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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..721f48d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69758 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69758) diff --git a/old/69758-0.txt b/old/69758-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 40a0d30..0000000 --- a/old/69758-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10201 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Folly Corner, by Mrs. H. Dudeney - -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: Folly Corner - -Author: Mrs. H. Dudeney - -Release Date: January 9, 2023 [eBook #69758] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Paul Haxo from images generously made available by the - University of Wisconsin, Google and the Hathi Trust Digital - Library. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLLY CORNER *** - - - - - -FOLLY CORNER - - -BY - -MRS. H. DUDENEY - -AUTHOR OF “THE MATERNITY OF HARRIOTT WICKEN” - - -[Illustration: Decorative Image] - - -NEW YORK - -HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY - -1900 - - - - -COPYRIGHT, 1900, - -BY - -HENRY HOLT & CO. - - -THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS - -RAHWAY, N. J. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -PROLOGUE. - -CHAPTER I. - -CHAPTER II. - -CHAPTER III. - -CHAPTER IV. - -CHAPTER V. - -CHAPTER VI. - -CHAPTER VII. - -CHAPTER VIII. - -CHAPTER IX. - -CHAPTER X. - -CHAPTER XI. - -CHAPTER XII. - -CHAPTER XIII. - -CHAPTER XIV. - -CHAPTER XV. - -CHAPTER XVI. - -CHAPTER XVII. - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -CHAPTER XIX. - -CHAPTER XX. - -CHAPTER XXI. - -CHAPTER XXII. - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - - - -PROLOGUE. - - -THE steam of that stifling London day rose up in a choking, enervating -haze from the hot grass. The shrill cries of children, loose from the -Board School, cut the thick air. A train rushed across the bridge. Two -or three cyclists tinkled their bells irritably as they spun down Wood -Lane to the Uxbridge Road, leaving a cloud of gray grit behind them. -Omnibuses pulled up at the corner of the short street near the few -newly-built shops. From Portobello Road came the heavy rumble of more -traffic, mixed with the nearer shout of costers vending dried fish and -over-ripe fruit. - -She was a young woman. She stood still, in a limp, hopeless attitude, -her face turned on Wormwood Scrubbs, her strained eyes vacantly -fastened on the buildings, spires, and chimneys in the distance. - -Some simple sound from the frowning prison on her left made her turn -her head with the swift, watching movement of a cat. But there was -nothing to see; no hint, no hope. Behind those walls! Her throat, -rising white and firm from the tumbled collar of the cotton blouse, -contracted. Those walls! those impenetrable walls! those relentless -walls! - -She put out two hands in baggy gloves; she held them up, flat palms -upward, toward the speechless prison. Her attitude was one of strong -appeal, of hope, almost--as if she half expected that despair would -work a miracle. They stretched out, big, strong, shapeless in the old -gloves--those quivering, appealing hands of hers. - -With a sharp agonized movement of the wrists she let her hands drop -nervelessly to her side. A sob was strangled in her throat; she turned -her head abruptly, so that her eyes no longer rested on the walls. With -a sudden impulse she started running across the grass; ran across the -road and under the bridge to the spot where an omnibus was waiting. - -It grew dusk as she rattled back on the garden-seat to London. One by -one the lights of night gleamed out. The life of night began. She -looked down and saw the interior of smoothly rolling carriages, with -women in evening dress lying idly back inside. Women on foot, smartly -clad and with happy faces, flitted along the white pavements. Women -clambered to the top of the omnibus, chattering and tittering. The one -who sat next her glanced curiously at her grim mouth and shadowed eyes. - -The lights grew thicker; fantastic chains of light--red and yellow. -London glittered like some fairy mine of jewels: jewels already cut and -polished, every facet gleaming. Words winked out letter by letter, then -vanished. She saw them come and go on the fronts of the houses. OX -FORCE--NINON SOAP--DUNN’S NOSTRUM. To her strained senses they lost -all common meaning and symbolized the weird, the threatening, the -unknown. - - * * * * * - -It was blinding hot in the market town that Wednesday. Sheep straggled -into the pens; the drovers choked and cursed as the dust dried in their -throats. A smart trap, driven by a girl, with a groom behind, bowled -down the High Street, leaving behind an impression of coolness and -smartness. Now and again a sharp, imperious cycle-bell cut the air, and -as some female cyclist darted by pedestrians heard the soft flutter of -sleeves, like the flapping sails of a yacht. - -A man came, with a slightly rolling walk, down the street. He made an -imperial progress, nodding his head bluffly to deferential shopkeepers -who stood at their doors, exchanging a jovial word or so with other -substantial yeomen. Everyone knew and respected Jethro Jayne--“Young -Jethro” of Folly Corner. Everyone in and around Liddleshorn knew that -there had been Jaynes at Folly in unbroken succession since before the -days of Cromwell. - -He was a picturesque figure, with his open, weather-tanned face, his -clean-shaven lip, his buff breeches, and brown gaiters. He wore a linen -coat and a flapping white linen hat. His eyes were lazily merry and -roguish under the starched brim. - -He turned in at the door of the inn, with the low-pitched, paneled -dining-room, where most of the farmers dined on market-day. - -A round-faced, pretty girl brought him his plate of beef and his -two vegetables. Bread and cheese, and a jug of sweet cider, completed -the meal. - -He looked at her thoughtfully whenever she approached: so very -blue-eyed and round; such a plump, neat figure in a black gown! He -looked at her through a strong cloud of smoke as he puffed at his pipe -and drank a last glass of the cider. She had suggested something. He -was thoughtfully asking himself, Why not? - -Presently he took a pencil and a letter from his breeches pocket. He -began to write on the back of the envelope, making many erasions, -knitting his brows and pouting his lips like an anxious child. - -The girl came softly to the table and took away the mustard for another -customer. Jethro never looked up at her. She had done her part. She had -suggested. - -He paid the bill and emerged into High Street. He looked a trifle more -bluff and lurching than before. His face was red--with cider, with the -excitement of his daring plan. - -For the first time in his life he was yielding to impulse. Already he -half regretted yielding. He was afraid of himself; he was more afraid -of Gainah. - -Yet he bent his head and went down two steps into the editorial offices -of the _Liddleshorn Herald_. The place was empty save for a -sharp-featured youth who was lounging at the side of the counter. He -sharply asked the visitor what he wanted. He was a new importation, an -embryo journalist, with a London journal as his goal. He touched -the town side of things only. He had a smoldering contempt for -farmers, and knew nothing of the master of Folly Corner. - -Jethro pushed his envelope across the counter with a sheepish gesture. - -“How many insertions?” asked the youth laconically, yet throwing an -amused, curious glance at the big figure which stood near the door--an -unconscious, unappreciated color scheme--in white and russet, buff and -brown. - -“How many times in?” The gentleman-farmer’s big, embarrassed laugh -seemed to shake the silent place. “Well--once.” - -As he went slowly out of the town the tinkle of a piano came out -clearly from the front room of a little buff villa. There were rows of -these buff villas on the outskirts of the town. Some navvies were -putting down new drain-pipes. The notes of the piano and the reedy -voice of a girl came out slowly, each note isolated and mingled with -the nervous tap of the pickax. Jethro stood still and listened. It was -a song of Purcell’s: - - “To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin and love those that - hate.” - -He walked on, a queer stirring at his heart. The thin voice of the girl -in the villa had touched the romantic spot in him. He thought of that -other girl at the inn--plump, blue-eyed, smiling. He thought of his -carefully-worded advertisement which, by to-morrow, would be worming -its way through Sussex, through Surrey and Hampshire to London -perhaps. - -It was a joke; he began to regret, to blame the cider, or the demure -little rings of light hair on the waitress’ unlined brow. - -And yet he could still hear the piano. He still felt the slow, -wondering work of his heart. - - - - -FOLLY CORNER. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -THE story begins with the emotions of two women--the two women -principally concerned--on a morning ten days after Jethro Jayne had -imprudently indulged in sweet cider at the market dinner in -Liddleshorn. - -One woman was young--twenty-five or less. She was a big, fair girl; a -handsome girl, in the elementary way that satisfies most men. She -looked well able to take care of herself; an up-to-date girl, -accustomed to fight her way alone, to meet men on their own ground, to -jealously look after her own interests. There was, however, an -occasional haggard line at her mouth, and in her well-opened, rather -prominent gray eyes was a hunted, hopeless look. - -She wore a coat and skirt, with sleeves of last year’s cut. Her hat was -trimmed with strict attention to fashion, and yet bore the brand -“home-made.” There was a crisp new veil tied about the brim. - -She smacked so of cities that the few people she met turned round to -slowly gape at her, and a couple of small girls coming home from the -village shop laughed aloud in her angry face. - -She walked slowly along the white road, stopping now and then to lift -her veil and wipe her burning cheeks. - -The scenery was beautiful--with the characteristic beauty of the Sussex -Weald. But she did not notice: she was too preoccupied. Her own affairs -were in a critical state, and when one is anxious there is small -consolation in undulating hills, long stretches of pasture, and -red-roofed farmhouses. Her attitude was quite cockney--prim regard -for her shoes and half-contemptuous admiration of her surroundings -predominated. - -Once she stopped to rest. A thatched and plastered cottage stood empty -under the shadow of huge oaks. Wide green glades wound into the very -heart of a little wood. The turf, inch-deep in moss, yielded like down. -It was irresistible. She threw herself flat on her back, settling her -skirt smoothly under her, and looked lazily through the wide mesh of -the veil at the sky. The heat and the perfect silence almost made her -sleep. A trap went by full of gayly-dressed country girls; a young man, -hideous in his Sunday clothes, was driving. They were all off to some -festivity, and they looked curiously at the prone figure on the turf. -At first they thought it was some tramp, but the thin-soled morocco -shoes stuck out from the dusty skirt contradicted that assumption. Such -vagrant ways these town folk had! They laughed derisively, and the -sound roused her. She sat up and stared a trifle vaguely at the -watchful hills, the glades of the wood, the white, winding ribbon of -highroad. Then she rose and whisked her skirt and went on again. - -Only once more was she tempted to stop--at a bramble bush where the -blackberries were loose and juicy. She drew up her veil to her nose and -drew them off the stalks with widely parted lips, because she was -anxious not to soil the fingers of her gloves. It was so necessary to -make a good impression: the woman who could always make a good -impression had the world at her feet. - -She crossed a common; fowls were scratching and shaking their wings in -the mounds of dust; a long string of geese waddled by, conversing -volubly, and with evident arrogance. A man with a timber wagon came -toward her, and she stopped him to ask the way. He told her that she -had a mile or more to go. - -She went on, her feet dragging at every step. At every step she grew -more nervous, more undecided. She took a letter from her pocket and -read it over twice. She stopped, half turned back. Her face was violent -red and chalk-white in turn. Still she went on, with lagging, heavy -feet and a queer, terrified shame and excitement at her heart: went on -over that open common which was just beginning to flush with heather. -Another man came by, driving a black pig. It grunted, and seemed to run -in every direction but the right one. He looked a stupid man; but, -then, they were all half-witted in the country. She said--very slowly -and deliberately, as if she were speaking to a small child--that she -wanted Folly Corner. He gave a vacillating grin, keeping one eye on the -pig, and pointed to a substantial stack of chimneys on the left. - -“That be Folly,” he said laconically, and left her. - -She could see the house through the dense leafage of three great elms. -She stood, with one hand firmly gripping her gay parasol, and the other -twitching at the crisp edge of her veil. She looked at the red gables, -at the spreading outbuildings, at the garden, at the yard; she looked -back at the hot road cutting across the common. Should she go back or -should she go on? For a moment she closed her eyes, and immediately the -dark, straight wall of the prison shot up slowly like a specter and -chilled her. - -The prison! The prison and the one damned, dear soul beating within its -walls! But that was past. She had wrestled out that finally--at night, -in her London room, close beneath the slates; at night, in her bed, the -letter under her pillow, or twisting in her hot fingers. - -The gate which led into the garden was a white wicket. At each side was -a poplar. These had grown so thick and tall that they met midway and -formed an arch. There was a path of red brick, a little raised, leading -up to the house door; it led up straight, between box edgings two feet -high. The garden-beds were rather neglected, but a great clump of -red-hot pokers pointed flame fingers to the sky, and a loose white -rose, like foam, clung to the walls and ran along the low roof. There -was a long window each side the door, and in front of the one on the -right was a yew-tree clipped into the shape of an umbrella. The -clipping had been neglected, and the tree had the dishevelled -appearance of a man who neglects to shave. There was an air of -indolence about the garden, but it did not seem the indolence of -poverty. A pond partly encircled the place. A red-and-white cow came -down to drink and to look at her reflectively with its big, -closely-veined eyes. - -What sort of greeting was garnering for her beyond that door with the -wooden hood, the veil of white roses, and the rough iron knocker? She -looked at a Virginia creeper twisting among the roses. Autumn had -touched it. She looked at the red leaves, then at the white flowers. -They seemed flame and pale fire to strained eyes, short of sleep and -dazzled with the sun. The deep, haggard line curved round her mouth. -Within! What waited within? - - * * * * * - -Within was the second woman, old Gainah Toat. She sat in a low-pitched -room--the room on the right, made dark by the umbrella yew. There was a -great open hearth. There were three doors: one led into a dairy; it was -open, and showed the bricked floor, the yellow and brown pans, the -thick cream and made-up butter; the second door opened into the -passage; the third into the garden. - -She sat by the third door, which was thrown well back. She could see -the orchard strewn with mussel plums, ripe to rottenness, with little -yellow stewing pears and apples specked with black. She did not seem -to see anything; she had those eyes--cold blue with a dash of -gray--that are always dull; eyes that evade and puzzle. They were very -wide open, the lids rolled well back, and the lashes sparse. - -She had a white face; there was a general appearance of wasting about -her. The fingers, holding a letter--the other woman had been influenced -by a letter too--were twisted and disfigured with rheumatism. Her body -was flat and square; her faded gown made no pretense of slurring the -defect. It went straight from her stringy throat to her hardly -perceptible hips without a break, without a kindly fold or ruck of the -stuff. - -She was an odd-looking figure; a spectral woman almost--with her -bloodless skin, her dead eyes, her twisted, transparent hands. But the -people around Folly Corner were not given to fanciful imaginings; they -only knew that Gainah seemed made of iron, that she worked on the farm -without tiring from sunrise until night. Her life was spent in making -things for other people to eat. She belonged to a dying type: she was -one of those women who devote themselves to tickling the masculine -palate. Machine-made food did not enter into her economy. Her mushroom -ketchup, her marmalade, her blackberry jelly were renowned. She gave -them to anyone who asked, not because she was generous, but because she -was inordinately proud of her productions. She toyed with medicine too; -made balm tea, and, from a particular sort of nettle, green ointment -that would cure a gathering. She made herb beer and water cider to -save beer at harvest-time. She knew the effect of foxglove on the human -heart, and made a concoction of a certain herb which she gathered -secretly. With it she claimed to cure palsy. She was mistress at Folly -Corner. She had come to old Jethro Jayne when his wife died. She had -brought up the present master by hand; she ruled him still. - -Every master of Folly Corner had been a Jayne, and every male Jayne had -been a Jethro since the first farmer had hidden his pet mare for ten -days in a cellar so that Cromwell’s Ironsides should not steal her. - -The room was always cool because the yew threw a continual shadow. -Gainah, sitting without a glint of sun in her chilly blue gown and with -her feet flat on the stone floor, seemed to have no part with the hot, -throbbing world outside. - -They were threshing on the farm; the whirring sound hummed in and the -smell from the engine hung on the air. On the south wall a man, by her -orders, was cutting back the foliage from the vine so that the sun -might get freely at the Sweet-water grapes. In a few weeks it would be -time to think about wine-making. The busiest time of the year was -coming on. She hadn’t a moment to waste. She should at that moment have -been straining the mushroom-juice from the salt and boiling it with -spices. But the letter, fluttering in her veined, gnarled hand, had -made her an idle woman before noon. She read it again with the weighty -deliberation of an almost illiterate person. It was written in a -dashing but undecided hand, and the words were stilted. Evidently the -writer had been ill at ease. - -She got up stiffly at last and moved about the room, flicking a duster -over the ancient furniture. There was an oak cupboard reaching to the -ceiling--a double corner cupboard with delicate brass escutcheons and -an inlaid border of boxwood. - -She ran the duster down the dark panels and breathed softly on the -brass. Then she took out her keys from her apron pocket and opened the -doors of the upper half. There were three shelves, the edge of each -scalloped out. On every shelf were bottles and jars full of preserves -and pickles. She touched them quite tenderly, looking at the faintly -written labels, pursing up her colorless lips and moving her head -spasmodically. - -She shut the cupboard at last and went slowly on her journey round the -room. She dusted the oak sideboard, the long oak table, with the form -against the wall and the carved joint stools--the high one for the -master, the low one for the dame--at each end. She dusted the chairs, -some of solid oak, some of golden beech with rush seats. She dusted the -clock; its hand pointed ominously to twelve. - -It was about time then. In a few minutes she should be here. Gainah -chuckled a little, remembering that she had purposely neglected to send -the trap to the station. All the men were at harvest, and she had -wanted old Chalcraft to trim the vine. She sat down by the door again, -looking out blankly at the warmth and life. There were thick -parchment-like mushrooms dotted over the meadow beyond the quickset -hedge, and in the orchard fruit kept thudding softly from the trees. It -was the beginning of rich autumn, when one makes provision for winter. -She was always so busy through August and September; on her feet until -late at night--late for Folly Corner--straining and boiling, and -pulping and stirring; scolding the two maids and tyrannizing over -Jethro. - -Those mushrooms had been in salt too long; the wind-fall apples were -almost past preserving. It was washing-day, too--they had washed on the -first Monday in the month for thirty years. The soapy smell floated -into the dining-parlor; she could hear the rasping sound of the brush -and the gurgling swill of suds. She heard also the cackle of the two -maids and the mellow voice of the elderly washerwoman. They were -wasting their time. Yet she didn’t move. Her eyes fell to the letter -which she had taken out of her pocket again. Her lips mumbled the -signature--“PAMELA CRISP.” - -After thirty-three years! And she had served his father before him! It -was very hard! She wouldn’t give up her keys--he wouldn’t expect that. -She smiled dryly. He wouldn’t expect that--he was a Jayne and he knew -when he was well off. He would never get anyone else to slave so. Even -the green tomatoes were pickled--with onions and apples and mysterious -spices. She was the only woman for miles round who had the recipe, and -before she died she meant to burn it, having no daughter to bequeath it -to. And scarlet runners put down every year for winter eating. Her -butter had never been known to have a twang. She could make cakes -without fat and used snow for puddings when eggs were scarce. - -The bed in the best room had been made under her eye from the feathers -of birds killed on the farm. - -Birds! It was not many henwives who could manage to hatch a full -sitting. She never thought fifteen eggs too many to put under a hen; -the Dorking might manage even more. The gray-and-white hen--didn’t it -steal a nest of twenty-two and come clucking home at the end of three -weeks with nineteen chicks, most of them pullets, too! A young, flighty -woman would have spoilt everything by poking about and interfering with -the bird. She had known all along that it was sitting in the barn, but -she wasn’t going to let it know she knew. Young women spoilt their -lives by haste. They spoilt the lives of other people too. Her eye -dropped again to the dashing signature--“PAMELA CRISP.” - -She sat brooding by the door, thinking proudly of all her domestic -achievements and telling herself piteously that Jethro would never -allow her to be displaced. Of course, she had known that he would marry -some day, but then, in her own mind, she had picked him out a wife: -pretty, soft-looking Nancy from Turle House. A wife--pliable and a -little foolish, like Nancy--would not have mattered. But a cousin on -the mother’s side! An unknown girl from London! A girl whose capital -“P” trailed to the edge of the envelope! - -She got up again and went round the dull room in her halting way, -dusting and tidying mechanically. Then all at once she straightened -her back and listened. There were light steps on the brick path which -led round to the garden door. The clip-clip of the shears ceased. There -were two voices--a young feminine one and the hoarse croak of old -Chalcraft, who was past work, and lived out his life of long service -like an ancient horse, doing light jobs, so that he might still believe -himself useful and independent. - -Gainah went out, the sun on her uncovered head, with its wide parting -and gray-brown hair. She went round the corner. Chalcraft was on the -ladder still. The shears yawned in his tremulous hand; he had clipped -to the wall, and the Sweet-waters hung close to it and stripped of -foliage, pale green and luscious. The long trails of grayish leaves -were on the path; the girl trod them down. When she saw the elder woman -she made a step forward. She seemed half defiant, half ashamed. Her hat -was on one side; it gave her a rakish air of towns. Such a slight thing -may imperil a woman’s reputation--in prejudiced eyes. Gainah’s cold -eyes contracted, and her brows drew over them a harsh ridge. - -Pamela put out her hand--in a new glove. A slim gold bracelet, from -which dangled a green charm, swung on her wrist. - -“You must be Gainah,” she said in a conciliating way, and smiling. - -Then she added, with a faint touch of injury, “I wrote to say I was -coming this morning. I hoped that you would send to meet me. It’s a -long walk.” - -Gainah gave her a sharp look; she thought that this was the first -indication of authority. - -“It’s harvest-time,” she said curtly; “the best harvest for seventeen -years. Come inside.” - -They both slipped over the threshold of that dim gray room with the -stone floor and the solid family furniture. Pamela gave a swift glance -round to see if the room was empty. There was a flaming spot on each -cheek, and her glittering eyes moved uneasily behind her loose veil. - -“I’d like to put myself tidy,” she said in the confiding whisper of one -woman to another, “before I go in to him.” - -“To your Cousin Jethro?” Gainah’s dull eyes fastened on the hectic -face. - -“To my Cousin Jethro--yes,” she laughed nervously; then added quickly, -“It seems strange to call him ‘cousin.’ We’ve--we’ve never met. You got -my letter? Yes. I--I want to be friends.” - -Gainah didn’t answer. She only opened the door leading to the stairs. -The two went up together. There was a high window halfway up, with a -lattice of thick oak bars. - -“No glass,” said Pamela in astonishment. - -“They didn’t use glass in the days when that was cut,” Gainah said, -“and the Jaynes are not people to go with new-fangled ways. Every Jayne -says that what was good enough for his father is good enough for him. -It’s a family not given to changing. You ought to know that; you belong -to it.” - -“On the mother’s side--yes,” returned the girl in a half-hearted way. - -Gainah opened the door of her own bedroom. It was poorly furnished with -her own furniture, which she had brought with her to Folly Corner. -There was a wooden bedstead, painted clay color and touched with lines -of apple-green. The washstand and drawers matched it. There was a strip -or so of shabby felt carpet, and on the shelf a pair of brass -candlesticks and a red china cow milked by a diminutive woman. The girl -looked about her disdainfully, assertiveness getting the better of -nervousness. She took off her hat and veil before the murky glass, -splashed water over her face, patted her hair caressingly, arranged -again the smart hat and veil. Gainah watched this pretty toying of -youth with grim disapproval; even the girl’s big arms lifted to her -head were an offense. - -“Like a brass button in a sweep’s eye, all glitter,” the old woman -mumbled to herself, as the yellow and green bracelet swung on the round -wrist and the jet buckles flashed in the elaborate hat. - -On the way downstairs she was afforded a peep into other bedrooms. - -“I can’t let you have the best spare room,” she declared -autocratically. “This is it. It’s never used, except for layin’s out -and weddin’ nights, and layin’s in. All the Jaynes, right back to King -Charles, have been born in that bed--and died in it afterward.” - -Pamela looked at the ponderous piece of furniture and shuddered. - -“I wouldn’t sleep there for worlds,” she said. - -Gainah, her claw-like hand caught stiffly round the banisters to -help her progress, went slowly down, stair by stair. Pamela, close -behind her, looked contemptuous--of everything: the old-fashioned -place, the odd old woman. - -They crossed the room which the yew made so dark. Gainah opened the -door into the narrow corridor. Pamela followed. There was a window -looking out at the garden. On the ledge were blood-red geraniums, and -on the distempered walls queer prints in black frames. - -She didn’t approve of those crinkled, brownish prints; they were hardly -decent. - -Gainah flung open the door of the other room. - -“Jethro,” she said in her high, grating voice, “here’s your Cousin -Pamela--on the mother’s side.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -THE girl winced and hung back, as one does at physic or a possible -blow. She looked along the narrow passage, as if for the support of -another woman. But Gainah had hobbled away, shutting the door behind -her. Pamela stood alone. She looked round her--at the oak table strewn -with papers--old copies of the _Field_ and _Farm and Home_. - -There were a pair of driving-gloves thrown down, and a whip with a -broken thong. There was a great blue bowl half full of waste paper and -ends of string. A pair of brass candlesticks winked on the ledge beside -the vivid geraniums. She gave a second nervous look at the colored -prints in black frames, prints of which she did not quite approve. A -full voice from inside the room said impatiently, “Come in.” - -She didn’t advance, so the voice added, with a mellow laugh in it, -“Come in. Why did Gainah go away? Come in, Cousin Pamela. I cannot move -from this confounded sofa.” - -So he was crippled! Her wild gray eyes darted across the garden and -along the hot road. If she could only just softly open that door and -slip out without seeing him! A cripple! She might have known that there -was something. - -“Come in.” - -She made a desperate step forward: it was so like a fool to stay -outside. She had come to the house on certain business, and she must go -through with it. Her foot in the arched morocco shoe tapped on the bare -oak floor. Then it sunk into a thick carpet. She could not see the -occupant of the room yet; he was on a couch in the bay window which -looked across the harvest fields. All that she could see was a wall -hung with gorgeous flowered paper, a carpet with a green ground and -bunches of Provence roses, a round walnut table, and a piano with a -closed lid. - -It was like coming from December to June at a breath--this transit from -the dim ancestral living-room to the parlor with the walnut and velvet -suite from the best shop in Liddleshorn. Yet Pamela hardly noticed. The -only thing that mattered was the sofa in the bay window. Would that -man, that cripple on the sofa, be favorably impressed with her? - -She was sick and hot with apprehension. Had any girl been in such a -position before? She began to think dimly of early tales that she had -read of slave markets, of a poem learnt and recited at school about a -quadroon girl. - -Of course old Gainah didn’t know all--didn’t know anything that was -truth. What an odd old woman! Not pleasant to live with. Not a cheerful -house in which to spend the winter! She went slowly over that thick -carpet to the bay window, her head down, her upper lip caught fiercely -over her lower. When she reached the sofa she was in an agony of shame, -and hardly lifted her eyes. - -Jethro said, almost tenderly: - -“Do sit down.” - -The words were simple, but she liked him from that moment. She felt -sure of him. He wouldn’t be--coarse. She sat down. There was a low -walnut chair with a green cover drawn into the bay all ready. Then she -dared to look up. - -Jethro was flat on his back. He was so spare that his body seemed to -curve inward; but it was the spareness of a tough, muscular man. His -upper lip was bare and his eyes were keen, merry blue. A life of -sunshine and wind and rain had tanned his skin. The backs of his hairy -hands looked as if they had been steeped in tobacco juice; beyond his -wrist, where his coat sleeve pushed up, his skin was milky. He wore an -Oxford shirt with an unstarched collar. She saw a ring of milk-white -skin when he turned his head to look at her, and immediately above it -he was the color of delicate old leather. - -She looked at his handsome face and muscular body with interest. Well! -It might be worse--or better. A little round table with a red and gold -cloth was within touch. He put out his hand and touched a toppling pile -of letters. - -“These were all answers,” he said, smiling drolly. “I had them -addressed to Liddleshorn post-office, as you know. Three hundred and -fifty. I shall get some more to-morrow morning, no doubt.” - -“Don’t!” she cried out sharply, “oh, don’t! It--it--it--a man doesn’t -know.... A woman has little secret shames--you won’t understand.... I -wish I hadn’t come. Three hundred and fifty girls! Oh! They are not -coming here, too?” - -She stopped, panting. Her eyes were on those letters, letters in every -shape and color, some with gilt monograms on the back, one with a gilt -“Nell.” She looked at the handwriting, some blotted and some scrawling, -some neatly masculine and clerk-like. Her face looked old, her eyes -blistered with tears. - -Jethro struggled to rise. Then with a groan of pain and sharp twist of -his injured leg he fell back on the cushions. - -Her back was firm against the carved walnut of the green-seated chair, -as they sat in such strange conference in the deep shadow of the bay. -Through the hot mist of her tears she saw the harvest field, half -clipped, like the shorn head of beauty. A big brown fellow of a humble -bee came through the open casement and settled on her. She flinched. -Jethro regarded it as an omen. - -“When a humble bee flies in at the open window and lights on a stranger -and flies out again, it’s a sign the stranger will not stay long,” he -said, looking quite disturbed as the insect droned out into the sun -again. - -She looked at him with mild contempt, thinking it most extraordinary -that a big fellow such as he was should entertain such notions. - -There were the usual sounds of fully blown summer; petulant buzz of -overworked insects, voices of harvesters, the whirr of the engine. Taps -from the smithy at the corner intensified in Pamela’s aching head; -ever afterward she regarded smithy sounds as indispensable to the -perfection of an August day. - -Suddenly she broke out passionately: - -“I can’t stay. I shouldn’t have come. It is the sort of thing that a -barmaid, a shop girl--someone a little reckless--would do. I am -different.” She stretched her hand and directed it haughtily toward the -letters. “I am not like these others. But it was a temptation: such a -rest, such a certainty for the future. And ... it was half a joke, -too.” - -Jethro put out his immense brown hand and gripped her by the forefinger -and thumb round the wrist. She looked fully at him for the first time, -and, in spite of herself, she liked his face. It was handsome. The thin -high nose and beautifully curved lips made it even aristocratic. She -was a shallow town product, and had a flimsy horror of anything that -she considered coarse. Yet she admitted that on this man’s face was no -touch of boorishness. He looked, so she thought, like a patrician who -was masquerading in queer clothes. Her idea of masculine raiment was -confined to black cloth, with tweeds for the seaside and flannel for -tennis. - -“I like you,” he said simply. “You are a nice-minded girl. It was a -joke with me, too--half a joke. I did it on market day; a fellow gets a -bit jolly then, perhaps. I shouldn’t have gone any further with these.” -He touched the letters with his free hand, and the touch was enough to -scatter them rudely on the floor. “But your name took my fancy. PAMELA -CRISP! Now, my mother was a Crisp.” - -“Yes, so you told me in your letter,” she said faintly, and gently -fluttering her white, veined wrist in its handcuff. “You told me to -write and tell Miss Toat that we were cousins--on the mother’s side. I -did it--as a joke. Oh! a joke--you believe me?” - -“Of course--a joke. It is nothing more--not yet.” His clear, blue eyes -were on her pastel-like face. Then he added ponderingly: “But we may be -cousins, after all. It wouldn’t make any difference--in the end. You -understand?” - -She showed how fully she understood by the quick wave of color on her -cheek. - -“My mother’s name was Lilith,” he went on. - -“The name of my little sister who died.” - -“My mother had a brother who ran away--some boy’s scrape at home. He -was never heard of afterward. His name was John.” - -“My father’s name.” She became suddenly confidential. “He was a -contractor; plenty of money while he lived. We had a house a little way -out of London. He drove to his office every day. Two servants, a -governess for me, a dinner party now and then. When I grew up, a little -shopping, a little housework in an elegant way--arranging flowers, -setting the maids by the ears. You know. Thousands of girls live like -that and are bored to death. He died bankrupt; mother died of a broken -heart, or broken fortunes, poor dear. I was thrown on the world--the -creditors took everything. That is five years ago.” - -He had been listening attentively, watching every shade and shine -upon her face, admiring her vivacious, half tragic gestures--not -understanding her in the least. The genteel life she so scornfully -sketched was unknown to him. - -“You were the only one?” - -“What?” - -She lifted her head, rearing it almost, like an aggressive serpent. - -“You were my Uncle John’s only child?” - -“No.” The word came full and rounded from her mouth, and the eyes -behind the curtaining lashes were somber. “There was a--a brother. He -has gone away, a long voyage. He has a passion for the sea.” - -“That settles it. Another brother of my mother’s, Uncle Thomas, was a -captain in the navy. He ran away before he was sixteen; nothing would -stop him. Every Crisp has a salt drop in his veins.” - -“Father, in his most prosperous days, had a little yacht.” - -“There you are again! The Crisp love for water. Well! I believe from my -heart that we really are cousins--Cousin Pamela. I shall tell the folk -hereabout that I advertised for my kin--Uncle John or his children--and -that you, seeing the advertisement, answered. That will make things -easy for us both. And now, cousin”--his voice was meaning, and his -handsome open face became roguish and bold--“I ought to kiss you.” - -She slipped her wrist from his finger and thumb and fell back. - -She looked at his face--handsome, thin, almost ascetic if it had not -been for the tan--with distaste. - -“A kiss!” she murmured, with a quick, startled breath. “No, no; I -couldn’t dream of it.” - -He seemed pleased at what he assumed to be her modesty. There was a -quaint pause, during which he thoughtfully examined her face, picking -feature from feature and dwelling most on the downcast lids. Then he -said, almost tenderly: - -“What have you been doing these five years for a living? Cousin Pamela! -if only I had known that Uncle John’s child----” - -“Don’t talk like that. We are not sure. What did I do?” She gave a -short, rather grating laugh. “Anything--short of scrubbing floors. I’ve -been a governess. I’ve tried to draw fashion-plates--but my drawing was -against me there. I’ve collected money for charitable institutions--on -commission. I was a companion. She was a publican’s widow with heaps of -money--one dare not be too particular. She was queer--a secret drinker -I always thought. I had twenty-five pounds a year. She liked me so much -that she raised my money at one bound to forty; money was only dirt to -her. Forty pounds a year--and she died before the first quarter was -due. I have always been unlucky.” - -“And then?” - -She shrugged with an artificial callousness. - -“Looking out. Answering advertisements--until I answered yours.” - -Directly she mentioned his the shame and outraged modesty in her surged -up again. - -“I’ve never answered an advertisement like that before,” she burst out. -“But--it was fun, as you say. And I had put three advertisements in a -paper for a situation--at three-and-sixpence for forty words. Three -three-and-sixpences! Not a single answer! Something made me look at the -_Liddleshorn Herald_. It was in the stationer’s shop--ordered specially -for some customer. When I was a little thing I seem to remember that -paper about at home. The name, Liddleshorn, was familiar. Something -made me touch it, look down the advertisements. Then! You know!” - -She put out her hands with a dramatic gesture. Jethro appeared to think -that it was time he made his explanations of the situation. - -“I did it for fun--at first,” he said. “Afterward I was rather taken -with the idea. But not with the girls,” seeing her glance vindictively -at the scattered letters. “I wanted to marry; Gainah’s getting too -tight a hold on the place. And there is no one to entertain lady -visitors--no mistress. It isn’t natural. I wanted a wife. I advertised -for one. I wanted a change, too--a change of blood. It’s good for -stock, why not for us? That’s the way I argued it out with myself.” - -Her chin was sunk in the puffs of her white muslin blouse and the color -was in her cheeks again. But he went on, apparently not noticing her -confusion. - -“For generations back every Jayne has married in the neighborhood. We -are all related in some way; you meet the Jayne nose on a Crisp -face--you have the Crisp chin--and a Furlonger little finger,” he -crooked out his own, “on a Jayne hand. Nancy Turle has my father’s -waving red hair, and I’ve got the Turles’ white skin.” - -He tucked up the sleeve of his coat to show her his smooth, milky skin. - -“I thought,” he continued, as she neither looked nor spoke, “that a -change would be good. Change! You see it in stock; you see it in -flowers. Those crimson phloxes,” he pointed through the window, “are -twice as high this year because last autumn they were shifted in the -border. And Gainah, who knows all about flowers, says she can’t grow -heartsease three years running without lifting. They dwindle to -farthing-faces. Even cabbage mustn’t follow cabbage. I said to myself -that I’d graft new blood on the old Jayne stock.” - -Pamela lifted her flaming face, and, putting out her thin foot, -contemptuously kicked the nearest letter. - -“Then you had better take one of these,” she said, with temper, “if, as -you seem to think, I am a Crisp and your cousin.” - -He looked at the foot which darted from her skirt. - -“It’s a Furlonger foot,” he said simply. “Cousins! There isn’t a doubt. -But I’m content to take the way of my fathers.” - -“I--I don’t know. It is early. You’d better let me go back.” - -As she spoke she fleetly shut her eyes, so that she could see neither -the golden wheat-field nor the handsome face. At once the steep -wall of the prison ran up, and above it, searing her eyes, was the -blinding dome of sky. Beyond she saw the railway line, the dreary waste -land, a solitary old cottage, a tethered goat; on the edge of the -earth, meeting the sky, the bristling chimneys of the distant suburb -beyond the Scrubbs. - -The prison! That chapter of her life was nearly ended. She knew that -she was weak; knew that she would yield to Jethro. Already she almost -felt as if that golden field of wheat half belonged to her. She would -yield. Why not? It was so simple, so idle. How she had longed for rest, -and more--for freedom! The heel of another woman had been very hard on -her neck. Just to go back to London, pack her boxes, take a cab, bid -her landlady farewell--and leave no trace. When _he_ came out from -prison he would not find her--that was all. - -“I might stay--and see,” she said faintly, opening her gray eyes. - -“Very well. You want a situation; I offer you one. I pay you -thirty-five pounds a year for gowns and things. That between ourselves. -At the end of the year--we’ll see. To the world, to Gainah, you are my -Cousin Pamela.” - -“I’d like to earn my thirty-five pounds,” she said sturdily. - -“Of course. You’ll make the place pretty, as young women can. You’ll -entertain all your distant relations--the Turles and Crisps and -Furlongers. You can write letters for me until I get about again. I’m -like a log just now. Look here!” He rolled down the covering and -showed his bandaged limb. “I got a fork run into my leg in the harvest -field, and it turned to a nasty wound. But I shall be about again -soon.” - -“That is all?” She breathed relief, and the glint of distaste in her -eyes faded out. - -“That is all. You didn’t think I was a cripple?” - -“I didn’t know.” - -“You really do favor my Uncle John,” Jethro said, after a pause. “Do -you mind--it will be your first duty--getting a leather case from that -top, left-hand drawer? Yes, that’s it,” when she brought it back. “See! -Here he is. Now, isn’t the mouth the same?” - -He held before her the faded likeness, taken on silver, of a young man -in staid black clothes, and with straggling side whiskers. - -“Taken just before he ran away. Is it anything like your father?” - -She stared at the dim old portrait for a long time before she answered. -Her eyes took in every detail--the doubled fist on a bulky book, the -vapid smile, the too apparent watch-chain with its bunch of seals. - -“I can’t say,” she returned faintly at last. “This is a young man. -Father was gray when I remember him. He married late in life. He had a -white beard. But I think,” she held the portrait thoughtfully sideways, -“that the mouth is something like. Father had a bare lip to the end of -his days.” - -She shut the case and laid it on the table. Another bee came in and -darted at the nodding cherries in her hat. The metallic clink from the -smithy became more persistent. Jethro said gently at last, putting out -the big brown hand which was so dry and yielding: - -“Then it is settled?” - -Pamela, her head down, the long, haggard line deep on her lips, said -almost inaudibly: - -“Yes.” - -The word had hardly died away before Gainah, in her dim blue cotton -gown with the skimped skirt and straight bodice, put her head in at the -door and asked harshly if the newly-found cousin meant to stay to -dinner. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -HER past was tightly packed away behind her--packed as remorselessly, -as perfectly, as she had corded her boxes; with much effort and -expenditure of strength, but with a perfect regard to safety. She was -out of London. Never again would she let her eyes of anguish light on -the prison. - -She was driving with Jasper along the dusty Sussex road, which barely a -week before she had trudged wearily and with many misgivings. The -prosperity and ease and promise of her new life struck at her, soothed -her, with many minute details--the soft carriage-rug, the sleek coat of -the mare, the polished harness. She had a passion for ease, for pretty -things, for worldly status. - -Folly Corner became her home--her sheltered home. Time passed. As the -weeks wore on her face grew mobile and careless, dull pink begun to -timidly bloom on her skin, her eyes brightened. She was happy, -occupied, free from anxiety. Above all, she had plenty of pence, need -never deny herself a penny pleasure--and she was one of those mercurial -women who can be made happy by a bar of French chocolate, and miserable -by a shabby hat. Once she said, with a bitter-sweet laugh, to Jethro: - -“I was never made for responsibility. I ought to live in a harem. A -bon-bon, a pat on the head from my master, would make me absolutely -content.” - -He seemed amused at first, then he looked puzzled, and then displeased. -He had decided already in his serious, practical way, that she was to -be his wife, and whimsicality struck him as unorthodox--nearly as bad -as dissent. The Jaynes had always been stanch churchmen, and never -spoke without first weighing every word. - -Sometimes, in spite of herself, she gave a backward thought. Sometimes -the hunted, tragic gleam lighted its taper in her happy eyes. Some -shadow of the old grief, some touch of the old delirious joy and -misery, stirred her. Rain against the window, a rumble of thunder, a -shrieking wind, or a harsh voice was enough to frighten her. She felt a -gnawing uncertainty. Would this peace, this ease, continue? - -When these uncomfortable thoughts assailed her she plunged fiercely -into work, clicking her needle and thimble through new calico, or -darting about the rambling house with a duster. She was pathetically -anxious to earn her salary, to be absolutely independent of Jethro’s -charity. She had not yet decided whether her torn heart would allow her -to marry him when the time came. - -One morning he strolled down the weedy gravel path of the oblong -kitchen-garden, with the holly hedge as wall on all four sides, and the -holly arch as postern at the entrance. There were grass paths between -the beds: they wanted mowing and leveling. The wide herbaceous borders -were full of weeds. The gravel path going straight from one end to the -other was a harmony in green and yellow. - -There was a gardener at Folly Corner, but Gainah made him clean boots, -chop wood, and carry buckets; while Jethro made him drive and groom the -horses, and pressed him into service when he was short of hands on the -farm. Consequently the garden was unattended. Scarlet pimpernel was -vivid on the dry ground, bindweed bound round the cabbage-stalks, and -wild clumps of blazing corn marigold bloomed unheeded. - -Pamela was loitering in an archway of dead scarlet-runners, collecting -seed, by Gainah’s orders. Gainah was mistress of the garden. Jethro -came along the alley in his thick brown boots. His hands were in his -breeches pockets; a Michaelmas daisy, which he had pulled from the -border as he strolled, was in his mouth. He looked at Pamela, half -tenderly, half quizzically--a look which always set her pulses -throbbing. She could never forget, when she was alone with him, the -piquant circumstances which had brought her under his roof. Sometimes -when Gainah imposed distasteful tasks her neck would swell, and she -told herself proudly that by next autumn she could, if she chose, be -mistress of Folly Corner. - -Her basket was three parts full of seed-pods--like the fingers of -dainty gloves stretched over bones. As she moved the seeds made a -dice-like rattle. Jethro took the basket from her and begun to pull the -pods off the dry yellow stalks himself. - -“You shouldn’t be at this work,” he said, lifting her white hand with -his free one. “Why can’t Daborn do it?” - -“Gainah likes to see to these things herself.” - -“You must be mistress over Gainah.” - -“Not yet,” she broke out involuntarily, and then flushed. - -Jethro laughed. - -“I’m glad you put it that way. Evidently we are of the same mind. -Suppose we say six months instead of a year, Cousin Pamela.” - -“No, no! A year, as we decided.” - -She looked vaguely through the wasted tendrils of the dead beans as -they clung to the sticks--looked in the direction of London. Jethro had -once said carelessly London was that way, jerking his broad brown thumb -widely. After that, she looked across the common whenever that chill -thought of the prison stole in and numbed her brain. - -“Come a little way along the road. If Gainah sees us she’ll call you -in,” he said almost pleadingly. “I never get you to myself.” - -He pulled out his turnip-like silver watch, which had been his -grandfather’s, and added that he had ten minutes. Daborn was grooming -the roan mare, ready to drive him in the dogcart to Liddleshorn. - -“You might come too,” he said. - -“No. Gainah would be angry.” - -“You mustn’t think too much of her. After all, she’s a paid servant.” - -“So am I.” - -Her face, under the brim of her Panama hat, was arch and mournful at -the same moment. - -They went along the gravel path. Jethro took out his pocket-knife and -cut off the head of a great plantain. - -“The place wants seeing to,” he said with dissatisfaction, looking at -the weeds in the bed. “It wants a mistress. You should see the garden -at Turle House. Nancy manages that. Nancy in some sort of way must be -your cousin. We are all relations.” - -It was the last day of September, and there had been a frost early in -the morning. The blackened marrow plants straggled on their mound. -Daborn had clamped the beet the day before, and the broken leaves, with -their wine-colored stems, were scattered. The plumy foliage of the -carrots had died down. The sparkling parsnip leaves were yellow, and -dew glittered on the crinkled, bluish leaves of the savoys with their -tight hearts. The sun shone brightly, but the air was crisp. Everything -was ominous of winter. Pamela shivered as she looked at the solid -chimney stacks of Folly Corner, and pictured an iron winter in the -fastness of that old house, with Gainah as grim companion. - -They went through the yard into the road. Daborn had the dogcart out. -Pamela stopped by the wall of the granary, her foot twined in a bit of -trailing periwinkle. - -“Give me the basket,” she said, “and good-by.” - -Jethro looked at her. - -“You’d better come too,” he said. “Jump in.” - -“No. My dress; no gloves.” - -“Tuck your hands under the rug. At Liddleshorn we’ll buy gloves. Jump -up. We shan’t want you, Daborn. Here’s the basket. Miss Crisp will hold -the reins.” - -Pamela still hesitated, looking back at the house, and remembering she -had promised Gainah that she would mark some pillow-slips. But it was -such a magic morning, with an intensely blue sky--a March sky almost, -with a spice of frost lurking behind the hot sun. There were long -trails of red bryony berries on the hedges; glittering gossamer webs -were woven across the clumps of broom on the common. Jethro looked so -strong and masterful--such a man! She believed that in the end she -would marry him whether she wanted to or not. He had a rough manner of -command with women--savage, yet tender. Pamela, like a woman, loved it. -She lifted her foot, swung up to the blue cushion, and a moment later -they were bowling smoothly along the road. - -He didn’t speak. He flicked at the mare with a tinge of pettishness. -Pamela sat well back. She felt a person of some importance; every small -girl they met bobbed her little skirts into the dust, and the -heavy-footed laboring men lifted a finger to their hair as Jethro -bowled by in the flashing sunshine. - -He pulled up at the gate of a small farm, and asked Pamela to hold the -mare while he went in. The farmer had a farrowing sow for sale. - -She just clasped the slack reins. The farmhouse was so overgrown with -fruit-trees and ivy that the mellow bricks were shrouded. By and by -Jethro came swinging down the path, with a weak old man hobbling -behind him. They went and leaned over the piggeries, which were on the -left of the gate. She caught a word or two here and there; it was Greek -to her. Jethro surveyed the huge black sow keenly before he closed the -bargain. Then he swung open the gate in his familiar impetuous way, and -just before he got up into the cart he turned to the old man and said -with a kind of careless authority: - -“You ought to get out of this. Sell up and go into lodgings. It isn’t -good for a man to live alone.” - -To Pamela he added in a bluff aside: - -“Mansell has lost his missus.” - -She leaned toward the straggling, shambling figure, and threw a faint -smile of sympathy. He was a foolish-looking old man, with a face made -more imbecile by a loose, slobbering lip and the short silvery spikes -of a week-old beard. He began to pour out his misery and loneliness, -perhaps because she, like his dead wife, was a woman. - -“Missis died six months ago,” he said tremulously, as he twisted his -dirty hands and gave his watery smile. “She was a good missis. But,” -with a crowing cackle of laughter, “I was good, too. I never knocked -her down, nor give her a black eye. I didn’t offen even scold her. Step -inside.” His face and voice were eager. “I’d like you to have a look -round.” - -Pamela, oddly touched, said gently to Jethro: - -“Let me go. You come too.” - -They tied the mare to the gatepost, and went up the path to the -brooding house in its tangle of ivy and its unpruned jungle of ancient -plum-trees. The widower went first, chattering volubly all the time, -his back bent, his hand heavy on the polished knob of his stick. - -They went into the low-pitched living-room. The fusty smell turned -Pamela faint. The old man seemed to divine her nausea. - -“You should ha’ seen how missis kept it,” he said deprecatingly. “But, -Lord bless you, I am a helpless old man, seventy-nine come October, and -I can’t clean. I’m alone. Missis and the children dead. But I aint -afraid.” He gave an apprehensive glance at the shadows of the murky -room. “Why should I be? What I always says is this”--he kept peppering -his platitudes with the silly laugh that went to the girl’s -heart--“God, who made me, aint a-goin’ to kill me.” - -Pamela looked round the room. Everything, inside and out of the farm, -had gone to pieces for the lack of a capable woman. - -“I did used to keep the garden terrible nice,” the old man said, seeing -her gray eyes look through the door into the sunny wilderness. “But -there! missis is gone! I’ll show you her earrings.” - -He hobbled away into the adjoining room. Pamela heard him jingling -metal and scrooping wooden furniture over the flag floor. Presently he -came out with a card-board box shaking in his hand. He took the lid off -reverently and held out the open box. A pair of earrings, of very pale -gold, such as you can buy at fairs for a trifle, were on a bed of -tissue paper. - -“Very pretty,” the girl said lamely. - -Jethro had gone outside. He was viewing the neglected fruit-trees -severely. - -“And there’s one more thing I must show you.” - -Mansell hobbled away, up the crazy stairs this time, and came back with -a snow-white smock, which he thrust into her hands. - -“Missis made this for me to be married in.” He stuck his foolish red -face forward and grinned more widely. “She put her best work into it. -Lord bless you, when I was but a boy--I’m seventy-nine come October--we -used to go to church on Sundays, every man in his clean smock. Missis -did it. She was a rare one at her needle.” - -Pamela looked at the exquisite, delicate stitching. The whole heart of -that dead woman was woven into the diamonds and honeycombs and lattices -of the wedding smock. - -“Very pretty,” she said lamely again. - -“I must get to Liddleshorn before ten,” Jethro cried out from the -garden. - -She stepped into the sun, Mansell behind her. He followed them to the -gate, seeming pathetically anxious to hold on to human companionship as -long as he could. A sheep-dog came running out from the barn. Pamela, -who was distrustful of dogs, felt glad that she was in the cart. - -“He won’t bite, bless you; he’s too old. But when he was young he _was_ -s’ savage. Missis used to set one side of the fire winter nights, and I -used to set the other. And she, just for fun, used to say to me, ‘Oh, -dear,’ and I used to say, ‘Oh, dear.’ You should have heard him growl. -He was s’ savage you durstn’t move or speak.” - -Jethro gathered the reins with an air of business. - -“You must get out of this,” he advised, with curt good nature. - -“I suppose I must. Yet I’d like to stop on. Yet since missis died -everything’s gone to pieces. I used to get such good living--fresh -butter and new-laid eggs. I can churn myself, but no one seems to care -for my butter. Don’t know why; there was a great call for missis’s.” - -“Well, good-by to you,” said Jethro, with masculine intolerance of his -whimpering garrulity. - -“Good-by and God bless you. Take care of yourselves. Come and see me -again.” His bleared blue eyes were turned pleadingly on Pamela. “And, -Master Jayne”--he looked from one to the other, and his shrill voice -quavered childishly--“when you gets a missis may you never lose her. A -man’s no good without a missis.” - -The cart moved on. Presently Pamela said softly, “Poor old thing! he -made me feel quite miserable.” - -“He’s not quite right in his head. But--you heard what he said, Cousin -Pamela? A man’s no good without a missis.” - -The strong brown hand in the worn driving-glove plunged under the -holland carriage-rug and took her bare fingers significantly. - -“It’s true enough,” Jethro said thoughtfully, after a bit. “I’m worried -about Folly Corner. Something’s wanting. The food’s all right----” - -“Now, the food isn’t right,” she put in briskly. “Plenty of it--yes. -But the serving! Who ever heard of a meat pudding brought to table in -its basin! Fancy cheese on the breakfast-table! White sugar should be -grated over the tarts and--oh, many things. Some of them I couldn’t -mention to you: it wouldn’t be nice.” - -She was thinking of a thrifty trick of Gainah’s: the unhatched eggs -found in a hen that had been killed were used for cakes. She thought it -perfectly horrid, and her town squeamishness made her feel that there -was a certain indelicacy involved in the proceeding. At all events she -couldn’t mention such a thing to Jethro. - -“And the other day,” she continued, broodingly, “a pig was killed. -Gainah was in the kitchen all day. She made me go out, too. The things -they did with that pig! The savory horrors she turned out!” - -Jethro gave a great jolly laugh. - -“Chitterling and fagots and scraps,” he cried. “I like them. You are -not a farmer’s wife--yet. Gainah is a splendid housekeeper. It isn’t -the housekeeping. It is the--the--difference. You know what I mean. -Flowers in the vases; the dinner-table dainty, not solid. Foolish -things--but they make a difference.” - -“They are important things. They certainly make a difference--all the -difference. You’ve been dominated too long by that old woman. The place -has the wrong tone. Do you understand what I mean? It looks a farmer’s -house. It ought to look a gentleman’s.” - -“But I _am_ a farmer--and proud of it.” - -“Of course. It is the fashion to farm nowadays. It is quite genteel -if--if you lose money over it.” - -He seemed puzzled at her pert extravagance, and said stolidly that he -was glad that his farming paid--every Jayne was a good farmer; it was -in the blood. - -“Well,” said Pamela, with a shrug and a droll smile, “you can get the -effect anyhow. We must put up with prosperity. There are many things -I’ll do, if you’ll let me. The housemaid must wear a cap with lappets -in the afternoons. She should wait at table, and bring your newspaper -in on a tray; letters, too, when there are any. I’ll train her. Of -course, Gainah does not know how; she will be grateful to me for hints. -You are very slow down here in Sussex. Did I tell you that I lived for -six months in a boarding-house?” There was the faintest quiver of her -heavy lids. “I carved and kept accounts. Things were done very well -there. I have moved about the world and kept my eyes open.” - -While she was making this smug little speech Jethro looked at her with -satisfaction. She was a woman of wit, of knowledge. Her glib tongue was -refreshing and piquant after the demure monosyllables and faint -opinions--always watered by Mamma--of the Liddleshorn damsels. - -They were smoothly clattering down the High Street. - -“Furniture.” Pamela pointed to the upholsterer’s. “There should be oak -in the dining-room.” - -“There is oak at Folly Corner.” - -“Is that oak?” She opened her big eyes and arched her faint dun brows. -“Then it is different. We had a beautiful carved dinner-wagon at the -boarding-house.” - -“It was my father’s grandfather’s furniture, and his grandfather’s -before him,” Jethro said conservatively. - -Pamela ran on: - -“And cushions. There should be lots of cushions with frills.” She threw -a longing glance at the draper’s. - -Jethro looked too. One window was full of down cushions--big, square, -and with frills deeper than the cushions themselves. - -“They would look lovely on the settle,” Pamela said gloatingly. - -Every woman has her pet weakness. Hers had always been _carte blanche_ -at the Oriental shop. There was a spatter of Oriental fripperies in a -side window at the Liddleshorn draper’s; it was an up-to-date shop. - -“And embroidered mats,” she added, “and big bowls to stand flower-pots -in; and those green specimen glasses for the table; and a bit or two of -that Benares brass; and--it’s really a very good assortment--one of -those guitars to hang on the wall with ribbons. You should have -fretwork ornaments and some lacquered brackets, on which to stand -plates or little blue tear-bottles.” - -Jethro beckoned to a small boy on the curb, and threw him the reins. - -“We’ll go in,” he said, jumping down and holding out his hand to -Pamela. - -“I must get some gloves first of all,” she said, as her foot touched -the pavement. - -When she had bought them, she led Jethro captive through the Oriental -department. He told her carelessly to buy what she chose, and she moved -eagerly from one counter to another. She chose some gaudy rugs to toss -about the oak floors. She bought brass bowls and trays, a few grotesque -ornaments for the shelves, mats, a guitar, a Chinese woman’s shoe, a -mandarin’s petticoat to throw over an armchair, a bundle of peacock’s -feathers, a few bits of coarsely-printed china, various embroidered -table-covers--all the vividly-colored, alluring rubbish that she -fancied. - -They had it packed up and stowed in the dogcart. She carried the china -gingerly on her knee for fear of breakage. Her eyes danced. After years -of poverty, this careless throwing away of money was delightful. - -When they reached home she made Daborn take everything out and carry it -into the dining-room--the dining-parlor, as Gainah persisted in calling -it. There was a strong smell of raw onion from the kitchen; it was -being packed away in wide-mouthed bottles, with alternate slices of -beet and a savory bath of spiced vinegar. Gainah came in, her hands -dyed with onion juice. - -Pamela was excitedly unswathing her treasures from yards of tissue -paper. - -“We’ve bought a few things,” she said pleasantly. “Sit down and look -at them. That is an Indian god.” She held out an abominable brown -figure. “Jethro was saying that the place wanted improving--bringing up -to date. Of course, you never hear of the newest things down here. How -should you? I got these cushions for the settle, and this--isn’t the -embroidery lovely?--for the piano. A piano should never have its back -against the wall. It is an ugly piece of furniture; its form is all -against it. I told Jethro that there should have been a grand in that -big room. That is the only endurable form of piano.” - -She was chattering the artistic jargon of a belated æsthete who had -boarded at the house in Bloomsbury. Gainah hardly seemed to hear her. -She had toppled down into one of the high-backed, rush-seated chairs, -and was nervously moving her stained hands on her lap. - -“Don’t you like these rugs?” Pamela cut the string with one of the -heavy buck-handled knives which was on the dinner-table. “They are to -be thrown down in odd corners--anywhere. You can’t have too much color -in a room. I must go and take my hat off.” She glanced at the waiting -dinner-table and stacked her purchases carefully on the horsehair sofa. -“I’ll arrange everything this afternoon. By tea-time you will hardly -recognize the place. Cousin Jethro is so kind; he says that if I -haven’t thought of everything he will drive me into Liddleshorn again -to-morrow. These green glasses are for flowers. I must arrange them -every day for dinner in schemes of color. There! That is one thing I -forgot--an embroidered centerpiece. And we might have candle-shades, -too. Those candlesticks,” she glanced at some heavy ones of Sheffield -plate on the oak sideboard, “are the rage in London just now.” - -She ran out of the room. Gainah did not stir from her chair by the -yawning hearth on which the first fire of the season smoldered. She -gazed fixedly in her vacant way at the trash on the sofa. Only one -thing that Pamela had said worked in her slow brain: “Jethro was saying -that the place wanted improving.” - -She looked at the gaudy plates and jars; then thought of the delicate -family china which was locked away in the little closet leading out of -the keeping-room. She looked at the red and yellow brackets, the -ornaments, and then looked round at the distempered walls, against -which stood the beautiful golden oak, every piece of which she had -tended as if it were a child. Every week she had rubbed that oak with -beeswax and turpentine. Every week she had washed the china bowls and -figures on the shelf. Every week for more than thirty years! She knew -now that the landmarks of those years were going to be swept away. Her -face grew harsh and vindictive--the face of a worn old panther--worn, -old, feeble, but still with claws. Pamela, who meant everything in the -kindest spirit possible, and who never doubted that her efforts would -be received with gratitude, was breeding tragedy. Gainah, in the -upright chair, her mournful eyes roving sluggishly round the -ancestral furniture that she loved, was working up to a climax. - -Why should this girl--this pert jade, this strange cousin on the -mother’s side--ruin the lives of her elders? Why should she sneer at -rustic customs which were old enough to be as sacred as the Bible? - -Gainah’s mental attitude changed from injury to rebellion. She began to -ask herself stupidly, with an agonized questioning of her slow brain, -if Pamela could not be got rid of, banished from Folly Corner. How -should she lift from the farm the shadow thrown across it? She only -wanted to serve her master in her old faithful way, according to her -own lights. She had brought him up from his birth. She almost believed -that she was his mother. She had even chosen his wife for him. Nancy -Turle wouldn’t have taken the housekeeping keys. She clutched at them -as they weighed down her apron pocket. Pamela should never take them -either. Nancy Turle would never have spent money like water at -Liddleshorn. She glowered at the brightly colored stuffs and crockery. - -Only to go on serving him until the end. Wasn’t that a simple thing to -ask? Just to be allowed to save and screw, to manage the farmhouse and -to manage him in her hectoring way, which was all tenderness and -devotion at bottom. She got up, turned her back on the new purchases, -and ran her hand along the heavy sideboard lovingly, as if it were -alive. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -WHEN the purchases from the Oriental department were finally arranged, -Pamela retreated to the door of the keeping-room--the drawing-room as -she had privately determined to call it--and shut her eyes; then, -opening them quickly and glancing comprehensively round, she tried to -imagine what the effect of the room would be on a stranger. The round -walnut table was pushed into a corner and covered with a red and yellow -cloth, on which storks were painted. The piano cut across a corner, and -had its back draped. The brackets were fixed on the wall and upheld -Kaga plates. The mandarin’s petticoat, that had cost a great deal, -nearly covered the green chair, and the green sofa was piled with -cushions. The gaudy rugs did their best to cover up the bunches of pink -Provence roses on the carpet. - -Things really made a very good show. The place looked almost civilized. -These were her complacent thoughts as she stood at the door with her -head on one side. Instinctively she went upstairs and put on her best -gown, and arranged her hair in the elaborate way which she reserved for -special occasions. When she came downstairs she shut her eyes again, -then opened them spasmodically. Yes, it would do. - -She felt quite excited. Anyone could see that the hand of a person of -taste had touched everything. - -A feeling of towns came over her. She looked through the diamond panes -of the long window as if she expected to see hansoms bowling along the -road. Then she sighed and glanced in the mirror again. What was the -good of dressing one’s hair and wearing one’s best gown? Nobody would -call. - -Gainah was still in the kitchen. She could hear her grating voice and -slow step. Jethro was tramping over the stubble, his Irish terrier, -Rob, at his heels. She put her softly-puffed head out of the bay window -and called out pleadingly: - -“Oh! do come in and look.” - -He came across the field--came tolerantly, leisurely, as if he were -good-humoredly indulging the whim of a child. When he opened the door -he seemed too heavy for the transformed room, with its elegant tags of -foreign frippery. He seemed to put it to shame; he brought an -intangible, sterling feeling with him. Pamela, without knowing why, -felt a little less satisfied. - -“Do you like it?” she asked nervously. - -He dropped into the green chair, his broad hands gripped round the -petticoat, and looked about him with amusement. - -“Everything’s crooked,” he said lazily, at last, his mouth drolly -curved and his eyes merry. They were such keen, outdoor eyes; they -seemed to pierce through shams. She was afraid that he saw the pins in -the piano back. She had been obliged to join two lengths of silk -together, and had been too eager to stay and sew it. - -“Yes, everything is crooked; that is one of the fundamental rules -of modern decoration,” she told him flippantly. “Piano across one -corner, table across the other; nothing stiff, nothing solid.” - -“Umph!” - -He was not impressed. He was certainly laughing at the single -knickerbocker of silk into which she had stuck a pot of late musk. - -“You’ve blocked the door of the china closet with that jar of -feathers.” - -“The china closet! How delightful. It never occurred to me to ask what -was beyond that door.” She tried the handle, then asked him for the -key. - -“Gainah has it.” - -“I’ll get her to give it me.” - -She dashed out into the corridor and met the housekeeper midway. - -“I was coming to look for you,” she said, with her unfailing good -temper and self-satisfaction. “I want your opinion on the drawing-room. -There! Isn’t that pretty? Cousin Jethro doesn’t care a bit; but, then, -men are no good at decoration. - -“And I want you to give me the key of the china closet,” she added. - -A queer flush stole over Gainah’s cheeks, and her distorted hand went -involuntarily to her apron pocket, and her cold eyes sought Jethro’s -beseechingly. Pamela had her palm outspread. - -“Yes, we’ll have a look in the closet,” Jethro said easily. “Don’t know -when I went in last. There is a lot of stuff that was my mother’s and -your aunt’s.” As he put in this touch, he glanced meaningly at Gainah, -with the half-timid assertion of a big, kindly man who has been -subjugated by a mean woman. - -He wanted her to remember, without troubling him to hurt her by putting -it into words, that Pamela was one of the family, and had a close -interest in the family crockery. - -“The closet is only opened once a year, when we clean in spring,” -Gainah said grudgingly. “I don’t want strange fingers handling the -china.” - -But she opened the door. Pamela, quite as a matter of course, took the -key off the ring and slipped it into her own pocket. - -“It is a mistake to hide old china. The room won’t want locking again,” -she said, gliding over the bare, dusty floor. “What a lovely -collection! I wish I had known, then I need not have wasted money on -Kaga. Anyone can buy that for so much three farthings--farthings play a -most important part in modern decorations, Cousin Jethro.” - -She dimpled round at his puzzled face, and threw a conciliatory glance -at Gainah, who had taken up a canary-colored jug with uneven black -lettering straggling round its bulging middle. They were all three in -the tiny room, lighted by one high window, across which the foamy white -rose crept. - -“May I look?” Pamela took the canary jug. - - “‘Long may we leve. - Happy may we be, - Blest with content, - And from misfortin’ free.’ - -“Most delightful sentiments, and equally delightful spelling,” she -commented lightly, while Jethro watched her with a growing admiration, -and the cold light slanted through the window on Gainah’s worn, -malevolent face. - -“What blue bowls and dishes! What luster! I think they call that -coppery stuff luster.” - -“My mother’s best tea set.” Jethro took up a tiny handleless cup with -purplish-pink trails of flowers painted on it. - -“Lowestoft, I think.” Pamela cocked her head on one side. “But I know -nothing of china. Therefore I admire it all--that is a very safe rule -in art. Now you and Gainah must run away.” She made a feint of pushing -him toward the door. “I’m going to be busier than ever. All this must -be arranged to the best advantage. Then the door will be left open, and -when next we go to Liddleshorn you must buy a portière.” - -She jumped upon a chair, and lifted bowls and dishes from the top -shelf, making a running comment as she did so. - -“I wish I knew printed from painted. This dish is either very valuable -or utterly worthless; some things are just on the borderland. You two -must really go away.” She put out one hand deprecatingly. “There ought -to be some tin tacks, or a ledge, in front of the shelves, so that the -plates could stand up.” - -Gainah looked at her, a brilliant, dainty, voluble creature, high up on -a mahogany chair whose back was carved in wheat-ears. She had all the -color and pertness of a bullfinch. She looked at her, this dangerous -republican; looked at white fingers carelessly handling china which -for over thirty years only her own hands had touched. She had grown to -believe that it was hers, that Jethro himself was hers, and the farm -too, with its fat acres and its ripe family tradition. She had been -undisputed queen at Folly Corner the best part of her life. All the -family connections, when they paid Jethro a rare visit, had deferred to -her. Yet not one of them knew the truth--that Jethro’s father had -almost married her. - -She thought of that as she watched Pamela standing radiant on the -chair. A horrible pang for the muddles, incomplete past, and a still -more set feeling of bitterest, merciless revenge contracted her heart. -She turned away without a word, leaving the cousins in the china -closet. She sat herself down in the ruins of her temple, and looked -blankly at the devastation wrought by Pamela’s active fingers in two -short hours. - -She knew for whom this room had been refurnished more than thirty years -before. Not for Jethro’s mother. She, after the fashion of frugal first -wives, had saved and gone short of household elaborations. The room had -been furnished for _her_. She, Gainah Toat, had been the elder Jethro’s -second fancy. She had been a good-looking woman well within thirty in -those days; while he had been nearer sixty, having married a -middle-aged cousin--of the plain variety of women, warranted to wear -well--when he was fifty or more. But she, Gainah, had inspired him with -positive passion. Bah! She knew what a man’s passion was, and how far -it led him. She knew that it made even a miser like the elder Jethro -dip deeply into his pocket. - -She remembered driving with him into Liddleshorn, just as Pamela had -to-day driven in with his son, and choosing the flowery carpet, the -round table, the piano--on which she could never hope to play a note. -Neighbors had condoled with her on the prospect of a new wife at Folly -Corner. She had said nothing, by his wish--he was a taciturn man. But -she remembered the flutter of triumph which had worked behind her dry -lips all the time. She knew that _she_ was to be the bride of whom they -gossiped and about whose appearance they speculated. - -What might have been! He had been dead more than thirty years, and she -had dutifully kept the secret of his weakness. Not even Jethro knew -that there had been love passages, of a fairly practical sort--on one -side at least--between Gainah and his father. Her courting scenes had -been seasoned with matter-of-fact reference to the crops or the -prospects of early ducklings. She had always been grim and unbending. - -What might have been! If only the master of Folly Corner had not been -pitched out of the high gig. His head had cracked on a heap of big -stones by the road, piled high all ready for autumn breaking. - -She remembered so well the day they brought him home. It was on a -Monday, and she had, for once, managed to cut her nails without -thinking of a fox’s tail--sure sign of a present. - -That was the present they brought her--the dying body of the -substantial man, who loved her in his common-sense way, who would have -redeemed her from service. - -She remembered the day of the funeral. It was a cold day. The bereft -house had seemed to rock and moan with every wail of the agonized wind -outside. The front door, through which they carried the long, wide -coffin, was flung widely back by her orders until the burial service -had been read at the church. If that had not been done there would have -been another death within the year. Bitterly as she had been -disappointed and foiled, she did not want to die. Neither did she want -baby Jethro to die; she loved him a great deal better than she had -loved his father--there was no ulterior motive mixed up with her regard -for the child. - -The farmer had not even made a will in her favor. He had not left her -one penny. She stayed on as paid housekeeper, the conclave of relatives -deciding that it would be best. Mrs. Turle, the dead man’s sister, paid -her quarterly. She stayed on. She managed the farm until Jethro grew -up. She managed Jethro--had never left off managing him. She was a -masterful woman. - -And now she was to be put aside, like the pair of china figures which -had lost an arm apiece, and which stared at each other hopelessly on -their dim attic shelf. - -Jethro came out from the closet, looking handsome and happy. Pamela, -still on the chair, was softly humming a gay little air. - -Gainah struggled up from the sofa. She looked at Jethro. She moved her -dry pale lips, and moved her oddly-dressed brown head too. She wanted -to speak to him--to implore, to insist. But the words strangled in -her throat at the sight of his exultant face and shining eyes. - -It was useless for age to pit itself against youth. Her time was past. -She knew, although it was gall to admit it, that the girl she hated had -Nature on her side. All her comparisons were drawn from Nature; her -untiring energy of pickle and preserve making had gone hand-in-hand -with Nature. - -Didn’t the old potatoes rot off to make room for the new? Wasn’t it -natural? - -Her feet moved slowly over the carpet. It had been her choice nearly -thirty-five years before. But it was hardly worn; they rarely used the -keeping-room. - -She went into the garden. She looked at the brown stalks of the -summer’s annuals in her borders. They were dead, dry--only fit for the -waste-heap. Yet their young seedlings were green and vigorous. It was -all so simple, so natural. Yet--yet! She was far too practical, too -mentally sluggish, to put the half-formed thought into clear shape. -They were only fit for the waste-heap--but did they want to go there? -Wasn’t there some dumb, desperate struggle against extinction going on -between those brown, sadly swaying stalks? - -Then she saw a wagonette pull up at the white gate, saw a head of rich -red hair between the poplars, and hurried indoors to put on her black -silk gown. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -PAMELA saw the wagonette, too, as she perched on the chair, her head -level with the high window. She was so surprised and fluttered that the -Oriental bowl she was lifting down nearly dropped from her fingers. She -called through the open door to Jethro: - -“Here’s a carriage at the gate. Inside, an elderly lady and a girl with -red hair. They are coming up the path.” - -“Aunt Sophy--Mrs. Turle, of Turle House--and Nancy.” - -“They have come to call on me.” - -She gave a soft breath of satisfaction as she jumped from the chair; -her best gown, her waved hair, were justified. She had only just time -to add, “What a pity I hadn’t finished the china closet!” before they -were announced, in rustic, familiar fashion, by the red-armed -housemaid, who hadn’t yet changed her cotton gown for her afternoon -stuff one. - -Mrs. Turle was a big woman with a stately carriage. Nancy was slim, and -either shy or stupid. She had a very white skin--the Turle skin, as -Jethro had said. Whenever she spoke or was spoken to, a silly pink -flooded her face. Her dress was precise and perfect in detail; the -very best that the best shop in Liddleshorn could supply. Mrs. Turle, -too, wore a stiff silk, and the set of golden sable which had been part -of her wedding outfit, and was only just beginning to look damaged by -moth. This was evidently a state call. Pamela saw her look swiftly -round the room, as she threw back her net veil with the deep hem. - -Jethro, after a few awkward words--he never excelled in the presence of -women--went back to his stubble and his dog. Pamela was left alone with -these two--evidently bent on criticism--who might or might not be of -her blood. Mrs. Turle said, looking at her steadfastly: - -“My dear, you are like Jethro’s mother. She died when he was born, you -know. Always weak here.” She laid her plump hand on the sable that -crossed her ample bosom. “I hope your chest is not weak. You don’t look -very strong.” - -“I am quite strong, thank you,” the new cousin returned rather -awkwardly, conscious that Nancy was trying to puzzle out the -construction of her _coiffure_. - -“You may think so”--Mrs. Turle dealt out the sweet, maternal smile for -which she was famous,--“but one can never be sure of one’s own -constitution. I must send you down a large bottle of the cough syrup I -make for Nancy every autumn.” - -She kept looking round the room. Pamela felt sure that she resented -everything--the tablecloth with storks, the winking brass bowls, the -very petticoat, which her portly shoulders crushed. - -“I should have called before,” she continued apologetically, “but I -couldn’t have the horse. We only keep one since Mr. Turle died, and my -man, Evergreen, like all old servants, must be indulged. He doesn’t -care to drive in bad weather, and we have had so many mists lately. -Besides”--there was a tinge of reproach in her purring voice--“I hadn’t -seen you at church. I didn’t know if you were ready for callers.” - -“Church! Oh, I haven’t been yet. It seemed such a pity to waste half a -beautiful day indoors,” said Pamela innocently. She saw timid Nancy -glance at her mother and smile. They were very tepid people. She -already felt as if little cascades of lukewarm water played on her. - -“In London,” she added, in extenuation, “so few people go to church.” - -Mrs. Turle looked grave. - -“I must say,” she said softly--and Pamela soon learnt that “I must say” -was her favorite formula--“that people in towns are very lax. You can’t -bring up a large family--I’ve had fifteen--without method. When my -children were little they went to church twice on Sunday--what else -could you do with boys? They would only loaf about. Next Sunday, dear, -Nancy and I will call for you. We always drive.” - -“Thank you very much.” - -“And you have always lived in London? Your mother and father are dead, -so Jethro told us. I knew your father. He was a very handsome young -man. I must say,” her scintillating eyes were full on the girl’s face, -“that I should never have known you for his daughter. There is no -resemblance; poor John had such regular features.” - -Pamela looked a little awkward. Nancy said kindly in her weak, sweet -voice, and with her languishing smile: - -“Do you ride a bicycle?” - -“No. I--I’ve never had the chance.” - -“Oh! you must get one. Mustn’t she, mamma? It is such fun. In the -summer we have picnics, and in the winter paper chases.” - -“That would be nice.” - -The cascades of tepid water were growing in volume. She was new to this -class of caller. Her London experience was pretty large; she had -knocked about in her search for bread. She knew the art jargon of -Hampstead, the conscientious struggle for intellect and high purpose -which distinguishes the prosperous quarter of Bloomsbury. She could -talk shops with a feather-headed woman, babies, even, with a bovine -one, or the divine duties of sex with the serious. But with these -people there was no give-and-take, no merry tossing with the ball, no -brightening of the wits. - -“And I suppose you were living with some other relations in London?” - -“No,” she said curtly, “I was working for my living. Jethro is my only -relation.” - -“We are all kin, are we not, mamma?” - -“Of course. So you had a career, dear? Yes. Art? So many girls go in -for that. Nancy attended the Liddleshorn school for a time. But I -don’t think the influence is good for a young woman. I must say that -drawing from a model is not _my_ idea of delicacy.” - -“Never from the nude, mamma.” - -“Oh! never from the nude, of course. Unless it was a foot. I think you -drew from a foot once, Nancy, love.” - -“Oh, yes, mamma; but the model only came once. She hadn’t understood -that she must take her stockings off.” - -Pamela was yawning. “I haven’t studied art,” she said curtly. - -“Literature? A great many girls go in for that. We had an author at -Mere Cottage. A most extraordinary person. He put a Latin text over his -door. What was it, Nancy?” - -“_Parva domus magna quies_, mamma.” - -“Yes, something like that. I’m not quite sure that your Latin is right. -But Egbert would know. He is my son at Cambridge.” - -“The people were so puzzled,” said Nancy. “Old Mrs. Chalcraft declared -it meant knock and ring. But one of the other old women said it was a -spell to keep witches away.” - -“It was a stupid thing to put,” Mrs. Turle broke in with impatience. -“‘A little house for great quiet.’ That is how my son translated it--my -youngest son at Cambridge. That is absurd, of course; little houses -never _are_ quiet.” - -“But he meant, mamma, that he didn’t want people to call.” - -“Then he need not have troubled to put such a sentence over his door, -dear. Old Timms, who is a painter by trade, was half afraid to do it.” - -“His wife made him give up the job when he got to _magna_, mamma. Some -of the old people are so superstitious. She was afraid he might be -signing some compact about his soul with the devil.” - -Pamela laughed. The conversation was waking up, she thought, but Mrs. -Turle looked grave. - -“It was in very bad taste,” she said, “and he need not have troubled. -No one meant to call on such people.” - -“And was it literature, dear?” she continued, more genially. “We are -quite literary down here.” She laughed pleasantly, as if introducing -Pamela to a congenial atmosphere. “What is the name of that person at -the new house on the Liddleshorn Road, Nancy? She keeps a poultry farm -and takes in type-writing.” - -“Samuels, mamma.” - -“Yes, Mrs. Samuels. And there is Mrs. Clutton at the Buttery. Her -husband is a journalist--so she says.” - -The last three words were spoken impressively. Pamela immediately -divined that Mrs. Clutton, of the Buttery, was not a local favorite. - -“Nancy has a great taste for literature,” Mrs. Turle continued, with a -fond glance at her daughter, who immediately blushed. “I think that if -there had ever been any question of her going out into the world she -would have chosen literature.” - -“Only I can never think of a subject,” Nancy said pathetically. “If -only I could think of a subject and get somebody else to begin!” - -“We subscribe to Smith’s,” Mrs. Turle said, smiling sweetly. “We like -to keep abreast with the times. Nancy goes in for serious subjects; she -is halfway through Ruskin’s----” - -“Huxley’s, mamma.” - -“There is very little difference, dear. But I confine myself to current -fiction. I’m just reading Kingsley’s ‘Westward Ho!’” - -“I’m not at all literary,” said Pamela. “I was governess for a time. -Then I was a companion. And--and I managed a boarding-house.” - -“Really! Then you understand housekeeping. That will be a help to -Gainah, who is growing old. Ah! here she is. I suppose you have made -your elderberry wine, Gainah? I only got a cask and a half this year.” - -Pamela opened her gray eyes when Mrs. Turle of Turle affectionately -greeted the housekeeper. She was astounded to see Gainah, in her black -silk, and with a worn gold chain round her scraggy neck, sit down with -the easy air of an equal on the sofa. She couldn’t understand her -position. She derided the idea of her importance--an ignorant old woman -who was always cooking. Gainah in her eyes was a servant--nothing more. -But in local opinion she was entitled to much deference. The laborers -regarded her as even more important than “young Jethro,” who was only a -stripling. - -Nancy took Pamela’s hand. - -“Come out in the garden,” she said. “I so love a garden. Do you?” - -“I don’t know anything about it,” said Pamela, as they strolled about -in the sun, and the other girl made little gurgling comments. - -“How sweet those stocks are! What a show of asters! Ours were a -failure. Evergreen doesn’t care for asters. He likes carpet-bedding and -I bought him a half-crown packet of petunia seed; so I did hope he -would succeed with the asters. You must get Jethro to build you a -little greenhouse. I could give you plenty of geranium cuttings next -spring. It is a little late to take them now. I think it is a little -late; but I must ask Evergreen. You should have a bicycle.” She was -evidently anxious to be friendly. “Would you like to join our Shakspere -class? It is quite proper, you know.” - -“Perhaps,” said Pamela vaguely. - -Directly she heard the tea bell she hastened her steps almost rudely. -She was determined that Gainah should not take the head of the table, -and she managed to slip on to the oak stool behind the urn just as the -two elder women came along the corridor. - -Gainah sat down at the side, shaking her hands and vibrating her head -with anger. But Mrs. Turle smiled approval. - -“You must find a young lady in the house a great help,” she said -innocently, as she sat down, spreading her thick silk skirt flat -beneath her. “Nancy always pours out for me.” - -Pamela was sulky. She hated what she called a “sit-down” tea. Tea was -not a meal; it was an interlude, a good way of helping out an idle -afternoon. - -Jethro on the high stool at the end was hospitably carving a ham. The -smiling housemaid kept coming with fresh plates of toasted tea-cake, -preserve, or buns. - -“You must give me the recipe for these rice cakes,” Mrs. Turle said. - -“Two cups of rice flour,” returned Gainah solemnly. - -“You beat your butter to a cream, of course?” - -“Yes. Two eggs.” - -“That is very economical. We have hardly any eggs. The hens are all -getting broody again, and I must say an October brood is not worth -hatching. I wish Evergreen would let me have a non-setting breed.” - -“Nothing better than Leghorns,” said Jethro. - -“Tch!” interrupted Gainah, with her air of absolutism, “Langshans are -better.” - -“But they are not nice table birds.” Mrs. Turle smiled on them both and -took another cake. “Now, I must say I like the Plymouth Rock--only its -legs are yellow.” - -Pamela, with the superior air of a being on a higher plane, poured out -her newly-found aunt a third cup of tea. - -The talk went on. She heard Gainah and Mrs. Turle talk of wine-making, -cider-making, apple-storing. - -“Our Blenheims,” Gainah complained, “have all gone a-bitel.” - -“They will go mildewed some years. I don’t know why,” returned Mrs. -Turle sympathetically; “ours have kept beautifully so far. I’ll ask -Evergreen if we can spare you some.” - -It was a very long meal. The dying sun straggled round the house and -filled the dull room with yellow light. Through the latticed window -they could see the mist rising like a huge bridal wreath from the wet -grass. Mrs. Turle got up hurriedly when the housemaid came in to say -that her carriage had come round. - -“You must spend a long afternoon with us soon,” she said, kissing -Pamela. “What are we doing on Wednesday, Nancy?” - -“It’s the Shakspere class, mamma.” - -“Of course. Pamela must join the Shakspere class. Mrs. McAlpine, my -dear, who started it, is extremely clever--she reads German novels in -the original. And she is very particular--they only read the _nice_ -parts of the plays. I inquired into that when Nancy joined. For -although one admires and loves dear Shakspere, I must say one is never -sure of him. It seems such a pity. Are we free on Thursday, Nancy?” - -“I usually go round with the _Parish Magazines_, mamma--it is the third -Thursday in the month.” - -“So it is. And Friday is unlucky. I don’t believe in such nonsense, of -course, but it is as well not to run unnecessary risk. And Saturday, -that is no day at all.” - -“I usually give out stores on Saturday, mamma.” - -“Then we’ll say Monday. No, Tuesday--that will give us time to make a -cake. I must ask some more of your relations to meet you, dear. And, -Nancy, we must be careful with the cake; Maria’s are always so -excellent, and she is so critical. And now run out, dear, and tell -Evergreen I’ll come in a moment. I’m afraid he won’t like being kept in -the mist.” - - -On Tuesday Jethro, who was driving into Liddleshorn, dropped Pamela at -Turle. She stood and watched him out of sight, admiring the smartly -turned-out trap and his broad back in the light covert coat. Then she -went, with lagging feet, up the drive. - -Turle was an old house which had been improved into an appearance of -juvenility. Mr. Turle bought it when he retired with a comfortable -fortune from the milling--a comfortable fortune, and a determination on -the part of his wife--to end his days as a gentleman. He spent so much -money that people forgot that he had been a miller. When he died his -widow was actually on the skirts of small gentrydom. She was a -diplomatic woman, and managed to steer fairly clear of family -connections who were still in superior family trade. She drove her -social four-in-hand skillfully, and kept several distinct sets in -perfect balance, smiling on them all with the same motherly, expansive -sweetness, yet never offending the aristocratic susceptibilities of -Mrs. Sugden, the Paper King’s wife, who called on her twice a year, -nor hurting the feelings of the Jeremy Crisp girls, whose father still -carried on the family grocer’s business in Liddleshorn. - -Pamela liked Turle. The farm-buildings were hidden, the surrounding -meadows had been knocked into a miniature park and planted with trees. -They were young trees, but everything must have a beginning. - -When she was announced she saw that the big drawing-room was full of -strange women. She looked hurriedly from one face to another, finding -family characteristics everywhere. Mrs. Turle kissed her. - -“You don’t look quite up to the mark,” she said affectionately. “A -touch of bile?” - -She was introduced to all of them; handed over from one to another, -like a bale of samples. They had been engrossed at her entrance over a -big box of fancy work. One of the Jeremy Crisp girls--who was only a -girl by courtesy--went into elderly raptures over a woolwork jacket, -which looked a capital fit for an organ-grinder’s monkey, and was -intended for a baby. - -“The box comes round to us once a quarter,” Mrs. Turle explained. “It -goes round to all members. Every member works something, prices it, -puts it in the box, and sends it on to another member. If we see -anything we like we buy it.” - -Pamela was beginning to find out that her new cousins and aunts were -tremendously busy women--over nothing at all; that they had a frenzy -for belonging to classes and societies; that they took themselves and -their efforts very seriously. - -The cheerful coal fire winked on the foolish satisfied faces with their -ridiculous monotony of outline and color. A crunching on the gravel -made everybody glance out of the window. Mrs. Turle seemed a little -frightened and annoyed. She looked deprecatingly at Cousin Maria -Furlonger, from the “Warren,” who was so very exclusive, who moved in -such a good set, and habitually went up to help Mrs. Sugden when she -gave a charitable entertainment. - -“It’s Mrs. Clutton, my dear. You didn’t want to meet her, did you?” - -“Oh, never mind, Aunt Sophy. I needn’t know her if I meet her again.” - -“I wish she wouldn’t drop in so unceremoniously,” poor Mrs. Turle said -in a hurried whisper. “Mrs. Sugden was here the other day. She begged -me to let her out of the back door because Mrs. Clutton was coming in -at the front. Of course a woman in her position couldn’t possibly meet -anybody like that. - -“My dear,” she swept her ample skirts across the room, “this is a -pleasure. Nancy and I were wondering what had happened to you. We’ve -seen nothing of you for at least three days. You’re a little pale. The -weather is trying, and makes one look so fagged and worn.” - -It was a trick of Aunt Sophy’s to compassionate everyone and comment on -the fragility of their appearance. Pamela, when she grew to know -her better, was never sure whether it was a feline trick or a -sympathetic one. - -The new-comer was dark and lean. She was a young woman, whose face -looked as if it had weathered storms. She was carelessly dressed in -perfectly cut clothes, rather worn. She carried a damp, loosely-tied -parcel, which she handed to Nancy. - -“Here are your pinks and white phloxes. Put the roots in soon.” - -“If Evergreen has time to-morrow----” - -“Don’t wait for him; he’ll kill them. Gardeners have a knack of -sticking their spades through the things they dislike. Do it yourself. -I am so glad I can’t afford a gardener--to give me a plant for the -table when he chooses.” Her eye fell on a melancholy petunia. - -“Have you been to any more sales, dear?” asked Mrs. Turle. “Have you -added to your interesting collection of nice old things?” - -“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Clutton’s voice became enthusiastic. “I went to such a -delightful sale at Carrsland. I bought a little oak table. A dealer ran -it up to thirty shillings--the wretch! He passed me on the road! I was -walking, as usual; he was cycling. I instantly smelt him out as a -dealer, and I was half inclined to tip him off the bicycle with the -point of my umbrella, gag him, bind him to a tree until the sale was -over. I wish I had; it would have been so deliciously simple.” - -There was an awkward silence; then Nancy said, in her gently gushing -way: - -“I wish you’d ride a bicycle. It’s such fun.” - -Maria Furlonger, of the “Warren,” added politely: - -“Yes. You should ride; it’s so good for the brain; and I’ve heard you -write--or something of the sort.” - -“Bicycling’s very bad for one’s logic; you can’t imagine a logician on -a bicycle. I don’t write; my husband does.” - -Mrs. Turle, anxious for perfect harmony, and knowing--also sharing--the -local skepticism regarding Mrs. Clutton’s husband, put in blandly: - -“Mr. Clutton is a journalist. He has gone for a tour round the world.” - -“Oh!” - -Maria Furlonger’s wide smile full in Mrs. Clutton’s face was a little -dangerous. - -Mrs. Turle added quite irrelevantly: - -“Poor Mrs. Peter Hone has another baby. That’s twelve.” - -“Sympathy is wasted on the poorer classes,” Mrs. Clutton put in, with -her calm, dogmatic air. “You pet them too much. Once it was lap-dogs; -now it’s paupers. Any old dame with a clean apron and a courtesy, any -old man with his trousers tied round the calf and his chin like -stubble, can take you in. Merely a question of livery! Now, it is the -man in the top hat who wants petting--the man who is at his wits’ end -to keep up his insurance payments.” - -The tea bell rang. They all filed solemnly into the dining-room. - -Maria Furlonger, who was rather taken with Pamela’s silence, which, of -course, meant modesty, began to tell her graciously about the old Manor -House at Carrsland, where her father, Jethro’s mother’s brother, had -been born. - -“It’s a very old place. There is a moat all round. It has been filled -up.” - -“I am so glad it has been filled,” cried another cousin. “It was so -awkward, so dangerous. You see”--addressing herself to Pamela--“it was -just under the drawing-room window, and a lady might so easily have -fallen out. What a terrible thing it would be for a lady to fall out of -her own drawing-room window--into a moat!” - -“When ladies have a tendency that way they should sign the pledge,” -said Mrs. Clutton tersely. - -Nancy, meeting her mother’s diplomatic eye, rushed into the breach: - -“Have you heard about the nice butcher boy?” - -“That boy at Churnside’s?” - -“Yes. He has stolen ten pounds. They have arrested him.” - -“Dishonesty on a small scale never pays,” said Mrs. Clutton. “Honesty -is really the best policy--now that we have such an excellent police -force.” - -She was putting on her gloves, and they looked at each other with -secret satisfaction. She seemed anxious to go. She looked as if the -double row of placid faces irritated her. Mrs. Turle and Nancy kissed -her. The former said: - -“Come in again soon; we see so little of you. And take a tonic, -dear--you’re really looking run down.” - -“What a vulgar person!” said Maria Furlonger, when the place was clear -of her. - -Annie Jayne--the Jaynes of the “Mount”--said: - -“She struck me as being a little weak--mentally. Dear mother used to -say that no properly-balanced woman should have opinions of her -own--outside the domestic circle.” - -“I must say that some of her remarks are in bad taste,” Mrs. Turle -admitted gently. It was her policy to offend nobody, to speak ill of -nobody; ill-natured remarks never helped your social ascent. - -“She’s quite incorrigible,” one of the Jeremy Crisps said. “Do you know -that she cut Mr. Meadows?” - -“She didn’t!” - -“She _did!