny ... Peter!...” - -“I must see Dr. Mount first.” - -“Who’s that asking for me?” - -The doctor came in from the next room; at the sight of Jenny he shut the -communicating door. - -“I want to speak to you, Dr. Mount. Will you come with me?” - -“Jenny, you really can’t treat us like this,” cried Mary, “you must tell -us what’s happened. Is Peter hurt?” - -“Yes—he’s downstairs.” - -“Is he dead?” cried Doris, springing to her feet. - -Again Jenny did not speak. She bowed her head into her hands and wept -silently. - -A dreadful silence filled the little room. Even Doris was perfectly -quiet. - -“I’ll come down,” said Dr. Mount. - -“So’ll I,” said Doris. - -“No,” said Jenny, “you mustn’t see him.” - -“Why not?” - -“He’s—he’s been dreadfully injured—part of his head....” - -She stopped and shuddered. Dr. Mount pushed quietly past her to the -door. - -“I think I’d better go down alone. Your husband and the men are down -there—I can get all the information I want from them.” - -Jenny came forward to the fire and flopped into the chair Doris had -left. Her clothes were wet and her boots muddy—it must be raining hard. - -“I’d better tell you what happened,” she said brokenly—“The men—some -from here and some from Starvecrow—found Peter lying on the Tillingham -marshes about half a mile below the Mocksteeple. His dog was watching -beside him, and he’d been shot through the head.” - -“Murdered,” gasped Doris. - -“No—I don’t think so for a moment.” - -“It was an accident, of course,” said Mary. - -“I wish I could think that. But the men seemed to think—my husband -too—that it was his own doing.” - -“His own doing! Suicide!” cried Doris—“How could they imagine such a -thing?” - -“From the way he was lying, and the position of the gun, and the nature -of the injuries. That’s why I was so anxious for Dr. Mount to see him -and give an expert opinion.” - -“Is there any chance of his being still alive?” - -“Not the slightest. His head is nearly entirely blown away.” - -“Oh, Jenny, don’t!—it’s dreadful!” - -“Yes it’s dreadful, but I’m afraid it’s true.” - -“But whatever could have made him kill himself?” moaned Doris—“He’d -nothing on his mind—he was perfectly happy ... it couldn’t have been -because the baby was a girl.” - -“Peter may have had troubles that we don’t know of,” said Rose. - -“He must have,” said Jenny, “though I don’t think for a minute they were -of the kind you’ve been suspecting.” - -“I don’t see what other kind they could be.” - -“It may have been something to do with the estate.” - -“He’d never have killed himself for that. If anything had gone wrong -there, it was more than ever his duty to keep alive.” - -“Well, there’s no good us arguing here about what he did it for—if he -really did do it. The question is—who is going to tell Mother?” - -“Oh, Jenny....” - -They looked at each other in consternation. - - - § 23 - -But Lady Alard, for all her frailty, belonged to a tougher generation -than her children. In times of prosperity she might languish, but in -times of adversity her spirit seemed to stiffen in proportion to the -attacks upon it. If her cook had given notice she would have taken to -her bed, but now when catastrophe trod on catastrophe and the fatal -illness of her husband was followed by the death of her first-born son -she armed herself with a courage in which her children, careless of -kitchen tragedies, seemed to fail when they met the bigger assaults of -life. She was less shattered by the news of Peter’s death than was the -daughter who broke it to her, and rising up out of her chair, -independent of arm or stick, she insisted on going downstairs into the -dark, whispering house. - -The others followed her, except Doris, who stayed huddled and motionless -in her chair in her father’s dressing-room, like a stricken dog at its -master’s door. The dining-room was lighted up and seemed full of men. -They were gathered round the table on which, with a sense of futility -and pathos Jenny caught sight of a pair of stiff legs in muddy boots. - -At the sound of footsteps Dr. Mount came out of the room. - -“What! Lady Alard!” he exclaimed, quite unprepared for such a visit. - -“Yes, I want to see him.” - -“You can’t—yet!” - -“Are you quite sure he’s dead?” - -“Quite sure.” - -Dr. Mount looked shaken—his face was grey. But all faces were grey in -the light of the hall, where the first livid rays of morning were mixing -with the electric lamps that had burned all night. - -“How did it happen, Doctor? Does anyone know?” - -“Nobody knows. He was found on the Tillingham marshes. His gun may have -gone off accidentally.” - -“May have....” repeated Jenny. - -“Will there have to be an inquest?” - -“I’m afraid so. There always is in these cases.” - -“Well, Sir John has been spared something.” - -Her voice broke for the first time, and she turned back to the stairs. -Rose and Mary went with her but Jenny lingered in the hall, where she -had the comfort of seeing her husband through the dining-room door. Dr. -Mount stopped as he was going back into the room. - -“Has anyone told his wife?” - -“Yes—one of the men came to Starvecrow at once.... I told her.... They -thought it best not to take him there.” - -“Of course—quite right. How did she bear it?—Perhaps I ought to go and -see her.” - -“Her mother’s with her, but I’m sure they’d be glad if you went there.” - -“I’ve got the car—I could run round in a few minutes. I must go home -too ... one or two things to see to ... I don’t think I’m wanted here -just now.” - -The doctor seemed terribly shaken by Peter’s death, but that was very -natural, considering he had known him from a child. Also, Jenny -reflected, being a religious man, the idea of suicide would particularly -appall him. - -“Doctor—do you—do you think he did it himself?” - -“I’m sorely afraid he did.” - -“But what can have made him? ... I mean, why should he? I always thought -he was so happy—too happy, even. I sometimes thought him self-satisfied -and over-fed.” - -“We all have our secrets, Jenny, and your brother must have had a -heavier one than most of us.” - -“But why should you be so sure he did it? Couldn’t his gun have gone off -by accident?” - -“Of course it could. But the wounds would hardly have been of such a -nature if it had. However, the matter will probably be cleared up in the -Coroner’s court.” - -Jenny shuddered. - -“I wonder if he’s had any trouble—anything worse than usual about the -land....” Then she remembered Rose’s suspicions of Stella Mount. Her -colour deepened as she stood before Stella’s father. Could that possibly -be the reason, after all? She had never imagined such a thing, but Peter -certainly had been fond of Stella once, and Rose’s gossip was seldom -quite baseless. She did not believe for a moment in any intrigue, but -Peter might have turned back too late to his early love ... and of -course Stella was going away ... it might have been that. Since -undoubtedly Peter had had a secret buried under the outward fatness of -his life, that secret may just as well have been Stella.... - -“Your husband tells me he came to see you this afternoon,” the doctor -was saying, “what was he like then?” - -“He seemed rather queer and silent, but afterwards I put it down to its -being his first visit since my marriage. He wouldn’t forgive me for a -long time, as you know, so it was only to be expected that he should -feel a little awkward. But he said some rather queer things about -Starvecrow—said he wished it was more like Fourhouses, said he’d spoilt -it with his improvements, and seemed much more upset about it than you’d -think natural.” - -“Um.” - -The doctor was silent a moment, then he said— - -“Well, I think I’ll run over to Starvecrow in a minute or two when I’ve -finished with poor Peter, then I might as well go home and have an early -breakfast, and see if there are any messages for me. I’ll be back in a -couple of hours.” - -He moved away from her, and was going into the dining-room when Rose’s -frightened voice suddenly shuddered down the stairs. - -“Dr. Mount—will you please come up at once. There’s a change in Sir -John.” - - - § 24 - -Sir John Alard died when the cocks were crowing on Starvecrow and -Glasseye and Doucegrove, and on other farms of his wide-flung estate too -far away for the sound to come to Conster. His wife and daughters and -daughter-in-law were with him when he died, but he knew no one. His mind -did not come out of its retreat for any farewells, and if it had, would -have found a body stiffened, struggling, intractable, and disobedient to -the commands of speech and motion it had obeyed mechanically for nearly -eighty years. Death came and brought the gift of dignity—a dignity he -had never quite achieved in all his lifetime of rule. When his family -came in for a last look, after the doctor and the nurse had performed -their offices, they saw that the querulous, irascible old man of the -last few months was gone, and in his place lay Something he had never -been of stillness and marble beauty. When Dr. Mount had invited them in -to the death-chamber, the daughters had at first refused, and changed -their minds only when they found