_” - -“The clergyman of the parish! A rural dean!” - -“He called on her--merely a parochial call. He said that he liked to be -identified with all his parishioners--whatever their views. Could -anything be more broad, more generous?” - -“Well?” - -The Jeremy Crisp girl continued: - -“She actually laughed in his face, and said she had not any views; -didn’t he consider views narrow?” - -“She’s not a lady.” - -“That’s not all. He met her in the lane next day. He nodded most -affably; you know his rule: a nod to people who walk, a bow to those -who keep a carriage. It is a wise rule--it defines the classes so -well, which is absolutely necessary, or where should we be?” - -One or two superior cousins sneered at each other across the teacups. -The airs of these Jeremy Crisps! - -“_She cut him dead!_” - -“I spoke to her about _that_,” Mrs. Turle said gently. - -“Well! What did she say? Short sight? She wears glasses for effect, no -doubt.” - -“Those eye-glasses make one look so intelligent, they really do,” put -in a quiet cousin, who had scarcely spoken all the afternoon; “I -thought of getting some.” - -“She said that the men of her acquaintance might touch their hats or -raise them--which they choose. If none of us would put that -insufferable Mr. Meadows in his place, she must.” - -“You never should have called on her, Aunt Sophy.” - -“My dear Maria, she is a neighbor. And you never know how these queer -people from London may turn out. Sometimes they prove desirable. I -hesitated a long time, though, when I heard her husband was a -journalist: very often journalist means swindler.” - -“She looks to me like a woman who drinks,” Maria Furlonger said. “Drink -makes people talk at random; drink makes people forget their duty to -their superiors in the parish.” - -“Dear mother always said that a drunken woman was such a much more -painful sight than a drunken man,” Annie Jayne said. “Oh! I can’t -believe it of her, Maria. She was quite nice to Baby the other day.” - -Annie had her first baby, and thought of very little else besides. If -anyone admired Baby she concluded, in her simple, ardently maternal -way, that such admiration was a moral certificate. - -“Drink! Nonsense!” said Mrs. Turle, quite sharply for her. “I must say -she has very clever ideas. She told me the other day that she was -thinking of patenting an automatic arrangement for making cyclists -swallow their own dust--though it would never do for you, Nancy, with -your chest. Why, here is Jethro. I suppose he has come to take you -away, Pamela?” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -THE autumn rains set in early that year. Every night when Pamela fell -asleep in her bedstead with the fluted posts and hangings of chintz, -having a fearful pattern of black roses, she heard the murmuring rush -of rain down the pipes and into the soft-water tubs. Every morning she -was awakened by the swish of rain against the casement and the clatter -of the maidservant’s clogs on the stones in the yard. - -She spent long afternoons in the drawing-room staring dismally out at -the sodden fields and the hills beyond, which shed sad mist. She was -left very much to her own resources; her new relations rarely visited -in bad weather. - -She gave the house the benefit of her active brain, instituting all -sorts of changes which she honestly believed to be reforms. She flung a -modern, flimsy feeling of culture about the staid old place--a feeling -expressed by current magazines, superficial opinions, shallow daring. - -Jethro was pleased and invigorated by her reckless dogmatic opinions, -by her dainty domestic ways. He used to watch her graceful figure flit -from room to room, used to listen to her high young voice giving -peremptory orders. She fascinated him. She was always changing, and the -women to whom he had been accustomed all his life never changed. Each -one said and did exactly what her mother had said and done before her: -to be original was to break the fifth commandment. - -They sat round the great open hearth on wet, wild evenings. Gainah -would be sewing or painfully writing out recipes in a dirty copy-book. -Pamela generally had a catalogue of bulbs, a sheet of paper, and a -pencil. Nancy’s gushing, incapable enthusiasm, and Mrs. Clutton’s -practical knowledge of flower gardening had infected her. She already -knew them well enough for that. She was full of ideas for spring -bedding. - -“I must have a hundred early tulips,” she would say coaxingly. - -When Jethro, looking up from the local paper, returned indulgently, -“Order what you please,” she added the hundred tulips to her list with -the glee of a child. - -Gainah seldom said anything. She had always been a silent woman, and -Pamela’s whirling, modern influence had petrified her altogether. The -thin white lips hardly opened except to timidly rate the two maids, who -now tossed their heads at their former tyrant. She took Pamela’s -presence passively, never commenting on anything she did. But -sometimes, when the girl looked up suddenly from the fascinating bulb -catalogue, and found those odd eyes on her, she shivered. They were so -dead--those eyes. Yet such a secret, such a terrible soul seemed to -play and lurk behind them. - -Gainah never protested. Little by little she felt the scepter slip -from her powerless hand. Little by little her life lost color. Pamela -laughed at her methods, was often disgusted by her thrifty, traditional -economies. She had a superior trick of saying, “My way is the correct -one.” Or she would quote the domestic routine of her father’s house, in -the prosperous time when they lived in a detached house with a carriage -drive and stabling. She was more than a bit of snob, but Jethro knew -nothing of snobbery. He approved of all she did. - -She gabbled on hygiene. She took tickets for a course of lectures on -domestic economy, driving into Liddleshorn every alternate Friday. When -she returned, she was more ardent than ever for reform. She penetrated -to the scullery, and examined the dishcloth--with a scared murmur of -microbes, because it had not been scalded in soda water and hung up in -the air to dry. She insisted on making the tea herself in a patent pot. -Once she said lightly that Gainah was trying to poison them all because -she told the cook to boil halfpence with the cabbage to make it green. -The flash in Gainah’s eye had been sinister, but Pamela did not see it. -She laughed Jethro out of his favorite supper--a loaf hot from the oven -and soaked in cider. She tried very hard to abolish supper as a -meal--wishing to call the eight-o’clock meal dinner. But here she was -stopped by the opposition of every member of the family; even Aunt -Sophy entered a diplomatic protest. - -She begged Jethro to make Chalcraft wring the necks of the poultry. She -couldn’t bear the slow sounds of death. It was barbarous--the slight, -skillful slit of the knife, the long bleeding, the fluttering -“glug-glug” in the throat, growing fainter and fainter. Gainah had -always insisted on that method; she said it made the flesh white. -Gainah shut the doomed birds for twenty-four hours before death in a -coop, and made them fast, so that they might be more easily got ready -for table: Pamela went surreptitiously to the corn sack, and gave them -an extra feed before the ordeal. Gainah, in hot weather, hung meat down -the well to keep it fresh; she buried sour milk in the earth, tied up -in a muslin bag, and dug it up cream cheese. She had a theory about leg -of mutton: it should be buried in the earth for three days to make it -tender; the same might be done with an old hen. She did not approve of -eggs in a milk pudding, and never used butter in white sauce if the -milk was new and not skimmed. To waste nothing, to be lavish with -nothing--that had been her religion. The hygiene lecturer--through -Pamela, who conscientiously took notes--told her that some of her -antique tricks were not only dirty, but dangerous. - -Pamela taught the cook to make bread without touching it with the hand. -She told Boyce how to milk the cows, washing his hands in an antiseptic -first. She had chemical tests for the milk, and made a rigorous -inspection of the dairy each morning. Gainah was calmly put aside as a -domestic fossil. She was openly flouted. She was told to sit by the -fire, to do nothing. Even needlework was not necessary--things could -be bought so cheaply ready-made, ready-marked even. - -She was pushed aside. She must do nothing. Yet for over thirty years -she had done everything. Her life had been one long fury of immaculate -housekeeping according to her lights. She had thrown all the fierce -energy of a naturally passionate woman into her dairy and her -store-room. Love had just brushed her, then slipped away; maternity had -never been hers. Religion she regarded as a respectable duty, varied by -the clergyman coming to tea, which was a nervous trial, and meant -getting out the best china. She couldn’t write poems, or lecture, or be -an athlete; every outlet of the emotional woman was denied her by -circumstance or temperament. She had flung herself upon the altar of -good management, and now she was told that good management was not an -art--it was the merest detail in the day’s work of a truly capable -woman. - -She said nothing. But there was a constant throbbing and seething in -her aching head, above the turgid eyes. If Pamela could have foreseen, -could have guessed, she might have been more temperate, more gradual. -But she was sublimely unconscious. - -On those autumn nights the heavy rain drove down from the hills and -swept the sad common and beat against the thick walls of the farm. The -wind skirled across space, and the cider-press creaked and moaned. -Gainah let the press out to the villagers if they cared to make cider. -They paid her so much an hour for the use of it. This was one of her -economies. - -Jethro would sit and sprawl and blink at the fire like a well-fed, -thoroughly satisfied, and sleepy dog after a day in the covers. Now and -again in the course of the evening he would get up, stretch his arms, -shake himself, fling back the doors, and look deep into the black -night. He was such a hearty, open-air being that he seemed to pant at -intervals for draughts of that strong wind down his throat, for an -angry splutter of the shot-like rain in his eyes. - -When the wind blew in, Gainah, her back creaking and cold with -rheumatism at the merest draught, would say with acerbity: - -“You come from Hartin’, where they have no doors.” - -The rustic sarcasm was quite lost on Pamela. She regarded the old woman -as antiquated, dirty, and even slightly half-witted. All her attention -centered on Jethro. - -When he walked across the room she watched him slyly. She admired him -very much. He was so big and strong; so independent. The men of her -acquaintance had always been under orders--Government clerks, and so -on. Here was a man, savage in his strength, who had never been in -bondage except to the great Earth. She admired him, but she didn’t love -him yet. - -Love! She would never love him; never. She didn’t want to. She prayed -that the acrid taste of Love might never sear her lips again. And -then she thought of the prison. And the cruel wall rose up before her -blinding eyes, and her quick fingers dropped the pencil and caught -nervously at her side. - -Jethro would come back to the fire and sink luxuriously into the big -horsehair-covered chair with the protecting ears. He would put out his -foot in the thick boot and touch the glowing logs. His gun was in the -corner just as he had left it when he came in tired and muddy from -pheasant shooting. Pamela was afraid of the gun, but it pleased her. It -was part of Jethro’s strength and masculinity. So were his careless -clothes, and so was his blunt Shaksperean tongue. She liked a man to be -frank, a little coarse even, when the man was Jethro. She once thought -fancifully that she wouldn’t mind being beaten by a man like that. - -She already began to regard him as her own possession. She felt a -personal pride in him; the very hang of his homespun tweeds on his -tough, spare body seemed eloquent of sturdy independence. - -The yellow firelight glided across the brass rosette-like heads of the -fire-dogs. They seemed to wink knowingly at every flicker. Now and -again the two hounds in the barn snarled as an infrequent foot came -slouching along the wet road, for it was always raining and blowing. -Rain, mist, and wind! These were the elements which watched over the -slow, reluctant growth of Pamela’s love for big Jethro. - -Sometimes he read a paragraph from the paper to Gainah--about local -doings or people. Sometimes he would ask her advice--about a sale of -underwood or the fate of a cow. Sometimes he and Pamela would be left -alone for a moment, and then they were both shy. Neither of them forgot -that this was a time of probation. Who knew? When the rain and wind and -mist of next autumn came they might be man and wife. - -Autumn grew to winter. She was happy--with a hushed dull happiness that -she wished would last forever. No anxieties, no fierce, tearing burst -of emotion, gay or sad. She was happy; satisfied with the mild -amusements of the simple family connections. They no longer irritated -her--these placid, narrow women--slow and heavy, but very useful and -harmless. She laughed at Mrs. Clutton’s extravagances, but did not -indorse them. She had become very intimate with the dark, sarcastic -woman whose husband was abroad. - -She had her little excitements--skating parties, small dances, -occasionally the visit of a dramatic company to Liddleshorn. In this -way winter went. The last snow melted into a puddle; the first flowers -of March came. She was delighted with the dazzling white of the arabis. -Gainah called it snow-on-the-mountains; but Annie Jayne, who brought -her baby round in the mail-cart on sunny mornings, said that “dear -mother” had always called it March-pride. - -She ran out frequently to look at the thin green spears which begun to -bristle in the borders: these were her bulbs. She spent long hours in -her new greenhouse, giving Daborn orders. He was retained exclusively -for the garden now, at her wish. There wasn’t a weed to be seen, and -every bed was raked and cleaned. - -As the sun strengthened in the sky Gainah grew more silent than ever. -Spring was here, summer on the way, and she had nothing to do. Pamela -had taken the keys. The maids went to her for orders. She paid them -their wages and gave them each an evening out during the week--an -indulgence which until her coming had never been dreamt of. - -Nothing to do! Not wanted! In her idle hours Gainah wandered over the -rambling house alone, going from room to room, touching things without -meaning, taking up and putting down; mumbling vaguely to herself. One -morning she put on her shabby cloth cap--an old one of Jethro’s--and -went into the garden. It was raining--a soft, warm rain, with the sun -behind it. - -“Good growing weather,” she said to herself with satisfaction--and -then remembered that the garden had been taken from her. - -Winter storms had made the borders draggled in spite of Daborn’s labor -and Pamela’s enthusiasm. Gainah felt, in a fumbling, wordless way, that -this garden was like the devastation of her own life. She carried a -little fork; force of habit had made her get it from the tool-shed. Now -and then, again from habit, she bent her stiff back to dig out a weed; -but there were no weeds. - -The stalks of the Michaelmas daisies had been left--by Pamela’s orders, -so that the frost might not get down to the roots. Gainah viewed the -stiff clumps of brown wood with injury; _her_ rule had been to cut down -everything in November. She remembered that she had promised a bit of -white daisy to Chalcraft’s “missus” in exchange for a deep purple one -with a golden eye--her generosity took the form of barter. - -She went round and round in the spraying rain. There was no wind, -simply a feeling of soft, patient dampness and melancholy in the -garden. Over the wall was the sodden, empty road, and on the horizon -the streaming, formless hills. - -Her eyes spied out a few self-sown hardy plants in the neatly-raked -beds. She dropped little fragments of criticism as she went. - -“The slugs have been at the ‘reckless’ plants,” she murmured -regretfully, stooping to look more closely at a clump of sickly -auricula, which seemed mostly thick stalk. - -“There’s a Glory in bud already. I remember old Jethro budding the -brier. He was a good hand at budding, and it was a wet season, with the -sap running well, that year. Ah! the Glory Die! John makes a fine head -on a standard.” - -She touched the yellow bud--a little pinched and small--with tender -fingers. A faint touch of red rushed into her white face. - -“That green Yule when she was taken,”--she was thinking of Jethro’s -mother--“I picked a Glory full out on Christmas morning, and kept it in -water for more ’n a week. The hard frost came soon after--the hardest -for forty years. The old sow was frozen stiff in the sty, and Joan -Wadey’s boy was out digging swedes for old Farmer Scotter, and he set -down and his breeches turned into ice and burned into his flesh. I mind -that--and the Glory blooming on the shelf.” - -Perhaps it was the memory of the frost and the sow who fell a victim to -it; at all events, she went round to the piggeries, taking a stick from -the bristling fagot stack on the way. It had always been one of her -recreations to stand over the sty and scratch the great rough backs of -the animals. She did it now, rubbing the stick insinuatingly up and -down, across and across, and almost fancying that the thick grunts held -meaning, and that there were appreciation, friendliness, and compassion -in the small, slitlike eyes that looked up at her. - -Then, restless and idle, she went round again to the garden and stood -staring stupidly at the red, newly graveled paths and the glass of the -new greenhouse. She could see Daborn inside pricking out seedlings into -boxes. - -There was a weedy patch--the one weedy patch--in a corner of the -garden. She fetched the spud and began to dig for dandelion-roots. She -had almost forgotten that she made dandelion-tea every spring and -insisted on Jethro taking a cup in the morning to clear his liver. She -took them up, transferring them from her knotted, earth-caked hand to -her apron. She meant to take them back to the house, wash them, cut -them up, and infuse them in water for a certain number of hours. But -halfway along the path she stopped blankly, a sudden thought dismaying -her. Pamela would not let her make the tea. Scalding childish tears -rose in her eyes. She felt sure she would not be allowed to make the -dandelion-tea. She went stumblingly back to the weed-grown patch and -let the roots drop in a little hill from her apron to the ground. Then -she looked up, and saw old Chalcraft, who was beginning to trench up -the farther end. He was leaning idly on his spade, watching her with -affectionate solicitude. There was a little suspicion mixed with his -compassion; your true rustic is always distrustful of what he doesn’t -understand. She, standing there idle, vacant, with a still tongue, was -a mystery. He didn’t know what blighting thing had touched and turned -her. - -She stood there stupidly, dead to the familiar sounds on the farm--the -excited cluck of laying hens, two cocks crowing in rivalry, the weak -bleat of very early lambs in the fold, and the yapping of puppies in -the barn. She didn’t hear the steady break of stones in the road, nor -the song of a lark as it rose from the neighboring field. - -The weedy patch had last year been sown with beet. Sparrows had eaten -it--beet on that soil being, with carrots and spinach, a chance crop. -Chalcraft was digging the weeds in and preparing to make a second -sowing of broad beans. Pamela had not yet brought her reforming -intellect to bear on the kitchen-garden; she thought vegetables very -uninteresting. - -The spade was deep in the stiff soil. The piece that Chalcraft had -already turned up was wet and yellow in contrast to the hard gray of -the untouched piece. Gainah watched him closely, as if he had been a -stranger and digging was to her a new and intricate performance. She -saw his bald head: there was a red, shining wen on one side. There were -two careful patches, side by side and of a different color and stuff, -on the back of his waistcoat. - -“You’ve got another patch on the back of your waistcoat, Master -Chalcraft,” she said childishly. - -He spat thoughtfully, first on the palms of his hands and then into the -trench where the weeds were buried. He looked at her--looked with the -slow wonder of the aged, to whom nothing matters very much. Then he -said, with a chuckle: - -“Aye! so there be! Patch side by side look neighborly, but patch upon -patch be beggarly, Mis’ Toat.” - -She didn’t answer. She still stood in that wavering, uncertain way on -the other side of the trench. - -“The worms in this ’ere patch is past believin’,” he said, with an -infantile slobber and chuckle, at last, stolidly chopping through the -writhing bunches. - -“It must be nearly dinner-time, Master Chalcraft,” said Gainah -mechanically, with a steady glare across the trench with her pale eyes. - -“Aye, that it be,” he returned rather nervously; “I’ve had mine.” - -She turned and went back to the path. He stood and watched her. He was -conscious, in his slow-witted way, that some queer change had come to -her. The sun broke through the rain-cloud and touched the silver tip of -his spade and the hard red lump on his head. He bent his back again and -turned up slab after slab of sticky ground. - -Gainah went round to the front of the house. She had a bed of lilies of -the valley beneath the umbrella yew. She stooped down behind the wall -of somber green and saw the tender leaves uncurling. One root already -had a cluster of snowy buds. Then, as she stooped, she heard a -voice--the high, imperious voice of Pamela. Looking through the yew, -she saw her standing by the wall with Jethro. She was talking very -fast, moving impetuously now and then, throwing out her firm white -hands, and pointing eagerly. - -“It would be the simplest thing in the world. Oh, you must do -it--_please_. Then the house would look like Turle. You take away the -gate and build the wall along--so. Then you take up those horrid -cabbages.” She threw a look of intolerance at the leggy stalks of -Brussels sprouts which were thickly covered with widely opened -miniature cabbages. - -“Chalcraft likes this patch. It is the richest in the garden, so he -says. In June the old man will dibble in his cauliflowers; they want a -rich soil.” - -“They’ll grow anywhere; ground is ground,” she cried, with Cockney -superiority. “You are too indulgent to Chalcraft; he and Gainah are -past work. They should be pensioned off. She might be allowed to come -to dinner on Sundays.” - -“She has been a mother to me.” - -Gainah, behind the yew, her head furtively poked forward, saw the girl -look at him--a look that said plainly enough: - -“And shall not I be your wife? Doesn’t a man leave all and cleave to -his wife?” - -The elder woman’s hands, rubbed over with wet mold which was drying and -caking, crossed convulsively on her chest. This was not new to -her--this comedy of love. She had played it, too, with something less -of fancy. She knew what was coming. She waited, sick at heart, for the -first kiss. She nearly fell upon the half-opened leaves of the young -lilies when Jethro dropped his massive head and pointed his lips to -Pamela’s. Her fingers lost their last hold of the domestic scepter when -she heard the quick, liquid chirrup of his kiss on the firm scarlet -flesh. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -PAMELA ran up to her room with the long, low lattice window and the -somber furniture. She threw herself full length on the old sofa which -she had rescued from one of the attics and covered in the most approved -be-frilled style with cretonne. Her head was back on the cushions, her -sparkling eyes were on a level with the garden. She looked at the -Brussels sprouts with satisfaction, imagining shaven emerald turf and -lozenge-shaped beds of standard roses and geraniums in their place. - -She was going to marry Jethro. Their eyes and lips had met--the thing -was settled. Men did not propose in set words and the conventional -attitude nowadays. She would marry Jethro. Her future life stretched -out before her--smooth, level, pleasant--like the big tennis lawn at -Turle. She thought of all the country houses round where she was sure -of a hearty welcome because she was a cousin. They were comfortable, -easy people, these Turles and Crisps and Jaynes and Furlongers. She had -grown really fond of Nancy, with her simper, her pretty pink face, and -her glorious red hair. Annie Jayne, in her spick and span nursery with -her beaming face bent over her baby boy and her lips flowing forth -pious reminiscences of her mother, had her own particular charm. To be -simple, to be sterling, that was all one wanted; everything else was -garish, meretricious. Hearts were better than the flimsy things called -brains. - -She saw her life roll away year after year, so placid, so uneventful, -so comfortable and prosperous. She loved money for her pleasure, not -her pocket. She always felt her greatest admiration for Jethro when he -hauled out a canvas bag of sovereigns. - -She began to form social plans. She would be exclusive, yet catholic, -like Aunt Sophy. Jethro must let her have another servant--that would -be three. The wagonette must be done up, and she’d try for a Battlesden -car like Furlonger’s. She’d aim at culture, too--a Browning class, in -opposition to Mrs. McAlpine’s Shakspere. There wouldn’t be so many -expurgations necessary. The members of the Shakspere class had neatly -written slips sent them with a list of passages to be slurred. She -would like to take a rise out of Mrs. McAlpine, who lived in a cottage, -but gave herself tremendous airs because she was a J. P.’s daughter, -and had instituted afternoon tea with cucumber or cress sandwiches. - -In the afternoon she slipped on her things and went to the Buttery, the -ancient cottage where the absentee journalist’s wife lived with a small -maid. Mrs. Clutton had become her most confidential friend. She didn’t -mean to mention her engagement, but she was twitching with excitement, -dragged here and there with emotions of very different sorts. - -She went across the common in the March sun and wind. Her heart and -feet danced, but her face was like the changing sky. Forget! She must -forget. She was to marry Jethro. It was so easy to say forget, so -difficult to do it. Once she stopped, her eyes strained in the -direction of London--far away over moor and hill and sleek pasture. She -groaned aloud. She knew that she would give it all--greenhouse, -Battlesden, big, fond man with the bulging bag of sovereigns--for one -touch on the mouth from one other man. _He_ was still in prison, still -only a number behind the high wall. When he came out? Emigration or the -army. But that was not her affair. - -When she reached the Buttery she went through the high green trellis -door into the garden, sure of finding her hostess there on such a day, -at such a season. It was a fair-sized garden in apple-pie order. The -long borders were gay. At one end were substantial pig-sties. In them -Mrs. Clutton kept fowls. She was leaning over the wall, her elbows -spread out on the wire netting which was nailed across to keep the -birds from flying over. - -She came running excitedly along the neat asphalt path. In one hand she -held an egg. It was evidently only just laid. It hardened as the air -touched it. - -“Look!” she said with a laugh, “I’m going to give this to the cock. -What would your thrifty Gainah say? They are all going--my pet -hens--Flirt and Prim and Sheila. My cock, too--Tatters. Isn’t he a -fine fellow? But morals! None. They are neurotic. Old Chalcraft says -they eat their eggs because the floor of the run is brick and they -can’t scratch. I hate a person who snouts round for a practical -solution. It’s just environment--because I am their mistress. Tatters -has been more trouble to me than able-bodied twins. I fed him from the -very shell with hard-boiled egg and bread-crumb, thereby sowing the -seed of future vice, no doubt. I’ve scrubbed his legs with carbolic and -anointed him with vaseline for scaly-leg. I read about it in a paper. I -came and stood out here, paper in hand, comparing his leg with the -symptoms. And then, after all, I found that humpy-bumpy legs were -natural to that particular breed. I was overjoyed at his first -baby-crow--such a throaty, silly sound. - -“To be practical--the eggs went. Every time Flirt or Prim or Sheila -cackled I rushed out, only to find them stalking gravely up and down -with an unconscious expression faintly tinged with injury. And then one -day I saw that villain Tatters gulping down the last bit of shell. I’ve -sold them at a sacrifice, on condition that they are sent to market and -not allowed to demoralize another run. Hone will be here directly; he’s -taking them to Liddleshorn. But--Tatters--here!” - -She threw the egg, flinging back her head at the same moment. The cock -rushed at it. In an instant it was gone, yellow yolk, brown shell, -stringy white. Mrs. Clutton shrugged and pushed the picturesque black -hair from her brow. Pamela said, with a laugh: - -“Well, you _are_ mad. No one else would have done that.” - -“Of course not. I get more and more ridiculous. But what can one do? I -pay afternoon calls and say mad things. You must shock the people down -here--it’s your only chance. I’m bound to talk extravagantly. You can’t -discuss gravely for a whole afternoon whether servants should be -allowed to wear veils on their afternoons out, or whether it is really -economical to wash at home. I wonder what Tim’s first impression of me -will be when he comes home!” - -“You expect him soon?” - -“Who knows!” She shrugged and led the way into the house. “He’s -irresponsible. I got these at a sale--and these--and these.” She -pointed out various ornaments on the shelf of her sitting-room. “And -Tryphena says that old Mrs. Hillyar is dead. So I shall be able to get -her tallboys chest of drawers for the merest trifle: collectors have no -conscience.” - -“Does Mr. Clutton care for old things?” Pamela looked round -intolerantly at the mixed collection of antique furniture and -bric-a-brac which crowded the room. - -“Of course. He is most artistic: master of every art--except that of -earning a decent living. As for hobbies! He has exhausted them. I -suggested that paying his debts would be a novel one--a complete -collection of receipted bills! But the idea didn’t appeal to him. He -was never afflicted with the form of indigestion called conscience.” - -“He’s a journalist?” - -“Yes; most brilliant. He assimilates everything--but his food. A -confirmed dyspeptic; he would have three serious internal diseases in -one week.” - -Tryphena Hone, the little maidservant, brought in tea. The two young -women sat and chatted until the room grew dark. When the lamp came in, -it burned steadily. Pamela said: - -“Our lamps never burn like that. Yet I see to them myself. Aunt Sophy -taught me her own particular way of trimming a lamp.” - -“My lamp burns well because I never see to it myself. The whole duty of -the foolish young housekeeper is ‘doing the lamps.’ - -“I was telling you about Tim.” She seemed in a confidential mood. “He -was brought up to the profession of great expectations. One’s greatest -curse is a modest competence. We had it--until Tim’s father died, -without even leaving him the shilling with which he cut him off. We -hadn’t a halfpenny. Tim, with his unfailing originality, suggested -earning a living, but his profession had spoiled him. He was like the -Irishman who was willing to do anything but work or run errands. I took -in boarders, but it didn’t pay; I never happened on a _paying_ paying -guest. He tried journalism; every failure tries that. At last a man on -a rather prominent paper--worn out with importunities, no -doubt--shipped him to South America and told him to study -out-of-the-way sides of things. He paid him for it, too. His articles -have been a great success. It really seems as if our luck has turned. -Journalists are short-sighted; the man need not have sent him abroad -in search of novelty. I could tell strange tales. Every cottage here -has its skeleton, and I wheedle round the old people until they show -me the bones. I am making a note-book for Tim--he can write a series -of articles on Sussex skeletons when he comes home.” - -She looked round at her bits of china and brass; at the shabby -furniture which she had picked up at sales and in odd corners. - -“Every little thing,” she said, “has its history. Such tender -tales--such fierce, curdling, terrible tales--I hear from plodding men -and heavy women in these little Sussex cottages! And it is all the more -impressive because they are so phlegmatic. They tell you of a ruined -life much more calmly than they would tell you of a bad batch of bread -or a chicken stolen by the fox.” - -Pamela was hardly listening. Her feet were on the gleaming rail of the -pierced brass fender; her eyes thoughtful on the winking coals. - -“Do you consider one runs a risk in marrying?” she asked tentatively at -last. - -“No risk--if you marry for the right motive. I haven’t found out what -that is: not money; not duty--only prigs do their duty; not impulse; -certainly not love.” - -“Can one marry for peace?” - -“Maybe. Peace is a great thing; I’ve found that since dear Tim went -away and took his imaginary incurable troubles with him. I would write -over every baby girl’s cradle: ‘DON’T MARRY A DYSPEPTIC!’ - -“Must you really go? Here is Nancy’s latest photograph.” She took it -from the table. “Of course you have one. Nancy is just the average -woman--insatiable desire to have herself photographed in evening-dress. -Nancy is stupid; she actually believed that a Papal Bull was a live -animal. Just wit enough to dress her magnificent hair according to the -latest fashion plate--that’s Nancy! She’s callous, too. The other day -she ran down one of the Peter Buckman children when she was cycling. -She only said calmly that it ‘was bad for the wheel.’ Fortunately the -child wasn’t hurt.” - -Pamela went home in bright moonlight; it was only a stone’s throw from -the Buttery to Folly Corner. - -She thought calmly of her future as she walked: the moon, the sweet, -crisp March night cooled and stilled her. She was not going to marry -for love. To marry for love had once been the dear dream of her life. -But that was over; the prison had engulfed her poor romance--it had -been a mean one at the best. It was all over--the first wild, keen -shame and rebellion, the steadfast belief in him, the passionate -waiting for the future. It was all over--dead. She was going to marry -Jethro; going to take refuge in his kindliness--as if he were a wayside -barn on a wet day. She meant to be a good wife, a happy wife. Nothing -was more contemptible than a tiresome, melancholy woman with a past. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -SHE was loitering in the drawing-room next morning when Jethro came in. -There was a strong touch of out-door sweetness about him. He was not -one of those men who smell of hot rooms and tobacco. - -He went up and kissed her, taking her fair round face reverently in his -hands as a matter of course. She was thrilled, not with love, but with -pleasure at the open adoration in his light blue eyes. His great hands -placed gently under her chin, his fine head well set on his broad -shoulders, and his big limbs in the breeches and gaiters, stirred in -her the primitive passion of woman for brute strength in a man. - -He threw himself on the couch and blinked lazily at the gewgaws of the -room, which his very presence always made so trivial. Then he lugged -out his worn brown pocket-book and took from it a slip of paper roughly -torn from a newspaper. Directly she saw it Pamela’s cheeks blazed, and -the same agonized shame and degradation which she had felt on her first -visit to that room she felt then. - -“Come here.” - -He spoke gently, yet with command; the voice of a man who after -marriage will tell his wife to fetch his slippers or his pipe, as if -service were a matter of course. - -She stepped into the great embrasure of the bay window and sat down on -the green-covered walnut-wood chair--just as she had sat down on the -first day. Her eyes looked straight ahead, not at ripe grain, but at -the burning purple of furrowed earth. - -Jethro touched her idle hand with the privileged tenderness of an -accepted lover. - -“You are a slipped thing,” he said fondly. - -“Slipped?” - -“Slender, then. I always fancied a woman with a trim, hard waist like -yours. But I came to talk business.” - -He held out the roughly torn bit of newspaper. - -“Tear it up,” she said thickly. - -Her head hung on her bosom and her eyes fell until the lashes rested on -her flaming skin. - -“Not yet.” - -She put out her hand to snatch it from him, with the wicked, stealthy -air of a cat after a bird. Until that shameful bit of paper was -destroyed her womanhood was vulgarized. - -“Give it me,” she besought humbly. - -He laid it in her open hand and she tore it into minute bits, opened -the casement, and cast it out. The wind caught it, carried it, and shed -it like snowflakes over the ridged furrows. - -“We needn’t wait long for the wedding,” he said, as she latched the -casement and came back to the green chair. - -It pleased him to watch her changing face, now pink like Nancy’s, -now white like the hidden skin on his own arms and chest. - -“When you like,” she returned docilely--thinking it would be better to -settle soon. - -“And I’ve drawn you a check--a year’s salary and a year more instead of -notice,” he continued, twisting up his face into cunning wrinkles with -satisfaction at his own artifice. “Take Aunt Sophy with you into -Liddleshorn and buy clothes.” - -She took the strip of paper, her eyes dilating at the magnificence of -the amount. - -“You are a great deal too good to me.” - -“When we are married,” he went on, pressing her hand jovially, “I’ll -make any alterations about the place you like. But the carriage drive -must wait till winter--hedging and ditching time; labor’s cheap then. -How about inside?” - -“I should like a bath-room.” - -“You shall have it. And nurseries.” His voice was perfectly -matter-of-fact. “The two sunny rooms up top will do. I’ll have bars to -the windows; it’s as well to be ready.” - -“Not too ready,” she said faintly, hardly knowing whether to retreat or -to laugh. - -“A son,” Jethro said dreamily, “to come beating with me when shooting’s -on. They soon grow up. He shall have a little horse and ride to hounds. -We say in these parts about a woman’s children: - - “If ye’ve got one, ye can run. If ye’ve got two, ye can goo. - But if ye’ve got three ye must bide where ye be.” - -She got up nervously, not knowing whether he would be betrayed into -rustic sayings yet more suggestive. - -“I’d like to go to Liddleshorn to-morrow,” she said, folding the check -in her purse. “There will be time before dinner to run over to Turle -and see if Aunt Sophy can come with me--if you wish it.” - -“She’s a splendid manager.” - -“Very well. I’ll take her and Nancy. What are you doing this morning? -We might go to Turle together.” - -“I must see Boyce”--(he was the cowman)--“about those newly dropped -lambs. He thought maybe you’d like a sock.” - -“A what?” - -“A sock--pet lamb.” - -“That would be nice--but, when it grew a sheep?” - -“You could send it to the butcher.” - -“Never. Tell Boyce, with thanks for his remembrance, I’d rather not. -Well, good-by until dinner.” - -She ran upstairs, humming complacently, and in a leisurely way put on -her short skirt and narrow-brimmed hat. Through her window she saw -Jethro cross the garden and stroll into the yard, his broad shoulders -proudly back and his hands deep in his breeches pockets. Her heart -swelled with satisfaction--in him and in the broad acres, plowed or -pasture, and in the beautifully built golden ricks which hedged the -house. Everything was hers. - -She went downstairs. Gainah, for the first time for ten years, had -gone out for the day to see an old friend some miles up the line. -Pamela thought that the house seemed more like home, more her own, -without the elder woman, and she began to speculate on the time when -Folly Corner would no longer roof them both. - -She stood in the passage by the window. Gainah’s geraniums, preserved -from frost in the kitchen all through the winter, were blooming. The -future mistress decided that she would banish them. She had not reached -the altitude of admiring an earthenware pot. Then she glanced at the -wall, at the rude prints in narrow black frames. Mrs. Clutton had been -enthusiastic about them, saying they were “Bunbury’s”--which meant -nothing to Pamela. She couldn’t endure those fat women in low dresses, -and those men with wigs and lewd expressions. - -She sat down in the armchair by the oak table, idly putting -on her gloves. There was a hand-bell on the table--one of her -institutions--together with a smart tray for letters. The blue Oriental -bowl, instead of being littered with string and screwed envelopes, was -reserved for cards, and in place of the farming papers was the current -copy from the library of the most cultured magazine then running its -brief life. She thought that the extraordinary cover struck a -distinctive note directly one entered the house. - -The kitchen door was at the other end of the passage, immediately -opposite the drawing-room. It was ajar. She was just stretching her -gloved hand to the bell, to tell them that Daborn might bring round -her bicycle, when a man’s voice struck on her heart. - -At first she half struggled to her feet, and they failed her. Then she -fell back in the chair helplessly, like a woman with an overstrained -spine. That voice! _His_ voice! No. It couldn’t be. There was very -little in a voice; each individual had not the monopoly of one. Now, a -face would be different. How absurd she was! The dates did not agree. -She had a head for dates, and that one--the date of his release--had -eaten into her brain like an acid into metal. It was too soon. - -The air through the open window--she had opened it herself only a -minute ago, before the world changed--was warm. The full red heads of -the geraniums nodded heavily with occasional puffs of vigorous March -wind. It was a warm, noisy world. The beseeching, persistent bleat of -the little new lambs rung like a mournful bell with every second, and -through it filtered the confused song of every madly happy bird that -had mated and built a nest. - -She put out her hand again for the bell, calling herself a fanciful, -nervous fool. As she gripped the handle she heard the voice -again--persuasive, winning. Hadn’t she often heard it like that? It -said: - -“You can have one by very easy payments.” - -The bell fell on the table, rolled off, and clanged its noisy tongue as -it touched the oak floor. The pretty, ruddy housemaid came in, looked -flurried. She left the kitchen door wide behind her, and Pamela saw -the well-scrubbed table, the gleaming brass preserving-pan on top of an -oak corner cupboard in which candles, soaps, and so on were stored. She -could, with the tail of her eye, see the back door leading to the -flagged yard, and she seemed to feel that he was standing there. -Certainly someone was there, because the sheep dog, who was so savage -on the chain, barked angrily. - -“I want my bicycle,” she said as calmly as she could, “and, Nettie, who -is that at the back door?” - -“A piker--I beg pardon, miss--a tramp. Yet not just a piker; he never -begged. But he wants me and Cook to buy a sewing-machine, paying it off -by little bits each month.” - -“I shouldn’t like the noise of a sewing-machine in the kitchen.” - -“Then I’ll tell him to go away.” - -“Nettie.” - -“Yes, miss.” - -“I was just going to say that--I forget. I remember--you need not speak -to Daborn about the bicycle for a few moments. I’ll go into the garden -and find him myself.” - -“Very well, miss.” - -The buxom figure of the country girl in her deep pink gown went round -the half-opened door. Pamela sat, her head against the wall, a sound -like the thudding, throbbing noise of an engine-room in her head and at -her waist. Suddenly she stretched out her hand and rang the bell again. -The housemaid came round the door for the second time, looking a little -surprised. - -“Has he gone?” - -“No, miss. Cook’s going to have a machine--not to work here, miss. -She’s to be married next club day.” - -“I should like to see him. Perhaps the machines are good and cheap. -Tell him to step through.” - -The pink figure disappeared again and she waited--sick, expectant, -dreading; disgusted with herself for the half delight which she felt, a -delight which nearly swamped the fear. - -He came through the door and they shut it after him. There was no -mistake. Her ears had not played her false. Directly he saw her sitting -there, beneath the row of black-framed prints, beside the shining brown -table which held the great bowl of blue, he gave a start, a whistle of -astonishment, and said under his breath: - -“Pam!” - -She looked at him for an instant--cropped hair, shoddy clothes, blunted -nails, the evasive stamp of something new and perplexing on his -handsome face: - -“Edred!” - -She was looking apprehensively down the long garden path which ran -between the box edgings. Jethro might come in. Then she again turned -her eyes with an effort toward the tall figure in the deplorable suit -of ginger-colored tweed. In spite of herself, an expression of ecstasy -broke across the cloud above her eyes. She half rose, put out her hand, -peaked her head toward him. He gave a quick glance round; listened. -Everything was still, but for the lambs and birds and insects; no sound -of human life, no clink or clatter from the kitchen. He stepped up -lithely to the chair, lifted her in his long arms, and kissed her--a -long kiss which told volumes--full on the mouth. With that kiss, -fully returned, each told the history of the weary months the prison -had stolen. - -She let herself lie for a moment in his arms, caring for nothing in the -world but that first re-union which she had so often imagined, so often -longed for. Then she roused herself. - -“Why did you come?” she said reproachfully. “Oh, my darling, why did -you come and spoil everything?” - -He shrugged. - -“We don’t know that anything is spoilt yet. I wouldn’t stand in your -light for worlds. Tell me how you came here. Give me my cue.” - -“Come into the other room. We shall be quieter there.” - -He followed her through the low door into the room which the yew -shadowed. They were no longer in the sun; something damp, melancholy, -and threatening struck at them both. - -“Sit down,” she said, pointing nervously to a chair, taking one -herself, and throwing a quick glance at the brass face of the tall -clock. “I--I didn’t know you were out. I thought that it would be -another six months----” - -He stuck out his long legs and sunk his hands in his pockets. He was -tall and slim and elegant. At each gesture she was more than ever -his slave--it brought back remembrance. Her eyes hardly left his -face--dark, sallow, cruel. A sardonic-looking man, with silky black -hair half veiling his scoffing mouth, and sleepy eyes which seemed -always to be mocking. - -“Haven’t you ever heard,” he asked airily, “of a ticket-of-leave?” - -She shivered as she answered, well down in her dry throat, “I think -so.” - -“Tell me how you came here, and what part I’m expected to play. I’m -down on my luck at present, and you may be able to help me. Look at -these clothes.” He touched the sacklike cloth. “Nothing but paper. The -first shower would reduce me to pulp.” - -“I came here,” she said, “in answer to an advertisement. A man--the man -who owns this house--wanted a wife.” - -“Whew! Such is the faithfulness of woman! But it was clever of -you--confoundedly clever.” - -“Don’t! It nearly killed me. He is so kind, so fond of me. He believes -I am his cousin--his mother was a Crisp. There are other confirming -details. Very likely I _am_ his cousin--that doesn’t matter. They have -all been kind--my new relations. They think that he advertised for -information about his mother’s brother--who disappeared in early -life--and that I, as a surviving child, answered. They never troubled -for fuller proof; they take my word----” - -“Very useful people!” - -“That flippant tongue of yours,” she flashed out, “brings back bitter -memories.” - -“Never mind memories--no time for them. Go on with your story. At -present I’m uncomfortable; don’t know my ground. If he should come -in----” - -“Jethro!” She looked alarmed, and seemed to strain her ears for outside -sounds. - -“Queer name. Jethro--what?” - -“Jayne.” - -“Jethro Jayne! He ought to be the villain in a melodrama--wicked squire -or something of that sort. And are you going to marry him, Pam?” - -She caught her hands across her breast theatrically. - -“I--I don’t know. You have changed everything.” - -“Not at all. I’ll free you. I’m not”--he gave his soft, callous -laugh--“in a position to keep a wife, and he is. As Mrs. Jethro Jayne -you might be very useful to me.” - -“As Mrs. Jethro Jayne I dare not look at you.” - -“Pooh! You were always too intense. Marry him and help me. That would -be the act of a sensible woman. You are quite free.” - -“Absolutely free,” she assented dreamily, looking a little wildly at -the handsome face. - -She was free; in no sense was she tied to him. She wasn’t in his power; -he couldn’t rake up against her any discreditable past. This was not -the stock position of the sensational drama--confiding husband, -blackmailing lover, wife with unclean or imprudent past. She was free, -free, free! Free to order him away from the house and out of her -life. If Jethro came in she could afford to tell the truth. There was -nothing wrong in it. - -And yet, hating herself all the time, because she knew he wasn’t -worthy, she adored this dark-haired cynical ex-criminal. His prison -taint, marked elusively on his face, only made her yearn over him the -more. Free! And yet chained like a slave. She cursed and despised -herself for the contemptible, dog-like devotion which a true woman -calls love. She couldn’t send him away. She couldn’t live without him. -She wanted him to kiss her again, to call her Pam in that careless, -caressing voice. Jethro was nothing--but a good-natured money-bag. This -man had been the first to stir in her some wonderful, untamable -passion. She was insisting to her heart that a woman must always love -the _first_, return to him, cleave to him, however unworthy he may be. - -There were steady steps outside. Someone was coming round the house, -brushing the wall across which the vine spread its stout arms. She knew -the step. She knew the melodious whistle. It was Jethro. She pictured -him coming in his leisurely way round to the garden door, little -dreaming; his hands stuck in the pockets of his shooting breeches, his -cap a little tilted over his eyes to keep the hard March sun out. - -She sprang to her feet. The man sprang up too. He had heard the steps -before she heard them. His life had been one that lent itself to -stealth and minute caution. He knew that the next moment would decide -her, and consequently would decide his fate. He had no claim on -her--she might turn him adrift if she chose, as he had reminded her. -And he much preferred to stay. Lucky accident had brought him here. -Selling sewing-machines by easy payments at the back door was not a -life to his taste. - -The steady, leisurely steps grew more distinct. The two--desperate girl -and desperate man--were close, eye to eye. With a fleet movement he -folded his arms about her and kissed her for the second time on the -mouth. She whispered fiercely, as soon as she got her breath: - -“When I came--that first day--he asked me if I had brothers or sisters. -I thought of you--you were never out of my head. Something, -someone--God or the devil--made me say I had a brother, a sailor on a -long voyage. You understand?” - -“Perfectly.” He nodded his head approvingly. “Now sit down, darling, -and leave off trembling.” - -The long, broad shadow of a man fell across the floor from the open -door to the plinth of the tall clock. It stopped on the threshold. -Pamela’s feet, which had turned numb and cold, were set fast. She tried -to get up unconcernedly, but could only grip her hands round the curved -arms of the rush-seated chair of golden beechwood. The last remnant of -a struggle was fighting itself out within her. Should she stand up and -say: - -“I knew this man once. He boarded at the house where I was an -assistant. He made love to me. I was flattered and I responded--but -that was nothing. It was all over long ago. Send him away and let us be -happy together as we have settled to be.” - -Should she say that? Should she tell the bald, mean, ugly truth? - -They were both looking at her--these two men who between them held the -strings of her future. Jethro’s light eyes were a bit cold and hard. He -was suspicious, like all simple men. She said, putting one hand stiffly -toward the companion beechwood chair: - -“This is my brother----” - -She broke off, a nervous dread sealing her lips. She had nearly said -“my brother Edred,” and then she could not remember whether, at that -first interview in the big bay window, she had given him a name. - -“My brother--the sailor,” she went on falteringly, her stiff hand still -out, like the wooden arm of a signal, toward the chair in which he sat -looking carelessly nonchalant. “He has come home from sea. His ship,” -she seemed to see the suspicion deepen on Jethro’s open face as he -glanced at the visitor’s rough hands and cheap suit, “was wrecked.” - -“The _Matador_--wrecked off the coast of West Africa. I was second -officer. A Dutch vessel ran into us. Made off without offering to help. -That’s like those cowardly Dutchmen. I was hanging on to a mast for ten -hours. Everything I had in the world gone, of course.” - -The lies rolled glibly off his ready tongue. Pamela felt her cheeks -flame as if hot irons had brushed them. She did not look up. Let these -two settle her fate between themselves. - -Jethro took a wide stride into the room and put out his brown hand. - -“Glad to see you,” he said with simple heartiness. “Glad to see any of -my mother’s people at Folly Corner.” - -After that they went on talking. She didn’t hear a word--only the -amicable voices. That Edred was smoothly lying she felt sure; that -Jethro was taking every word as solemnly as he took his Bible or the -advice of his head man she felt equally sure. They were so simple, so -true, these Sussex folk. They had taken her on trust. They would take -him on trust too--this unscrupulous jail-bird, her lover, hero, the -wrecker of her life. - -Why couldn’t she stand up and say: - -“We are both liars and impostors. He is no sailor; merely a shady city -man who has just served his time for dishonesty”? - -He was talking cleverly of the sea, using nautical terms, fashioning -his sentences tersely and rudely like a bluff sailor. What a clever, -heartless villain he was--and how she loved him! - -Nettie came in to lay the cloth for dinner. Pamela got up and walked -across the room mechanically, beckoning to the maid to follow. - -When they were outside in the sunny, narrow corridor she said--looking -steadily into the girl’s unexpressive eyes: - -“That gentleman is my brother--Mr. Edred Crisp.” - -“The piker!