that Lady Alard was unexpectedly ready -to go. Now Jenny at least was glad. It was her first sight of death (for -she had not seen George’s body and would never see Peter’s) and she was -surprised to find how peaceful and triumphant the body looked when set -free from the long tyranny of the soul. It comforted her to know that in -its last fatal encounter with terror, pain and woe, humanity was allowed -to achieve at least the appearance of victory. Her father lying there -looked like one against whom all the forces of evil had done their worst -in vain. - -Nobody cried except Doris, who cried a great deal. She had not cried for -Peter, but when her father’s spirit had slipped out after a sigh, she -had burst into a storm of noisy weeping. She was sobbing still, kneeling -beside the body of the father who had bullied and humiliated her all her -life, the only one of his children who really regretted him. - -There was the sound of wheels in the drive below. - -“Is that Gervase?” asked Jenny, going to the window. - -“No,” said Mary, “it’s Dr. Mount going away.” - -“He seems in a great hurry to get off,” said Rose—“he didn’t wait a -minute longer than he could possibly help.” - -“I don’t wonder,” said Jenny. - -“I expect he’s gone home to break it to Stella,” whispered Rose. - -“He told me he was going to Starvecrow to see Vera,” said Jenny icily. -She hated Rose’s conjectures all the more that she now shared them -herself. - -“It will be dreadful for some people at the inquest,” continued her -sister-in-law. - -“Dreadful! how dreadful?—You don’t mean Stella’s to blame, do you?” - -“Oh, of course, I don’t mean she’s really done anything wicked—but she -let poor Peter go on loving her when she knew it was wrong.” - -“How could she have stopped him?—supposing it’s true that he did love -her.” - -“Any girl can stop a man loving her,” said Rose mysteriously. - -“Oh, can she?—it’s obvious you’ve never had to try.” - -Jenny was surprised at her own vindictiveness, but she felt all nerves -after such a night. Rose was plunged into silence, uncertain whether she -had been complimented or insulted, and the next minute there was another -sound of wheels in the drive. - -“That must be Gervase.” - -A taxi had stopped outside the door, and out of it climbed, not Gervase -but Brother Joseph of the Order of Sacred Pity, with close-cropped hair, -a rough, grey cassock and the thickest boots man ever saw. As she -watched him from the window, Jenny felt a lump rise in her throat. - -She was going down to meet him when suddenly Doris started up from the -bedside. - -“Let me go first.” - -She brushed past her sister and ran downstairs before anyone could stop -her. Jenny hurried after her, for she felt that Doris in her present -condition was not a reassuring object to meet the home-comer. But she -was too late. Doris flung open the door almost at the same instant as -the bell rang. - -“Welcome!” she cried hysterically—“Welcome—Sir Gervase Alard!” - - - § 25 - -If Gervase was taken aback at his sister’s appearance, he did not show -it by more than a sudden blink. - -“My dear Doris,” he said, and taking both her hands he kissed her poor -cheek where rouge and tears were mingled—“I met Dr. Mount—and he’s told -me,” he said. - -“About Peter?” - -“Yes.” - -He came into the hall and stood there a quaint, incongruous figure in -his cloak and cassock. - -“Hullo, Wills,” as the butler came forward. - -“How do you do, Mr. Gervase—I mean Sir Ger—or rather I should say——” - -He remembered that his young master was now Brother Something-or-other, -having crowned an un-squirelike existence, much deplored in the -servants’ hall, by entering a Home for Carthlicks. He compromised with— - -“Can I have your luggage, sir?” - -“Here it is,” said Gervase, holding out on one finger a small bundle -tied up in a spotted handkerchief, and Wills who was going to have added -“and your keys, sir,” retired in confusion. - -“Where’s Peter?” asked Brother Joseph. - -“In there,” Jenny pointed into the dining-room where Peter still lay, -now no longer pathetic and futile in booted and muddy death, but -dignified as his father upstairs under his white sheet. - -Young Alard went in, and standing at the head of the table, crossed -himself and said the first prayer that had been said yet for Peter. His -sisters watched him from the doorway. Doris seemed calmer, her tears -came more quietly. - -“How’s Mother?” he asked as he came out. - -“She’s been wonderful,” said Jenny, “but I think she’s breaking a bit -now.” - -“And Vera?” - -Vera had not been wonderful. It is difficult to be wonderful when your -husband has killed himself because he loved another woman and you did -not die in childbirth to let him marry her. - -“It’s dreadful,” moaned Jenny. Then suddenly she wondered if Gervase -knew the worst. There was a look of bright peace in his eyes which -seemed to show that he was facing sorrow without humiliation or fear. - -“Did Dr. Mount tell you that—tell you exactly how Peter died?” - -“He told me he had been killed accidentally out shooting. He gave me no -details—he couldn’t wait more than a minute.” - -“Oh, my dear, it was much worse than that....” - -She saw that once again she would have to “break it” to somebody. It was -easier telling Gervase than it had been to tell the others, for he did -not cry out or protest, but when she had finished she saw that his eyes -had lost their bright peace. - -Doris was sobbing again, uncontrollably. - -“The two of them gone—first Peter and then Father. To think that Peter -should have gone first.... Thank God Father didn’t know! He didn’t know -anybody, Gervase—the last person he recognised was me. That will always -be a comfort to me, though it was so dreadful.... I went into the -library, and found him all huddled there, alone ... and I said ‘Are you -ill, Father?’—and he said ‘Get out’—and now, Gervase, you’re the head of -the family—you’re Sir Gervase Alard.” - -“We’ll talk that over later. At present I must go and see Mother.” - -“But you’re not going to back out of it—you’re not going to leave us in -the lurch.” - -“I hope I shan’t leave anybody in the lurch,” he replied rather -irritably, “but there are lots of more important things than that to -settle now. Where is Mother, Jenny?” - -“She’s upstairs in Father’s dressing-room.” - -She noticed that he looked very white and tired, and realised that he -must have been travelling for the greater part of the night. - -“Are you hungry, dear? Won’t you eat something before you go up?” - -“No thank you—I don’t want anything to eat. But might I have a cup of -tea?” - -“Speller’s making that upstairs, so come along.” - -They were halfway up, and had drawn a little ahead of Doris, when he -bent to her and whispered— - -“Does Stella know?” - -“Yes—Dr. Mount was on his way home when you met him.” - -“Oh, I’m glad.” - -So he, too, perhaps thought Stella might be the reason.... - -The little dressing-room was full of people. Ben Godfrey was there, the -son-in-law and the man of the house till Gervase came. Mr. Williams was -there too, summoned by Rose at a seasonable hour. He was sitting beside -Lady Alard, who had now begun to look old and broken, and was trying to -comfort her with a picture of her husband and son in some nebulous -Paradisaical state exclusive to Anglican theology. He looked up rather -protestingly at the sight of Gervase, whose habit suggested rival -consolations and a less good-natured eschatology. But young Alard had -not come to his mother as a religious, but as her son. He went up to -her, and apparently oblivious of everyone else, knelt down beside her -and hid his face in her lap. “Oh, Mummy—it’s too terrible—comfort me.” - -His sisters were surprised, Ben Godfrey was embarrassed, Rose and Mr. -Williams tactfully looked another way. But Lady Alard’s face lit up with -almost a look of happiness. She put her arms round him, hugging his dark -cropped head against her bosom, and for the first time seemed comforted. - - - § 26 - -The Mounts’ little servant had gone to bed by the time Stella came home -from church, so she did not hear till the next morning of the message -from Starvecrow. Her father had rung her up earlier in the evening to -say that he would probably not be home that night; and she was not to -sit up for him. So she carefully bolted both the doors, looked to see if -the kitchen fire was raked out, pulled down a blind or two, and went -upstairs. - -She was not sorry to be alone, for her mind was still wandering in the -dark church she had left ... coal black, without one glimmer of light, -except the candle which had shown for a moment behind the altar and then -flickered out in the draughts of the sanctuary. Spring by spring the -drama of the Passion searched the deep places of her heart. The office -of Tenebrae seemed to stand mysteriously apart from the other offices -and rites of the church, being less a showing forth of the outward -events of man’s redemption than of the thoughts of the Redeemer’s -heart.... “He came, a man, to a deep heart, that is to a secret heart, -exposing His manhood to human view.” Throughout those sad nocturnes she -seemed to have been looking down into that Deep Heart, watching its -agony in its betrayal and its forsaking, watching it brood on the -scriptures its anguish had fulfilled.... “From the lamentations of -Jeremiah the Prophet” ... watching it comfort itself with the human -songs of God’s human lovers, psalms of steadfastness and praise—then in -the Responds breaking once more into its woe—a sorrowful dialogue with -itself—“Judas, that wicked trader, sold his Lord with a kiss”—“It had -been good for that man if he had not been born” ... “O my choicest vine, -I have planted thee. How art thou turned to bitterness” ... “Are ye come -out against a thief with swords and staves for to take me?” ... “I have -delivered my beloved into the hand of the wicked, and my inheritance is -become unto me as a lion in the wood”—“My pleasant portion is desolate, -and being desolate it crieth after me.” - -Through psalm and lesson, antiphon and response, the Deep Heart went -down into the final darkness. It was swallowed up, all but its last, -inmost point of light—and that too was hidden for a time ... “keeping -His divinity hidden within, concealing the form of God.” In the darkness -His family knelt and prayed Him to behold them; then for a few brief -moments came the showing of the light, the light which had not been -extinguished but hidden, and now for a few moments gleamed again. - -It was all to the credit of Stella’s imagination that she could make a -spiritual adventure out of Tenebrae as sung in Vinehall church. The -choir of eight small boys and three hoarse young men was rather a -hindrance than an aid to devotion, nor was there anything particularly -inspiring in the congregation itself, sitting on and on through the -long-drawn nocturnes in unflagging patience, for the final reward of -seeing the lights go out. Even this was an uncertain rite, for old Mr. -Bream, the sacristan, occasionally dozed at the end of a psalm with the -result that he once had three candles over at the Benedictus; and -another time he had let the Christ candle go out in the draught at the -back of the Altar and was unable to show it at the end, though his -hoarse entreaties for a match were audible at the bottom of the church. -But Stella loved the feeling of this His family sitting down and -watching Him there in stolid wonder. She loved their broad backs, the -shoulders of man and girl touching over a book, the children sleeping -against their mothers, to be roused for the final thrill of darkness. -She was conscious also of an indefinable atmosphere of sympathy, as of -the poor sharing the sorrows of the Poor, and drawn terribly close to -this suffering human Heart, whose sorrows they could perhaps understand -better than the well-educated and well-to-do. She felt herself more at -ease in such surroundings than in others of more sophisticated devotion, -and on leaving the church was indignant with an unknown lady who -breathed into her ear that she’d seen it better done at St. John -Lateran. - -Up in her bedroom, taking the pins out of her hair, her mind still -lingered over the office. Perhaps Gervase was singing it now, far away -at Thunders Abbey.... She must write to Gervase soon, and tell him how -much happier she had been of late. During the last few weeks a kind of -tranquillity had come, she had lost that sense of being in the wrong -with Peter, of having failed him by going away. She saw that she was -right, and that she had hated herself for that very reason of being in -the right when poor Peter whom she loved was in the wrong. But her being -in the right would probably be more help to him at the last than if she -had put herself in the wrong for his dear sake. - - “Judas the wicked trader - Sold his Lord with a kiss. - It had been good for that man - If he had not been born.” - -She too might have sold her Lord with a kiss. She wondered how often -kisses were given as His price—kisses which should have been His joy -given as the token of His betrayal. She might have given such a token if -He had not preserved her, delivered her from the snare of Peter’s -arms ... oh, that Peter’s arms should be a snare ... but such he himself -had made them. She had not seen him for a long time now—a whole -fortnight at least; and in less than another fortnight she would be -gone.... He was keeping away from her, and would probably keep away -until the end. Then once more he would see Vera, his wife, holding their -child in her arms ... and surely then he would go back. Probably in a -few days too he would be Sir Peter Alard, Squire of Conster, head of the -house ... then he would be thankful that he had not entangled himself -with Stella Mount—he would be grateful to her, perhaps.... - - “For I have delivered my beloved into the hand of the wicked, - And my inheritance is become unto me as a lion in the wood - My pleasant portion is desolate— - And, being desolate,—it crieth after me.” - -How the words would ring in her head!—breaking up her thoughts. She felt -very tired and sleepy—and she would have to be up early the next -morning. “My inheritance is as a lion in the wood.”... Those words had -made her think of Starvecrow. She had always thought of Starvecrow as -her inheritance, the inheritance of which Peter had robbed her.... -Starvycrow ... oh, if only Peter had been true they might now be waiting -to enter their inheritance together. Sir John Alard could not have kept -them out of it for more than a few years. But Peter had cut her off, and -Starvecrow was strange to her—she dared not go near it ... strange and -fierce—a lion in the wood. - -She was sorry for Sir John Alard, lying at the point of death. She -viewed his share in her tragedy with the utmost tolerance. He had -belonged to the old order, the toppling, changing order, and it was not -he who had failed the spirit of life, but Peter, who belonged to the new -but had stood by the old. Poor Peter who had inherited only the things -which are shaken, when he was the heir of the kingdom which cannot be -moved.... - - - § 27 - -Only her sudden waking showed her that she had been asleep. She started -up and looked at the time. This was Good Friday morning, and it was now -half-past six. She jumped out of bed, hurried on her clothes, tumbled up -her hair, and was rather sleepily saying her prayers when she heard the -sound of her father’s car at the door. He was back, then—all was -over—Peter was now Sir Peter Alard, and would not think of her again. -Tears of mingled pity and relief filled her closed eyes till the end of -her bedside office— - -“May the souls of the faithful, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. -Amen.” - -She rose from her knees and ran downstairs to meet her father. He was -standing in the hall, pulling off his furry driving gloves. - -“Hullo, darling”—kissing his cold face—“Come in to the surgery, and I’ll -light the fire and get you some tea.” - -“Were you going to church?” - -“Yes, but I shall have to be late, that’s all.” - -“I have something to tell you, my dear.” - -His grave face sent a sudden chill into her heart. - -“Father!—what is it?—has anything happened to——” - -“Sir John Alard is dead——” - -“Well——” - -She knew that was not what he had to tell her. - -“And Peter doesn’t inherit Conster.” - -She stared at him—she could not understand. Was Peter illegitimate? Her -heart sickened at the monstrous irony of such a thought.... But it was -impossible. She was conceiving the preposterous in self-defence—in -frantic hope that Peter was not ... dead. - -“Is he dead?” she asked her father. - -He bowed his head silently. - -She could not speak. She was kneeling on the floor in front of the -unlighted fire. In one hand she held some sticks, and for a time she -could not move, but knelt there, holding out the unkindled sticks -towards the back hearth. - -“I felt I must come home and tell you before the rumour reached you. He -was found on the Tillingham marshes, with his gun....” - -“How?—an accident?” she mumbled vaguely. - -“I don’t know, my dear—I’m afraid not.” - -“You mean....” - -“I mean that from the way they tell me he was lying and from the nature -of the wounds, I feel nearly sure that it was his own act. I am telling -you this, poor darling, because you would be sure to hear it some time, -and I would rather you heard it from me.”