--oh, miss, I ask your pardon.” - -“He is a sailor,” Pamela went on steadily, “and he was wrecked. He went -through dreadful hardships. Everything he had was lost at sea. He was -obliged to sell machines for a living. It was quite by accident that he -happened to come here and find me.” - -“It was Providence sent him, miss.” - -“Yes, Providence--of course. And you will lay for one extra at dinner, -and you will get the best room ready.” - -“To be sure I will, miss. Wrecked at sea! Whatever will Cook say when I -tells her?” - -“And Nettie.” - -“Yes, miss. How pale you look, miss! It’s shook you, and no wonder.” - -“Here are the keys. Get out some little things for dessert. I’ve told -you how to manage for dessert. And the best table linen--and everything -of the best.” - -“To be sure, miss.” - -She went back to the parlor. It struck a gray note after the stream of -hopeful sun in the corridor. The yew--impenetrable, glistening, -green--blocked the latticed window; logs on the yawning brick hearth -had broken in the middle amid a wreck of wood-ash. She dropped on her -knees and began to ply the bellows. Presently the smoke and flames -curled blue and yellow round the wood, and reflected on her face, -remorselessly showing the careworn line of her mouth and the hopeless -droop of her lids. Edred had taken a piece of paper from his pocket -and was drawing a pretended plan of something--it didn’t matter -what--lies, of course--and he was talking glibly of the different parts -of a ship and the habits of the natives off the coast of West Africa. -Her hands moved softly on the bellows, and the gentle plaintive -“shoo-shoo” as they puffed made a sad accompaniment to that -high-pitched, eager voice and the occasional slow, mellow note of -Jethro’s. - -He was talking in his innocence of his mother’s brother. He spoke of -the other uncle--Thomas--who had also been a sailor. He said that a -love of the sea was evidently in the Crisp blood. And then he added -heartily that he hoped Edred would make a long stay; the place was -large enough and there was always a home for kindred. Pamela said -nothing. She looked round fitfully from time to time. She blew the -bellows more vigorously, with a fancy that the ruddy light should fall -on those two faces near the table--one big and ruddy and restful, the -other dark, sallow, full of a guilty, eager brilliance. - -She could hardly breathe. Her heart was playing her such mad pranks. At -one moment she could feel nothing but the most lawless, unrestrained -delight at Edred’s return to her--in any circumstance. At the next she -felt a profound pity for her own extraordinary position and the sudden -sinister twirl of her fortunes. On Jethro she bestowed only one -emotion, and that--mild contempt. The queer feminine twist--small -regard for the man who blindly loves and is gulled--was strong in -her. She had illogically looked to him to get her out of her -difficulty. He was, in his ignorance, making things harder; he was -placidly wrecking his own life. He loved her. She would have made him a -good wife; she had a very grateful regard for him. If only she had gone -to Turle ten minutes before! If she had been quicker in changing her -gown! If, if, if! The little word, which sometimes means so much more -than the very biggest in the language, chimed in her racked head. - -How should she shape her course? Edred’s nautical sentences, coming to -her now and then in a nonsensical jumble, disposed her to a sailor’s -simile. With him under the same roof, with him in daily association, -she could see only one thing possible--elopement with him when, if -ever, he chose to suggest it. One kiss on the mouth from him would take -her from Jethro, even at the moment when she stood with that confiding, -admirable simpleton at the altar steps. One kiss, she shuddered, would -win her from Jethro even if she were his wife of years’ standing. -Contemptible, animal, womanly devotion! - -Nettie came in again and lingered curiously, staring at the visitor. -She had taken off her pink cotton and put on her black stuff, with the -white collar and cuffs. The lappets of her cap floated to her neat -waist. Pamela, with disgust, saw Edred look at her approvingly. She had -often seen him look like that at any pretty parlor-maid they happened -to have at the boarding-house. It was a low type of man who would -smirk at a servant. He was really very vulgar; he hadn’t one good -quality. And yet--she wished that big, stupid Jethro would leave them -alone for a moment! - -She hung the bellows on the nail and scrambled to her feet. - -“You’d like to come up to your room,” she said, her pleading gray eyes -on the flushed dark face and her feet moving toward the door. - -He got up with alacrity. The ginger tweeds he wore were too short at -the arms and legs, too wide across the back, but nothing could make him -look anything but carelessly elegant. He had the lethargic air of the -true Piccadilly product--the men you jostle by the dozen on the -pavement there, who have just life enough and energy enough to put on -an immaculate frock-coat, with a wired flower in the buttonhole. - -They went up the oak stairs and into the best spare room. Pamela shut -the door. - -“It’s a bigger room than I’ve been accustomed to,” he said, with a -shrug of his thin shoulders and a bitter smile. - -“If you were more ashamed,” she said, trying to let condemnation get -the stronger hold of her, “I should be more pleased. You are not -ashamed; you are not silent.” - -“Why should I be? To be found out is a blunder. I am annoyed, that’s -all. I was a catspaw--in other words, a fool. Overent and Bladden both -got off to Spain: £40,000 in the cab that took them to Victoria! What -luck! I tell you, Pamela, the thought of those two fellows nearly -drove me to suicide when I was in prison. But the game isn’t up----” - -She gave a little scream; then, in a fright, put her hand on her mouth. - -“But you’ll never again----” - -“Pooh! my darling--business is business. Bogus company promoting is as -honest a profession as--stock-broking, for example, or making a corner. -Suppose the gold-fields, or diamond-fields, or petroleum-wells _don’t_ -exist--that’s business. If not, where is the use of fools? The small -capitalist must have been created with some object.” - -“You are hopeless. I dread to think of what the end may be. At all -events”--she moved her head toward the door and tapped her foot softly -on the floor--“you’ll leave him alone.” - -“I’ll be a pattern. As for him--there is nothing left for me to do. I -leave him entirely to you. Marry him. Perhaps you know a pretty girl -with a little fortune who would suit me.” - -She thought of Nancy, and immediately an unreasoning, murderous -jealousy of that pink-faced, foolish thing took possession of her. She -sat down on the low window-seat. The casement was hooked back, and the -new shoots of ivy tickled her chin as she leaned out with a tired groan -and looked down at the glistening garden. Then she pulled herself back -to every-day detail with a jerk, and got up, saying that she would send -him up what was necessary--brushes, soap, and so on. The room had -not yet been prepared. The silk quilt was spread gauntly over a -blanketless bed. Edred was looking at it and at the dim hangings with -idle interest. - -“You don’t often see a bed like this nowadays,” he said. - -“It is a state bed, in a way. They were all born in it; they all die in -it. Full of ghosts! I’d rather you slept in it than I.” - -“I’m inured to them--the prison’s full. Not the ghosts of small -capitalists who come wringing their hands for their swamped savings; -only women and weaklings see ghosts of that kind. It was one ghost of -lost opportunity--that tormented me; the ghost of £40,000 collared by -Overent and Bladden, who were a shade more clever than I was.” - -She took up a corner of the patchwork quilt. - -“It is made,” she said dreamily, “from bits of wedding dresses. Each -bride contributed her patches. It is a pretty idea--the people about -here are full of fancies.” - -“You’ll be contributing your patches before long,” he said airily. “By -Jove! I, as only brother, must give you away. We never imagined that -particular position in the old days, Pam.” - -“I don’t admit it now.” She shook her pale head. “Oh, why did you come? -Why am I fool enough to love you?” - -“No heroics, dear. I’m fond of you--too fond to stand in your light. I -won’t dispute that I’ve some regard for myself, too. Run away now and -send me a few things. I want to make myself as decent as these -confounded clothes will allow.” - -She went away. Directly Jethro heard her foot on the stairs he called -her, in a masterful way, just as if she already belonged to him. - -He said, his face shining with hospitality and kinsmanship, how pleased -he was. He spoke of driving Edred over to Turle that very day, but she -negatived it as skillfully as she could. Then he spoke heartily of the -wedding and of Edred’s opportune arrival. She was afraid that he meant -to kiss her again; he seemed prone to hearty lover’s kisses, without -considering mood or asking for permission. Nettie, bearing a steaming -soup tureen, saved her. - -The gong--one of her civilized institutions--was beaten. Edred came -humming down the shallow stairs. The three took their seats at the low, -narrow table--Jethro on the high master’s stool at one end, Pamela on -the other, Edred modestly at the side. - -Both men ate and talked heartily, Pamela childishly crumbled bread in -her soup. When the meal was over she left them; decanters on the table, -the smoke of tobacco mingling with the smoke from the fire. She went -into the gay drawing-room and stretched flat on the sofa. - -She looked at the trivial vanities which she had brought home so -joyfully from Liddleshorn. She looked, as Gainah had looked, with -somber eyes. Her life was wrecked too. She would never be the mistress -of Folly Corner now. - -Through the stout doors came the men’s laughter. Edred’s became more -roystering as the minutes ticked on. She could hear in the intervals -the steady stroke of the clock, the rumbling groan it gave before it -delivered itself of the quarters. - -Her arms were above her head, her widely-opened eyes looked across the -hot purple furrows of the field. She could see a long way, over hedges, -across copses. She saw stretches of pasture, dotted with cows; saw -verdant fields of rye-grass; fields of turnips half devoured by sheep, -which were shut in by hurdles. - -The sun shone, the birds sang, one or two adventurous bees came in at -the window. Every now and then that laugh of license, of reckless -disregard, pierced the thick doors, and she blenched. She could no -longer see the future. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -AUNT SOPHY was giving her first garden party of the season--to her -second-best set. That meant a family gathering, with the Jeremy Crisps -left out. Maria Furlonger drew the line at the Jeremy Crisps, and said -she did her duty to them as a relative by buying groceries at their -father’s shop. - -Edred was to go with Pamela. He was already a local favorite. He had -all the qualities which commend themselves to country society. He could -sing, play tennis, do conjuring tricks at the local entertainments. - -Jethro wasn’t going; men with a serious occupation were never even -asked. Aunt Sophy collected her men painfully; a town failure or so, -who happened to be trying poultry farming or fruit culture--having -tried everything else of which he knew anything whatever; the curate; -one or two old gentlemen who had retired from something or the other, -one or two young ones who admired a particular girl. - -Pamela ran out to the barn before she started. Jethro was at the door, -with a couple of half-bred retrievers at his heels and a trio of -mongrel pups that he was training for sheep-dogs gamboling in the muck -of the yard. - -The vast proportions of the barn--the biggest and oldest for many -miles round--were a fitting background for Jethro with his muscular -frame and fair, sun-seared face. He was so English, so brown, so spare. -There was nothing of the student’s pallor and stoop about him--no -irritating subtlety. There was no furrow in his face, no ridge of -superfluous flesh, no mark of painful thought. It was all tough muscle. -Pamela looked at him admiringly, her desire going out to strength and -health and simplicity of life and motive. The clean shocks of yellow -straw in the barn, the dirty, trodden straw in the yard, agreed well -with his blue checked shirt and tan waistcoat; with his voluminous -checked tie, made in the time-honored rustic fashion. His father had -worn such ties and _his_ father before him. What had been seemly in -“Old Jethro” was seemly in “Young Jethro”; that was the spirit of Folly -Corner. It was a blue check tie made out of half a silk handkerchief, -cut cornerwise and deftly folded into proper shape by the iron. His -sleeves were rolled to the elbow, showing his delicately textured upper -arm. He had been helping his men with some necessary job--he was a -master, by heredity, of all the intricate sublime art of agriculture. -She said: - -“We are going now. I wish you could come too.” - -As she spoke, a loud angry hiss came from behind the house. It was like -the threatening bubble of a pot that is boiling too fast. - -“Chalcraft is taking a starling’s nest,” Jethro said. “Tell Aunt Sophy -I may be up after tea.” - -He turned into the barn, through the dim shadow of which she could see -two men, Peter Hone and another. She turned to go back through the -yard, placing the points of her shoes carefully on the ground so that -she might not soil above the toe-cap. Edred was leaning over the white -paling and watching her gingerly progress with amusement. - -“Beastly dirty place, isn’t it?” he said, sneering and glancing down at -the trodden straw. “I say, what a jolly dance you could have in that -great barn! Do you remember the dance I took you to at Westminster Town -Hall?” - -She nodded, hardly glancing at his slim, foppish figure. He was tinsel -compared to Jethro--Jethro with his muscular arms bared amid the golden -straw of his barn. She saw poetry in the vast gray place, with its -dusty, murky rafters; to Edred it only suggested a subscription dance -and Westminster Town Hall. For the moment she preferred Jethro, with -his white strong throat. - -They went down the road and through the wood, talking commonplaces. -Edred had been nearly three months at Folly Corner, and one cannot for -three months keep up the strain of a dramatic attitude. Pamela still -had her moments of anguish, of struggle--but she no longer talked about -those moments. She waited with turgid, stupid hopelessness for what the -future might fling at her. She drifted; the matter had been taken -completely out of her hands. She was--so she understood--to be married -to Jethro directly the harvest was in: until the harvest was in, she -allowed herself time to breathe. She was garnering up strength. - -The woods were in their fullest flush of beauty. The anemones were -widely blown, with the quiet watchfulness which comes before death. The -heavy heads of the blue-bells were voluptuous. Here and there one -caught the deep yellow of the oxlip; snowy stitchwork was a delicate -groundwork to every leaf and flower. - -No feet but their own disturbed the silence. Jethro was savage on the -rights of property, and this was his land. No old woman might pick up -sticks, no child gather wild-flowers in his preserves. They were small; -he was fond of saying scornfully that he was a working farmer, not a -rich yard-stick from London. He did not make pheasants the sole -business of October, and what he shot he ate or gave away. The contents -of his bag never went to market. - -He had the grasping spirit of the farmer who flourished in the early -years of the century, in the roaring times before Parish Councils and -educated, supercilious cockneys, keen on rights of way. He would, when -the opportunity occurred, put a padlocked, five-barred gate across a -little-used public path. He cunningly inclosed wayside waste, doing it -gradually; grubbing the old hedge, bringing his newly planted, -carefully clipped one to the edge of the road. He honestly believed -that he was doing a good act; in his view, all waste land was wasted -land, and he would have had the Government parcel out the commons to -farmers for redemption. - -Edred kept his eyes on the ground and grumbled at the deep yellow ruts -made in winter by timber wagons and horses’ hoofs. But Pamela forgot -her dainty shoes, the edge of her new skirt, with the tiny frills. She -looked ardently at every new beauty which slid before her -eyes--bursting twigs, drifted blossom, dry, feathery fagots tied into -bundles, little heaps of creamy wood chips; the hacked hedge-rows and -banks, with the warm orange of the amputated tree-trunks. - -It was early June. The day was so hot and dry that when they reached -Turle they could see from the road that even careful matrons like Aunt -Sophy were sitting about the big sloping lawn without even a shawl. -They made little groups--like modern pictures of the ladies in the -“Decameron.” - -Nancy came running across the lawn, her heavy red-ringed croquet mallet -in her hand. She had a loose flannel shirt and her cycling skirt with -the big smoked pearl buttons at each hip. - -“A cycling skirt always makes a girl look coarse,” Edred murmured -critically. - -Pamela gave him a pleased glance; she loved to hear him depreciate -Nancy. - -“Oh! do come and play!” cried the girl, addressing herself pointedly to -Edred. “We are making up a fresh set. Croquet is such fun.” - -Pamela, the thin stream of gall flowing from her heart, saw him return -Nancy’s pleading, babyish glance tenderly. She turned away. She took -Aunt Sophy’s effusive kiss without a word, only assuring her that she -hadn’t a headache. - -Egbert Turle, who had left Cambridge and was walking the hospital, -nodded with patronage from his post by the tennis-net. He came -dutifully to Turle every week. - -Mrs. Clutton ran along the grass in her careless gown. - -“Come and sit under the elms with me,” she said. - -There were several ladies under the elms, in green wooden chairs with -sloping backs. They had not come to play tennis or croquet; their sole -aim was to talk scandal, snub people in the set a shade beneath their -own, and drink astringent tea. They wore long skirts and elaborate -light wraps, as distinguished from the athletic women a few paces off, -who were running about and screaming to each other in the sun. - -The earnest topic of the moment turned out to be false hair. Mrs. -McAlpine had confessed to an increasing thinness on the left temple. -Her doctor told her that she used the right side of the brain too -much--and darkly hinted that she must go up to Lechaux--a hairdresser -recommended by the ladies’ paper--and get a front. Annie Jayne cried -out in earnest horror: - -“Oh, don’t! My mother never wore false hair in her life. She took to -caps when she was thirty-five. I shall take to caps myself in a year or -two--they look matronly.” - -“But no one wears caps nowadays,” cried Mrs. Clutton tersely. “Women -buy false hair instead of lace. If, since the creation, each woman had -done just as her mother did, fig-leaves would still be the height of -fashion.” - -Mrs. McAlpine, who had the greatest contempt for the journalist’s -wife--_she_ was a J. P.’s daughter and the widow of a Government -official--broke out in her languidly genteel voice: - -“I was afraid I should have been prevented from coming, dear Mrs. -Turle. One can’t possibly attend a garden-party in a coat and skirt”; -she looked complacently at her embroidered bodice, “and my lost box -only turned up last night.” - -The face of every lady immediately became solemnly sympathetic. - -“I told you all about it, didn’t I? I’d been visiting at Warne--taking -my best things, of course. The things, you know”--she gave a quick -glance of her narrow eyes at Mrs. Clutton--“that one takes with one on -a visit at a house where they are--well, rather particular. Dear Laura -entertains so largely at Warne.” - -One or two ladies on the edge of the second-best set looked at her with -reverential alarm. Here was a person who visited on such positively -equal terms at Warne, the biggest seat for miles round, that she called -the hostess by her Christian name! - -“I was in despair.” She flattened out her hands. “My box lost! My -diamond comb and pendant, my jeweled girdle, a miniature set with -diamonds that was given to my great-uncle by the Duke of Wellington, my -ivory-backed brushes and silver toilet set--all the small, necessary -trifles that one takes on a visit.” - -“And you got them back?” asked a little lady breathlessly. - -She was a shabby Jayne. Sophy did not often ask her to a garden-party, -and she was feverishly voluble and deprecating in turn. She had a -home-made blouse, with a funny tucker, and very new black kid gloves, -the perfect palms of which she constantly displayed. - -“I got it back,” Mrs. McAlpine said carelessly, giving the home-made -blouse a look of amiable condescension. “But you may all imagine how I -felt; one sets such store by one’s poor trifles.” - -A massive girl, with a white gown, threw down her mallet as a member of -the opposition clicked her ball against the stick. - -“I can’t play any more; too slow,” she said. “I’ll tell somebody’s -fortune instead.” - -“My dear”--the dowdy Jayne cousin looked alarmed--“do you think that it -is in quite good taste?” - -She stopped with a jerk as Mrs. McAlpine said sweetly: - -“Palmistry is all the rage just now in the best houses. Prejudice of -any sort is so very middle-class. We had a professional palmist at Lady -Clara’s last week, when I ran up to Grosvenor Gardens for her -reception. She implored me to come; we are such very old friends.” - -“Mother always thought it was best to ignore such things as -fortune-telling, table-turning, scientific lectures, and anything -unsettling,” Annie Jayne said simply. “I don’t think I’ll have mine -told, Isabel.” - -Half a dozen hands were held out. The girl in white went round -phlegmatically. - -She distributed journeys, legacies, surprises, and mishaps with equal -calm. When it came to Mrs. Clutton’s turn she held out her pretty hand, -a little coarsened by devotion to her neurotic fowls and her garden, -with pretended nervousness. Isabel looked at it thoughtfully and -murmured something about the lines not being very clear--a certain one, -at least, confusing. - -“Don’t say anything dreadful. Don’t tell me I’m going to be hanged; -I’ve always had a foreboding that I shall be; and Tim--my husband, you -know--used to say in his most savagely dyspeptic moments that I -certainly deserved the fate.” - -Isabel dropped the roughened hand suddenly. - -“I can’t make out your fortune,” she said coldly. “There is no one -else, is there? Yours is settled, Pamela. I’ll go and have a game of -tennis, if Egbert will join--croquet’s duffing.” - -She moved away in her statuesque fashion, her white skirt bellowing out -in the May breeze. There was a sudden coldness and constraint. Even -diplomatic Mrs. Turle looked vexed. - -Mrs. Clutton made a mouth at Pamela, and said: - -“Shall we go and have a look at Nancy’s flowers in the walled garden?” - -They skirted the shrubbery, with its clumps of yellow berberis and -laurustinus gone shabby. There was a swing between the double-flowered -cherry trees; Nancy still used it--on rare occasions when she read -fiction. Usually she was honestly intent on improving her mind. A thick -volume lay face downward on the seat. Mrs. Clutton picked it up, read -the title, and dropped the book with a gesture of distaste. - -“Nancy shouldn’t be allowed to read that woman’s stories.” - -“She is very popular.” - -“She ought to lecture--‘for men only.’ However, Nancy won’t hurt; she -won’t understand--half. She is a little more than shallow; all surface, -like a dish--not even a well-dish. Nancy and Isabel Crisp--you know -Isabel is staying here now that Egbert is down from the hospital--will -read the same book. One reads a bit, puts in a marker; the other takes -up the book, reads on from the marker, then puts it in where she leaves -off. That’s how they get through. I’m fond of Nancy--she’s so -picturesquely idiotic. Of course, she will marry your brother?” - -Pamela dropped the almond-scented stalk of plum-colored wallflower -which she had pulled and was sticking in her belt. - -“I--I don’t know. Oh, no! I wouldn’t let him marry Nancy.” - -Mrs. Clutton looked at her suspiciously. - -She said meaningly, “There is one man in the world for you--Jethro -Jayne. A woman has only to concern herself about her husband. Of course -your brother will be cruel to Nancy in his own particular fashion. -Some kick with their feet, some lash with their tongues--I prefer the -former; they kiss a bruise, but no man’s lips can reach a woman’s -heart. After all, he’ll make a better husband than that prig, Egbert -Turle; _he’s_ going to marry Isabel Crisp. He’s insufferable. He would -divide the animal kingdom into four groups: the lower animals, hospital -cases, human beings, and ’Varsity men. He talks of nothing but -dissecting-rooms. He alludes constantly to the ‘laity.’” - -Mrs. McAlpine’s genteel voice filtered through the shrubs. - -“I knew the dear Duchess very well--in her maiden days. We visited at -the same house in the Midlands.” - -“That humbug! Her motto is ‘Who’s who?’ I don’t believe that she ever -got farther than the housekeeper’s room at Warne. Some day, when I’ve -bought enough oak and china, I’ll devote a little time to unmasking -her. Tea will be served in half an hour. There’s dear Mrs. Turle going -weightily toward the house to coach her three maids how to set cups.” - -“Gainah is like that--or was before I deposed her. Cook did nothing but -wash dishes.” - -“You may sort women into two classes: those who can’t touch a chicken -unless they’ve cleaned it themselves, and those who, if they are -obliged to clean it, can’t eat it. Do come with me to Mrs. Hone’s--this -way; through the gate, across the field, and into the Liddleshorn road. -She has a Chippendale teatray which she has half promised to sell. We -shall have plenty of time before tea.” - -They went across the field, black-horned cattle following them -curiously. Occasional cottages sparsely dotted the straight road -leading to Liddleshorn. Two new ones, with vivid roofs of smooth tiles -running up in conical shape to a chimney like an exaggerated pimple, -had a blue metal plate lettered with white between the narrow doors. - -“You are pretty safe in saying that every singularly ugly cottage is -tenanted by the county police. Mrs. Hone lives at this next one with -the bush of Jew’s mallow.” - -They went in single file up the narrow flag path. Sheets of white -candytuft crept coldly along the edge of the borders from the wooden -gate to the door. In the little patch of kitchen garden row after row -of cabbage with a blue bloom looked to Pamela like a generously flung -out art carpet. The man at the best shop in Liddleshorn had shown her -one just that shade. Straight ahead, across the railway bridge, a train -shot past, the tails of smoke like drifting opal under the bright sun. - -Mrs. Hone was hobbling about her garden. - -“Poor old dear! She looks like a camel whose hump has slipped. Now, you -must say nothing, look nothing--or you’ll spoil my bargain. -Good-afternoon, Mrs. Hone. How’s the rheumatism?” - -The sweet wrinkled face lifted and a thin voice said shrilly: - -“It aint what you call rheumatism, ma’am; it’s paralism, that’s what I -tells Dr. Frith.” - -“You’re busy in your garden. I’ve been working very hard in mine. Your -broad beans are in blossom. And you’ve planted out your French -marigolds already.” - -“Aye. But I doubt the frost ’ull nip ’em.” - -She laughed; the pretty, brainless cackle of a very old woman--the -light laugh something like a child’s and yet with the knell of decay in -it. - -“When I plants out they little seedlin’s I thinks o’ my children--all -planted out; some in London, some on the hill. Some livin’ to blossom, -some nipped by the frost. I’ve had thirteen, bless you! You’ll step -inside?” - -They went into the tiny living room, the strangely twisted mistress -painfully leading the way. At a round table an old man sat at -tea--bread, lettuce that had bolted, a handful of spring onions. The -mahogany tray that Mrs. Clutton coveted was on a ledge beside the -low-burning fire. The old wife stepped up to her husband and shook him -none too gently by the shoulder, dropping her head at the same time, -and shouting: - -“Get up and let the ladies come to the fire.” - -To them she added apologetically: - -“He’s very old. I’m only seventy-eight, but he’s pretty nigh eighty. -Deaf, too. I can’t make him hear--not when I wants him to do anything. -I very offen say to him, ‘You don’t want to hear; you don’t want to -hear, that’s what it is,’ I says.” - -He turned round savagely at the touch of her hand on his shoulder and -looked at the two women in light gowns on the threshold. - -“What are you doing?” he demanded gruffly. “Damn it all, I means to -have my tea.” - -“He’s been one of those who lash and kick, too--the brute. And she such -a sweet old fragrant thing! Never mind, Mrs. Hone; don’t you trouble to -move, Mr. Hone; we should be sorry to disturb your tea.” - -Mrs. Clutton squeezed round the other side of the table and took the -tray in her hands. It was oval, cut out of the solid wood, and daintily -inlaid with box. - -“You’d sell this, Mrs. Hone?” - -“The lady wants to know if we’ll sell the tray.” - -“What’s she goin’ to give we for it?” he demanded sharply. - -“Ten shillings!” screamed Mrs. Clutton. - -“No, no! We couldn’t let it go for that. I thought fifteen.” - -“Too much.” She put the tray back on the ledge. - -He stuffed the last hunk of bread into his fierce old mouth, and -spluttered out: - -“Will you give twelve-and-six?” - -“Well--yes. Is that settled?” - -“You must settle with missus. I’m only a lodger.” - -His eyes glittered at the half-sovereign she took from her purse and -laid in Mrs. Hone’s hand. - -“Yes, he’s only a lodger, as I often tells him when he’s tiresome. It’s -my house. I was borned here--my brother left it me; he says, ‘You was -borned here and you shall die here.’ My father built it and my brother -added on this front room. His wife wanted to pull the old place down -and put up a new; but he says, ‘No; what the father’s hands had put up -the son’s should never pull down.’” - -She kept laughing feebly and looking at them, from one to the other, -with her dim eyes, deep in the web of seventy-eight years. - -“It’s my cottage, and that’s why they won’t give me parish relief. It’s -very hard. I ses to ’em, ‘I can’t fill my poor empty belly with bricks -and mortar. An’ I am so fond of a bit of meat.’” - -She was like a small child begging for sweets. - -“Haven’t you any daughter to come in and look after you?” - -“No. My daughter died fifty-five year ago. She was a pretty little gal. -He’s my second husband, you know.” She nodded her head toward the deaf -man, who, mollified by the gold, was munching vegetables like an -amiable donkey. “My first husband died. He was coachman at Warne. When -the new one come I was told to turn out of my nice cottage. So I -married him. I couldn’t leave my nice cottage, could I, my dears? I was -a silly gal and got married agen. I married the new coachman. That was -before my brother died and left me this. If I’d known he was going to -die and leave me this cottage when I was borned, I wouldn’t ha’ been a -silly gal and got married agen. He was a dwarf, my brother. You come -agen some day, and I’ll show you his trousers. I’ll show you my -husband’s trousers, too. I got four shillin’s prize at the show last -year for the best patch put on her husband’s trousers by an old woman -over sixty. And I’m seventy-eight--there’s a difference! There did -ought to be another class for them over seventy. I can use my needle. -Mother always taught us to use our needles. The gals nowadays can’t put -a shirt together.” - -“Tea will be ready at Turle,” whispered Pamela. - -“Yes. We must go. Good-by, Mrs. Hone; good-day, Mr. Hone. I’ll take the -tray under my arm. Oh, don’t you bother about paper.” - -They went down the uneven path with the stiff lines of snowy flowers. - -“Poor old soul!” said Pamela, when they reached the road. - -“Did she take you in with what she so eloquently calls her ‘poor, empty -belly’? I left off being sentimental long ago. Mrs. Hone has a fat -account in the post-office savings bank. I know that for a fact.” - -“Shall we hurry a little? I hate to keep Aunt Sophy waiting, or to vex -her. She didn’t like your remark about being hanged.” - -“Of course she didn’t. Wasn’t it fun to see them petrify? No doubt -they’ve been discussing me; saying what bad taste it was to set up a -gallows-tree at a garden party. I give them endless topics for -conversation. They don’t believe me even when I do tell the truth. -There was a comic song Tim used to sing, ‘The only time I told the -truth she said I was a liar.’ That is just my position. I tell the -unvarnished truth: that my husband is a journalist traveling in search -of sensation. They don’t believe me. If he were doing time at Portland -and I said he was stalking big game, my social popularity would rival -Mrs. McAlpine’s. Here’s your brother Edred coming across the meadow to -look for us. He’s a very handsome man; not a bit like you. He reminds -me of some splendid snake. Do you understand? As his sister, you won’t. -You’ll only be shocked; there is a strong streak of the local prudery -and orthodoxy about you, Pamela. I could go to destruction with a man -of that type--hating him and myself all the time.” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -JETHRO was hoeing peas in the burning June sun. His white linen hat -flapped over his calm, shrewd eyes. Pamela, loitering along the grass -paths, marveled intolerantly at his choice of an occupation. Why should -a man of substance, a man of birth, a man with acres and with laborers, -hoe peas? She paced the paths thoughtfully, looking at her neat, broad -border of new roses, taking up a fluttering label now and then to read -the half-obliterated name. They were all the very latest and choicest -roses, and had been planted in the spring by the nurseryman at -Liddleshorn, to whom she had given a large order. - -Her heart told her that Edred was close behind, and she turned, her -eyes seeking his humbly, pleading for tender recognition. He did not -trouble to look at her, but merely plucked one of her beautiful pink -Verdier roses without permission, and stuck it in his coat, with a -scornful laugh at its huge size. - -Jethro, across his little heaps of flagging weeds and clods of yellow -earth, watched the two gloomily. He was tired of Pamela’s elegant -brother; he was suspicious, although he could not have explained why. -His welcome to the shipwrecked stranger had been warm--it had even -extended to a free drawing on his check-book; but he did not want his -kinsman’s-hospitality to be construed into a life invitation. He -remembered a funny story he had once heard about an engaging Irishman -who had come on a month’s visit to a country house and stayed -forty-five years. Edred had lamed his best horse; he had considerably -reduced the cask of old whisky; he dipped too deeply into the -tobacco-jar. He might stay until the wedding, and when that was over he -must take himself off--to the West Coast of Africa, to another wreck, -if he chose. The busy man, hoeing peas not because it was necessary but -as a positive outlet for his energy, was heartily sick of the idle one, -who strolled languidly along the rose border, the smoke from his cigar -making a lean, blue string. - -The wicket-gate creaked. Pamela looked up sharply. Heels clattered on -the raised brick path, and a blithe voice called out, “Where are you -all?” - -“It’s Nancy.” - -Edred moved forward so abruptly that he broke the long ash of his -cigar, which he had been carefully preserving. Pamela followed. A tall, -slim figure stood for a moment in the frame of the shining holly arch -at the entrance of the garden. The sun caught Nancy’s masses of -brick-red hair and enveloped her pretty face in flame. She called out -to Jethro: - -“Mother wants you to tell me how much you think she ought to get a load -for her hay. Write it down, please, or I am sure to forget.” - -She met Pamela at the beginning of the grass path. They kissed. Edred -watched the tame little salute cynically. Then he took Nancy’s -hand in the cycling glove with the perforated palm--like a thin -crumpet--and watched her white lids fall. She was such a child that she -never tried to hide her feelings. - -Pamela dragged off a great branch of damask rose and tore her fingers. - -“You should always cut roses,” Nancy said reprovingly, taking up a -label. “Francesca Kruger--that’s flesh, tinged with saffron, isn’t it?” - -“Copper,” returned Pamela curtly. - -“I wish we could have some good roses. Evergreen isn’t successful with -flowers. But he lets us have plenty of vegetables. I came to know if -you would both come over to Malling Flower Show next Thursday. We could -bike--that would be great fun, wouldn’t it? Mr. Meadows has asked me to -judge the wild flowers, and I feel so horribly nervous. But I’ve been -reading it up.” - -“You can’t go to Malling,” Pamela said, looking sternly at the weak, -radiant face, and hating Nancy all the more fiercely because her -temples were so purely white, and because the ruddy hair grew round -them so charmingly. “It’s lecture-day at Liddleshorn--the nursing -lecture. It will be very interesting; we are going to bandage a small -boy.” - -“But I don’t care for the lecture. We are not going to finish the -course. Annie says that her mother--Aunt Jerusha--thought scientific -nursing a great mistake, and always said that no woman could expect to -be a good nurse until she had been the mother of a large family and had -buried two-thirds of it. You _must_ come to Malling.” - -She was speaking to Pamela, but her blue eyes were on Edred. - -“I’ll come, anyhow,” he said lightly. “I’ll call at Turle about three. -Will that do? Pamela would rather go to Liddleshorn and bandage her -small boy.” - -“That would be fun. And you’ll come into supper afterward. I must go -now. Mother told me to look in at Hone’s--Nick Hone’s.” - -“Where there are so many children?” asked Pamela, her gloomy eyes on -the straight line of beauty afforded by her choice roses. - -“No. Those are the Peter Hones. The Bert Hones live near us. But Nick -Hone is a neighbor of yours. Jethro!” she called out shrilly, and he -came across the rough, dry ground, hoe in hand, “do send poor Nick Hone -in some new potatoes. You have plenty.” She glanced along the beds at -the rows in white blossom. “He’s dying, and he keeps saying that if he -had a dish of new potatoes he’d get better. Mrs. Hone went and dug some -yesterday, but they were only as large as cob-nuts. Mother would have -sent some, but Evergreen is a little touchy. He doesn’t like us to -interfere with the vegetables.” - -“Daborn shall take a trug full,” said Jethro carelessly. “Dying, is he? -That’s drink. Never knew such a fellow! Three gallons of cider a day at -harvest time wasn’t enough for him. The other men save some and take it -home to their wives.” - -“That is kind of you. Mrs. Hone will be so pleased. I’ll be off now. -Three o’clock on Thursday, Mr. Crisp.” - -He seemed amused by her adorable air of sheepishness when he took her -hand. They all four went out into the inclosed garden, Jethro and -Pamela dropping behind as a matter of course--his eyes on her, and hers -fixed blankly on the well-cut back of Edred’s coat. Jethro picked up a -flat wooden basket, with pieces of wood at the bottom like the rockers -of a cradle. It stood by a row of early peas. - -“Here’s a trug. Daborn shall take it to Hone when he goes home to -dinner. Here, Daborn!” - -He put his earthy, hard hand to his mouth and shouted. Pamela saw the -man hurrying from the greenhouse, where he was getting young tomato -plants ready for planting out. She followed Nancy and Edred, dreading -to leave them alone for a moment, despising herself for dreading. They -had just passed through the holly hedge. She scurried after, not -knowing why she put her feet so softly on the gravel and coaxed her -skirt close to her limbs so that it should not brush the box edging. -When she stood in the frame of the arch she stopped. Her clear, jealous -eyes went straight across the garden, across the bed of newly-planted -cauliflowers which Chalcraft had been allowed to dibble in for the last -time--next year she would have a lawn and carriage-drive. She looked -across the brick path, through the tall heads of June flowers, to the -umbrella yew-tree beneath which Gainah’s lilies were blooming. - -They were standing behind it, between the thick foliage and the -square lattice of the dining-parlor window. She saw Edred peer through -to see if the room was empty. She saw Nancy, her head down, her arms -and hands jerking, pretending to admire the lilies--bemoaning, in her -imbecile way, no doubt, because Evergreen would not let her have lilies -too. - -They were very close together in the bosky kindness of the yew; no -doubt it had been a witness to many like scenes and been discreet. -Nancy seemed to sway a bit nearer the lithe figure in gray. Pamela saw -his face and her heart came to a startled stop. He had looked like that -when he kissed her for the first time--on the stairs of the -boarding-house. It had been the first man’s kiss of her life. - -Nancy’s eyes and cheeks and lips blazed like her ruddy hair. He pulled -her toward him with the easy, insolent air of a man who is sure of his -woman--who has been sure of women all his life--and kissed her on lids, -lips, brows. - -Pamela, wearing a white cotton gown, her head bare, looked like -statue--one of the statues that used to decorate old gardens. She -forgot everything--her approaching marriage and magnificence, her -border of tea roses, the carriage-drive, her wedding clothes--all the -big and little things which equally made her happiness or misery. For -the first time for many months she seemed to touch her past self. She -had almost forgotten, in the new strong life, the old one of dull -days, and sloppy streets, and shop-windows, and a struggle for the -latest fashion at the least possible cost. She was again that -sharp-witted girl in Bloomsbury, that wildly wretched one who used to -take omnibus in spare hours just to stand on the common and stare -hungrily at a wall. - -He was kissing Nancy; he meant to marry her. She couldn’t let him do -that. She must abandon Jethro. Her life must run side by side with -Edred’s. She didn’t care what sort of life--one of poverty, hard work, -hard words; blows, perhaps. One of guilty prosperity, winding up with -the prison again for him. It didn’t matter--so long as they were -together, if only for a little. He didn’t love her. He wasn’t capable, -as she knew love. But she loved him, even when she saw him stoop again -to those red pouting lips behind the yew. All her rage was for Nancy. - -Daborn came behind with the trug full of yellow-skinned potatoes. She -stepped back and watched him go through the yard, and presently watched -Nancy go down the bricked path, mount her bicycle, and skim away like a -light swallow. Nancy had forgotten the marked quotation for hay. She -could not carry two ideas in that limited head of hers. - -The world was too gay and warm for Pamela’s blank misery. The hot sun -darted into her strained eyes like needles. She went round the house, -hugging the lichened wall, her head down, the woolly leaves and spiral -tendrils of the vine touching her dull hair. At the garden door she met -Gainah, with a flush on her wasted face and a gleam of the old industry -and importance in her cold eyes. She was attired in a loose garment of -unbleached calico, cut like an antiquated bathing garment. Her -skirts were bunched under it. She had a battered straw hat, round which -was firmly fixed a veil of green net. A pair of old stockings were -pulled over her hands and arms. She carried a tin frying-pan, which she -constantly beat with a long iron skimmer. - -The air was hot and noisy. There seemed an unusual commotion along the -line of beehives which were set by the south wall. They were straw -skeps, which in winter were covered with turf to keep out the cold. -Pamela, who had read up bee-keeping, with other branches of country -life, had long decided to have bar-frame hives when she was mistress of -Folly Corner. But her knowledge of bees was only theoretical. She was -very frightened of them, and the deft, fearless way in which Gainah -would take a swarm excited her admiration and made her grudgingly admit -that it might be a point of superiority. - -The angry buzzing grew louder, the monotonous tom-tom beating of the -frying-pan and skimmer more persistent. - -“There’s a swarm over there in the crab-tree,” Gainah said excitedly, -forgetting for the time all party feeling. “I must go and take it. They -know me. They’ve been talking all the morning; I knew we should have a -flitting by dinner-time.” - -Pamela languidly turned her head. A dark, pear-shaped mass hung from -the lower branch of the crab tree in the oat-field. - -“They know I’m coming,” Gainah said, advancing and still beating, “they -know everything. These are fierce--I crossed them with an Italian -queen ten years ago--but they never sting me. They have more sense and -feeling than half the folk about. When old Bert Hone died and young -Bert took the bees from his mother, they didn’t flourish. He hadn’t -acted fair and they knew it. When there’s a swarm in the thatch none of -the girls in a house ever get married. All Len Daborn’s girls are maids -still.” - -She strode on, a spare distorted figure in her calico wrapper, with the -green veil tucked safely down in her scraggy throat. Pamela watched her -vanish and reappear beyond the fruit-bushes. On any other day she might -have asserted herself--given a wise homily on bee-keeping up to date, -or deprecated old-world superstitions. - -She went under the low door with the wooden hood and sat down in the -dull dining-parlor, her eyes vaguely looking out of the window at the -space between the casement and the yew. Nancy’s flame-colored hair and -thick scarlet lips seemed to stand out in relief from the curled somber -leaves. - -Gainah’s work, just as she had thrown it down when the bees swarmed, -was huddled on the floor, and the blue cambric hearts which she had cut -ready for patching on the white dimity were dotted like huge pale -turquoises on the narrow oak table. - -Pamela looked at the half-made quilt. Gainah had told her once, in a -moment of expansiveness, that the blue cambric and white dimity had -been her mother’s wedding petticoat and gown. It was a dainty quilt, -all white groundwork, with blue bordering and bands and carefully cut -hearts and leaves. The stitches were small and regular. Gainah sat at -patchwork from breakfast until supper, now that the garden and the -house were no longer under her control. In the lower drawer of her -chest she already had five quilts folded neatly away in camphor. - -The front door opened. Edred came in, rang the hand-bell on the table -in the passage. Pamela heard voices--a little deprecating cackle, a -man’s voice subdued to a cautious bass growl. Unable to bear any more, -she started up, threw back the door, and advanced into the passage. As -she did so, the deep rose-color of Nettie’s cotton gown whisked out of -sight into the kitchen. She went, her head high on her throat, into the -drawing-room, and Edred followed. - -Fate seemed to decide that her moments of decided comedy or tragedy -should be played in that room: the room with the ugly grate and marble -mantelpiece which Jethro’s father had put in to make the place smart -for Gainah; with the painted milking-stools and fretwork brackets and -cheap embroideries which she had herself brought from Liddleshorn. - -The roses in the blue bowls were drooping, candle-grease had dropped on -to the keys of the piano, the open door of the china closet displayed -dusty shelves and a floor on which the gay red-and-blue rugs were -kicked up. Pamela saw these things; they reminded her sharply of the -change that of late had come over her. She no longer took a -housewifely pride in anything; her life was occupied in playing cat, -with Nancy and Edred for mice. - -“Are you going to marry Nancy?” she asked abruptly. - -“Are you going to marry Jethro?” he returned aptly. - -“I--I suppose so. And yet, when it comes to the point---- Everything -depends on you.” - -She looked at him again in an appealing way. - -“We’re in a bit of a mess,” he said, shrugging his thin shoulders and -impatiently pulling the fine points of his black mustache. - -She hunched her shoulders and clenched her hands between her knees as -if she were in actual physical pain. - -“Oh! why did you come?” she moaned. - -“Nonsense. It was very fortunate for me. I couldn’t have kept on with -sewing-machines--cut my throat, rather. And you can’t execute a _coup_ -of any kind without capital. This sort of thing isn’t permanent, of -course. Old Jeth’s getting sick--he’s a good fellow. Men of that type -always show their feeling in mean ways. He ought to swear at me, kick -me out--he only looks blue when I fill up my glass. I must either marry -Nancy--it can’t make any difference to you, Pam--or I must get a couple -of hundred to set me up in life again. There are lots of good things -going in the City--beastly nuisance not seeing the evening papers. My -head is full of ideas. If I had a couple of hundreds I could turn them -into thousands in a week. Balaclavas have run up to----” - -“Don’t talk to me about stocks; I don’t understand--and it is so -unimportant----” - -“By Jove! it’s all-important to me.” - -She straightened her curved back. He saw a convulsive lump working in -her throat, and the rims of her lids grew faintly pink. He frowned. She -was going to cry. A woman’s tears lashed him to any sort of brutality. - -“When I saw you kiss Nancy,” she broke out, “it nearly killed me.” - -“So you saw! But when old Jeth kisses you, in his open, whole-hearted, -smacking fashion?” - -“It doesn’t affect you. Men are different--and you more different than -any other man,” she said confusedly. - -“This sort of thing doesn’t help us,” he cried impatiently. “Which -shall it be? Turle, with Nancy as a wife and Aunt Sophy as a -mother-in-law, or London, with two hundred pounds in my pocket?” - -“I haven’t fifty pounds.” - -“But Jethro has. Get it out of him; you’ll do it better than I should. -Go to him frankly; say I’ve a scheme for making a fortune. He will be -delighted to get rid of me. He’s suspicious, without knowing why, poor -chap. This brother and sister humbug is the merest farce. If these -people were not fools, the most generous, gullible fools in the world, -they would have found us out long ago.” - -He crossed to the sofa, threw himself beside her, and laxly hooked his -long arm round her firm waist. - -“Get me the couple of hun, Pam,” he said tenderly, “and I’ll be off. -Nancy is a pretty imbecile. I’ll go to town. I’ll keep out of mischief, -sail just within the wind--don’t bother your dear anxious head about -me. Marry old Jeth; cut a figure in the neighborhood. With his money -and your brains you can be county swells.” - -“And you?” - -“I told you--don’t worry. Forget No. 4658.” - -She started nervously. - -“How can you think of that time without a shudder? Even now, when I go -to sleep at night, the prison wall shoots up and blinds me. Yet -you--were inside. And you say that number--the number that _was_ -you--without a tremor. I’m afraid to let you go. It will happen again.” - -“Not if I know it. I was green. Overent and Bladden victimized me. Only -fools are found out. Sin is a short name for stupidity. I shall never -overshoot the mark again. There are fifty ways--five hundred--of making -a fortune. No man but a fool need work--in these commercial days. -Milligan cleared fifty thousand only last week, just by buying a -concern and turning it into a company. He’s a prominent man, a -politician, a baronet. Ten years ago he kept a newspaper and sweetstuff -shop at Hornsey. Lady Milligan, whose drawing-room gowns are sketched -in the fashion papers, boiled toffee and sold it in pennyworths. No one -calls Milligan a blackguard.” - -“He must have swindled somebody. It’s impossible else.” - -“Of course he did. But everybody swindles everybody else--that’s the -commercial spirit; it has made us a great nation.” - -“Jethro----” - -“Was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He is a fool; without his -inheritance, he’d be plowing and hay-making. Why discuss idly and waste -time? The dinner gong will sound soon.” - -He took out his watch. It was a costly gold hunter, which he had bought -in his brief prosperous time. He had put it in her hands only half an -hour before his arrest--when Overent and Bladden had flown with forty -thousand pounds and he was madly packing his bag in the Bloomsbury back -bedroom. - -“What am I to do?” - -“Get two hundred pounds out of Jethro. I will go away and make my -fortune. Some day, when you read the papers--a day old,” he sneered, -“you’ll see my name as chairman of a public dinner, or recipient of a -testimonial. I mean to be generous--when generosity can be made to pay. -I’ll present my district with a public library, a clock tower, or a -drinking fountain, and be knighted.” - -“You’ll come to Folly Corner sometimes?” - -“Never.” Even his honor, just because he was a man, was stronger than -hers. “I thought at first that it would work--you as Jethro’s wife, I -as Nancy’s husband. But you are one of those emotional women who go to -the devil and drag a man with them. When I leave here it will be for -good. You won’t even know my address.” - -“I couldn’t bear it.” - -Her eyes were not on him, but on the lattice. She looked across the -great field, with its uplands and its belt of oaks. She had seen it in -so many aspects--half shorn; plowed, the wet furrows shining like -glass; seen it smoothly iced with January snow; watched the green -needle-points of young grain. That outlook, that deep bay window, had -known the tearing of her heart. - -She looked. The ripeness of harvest was suggested. There were the long -stretches of gray-green grain, soon to be golden, soon to rustle with -the dry, hot breeze of August. She saw the tossed-up lavish boughs of -wild roses wreathing above the hedge-rows, and saw the long grass on -the banks, tropical in its growth, and going rapidly to seed. - -She couldn’t stay here and watch the changes of the season for -years--year after year and then death--without word of him. - -“I couldn’t bear it,” she repeated. - -“You wouldn’t be fool enough to throw Jethro over? You wouldn’t come -with me to London and take pot luck--a knight’s wife some day, perhaps, -or only the starving wife of--a number. I mean to be careful--but -failure’s on the cards. Even men like Milligan come a cropper now and -then. I’ve heard shaky stories about him. He doesn’t know when to -stop.” - -His eyes were shining. Something of the old passion was stamping itself -anew on his face. She was looking lovely--the daredevil expression -of perfect abandonment and sacrifice strong on her mouth, on her -quickly-breathing body, on the very hands which shook in the lap of her -white gown. - -“You wouldn’t come?” he said, under his breath. - -She gave a quick sigh, a last sharp glance at the gray, gently-moving -uplands and the wreaths of dog-roses. - -“I would go with you--anywhere. I would have gone with you to the -prison, been a number, a thing less than an animal behind the prison -wall--but they wouldn’t let me.” - -He put his mouth to hers. - -“Dear little woman! In India you’d go to the Suttee. Then it is -settled. Tackle Jethro to-night.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -SHE waited until supper was over, and then she asked Jethro for half an -hour alone in the little room looking due north, where he kept his -papers, his boots, his agricultural catalogues, stray packets of seeds, -and so on. - -The door shut on them. It was nearly dark--the sun setting luridly and -throwing a coppery light across the wall. The oak bureau filled one -corner of the tiny room; turned full to the gaping hearth was a -high-backed oak chair, with the initials “J. J. 1625” cut into its -back. An oak chest beneath the window, carved also, and bearing the -initials “J. J. 1604,” with a coat of arms, showed that the Jaynes had -in the past been even more important people than they were now. A -shadow passed the window. Edred, a dog at his heels, the usual fat -cigar in his mouth, shouted through, saying that he’d stroll up to -Turle and tell Nancy that he couldn’t go to Malling on Thursday. He -gave Pamela a significant look and moved off. The copper light burned -on the wall again. There was a strong scent of jasmine; the wan white -blossoms looked in at the open window. Pamela sat in the chair by the -grate, her head against the carved wood. - -“I wanted to speak to you about my--about Edred,” she said. - -“I’m going to speak to him myself,” Jethro returned promptly. “He -oughtn’t to be loafing about here like this. The place is big enough -for all of us, but it’s bad for a man to be out of collar so long.” - -“He’s very anxious to get something to do. He is full of ideas. He is -very clever.” - -Jethro did not answer. He was sitting on the end of the chest, his back -to the window, one foot in a heavy shoe idly dangling. His clean-cut, -rugged face was in shadow; her guilty conscience made her fancy that -his mouth was relentless. - -“He doesn’t want to go to sea again,” she straggled on. “His nerves -have been tried--you can understand that?” - -“What _does_ he want?” - -She heard the wicket-gate creak. Through the summer haze and the misty, -heavy-leaved trees she saw him pass along the road; white dog at his -heels, burning tobacco between his lips. - -“He wants two hundred pounds. He would go away from Folly Corner; never -come back, never trouble you for a penny more, for a meal, even.” - -Jethro’s light eyes opened. They looked to her like filings of steel in -the uncertain light. His voice came through the twilight suspiciously. - -“Why does he talk like that? He is your brother, isn’t he? I want my -wife’s brother to have the run of my house whenever he’s in the -neighborhood.” - -“He is afraid that he has trespassed on your hospitality too long.” How -parrot-like her voice was, how stilted her words! She burst out -feverishly: - -“Give him the two hundred pounds--if you love me. Let him go at once. -If he delays he may lose his chance. I don’t understand business, but -he will explain it to you; it is something that will not wait.” - -“He could come back for the wedding.” - -“We shouldn’t want him; we could manage without him, I mean. He would -not be able to get away; business--a new business would be too -engrossing.” - -“Two hundred pounds is a good lump.” - -“But to set him up in life--to get rid of him.” - -“You don’t want to get rid of your own flesh and blood, surely! There’s -no hurry. Wait until after the wedding. It’s in August--just six -weeks.” - -He got up, bent over the high chair in his clumsy, hearty fashion, and -kissed her mouth. That kiss decided her, made her inflexible. She -gulped down a little scornful laugh in her throat: a man who kissed in -that way deserved to be jilted. - -“Go back to the chest,” she cried petulantly. “This isn’t the proper -time for nonsense; we are talking business. You will give him the money -at once, won’t you?” - -“I must think it over. Two hundred pounds!” - -“It is nothing to you--everything to us.” - -“To him.” - -“To him--that is what I meant. Open the bureau; get your check-book. It -will only take a moment.” - -“There is no hurry. I never rush things. I’ll talk the affair over with -Edred to-morrow--no, on Wednesday, before I drive in to market. -To-morrow I must see old Crisp, of the Flagon House, about that rye of -his.” - -He pulled a wan, white jasmine bloom to pieces slowly, put his head -half out of the window into the damp, scented air, and said casually -that a couple of bats had flown out of the ivy. - -Her palms tingled with rage and despair. This matter of two hundred -pounds was nothing to him. The clock in the dining-parlor struck nine -very softly; on the hedge across the road a nightingale was performing -a sad recitative. She jumped to her feet in a passion. - -“If you don’t promise to give him the two hundred pounds to-morrow -morning, I’ll go away--I won’t marry you,” she cried. - -Jethro only laughed. He felt so secure. The wedding was to be in six -weeks; workmen were coming out from Liddleshorn to-morrow to fit up the -bathroom and paint the place. Nearly every day a young woman came with -things from the draper’s at Liddleshorn. It was all settled. But she -looked pretty in a passion. He rose heavily from the chest again. - -“If you touch me I shall strike you.” - -“What’s the matter, dear? You’ve been cycling too much. I told Edred -that thirty-five miles would be more than you could manage, and it’s -nearly forty to Beer Hill and back.” - -“It wasn’t a bit too long a ride. The others did it; even Nancy, who is -supposed to be so delicate. I cannot endure to think you so mean, so -lethargic--over a little thing. You must give him the money to-morrow, -or I swear----” - -“Pam.” - -“Don’t call me that. Will you----” - -“He shall have a check to-morrow morning, as you wish it so much.” - -He opened the bureau. - -“I’ve got it in notes somewhere. I meant to bank on Wednesday. Two -hundred pounds!” Hereditary closeness got the better of him again. “It -is a good lump. But what is mine is yours--or will be in six weeks. If -it makes you happy.” - -“It makes him secure. What are you doing?” - -Jethro was pressing his broad thumbs carefully into the sides of a -pigeonhole. - -“There is a secret drawer here. I wouldn’t show it to everyone--but you -are flesh of my flesh.” - -“Not yet.” - -“In six weeks.” - -“Show me the secret drawer.” - -“Wait a bit; it wants humoring. This is a home-made bureau. My -great-grandfather was a clever old chap, wasn’t he? I’ve heard my -father say that when he died the drawer was overhauled for money, but -all they found was three farthings of the year 1732. Here they are.” - -The long shallow drawer was open. Bank notes were lying flat and crisp -in it; in one corner were the farthings, spotted with verdigris. - -A shadow passed across the window again. Edred put his handsome, -insouciant face through the tangle of white blossom and green: - -“Aren’t you two coming out?” he cried chaffingly. “The moon’s up, and I -never heard the nightingale in better form. I’ll run over to Turle in -the morning.” - -Pamela flitted across the dusky room. - -“We are coming--in a moment,” she said in a loud voice, looking at him -significantly; then looking back in the gloom at Jethro--burly and -well-favored--by the open bureau, with its shallow secret drawer and -pigeon-holes full of bills. - -She watched Edred go down to the gate and lean over; the twin poplars -shooting up like two giant brooms above his head, the white dog like a -wraith in the green light. She shut the window and stepped back into -the silent little room, which, although it was June, felt cold. Jethro -had the notes in his hand. She put out hers with a sudden impulse. - -“Give them to me to give to him--as a surprise,” she besought faintly. - -She looked at the bank notes--white, crisp, heavily lettered with -black. - -“Come,” she said, with a forced air of archness and spontaneity, her -hand still out, and Jethro’s diamonds burning with a pale fire on her -finger. Her gesture was a trifle ghastly in its struggle after -playfulness. Her lips were rolled back, showing the set teeth. - -It was such a sudden, breathless impulse. She looked from one to the -other--the man at the bureau, who was so close that she could feel his -breath--sweet as a cow’s--on her hair; the man at the gate, jailed by -poplars. - -Why shouldn’t she yield to this new impulse? Why shouldn’t she go away -from them both and begin a new, an absolutely feminine and nunlike -life? These men drove poor women mad. She knew what a future would be -with Edred--delirium, misery, wealth, disaster, disgrace. She knew what -a future would be with Jethro--fat ease, heart-hunger. But a future -apart she did not know. She would run away from them both--with two -hundred pounds in her pocket. Two hundred pounds in notes! - -Jethro looked at her strangely. - -“I’ll give it him myself--to-morrow morning,” he said soberly, putting -the notes into the drawer and letting it spring back into its -hiding-place. - -She sat down in the oak chair, letting body and brain collapse. She -didn’t bother to think--to regret, to rage, to feel. Things were -decided for her. - -“You’ll give it to him to-morrow morning, then. How serious you are! -Why do you look at me so oddly? Of course, I did not want the notes. -You never see a joke.” - -“I’ll go out and have a talk with Edred now about this business. I -shall be too busy in the morning. You go to bed.” He tried to see her -face through the teasing dusk which had drawn between them; his voice -was tender. “You’ve been doing too much lately. Good-night, dear. Have -a long night’s rest.” - -“Good-night.” - -As she undressed, slipping her petticoats from her waist to her feet, -she saw through the half-drawn dimity curtains the two men and the dog -strolling about in the uncertain moonlight. Jethro looked magnificently -broad and kingly. When she stretched herself in the bed, almost sinking -in the feathers, she told herself that this might be her last night at -Folly Corner. Before she went to sleep she recalled Jethro’s girth and -bearing, together with his balance at the bank, and hesitated. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -NEXT morning when she awoke workmen were hammering and whistling. When -she looked out of her window she saw scaffolding. Long ladders were set -up stealthily against the old red walls. They were getting Folly Corner -ready for a bride. Those long ladders, that swung scaffolding, reminded -her that her wedding-day was fixed. She dressed and went down into the -garden, where the roses were all embroidered with dew and a white mist -puffed slowly across the meadows beyond the hedge. It was very early. -Len Daborn, going heavily to his work, looked like a patriarch, with -his crook-like stick and spreading white beard. She thought of his -daughters, all maids--because the bees had swarmed in the thatch. She -was very anxious to see Edred before breakfast, and, picking up one of -the potatoes which Daborn had left on the ground when he took the trug -to Hone, threw it in at the open window, crying, with meretricious -raillery: - -“Come down. It is a lovely morning.” - -She tried to speak quite airily, purposely choosing her words and tone. -Jethro was already about--looking after the young turkeys. Edred, his -voice muffled by sleep and the drawn curtains, called out that he -wouldn’t be long. She healed her heart by looking at her roses. The -garden always comforted her--drew her to it with strange, silent -magnetism. Before he came down, heavy-eyed and irritable, as he always -was in the early morning, she had decided, with infinite relief, that -she would stay at Folly Corner, and let him go back alone, fight life -alone, take his garish triumphs and risks without her. - -“Jethro’s going to give you the two hundred pounds this morning,” she -said tersely, hardly lifting her head. - -“You are a brick, Pam. We can leave here this afternoon. Pretend that -you have promised to take me over to Annie Jayne’s. We’ll bike to the -station. Never mind luggage. I can spare you plenty of frocks out of -the two hundred. London to-night. We’ll dine somewhere--a good dinner. -Then I’ll drive you to Bloomsbury--they’ll take you in. I can go to a -hotel. To-morrow I’ll get a license and we’ll be married.” - -She picked a rose and pressed her nose right into the exquisite petals. -The fresh morning air, the farm sounds; dew, sun in a haze of slow -fire, bees streaming brown and yellow from the hives, the old house -foaming with the loose Devoniensis rose and lichened to the roof--all -these drew her. - -“To-morrow morning,” he continued, with satisfaction, “I shall be able -to have a whisky-and-soda directly I wake. It pulls a fellow together. -Leave me alone with old Jeth after breakfast--I’m sorry for the poor -devil; you are treating him badly--but a woman has no heart. And, Pam, -hurry up dinner to-day. We’d better start soon after.” - -Jethro came round the house from the yard. He looked a little careless -and rough. Directly he caught Pamela’s glance, his aristocratic face, -with the wholesome russet skin, lighted, and he jerked his thumb, with -a smile and a droll, tender gesture, toward the tall ladders and the -litter of the builders. - -The house--restful, spacious, substantial; the figure beside it, all -honest devotion, decided her. She turned to Edred, lithe and dark, -flushed at the prospect of early emancipation from Folly Corner, which -had been to him merely a rambling prison with lax rules. - -“I’ve altered my mind,” she whispered hurriedly, not daring to look at -him, not daring to stand close, for fear her hand should touch his -coat-sleeve and make her waver. “I’ll stay. I’ll marry Jethro. Don’t -come down. Lead your own life. In future, as you said, I shall only -know you in the newspapers--a day late. I shall be content, happy; -you’ll be free.” - -He stared at her in frank amazement. He was disappointed, astounded, -relieved. - -“You’ll stay.” He gave his cynical smile; then, as Jethro came up, his -face shining and his hands soiled with the poultry-yard, he strolled -off. - -When breakfast was over she threw a look of meaning across the table -and left the room. As she turned to shut the door she saw the two men -disappear in the direction of Jethro’s little den--the home-made bureau -was in there, with the secret drawer and the bank notes. - -Gainah was already settled at the oval table by the window, cutting -patchwork hearts, with the aid of a piece of carefully shaped tin. - -Pamela went along the narrow passage into the drawing-room and tried to -dust, to rearrange china, alter furniture--anything for bodily energy. - -Now and then she heard the loose lick of a plasterer’s brush. The -workmen outside were whistling blithely and calling to each other. They -all seemed to be named Bill. She sat down on the couch and laughed -foolishly. Why was the workingman always called Bill? - -Nettie, the supercilious smirk stronger than usual on her pretty face, -came in to ask for the grocer’s list; the man was at the back door -waiting for orders. She gave it, forgetting nothing--table salt, -bedroom candles, matches, more turpentine--they had their own -beeswax--all the irritating, narrow things that make up the sum total -of a well-managed house. When the girl had gone, she sat down, -listening to the fluty whistles and rough voices outside, and wondering -if she would ever again give the order for the grocer. - -She was a weathercock. Hadn’t she said that she would stay and be -Jethro’s wife? Edred had not been disappointed--but then he took -everything with a hard, cynical philosophy. She was to be Jethro’s -wife. Then why did she listen so intently for the opening and shutting -of doors; why gasp and spring to her feet at a footstep? - -She was standing, the checked duster in one hand, the other painfully -at her side, when Jethro came in. Her white face was all lines and -furrows. - -“I’ve given Edred the notes,” he said shortly. “He wants to be off as -soon as possible. I shan’t go to the Flagon House; very likely I shall -meet old Crisp at market to-morrow. We’ll all drive to the station in -the wagonette after dinner.” - -He looked annoyed; the two hundred pounds had gone against the grain; -he was naturally close-fisted--it was the quality which had made the -fortunes of his house. Presently his face lighted, and he said: - -“What color would you like them to paint the outside of the place? The -foreman suggests chocolate, but I fancy a nice green.” - -“It must be white,” she said positively. “That is fashionable now, and -so clean and fresh--in the country.” - -“Then I’ll tell him white. You’d like to see the last of Edred? We -might drive round by Turle on the way back; Nancy will be upset--I -thought there would be a match there.” - -She didn’t answer; only rubbed viciously at the polished table. - -All that morning she kept away from Edred, although she saw him -lounging about outside--in the garden, in the orchard, waiting for a -word with her. At dinner-time she came down in her most becoming dress. -Her cheeks were flushed, and her gray eyes sparkled and darted. She ate -very little. The two men made a hearty meal, Edred very voluble betwixt -his hurried mouthfuls--talking to Jethro in the superior, pitying way -of the town man. Gainah said nothing; they had ceased to regard her. -She was a machine. She stitched all day; she fed methodically; she -stared at them with her glassy, stupid eyes. - -Jethro went out to hurry Daborn with the horse. Pamela, the untasted -pudding steaming on her plate, got up with a jerk, and spoke of putting -on her hat and gloves. Edred, who had been trying to catch her eye all -through the meal, touched her softly on the back of the hand with his -fingers. She gave a little cry, and flinched as if they had been hot -coal. Her wide eyes, searching his face for the first time, were wildly -appealing. He was piqued by her decision to stay behind and marry -Jethro. Now that there was a chance of losing her, she suddenly became -desirable. - -“This won’t do,” he whispered eagerly. “You must come.” - -“I can’t. Everything is settled.” - -“Pooh! You could arrange----” - -He had her hand. He was looking at her ardently. The impulse to go with -him--let fate bring what it might--was strong. She looked at him. He -was more in earnest, more in love than he had ever been. She had always -understood that it was a mistake to let a man know you loved him--but -then her feeling had always been so intense that she had been incapable -of hiding it. Her love had bubbled in her eyes, on her eager lips. But -it was bad strategy all the same. - -She looked at the cold, dim room, at the foolishly intent old woman by -the window, stitching blue hearts on worn white dimity in a perfect -fury of aimless industry. She looked at the grim shadow of the yew, -at the yawning cavern of the open hearth, at the somber furniture. And -she thought of London, with its glitter, its hurry, and vivacity. -London and Love! She let her wrist relax, let her whole fluttering hand -be buried in that long, cool one. - -“I might arrange----” - -She broke off as Jethro came through the low door. - -“You two ought to be ready,” he called out. “The horse is coming -round.” - -She turned and faced him, with her cheeks like rouged cheeks and her -eyes like polished, many-faceted diamonds. - -“There is really no need for you to go,” she said unsteadily “Edred -wouldn’t mind. Let Daborn drive us. You know you had an appointment at -the Flagon House.” - -“But that was this morning. Of course I’ll come. Be quick and get your -hat on.” - -She went up the shallow stairs, woe at her wavering, passionate heart. -It was no good; he must go alone. It was far better that he should go -alone. - -“Edred can sit on the box with me. The wagonette is half filled up with -luggage,” Jethro said, as she came out of the gate. - -“We can manage very well behind. Can’t we?” She turned, trembling, to -Edred, who was digging at his shoes with the point of his cane. - -“Then jump in.” Jethro had the reins in his hand. - -They flashed along the white roads. She and Edred kept their hands -clasped under the summer rug of Holland. Once she bent forward, first -looking cautiously at the figure on the box, and shook her head, and -whispered: - -“I can’t do it. You see he _would_ come.” - -Now and then Jethro, by a flick of his whip, pointed out some -feature of great interest--to him: another farmer’s hay or cattle, -a badly tilled field, a line of old cottages which he had been -renovating--putting slate roofs in place of thatch and square panes of -glass instead of lead lights. Those cottages were for Pamela; the rent -would be her pin money. - -As they whizzed down the steep hill leading to the little wayside -station, the signal fell. The porter, who was just throwing back the -gates of the level crossing, waited for the horse to pass. - -“We mustn’t stop to see him off,” Jethro said, as Edred’s baggage was -got out. “The mare shies at an engine.” - -“We must wait.” - -Her voice was so shrill that it startled her. She added, touching -Jethro’s arm, and feeling like Jael of old as she did so: - -“Do please wait.” - -“Very well. Here, sonny; hold the horse.” - -He threw the reins to a boy, and the three of them walked into the tiny -station. Edred went into the booking office for his ticket. On the -platform there were several people--a few rustics, with baskets or -bulging red cotton handkerchiefs; one young woman with a tight, -leafless posy bound carefully round with newspaper. - -“He ought to have had some flowers,” Jethro said, throwing a glance -inside at the lean figure at the ticket window. - -“What would be the good? He hasn’t any home. He will go to an hotel -to-night.” - -A wild, impotent desire to go with him made her quiver. - -Another wagonette drove up and Mrs. Turle with Nancy alighted. - -The girl’s face flooded when she saw Edred--in dark clothes--and saw -the various leather bags lying about on the platform. They were being -hurriedly labeled by the porter. - -“Edred’s going away--for good.” Pamela turned her veiled cheek to the -red lips. - -“To sea?” - -Nancy’s face grew piteous. - -“No. To the city.” - -“Then he will come down sometimes.” - -“Perhaps--but it is doubtful. He has found Folly Corner dull. London is -so full of attractions for a man.” - -“Going away!” Aunt Sophy’s clear eyes seemed to pierce behind the lying -mask of her burning face. “Isn’t it very sudden, dear? You look quite -feverish, Pamela. A touch of headache?” - -“My head never aches,” she said, almost rudely. - -“Nancy and I will have an escort up. We are shopping; the summer sales -get earlier and earlier every year.” - -The porter began to clang the noisy brass bell, and along the line, -which ran perfectly straight for a mile or more, they saw the blue -smoke and bulky, indistinct outline of the approaching engine: - -“I’ll go and hurry Edred.” - -She stepped out of the sun into the little booking-office, with its -torn excursion-bills and gay pictures of ocean liners. - -He was scooping up his change, throwing it, with his accustomed -carelessly reckless air, into his trousers pocket. The door of the -waiting-room was half open. On the platform Aunt Sophy was talking -earnestly to Jethro about farming affairs, and Nancy was staring at the -enameled advertisement of a local seedsman. - -“Come in here for a moment.” - -She jerked her hand toward the open door. They went in. The window was -of frosted glass. - -“I can’t go with you,” she said, looking up hopelessly through her -veil. “You see how it is! Aunt Sophy and Nancy are going up. Everything -is against us. Perhaps it is as well. Good-by.” - -He had never been so nearly disposed to sacrifice himself for a woman. -Then, with his unquenchable selfishness, he remembered too that a -pretty woman would be positively useful in his mode of life: many a -dubious bit of business had been pulled off by a good dinner and an -attractive woman. She was so devoted to him. A devoted woman was -invaluable and very rare. They usually played their own game. - -He kissed her turbulently on her closed eyes, through the crisp net, -on her burning cheeks and dry lips. They both felt the rush and sway of -the train as it rushed into the station. They both became conscious of -a figure in the narrow door. She lifted her head, unclasped her fierce -arms, to see Jethro. - -“We were saying good-by,” she stammered. - -Edred was cool. - -“Pam and I have always been chums--we were left in the world together,” -he said in a matter-of-fact way, and insolently meeting the doubt in -Jethro’s steely eyes. “Good-by, old girl. By the way, I’ll send you a -telegram when I get to town, just to let you know I am all right.” - -He went out into the sun, got into a carriage with the Turles, raised -his hat gayly as the train steamed out. - -He was gone. It was all over. The railway banks were gay with -snapdragons, self-sown; ferns had sown themselves in the cutting and -thrust out their fronds like forked green tongues. The station-master’s -black-and-tan terrier bounded round Pamela’s skirts. Every little thing -was emphasized--as it would be in a nightmare. - -“Did you think to ask Aunt Sophy the name of her kitchen-range?” asked -Jethro, as they went slowly up the hill. - -She was on the box beside him. She felt cold and sick. She looked back -now and then at the empty seats. - -“It is the Camelot,” she returned mechanically, and for the rest of the -drive she kept saying to herself, in a dazed way, “Camelot,” as if it -were a new word. - -After tea Jethro drove to the Flagon House, saying he might stay to -supper. Folly Corner was quiet, growing mystic with twilight. Pamela -went down the bricked path, without a glance at the rich mosaic of the -herbaceous borders, and stood between the poplars, her arms on the -gate. By and by a boy came along the road. When he got close she saw -that he carried a red envelope. She took it languidly, saying that -there was no answer, and paying him sixpence for porterage. - - “Be ready to start for London with me at half-past ten to-night. Am - coming back. Will wait under yew.” - -It had been sent from Liddleshorn. Edred was waiting at Liddleshorn -now--waiting for the night, which was always kind to criminals. - -She went into the house, put a few things together. Jethro came in soon -after nine. He was a bit surly--he had surly fits occasionally. -To-night she took no notice. She couldn’t find it in her heart to look -at him, knowing the part she was going to play. - -By ten she was dressed and standing under the yew. Her bag and -umbrella, set against the wall of the house, seemed a grotesquely -modern touch beside the silence and starlight, in contrast to the sharp -delight and terror of her own face. - -How white and gaunt the ladders and scaffolding looked! What a queer, -old-world interior the dining-room made! She could see straight -through; they rarely drew the curtains these light June nights. - -The night-jar called harshly, a beetle dashed against her face, then -whirred away. From the stall came loud, human-sounding, trumpeting -moans. They made her shudder. She knew that one of the cows was -calving. Once she saw the light of a lantern--muddy and yellow, like a -bilious eye, beside the hard stars--go round the building. She hid -behind the yew, listening to the steady clump of Boyce’s boots as he -went in to tend the animal. - -The church clock struck a quarter to eleven. He was late, a quarter of -an hour late; perhaps they wouldn’t catch the last up-train from -Liddleshorn. Very likely he was out in the road merely waiting, as a -matter of prudence, until Boyce went away. The loud moans of the -tortured cow struck her heart. - -She strained her eyes, expecting every moment to see the tall, lithe -figure steal across the garden. She strained her ears, imagining she -heard the sharp ring of hoofs along the road. They came nearer, more -certain, more distinct. She advanced like a guilty thing to the gate, -creeping along in the starlight. Each time she reached the poplar there -was perfect silence. Each time she looked along the road it stretched -straight and blank across the common. Yet when she waited at the yew -again she fancied that she heard the ring of those quick hoofs. - -The quarters chimed on. Boyce, with his yellow-eyed lantern, shuffled -out of sight. The world was only stars and boding night-jar and -sentinel trees which had hardly stirred a leaf in the hot, still air. - -Twelve! Two clocks chimed midnight together, tripping each other up, -like stammering tongues. - -He would never come now. Even as she stood there, sick and flushing, -the whistle of the last up-train tore the night, and on the horizon she -saw the lurid tail of fire. - -She only wanted him to come, to creep behind the yew and kiss her, as -he had kissed that little pink fool, Nancy Turle. She didn’t trouble -her head about anything more; didn’t add to her agitation by worrying -over practical details. They could walk under the stars until -dawn--anything. Mere trifles like food, sleep, sore feet, light head, -were nothing. If only he would come! Those maddening hoofs kept ringing -along the road. A dozen times she ran along the bricked path. - -As the clock struck one she turned away, went under the hooded door -like a thief, up the still staircase into her own room. She flung -herself, wide awake, dry-eyed, and tingling, on her smooth bed. - -At two she heard the steady passing of feet--not Boyce’s this time. -With a strangled cry of joy she slipped off the bed and glided to the -open window. The stars were clouded, and a violent summer rain struck -straight from the sky. The feet stopped below Jethro’s window, a rattle -of gravel went against the glass. She looked out cautiously; listened; -heard Chalcraft tell his master that the ricks were not covered. -Jethro answered back that he, too, had heard the rain, and would be -down directly. - -She heard him go down, heard the feet of the two men die away. Every -star was hidden. It was too dark to see anything. - -She returned to the bed without undressing. She lay there flat on her -back, fully clothed, with her hands and lips clenched. Jethro came back -to the house, to his bed. She heard him steal by her door without his -shoes. - -There was silence. Then the restless life of the farm began. Cocks -crowed; there were feet along the wet road. Across the fields, through -the dimness and mystery of the half-born day, Boyce, the cowman, was -weirdly hooting in the morning mist for the cattle to come and be -milked. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -“MOTHER used to say that when a girl was married she should wear a -bonnet and never jest with gentlemen. Mrs. Clutton’s hats are very -large, and her manner to Jim has always been flippant.” - -Annie Jayne, her hair already thin at the temples, and her pretty -narrow brow seamed with a thousand solicitous premature creases, looked -down fondly at her second baby. Its legs had been unswathed; it was -kicking and gurgling on the drawing-room rug. - -“She certainly is a little flippant--I must say that,” admitted Aunt -Sophy diplomatically, as she beamed at the rug, and gave vent to a -voluble string of infantile expletives. - -“You never should have called on her,” Maria Furlonger cried -reproachfully. “And it did have boofy nickle legs, so it did.” - -She, too, beamed at the baby. He returned her wide grin with a look of -stolid, pitying superiority. Annie, her eyes swimming with tenderness -as they rested on the naked, purplish limbs, said: - -“Isn’t it _wonderful_, the way he takes notice?” - -“She is no more married than you are--than I am,” Maria continued, -returning to the attack, and pulling her mouth back to its natural -limits. - -Annie and Aunt Sophy froze a little after the manner of matrons. They -said instinctively and together: - -“My _dear!_” - -“A married man never sneaks home to his wife after dark when he has -been away for months,” Maria persisted. “It was past ten. Mrs. Daborn -was calling in her cat--the tortoiseshell she has had for sixteen -years. You know that Si Daborn’s cottage is just opposite the Buttery. -She saw him go in like a thief--not even a hand-bag.” - -“A married man always has luggage. Mother used to pack father’s bag -herself. If there are buttons off or a thin place in the socks it -reflects on the wife.” - -“I must say”--Aunt Sophy held out her finger for the child to -clutch--“that a gentleman doesn’t usually--return from South -America----” - -“Without so much as a tooth-brush,” broke in Maria. - -“He might have had it in his pocket,” Annie reminded her gently. “We -mustn’t condemn until we are certain.” - -“They came down quite coolly to breakfast in the morning,” Maria -continued. “Not a word of explanation to Tryphena--Hone’s eldest girl; -the Hones of Marrow’s farm. I was always against Tryphena taking -service at the Buttery. The Hones are in my district.” - -There was a little pause. The baby broke it by cooing. Then Maria cried -out suddenly: - -“Good gracious! He can’t be the Birmingham murderer in hiding at the -Buttery. He may be her husband, after all--which makes it all the more -reprehensible. Mrs. Daborn tells me he looked a _most_ suspicious -character: one of those men with a bronzed face, bold eyes, and a suit -with a large check.” - -“Mrs. Si Daborn is nearly blind with cataract.” - -“You always try to make out a good case for people, Annie. Mrs. Si -Daborn can see a large-checked suit. She is a most respectable old -soul; I think a great deal of her judgment. Her eldest daughter married -a builder; he is in a large way of business at Walthamstow.” - -“A murderer! Maria!” Aunt Sophy for once forgot to be diplomatically -gentle. “I must say that it isn’t wise to talk so wildly. You’ll -frighten Annie and upset the darling baby.” - -“The Birmingham murderer! Is that the man who murdered his employer and -his employer’s six motherless children? Boiled them in the copper, -didn’t he?” - -Annie put the questions quite calmly--as if they merely referred to a -family recipe for making pickled walnuts. - -“Yes, that’s the man.” - -“Then he can’t be at the Buttery. Jim brought home the evening paper -from Liddleshorn. There is a portrait of the murderer and his -victims--_before_ they went into the copper--poor things. He was -arrested. He committed suicide in his cell.” - -The sweet, spiteful expression stole across Aunt Sophy’s face as she -glanced at Maria, who only said tartly: - -“He wasn’t the only criminal in the country, after all. Read the papers -regularly, both of you, and see how many crimes there are which are -never fastened on to the right person.” - -“I rather thought,” said Annie placidly, “that Pamela would come up to -tea. I told her that I was going to short-coat baby to-day.” - -“Rather funny about her brother, wasn’t it?” - -Maria had a faculty for starting aggressive subjects. - -Aunt Sophy put on her best dignity air--the air she adopted toward -people who only kept one servant, who hadn’t a “conveyance,” who didn’t -get invited to the Vicarage. - -“I used to think that he was courting Nancy,” Maria continued, -unabashed. - -“My dear! What an extraordinary notion! Isn’t darling Maria’s brain -original, Annie? Nancy is almost engaged to Mr. Minns, the Liddleshorn -curate. He is an extremely intellectual young man. Naturally he was -drawn to Nancy, whose tastes are so literary.” - -Pamela was slowly driving up the hill in her governess car. She was -startled by a sharp voice behind. It took little to startle her. Her -gray eyes had lately a vague, fixed look--they seemed to petrify as the -wedding-day grew near--a day not to be evaded. - -“I thought that I should never make you hear.” Mrs. Clutton put one -hand on the cart and the other to her pulsing brown throat. - -“I’m sorry. Jump in. Are you going to the Mount?” - -“Not I. My reception wouldn’t be warm.” She laughed merrily. “You must -have heard the scandal.” - -“What scandal?” - -Pamela’s high voice seemed to whistle through her teeth; the reins -dropped slackly on Betsy’s back. - -“About my husband, of course. He came home quite unexpectedly last -night; came just as he was from his club, where he is putting up until -we settle. I opened the door myself; Tryphena was in bed. He looked so -big and brown and self-assured--so prosperous--nothing of the flabby, -dubious, hard-up artist about him. He ate cold pork for supper, and -slept all night. No more dyspepsia, no more rows! He is a success--a -decent income assured us for life. He climbed some peak in America that -no one else has ever climbed. His book will be the sensation of the -season.” - -She stopped, her black eyes snapping and gleaming. - -“I’m very glad,” Pamela said, with a kind of sad heartiness. “Very glad -that someone is going to be happy.” - -“Someone else, you mean. Your happiness is beyond question, though -happiness is only attitude. What alterations Mr. Jayne is making at -Folly Corner!” - -“We couldn’t do without a new wing. A country house isn’t complete -without a billiard-room,” Pamela said, with her limp, forced air of -breeding, of doing the “correct thing.” - -“And your brother will be bringing men down, week ends, no doubt.” - -“Edred!” She caught the reins up tightly. “He will not come again.” - -Mrs. Clutton looked at her shrewdly. Then she said: - -“Tim and I are to live at Chelsea; one of those delightful new houses, -all white paint and wrought iron. He has gone back to town. He is much -too busy to stay. I am making all arrangements for leaving the Buttery -at the end of the week. He was so delighted with the oak. When I showed -him my notebook, full of rustic skeletons, he fairly shouted. It will -make a most sensational thing to run in an up-to-date paper: daily -installments, skillfully backed up by interviews, paragraphs, -photographs of the Chelsea house, when we are settled.” - -“There is nothing scandalous in all this.” - -“How discursive I am! Never mind. You will hear it all, from the proper -point of view, at the Mount. I can see them sitting in judgment! Annie -Jayne, quoting her mother; that horrid Maria Furlonger, an animated -sneer; dear Mrs. Turle, trying to pull both ways, enjoying the scandal -and yet not wishing to take sides against me, in case Tim should turn -out all right and be a vehicle for eligible bachelors. She has a fury -for marrying Nancy. - -“A married man should come back with his halter round his neck. Tim -should have had the station fly full of boxes. He just walked in -without a word--without a clean collar or a nightshirt. I thought that -he was in Venezuela. When Tryphena saw us both come down next morning -she dropped the butter-dish--hand-painted willow--the little fool! Then -she sneaked off and told her mother. Mrs. Hone, very fat, very shiny -with outraged virtue, came back to say that she couldn’t allow _her_ -girl to stay in such a place. _Her_ children had always been brought -up respectable. No one could say that one of _her_ daughters had been -compelled to marry in a hurry.” - -“And you are going away? You won’t be here for my wedding--a week next -Thursday.” - -“I’m afraid not. But you must come and see us in town. I’ve told Tim -all about you. He adores big, dun-haired girls. He likes women as he -likes wine--with body. - -“I want you to go to Mrs. Hone’s,” she continued, “that is why I ran -after the cart. Say I’ll give her five shillings for that figure with -the skull in its hand. Tim thinks an exhibition of Staffordshire would -be a good idea.” - -“Bert Hone’s?” - -“Yes. He is dead. Queer old savage! Good-by. I’m going to talk to the -landlord of the Buttery.” - -She turned off at the cross-roads. Pamela drove to Mrs. Hone’s, haggled -for the figure, wrapped it in newspaper, and put it in the cart. As she -did so she mentioned carelessly that Mrs. Clutton was going away. - -“Be she now?” the doubled-up old woman cried. “Sure! London now. You -don’t say so, my dear soul. I shall miss her. When my man died she came -in to look at him. He worked up to the very last, although he was so -old--past eighty. He took his turn with the hayin’. He never wasted a -hour; it was Sunday when he died, so it was. She come and looked at -him a-layin’ in his coffin, and she shed a tear. The other ladies gi’ -me black clothes. Young Mis’ Jayne up at the Mount brought the little -baby for me to see, and Mis’ Turle sent Miss Nancy down with a bottle -o’ doctor’s stuff--it’s nothin’ but camphor; jest smell it. But Mis’ -Clutton brought a fine wreath like wax. He went down into his grave as -if he was a gentleman farmer. Nobody else thought o’ flowers; wreaths -aint for the likes o’ we.” - -As Pamela turned the pony’s head she decided not to go to the Mount -that day. There were still moments when Annie’s impenetrability and -Aunt Sophy’s phlegm jarred. - -She drove home across the common. It was a burning day--the last in -July. There was a ticking sound in the hot air, as the black seed pods -of the broom burst. High in the sky was an intense angry sun, swept now -and then by boding thunder-clouds. Across the common stretched a carpet -of heather, exquisite purple, just breaking into bloom. When she turned -off and drove down Waggoner’s Lane on the way to Folly Corner, the -hedges were full of blackberry blossoms, widely opened, and pale -heliotrope. There was a fishy smell of privet from a cottage garden, -and the soft, tearing swish of a scythe came from a field. The high -hedges were hung with butter-colored hay, which had caught in the -branches as the loaded wain toiled by. At Folly Corner, in her -garden, the long edgings of white pinks were dry, and brown, and -scentless, and sad. The elder tree which hung over the barn was shabby. -The leaves on the poplars rustled dryly, as they never had done in -June. - -The newspaper, which the carrier brought daily from Liddleshorn, was on -the table in the corridor, neatly folded, tied with twine, and -addressed to Jethro. She carried it into the drawing-room and read it -listlessly. Politics didn’t interest her--foreign politics in -particular seemed singularly superfluous. But she read the art -notices and the reviews of new books as a matter of duty, and the -advertisements as a matter of interest. There were twelve pages to the -paper that day. One was taken up with an advertisement--the prospectus -of a new company. It was something about a ruby mine--it didn’t matter -much, anyhow. She was far too languid to read it all. Still, her eye -ran listlessly down. When she came to the names of the directors she -cried out. Edred Crisp, Esq., of Marquise Mansions, W., headed the -list. - -That name brought everything back. She drove it into her brain letter -by letter. She stared at it so long, so fixedly, that her eyes played -pranks, and the one name, Edred Crisp, took up the whole sheet. - -There was a barking of dogs, a grating grind of wheels outside, -Jethro’s voice. She jumped up, her face suddenly stern, desperate. She -looked out of the window, her head framed in fully-blown roses which -had shriveled and turned brown. - -“Come in here,” she said metallically, looking at the spare figure and -keen, kind eyes. “I want to speak to you.” - -“My boots are dirty.” - -“Never mind. Come now; if you don’t, I may change again, and that will -be the worse for both of us.” - -Until he came in at the door, stooping his head a little because it was -so low, she kept her throbbing eyes upon those words, “Edred Crisp, -Esq., Marquise Mansions, W.” - -“I’ve been to Liddleshorn and seen Preece about the wedding-cake,” he -said. - -“The wedding-cake!” she repeated blankly. “Oh, you need not have -troubled. It does not matter in the least.” - -Jethro was looking puzzled--a little annoyed, too. Her unequal moods of -late vexed him. He was a short-tempered man, given to fits of silence -and _brusquerie_, just as his father had been. Men in the country are -often so; she had noticed that young Jim Jayne snubbed Annie. In towns -a man goes out and blows off his temper--at his club or a music-hall; -in the country he vents it on his women. - -“Doesn’t matter? That sounds strange from you, Pamela.” - -She laughed. The steady look in her eyes, the lambent light on -her face, struck him. She seemed swept, dominated by a sudden -fierce, irrevocable decision. The newspaper, wide open at the -page-advertisement of the new company, was on her knees. She put her -finger under Edred’s name and showed it to him. - -“Umph! Well, he has never written a line since he went away--didn’t -even send the telegram. Still, I’m glad he’s getting on. Looks like -business, doesn’t it?” He read the name and address in a rather -awe-struck way. “There seems to be money in that. How much capital, do -they say? He hasn’t been long in making his fortune. Perhaps he’ll pay -me back the two hundred. It was understood between us to be only a -loan--if he succeeded. What are the Chinese beggars doing at----” - -He lifted the paper to turn it. She drew it away. - -“Never mind the Chinese. You will have time--your whole life--for -them.” - -“My whole life!” He laughed. “By Jove! we mean to settle them in less -than a month--judging by the telegrams. Just let me have a look at the -summary, dear.” - -“But I want to speak to you.” - -“You have spoken. It was to tell me about Edred, wasn’t it?” - -“About Edred--yes.” - -“You haven’t had a letter from him? You don’t know anything but that?” -He pointed to the paper. - -She shook her head. - -“I’ve never had a letter from him since he left; but this,” she put her -finger on the words, “has decided me. The mere look of the letters put -together to form _him_ was enough. Can’t you guess, Jethro? You are not -stupid.” - -“Guess!” An angry darkness suddenly overspread his face. “Guess what?” - -“You don’t guess. You only suspect--and suspicion never decides a -woman’s fate. I shall have to tell you.” - -She seemed to pull herself together, giving a last fierce look of -affection round the room and out of the window, at the flowers and the -fripperies that she was so fond of. Then she said coldly--with the -unerring cold, callousness of steel: - -“Edred is not my brother. He was my lover in London. We were engaged to -be married. He got into trouble--some business affair. The others were -to blame. They got away and he had to pay the penalty. When I came here -he was in prison. I decided never to see him again; not to let him know -my address. He came to the back door with machines that day--that day, -dear; oh, Jethro, I’m so sorry--when you gave me the check for my -wedding things and asked me about the pet lamb. I can’t marry you; I -can’t stay. He doesn’t love me--as you do. He’ll be unkind to me: he’s -that sort of man. I’m a fool, a traitor--everything that is ignoble. -Why don’t you strike me?” She threw up her face and looked at him -mournfully--that wild, sharp face, which was just a mask for her -racking brain. - -“Why don’t you curse me? I have spoilt your life--but it might have -been worse. If he came back, or sent a message saying he wanted me, I -should have gone. Yes, your wife, Jethro, would have gone. I’ve been -trying to cure myself. I saw his name, and it all came back. He was the -first man--no one else before had said or looked love, or kissed -me. I suppose that must be the reason. There can be no other--he is -worthless. You are a god compared to him. But he was first. I can’t -help it.” She shook her head hopelessly, the molten, heavy tears -rolling slowly down her face. - -“That isn’t all. You shall know the very worst. Then you won’t care so -much. You’ll drive me away from Folly Corner--and forget. Marry some -good, even-minded girl--some girl without the horrible strength that I -have. I must tell you the rest. He did send a telegram. You were at the -Flagon House. He said he was coming back to fetch me. I waited under -the yew until past midnight. He never came. Until to-day, until I saw -this”--she touched his name--“I thought--I hoped that he might be dead. -He wouldn’t have any power over me then. - -“You saw him kissing me in the waiting-room. Why didn’t you guess -then--why did you stop short--just suspecting? Suspicion is no good--it -is only a petty thing. If you had not driven us to the station I should -have gone to London with him. That day I kept changing my mind. Do -speak, Jethro. Don’t look at me in that queer way. You must be angry. -Show it. Strike me. Call me all the disgraceful names you are surely -thinking.” - -He got up, giving himself a slow shake in the shaggy coat of homespun, -which was of a very light color and looked something like hairy -sacking. - -“You must go to him,” he said simply, not a trace of anger on his face. -“It’s natural--I wouldn’t stand up against Nature for the world. -Nature mates us all--no good our meddling. Even with the cattle----” - -“Never mind the cattle,” she broke in, her squeamishness asserting -itself even now--his speech was apt to be blunt enough when he spoke of -the simple facts which he had been accustomed to take as a matter of -course all his life. - -“You can’t help it,” he continued, with superb generosity. “I don’t -blame you. He was first--you were meant for him. It isn’t your -fault--or his. I am the fool, the meddler. You can’t mate through the -newspaper. I ought to have known.” - -He went toward the door, his head down, his face gentle and strong. She -started up. - -“You are not going?” - -“There is nothing to stay for.” - -“You don’t say one word of blame----” - -“It is no good, and I have no right. Go to him, dear.” - -“You forgive me?” - -“There is nothing to forgive. I should have done as you have done. Not -a woman in the world would hold me back from you, if you were free.” - -“But the wedding? What will people say?” - -“Let them say. That’s nothing.” - -“Those things are everything. You are going to live and die in this -place. For your sake, not mine”--she looked lingeringly at the yellow -fields and rainbow flower-beds--“we must tell Aunt Sophy a plausible -story. I’ll write a note, tell her that Edred is ill--a long -illness--and wants me. Later on, by degrees, you can let them know that -I am never coming back.” - -“You’ll tell her that Edred is ill--a long illness--and wants you,” he -repeated in a slow, painstaking voice, as if, for her sake, he was very -anxious to remember. “Very well, I’ll try not to forget. Would you like -me to drive you to the station this afternoon?” - -He saw the lightening of her face. - -“So soon! But I could be ready. I’ll start packing now.” She went -crisply across the room. “But not you. Let Daborn drive.” - -“I’d rather come, if it’s the same to you. There’s a train at four.” - -“Four. Very well.” - -“We can have an early tea. You like your tea.” - -“Tea--yes.” - -“Take some flowers. There are plenty of eggs, too. Some of those early -pullets are laying already, although the old birds are on the moult. He -liked quince jam. Could you manage to pack a pot or so?” - -“Jethro!” Her keen voice made the name more a shrill, birdlike cry than -a word. “I can’t bear to hear you talk so calmly. I would not mind so -much if you looked the martyr. But you sound so every-day--quince jam, -pullet eggs! And yet I know how bitterly you care.” - -“I must try not to. I’ve made a muddle. I hurried things when I should -have let them alone.” - -“You’ll forget,” she said, with miserable lack of conviction. “We -shall be--Edred and I--a bad dream. Never trouble to give us a -thought.” - -“But I shall expect to hear from you; to see you, perhaps, if I go to -London. I’ve often thought of a week in London. I haven’t been since my -father died. We saw most of the sights, but missed the Doré Gallery. -Everyone ought to go there.” - -She gasped. - -“You could come up, see us together--man and wife. You can talk of the -Doré Gallery!” - -“Why not? I mustn’t lose sight of you, my mother’s kin.” - -“Kin!” she cried out, with bitter scorn for herself and Edred. “He -isn’t, at all events. His real name I don’t know; he was sentenced as -Edred Pugin. As for me! Very likely my father was not your missing -uncle at all. I hope not--for your sake. I’m no credit to you.” - -“You must send me your address. If that ruby company is good and all -the shares are not allotted, I’ve money lying by--I shan’t need to -spend so much now----” - -“You don’t know Edred. Never let him have another penny. He has done -you harm enough. You won’t want our address; we shan’t be creditable -people--for you to know. Up to-day and down to-morrow--I know the life -I’m going to lead. But I step into it with my eyes open, -because--because it will be with him. I want you to know the very worst -of me--you’ll be cured all the sooner. Your misery is nothing--compared -to him. My heart is all stone--until he dissolves it. He doesn’t -want me. But I’m glad, mad to go. Remember all this when I’m gone. Say -she was a callous, reckless, scheming, unprincipled creature--she is -well forgotten.” - -She slipped past him, and out of the room, and up the stairs. Once he -thought he heard her sing and then stop abruptly. He went out and -tramped moodily across his acres, finding fault with everything, -swearing freely at the men, kicking his dog, and roughly ordering away -a party of children who were playing in the meadow. - -Pamela packed. She said good-by to Gainah, who never troubled to lift -her head, tipped the two maids. When she told them, in a marked and -significant way, that her brother was dangerously ill, pretty Nettie -began to blubber. - -When the wagonette was out of sight Gainah put her patchwork away -methodically. Then she went into the garden, looking at things -critically, speaking to Daborn in a sharp voice--the imperious voice of -old. She was a little cramped yet--mentally and bodily. But the fact -that Pamela had gone was beginning to glimmer in on her poor -intelligence. When she saw the housekeeping keys in the basket, she -picked them up and dropped them in her deep pocket with a cunning -chuckle. Then she marched solemnly into the kitchen. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -WHEN Pamela walked out into the yard at Victoria, the stale stable -smell, the heavy air, and coarse sounds instantly made her feel at -home. The last time she had breathed London was on that hot, stifling -August morning nearly a year ago when she had started for Folly Corner. -Her head had been heavy then, her eyes inflamed with crying, her feet -sore and burning with the ceaseless, hopeless walk of the night -before--backward and forward across the common, keeping the stolid -prison--his shameful casket--in sight. - -To-day her mouth curved happily, the blood ran in and out of her face -with the intensity of her emotion. Folly Corner was far behind -her--behind forever; Aunt Sophy, Nancy, Annie--all the kind, -slow-witted women--were mere phantoms; Jethro, clumping his fields -stupidly, his head hanging, his big heart sore, was simply a rustic -figure of no particular interest. - -That life at Folly Corner had been a different incarnation. The one -moment when it seemed real was when a ruddy-faced man had brushed by -her on the platform--a pointed Niphetos rosebud in his coat. She -thought then fleetly of her garden, of all the bushes which had been -her choice, which had been planted for her. - -She listened joyously to the hoarse voices of the drivers, to the -mellow rattle of the piano-organ playing a tune which she had never -heard. An orderly boy, looking pertly up in her face as she got into -the cab, said: - -“Now we _shan’t_ be long.” - -That must be the new catchword; once she had been well up in these -things. Edred had taken her to music-halls. - -How hot and misty and stuffy it was! And how delicious! She leaned back -in the cab, laughing softly and continuously, like a mad thing. Then -she began to be afraid, not knowing how Edred would receive her. Then -she smiled again, knowing that she knew how to make herself -adorable--at least for a little while. There were certain gestures, -certain airs and words, which always pleased him. She coaxed a finger -under her veil, and pulled a loose bit of hair on the temple over her -brow. He liked loose hair. - -It was a misty, gray-gold afternoon. London was empty--for London. - -The Green Park was thick and mystic, the white frocks of the little -children standing out solidly in the haze; an occasional white -perambulator moving along slowly, like a fairy boat. - -Marquise Mansions. The cab pulled up. The driver called out ironically -to the conductor of a Hammersmith omnibus, “Fancy meeting _you!_”--that -must be another catchword. How she had lost touch of the gay, silly, -witty London life! She had been contemptuous of it, imagined that she -hated it, that she only longed for it because Edred was there. Was it -possible that only yesterday, about this time, she had been watching -Jethro’s cart horses, with their elaboration of brass harness and head -decking? She had thought then that the country was so large, so utterly -satisfying; that towns, with their hotbed air of struggle and scheming, -would choke her. Only yesterday! It had all faded into a sad, tender -dream. She was very glad to be awake again. Marquise Mansions! - -It was a leviathan block of latter-day flats; red brick, white paint -already turning smoke-colored, muslin curtains at the windows, little -fragile balconies to the upper stories. A maid in smart black-and-white -livery came daintily out and flicked a duster over one of the -balconies. She looked down into the street and smirked at a man with a -milk cart. - -The place was like Edred. It was a typical place for him to choose: all -swagger show, all glitter, very smart and ostentatious, very thin. - -She dismissed her cab, went up the tesselated steps, consulted the -names which were displayed on the wall. The hall porter rang the lift -bell. The lift came down. She got in, reclined on the thickly-cushioned -back, and watched the floors skim by, dip down. - -Edred was on the third. She knocked with some trepidation at the -extravagantly shaped copper knocker which flaunted itself on a peacock -door. A little pert page, all claret cloth and gilt buttons, opened it. -She caught her breath at the color and depth of the carpets lying on -the stained floor, at great copper bowls and decorative dishes which -were disposed on shelves in a room with a half-opened door. - -“Is Mr. Crisp in?” - -The little page smiled knowingly; it was a very horrible smile, on such -a chubby, child face. He didn’t seem at all surprised at the advent of -such a visitor--a handsome woman, young and well dressed. It was -evident--her blazing, aching heart told her this--that she was only one -of a type. - -“Mr. Crisp is in, miss. What name?” - -“Never mind. Tell him an old friend.” - -He left her in a little ante-room, dainty, extravagant, luxurious, with -an oriel window looking over the park. She had composure enough to get -up and put her face close to an oval, gilt-framed glass which hung -above the hearth. She had hardly turned away when the door opened. With -lips parted and hands out she advanced, then fell back as a strange man -put his chin and a pair of keen eyes round the lintel. He was a -nondescript. She took an instant dislike to the weak face and reedy -figure. He was dressed in brown tweed of an ugly herring-bone pattern; -he had a thick new watch-chain. She didn’t know who he was, but she -instantly hated--and resented--him. - -He came a little farther into the room, looked at her thoughtfully, -critically--as a lady’s-maid might at her lady’s new gown--possibly to -be hers some day. Then he, too, grinned. The glance instantly fired -her; she looked and almost spoke indignant remonstrance. But the -strange man merely grinned again and slipped away. She was left alone. - -Edred was a very long time. When at last she heard lagging feet, the -ball in her throat--of frenzied delight, of trepidation and -tumult--nearly choked her. - -He was faultlessly dressed. He looked prosperous--a bit bored and -languid--that was part of his mask--but happy and very much plumper. -She fancied that his puffy cheeks detracted from his good looks. He -hadn’t missed her. He had left her at Folly Corner--to die if she -liked, to do worse--without caring. - -She struggled up from the extravagantly stuffed divan of figured silk. - -“Edred!” - -“By Jove! Pam! You?” - -She had nervously pulled her gloves off while she waited. His eyes fell -to her hands at once. There wasn’t a ring on them. - -“Whew! He hasn’t found out? The wedding isn’t off?” - -“Aren’t you glad to see me?” - -“My dear little girl--it is such a surprise. Fancy meeting _you!_” he -laughed airily. “Where’s old Jeth? What’s the joke?” His eyes fell to -her hands again. “You’re married? It was to be the sixth--wasn’t it? -No--the sixteenth?” He looked at a calendar. - -“The tenth.” - -“To-day’s the fourth. Are you playing a trick? How did you know I was -here? I say, Pam, be square. Is he--Jethro, you know--waiting outside? -The old fellow must look odd in a frock-coat. Does he lift each foot -along the pavement, as if he were walking through stubble? If he’s up, -I can give him a good tip. The new company----” - -“The ruby mine. I know. I saw your name--that is why I came.” - -“Does he want an investment?” - -She clasped her hands with an air of hopeless, helpless tragedy. - -“You men are all alike. Can’t you see an inch before your nose? Do you -think I should come up here about rubies? Oh! can’t you see it on my -face? Jethro was just as bad; he made me tell him everything.” - -“Everything?” - -His handsome face became blank. - -“Everything.” She threw a hard laugh at him. “Everything--No. 4658 and -all.” - -“You didn’t?” - -“I did. It is your fault. I couldn’t marry him, Eddie. I had to come. -He wished it. He knows everything. He sent me.” - -“He sent you to me?” - -“Yes.” She was growing deadly pale. “Don’t you want me? I can go -away--but not to Folly Corner. That is finished.” - -He looked troubled, stroking and tugging the coal-black, silky -mustache. He raised his eyes to her, then dropped them to the ground. - -She had fallen back, her lids half fallen. It was a hot day; it had -been a long journey. She was very tired, quite faint. She didn’t think -she cared much, now that he evidently didn’t. Yet, never for a moment -did she regret leaving Jethro; never for a moment entertain the idea of -going back. She shut her eyes, listening quite listlessly to the rumble -of life below. Her fate had long ago passed out of her own hands. She -was a chattel in spirit; although free in letter. Let him settle what -he liked. - -She was roused by a kiss on her mouth. Edred was on the lounge. His -face was tender--the bold, assured tenderness that always made her -happy. - -“Good little girl,” he said, in the half-sneering, half-caressing voice -which was his nearest approach to adoration. “Good little girl to come. -You must stay with me. I’ve missed you, Pam. You had the telegram?” - -She let her head stay on his arm; she stretched her dusty feet out -wearily, with a gesture of absolute content. - -“Yes. It was dangerous; Jethro might have opened it. I waited by the -yew half the night. Why didn’t you come?” - -“Because I had just a shred or so of honor left----” - -“The evasive thing that men call honor! I never could understand it.” - -“A woman doesn’t. Jethro--poor old man--had been devilish good. The two -‘hun’ put me on my feet, Pam. Like the place?” He nodded his head -comprehensively at the luxury which walled them. “Decentish, isn’t it?” - -“It’s very nice. Why didn’t you come, or write? It nearly broke my -heart. If I had not seen your name in the paper yesterday I should have -married Jethro.” - -“I’m very glad you didn’t.” He looked sleepily at the beauty of her -flushed cheeks, at the depths of her happy eyes. “You saw the page -advertisement in the _Standard?_ We’re spending thousands in -advertisements--throw a sprat to catch a herring. Does the carrier -still bring the paper? What’s the fellow’s name?” - -“Buckman.” - -“That’s it. The same slow old horse--Hackty. You see I’ve remembered -that. I suppose they mean it for Hector, or perhaps Active. Gad! what a -sleepy hole! I felt like being in a dentist’s chair the whole time, -half under the gas, you know, just going off. If you went back in fifty -years, they’d be just the same. It’s so precious dull that they’d blow -their brains out--if they had any.” - -“Jethro has been so good,” she said, feeling numbly that Jethro was -already very, very far away. She actually laughed, adding: “He insisted -on my bringing up flowers, eggs, some quince jam.” - -“That stunning quince jam,” he said boyishly. “Jeth’s a good sort. Was -he very much cut up? It was too bad.” He gave her another kiss, without -any protest on her part, any courtliness on his; quite as a matter of -course. - -“He was splendid. Poor, dear old Jethro! You wouldn’t understand. -You’ll only laugh. You always laugh at things that make me want to -cry--it’s the way with a man. He was so simple, so grand. He was like -a Greek god, very calm, but not a bit indifferent. He regarded it so -broadly--talked of Nature. He is all Nature. He is a great, simple, -clean-living ox--slow, reflective, not a bit stupid. He seemed to be -above or past all the small teasing, tearing strings which drag mean -hearts like yours and mine. I’ve been talking a great deal of nonsense -and you are annoyed.” - -She looked quite frightened as Edred got up abruptly and rang the bell. -The past ten minutes had been so sweet that she would have accepted -them willingly as eternity. - -“Not a bit.” He shrugged. “But it’s rather rough to compare him to one -of his own oxen. Do you remember how proud he was of his -stock--murderous black beasts with tremendous horns? I tell you I -didn’t half like crossing some of those fields in the twilight.” - -The page came in. He looked at her boldly as she sat on the couch. She -decided that her first step of authority should be the dismissal of -that boy. Edred ordered tea. Everything was dainty, strangely dainty to -her, because she was fresh from the coarse, lavish hospitality of -Sussex. The sandwiches were evanescent--a suggestion of yellow and -green. Edred tilted the cream into her cup; at Folly Corner they often -had to put up with skim milk because Jethro insisted on having so many -pounds of butter made weekly. He had his stern economies; believed in -making farming thoroughly pay. When eggs fetched more than a shilling a -dozen almost every one was sent to market. - -There were French cakes, toast cut in mathematically exact triangles. -The aroma of the tea seemed to fill the room. They sat by the open -window, an inlaid table spread with exquisitely drawn linen between -them. She looked at the road, across the railings into the park, where -an occasional carriage drove through the haze. She looked at Edred. The -prison stain was completely gone. His diamond ring, the pin at his -neck, all his indications of prosperity, pleased her. And yet she -thought the diamonds ostentatious. If he had been a portly man, instead -of a slim and elegant one, he would have been vulgar. - -She was always touched by externals--had a painful respect for the -things money gave. In the midst of her intense happiness she paused to -consider discreetly that, love apart, Edred was a more eligible husband -than Jethro. She thought of Jethro--that side of him which had always -jarred on her: his half-sheepish, half-surly air in the presence of -strangers, his shy avoidance of women. Then she thought of his -toilet--the striped tags of his thick boots, which were generally -hanging out, the black suit, which he would speak of as his “best”; his -week-day shirts of galatea; his best white ones, which he did not often -wear because of the difficulty experienced by the old washerwoman in -getting them up. She thought of his ridiculous neckties, of his huge, -snuffy silk pocket-handkerchief, of the turnip-like repeater which had -been his grandfather’s, and which he lugged out of his capacious pocket -laboriously. She poured herself more tea from the Queen Anne silver -pot. She poured another cup for Edred, feeling a delightful sense of -being wifely as she did it. - -“We might have had some of Jeth’s jam,” he said, idly smiling at her. -His eyes seemed to contract and glitter unnaturally with undisguised -admiration. She was very flushed and triumphant, a little feverish and -reckless with her mastery of him. Yet, all the same, because she was a -woman of the world, and had been driven to consider her reputation, she -began to wonder, as the gray haze in the park grew black, what -suggestion he was going to make for the night. One could not walk out -into the street, take a hansom, and drive to be married forthwith. He -said, pushing his empty cup away and settling back in the chair: - -“I’ve been lucky. Everything I’ve touched has turned up trumps.” - -“The ruby mine----” - -“Pooh! That is only one thing. I’ve learnt, by very bitter experience, -that it is as well to have plenty of irons in the fire.” - -“Is it a genuine concern? You won’t risk anything this time?” - -She put the question for his sake--for theirs. She did not wish him to -fail, to suffer again. She wanted to be rich--safe--for the rest of her -life. - -“As genuine as anything can be,” he returned evasively. “But don’t -spoil yourself by being serious. The prettiest woman--and you are -looking devilish pretty to-night, darling--can’t afford to be serious: -it brings lines about the mouth.” - -She returned his smile, but a moment after she sobered again. - -“I’m obliged to be serious,” she told him deprecatingly. “What -arrangement do you propose for to-night? If I go to Bloomsbury too late -they will not be willing to take me in.” - -“Bloomsbury!” He looked annoyed at being reminded of that page in his -life. “You don’t want to go there.” - -“They know me. I can think of no other place.” - -He didn’t answer for a moment. She searched his flushed face anxiously -through the uncertain light. - -“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last. “There’s a very fair hotel a few -doors down. Sutton shall send my traps there. I’ll engage a couple of -rooms for myself and him, and you shall have this place. Will that do? -You’ll be very comfortable. They give me service--the cooking’s fair. -One of the chambermaids will unpack your things and help dress you.” - -He spoke as if she had all her life been accustomed to such attendance. -He was wonderfully plastic; it was one of his feminine attributes. In a -few weeks he had assimilated the manner, cultivated the brain of a -wealthy man who instinctively measures cost by a five-pound note: -nothing smaller than a “fiver.” - -“That would do very well.” - -“It won’t be for long. We must marry. I’ll get a license to-morrow. -Sutton shall see about it--he’s a rare fellow for details.” - -“Is that the horrid man who looked into the room while I was waiting?” - -Edred laughed. - -“Yes.” - -“Who is he? He mustn’t come here any more. I’m sure he’s hateful.” - -“He’s very useful. He lives here--a most superior fellow, much to be -pitied. He was a clerk in a City firm for twenty-five years; went there -when he left school; worked up to a salary of £150. Threw all his -energies into the business; stayed late on Saturday, took papers home -to master on Sunday. Then they chucked him--wanted a younger fellow. -Everybody must be young nowadays. Sutton is invaluable. He knows the -inside of the city. He’s my clerk. I give him a couple of pounds a week -and his grub. He’s perfectly happy--so am I. His tips have put hundreds -into my pocket. Oh! you’ll have to be civil to Sutton.” - -“Don’t be in too great a hurry to make money, will you?” - -He laughed. - -“Too much haste leads to the dock,” he said lightly. “I’m careful -enough. Some day--in a fairly little time, too--I shall be a second -Milligan. Lady Pamela Crisp. It sounds well, doesn’t it?” - -“We are going to be married--in my name. Will that be legal?” - -“Extraordinary delusions a woman has about the marriage service! Of -course it will be legal.” - -“I ought to be going to Victoria to get my luggage. It is in the -cloak-room.” - -“Sutton will see to that.” - -She never forgot the witchery of that evening. Edred was so adoring, so -recklessly generous, so optimistic. They dined; they had a box at the -theater. No tinge of conscience whipped up her light heart. She never -threw one half-thought back, across the lonely miles of suburb and -common and pasture, to the mellow old house, girt with a great pond, -whose master at that moment might be sitting by the empty hearth with -his whole big faithful heart full of her. - -The one disconcerting touch was when they parted at the door of -Marquise Mansions. Edred had been talking of his successes, of the many -clever, shifty schemes he had in prospect. - -“We must entertain--in a Bohemian way,” he said. “Only men; jossers I -want to persuade into doing things. You understand? Very often a look -from a pretty, well-dressed woman will do more than hours of -plausibility, of convincing proof, from the woman’s husband. You must -have some Paris frocks; get your hair dressed well.” - -“We shall only entertain men?” - -“Women are not interesting--the wives and daughters of city men. We -shall only entertain from diplomacy--other women would spoil -everything. You must help me to play my game. It is to your interest, -isn’t it?” - -She did not answer. He thought that her expression in the uncertain -light--stars and gas lamps competing--was rebellious. He became -savagely petulant. - -“This marrying is a bore,” he said. “Why do you insist on it? Marriage -is only an empty form. It would be all the same--no one would know. -Married people are not branded for all the world to see, after all. We -shall never get tired of each other. It will be just the same, just as -safe, more romantic. What do you think, Pam?” - -He stared at her with odd intentness, as she stood in the shadow of the -wide entrance door. She was wrapped from her soft dull hair to her shoe -in a costly evening cloak which they had hurriedly bought on the way to -the theater to cover her dusty traveling dress. - -“I think that it has all been said, threshed out,” she returned firmly. -“I don’t want romance--at the expense of respectability.” - -The night-rattle of London swung by them as they stood in the shadow of -the door poising their fate in their hands. The warm, misty streets -were festooned with strings of red and yellow light. Pamela was -reminded of those miserable omnibus rides from Portobello Road, when -she had watched the words “OX FORCE--NINON SOAP--DUNN’S NOSTRUM” -glitter and die on the face of a house. - -Edred’s eyes, contracted and brilliant, tried to destroy her will. They -were admiring, magnetic. But she was fiercely respectable; she had -struggled, had seen the seamy side of life. She loved him, she was -madly, wickedly infatuated with him, but his smooth claptrap about the -romance of an irregular union did not take her in. - -“You are jesting,” she said coldly; “jesting--in very bad taste.” - -“Yes. Only a jest,” he returned, gripping her hand. - -Three days after that they were married. She started a new, -intoxicating career as mistress of the gorgeously appointed flat at -Marquise Mansions. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -IT was past eleven and they were languidly pecking at breakfast. The -brick-red sun forced himself into the room, made the gorgeously -upholstered settee and chairs look faded, showed the green tarnish on -the great copper pots, the gray rim of dust on the delft which crowded -the shelves, and the darker layer which the housemaid had left in the -interstices of the elaborately carved furniture. - -Pamela’s morning gown, of some clinging primrose stuff, had caught -London smuts in the loose ruffles of its sleeves. She lifted her cup -and the ruffles fell back, showing finger-and-thumb bruises on the -white flesh. She was sallow, blotchy, her eyes muddy and swollen. Edred -kept looking up from his paper and staring savagely; the weary face, -all quiver and traces of heavy tears, infuriated him. - -“I don’t know what is coming over you,” he broke out at last. “You have -only two moods--the nagging or the maudlin.” - -“Edred! I--I thought you’d say you were sorry for last night. Look!” - -She held up her bare arm accusingly. - -“Sorry!” His frank look of amazement was absolutely genuine. “What have -I to be sorry about?” - -“Look!” - -The white arm, with the ugly purple marks, quivered before his eyes. - -“Pooh! you bruise with a touch. It’s nothing.” - -“The things you said----” - -“Said! You’d madden any man with your stiff airs of prudery.” - -“I’ve begged you not to ask Milligan here.” - -“I shall ask him as often as I like. He’s useful. You’ll please be -civil to everybody who’s useful--to Sutton in particular. You treat the -fellow as if he were----” - -“The cur he is,” she concluded scornfully. - -“You’re no good if you can’t help me to play my game. That is why you -are here, confound you,” he cried savagely. “You don’t think”--his -sneer was devilish--“that I married you because I had such a supreme -longing for fireside virtue.” - -“They are all alike--your men,” she cried out passionately. “They -regard me as--as--I cannot finish.” - -She buried her disfigured face in her hands. Every line of her shaking -body was crouching, subjective; she was a human hound with a brute for -a master, a brute on whom she fawned. - -“It’s new for you to be so particular.” - -“I--I don’t understand.” She lifted her face suddenly; let him see it -all grotesquely distorted, drawn out of shape. - -“I repeat; it is new for you to be so particular. If you can throw -yourself into the arms of one man----” - -“One man?” - -“These mawkish airs of innocence don’t impress me. We’ve been quite -bare to each other for twelve months. You came here; forced yourself on -me. Why couldn’t you stay behind like a sensible, modest woman, and -marry Jethro? I was getting on perfectly well, wasn’t I? Did I look as -if I wanted you?” - -“Edred!” - -“That parrot cry will make me murder you some day. Be a woman, with a -clear head on your shoulders, not a sniveling fool. Be a wife to me.” A -queer, mocking expression contracted his thin mouth. “Help me when you -can. If you offend Milligan----” - -“I’ll never speak to him again. Good Heavens! You don’t want me----” - -He sprung up from the table, took her by the trembling shoulder, and -swung her round. - -“I don’t care what the devil you do,” he said deliberately. - -She looked weakly up into his face, saw that he meant it, and began to -shake and sob. This was the worst blow he could deal. He meant it! -Hitherto she had attributed his brutalities to business worry. - -She cried violently, hopelessly. She was all tears. She had no spirit -left, except the spirit that vents itself in extravagant words. -Suddenly she darted to the open window. - -“If I were to jump down,” she began desperately; her feverish hands -clawed round the ledge, her wild eyes turned inward to the room. - -“It wouldn’t be a bad solution.” - -She ran back, tried to catch him round the neck with her pleading arms, -murmured pet names, shivered, sobbed, shook, tried vainly, in the wrong -way, to win back the old, transient adoration. - -He wrenched himself away, as he would have freed himself from a skein. - -“I’m sick of these rows,” he said savagely. “Do as I wish. Mind what -you’re at with Sutton--he knows a precious deal that I’d rather he -didn’t. Play Milligan. A clever woman would do it all without -compromise, but you are a prude--one of those ardent, faithful prudes -that make a man curse. Hang it all, I don’t want your extravagant -devotion; I’m in need of help. I don’t care what you do so long as I -don’t know--that’s married fidelity up to date. Do you understand?” - -“I can’t--I won’t! My life is one degradation; you don’t care. If I -were some shameful woman, not your wife----” - -“By George! if you knew all, you’re little better. That jargon in the -church--Sutton to give you away, the verger as best man--didn’t put you -on a pedestal of virtue.” - -“I won’t--I can’t!” she repeated desperately, linking and unlinking her -hands, looking up at him with the devoted, obstinate eyes of a dog who -is afraid. - -“Then go. You are a burden, an irritant.” - -“You mean that?” - -“Of course. I mean everything.” - -He flung himself out of the room. Presently she heard him leave the -flat with Sutton. - -She fell down on the settee, cuddling into the stuffed corners for -comfort. She shivered all over. She was cold. She ached with misery. -She told herself that she was a coward. She knew perfectly well, as -well as he did, that her heroics, her dramatic attitudes and words of -palpable restraint, were only pose. A woman who meant suicide wouldn’t -talk about it. She despised herself for that rush to the window--as he -despised her. He had told her to go; he didn’t want her. But she hadn’t -the courage to take him at his word. She loved him. She was perfectly -willing to crawl, to cringe to him--for the sake of an occasional rough -caress. - -What a life it had been! She looked back along the year. She recalled -his first few ardent weeks, his gradual cynicism and disregard, the -constant vinegar lash of his reckless tongue, the frequent heavy blows. - -What a strange, disreputable, luxurious life they led, the three of -them! She included Sutton without hesitation. He was only a dependent -in externals. Edred seemed more than half afraid of him. Sutton knew -every money-making shuffle, every risky deal of the game. - -She gazed wildly about her. Everything was luxurious, slovenly, lonely. -She hadn’t an engagement to fill the day, hadn’t a woman friend in the -world. Then, fleetly, her thoughts ran back with deep affection to -those women she had known once--kin, perhaps--the Turles and Crisps, -and Jaynes and Furlongers. Simple women! She had laughed at them, been -scornful of them, been bored to death by them. At the moment she longed -for them. She pictured them individually in their lonely, comfortable -homes, with their traditional, simple, brainless occupations. She -thought of them singly. Each one had her special reputation among her -neighbors--for a particular jelly, good butter, or savory pickles. - -She knew dozens of men. They came to the flat with Edred; sometimes -they came when he was out, when they knew perfectly well that he was -certain to be in the City. Milligan especially cultivated that trick. -Her outraged virtue lighted to a cruel fire. She thought fiercely that -if Milligan came up the stairs that day she would find courage to kill -him. - -Yes, dozens of men! They gave her flowers, once or twice a jewel. They -paid her dubious compliments, discussed music-hall artistes, told queer -stories in her presence. They flattered, ignored, or shocked her, as it -suited the mood of the moment. She occupied exactly the position of a -beautiful, expensive lap-dog, whose ears every visitor may pull, to -whom every visitor may toss a lump of sugar. - -London outside was gay and hot--all blue and yellow, all dust and eager -noise. The top-heavy omnibus swung by, with gayly dressed women on the -garden seats, fluttering bows of ribbon on the drivers’ whips. The big -hats of the women, piled with feathers and imitation roses, made her -think of her blazing flower borders at Folly Corner. She sat up, wiped -her burning eyes, into which her bitter sorrow seemed to have corroded. -She thought very calmly of Jethro--thought of the slow, easeful, -reflective life which she had so lightly, so gladly, thrown out of -reach. A year ago! They would have married--had a child, perhaps. His -simple words--“A little son to come with me and beat in shooting-time; -they soon grow up”--rippled in her throbbing head. A child! She might -have had her own child by now. The dreadful ache of a barren woman -caught her. - -She walked up and down the untidy room, her primrose trail dragging -over the dusty carpet. She rang the bell, but no one came to clear. She -hadn’t a duty in the world. It was hardly noon yet. If she crawled back -to her bed and sobbed away the day, if she went headlong down through -the oriel window--it made no difference. She was perfectly free to do -exactly as she chose. - -She walked up and down in her misery and indecision, the August sun -streaming into the room, where the bacon on the table was caked in a -translucent layer of white grease, and the crumpled _serviettes_ were -tossed to the floor. - -All her love, her passion, her folly, and heartlessness had ended in -this--a mere vulgar marriage row. Row was the word he had used. Just an -underbred squabble--they had plenty. They had flung words at each -other--the usual taunts of an ill-sorted couple. - -She knew he’d come in as usual at night--Sutton behind, with his false -air of subservience; Milligan at his side, his eyes roving about for -her. She knew she’d put on her freshest dress. She knew. She was a -miserable, plastic fool, hopelessly committed. Already she was no -longer angry with Edred; only bitterly, sorely pained and degraded. - -If she could only travel past caring! But every bitter word of his -found its frightful billet in her heart; every foul word pierced like a -pointed weapon. Her love was riddled with the cruelest wounds, but not -one was vital. She loved him. He had told her to go. Go! She laughed, -picking up his pipe and kissing the stem ardently. - -The gay rattle and careless chaff ran under her yawning window. She -started up suddenly and put on her out-of-door things. She went down -the wide staircase thoughtfully, wondering what on earth she should do -with the day. - -She hailed the first omnibus that came rocking down Piccadilly. She got -inside and sat near the door. There were only two other passengers--a -middle-aged man and his more middle-aged wife. Pamela watched them -languidly, in the mood to study other people. Her own life held nothing -now but empty days and distasteful evenings. Dinner-time was -coming--with Milligan, other men, perhaps--all the people who somehow -made her feel contemptible, passively immoral. Their insults were so -delicate, so flattering, that she could not resent them: to resent -would be an admission. She just studied the dilemma of the middle-aged -woman, who was very nervous, who expressed her preference for trams. - -“I’ll go nearer the door. Then, if there should be a spill, I could -jump out.” - -She rustled along the seat, the stiff folds of her brocaded black -skirt seeming to share her terror. Then she peppered the conductor with -anxious queries, asking him if he didn’t think the driver was drunk. - -“Lor’, mum! he’s drove the ’bus for twenty year,” came the not -altogether reassuring answer. - -“You think he’s really sober? But, oh conductor”--her voice rose to a -shriek as the horses swerved--“I do wish I was on the Underground. I -insist on getting out.” - -He rang his bell viciously and bundled her off the step. Her husband -followed, looking keenly annoyed. Pamela smiled--scenting a marriage -row. Then the blinding tears gushed to her eyes and burned there -without falling. Marriage row! A vulgar, trivial squabble! She lived in -a rain of them. - -“I’ll go outside,” she said, with a sudden desire for the sky above her -head and the dry air on her face. She went with a sure foot up the -steps and along the roof, the omnibus still moving, and took the one -spare seat immediately behind the driver. Once she had been proud of -her coolness and dispatch in climbing an omnibus. That was in the old -days, when money was scarce and skirts shabby at the hem: the days when -she had carved at table, accompanied songs, and made herself generally -useful (attractive, so the advertisement stipulated) at the stuffy -boarding-house near the British Museum. Edred had been one of the -boarders--had paid thirty shillings a week, which was as much as he -could afford out of his two pounds five weekly. Those were the days -before he became a--number. She thought of it all, as she was carried -by Kensington Gardens--occasional nights at a music-hall, merry waiting -at pit doors, Sunday jaunts to Hampton Court--with a fresh summer gown, -a smart cheap hat, and a constant dread of a shower. - -The women on the seat immediately opposite were talking volubly. They -both had cheap black jackets with very big buttons and outstanding -sleeves. One, as she talked, kept licking her lips and constantly -popping out her tongue with odd vivacity and archness. The other, an -older woman, with a severe expression, took an occasional solemn swig -at a bottle which was genteelly wrapped to the nose in a confectioner’s -paper bag. - -As the vivacious woman wriggled on the seat she afforded occasional -peeps of a rusty quilted petticoat with a red flannel lining. - -“She done it on the Monday as we see her on the Sunday,” Pamela heard -her say mysteriously. - -She fell to wondering _what_ she had done: something very reprehensible -certainly, judging from the shocked expression of the elder woman, who -nodded sourly and tilted her paper bag. - -“She says to me, ‘Why don’t you take in a lodger?--some young lady as -is engaged all day in business. There’s the spare room a-goin’ -beggin’,’ she says. But I aint goin’ to do it, Mrs. Whitbourn; would -you? Oh, ’e’s a good ’usban’. But there!”--the dusty head with the -black chip hat shook sideways and the quick tongue lolled out--“you -never knows nothin’, do yer?” - -“No, yer never does,” confirmed the solemn woman. - -“Lor’! ’ere we are at the church. Well, good-by, Mrs. Whitbourn. See -you again some day.” - -They kissed lusciously; the sateen petticoat with the frowsy red lining -whisked away. - -Pamela stared straight in front of her thoughtfully. - -“Yer never knows nothin’, do yer? No, yer never does,” kept striking in -her head. - -“Yer never does.” - -She didn’t. Strange, that a suspicion of the particular wrong which -Edred might do her had never before occurred to her. Had she found the -secret of his coldness and unconcern--in another woman? Was there -somebody else? - -First, a fierce, instinctive jealousy swept her; then she wished -ardently that it might be so. That might be the deathblow of her mad, -headlong love for him. - -She went to the very end of the journey, then took another omnibus -back. At Bond Street she alighted and walked down to the dainty shop -where she usually had tea. The woman’s words still haunted her. - -“Yer never knows nothin’, do yer?” - -One might go on for a lifetime, in a nest of different worlds like -London, and never know. That was perfectly true. She turned her sleeve -up furtively and drank in the angry purple of the bruises on her wrist. -Was another woman responsible for them? It was a new idea and a very -enticing one. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -AS days went on she became more than ever persuaded of the fatalism of -those suggestive, common words, “Yer never knows nothin’, do yer?” That -woman, with the soiled red lining to her kicked-up petticoat--that -woman, with the loosely sensuous mouth, big tongue, and rolling bright -eyes, had emerged from the gray routine of her particular suburban -corner, merely as a warning. Those comically meaningless words became a -gospel. She was always saying them, puzzling over them. They were on -her pale lips as she looked questioningly into Edred’s face. Once she -woke up and found herself saying them in her sleep. It was too stupid. -But, if only that persistent quoting of them, in silence, that -continual battering of them at the door of her distracted brain, would -bring solution! If she could take hold of some slight clew! She found -herself constantly longing for proof of Edred’s unfaithfulness. That, -she thought, would end her love--her reckless, shameful love for an -unworthy object: love that blows, terrible suggestions, the cruelest -words and looks could not kill. If she could free herself from that -horrid, paralyzing coil of Love! - -She used to dog his steps with the patient sleuth-like tread of -an intent panther. She followed him into strange places often -enough--unseen. She was always watching, waiting. Other wives waited -and watched, hoping all the time that nothing was wrong, that they -still had faithful husbands, might still keep their homes together with -honor. But Pamela dogged Edred desperately--much more desperately than -she would have done had there been the smallest chance of happiness -left for them. She only fiercely prayed that there might be some -entanglement, that there was some other woman--weak, innocent, or -criminal--in the background. It meant so much more to her than mere -conjugal peace and trust; her experience had made her bitterly scornful -of married life: you could never successfully blend romance and joint -housekeeping. She was playing for a much higher, nobler stake--her own -independence. A wife was an individual first, a mere married woman -afterward. She was conscious from time to time of the absolute -isolation of each human being who treads the world. - -One flesh! Bare hearts! What empty jargon! One could look into the -other one’s eyes and be breeding murder, worse than murder, all the -time. This life, the beings with whom we were accidentally thrown in -contact during our half-conscious sojourn--mere detail! There was a -splendid, terrifying isolation about everyone. Each alone! She used to -look at them curiously, speculatively; figures moving along the yellow -streets at night, in tender twos, in merry companies--and yet alone. -Each one shut in, cut off from all perfect communion, by the film of -his own individuality. Each brain its own secret world. Each body, -under such varying garments, absolutely its own, in spite of vows, -ardent protestations, respectable and legal shackles. - -She used to brood thus, a little at random, as she warily trod the -streets behind that slim, carefully-dressed figure. She had become a -strange perversion. She loved her husband still, in a headlong, fierce -way. Yet she longed for him to commit himself, so that her love might -puff away, become impalpable, like smoke rising in a clear sky. There -was no chance for her, no freedom, no self-respect until she became -callous, until that hot, wayward heart of hers was dammed up. She had -read--in a girl’s superficial way--of first love as a potent thing. She -hadn’t known then that it could be such a sweeping, crowning, -involuntary thing--hadn’t dreamed that it could hold you in such grim, -iron grasp. She couldn’t get away from the magnetism of--the first. She -despised him; sometimes, for a clear moment, she loathed him. She -remembered that on one occasion it had been a keen struggle to throw -down the bread knife on the wooden platter instead of slitting it -through his long lean throat. - -And yet! He had only to call the old playful, indulgent light into his -lazy eyes, only to carelessly flip at her some gesture or word of the -past, to bring her under his heel--quivering body, small subject soul. -It was horrible to be in such bondage to a man--just because he had -been first. Only because! - -One night near Holywell Street she saw him meet a woman. She followed -them down the Strand, an odd, glad singing in her head. The moment had -come. - -She studied that woman with a woman’s minute, critical eye. She wasn’t -satisfied. The woman was respectable, obviously, insolently -respectable. She looked like the mistress of a maid-of-all-work and a -flawless little house. - -She hadn’t the right atmosphere. She took Edred’s arm, hanging on it -stolidly and looking at other women on the pavements with a sort of -virtuous sneer, seeming to say, “I have a perfect right; can any of you -say as much?” They might have been an aggressively respectable married -couple from South London going to dine at a restaurant by way of -dissipation. - -As a matter of fact they turned in at one. Pamela watched Edred push -back the heavy door and gravely stand aside for his companion to pass -in first. There was no eagerness in his attitude; he seemed quite used -to it, not exactly weary, but coldly stolid. He wore the settled air of -a married man--the mild, contented, resigned air of doom, which so many -husbands wear. He was neither unhappy nor happy; he took this evening -meal in the crush and steam and the hurry of waiters as a matter of -course. Why not? - -She didn’t pretend to understand him--or her. They were an odd couple. -Nothing stealthy, illicit, ecstatic about them, when there should have -been a suggestion of all three emotions! - -The woman wore brown--the frump’s unfailing refuge: it was a hot, -reddish sort of brown; her hat, anxious to be in the fashion, was -painfully skewered to her head by many pins. There were fresh touches -of pink about her at ridiculously unwanted spots. She looked pleased, -shy; like a child dressed for a party. - -Pamela followed them up between the line of tables, between the greedy -line of eaters, some gluttonously bending over the plates, some waiting -with an air of impatience, some replete and leaning back, quizzing and -smoking. In the long mirrors she could see the reflection of all -three--such a dramatic three: Edred, with his sheepish, sleepy air; the -strange woman, all pink and brown and narrow airs of virtue as she -looked at--and apparently suspected--every other woman a little smarter -than herself. Last of the three Pamela saw her own tall figure, -stylishly attired, the abundant dull hair bunching out beneath her -toque with the big ostrich plumes. The set and selection of her gown -was in such good, if rather striking, taste, that the over-fed and -quickly-feeding men looked after her, their faces lighting up. - -The intangible feeling of shame, of smirching, which was becoming -common to her, caught at her then. She fancied she read insult in the -admiration of these many strange men. - -She looked at herself again and was bound to admit that there was not -so very much difference between her costume, her carriage, and the -carriage and costume of others present whose vocation was unmistakable. -The ultra-fashionable woman sails perilously near the wind in -appearance. She felt quite angry with her expensive garments. She -followed still, through the glass, the movements of the woman in pink -and brown. She seemed to shout, in every seam of her dowdy frock, in -every gleaming button of her badly-cut gloves, “respectable married -virtue.” She!--_she!