... - -“Will there be an inquest?” she heard herself asking calmly. - -“Yes, there’s sure to be an inquest. But of course I don’t know what the -findings will be, or if the Coroner will want to question you.” - -“I don’t mind if he does—I can answer.” - -She did not quite know what she was saying. She went over and stood by -the window, looking out. A mist was rising from the garden, giving her -an eastward vista of fields in a far-off sunshine. The air was full of -an austere sense of spring, ice-cold, and pierced with the rods of the -blossomed fruit-trees, standing erect against the frigid sky. - -Her father came and put his arm around her. - -“Perhaps you would like to be alone, my dear—and I must go and see poor -Mrs. Peter. I came here first, because I wanted to tell you ... but now -I must go to Starvecrow.” - -(Starvycrow ... being desolate it crieth after me.) - -He stooped and kissed her averted face. - -“My darling ... I’m so sorry.” - -She felt a lump rise in her throat as if it would choke her—it broke -into a great sob. - -“Cry, dearest—it will do you good.” - -She gently pushed him from her—but when he was gone, she did not cry. - - - § 28 - -The little shrill bell of Vinehall church, the last of a large family of -pre-Reformation bells, was still smiting the cold air, but Stella could -not pray any more than she could weep. Neither could she remain indoors. -She put on her furs and went out. She wished she had the car—to rush -herself out of the parish, out of the county, over the reedy Kentish -border, up the steep white roads of the weald, away and away to -Staplehurst and Marden, to the country of the hops and the orchards.... -But even so she knew she could not escape. What she wanted to leave -behind was not Vinehall or Leasan or Conster or even Starvecrow, but -herself. Herself and her own thoughts made up the burden she found too -heavy to bear. - -She walked aimlessly down Vinehall Street, and out beyond the village. -The roads were black with dew, and the grass and primrose-tufts of the -hedgerow were tangled and wet. There was nowhere for her to sit down and -rest, though she felt extraordinarily tired at the end of two furlongs. -She turned off into a field path, running beside the stacks of a waking -farm, and finally entering a little wood. - -It was a typical Sussex spinney. The oaks were scattered among an -underwood of hazel, beech and ash; the ground was thick with dead -leaves, sodden together into a soft, sweetsmelling mass out of which -here and there rose the trails of the creeping ivy, with the starry beds -of wood-anemones; while round the moss-grown stumps the primrose plants -were set, with the first, occasional violets. A faint budding of green -was on the branches of the underwood, so backward yet as to appear -scarcely more than a mist, but on the oaks above, the first leaves were -already uncurling in bunches of rose and brown. Then at the bend of the -path she saw a wild cherry tree standing white like Aaron’s rod against -the sky. The whiteness and the beauty smote her through, and sinking -down upon one of the stumps, she burst into a flood of tears. - -She cried because her pain had at last reached the soft emotions of her -heart. Hitherto it had been set in the hard places, in self-reproach, in -horror, in a sense of betrayal, both of her and by her.... But now she -thought of Peter, shut out from all the soft beauty of the spring, cut -off from life and love, never more to smell the primroses, or hear the -cry of the plovers on the marsh, never more to watch over the lands he -loved, or see the chimney-smoke of his hearth go up from Starvecrow.... -She had robbed Peter of all this—she did not think of him as cut off by -his own act but by hers. It was she who had killed him—her -righteousness. So that she might be right, she had made him eternally -wrong—her Peter. She had been the wicked trader, selling her lover for -gain. It had been well for her if she had not been born. - -The softer emotions had passed, and with them her tears. She clenched -her hands upon her lap, and hated herself. She saw herself as a cold, -calculating being. She had said “I will get over it,” and she had said -“Peter will get over it.” No doubt she was right about herself—she would -have got over it—people like her always did; but about Peter she had -been hopelessly wrong. He had deeper feelings than she, and at the same -time was without her “consolations.” Her “consolations”!—how thankful -she had been that she had not forfeited them, that she had not given -them in exchange for poor Peter. At first they had not seemed to weigh -much against his loss, but later on she had been glad and grateful; and -while she had been finding comfort in these things, building up her life -again out of them, Peter had been going more and more hungry, more and -more forlorn, till at last he had died rather than live on in -starvation. - -She hated herself, but there was something worse than just self-hatred -in the misery of that hour. If she had betrayed Peter it was that she, -too, had been betrayed. She had been given the preposterous task of -saving her soul at the expense of his. If she had not fled from the -temptation of his presence—if she had given way to his entreaties and -promised not to leave him without the only comfort he had left, Peter -would still be alive. She would have done what she knew to be wrong, but -Peter would not be dead in his sins. Why should her right have been his -wrong? Why should his dear soul have been sacrificed for hers? He had -died by his own hand—unfaithful to his wife and child in all but the -actual deed. Why should she be forced to bear the guilt of that? - -The pillars of her universe seemed to crumble. Either heaven had -betrayed her or there was no heaven. She almost preferred to believe the -latter. Better ascribe the preposterous happenings of the night to -chance than to a providence which was either malignant or careless of -souls. Perhaps God was like nature, recklessly casting away the -imperfect that the fittest might survive. Poor Peter’s starved, -undeveloped soul had been sacrificed to her own better-nourished -organism, just as in the kingdom of nature the weakest go to the -wall.... She looked round her at the budding wood. How many of these -leaves would come to perfection? How many of these buds would serve only -as nourishment to more powerful existences, which in their turn would -fall a prey to others. She would rather not believe in God at all than -believe in a Kingdom of Heaven ruled by the same remorseless laws as the -bloody Kingdom of Nature.... - -But she could not find the easy relief of doubt, though something in her -heart was saying “I will doubt His being rather than His love.” After -all, what was there to prove the assertion that God is love?—surely it -was the most monstrous, ultramontane, obscurantist dogma that had ever -been formulated. The Real Presence, the Virgin Birth, the physical -Resurrection were nothing to it. It was entirely outside human -knowledge—it ran directly contrary to human experience ... and yet it -was preached by those who looked upon the creeds as fetters of the -intellect and the whole ecclesiastical philosophy as absurd. Fools and -blind!—straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel! She laughed out loud -in the wood. - -Her laughter brought her to her senses—yes, she knew she would always be -sensible. She would either have to be sensible or go mad. It is the -sensible people who fill the asylums, for they cannot rest in the -halfway house of eccentricity. To Stella it was a dreadful thing to have -laughed out loud in a wood. She was terrified, and jumped up at once to -go home. By the watch on her wrist it was half-past eight; her father -would be home from Starvecrow and wanting his breakfast. Breakfast, -dinner and tea ... people like herself could never forget breakfast, -dinner and tea. - - - § 29 - -“Well, my dear, did you go to church?” - -“No, I went for a walk instead.” - -Her tone was perfectly calm, if a little flat. She was really being -splendid, poor little girl. - -“Gervase is back—I forget whether I told you. I met him on my way home -early this morning.” - -“Oh—how does he look?” - -“Very well—though changed, of course, with his hair cut so short. I’m -glad he’s there. He’ll take Lady Alard out of herself.” - -“How is Lady Alard?” - -“She’s much better than I could have thought possible.” - -“And Mrs. Peter?” - -“She’s different, of course ... Jewish temperament, you know. But I left -her calmer. I think she’ll try and keep calm for the sake of the -child—she adores that.” - -The doctor had had rather a rough time at Starvecrow, but he would not -tell Stella about it. Vera was in no doubt as to the cause of her -husband’s death, and as soon as Stella was out of hearing, Dr. Mount was -going to telephone to a Rye practitioner to take charge of the case. -Mrs. Peter was nearly well, and really he could not go near her again -after what she had said.... - -“When is the inquest going to be?” asked Stella abruptly. - -“Tomorrow afternoon, my dear. Godfrey was at Conster, and he says he’s -seen the Coroner.” - -“And shall I have to go?” - -“I fear so. But no doubt you’ll get an official intimation. You aren’t -afraid, are you, sweetheart?” - -“No, I’m not afraid.” - -“Will you drive me out this morning? I must go over to Benenden, and -take Pipsden on the way back.” - -“Yes, I should like to drive you.” - -So the day passed. In the morning she drove her father on his rounds, in -the afternoon she dispensed in the Surgery, and in the evening there was -church again. Church was black.... “And they laid him there, sealing the -stone and setting a watch.... Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in -the place of darkness, and in the deep—free among the dead, like unto -those who are wounded and lie in the grave, who are out of -remembrance.... And they laid him there, sealing a stone and setting a -watch.” - -The great three-days drama was over. For the last time the Tenebrae -hearse had stood a triangle of sinister light in the glooms of the -sanctuary. Tomorrow’s services would be the services of Easter, in a -church stuffed with primroses and gay with daisy chains. What a mockery -it all would be! How she wished the black hangings could stay up and the -extinguished lamp before the unveiled tabernacle proclaim an everlasting -emptiness. She shuddered at the thought of her Easter duties. It would -be mere hypocrisy to perform them—she who wished that she had mortal sin -to confess so that Peter need not have died in mortal sin. - -She thought of Gervase, so near her now at Conster, and yet spiritually -so very far away, in peaceful enjoyment of a Kingdom from which she had -been cast out. She had half expected to see him in church that evening, -but he had not been there, and she had felt an added pang of loneliness. -The sight of him, a few words from him, might have comforted her. She -thought of Gervase as he used to be in the old days when he first -learned the faith from her. She almost laughed—she saw another mockery -there. She had taught him, she had brought him to the fold—he himself -had said that but for her he would not have been where he was now—and -now he was comforted and she was tormented. - -Then as she thought of him, it struck her that perhaps he might have -written—that there might be a letter waiting for her at home. Surely -Gervase, who must guess what she was suffering, would take some notice -of her, try to do something for her. Obsessed by the thought, she -hurried home from church—and found nothing. - -Though the expectation had not lasted half an hour, she was bitterly -disappointed. It was callous of him to ignore her like this—he must know -her position, he must guess her anguish. She felt deserted by everyone, -obscure and forsaken. It is true that her father was near her and loved -her and shared her sorrow, but he did not know the full depths of it—he -was satisfied that she had done right, and thought that she, too, was -satisfied. She could not thrust her burden of doubt upon his simple -soul. She was becoming rapidly convinced that only Gervase could share -her burden with her, and if he stood away ... could she bear it alone? - -That night she scarcely slept at all. Her mind went round and round on -its treadmill, its sterile walk of questions and regrets. In the small -hours she must have dozed a little, for she dreamed she had gone to a -Mass for Peter’s soul, and Gervase was the Priest. The server had just -carried the Book to the north end of the Altar, and she stood waiting to -hear the grail—“The righteous shall be held in everlasting remembrance: -he shall not be afraid of any evil tidings.” But instead a terrible -voice rang out: “I have delivered my beloved into the hand of the -wicked, and my heritage is become unto me as a lion in the wood.”... -Trembling and panting, she awoke to the realisation that no Mass could -be said for Peter, no office read; that he was not one of “the Faithful -Departed”—that good company of many prayers.... - -She lay motionless, her face buried in the pillow, without struggles or -tears. She was aware, without sight of the dawn breaking round her, of -the cold white light which filled the room, of the grey sky lying like a -weight upon the trees. She heard the wind come up and rustle round the -house, and the cocks begin to crow, some near, some far away—Padgeham -answering Dixter, and Wildings echoing Brickwall. The new day had -come—Holy Saturday, the day of peace, the last and greatest of the -Sabbaths, the seventh day on which God rested from the six days’ labour -of His new creation. - -She was roused by a clock striking eight, and again her abominable sense -asserted itself. She had never lain in bed so long in her life—she must -get up quickly, and give her father his breakfast before he started on -his rounds. - -With as it were leaden weights in her head and limbs, she rose, dressed -and went down. As she was going down the stairs a kind of hope revived. -Perhaps this morning there would be a letter from Gervase.... - -Yes, there was. It was lying in the letter box with a lot of others. She -eagerly tore it open and read— - - “Stella, dear—this is just to tell you how I feel for you and am - praying for you.—Gervase.” - -That was all. - -A sick and silly feeling of disappointment seized her. She knew now that -for some unaccountable reason she had been banking her hopes on that -letter. She had been expecting Gervase to resolve her doubts, to -reconcile her conflicts. But instead he seemed ridiculously to think she -could do all that for herself. Her heart warmed against him—perhaps he -shrank from coming to grips with the problem. His faith recoiled from -the raw disillusion which he must know she was feeling. He would keep -away from her rather than be mixed up in her dust.... Well, he should -not. His aloofness should not save him. She would go over to Conster and -see him, since he would not come to her. With a growing resentment she -told herself it was the least he could do for her. She had given him his -faith—he might at least make an effort to save hers. - -“Father,” she said when they were at breakfast—“do you mind driving -yourself out this morning? I’m going to Conster to see Gervase.” - -“Certainly, my dear. I’m glad you’re going to see him—I thought perhaps -he might be coming here.” - -“So did I—but he’s asked me to go there instead.” - -Something in her detached and dispassionate said—“that lie was quite -well told.” - - - § 30 - -As soon as her father had gone, she set out for Conster. She went by the -road, for the field way ran near Starvecrow, and she had not the courage -to go by Starvecrow. - -She did not get to Conster till nearly eleven, and as she walked up the -drive she asked herself what she would do if Gervase was out. She would -have to wait, that was all. She must see him—he was the only person on -earth who could help her. - -However, he was not out. Wills let her in very solemnly. He did not -attach any importance to the gossip in the servants’ hall—but ... she -looked ill enough, anyway, poor creature. - -“Yes, Miss, Sir Gervase is in. I will tell him you’re here.” - -Stella started a little—Sir Gervase! She had asked for Mr. Gervase. She -had forgotten. In her absorption in the main stream of the tragedy she -had ignored its side issues, but now she began to realise the tempests -that must be raging in Gervase’s life. Would he have to leave his -community, she wondered—after all, he could easily come out, and great -responsibilities awaited him. The next minute she gave another start—as -she caught her first sight of Brother Joseph. - -He seemed very far away from her as he shut the door behind him. Between -them lay all the chairs and tables, rugs and plants of the huge, -overcrowded drawing-room. For the first time she became aware of a -portrait of Peter on the wall—a portrait of him as a child, with masses -of curly hair and wide-open, pale blue eyes. She stared at it silently -as Gervase came towards her across the room. - -“Stella, my dear.” - -He took both her hands in his firm, kind clasp, and looked into her -eyes. His own seemed larger than usual, for his hair was cut very close, -almost shorn. That, and his rough grey cassock buttoned collarless to -his chin, altered his appearance completely. Except for his touch and -voice, he seemed almost a stranger. - -“Gervase....” she sank into a chair—“Help me, Gervase.” - -“Of course I will. Did you get my note?” - -“Yes—but, oh, Gervase....” - -She could say no more. Her breath seemed gone. She held her handkerchief -to her mouth, and trembled. - -“I should have written more—but I’ve had such a time, Stella, with my -family and the lawyers. Perhaps you can understand what a business it -all is when I tell you that I’ve no intention of coming out of the -Order, which means I’ve got to make up my mind what to do with this -place. I’ve been at it hard all yesterday afternoon and this morning -with my father’s London solicitors, but I’ve managed to keep the family -quiet till after the funeral, by which time I shall have the details -settled. Otherwise I should have come to see you.... But I knew you were -safe.” - -“Gervase, I’m not safe.” - -“My dear——” - -He held out his hand and she took it. - -“I’m not safe, Gervase. You think I’m stronger than I am. And you don’t -know what’s happened.” - -“I know all about Peter.” - -“Yes, but you don’t know the details. You don’t know that Peter killed -himself because I insisted, in spite of all his entreaties, on going -away. He told me that my presence was the only comfort he had left, but -I wouldn’t stay, because if I stayed I knew that I should be tempted, -and I was afraid.... I thought it was my duty to run away from -temptation. So I ran. I never thought that perhaps Peter couldn’t live -without me—that I was saving my soul at the expense of his. I wish now -that I’d stayed—even if it had meant _everything_.... I’d far rather sin -through loving too much than through loving too little.” - -“So would I. But have you loved too little?” - -“Yes—because I thought of myself first. I thought only of saving my own -soul ... and I thought I could forget Peter if only I didn’t ever see -him again, and I thought he could forget me. But he couldn’t—and I -can’t.” - -“In other words, you did right and behaved very sensibly, but the -results were not what you expected.” - -“Gervase—if you tell me again that I’ve been ‘right’ and ‘sensible,’ -I—oh, I’ll get up and go, because you’re being just like everyone else. -Father says I’ve been ‘right’ and ‘sensible’—and I know Father Luce -would say it—and the Coroner will say it this afternoon. And it’ll be -true—true—true! I have been right and sensible, and my right has put -Peter in the wrong, and my sense has driven him mad.” - -“And what would your ‘wrong’ have done for Peter?” - -“He’d still be alive.” - -“With your guilt upon him as well as his own. Stella, my dear, listen to -me. When I talk about your being ‘right’ I don’t mean what most people -would mean by right. If it’s any comfort to you, I think that most -people who have intelligence and are not merely conventional would think -you had done wrong. You loved Peter and yet refused to have him, with -the result that his life is over and yours is emptied. I know, and you -know, that you did this because of an allegiance you owed beyond Peter. -But most people wouldn’t see that. They’d think you had refused him -because you were afraid, because you dared not risk all for love. They’d -never see that all the daring, all the risk, lay in your refusing him. -Now be candid—isn’t part of your unhappiness due to your feeling that it -would have been braver and more splendid to have done what Peter wanted, -and let everything else go hang?” - -“Yes,” said Stella faintly. - -“Well, I’ll tell you what I think would have happened—if you’d -stayed—stayed under the only conditions that would have satisfied Peter. -Vera would have, of course, found out—she has found out already a great -deal more than has happened; she’s not the sort of woman who endures -these things; she would have divorced Peter, and he would have married -you. Nowadays these scandals are very easily lived down, and you’d have -been Lady Alard. After a time the past would have been wiped out—for the -neighbourhood and for you. You would probably have become extremely -respectable and a little censorious. You would have gone to Leasan -church on Sundays at eleven. You would have forgotten that you ever -weren’t respectable—and you would have forgotten that you ever used to -live close to heaven and earth in the Sacraments, that you ever were -your Father’s child.... In other words, Stella, you would be in Hell.” - -Stella did not speak. She stared at him almost uncomprehendingly. - -“I know what you think, my dear—you think you would have undergone -agonies of regret, and you tell yourself you should have borne them for -Peter’s sake. But I don’t think that. I think you would have been -perfectly happy. Remember, you would have been living on a natural -level, and though we’re made so that the supernatural in us may regret -the natural, I doubt if the natural in us so easily regrets the -supernatural. Your tragedy would have been _that you would have -regretted nothing_. You would have been perfectly happy, contented, -comfortable, respectable, and damned.” - -“But Peter—he——” - -“Would probably have been the same. He isn’t likely to have turned to -good things after seeing how lightly they weighed with you. But the -point is that you haven’t the charge of Peter’s soul—only the charge of -your own—‘Man cannot deliver his brother from death or enter into -agreement with God for him.’ It cost very much more to redeem their -souls than you could ever pay.” - -“But, Gervase, isn’t Peter’s soul lost through what he did—through what -I drove him to——” - -“My dear, how do we know what Peter did? What do we really know about -his death? Can’t you take comfort in the thought that perfect knowledge -belongs only to Perfect Love? As for your own share—your refusal to love -your love for him unto the death, your refusal to make it the occasion -for treachery to a greater love—that refusal may now be standing between -Peter’s soul and judgment. You did your best for him by acting so—far -better than if you had put him in the wrong by making his love for -you—probably the best thing in his life—an occasion for sin. He takes -your love out of the world unspoilt by sin. Your love is with him now, -pleading for him, striving for him, because it is part of a much greater -Love, which holds him infinitely dearer than even you can hold him. -Stella, don’t you believe this?” - -She was crying now, but he heard her whisper “Yes.” - -“Then don’t go regretting the past, and thinking you would have saved a -man by betraying God.” - -“I’ll try not....” - -“And suppose as the result of your refusing to stay, Peter had turned -back to Vera, and been happy in his wife and child again, you wouldn’t -have regretted your action or thought you’d done wrong. Well, the -rightness of your choice isn’t any less because it didn’t turn out the -way you hoped.” - -“I know—I know—but ... I was so cold and calculating—one reason I wanted -to go away was that though I couldn’t have Peter I didn’t want to go -without love ... for ever....” - -“I scarcely call that ‘cold and calculating.’ I hope you will love -again, Stella, and not waste your life over has-beens and -might-have-beens. It’s merely putting Peter further in the wrong if you -spoil your life for his sake.” - -“You think I ought to get married?” - -“I certainly do. I think you ought to have married years ago, and Peter -was to blame for holding that up and damming your life out of its proper -course. He kept you from marrying the right man—for Peter wasn’t the -right man for you, Stella, though probably you loved him more than ever -you will love the right man when he comes. But I hope he will come soon, -my dear, and find you—for you’ll never be really happy till he does.” - -“I know, Gervase, I know—oh, do help me to be sensible again, for I feel -that after what’s happened, I couldn’t ever.” - -“My dear, you don’t really want help from me.” - -“I do. Oh, Gervase ... I wish I weren’t going to Canada—I don’t feel now -as if I could possibly go away from you. You’re the only person that can -help me.” - -“You know I’m not the only one.” - -“You are. You’re the only one that understands ... and we’ve always been -such friends.... I feel I don’t want to go away from you—even if you’re -still at Thunders....” - -She spoke at random, urged by some helpless importunity of her heart. He -coloured, but answered her quite steadily. - -“I shall never leave Thunders, my dear. It’s too late for that now. I -shall always be there to help you if you want me. But I don’t think you -really want me—I think you will be able to go through this alone.” - -“Alone....” - -A few tears slid over her lashes. It seemed as if already she had gone -through too much alone. - -“Yes, for you want to go through it the best way—the way Love Himself -went through it—alone. Think of Him, Stella—in the garden, on the cross, -in the grave—alone. ‘I am he that treadeth the wine-press-alone.’” - -“But, Gervase, I can’t—I’m not strong enough. Oh ... oh, my dear, don’t -misunderstand me—but you say you owe your faith to me ... can’t the -faith I gave you help me now that I’ve lost mine?” - -“You haven’t lost it—it’s only hidden for a time behind the Altar ... -you must go and look for it there. If you look for it in me you may -never find it.” - -She rose slowly to her feet. - -“I see,” she said, as a blind man might say it. - -He, too, rose, and held out his hand to her. - -“You’ll know where I am—where I’ll always be—my life given to help you, -Stella, your brother, your priest. I will be helping you with my -thoughts, my prayers, my offices—with my Masses some day, because, but -for you I should never say them. In that way I shall pay back all you’ve -given me. But to the human ‘me’ you’ve given nothing, so don’t ask -anything back. If I gave you anything in that way I might also take—take -what I must not, Stella. So goodbye.” - -She put her hand into his outstretched one. - -“Goodbye, Gervase.” - -“Goodbye.” - -She wondered if he would give her another of those free kisses which had -shown her so much when first he went away. But he did not. They walked -silently to the door, and in the silence both of that moment and her -long walk home she saw that he had paid his debt to her in the only -possible way—by refusing to part with anything that she had given him. - - - § 31 - -That afternoon the Coroner’s inquest was held on Peter Alard, and twelve -good men and true brought in a verdict of “accidental death.” The -Coroner directed them with the conscientiousness of his kind—he pointed -out that, according to medical opinion, the dead man’s wounds must -almost certainly have been self-inflicted; but on the other hand they -had rather conflicting evidence as to how the body was lying when found, -and the doctor could not speak positively without this. He would point -out to the witnesses the desirability of leaving the body untouched -until either a doctor or the police had been summoned. No doubt they had -thought they were doing right in carrying him to his father’s house, but -such action had made it difficult to speak positively on a highly -important point. As to the motives for suicide—they had heard Miss -Mount’s evidence, which he thought had been very creditably -given—indeed, he considered Miss Mount’s conduct to have been throughout -irreproachable, and whatever the findings of the jury she must not blame -herself for having acted as any right-minded young lady would have done -under the circumstances. Feeling herself attracted by the deceased, a -married man, and realising that he was also attracted by her, she had -very properly decided to leave the neighbourhood, and but for her -father’s professional engagements would have done so at once. The -meeting at which she had made this decision known to Mr. Alard had taken -place two months ago, and it was for the Jury to decide whether it was -likely to have driven him to take his life so long after the event. The -deceased’s sister, Mrs. Benjamin Godfrey, had told them of a -conversation she had had with him on the afternoon of his death. He -seemed then to have been preoccupied about his farm of Starvecrow, and -other evidence had shown that the estate was much encumbered, like most -big properties at the present time, though the position was no more -serious than it had been a year ago. The Jury must decide if any of -these considerations offered sufficient motive for self-destruction, if -the deceased’s manner on the day of his death had been that of a man on -the verge of such desperate conduct, and if the medical evidence pointed -conclusively to a self-inflicted death. There were alternatives—he -enlarged on the nature of gun accidents, dismissed the possibilities of -murder—but the evidence for these hung on the thread of mere conjecture, -and was not borne out by medical opinion. - -The verdict was a surprise to the family. The loophole left by the -Coroner had been so small that no one had expected even a local Jury to -squeeze through it. But these men had all known Peter, many of them had -done business with him, all had liked him. No one of them would have him -buried with a slur upon his memory—no one of them would have his widow’s -mourning weighted with dishonour, or his child grow up to an inheritance -of even temporary insanity—and incidentally they all liked Miss Stella -Mount, and had no intention she should bear the burden of his death if -they could help it. So they brought in their verdict, and stuck to it, -in spite of some rather searching questions by the Coroner. They -wouldn’t even bring in an open verdict—they would do the thing properly -for the kindly Squire who had for so long stood to them for all that was -best in the falling aristocracy of the land. - -Peter was buried with his father in Leasan churchyard, in the great -vault of the Alards, where all of them lay who had not been buried at -Winchelsea. He and Sir John mingled their dust with Sir William the -land-grabber, whose appetite for farms lay at the bottom of all the -later difficulties of the estate, with Gervase the Non-Juror, with Giles -who met his casual loves at the Mocksteeple—with all the great company -of Squires who had lived at Conster, lorded Leasan, built and farmed and -played politics for nearly five hundred years. Perhaps as they stood -round the grave in the late April sunshine, some of the family wondered -if these were the last Alards for whom the vault would be opened. - -Everyone went back to Conster after the funeral. Sir John’s will had -already been read by the solicitors. It presented no difficulties—the -whole estate went to Peter Alard and his heirs; in the event of his -dying without male issue, to Gervase. The will had been made shortly -after the death of George. - -Gervase knew that now the time had come when he must face his family. -They were all there at tea, except Vera—who was still unable to leave -her room—and he could tell by a certain furtive expectancy in some and -uneasiness in others that a crisis was impending. Doris was the head of -the expectant group, Jenny of the uneasy ones. Doris had never looked -more unlike the hysterical, dishevelled woman who had wept for Sir John. -In her new black frock, and her hat with the plumes that swept down to -her shoulders—powdered, rouged, salved, pencilled and henna’d into -elegance if not into beauty, she seemed to have gathered up in herself -all the pomp and circumstance of the Alards. There was not much of it to -be seen in Lady Alard’s weary preoccupation with the burnt scones, in -Rose’s glancing survey of the other women’s clothes, in Mary’s rather -colourless smartness, in Jenny’s restlessness or her husband’s -awkwardness—he had carried his first top-hat into the drawing-room, and -put it, with his gloves inside it, on the floor between his large -feet—and there was certainly nothing of it in the present holder of the -title, sitting with his arms folded and thrust up the sleeves of his -habit, his shoulders hunched as with a sense of battles to come. - -Gervase considered that the sooner the row was over the better; so, as -no one seemed inclined to begin it, he decided to start it himself. - -“Mother, dear, do you think you could lend me five shillings?—At least -I’d better say give it to me, for I don’t suppose there’s the slightest -chance of your ever seeing it again.” - -“Yes, dear—but why ... I don’t understand.” - -“Well, I’ve only got eighteenpence left from the money Father Peter gave -me to come here, and the third class fare to Brighton is six and six.” - -“Gervase,” shrieked Doris—“you’re not going back to that place!” - -“My dear, what else did you expect?” - -“But you won’t stay there—you won’t go on being a monk—you won’t refuse -to be Sir Gervase Alard!” - -“I haven’t even begun to be a monk, and, according to the solicitors, -I’ll have to go on being Sir Gervase Alard to the end of my days—but I’m -going to stay there.” - -“But what’s to become of us? Gervase, you can’t be Squire and not live -here.” - -“Let me explain myself. I’m not thinking of being Squire. I forfeit all -my rights absolutely, except the title, which I’m told I can’t get rid -of. But I shall sell the estate.” - -The silence that fell was almost terrifying. Doris sank back in her -chair as if fainting, Lady Alard covered her face, Rose sat with her -mouth open, Jenny and Godfrey stared at each other. - -Lady Alard was the first to speak. - -“You mean that you’re going to turn us out—your mother and sisters—not -even leave us a roof over our heads? And what becomes of the furniture?” - -“I shall of course consult your wishes about the house. If you want to -go on living here, the house and grounds are yours.” - -“But Gervase,” cried Doris hoarsely—“what good will the house be to us -without the land? Do you think we’re going to live on here and see all -the estate pieced out and flung to small-holders and contractors?—I’d -rather go and live in a slum.” - -“If Gervase doesn’t mean to live here, I’m by no means sure that I care -to stay on,” said Lady Alard. “The morning-room chimney smokes -abominably, and the bedrooms are extremely inconvenient—also, with my -illness, I really think I ought to live in a town. We might move into -Hastings.” - -“But Gervase doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” cried Doris—“he -can’t desert us and fling away his responsibilities like this. Sell the -estate! Oh, God—poor Father!” and she burst into tears. - -Rose sprang to her feet with an indignant look at Gervase, and put her -arm round Doris’s heaving shoulders, but her sister-in-law ungratefully -pushed her away. - -“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Gervase, “but I really don’t think I’m -letting anyone down. I’ve gone into things pretty thoroughly during the -last few days, and really it would have been extremely difficult for us -to carry on.” - -“Difficult—but not impossible.” - -“Not impossible. But possible only in the way we’ve been doing for the -last ten years, and, honestly, do you think that’s good enough?” - -“It’s better than throwing everything overboard, anyhow.” - -“I don’t think it is. By ‘throwing everything overboard,’ as you call -it, we can at least save the land.” - -“How?” - -“For the last ten years we’ve been doing hardly anything for the land. -We’ve been unable to introduce up-to-date methods; we can’t even keep -our farms in decent repair. If we hung on now, still further crippled by -death-duties, the land would simply go to pot. By selling, we can save -it, because it will pass into the hands of men who will be able to -afford it what it needs. Possibly one or two of the tenants will buy -their farms. Anyhow, there won’t any longer be a great, big, unwieldy, -poverty-stricken estate, paying more in taxes than it actually brings in -profits and deteriorating every year for lack of money spent on it.” - -“But I’m perfectly sure that if you pulled yourself together you could -save the estate without cutting it in pieces. A conservative government -is sure to improve matters for us and reduce taxation. I know Peter -could have saved us.” - -“I’m not Peter.” - -“But you could save us if you wanted to. You’ve only to put yourself at -the head of things, and get a really good bailiff, and perhaps sell an -outlying farm or two to bring in a little ready money.... But you won’t. -That’s what you mean. You don’t want to come out of your monastery and -face the world again. You could save us. But you won’t.” - -“You’re quite right—I won’t.” - -The discussion had somehow become a dialogue between Gervase and Doris. -Why Doris should appoint herself as Alard’s spokesman no one exactly -knew, but none of the rest made any effort to join in. Lady Alard was -too deeply preoccupied with the house and its impending changes to worry -about the land, Rose was angry with Doris for having repulsed her, so -would give her no support, Mary was indifferent, Godfrey diffident, and -Jenny, though revolting deeply from her brother’s choice, was too loyal -to him to take anyone else’s part. - -“I won’t because I can’t,” continued Gervase; “I can’t leave the Abbey, -even if I knew that by doing so I could save Conster. I went there long -before I’d the slightest notion I should ever succeed to this place, but -even if I’d known I should have gone just the same. The only other thing -I could do now would be to appoint a trustee to administer the estate -for me, but in that way I should only be adding to the difficulties all -round. By selling the place I’m doing the best possible thing for the -land and for everyone else. The land will run a chance of being -developed to its fullest value, instead of being neglected and allowed -to deteriorate, and I’ll be making a fairly decent provision for Mother -and all the rest of you—you’ll be far better off than if we’d stuck to -the old arrangement; you’ll have ready money for about the first time in -your lives. Mother and Doris and Mary can live on here if they like, or -they can go and live in Hastings or in town. I think the sale ought to -realise enough to make everyone fairly comfortable—anyhow, much more -comfortable than they are in the present state of things.” - -“But, Gervase,” sobbed Doris—“you don’t seem to think of the family.” - -“What else am I thinking of? I’m just telling you that you and Mary and -Mother——” - -“But we’re not the family. I mean the whole thing—the house of Alard. -What’s to become of it if you go and sell the estate, and shut yourself -up in an Abbey, instead of coming here and looking after the place, and -marrying and having children to succeed you? Don’t you realise that if -you don’t marry, the whole thing comes to an end?” - -“I’m afraid it will have to come to an end, Doris. I can’t save it that -way.” - -Doris sprang to her feet. She looked wild. - -“But you must save it—you must. Oh, Gervase, you don’t understand. I’ve -given up my life to it—to the family. I’ve given up everything. I could -have married—but I wouldn’t—because he wasn’t the sort of man for our -family—he wasn’t well-connected and he wasn’t rich—it would have been a -comedown for an Alard, so I wouldn’t have him—though I loved him. I -loved him ... but I wouldn’t have him, because I thought of the family -first and myself afterwards. And now you come along, undoing all my -work—making my sacrifice worthless. You don’t care twopence about the -family, so you’re going to let it be sold up and die out. We’re going to -lose our house, our land, our position, our very name.... I gave up my -happiness for Alard, and you go and make my sacrifice useless. Gervase, -for God’s sake save us. You can—if only you’ll come away from those -monks and be Squire here. I’m sure God can’t wish you to desert us. -Gervase, I beg you, I pray you to save the family—I pray you on my -knees....” - -And suiting the action to the word, she went down on her knees before -him. - -The others sat rooted to their chairs—partly at the sight of Doris’s -frenzy, partly of her humiliation, partly to hear the multitudinous -lovers she had always hinted at reduced in a moment of devastating -candour to one only. Gervase had sprung to his feet. He trembled and had -turned very white. Then for a moment he, too, seemed to turn to stone. - -“I pray you,” repeated Doris hoarsely—“I pray you on my knees....” - -Her brother recovered himself and, taking both her hands, pulled her to -her feet. - -“Don’t, Doris....” - -“Then, will you?” - -“My dear, is the family worth saving?” - -“What d’you mean?” - -“Listen, Doris. You’ve just told me that you’ve given up your life’s -love and happiness to the family. Peter ... I know ... gave up his. Mary -gave up part of hers, but saved a little. Jenny alone has refused to -give up anything, and is happy. Is our family worth such sacrifices?” - -Her head drooped unexpectedly to his shoulder, and she collapsed in -weeping. - -“No,” he continued—“it isn’t worth it. The family’s taken enough. For -five hundred years it has sat on the land, and at first it did good—it -cared for the poor, it worked its farms to the best advantage, and the -estate prospered. But it’s outlived those days—it’s only an encumbrance -now, it’s holding back the land from proper development, it’s keeping -the yeoman and small land-owner out of their rights, it can’t afford to -care for the poor. It can barely keep its hold on the land by dint of -raising mortgages and marrying for money. It can only be kept up by -continual sacrifices—of the land, of the tenants, of its own children. -It’s like a wicked old dying god, that can only be kept alive by -sacrifices—human sacrifices. And I tell you, it shan’t be any more.” - -There was another pause, noisy with Doris’s weeping. The other members -of the family began to feel that they ought to take their share in the -argument. They none of them felt for Alard what Doris so surprisingly -felt, but after all they could not sit round and watch Gervase turn the -world upside down without some protest. - -“You know I want to be reasonable,” said Jenny in rather an uncertain -voice, “and I don’t want to push you into a way you don’t want to go. -But from your own point of view, don’t you think that all this that’s -happened just shows—that—that this religious life isn’t, after all, the -right life for you—the life you were meant for?” - -“I always said it was very silly of Gervase to become a monk,” said Lady -Alard. “He could do quite a lot of good in the parish if he lived at -home. Mr. Williams said he was looking for someone to manage the Boy -Scouts.” - -“Yes, that was what poor George was always saying,” said Rose—“‘Charity -begins at home.’” - -“Oh, don’t think I haven’t prayed over this,” cried Gervase—“that I -haven’t tried hard to see if, after all, my duty didn’t lie in taking my -place here and trying to save the property. But I’m quite sure that -isn’t my duty now. As I’ve tried to show Doris, Conster simply isn’t -worth saving. It’s lost its power for good—it can only do harm, to the -district and to us. It had much better come to an end.” - -“But even if you feel like that about the estate,” said Mary—“there’s -the family apart from the land. It’s rather dreadful to think that a -fine old family like ours should be deliberately allowed to die out—the -name become quite extinct. And it’s not only for the family’s sake, but -for yours. You’re a young man—scarcely more than a boy. I think it’s -dreadful that you should already have made up your mind to live without -marriage and die without children.” - -“So do I!” cried Jenny, fierce at last. - -“I’ve gone into all that,” said Gervase with a touch of weariness, “and -you know how I’ve decided.” - -“But these new circumstances hadn’t arisen.” - -“I shouldn’t have decided differently if they had.” - -“I’m not sure,” said Mary—“that even that other plan you spoke of -wouldn’t be best—better than selling everything, I mean. Couldn’t you -administer the estate through a bailiff or trustee?” - -“If my father and Peter couldn’t make it pay, what would be the result -of an absentee landlord?—the place wouldn’t stand it. We’d bust. No, in -fairness to the land it ought to go back to the small landlords—that’s -its only chance of recovery. I’m not doing this only for our own sakes, -but for the sake of the land and the people it ought to belong to.” - -“I think you’re a traitor,” said Rose—“a traitor to your house.” - -“I wish I was dead,” cried Doris. “First Father—then everything else.... -I’ve nothing to live for now.” - -“Why, you’ve got me,” said Lady Alard—“You’ll come with me, Doris. I -think I shall go to Worthing—it’s more bracing than the coast here. -Gervase, do you think the dining-room sideboard would fit into a smaller -house?” - -“Oh, Father,” sobbed Doris—“Oh, Father—oh, Peter.... What would you have -done if you had known how it was going to end?” - - - THE END - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - 3. 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