_ - -The world was whirling round the wrong way. - -She followed her quarry, every sense alert so that Edred might not -discover her. When the two settled at a table she deftly slipped aside -and took the one immediately behind them. So that they were sitting -back to back, she and that shameful woman with the perplexing insolent -air of calm virtue. The back of her beautifully-cut and braided -heliotrope coat was within a few inches of the contemptible little -brown bodice with the crisp pink bow at the neck and the pink-lined -ends, like lopping rabbit-ears, at the waist. - -The waiter came up. Beneath her breath and mechanically she ordered a -steak, her ears strained all the time to hear what they would order. -Edred said: - -“Calves’-head? You have never tasted it--as they serve it here.” - -“It’s rather rich,” came a common voice dubiously. - -Odd! Her voice, like her frock, like her little pursed mouth and hard -eyes, was respectable. Aggressively respectable! Women like that had no -right to appear respectable; to do so was an additional aggravation. -Wasn’t their _existence_ enough? The jealous fire was rising, was -already burning, a steady white light, at her heart. But she was very -glad, of course. Confused, conflicting thoughts kept running in her -head. - -When the steak came she could not eat it; there was enough for two men. -She just played with her knife and fork, dipping deeply into the bottle -of red wine she had ordered. - -“I knew it would be too rich,” the voice of the brown woman said -reproachfully. “It’s too bad of you to spoil my dinner, when you know -my stomach’s not strong. Nasty, bilious stuff! I can’t touch another -bit.” - -Well! He might have chosen a handsomer, a more refined woman. Little -common narrow creature! He might have given her a more worthy rival -while he was about it. - -“Where did I put my gloves? No, I couldn’t look at pudding; it would -just about finish me. Cheese? If _you_ like--not for me. I’ll have a -liqueur by and by; not that beastly green stuff we had last time. -Cherry brandy. I can’t have lost the gloves.” - -She twirled round suddenly, putting her hands behind her and anxiously -fumbling. Pamela wheeled round too, grasping the handle of her umbrella -by way of excuse. Their eyes met. The quick, respectable, scandalized -expression shot into those of the brown woman. - -Pamela flinched and flushed. It wasn’t pleasant to be mistaken--by her, -too. The wretch--the little, common, hypocritical wretch! How dare she? -Their eyes met: the malevolent stare in the pink and brown woman’s, -the eager, wide look in Pamela’s. She photographed on her alert brain -every line of that face--the face which Edred found more comely than -hers. It was long and thin, but quite youthful; she judged her to be -about twenty-five. The eyes were hot brown, like the gown, and set -close together. They were restless eyes, curiously restless. They roved -about perpetually, seeming miserably to search for something which -never came. It was like a monkey’s face--a pink, unlined monkey face. -There was cunning in it, spite, and a kind of dumb pathos. A very -curious woman for a rival! - -She fished up the ginger-colored gloves. They were shamefully new; one -or two of the buttons were still covered with tissue-paper. - -Edred had finished his meal; he was smoking, his head back, his eyes -dreamy. Pamela knew the attitude very well; it usually followed a good -dinner. Her heart ached for herself. The little woman fussily put on -her gloves, drew down her veil, settled her fluttering ends of pink -satin. Then she, too, fell back on the red seat and began to look idly -about her, passing audible comments on people whose appearance invited -the acid of her tongue. - -“And there’s that woman behind,” she said presently, in a distinct -whisper. “Just behind me. Look--when she isn’t looking. How silly you -are! Always looking the wrong way. Didn’t I say _behind?_” - -“Never mind. I’ll take your word for her,” he returned. - -“But do look. I’m sure she’s--you know. Half of them are in this place. -Disgraceful, overdressed things!” - -He turned with sudden curiosity. Pamela was still twisted round on the -seat. She was staring savagely at that impudent brown hat, with the -ferocious spiked pins which stuck out in all directions. Edred turned. -He saw her--saw her haggard face peering through the smoke and vulgar -glitter of the place. As, for that one supreme moment, they stared -spellbound at each other, the second woman said impatiently: - -“Come on. We shall be late. The last time you took me to the theater we -were late.” - -Pamela started up, slipped past the tables, past the rows of diners. -Near the door the waiter stood in her path. She dropped a coin in his -hand and hurried on. Once outside the door of that place, under the -cool sky in a dark side street, she took to her heels like a -pickpocket. She was afraid of Edred, more afraid than she had ever -been. There had been a new, ugly threat on his face. It would be -something more than words this time. After all, words were not the -worst. Her flesh was tender; she dreaded that he would beat her. - -She turned, panting like a closely-pressed hare, into the Strand, held -up her umbrella to the first hansom, and hustled in. - -“Marquise Mansions,” she called up to the driver. “I’ll give you double -fare if you drive very quickly.” - -The horse seemed to fly through the moving, brilliant streets. Before -her heart ceased its mad, quick beat of terror and apprehension, the -crude red wall of Marquise Mansions was in sight. - -She went up to the flat, locked herself in her bedroom, dragged off her -tight gown, kicked away her shoes, unfastened the piquant hat from her -fair hair--and hid everything. She rolled the things in a rough bundle -and shot them far under the bed. - -When Edred burst in ten minutes later, she was half lying in a low -chair by the drawing-room window, with a novel in her hands. The lace -and cashmere of her tea-gown spread softly about her ankles like the -delicate tail of some exquisite foreign bird. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -SHE had never seen his face look quite so strange, not even on that mad -day in the stuffy Bloomsbury house when she helped him throw his things -into the bag and he whispered hoarsely that “they” were after him. She -was puzzled by the intensity of his expression. He didn’t love her, he -was tired, anxious to be rid of her. That discovery of the contemptible -woman in brown should have been propitious for him. And yet he seemed -furious, and, more than that, afraid. - -She had meant to calmly tell the truth. But two things froze the truth -that lay ready on her tongue. She was afraid of him: he was a mere -violent physical brute, in the mood to stamp on her, to drive his fist -into her face: that was what it had come to--her tender, first romance. -Her weak woman’s cowardice made her shiver with apprehension under her -sweeping folds of cashmere. And then, apart from fear, she couldn’t -tell him. She didn’t want him to know she knew. - -It was humiliating, mortifying, delightful. She rapidly read her own -heart. She loved him still. There was no solution. The common, dowdy -woman that he had just left had no power to part them. She realized -with fear, with self-reproach, with bitter shame, yet with relief, that -any mere bodily sin he might commit was pardonable. Was there, then, -no cardinal offense? Was she to go on loving in this despicable way -until the very end? - -She looked up from the book, smiling, yawning. - -There was cunning in her big clear eyes, the cunning which even the -frankest woman on earth has in reserve: handed down to her through -generations of oppressed women, who have always been slaves. - -Slaves! The word suddenly came; she couldn’t have told why. And while -she sat back in the chair, chin up, eyes half afraid, mouth stiffly -smiling, she was thinking scornfully that woman always had been and -always would be slaves. They liked to be slaves. All this strident talk -about freedom and rights was froth, propounded by those imbittered free -women who hadn’t succeeded in finding a master. - -“You said you were not coming back to dinner,” she said gayly, and then -grew deadly pale as she suddenly remembered that he had said something -about not coming back all night, if a certain business he had in hand -took an anxious turn. He had said that he might be called away to -Liverpool. Her lip curled. Liverpool! Kennington, more likely! That -hat, that terrible gown, had looked like Kennington. Then she rallied. -“You said you were not coming back to dinner, so I--I dined: a woman’s -dinner, you know--an egg, some cake, and three cups of tea.” - -“No lies!” he returned savagely. “What were you doing half an hour ago? -An egg! Tea! There was a plate of rump-steak in front of you at the -restaurant.” - -She was by this time thoroughly steadied to hard, deliberate lying. She -didn’t want to lose him. She didn’t mean to hand him over publicly to -that woman. She loved him. She’d keep the semblance of him anyhow. - -All her frenzied watching; all her deplorable spying; all her fierce -assurance that unfaithfulness on his part would free her soul--ended in -this. She was lying, in order to keep him. - -That he had been unfaithful she was certain; his attitude toward the -woman spoke of nothing else. It was an old entanglement, purged of all -piquancy, all intensity. It had become a matter of course. - -“You don’t suppose I would go out and dine alone? Steak! I never touch -it.” - -“You never do,” he said ponderingly; then added, “but that was, no -doubt, part of your devilish, ingenious scheming, to throw dust in my -eyes.” - -“I don’t understand, I really don’t,” she persisted, with the firmness -and absolute blankness of the deeply-committed liar. “Be a little more -clear.” - -“You were there. I saw you,” he stormed, moving his hands about -nervously. “Why! You remember looking at me. You remember--her?” - -“Her?” - -“The woman with me. She was dressed in brown.” - -“I hate brown. What woman?” - -“You haven’t the impudence to stick to it that you weren’t there--with -a rump steak and a bottle of wine?” - -“It doesn’t sound at all inviting--at all like me. My dear boy!” She -leapt up, and tremblingly hung her arms about his stubborn neck. “It -was a delusion--you saw my double.” - -“Double be----” - -“You must tell me about that woman,” she broke in, smiling falsely, her -teeth, beneath her curled-back lips, white and cruel in their -regularity and soundness. “You’ve committed yourself. Who was she? A -business connection--a person from--Liverpool? Though you’ve never -asserted that it was politic for you to keep in with the women--as it -is for me to appease the men.” - -He pushed her away from him by a reckless blow on the chest. - -“Curse you!” he said with fury. “You’re like a cat--all claws, all -purr. You double like a cat. I saw one chased by a dog through some -front gardens the other day. She doubled behind some shrubs, and he -lost her.” - -She had one hand on her chest, where it throbbed with his fist. She was -smiling still; a demoniacal smile, but with the most hopeless outraged -tenderness behind it. - -“There are no front gardens in Piccadilly,” she said, looking at him -oddly. “You must have been in the suburbs.” - -He sat down. He was biting his nails fitfully, and looking up at her -from time to time with a sullen, suspicious glance. - -“I’ll be even with you yet,” he said threateningly. “You _were_ there.” - -“I wasn’t.” - -“You’ll swear?” - -“Women don’t swear. I wasn’t. I haven’t been out of the flat all day. -Go into the bedroom, if you don’t believe me. Look at my shoes--all in -nice shiny rows. Look at my gowns, all tidily on the pegs. By the way, -what did she wear?” - -“Brown,” he returned mechanically. - -“Pooh! We’ll come to her later on. I mean the other--the one you -mistook for me.” - -“You wore a violet kind of thing, with black stuff sewn on it,” he -persisted. “There were violet feathers in your hat. They nodded at me -like imps when you got up and slipped away. By Jove! I won’t be fooled -like this----” - -“Don’t be absurd. Did you ever see me in violet? Think.” - -The dress had only come from the tailor’s that morning. She watched him -triumphantly. - -“Perhaps not--but I never notice what you wear.” - -“You never do,” she made answer sadly; and then she jumped up, again -meaning to kiss him, but he angrily waved her back. - -“It was a very curious thing,” she said steadily, and smiling into his -angry, infuriated face. “It’s rather dree to know one has a double. I -hope you’re convinced now. If not, go into the next room. See if you -can find a violet gown. Shall we go together and hunt?” - -“You’ll swear you weren’t there?” - -“I’ve told you I wasn’t--I’m tired of telling. Now, about this woman?” - -“Never mind who she was. It’s not your affair.” - -“But----” - -“I’ve given you my definition of married fidelity,” he said, with an -ugly, puzzling grin full on her quivering face. “Nothing matters--so -long as the other one doesn’t find out. Find out--if you dare! If I -ever see--your double--dogging me again, I’ll turn round in the streets -and knock her down. Do you understand?” - -“I hear--and I’m very sorry for the poor thing. I can only hope that -she won’t cross your path, but--it’s nothing to me. Is it?” - -He was out of the room, out of the flat before her lips closed after -the mocking words. She fell back, shaking with degradation. She knew -perfectly well that he would not return that night. She might drop her -mask, spread the accusing violet gown on the bed, plant her dusty shoes -in the middle of the room. She might cry her fill--but where was the -good of that? Tears were bad diplomacy at the best of times. She was -worn out enough by the burning shame of the glib lies she had been -reeling off. - -He would not come back that night. He had returned to--_her_--the brown -person. Perhaps she had been waiting outside all the time. She got up, -ran into the other room, began to feverishly unfasten her gown with one -hand, while with the other she flung back the door of the wardrobe. She -would follow them. If he saw her, knocked her down--so well! She would -follow them--to the very door. Then she dropt down on the bed, -shaking her head mournfully, twisting her hands. She wouldn’t -follow--all motive for following was gone. She had been waiting, -watching all these degrading weeks for the advent of a woman. The woman -had come. She had believed that she would bring freedom in her hands. -But she hadn’t; no woman ever would. It needed a subtler force to kill -her love for that villain. She didn’t even feel jealous because he had -gone away with her rival. She was contemptuous of him because her rival -was so uninteresting--that was about all. Her strongest feeling was one -of being stunned--as if he had struck her on the head, instead of on -the breast. She didn’t mind much. She was relieved, immensely relieved, -that it was no longer necessary to watch--to crawl stealthily about the -streets like an unclean animal of prey. She only hoped that he would -come back in the morning--and in a good temper. One must learn to wink -at things. - -As she sat on the bed, shaking her head in a foolish, silly fashion, -and smiling at the wall with the self-satisfied air of a person mildly -and harmlessly distraught, the outer door of the flat opened. She -jumped up with a wild hope, a sick dread. She gave the one essential -look in the glass, raised her hot fingers mechanically to her crumpled -hair, and went back to the drawing-room. - -Sutton was standing in the middle of it, his head bent in a listening -way. - -“Oh!” she said stiffly, with an air of collapse. “You!” - -He did not answer, only stared at her. His face was aflame with some -unusual emotion. It looked like a Christmas card--one of those -things--transparencies--which admit a ruddy, steady light in places -where you hold them up before a lamp. - -“Edred has gone out,” she continued with abrupt impulse, “and I--I’m -going out too.” - -“Where?” - -“Anywhere. The pit of a theater, perhaps; he used to take me.” - -He was looking at her fixedly, as well he might. Her voice, her face, -her attitude were reckless. - -“Will you come to a music-hall with me?” - -She looked at him. He read her contempt for him; it was steady behind -the reckless mask. But he didn’t care. For many months he had been -playing for this night. - -“Wait. One moment,” she said in a staccato fashion. “I’ll put on my -long cloak--that’s all.” - -She whisked through the door and was back in a moment, wrapped to her -ankles in the garment which Edred had bought for her on that fairy -summer evening--the night of the day on which she had left Jethro. - -“You are going--like that?” he said musingly, as she hitched up the -tail of her gown, and plunging his hand into his pocket. - -He didn’t choose his music-hall with any regard for her. He took her -somewhere--she didn’t know or care exactly where. She only knew that it -wasn’t in one of the big streets. She sat with him in the box, staring -and smiling through the performance. Nothing smote her modesty that -night. She had suddenly turned numb. Sometimes, as she stared and -smiled at the stage, she saw, not a kicking, painted woman, but a -demure, savagely respectable figure in brown. Once a dancer suddenly -changed into a big woman, mostly jacket-buttons and red-lined -petticoat, who extravagantly popped out a very long tongue, and said, -“Yer never knows nothin’, do yer?” - -As the evening wore on, and she endured without flinching the risky -songs and patter, Sutton’s attitude grew more free. In the cab on the -way home he sat beside her, seeming to press her uncomfortably into the -corner. - -When he unlocked the door of the flat her instinct told her at once -that Edred had not returned. Sensation came back. She suddenly felt ill -at ease. She wished from her heart that she had not gone out for the -evening with Sutton, a man she detested and despised. She looked down -at him contemptuously--a middle-aged, vacuous, little-minded, vulgar, -cunning creature: a very good example of the played-out mercantile -clerk. - -“Good-night,” she said curtly. - -It seemed an almost superfluous thing to say, jammed in together and -alone as they were in the flat, where a whisper almost passed through -the walls. - -“Good-night,” she repeated, with sudden constraint. - -“Wait a bit”--he opened the drawing-room door--“I want to talk to you.” - -“I’m tired.” - -“But it’s very important.” - -She marveled at the remarkable change in him. He had become an -impressive figure. He absolutely commanded her, as he stood by the open -door, in his iron-gray suit. It was baggy at the knees and elbows. It -was perfectly true that he had plenty of money now; but he could not -shake off the careful habits of twenty years. He only had two new suits -a year, and he scrupulously changed his coat whenever he came indoors. - -He threw out his hand and bowed--something in the way of a shop-walker. -She walked into the room, without another word of protest. - -He went out again, putting his face back in his usual queer way, to -throw at her the words: - -“I’ll be back in half a jiff. I’ll just put on my slippers and get my -alpaca jacket.” - -When he came in again, she was sitting bolt upright on the lounge; she -had not even turned up her veil, nor unbuttoned her long gloves. - -“Take off your things,” he said with ghastly jocularity. “Make yourself -at home, you know.” - -Then he laughed nervously. It suddenly dawned on her that he was in a -state of great tremor. His jocular tone, his silly, vulgar -words--everything of him--jarred terribly. She reproached herself, -condemned herself again for that hideous evening of frolic at a -third-rate music-hall with such a creature. - -“I’ll keep my things on,” she said firmly. “Sometimes these summer -nights are cold. It is going to rain.” - -He came and sat on the other end of the lounge, and stared at her with -his unpleasant, expressionless eyes. He crossed first one leg and then -the other; he stroked and tugged at the weakly growing hair on his face. - -“If you’ve anything to say,” she said crisply, “say it. It’s twenty -past twelve.” - -“I’ve all night to say it in--he won’t come home.” - -She nearly struck him for that free, unctuous laugh. She would have -whisked up and locked herself in her own room--but she couldn’t. Even a -mean man is commanding in moments of tremendous excitement. It was -obvious that Sutton was laboring to say something of moment; she was -impelled to sit still and let him say it. - -“I don’t know where to begin,” he said helplessly, winding his -watch-chain round his finger. - -“If it is business,” she said, suddenly becoming inspired with the idea -that there was some financial difficulty, and he wished to confide in -her, to break it to her, “don’t tell me. I shall not understand.” - -“I never talk business with a woman,” he returned with a sneer. - -“Oh! Then what do you talk?” - -“The one thing of any interest. You know what--but you like to tease -me, you won’t help me out. It’s unkind to a poor beggar,” he said, with -a fearful attempt at pathos and tenderness. - -Then she knew instantly what was coming, knew what had transformed him. -She was consumed with shame, with apprehension--but she could not rise -from that paralyzing lounge, could not move one step toward the door. -Like a true woman, hypocritically obtuse to the very last, she said: - -“I haven’t the least idea----” - -He grabbed at her hands, held them desperately. - -“You know; you’ve known all along. It’s been a pretty game, hasn’t it? -You thought I didn’t see the nods you gave me over the dinner-table, -the cunning little winks behind his back.” - -“I never winked in my life,” she said indignantly. - -He ignored the disclaimer, and went on calmly: - -“You’ve stood a good deal more than most girls would have done--a -pretty girl like you, too. He’s been a bit of a brute, hasn’t he? Upon -my word, I wonder that you have stood it so long.” - -She made a second frenzied attempt to struggle up from the cushions. -She could see that he was slowly edging up, that the red glow on his -face was more pronounced, that his eyes were nearer being expressive -than they had ever been before. - -“Don’t be a fool,” he said, pushing her back. “You’re not a fool; -you’re a sharp girl--you know which side your bread’s buttered. Edred -is going all to pieces; if he doesn’t look out he’ll find himself in -the dock again--with Milligan and one or two more. But I was always -prudent. I’ve made a nice little pile. I can give you every comfort.” - -“I don’t know what you mean; on my word of honor I don’t,” she said -beseechingly--too utterly staggered to be angry with him. - -“You don’t know! You _won’t_, you mean. You’re bent on playing a better -game. Well! there; I’ll marry you, if you like. No man can make a -fairer offer than that.” - -Then, at last, she jumped up--positively, tangibly afraid of him. She -conceived the sudden extravagant idea that he had gone mad. She knew -nothing of his antecedents, she recalled a thousand foolish things that -he had done and looked and said. She firmly believed him to be subject -to attacks of mania. Her eyes expressed her fear. - -“Do you think I’m off my head?” he demanded bluntly. “You look as if -you did.” - -He rose too, his face becoming inflamed and furious. - -“You know,” she said gently, “of course you remember--I was married to -Edred at St. Antony’s last year. You gave me away.” - -He looked at her keenly. Then at last he said slowly: - -“Haven’t you really found out? Do you still believe in that farce? Why -have you followed him about all these weeks? Oh! I know. I did it well, -didn’t I?” he laughed. “You behind him, I behind you, night after -night. I’m a cute chap. When I was in the City the firm always gave me -little delicate jobs like that to do. I can ferret out anything. And I -can tell you this--she’s beginning to suspect.” - -“She?” - -“His wife. Come. You must know--you must have known for a long time. I -found it out nearly a year ago. The little woman he dined with -to-night. I was there too. What on earth made you give the waiter half -a quid? Hadn’t you less in your pocket?” - -He wasn’t mad. She was--the world was. It was a bewitched night, a -topsy-turvy universe. She wasn’t afraid of him any longer; he was sane -enough, the little wriggling, contemptible reptile. He was sane, he was -speaking the absolute truth. She sat down again. - -“Tell me everything,” she said. “Please tell me everything. I thought -that woman was--but--it is I. Will you please explain--everything.” - -Sutton began to explain. He seemed to enjoy the task. He sat and talked -and nursed his knee and glanced ardently, hopefully, from time to time, -at the attractive, agonized face in front of him. - -“It’s a nice little complication,” he said. “Of course when Edred -married you he thought that she was dead. He’s not a fool; he wouldn’t -have walked into a trap blindfold. He married her some years ago, -before you ever met him. They had a baby. It died and she went off her -head. They took her away to the asylum. Then, after a bit, he had an -official notice that she was dead. He was jolly glad, of course; any -fellow would be. Fancy a man being tied up to a cracked wife! Well! To -cut a long story short, she wasn’t dead at all. It was somebody -else--one of the blessed bungles of the asylum. It was a regular -scandal in all the papers. She’s very much alive. She’s out, cured, as -sane as you are, except for a rum look in her eyes now and then, which -I should funk if I were her husband. He’s taken a little place for her -at Mildmay Park. He says he’s a commercial traveler. But she’s -cunning; she smells a rat.” - -“And she’s his wife?” Pamela said stonily. - -“I can show the register if you like. It was at a church in----” - -“I don’t want proof. I believe it. I might have known it from the -first. She looks his wife. But I----” - -She put up her hands and gave a short, wounded cry. - -“The position’s favorable for us,” Sutton said complacently. “Of -course, you don’t care for him, a brute who strikes and bullies you. -Besides, he’ll throw you over before long. It’s getting a little too -hot for him. She suspects and you suspect. He’s afraid you’ll be -clawing each other’s faces. You see--it’s an ugly word--he’s committed -bigamy. He may be found out any day. That means----” - -“I know, I know,” she said, sharply nodding her head several times; -“but I should never give him away. Never, never.” - -“We needn’t send him to prison. He wouldn’t be any use to us there,” -Sutton said, with a gesture of assent. “But we can bleed him pretty -regularly. He’s in a tight corner, poor old chap. I can give him away -on the business side and you on the matrimonial.” - -He laughed with relish. She said, in the most matter-of-fact way, “If -you laugh like that again, I think I shall kill you.” - -“What a queer girl you are!” His voice was steady, but he made -a furtive movement toward the grate, where there were fire -irons--efficient weapons--if he wanted them. He was thinking uneasily, -in his common, literal way, that she was a big woman, that she looked -deuced queer, that a woman when her blood was up was ten times worse -than a man. - -“What a queer girl you are!” he repeated rather timidly. “Do you -forgive him?” - -Her head was down on her breast. - -“I love him,” she said, almost sullenly. - -Sutton surveyed her in silence for a moment or so: anything out of the -ordinary run of emotions struck him dumb. He had expected her to rage, -to cry, to be hysterical, and end by dropping into his ready arms. - -“You might have guessed,” he said at last. “Has he ever treated you as -if you were his wife? Have any of us treated you as if you were his -wife? You are not mistress here; the very servants see how things are; -they never come to you for orders. The manager grins openly in your -face.” - -“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, thinking it all over and remembering a -thousand damning incidents. - -“Why,” Sutton went on, “if you had been his wife, he would have kicked -Milligan out of the place long ago; he would have kicked us all out. -Where have your eyes been, my dear girl? Think! Did any of those men -bring their wives or sisters?” - -She shook her fair, dull head: it seemed to sink lower on her breast as -Sutton went fluently on: - -“This flat is a bachelor establishment; he and I are the tenants. -If you were his wife I shouldn’t be here; the place is only a bandbox. -I’ll take you to the church where they were married to-morrow morning; -you shall see the register.” - -“I don’t want to see it. I know that woman is his wife. I should have -known it from the first, when I saw her hanging on his arm in the -Strand. She is his wife. But I? What am I?” - -Sutton said: - -“Do you remember the night when Milligan came here with a lady?” - -A queer expression of distaste crossed her white face. She remembered. -There had been a quarrel between her and Edred--one of the usual sharp -disputes. She had reproached him for bringing only men to the flat. She -remembered her quick, foaming flood of reproach and invective in answer -to his cold sneers. She remembered that when she stopped, panting for -breath, he had said: - -“Well, is that all? Good Heavens! how you women can jaw!” - -That night Milligan had brought Lady Milligan with him to dinner. When -they had gone Edred asked her, with an ugly look, if she were satisfied -now. “What more did she want?” - -Lady Milligan! A dark young girl, with a tightly-curled fringe like a -door mat, a half dirty blouse, red hands. She remembered. - -“Yes, Lady Milligan,” she said to Sutton. “A vulgar woman; but what -could one expect? She used to serve in a tobacconist’s shop.” - -Sutton laughed. - -“Lady Milligan,” he said, “is nearly fifty; a very religious, proper -woman. Do you understand?” - -“Oh!” she breathed, seeming to collapse with this added indignity of -Edred’s. “Yes. I understand. Spare me any more confirming proofs.” - -She hid her face in the sofa-cushions, her shame choking her. Sutton -put his hand on her shoulder. - -“Don’t be so upset,” he said, with a pompous, condescending attempt at -comfort. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t help it. It will be all right. -I’ll marry you myself. There shall be no hanky-panky this time.” - -She started up as if his hand had been the thin lash of a whip through -her cloak. - -“Don’t touch me! Marry you! It is impossible for anyone like you to -understand. You don’t know how near I am to desperate crime--only I am -a coward. That makes you safe--I am a coward. I wish Edred would come -home. If only I knew where to find him!” - -“The address is in my pocket-book,” he sneered. “But you can’t be -serious. What do you want him for? You can’t alter things. If you nag -at him, he’ll only laugh, or hit you.” - -“If he would only come back,” she moaned. “If I could touch him, see -him, speak to him. I feel so alone, so incapable and miserable.” - -“You want to have it out with him?” - -“I want him,” she returned simply. - -Then Sutton lost his temper. - -“You are an idiot,” he said flatly. “I make you a good offer; not many -men would make it, and you can only----” - -She laughed contemptuously, looking full in his eyes. - -“You droll, contemptible creature,” she said with limitless scorn. “Of -course you don’t understand. How should you? I am going out--never mind -where. I am coming back--or I am not--according to my mood. You needn’t -be certain of anything--but the one thing: I don’t intend to marry -_you!_” - -She whirled out of the room before he could collect his startled wits. -She was out of the flat and half down the stairs before he could stop -her. - -The vast, high house was dark. She ran down the familiar stone steps, -drew the long bolts of the entrance door. As she opened it, she heard -the patter of slippers, a little down at heel, covering the flights; -heard a hoarse, cautious voice cry out down the black shoot of the -quiet staircase. - -“Pamela! Come back! Don’t be a fool! Don’t lose your head like this!” - -Her only answer was another strident laugh. The door thudded after her. -She stood alone in the night--a chilly night, with a spray of rain. -She stood facing the black mass of the Park. - -She swept on westward. After a while she grew cool, practical enough to -put her hand in her pocket and feel if she had her purse. It was there, -lying heavy at the bottom. Her head was on fire, her sore heart beat -rapidly. She went on trying to formulate her life as the day must see -it. Dawn meant shame, ridicule, curiosity. She couldn’t walk London -in thin shoes with heavily jetted toes, in a cloak bordered with -swansdown and a long tea-gown. - -What should she do when dawn came? She tried to be cool, practical. She -had always been practical; women who earn their own bread are compelled -to be. She walked on very quickly. The streets were almost empty. She -met with no annoyance. Yet she felt that this was the measure of her -degradation--this night alone under the London stars. What should she -do? She knew what she wanted to do. Go back; ignore everything. Yes, -she wanted that. She kept lashing herself with fierce self-reproach. -She called herself shameless, spiritless, vicious. But she couldn’t -help it. She wanted to go back--to breakfast with him as usual, to say -nothing. She loved him. That terrible cankering love! Would nothing -destroy it? - -At Sloane Street she turned down, making her way instinctively, like -all hopeless, desolate creatures, to the river. She walked along and -along, not noticing distance, not feeling the soreness of her -lightly-shod feet, until she came to Chelsea. - -She crossed the road and walked closely by the houses in Cheyne Walk. -She went by Oakley Street, by Cheyne Row, by the red blocks of flats -beyond, and by the Hospital, where lights still burned in certain -windows. At the corner of Beaufort Street she stopped. What on earth -was the good of going on? - -A quick, frightened feminine cry, a hoarse curse from a man, startled -her, and she stumbled to the pavement, conscious all in a moment -that a hansom had nearly knocked her down. It stopped at a house with a -heavy door painted white. As she stood there by the railings, unsteady, -uncertain, a woman jumped from the hansom and opened the gate of that -house. - -She had a long cloak too. Beneath it hung a soft mass of black net -which flashed with steel. Their eyes met; the eyes of these two women -on the pavement. The hansom rattled off. The lights in the house, -except one on the ground floor, were out. The pavements wound away, wet -and empty. Their eyes met. Pamela forced a smile, put out her hand in a -conventional way. - -“Is it really Mrs. Clutton?” she said, with an artificial accent, as if -it were broad day and Bond Street. - -“Pamela! Pamela! Really? But what are you doing alone? Where is Mr. -Jayne?” - -The little dark, vivacious woman’s eyes contracted as they rested on -this wild figure with the wretched, haggard face, the clown-like smile. - -Pamela said nothing. She began to cry in a low, terrified fashion, like -a lost child. The other took her by the shoulder and led her up the -flagged path to the door. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -SHE opened the wide door into a hall which blazed with a yellow carpet -and led the way into a room which was lighted with a shaded -reading-lamp. The room instantly appealed to Pamela with a sense of -dear familiarity. It was filled with furniture and china from the -Buttery. - -“Sit down. It is Mrs. Nick Hone’s chair. She used to stand her -washing-tub on it; Tim says it is worth five pounds.” - -A little fire burned in the grate although it was a summer night. On -the bare table of brown oak was a tray set with tea things. - -“I always like a cup of tea when I come home from a party; it makes me -sleep. I’ll get another cup. You remember Mrs. Silas Daborn’s corner -cupboard?” She opened it and brought out the china. - -Pamela looked about her hungrily, silently, at the familiar dumb things -which seemed alive that night: warm, vital things that knew her. The -hideous china figures on the shelves grinned affably--at a former -neighbor. - -“You must drink this hot.” - -Pamela began to cry again as the cup was held to her mouth. - -“Ssh. No. Drink the tea. Tell me everything and have a big cry -afterward.” - -She drank obediently, draining the cup. Then she said in a heartfelt, -passionate way, as if she were an ardent convert to a new belief: - -“There is nothing like another woman when one is miserable.” - -“Nothing. Men are excellent--when we are happy. At other times they -bully us--with the best intentions--putting all our emotions down to -hysteria.” - -“Men are never excellent at any time. They have brought me misery. You -pay for one moment of delight with a day of anguish.” - -“This tray,” said Barbara Clutton, evidently thinking it politic to -turn the conversation, “was Mrs. Bert Hone’s. You were with me when I -bought it. Do you remember how deaf she was, and how the old man -swore--most picturesque swears! Do you remember what I said that day -about your brother Edred? How is he?” - -Pamela started up at the name. - -“I must tell you everything,” she cried energetically. “It isn’t fair -to sit here, to stay in your house without telling you everything.” - -She told it all without another moment of hesitation: told every little -thing. She didn’t care how her story would be received. She -relentlessly dissected all her emotions--however unworthy. She detailed -all her experiences--however unsavory. It was a relief to be absolutely -frank at last, to have no concealment whatever from at least one -person. It was a very long story; she touched it up almost lovingly. -The night wore away. She drained herself of all the bitterness, all -the delight and shame and misery of three years. - -The fire died out. Hushed sounds in the streets beyond the smugly drawn -curtains, a cold, dull light breaking through a chink and marking the -wall, were suggestive. Barbara Clutton, who had listened without one -word of comment, started to her feet and dragged back the curtains. - -It was broad daylight in the streets outside. She put her arm around -Pamela’s shoulders, with a gesture much more eloquently tender and -sympathetic than a torrent of words would have been, and drew her to -the window. - -“Did you ever see such an exquisite flush of pink?” she said, pointing -to the sky. “I’ll open the window. There! Such air on one’s cheeks, in -one’s thick eyes. We ought to go for a walk while the world is empty.” - -“I wonder what it is like at this moment at Folly Corner, in my -garden,” Pamela said abstractedly. - -“Ah! Folly Corner. What a garden, what a dim old house, packed with -ghosts, guilt, dead dreams, and delights! What a collection of -furniture; I’d like Tim to see it. And you put all that behind you for -a tinsel thing. My poor Pamela! But then you are a woman. Let us talk -over your plans. You’ve got to finish your life--that is a piece of -work we are not allowed to throw aside. Let us make plans.” - -“I haven’t any--only desires,” Pamela returned in a shamefaced way. - -“Desires! Are you thinking of Jethro? The dawn, the quiet has brought -it all back--Folly Corner.” - -“That is past--impossible. I was thinking of Edred. I had better go -back. You see, he didn’t mean to shame me. He didn’t know that she was -alive all the time. He is a victim of circumstances. He needs pity. -I’ll go back. I’ll say nothing about it. That will be the best. You -don’t know how fond I am of him! It is terrible; it frightens me -sometimes. Nothing kills it--not even last night; not even the bruises -on my body. I’ll go back. You must forget to-night. I’m not a fit -person for you--or any nice woman--to know.” - -A tinge of cold disgust came into Mrs. Clutton’s dark eyes. - -“I won’t wrong you by believing that you’re serious,” she said at last, -with some distaste--with a great deal more seriousness than she usually -allowed herself. “Go back! It would be immoral, horrible. You can’t do -it. You can’t possibly mean what you say. We won’t mention him again. -You must stay here; things will arrange themselves--they always do.” - -“But Mr. Clutton?” - -“Tim. He has gone abroad as war correspondent. It is as well. We -quarrel if we are together too long, or we grow apathetic, which is -worse. I’d rather have isolated episodes of rapture than a -matter-of-fact, unbroken affection. I could never endure the kind of -husband who calls you ‘my dear,’ who draws you a check without -grumbling, who politely wishes you good-morning when you meet at the -breakfast table and asks anxiously if you are sure his shirts are aired. - -“We are happy, prosperous. Tim makes money, although brains, as a rule, -are a positive hindrance to worldly success. We know lots of clever -people. To them I am only Tim’s wife: I used to hope that he would be -only my husband. We rush through society; he the kite, I the tail. I -used to think I was clever--I’m merely voluble. I can’t even succeed in -being positively stupid: in a brilliant age like this it’s a -distinction to be unmistakably stupid. Nancy has been up to stay with -me. I took her about. She made a tremendous sensation--with her -complexion, her red locks, her gift of silence. People said she had an -air, was uncommonly clever. She is going to be married to Mr. Minns, -the Liddleshorn curate. And some people say that Mr. Jayne is to be -married too--they talk of Maria Furlonger. Isabel Crisp has married -that prig Egbert Turle. He has bought old Dr. Smith’s practice at -Liddleshorn. Mrs. Turle--she came up with Nancy--says that old Gainah -is wonderfully active, more active than ever. Why! You are nearly -asleep. We’ll go upstairs. There is a room ready. Annie Jayne was to -have spent the night here on Monday. She has at last decided to have -false teeth--greatly against her will: her mother had only six stumps -in her head when she died. But the baby--there’s another since your -time--had an attack of rose rash, whatever that may be. It sounds -pretty.” - -She led the way upstairs softly. The house was most luxurious, and the -tail of her gown, as she swept it over the thick carpets, was like a -molten stream of silver. - -Pamela fell asleep in a mahogany bed draped with some wonderful fabric -full of color and of bold design. When she woke the sun was fierce in -the room. Her limbs felt stiff and her head muddled. She started up on -her elbow, looking wildly round for her own possessions--the big toilet -table, the winged, ugly wardrobe with the long glass. Her tea-gown, all -frilled and limp and pale on a chair by the bed, was eloquent. It -brought back the nightmare: the person in brown; Sutton, with his -atrocious proposal and disclosure; the long walk, the meeting with her -hostess. She looked over the side of the bed. Her slippers were kicked -off, soles upward. There was a round hole in one, the other had broken -away at the side. Her black silk stockings, lying near, had holes, too. -She fell back despairingly on the square pillow, its frill tickling her -cheeks. Where was the use of waking? - -The door opened, and Barbara Clutton stole in. When she saw that her -guest was awake she sat down on the edge of the bed. Then, as Pamela, -like a child, lifted her face, she jumped up and kissed her gravely -between the widely set, melancholy eyes. - -“I was always fond of you,” she said, going back to the foot of the -bed. “I always suspected you of drama. I’ve a plan. You must stay -here--it will be a charity to me. When Tim comes home--we’ll see! I -shan’t want you then.” She made a little frank grimace. “When Tim comes -home I want no one--until the first rapture of reunion wears off. -We are like a couple of very juvenile lovers--but we don’t keep up the -strain for long. He won’t return for a couple of months at the very -least. We can have a splendid time, you and I together. There is only -one thing I must insist on--one thing.” The disgustful expression of -the night before momentarily hardened her laughing face. “You must vow, -by something solemn--what binding instrument can we get for you to kiss -or swear by? There is really nothing but a back glass--which is -frivolous--and a poker, which is threatening. Give me your bare word. -Promise not to attempt to see that man; not to degrade me by going -back, by writing. You mustn’t even speak of him. It’s all terrible -tragedy to you; to me it is merely a disgraceful, unavoidable episode. -The woman in brown transforms the situation. I’m more sorry for her -than for you; we can’t help our respectable prejudices. He is never to -be mentioned. We’ll put away, if you please, the very tea-gown which he -has touched. I’ve brought you a coat and skirt--a pale blue skirt which -ought to suit you beautifully. Is it all settled?” - -“All!” Pamela returned with promptitude. “I vow. I am only too grateful -to be saved--from myself.” - -In that quick way--natural to Barbara Clutton--they decided it. Pamela -fell obediently into the life at Beaufort Street. It was almost -conventual. Day after day she rose from her bed, looked at the mourning -band of river and despaired. She was cut off from London; it was part -of the compact that she was not to go beyond the Chelsea end of -Sloane Street. She shopped in King’s Road. Sometimes she walked out to -Fulham, or penetrated farther still, to a lonely green, belted with red -and yellow houses. The omnibuses pulled up there. She used to stare at -them wistfully, and think of Wormwood Scrubbs and the old, dead days of -anguish. - -Furtively she bought newspapers and read them with a hungry eye. She -read everything which might hold a trail of Edred. She bought City -papers, made her head ache by puzzling over market quotations. She read -accounts of frauds, read all the criminal news. She read the lists of -bankrupts, read death notices, advertisements. She never saw his name. -It seemed suddenly sponged from all the places which had formerly -placarded it. - -She beat against the bars of that house by the river. She wasn’t happy; -neither she nor Barbara was happy after the first glow of novelty wore -off. They weren’t of the mold to be completely satisfied with the -companionship of their own sex. - -Summer died; leaves, whirled by October gales, swept the Embankment. -Pamela was lonely, bored. She had fancied that the society of clever -people--people with the public certificate of cleverness--would be -invigorating. But the distinguished people who came to Beaufort Street -were stupid; they seemed to go out of their way to be commonplace. - -“Conversational brilliance is out of fashion,” Barbara said flippantly. - -Pamela was tired of Barbara Clutton, tired of her volubility, her -pettishness, her whims. She was very grateful to her, she liked her -very much, of course--she was sick to death of her. - -How would it end? She studied the newspapers, for other than -sentimental reasons: she looked for a situation. That would be the -end--a situation. They would never take her back at the boarding-house -in Bloomsbury; Edred’s history, and her connection with him, was too -notorious. But there were other boarding-houses. She would go back to -the old life--that would be the end. She would help carve, talk -smoothly on safe, commonplace subjects at the dinner-table. - -She knew the life. She remembered; and it turned her sick. A woman in -subservience was only half a woman. But that was to be the end. She was -to finish as she had begun. Perhaps, by years of saving, she might be -able to start a boarding-house of her own. Perhaps Jethro would help -her to do so, if Maria would permit him. - -The boarding-house! She remembered the narrow hall, where the dinner -always hung on the close air; remembered the shabby manservant, the -guests. They had mostly been women, those boarders: old maids who -called each other “dear,” “darling,” “sweet one,” and gathered by twos -into corners of the big, shabby drawing-room to tear each other to -shreds. They were fussy old women, susceptible to draught, and given to -wearing ragged fur tippets in the house when an east wind was blowing. -She knew--and shuddered. But it was the only thing left. - -Her thoughts flew to Folly Corner, and then to Edred. She would remind -herself reproachfully that she had not once thought of him that day. -She wanted to forget him; she tried to forget, and yet she reproached -herself because she was beginning to succeed. She must forget--it -wasn’t respectable to remember. Barbara Clutton was always impressing -that on her. - -“I like,” she said one day, in explanation of her gospel, “to be a very -respectable woman; an icily virtuous one--but yet to give the -impression of being dangerous.” - -Pamela had left off laughing at her oddities--she had left off laughing -at anything. She was cultivating the prim, half-formed manner of a -spinster well over thirty. She grew fussy over trifles, became morbidly -afraid of taking cold, studied her health, her diet. She gratuitously -spied over the servants, seeing an embryo burglar in every tradesman’s -boy, running her fingers along ledges for dust, measuring the contents -of the dishes with suspicious eyes. - -“I want to be of some use,” she said, in extenuation. “I’ve had great -experience in housekeeping.” - -“Housekeeping!” Her hostess shrugged. “A calling artfully created by -hopelessly lazy women as a blind. My dear girl, no busy woman keeps -house; it’s a terrible confession of idleness. Suppose Cook _does_ give -away the dripping--why should I waste nervous energy in attempting to -stop her? The dripping isn’t worth it. If they refuse to burn small -cinders in the kitchen range--what matters? Figure out for yourself--I -can’t--the cost of a ton of coal, and see how much Tim loses in the -year. He pays--and it can’t be more than a box of cigars.” - -Pamela said nothing. She retired to her room and her newspapers. She -looked up from the lines of advertisements, and out at the gliding -river. She thought of Folly Corner, of Jethro, in all his picturesque -environment. And then she dragged herself back to thoughts of Edred; it -was becoming an effort to remember him. She thought she would set aside -half-an-hour every day for remembrance--as if he were some -tenderly-loved dead person. She became afraid of herself. She was -hopelessly fickle, of light behaviour. She was incapable of any lasting -regard. She loved him. She loved him. But the words had become -parrot-like--they no longer tore her heart to say them. She was -forgetting him--the very thing she had once struggled in vain to do. -She was becoming indifferent: the attitude she had once prayed and -struggled for. And yet she wasn’t happy. - -Tim precipitated things. He send his wife a telegram, saying that he -was on his way home. Would she care to join him in Paris for a week? - -“It needn’t make any difference to you, dear,” the excited little woman -said, as her cab stood at the open door, and her wraps were carried -down the path by a lilac-gowned maid, whose streaming cap-ends whirled -about on the rude November wind. - -She kissed Pamela remorsefully, conscious that she had been malicious -now and then. - -“It’s difficult for two women to live together without fighting, isn’t -it?” she said ingenuously. “I wonder how they manage in a nunnery! A -novel from the inside of a nunnery would cause a sensation. I’ll -commend it to Tim. He’s quite clever enough to pass as a nun--but it -wouldn’t satisfy my unquenchable sense of propriety. I’ve been very -horrid to you now and then; but when Tim comes--we shall only stay in -Paris ten days at the outside--he will keep us in order. Of course, his -coming won’t make any difference,” she added, with obviously forced -hospitality. - -“I shall get a situation,” Pamela said, in the inert way which had -become habitual. “Good-by”--they kissed again. “I’ll look after the -maids. You’ll never be able to keep that between-girl. She’s hopeless.” - -The other shrugged and ran out in the wind to the cab. It drove off, -the maid came in, the door shut, an unusual silence settled over the -house. Pamela went into the dining-room and sat by the window, not even -a newspaper in her hand. She felt more lonely, more unwanted than she -had ever felt at any moment in her varied life. Barbara had been in -such a frenzy to get to her husband that she hadn’t given her a -thought--hadn’t even asked her, as a matter of form, to see her off at -the railway station. - -She lunched alone and meagerly. After lunch she sat by the dining-room -window until tea came in. The maid set the tray down with a bang and -moved across to the door flouncing her black skirts. - -Pamela set her mouth grimly. She knew the ways of servants; they had -decided, in the absence of their mistress, to give her a rough time. -But she was equal to any servant. She amused herself by scheming out an -elaborate house-cleaning--and then abandoned it wearily because the -house wasn’t hers. She went to bed almost directly she had eaten her -dinner. She was awake all night, lying flat and long in the bed, her -eyes open, her thoughts forced to consideration of Edred. What was he -doing? She didn’t feel much curiosity. His tenderness didn’t make her -heart throb. His brutalities no longer made it blaze and ache. - -It had really come--indifference: a body, a soul of stone. She turned -on the pillow and cried from sheer loneliness. - -It rained next morning. Rain--a high fog! The most miserable morning -imaginable. She had her breakfast in the little room at the back of the -house, with a French window leading to the long, suburban garden. She -didn’t know why she turned the hasp of that window and stepped out -under the gloomy sky, into the dreary rain. - -It was a very uninteresting garden; a ghastly, heart-breaking travesty -of a garden. The limp creeper on the blackened wall smutted her hand -when she touched it. The narrow borders were bare and smut-laden. From -the top of the wall a lean, gray cat looked at her with a sinister -mournfulness in its yellow eyes. The fog was in her eyes and down her -throat, the rain fell coldly on her bare head. Peals of coarse, hearty -laughter rang up from the kitchen, where the maids were romping with -the man who came every morning to fill the scuttles and clean the -boots. The gray cat stole along the wall. - -She turned back to the window, not knowing why she came into the -garden, not knowing what to do with this sad day. There was a rockery -near the French window--the usual rockery, rich in clinkers. But some -blue thing stared up into the brown air boldly. She uttered a sudden -glad cry and stooped, letting her skirt brush the wet gravel. It was a -delicate blue periwinkle. There was a patch of blue periwinkle at Folly -Corner, just by the granary. Periwinkle! What nonsense was it that -Gainah told her about periwinkle? Ah, yes! If a man and his wife eat -the leaves they will ever be faithful each to the other. The blue -flower with its trail of glistening leaves was in her hand. She bit one -leaf, laughing--yet more a sob than a laugh--as she did it. She would -never be Jethro’s wife--nor any man’s. She was a tainted thing. - -She stared at the flower, a long, thoughtful stare. Then she laughed -again and clapped her hands--the heavy, blinding tears in her eyes. The -world was to her one wide delicate flower of cold blue. She went -through the window, laid the trail on the table, looked at it -questioningly. Once she said to it, “Shall I? Dare I?” Then, with a -clumsy movement, she dragged herself up, hurried to the door, went up -the stairs two at a time. - -The maids were making her bed. She said abruptly: - -“I am going away--a visit. I may be back to-night--I cannot say. You’ll -see to everything just as if Mrs. Clutton and I were at home.” - -They left her alone. She put on her things and went out of the house. -She didn’t leave a note for Barbara; she didn’t take any luggage; she -didn’t look at the house with any feeling--no lingering glance of -farewell. Her strip of needlework was hanging out of the basket. She -didn’t trouble to put it in. She might be back to-night. It was -extremely likely that she would be back. Of course she would. She was a -fool, an impudent, optimistic fool to go at all. She would be back. She -nearly rang the bell to order dinner at the usual time. She kept -assuring herself that night would find her again in London--shuddering -at every assurance. She knew very well that this journey was her last -throw. She knew very well that this journey was to decide everything. -Jethro might be married. He might be, if not already married, committed -to some nice, pure, faithful girl. Was she the sort of woman to be -introduced to a girl of that tepid, blameless description? The contempt -for mere unimpassioned, untempted virtue curled her lip. - -He might be contemptuous, hard. He might be brutal; he could be -bitterly, uncompromisingly brutal when he chose. He had the reputation -of being a hard man--all the Jaynes had. - -She could imagine him saying very coolly some damning, insulting thing. -She could see his ruddy patrician face as he said it, could see the -relentless glint in his cold blue eyes. Eyes a couple of shades paler -than the periwinkle; she crushed it in her hand. - -She took her ticket; was fortunate enough to catch a quick train--there -were very few in the day to such an out-of-the-way place. She was quite -alone in the carriage. She watched the landscape eagerly; watched the -foul fog rise as they left London; watched the slow development of a -dazzling autumn day. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -THERE was no one she knew at the station; she had been nervously -apprehensive that there would be. She had expected to create a small -flutter among the railway people--measuring the intensity of their -emotions during the last year by her own. No one was surprised to see -her. The station-master civilly said good-morning. The porter pulled -his cap and added that they had not sent from Folly Corner to meet her. -Should he send for the blacksmith’s pony-cart? She shook her head, -stepping out into the sun. - -She crossed the common, noting every detail of the landscape with -ecstasy. It all soothed and comforted her so inexpressibly, so -mystically; she fell into it with a delicious sensation of ease. Across -the common a woman was driving kids. The old goat had got free and was -awkwardly humping after her, dragging its tether chain. She saw -everything; her heart swelled in her throat at every step, at every new -sight. She saw it all, felt it all--even to the white horse silhouetted -against the broken black sail of the disused windmill. - -Each side of her, as she walked on the well-kept road, the common at -her back, were the clean-cut black ditches, half filled with -iron-reddened water, and bound by the silver of dew-soaked, glittering -grass. In a field a man was harvesting swedes. The sick, sweet smell -of them hung in the air; they were bulbed, tawny and big on the black -ground. She stood and watched him, finding added peace in these simple -occupations--the land drew her. He was stuffing the roots into a -bloated, dun-colored sack. They bulged here and bulged there until the -canvas looked like an unwieldly, headless sheep of some mammoth breed. -He threw up the green tops into a cart, the prongs of his fork flashing -in the sun. Everything was bright and cold and hard; the newly-painted -shafts of the cart blood-red and angry against the fierce, clear blue -of the drifting sky. - -She noted everything minutely. She was struck by the fantastic -appearance of a copse of bare bushes--a gray-brown film of mystery. She -didn’t throw a backward glance at London, with its crowds, its hectic -flow of life. She was at home. She didn’t even think very much of -Jethro; didn’t speculate on her reception at Folly Corner. She wanted -the place, the influences of the country, as distinct from human -preference. She dreaded the thought of a man’s love. All she had longed -for was placidity. The clear, hard day, the slow, simple occupations of -the few men and women she saw, gave her that. - -And then, as the time wore on, came the note of dread, of chill -threatening. The sun slipped out of sight, the sky sulked. When she -began to cross the second stretch of common, a light, delicate powdery -mist hung over the shriveled heather. The common drew away--brown, -bare, heavy with foreboding. - -The autumn flaying of the turf was in progress. She saw the bare, -blue-black patches, like the skin of a dark cat. Through the mist she -saw the stolid figure of a man. He was leaning his body against a -turfing iron. A cart, half full of square turfs, was at his elbow. - -The mist grew thicker at every step. The one note of comfort and warmth -came from the smithy, round which was an angry red flare, and from -which came the steady clink of iron on iron. - -The afternoon grew cold. The chill, delicate powder-mist was eating -into her. She was lightly clad. When first she went to Beaufort Street -she had bought herself some cheap, necessary clothing out of the few -pounds in her purse. This was an afternoon for furs. The mist rose and -rose. The voice of a woman who plodded by with a top-heavy -perambulator, the cry of the wretched, chilled baby inside, were the -only dull sounds in the eerie, pure-white thickness. - -Her hair was wet on her face, moisture stood in minute pearls on the -velvet collar of her cloth coat. Higher and higher, thicker and -thicker, rose the delicate, eating mist! She was chin high in it. A -couple of cows, a tethered goat, a long white string of geese, were -queerly-shaped wraiths. The world was white: a wet, ghostly, silent -world. There was a threat at every step; each corner, each clump of -dripping bush formed to her nervous fancy some sinister ambush. - -Her spirits fell. Once she absolutely stopped, half-crying, with cold -and misery. She was disposed to go back. It was still a long way to -Folly Corner, and the terrifying mist was triumphant. - -She came at last to the cottage at the edge of the oak-scrub copse, the -thatched and plastered cottage under the great oak trees. She -remembered it so well, remembered the hot August day when she had -walked to Folly Corner for the first time, and had thrown herself on -the moss-grown turf under the burning sun. She strained her eyes to see -the wide green glades, the clumps of primrose leaves, the tangled -brambles, the great tropical growing thistles. She knew exactly what -should be there at that season, but she saw nothing save the fire of a -bush of haws. The cottage, which had stood empty on that August day, -was now tenanted. She approached, her chilled limbs moving creakily. -She slowly skirted that cottage, preferring to tread the soddened grass -just for the sake of being near somebody. The world was deserted; she -could no longer hear one single sound. She was the last desperate soul -left outside. - -The languid flame of a small fire fell across the tiny casement with -its ragged curtain of brownish white net. She went up close. She could -see the gray beams across the plaster, see the plumy Irish yew standing -straight by the yellow, weather-stained wall. The door was half open. -She saw the flagged floor exuding moisture, saw one poor chair; a bare -brown dresser, on which stood a coarse crock or so. She saw the mere -hint of a table, with turned legs which winked feebly in the light. At -the deadened sound of her feet there was a heavy clumping across the -flags. An old face, the malevolent, evil face of a man, hung in the -shadow. She saw the dull, golden fustian of his torn coat, saw his -gnarled, filthy hand close round the jamb of the door and shut it. She -likened him to an evil spirit. He was a bad omen. It was nonsense, of -course; yes, she knew it was nonsense. The man was only Chalcraft. But -the mist made everything ghostly, demoniacal. - -She hadn’t far to go now. She imagined it, she knew every detail, she -knew just how it would all look on that particular day--the white -wicket-gate dirty and dripping with water, the umbrella yew in a fairy -wreath of fog, the great brown pond, with the muddy wheel-tracks -zigzagging away from it and the marks of many hoofs in the yellow mud -at its edge. The garden beds would be weedy; vivid green here and there -with patches of self-sown plants. No doubt, in her absence, Gainah and -Daborn had easefully lapsed back to the old way--weeds all the winter -and a grand forking in the spring. She pictured the long windows, -running away each side of the house door. Inside, Gainah’s red -geraniums would still be fitfully blooming. She remembered the sentinel -poplars at the gate, the raised brick path leading to the door. She -remembered the outbuildings, the untidy muck-yard--all, all. - -It was here. Twenty more paces would bring her to the pond. She took -them tremblingly, things becoming practical now that she was steadily -creeping beneath the warm, wide shadow of the place. The mist must -surely be thicker than ever. She could not see the poplars; yet how was -it that she had been able to see the Irish yew outside Chalcraft’s -cottage? - -It was here, it should be here, it must be. She nearly reeled in the -wide road as she peered fearfully about her, looking for so many -familiar tokens which should have studded the landscape--but didn’t. - -It was, it must be, Folly Corner. But--but--was that a new house? What -was the meaning of that wall which shot up like a straight, unrelenting -shaft and mocked her? - -The pond was there. The pond! She stared at the big, brown patch of -water affectionately--certain of that, anyway. - -The house! Yes. The house was the same. It wasn’t a new house. She -penetrated through its modern coat, its gingerbread attempt at -gentility. The house was there. She could not see very well; the impish -mist tantalized her. But the hard, smooth line of roof told her that -the tiles were new. The yew was gone, the bristly, unclipt umbrella yew -which had watched Edred kiss pink Nancy: the yew which knew the night -of her secret vigil. - -That night! The night when she had waited. The night when Boyce had -helped the poor cow with her calving; the night when Chalcraft had -thrown earth at his master’s window to rouse him, because it was -raining, and the ricks were not covered. That night! - -She had crept like a criminal a dozen times down the brick-path, had -stood between the poplars, had looked along the road, had heard feet, -phantom feet, which came and died and finally departed. That night! The -poplars were gone, the yew, the raised path of worn bricks. They had -gone and taken that old story of dishonor with them. - -A sinuous carriage drive of the brightest gravel wound away, beginning -where the entrance to the yard had been. The yard had been redeemed and -planted as a shrubbery; the new wall half hid the ample farm-buildings. -The shrubbery was very new--glossy laurels and firs set at regular -intervals, the ground between newly dug. She thought--and marveled at -herself for the preference--that she would rather have seen the -mother-pig there, as in the old days--with a pendulous stomach sweeping -the soiled ground, and a litter of pink, squeaking things about her. - -The gates leading to the drive were newly hung. She pushed them back -fearfully and went toward the house, treading on the beautifully-cut -grass edge, because she was afraid of the crunch of her own feet in the -death-like silence and pallor of the early evening. - -Firelight danced inside the house. As she drew nearer and yet nearer -she could see that there were two fires, one in the dining-room, one in -the drawing-room. The dining-room wouldn’t be dark now that the yew was -gone. That must be an improvement. Yet, at every step she made notes of -disapproval. It was so cold, so tame, so flat and unfeeling; these -mechanically set shrubs, that gleaming regular roof, those wide -windows. Yes! She was near enough to see. There were new windows, sash -windows, with little panes above and one large pane beneath. She had -once said impatiently to Jethro that lead lights cut up the view. He -had taken advantage of her ideas for the benefit of that girl. Of -course, there must be a girl. He would not have gone to all this -expense, except with a view to a wife. - -She was near the house, so near that it seemed to throb out to her with -sympathy. She put out her hand and touched the spick, newly-painted -walls. With a quick feeling of resentment she saw that they had cut -down the Devoniensis rose--that globular, foam-like, ethereal thing -which she had worshiped more than any of the roses. She looked down, -round, up, making mental, resentful notes of everything. There were -pert pots on the wide-throated chimneys, grotesque and poor-looking. -There was a new window upstairs, high and narrow, filled with stained -glass. That must be the bath-room. Most of the upper rooms were dimly -lighted. She had often insisted that this was the proper thing to -do--in good houses. Jethro had resisted the innovation, with a view to -the oil involved. - -Yes! She stopped, her head critically on one side, her heart becoming -more tolerant of the many changes. This looked a good house, a house -that a lady might live in: she was full of these commonplace -expressions that smack of the housekeeper’s room. - -Lights in every window, jealously drawn blinds. It looked like a -house where they dined late, where, about this time, the maids were -tripping to the bedroom doors with cans of hot water. The house had all -the appearance of a good house--a gentleman’s, as distinct from a -yeoman’s, so she thought, beginning to be satisfied and then -remembering that it made no difference to her now. She went round the -house stealthily, like a gypsy woman with a basket of cheap lace. The -dog bounded out of the kennel, then wagged his tail when she went close -and he recognized her. She went round, went past the woodstack. As she -passed, a sandy rat, whose young family lived in the shelter of the -fagots, ran timidly over her foot. - -She reached at last the back door. It stood open; she had always -grumbled at the maids, in vain, because they would have the back door -open. Everything around the door was much the same, the modern spirit -had not affected the back of the house. There was the pig-tub waiting -to be carried to the stye, there was the ash-heap, the other heap of -broken crockery and old iron. There were the rain-water tubs lurking in -the angles of the house, their green paint turning blue. She looked up -at the sky and found that the mist had risen, that the mellow moon was -full on her head. - -She saw everything. Her eyes stretched away into the garden, through -the entrance-arch of which she saw the glittering glass of the -greenhouse which Jethro had bought to please her. - -She stood close to the wall, her wet shoulder pressing the thick -branches of the vine, all black and damp and with loose rough bark. -There were busy movements inside in both the kitchens, a subdued -cluttering of feet, a comforting rattle of china. The warmth and smell -of the fire puffed out. There was a band of amber light, shaming the -cold moon. It fell across the pig-tub and the ash-heap, running -straight from the open door and losing itself in the hedge, which was -being grubbed. Jethro was evidently in the grip of some frenzy of -renewal and refurbishing. - -The voices came from the kitchen. One was the voice of Nettie, that -girl Edred used to kiss and squeeze on the sly in his hateful animal -way. There were a couple of strange voices. The predominant smell was -that of apples bubbling in sugar. And then at last, as she stood -shrinking by the wall and undecided what to do, she heard Gainah’s -voice. It said, in the old acid shrew’s tone: - -“I’ll have ’em made int’n apple-stucklin.” - -She curled her lip, remembering those stodgy apple-pasties of Gainah’s -which Jethro had eaten with such relish. If they were still eating -apple-stucklins--such a name!--the improvements were only external -after all. Gainah’s voice, Gainah’s charge to the new cook, gave her -courage. Jethro had not yet taken a wife; no young wife would endure -Gainah’s rule. - -He hadn’t a wife. She would walk straight into the house; the -garden-door was always unbolted until well after dusk. She would -go into the house through the garden-door and walk through the -dining-room. If he were not there she would look into his little room, -where he kept papers, guns, his boots, his bicycle even, when he chose. - -It was a new surprise to find herself in a porch--so the dining-room no -longer opened direct into the garden! That was another improvement. - -She went through the porch into the room itself. She stopped on the -threshold and cried out faintly. Everything was changed. The yawning -hearth was filled in, and a coal fire was burning in a grate of the -latest design. There was a square table in the middle of the room, in -place of the long narrow one, with the stout legs and the thick staves, -which she had always considered so rude, so uncouth. It was pushed -against the wall opposite the new door--the table beneath which so many -dead and gone Jaynes had slept off their liquor, the table whose top -was ringed with black, ring within ring, each the mark of a wet mug, -each telling the tale of some dead joviality. - -She had always declared that it was only fit for a public-house. It -stood against the wall, its disreputable ringed top discreetly covered -with a cloth. They used it as a side-board. There was a filter set out, -a soda-water syphon, and various other things. - -The china ornaments had gone, the brass candlesticks. The big -horsehair-covered chair had been re-covered in shrimp-colored plush. -The plaster walls were papered. The thick oak beam above had been -whitened with the rest of the ceiling. She thought that the room looked -much more light and cheerful, much more suitable for a dining-room. But -it was empty. There was no hint of Jethro, no gun in the corner, no -cloth cap thrown carelessly down, no heavy boots drying on the hearth; -one wouldn’t expect any of those things now. And yet their absence -depressed her. - -She glided across the thickly-carpeted floor--it was a new carpet--and -looked into his own particular little room. Nothing had changed there. -The bureau from which he had taken the notes for Edred was open. The -shabby rugs were kicked up, the plaster on the walls was in places -discolored. His bicycle, all muddy, leaned against the window ledge, -his gun, his boots, his cap, his thick woolen gloves were strewn about -with masculine carelessness. - -“The last thing in the house that a man changes is his own room,” she -said, looking tenderly at a shapeless, deplorable old shooting jacket -which hung limply on a chair. “But she will make him tidy this place -up.” - -She! She! She! Who was this girl? She ran through the list of likely -maidens--every Jayne or Crisp or Turle or Furlonger under thirty-five. -It couldn’t be Peggy Crisp of Liddleshorn. It was probably silly, -pretentious Maria Furlonger of the Warren, as Barbara had said. - -She turned away, feeling a quick, painful affection for this little, -dirty, dim, north room of his--the only room left untouched. She turned -away, opened the other door, and went along the corridor, thinking that -she might find him in the drawing-room. It was most unlikely; he -disliked that room. But then he had always disliked coal fires, new -furniture, many lights about the house. She was beginning to realize -that only the unlikely would happen at Folly Corner that night. - -She turned the handle of the drawing-room door, stole in, and saw with -satisfaction that very little had been touched. Her improvements were -still rampant. The various slips of Eastern embroidery were disposed -about the furniture--awkwardly, by an unskilled, stiff hand. The piano -was draped. The door of the china closet stood ajar, showing the dark -floor with its gaudy rug and the daintily-finished shelves holding the -still daintier family china. The curtains--those curtains which they -had bought together at Liddleshorn--were drawn; the standard lamp, -which had been one of his last gifts before she went away, burned -steadily. There were candles alight on the high shelf--she had always -insisted on candles in the drawing-room; they made such cool pin-points -of steel-blue and yellow. On one side of the hearth was the one thing -that she had always longed for--a cozy corner. She didn’t think that -you touched the water-mark of true refinement without a cozy corner. -Jethro had stoutly resisted it. Yet there it was; no home-made affair, -but a perfect thing, cunningly upholstered in the most artistic style -known to Regent Street. - -The green sofa, the green chair, were still in the bay--that bay, -curtained now, through whose leaded lights she had looked--weighing the -uplands thick with grain in all their beauty and plenitude with -Edred’s shallow protestations of love and worldly success. - -Jethro was lying on the couch half asleep. She had seen him lie so on -many autumn evenings when he came in tired after a day’s tramping on -the farm, or in the stubble after partridges. He was dozing. She stood -under the shade of the standard lamp and looked at him. He surprised -her--everything did. He wore a brown velvet coat and waistcoat; his -slippers had thin soles. - -She made an involuntary sound with her foot, and he was awake and erect -in a moment, stirred like a watch-dog by the least noise. - -“Jethro!” she said humbly. - -“Pamela--Cousin Pamela! You’ve come to Folly Corner at last.” - -He was on his feet, at her side. He stooped and kissed her lightly, -conventionally--the lukewarm kiss of a relative, to whom a kiss has no -background. He seemed to regard it as the proper thing to do--proper, -and perfectly safe. That matter-of-fact kiss of his made her more -wildly miserable than many of Edred’s blows had done. - -“You’ve come!” He looked behind her, a curious, questioning glance, as -if he were waiting for the second indispensable figure. But the door -was closed; she offered no explanation. - -“How cold and wet you are!” He ran his hand down her coat. “Take that -thing off. I’ll ring for tea; you could always drink tea at any moment. -You see I remember--everything.” - -He had his hand out to the bell--bells had been added to the old place -with other things. She put out her chilled hand and tapped him lightly -on his hairy wrist, where the skin was so white. - -“Not just yet. No one saw me come in. I’m cold. I had a terrible walk.” - -“But you didn’t come alone! Where is Edred? If he couldn’t leave his -business you should have wired. I would have driven to the station. I -would have brought the new Battlesden. You know you had set your heart -on one. I bought it soon after you went away. It’s only been used once. -Did Edred----” - -“Sit down,” she said, with another light touch. “Oh! this fire is -glorious.” She turned up the hem of her skirt and let the warmth touch -her icy ankles. - -“It’s Friday,” Jethro continued thoughtfully. “Is he coming down -to-morrow? You must stay a week at least.” - -“I’ll stay longer--if you will have me,” she said, looking at him -queerly. - -“Good! I didn’t suppose he’d be able to get away from business for more -than a week. All the summer I’ve been talking of running up to town, -but I’ve been prevented: haying, harvest, one thing and the other. You -never wrote”--his voice was gently reproachful--“but I remembered the -address--Marquise Mansions.” - -“You’ve been making improvements,” she said, looking round the room. - -“Yes, I’ve done a few things--the things we settled to do before you -went away,” he returned, in a calm voice, “I knew you’d be coming down -sooner or later, and that you would be pleased. Let me ring for -tea--though there will be dinner in half an hour”--he pulled out the -big, ancestral watch. “I dine late now, as they do at the Warren.” - -“The Warren! Oh, yes. Of course you dine late now.” - -So it _was_ Maria Furlonger of the Warren--Maria Furlonger, who made -such agonized efforts to get on socially. - -“I know you like late dinner. I thought it was as well to have it, so -that when you and Edred came down there would be no fuss--everything -ready and as usual. He used to say that early dinner gave him -indigestion. Late ones make me sleepy; I’m ready for bed before nine.” - -“But you haven’t done all these things; you don’t dine late--for us?” - -“The place had to be done up,” he said, rather curtly, as if he thought -she laid too much stress on a trivial point. “It doesn’t matter much -whether you call your last meal dinner or supper.” - -“But----” - -She broke off. The fire was warm and crackling, his voice so calm, she -didn’t wish to disturb things. She recoiled from telling him the truth, -she shrank from hearing it. For she was certain that he meant to marry. -He had learnt to be indifferent to her--his kiss was an admission of -that. - -“We must have Gainah in.” He put his hand out again to that little knob -on the wall. “She shall tell them to get the guest-room ready. You’d -like to go upstairs?” - -“Not yet. There is something I must tell you first. Perhaps you’ll turn -me out--I don’t know. In any case you will wish me to go to-morrow -morning; even if you were willing to let me stay, she wouldn’t hear of -it.” - -“Gainah! She doesn’t rule me any longer,” he laughed. “Poor old Gainah! -She’s old--and queer. Aunt Sophy is afraid she is breaking up. That -would be awkward for me; a man can’t manage maids.” - -“I didn’t mean Gainah. I meant Maria Furlonger. She is a good -housekeeper. She’ll make a good mistress for Folly Corner. When you -tell her the truth--and you must tell her--she’ll be indignant. There -isn’t much mercy in Maria. But I congratulate you, Jethro.” - -“You talk as if I meant to marry Maria.” - -“And you don’t? Who is it, then?” - -“I’m not going to marry at all,” he returned soberly. “You ought to -know that, Pamela.” - -“You are not going to marry!” she cried out in a shrill, happy, -half-incredulous voice. “I am so glad. Barbara Clutton said you were. I -thought you were doing up the place for your wife.” - -“I did it up for you. I thought you’d be pleased. The men had begun -before you went away; it seemed a mistake to stop them. I should have -lost by it; the builder could have claimed.” - -“You’re not going to be married,” she repeated, as if it were too good -to be true. “Then, I am not afraid of you. Men are kind and just. They -don’t understand; they don’t pet you and croon over you, as a woman -does. They talk hard business and look at things from the practical -side. You, for example, would urge me to expose him, and I could never -do it, never.” - -He started. - -“Has he got into trouble again? Is he in prison?” - -She shook her head. - -“Worse--from my point of view. He is married. His lawful wife comes -first; he married her before he ever met me. He thought she was dead--I -do not blame him for that; it was a mistake. But other things!” She -bent forward and took his big, hard hands. “You don’t know what I’ve -suffered,” she continued in a quick, passionately vibrant whisper. -“Blows! Worse than blows. He constantly urged me to terrible things. -There was one man; there were two. The second one told me the truth and -offered, in a spirit of superb generosity, to marry me. He wanted me to -run away with one--a man I loathed, whose hand I would hardly touch. -There are some like that: you couldn’t kiss them, not if you were as -free as air, not if they were the only ones in the world. Do you ever -feel like that about particular women?” - -“I never thought about women--only one.” - -“You are different. I think these things out, just for amusement: women -do. I imagine what might happen in particular circumstances. He wanted -to get rid of me; I was a constant danger. He was tired of me--he never -cared, after the first few weeks: no one is indifferent to an absolute -novelty. I went away directly I heard he was married. I have never seen -him, never heard of him since. Barbara Clutton took me in. This morning -I found a periwinkle. You haven’t dug up that patch near the granary?” - -“Yes. Everything is altered out there. You’ll see.” - -“It reminded me of you. I put on my things and drove straight away to -the station, the flower in my hand. I threw it out of the railway -carriage window. It had done its work; to bring it with me would have -been sentimental, stupid.” - -“Poor Cousin Pamela!” He just pressed her fingers, then gently pushed -them away, as if they were a danger. “You must forget him. You are -free.” - -“I was always free. But I went away. I left you for him.” - -They looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Until that moment they had -not trusted themselves to embark on a long, steady gaze. She saw in -Jethro’s nothing but intense, almost brotherly, affection and pity. - -“You might leave me again to go to him?” he asked quietly. - -“I don’t know--I think, never. But I don’t know--so long as he is -alive.” - -“You are free. But he isn’t. He can’t marry you--can’t make it up to -you.” - -“Can’t make an honest woman of me,” she said, with bitter bluntness. -“That is what the women say about here when they force the young men -to marry their daughters. No, he cannot. But that would make no -difference to me--if he wanted me. He was first. I don’t even hate him. -Sometimes I think I am getting indifferent; but I felt like that -before, when he was in prison. I never know--unless he dies. That would -break the terrible spell.” - -He looked into her eyes again; he gave her hand a significant grip. -They understood each other. They were to be cousins--nothing more. -Nothing more was possible--she wasn’t even sure that she desired more, -and she feared that he did not. Nothing was possible now. Their love -had come to a full stop. - -He got up, saying: - -“I’ll go and speak to Gainah. I’ll prepare her. She’s getting old, and -surprises upset her.” - -When he came back, he looked a little stubborn--the old familiar look -of rebellion at woman’s tyranny. - -“She’ll be all right to-morrow,” he said, in answering Pamela’s -eloquent querying look. “She’ll be glad to-morrow. You know that her -temper’s an odd one.” - -They dined alone. Everything seemed strange--Jethro so unusually -precise in dress and manner, the dining-room so conventionally elegant. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -AFTER dinner they went back to the drawing-room together. Nettie -brought in coffee. She looked at Pamela curiously--with no very good -feeling. Her sharp, impudent eyes dropped to the left hand, where -Edred’s meaningless ring still gleamed. The look was not lost on -Pamela. Directly the maid had left the room she slipped the ring off -and put it in her purse. Jethro watched her, keen pity and indignation -in his light eyes. - -“If ever he comes here,” he said grimly, and with the eager instinct of -a sportsman, “you must let me settle with him.” - -“He will never come,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “He took all -he wanted from Folly Corner.” - -“Yes; I shall never see my two hundred pounds again,” the other -returned ruefully, and a disagreeable silence fell over the room, the -fire standing red on those two painfully tense faces. - -Soon after coffee Jethro grew sleepy. He dozed spasmodically, -shaking himself up at intervals, with apologetic murmurs. Pamela -sat silent, her unringed hands on her lap, her eyes sadly on the -coals. She resented the lack of drama in what she regarded as her -home-coming. The long, varying walk had been so pregnant with -possibilities. She had imagined, dreaded, dared to hope--so much. This -was the end--Jethro, inert with food, sleeping like a tired dog in the -armchair. Everything was settled. They had talked themselves out -already. She was to stay; she was to be Cousin Pamela again. Whether -they were really cousins or not they did not know--they had agreed not -to trouble--it mattered not. She was back at Folly Corner. To-morrow -she would pick up her dropped reins. She would go to Turle, to the -Warren, to all the roomy, warm old houses; she would kiss again the -placid, clumsy-souled woman. No one was to know the truth. Everything -would be just as it had been before--except that there would be no -question of love between her and Jethro. He tacitly insinuated that, -and she as delicately agreed. It had all been conveyed by a look. - -When the clock struck ten, he shook himself up for the last time, -stumbled to his feet, yawned openly, and said that it was late. Was she -quite ready for bed? They went round the house together, winding the -thirty-hour clock in the kitchen, which Gainah, strangely enough, had -forgotten, trying bolts and locks, turning out lights. They went up the -oak steps. At the door of the guest-room he kissed her calmly above the -eyes. - -When she was half undressed she discovered that the bed had not been -made. The blankets and quilt were there, but there were no sheets, no -slips on the pillows. She was half amused and half angry, divining at -once what had happened. Gainah with a last kick of authority had bidden -the maids prepare the inferior room which had been hers in former days. - -She went softly along the corridor and into that room. The bed was -made. She did not intend to sleep there: Gainah must be grasped with a -firm hand from the very start. She set her candle down, peeled off the -sheets, piled them with the pillows in her arms, and turned to go back -to the guest-room. When she opened the door, a puff of wind--the -draughty old house was full of strange gusts--blew out her candle. -Before the candle blew out she noticed that the key was gone from the -door. - -It was a wild autumn night, the wind rising and calling warningly down -the chimney. The room was dark, the curtains closely drawn. One gleam -of light, narrow and pointed, pierced through the uncurtained window in -the corridor and fell on the tumbled bed. She had dragged the sheets up -roughly; the blankets were in billows under the cotton quilt, the -bolster, in a case of some coarse, dark stuff, was half doubled and -partly buried beneath the humped-up coverings. As she gave the last -look back before shutting the door she was struck by the oddity of that -untidy bed. Quite unwittingly, in her hurried gathering of linen, she -had achieved the similitude of a human form. The appearance was -sufficiently startling. It was one of those queer, accidental effects -which sometimes occur. The tumbled blankets, under the white quilt -which she had hastily smoothed, the doubled, coarsely-covered bolster, -half hidden, were like the curled-up body and round head of some -sleeper. - -She went softly along the passage, down the steps, round the angles, in -the dark, knowing every turn of the way. When she reached the -guest-room she locked the door, lighted the candle, and made the bed. -Directly she was in the shadow of the dim old hangings she fell asleep. - -When the house was quiet and dark Gainah crept out of her room and -slipped, in her flat cloth shoes, down the stairs. She had not -undressed, had not even taken the band of dusty velvet from the top of -her head. She crept down to the lower rooms, where the fires were still -burning steadily, and where every article of furniture, new or old, -took fantastic shape. She went about lingeringly from one room to the -other, moving about slowly and stiffly in the dim circle of light which -came from the candle in her quivering hand. - -She walked about through one room into another, along the corridor and -back again. Sometimes she sat down for a moment: sometimes she just -stealthily opened a door and peered in. The two clocks, the eight-day -in the dining-room and the thirty-hour in the kitchen, had clanging -tongues of brass. They were the only sounds in the sleeping house. The -hours struck. She did not seem to notice. A threatening change had come -over her. She was full of fever and tremor. Her cold eyes burned with -the fire of amethysts. Her ever-increasing restlessness would not let -her stay in one room long. She went about wearily, stiffly, driven by -some malignant whip. She went into the drawing-room and screwed herself -awkwardly at one end of the cozy corner. She started up almost -immediately. To her hardihood there was a feeling of oppressive luxury -and enervation about that soft, gayly-tricked room. She was such a -persistent worker that her back felt strange against stuffing; she was -more at ease with the broad bars of a rush-seated chair cutting from -shoulder to shoulder. - -She went out in the kitchen and moved about uneasily, peering, by long -habit, into drawers, and sniffing, like an eager old dog, for fire. - -There was a fatty frying-pan on the top of the kitchen range--that -new-fangled range that Pamela had made Jethro buy. A victorious gleam -hardened her glittering eyes: the maids had been cutting rashers for -their supper. Her rule was bread, cheese, and water or cider. This was -a battle to be fought out in the morning. The jades! And not wit enough -to scour the pan! - -The knife-box stood on the dresser. Gainah bent over it, from habit -again. Everything definite that she did that night was done quite -mechanically and from unquenchable habit. It was her habit to peer for -dirty knives sneaked in among the clean: that was a cardinal offense. - -The box was made of mahogany. There was a brass handle; it gleamed in -the light of her candle. The knives had heavy buck-horn handles. Old -Jethro had been proud of them, his son took to them as a matter of -course, but Pamela had sneered and said they were barbarous. - -There were two sets--a dozen to each set. One was of lighter make -than the other; their handles were straight and tipped with steel. The -heavier set had stouter handles, which bulged out in knots at the ends. -Gainah picked out the two carving-knives and scrutinized the blades. -There was a weary, speculative look on her wasted, corpse-white face, -in which the brilliant eyes stood out so unnaturally. The frying-pan -was at her feet, but at the touch of the keen knives she absolutely -whirled away from trivial offenses--she was swept by one superb, -dangerous emotion. - -She looked round the polished, scoured kitchen, as if asking those dumb -gleaming metal things on walls and shelves to help her--to suggest. - -Then she moved toward the scullery and quietly drew the long bolts of -the door. She went across the yard, skirting the generous pile of -farm-buildings. They had been overhauled with the rest of the place. -The brick walls had been pointed; she could see every even, white line -of mortar. The roofs of thick thatch had been covered with sheets of -corrugated iron, which were hard and gray in the dim night. She went to -the tool-shed. That, by some oversight or by intention, had been left -untouched. It stood apart--the walls red patched with green, the roof -of rough tiles covered with a luxurious growth of lichens and -stonecrop. - -She pushed back the door and went in. There were tools and labor -implements of many sorts in the house: all the deadly array of weapons -permitted to the peaceful agriculturist. Every one was familiar, to -her; she had known them all from her very birth--pronged fork, long -scythe, solid spade, rakes with long pointed teeth. - -She sat down on a heap of sacks and rubbish by the wall. Her oddly -bright eyes roved feverishly over the collection; some on the earthen -floor, some sentinel-like against the wall, some slipped up in the -rafters, lying stealthily in wait. - -After a little she got up stiffly, the rheumatism gripping her cold -limbs, and touched these things one by one lingeringly. She ran her -fingers along edges, pressed them against teeth: the speculative, -questioning look crossed her face again. Yes. She must do it. That was -necessary for the peaceful carrying on of the farm life. She had never -scrupled to destroy anything that came in the way of the farm. It must -be done. But how? - -She took the hedgebill down. It had a long rounded handle of wood; its -iron head was reared, as if to strike; there was the malignity of a -cobra in the curve. - -There was the scythe with which through so many early summers she had -seen them cut down the young grass; the sickle, the almost circular -faghook, the solid billhook of shining steel with which the men chopped -thick sticks that were bound in the very hearts of the fagots. - -There was an old tragic tale bound round the sickle. Years ago -Chalcraft had made a clean cut with it through his child’s leg--a -three-year-old asleep in the quivering oats. They said that Chalcraft, -when the child died, tried to hang himself in the granary; but it was -before she came to Folly Corner. - -There were the shears--long-handled shears, short-handled. She stood -thoughtfully moving the handles. What sharp wide jaws! One could almost -catch a head, a human head, in them, and clip it off as easily as one -would the head of a dandelion. - -She dropped the tools as wearily as she had dropped the knives, with as -great an air of bewilderment. She went back to the house, in at the -open door. She stood for a moment looking out, seeing faintly some of -the changes that had taken place and imagining the rest. Nothing was -the same. The old prosperous, easy, untidy time had gone forever. The -Jaynes were trying to be gentry. She felt convinced that there was ruin -involved in the effort--ruin to the place, ruin to the family. She -loved the place: the hard iron roofs, the white-seamed bricks affronted -her. It wasn’t the Folly Corner she loved, outside nor in. She loved -the family; loved Jethro: hadn’t she almost married his father and been -a Jayne herself? And he! He was going to marry the girl who had lightly -altered everything. He was going to marry her--the girl who had come -back with the easy, insolent air of a devil that night when the shadows -were falling. It must not be. She must save the farm, save the family. -Yes. That was certain, that was settled. She had always made up her -mind that, if Pamela ever dared return, then Pamela must be done away -with. One had to get rid of certain nuisances, certain unprofitable -things about a farm. It was settled. But how? - -She went back to the mahogany box, bent over it, brooded. She took out -the carver again, the poultry carver with the long slender blade and -the sharply pointed tip. She rubbed it stealthily along the stone -coping of the sink, then she carried it back to the kitchen and slowly -swished it backward and forward along the steel, doing everything as -silently as possible. By and by she drew the edge of the blade along -her finger. It was so keen that a thin red line of blood ran up. - -She went upstairs. In one hand she carried the flat, winking -candlestick of brass, in the other the knife. Her fingers gripped the -smooth golden-brown handle convulsively. The wicked point she held -outward, her eyes fixed on it with much satisfaction. It was the best -thing after all. The tool-house, with its rude weapons of earth, had -not helped her. The knife-box had. - -She was at the door of the room where she believed Pamela was sleeping. -Leaving the light outside, she turned the handle with a sure grasp. She -knew that the door could not be locked; the key was weighting her long -pocket. She had remembered to take away the key. - -The room was dark. She went like a slow, certain arrow to the bed. All -her movements were slow, sure, horribly deliberate. She was used to -killing things. She knew that the great secret of success was to keep -cool. It didn’t seem to her any worse to kill a woman, when the woman -was a distinct obstruction and hindrance, than it was to kill a bird. - -The knife was in her hand. She gripped the handle fiercely; the shining -red bone of her wrist stood out. She shut her eyes; it was a habit of -hers to shut her eyes at the very moment of killing--her ineradicable, -nervous, womanly habit. - -She darted the point of the blade down, jabbing it furiously through -the heaped-up bedclothes. Then, her eyes hardly open, her hand out to -feel the way, she crept away, softly shutting the door behind her. - -The hard lines of her worn face had relaxed, the feverish shine of her -eyes had given place to a calm light. The strained, hunted, uncertain -expression had gone forever. The rebellion and misery, the desperate -catechising of herself, were all ended. The question which, a year ago, -had rung and rung in her head so persistently, which had rung again so -noisily to-night when she heard that Pamela had come back, was -answered. That question, that weary, bitter question which had chimed -above her brow and made it ache so dully, would chime no more. There -was silence, a strange feeling of ease and lightness above her eyes, -where that maddening noise had been. - -Her smoldering hatred of Pamela had taken tangible form. She wasn’t -clever; she knew not the meaning of finesse nor the nature of -conspiracy. It had never occurred to her that she might get rid of -Pamela by skillful appeal to Jethro’s dearest emotions. That was not -her way. Her way was more rough and ready, more grewsomely certain than -that. Pamela must be got rid of in the usual manner. There were plenty -of precedents on the farm. A knife was the only solution--knife, or a -trap, or a quick twist of the neck. But you could not twist a woman’s -neck; neither could you pin her in a gin. A knife--that was the only -way. She condemned Pamela in exactly the same spirit that she would -have condemned an unprofitable animal. She arrived at the decision with -stolidity. Her nerve had shaken a little at the actual act--that was -all: it needed a man to do the killing properly--it wasn’t woman’s -work on the farm. - -Pests must be exterminated; that was the simplest rule of domestic -economy. - -As she went along the narrow, silent passage and up the stairs to her -own room everything was strangely threatening. The candle was burning -short and leaping desperately in the stick. All the familiar things, -things of common life, reassuring things by day, were weird now with -night and sleep. - -She was afraid. She didn’t know why: she fought the feeling. She had -earned the right to repose. - -She shut her bedroom door, shooting the bolt convulsively. It was the -first time in her life that she had locked herself in at night. She -undressed quickly, the candle shooting up spasmodically before it died. -She laid her clothes, precisely folded, on the particular chair. She -took the velvet band from her head, parted her poor wisps of hair into -even strands, and twisted each strand into a wisp of rag. - -She peeled herself of the various flannel wrappings which increasing -rheumatism demanded. Then she took off her stockings and slipped on her -coarse nightgown and got into bed, drawing the belated last leg in with -a frightened jerk. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -THE sun, peering through the carelessly-drawn curtain and falling -across her eyes, awakened Pamela next morning. - -She jumped briskly to the floor from the high, enshrouded bed. She -realized, with a joyful thrill, that this was not London--not Beaufort -Street. She must write to Barbara, who had been kind; but the bread of -dependence, when a woman hands it, is never sweet. - -When she was half dressed she threw back the casement and occasionally -bobbed out her head to look at the garden. Beneath her stretched the -closely-shaven, vividly green grass, the accurately-cut beds, the long, -flower-tangled borders. She saw with satisfaction, with a thrill of -gratitude to Jethro, that everything had been kept in exactly the order -that she wished. - -The garden drew her, looking up at her with a bright, magnetic glance: -the satisfying, intense, and comprehensive love for a garden caught her -once more; she marveled because she had once cared more passionately -for something else. - -All the things that should be blooming in that month were there. Daborn -had been very good; not a single chrysanthemum--those choice, delicate -ones--had been lost. He had taken cuttings from her dahlias, or -preserved the tubers. They were there too. Her eyes dwelt almost -tearfully on the blazing red cactus which had been her favorite. Her -Japanese anemones, with their rough dull leaves, were heavy with pure -white or pale pink flowers--widely open and waxen, like small saucers -of the finest porcelain. - -She was going to be very happy in a placid way--the most satisfactory -form of happiness. She would always be happy; the garden needed her -every month of the twelve. She had passed the stage of rapturous, -transient happiness; she was too old. As she looked in the glass, -twisting her dull, abundant hair, she saw, for the first time, -accusing, brutally frank lines across her face. - -She clasped the silver buckle at her waist with a click, and settled -the crimson tie which made a mark of flame down the front of her white -flannel shirt. She ran downstairs, humming under her breath, saying to -herself that it was fortunate that Jethro was indifferent to the old, -agitating passion--looking forward to his tepid, brother’s kiss above -the eyes. - -It seemed as if the whole world of Folly Corner rejoiced at her return. -There was a busy cackling in the poultry yard; the bees were flying in -the sun; the geese went, in their waddling, ludicrously dignified way, -along the dry road, cackling with satisfaction. It was like a May -morning--so blue, so warm, so golden. It was like spring; all over the -garden were little chirrups and snatches of song, as if the birds were -nesting. - -The dining-room was empty; so was Jethro’s room. She went into the -drawing-room, opened the window, jubilantly ran her fingers over the -keyboard of the piano. Then she went into the kitchen; she must show -herself, assert herself. - -Gainah was frying sausages over the wood fire in the back kitchen. She -rigorously tabooed the new range, and she never allowed anyone to touch -her sausages. She made them from the very foundation--putting in a good -taste of sage, in the Sussex way. She fried them, set the dish on the -table with her own hands. She had a reputation for her sausages. - -Some of them were sizzling in a copper pan, others waited, long and -lean and red, on a plate close by. They were not very appetizing to -look at, although they were admittedly delicious to eat. They gave out -a great deal of fat; the pan needed frequent emptying. - -Gainah had a Windsor chair with a round back set near the fire. She had -a table at her elbow. Every minute or so she got up and emptied the -surplus fat into a bowl. It was a yellow bowl, ringed with lines of -white, and decorated with brown trees roughly run on--a common yellow -bowl such as they sell in country shops. - -Pamela stepped across the bricks, her high heels clittering. She put -out her hand with nonchalance, smiled, tried to look pleasant--but she -had always been repelled by Gainah. - -“Good-morning,” she said. - -The pan of red copper, half full of fat and bubbling sausages, was in -Gainah’s hand. It was tipped toward the yellow bowl. - -“Good-morning,” repeated Pamela, the wide smile of greeting exposing -her teeth. “Why didn’t you come into the drawing-room last night to -welcome me back?” - -Gainah gave a choking cry and fell forward in the wooden chair. The pan -dropped from her nerveless hand. The sausages were thrown about the -brick floor, the fat streamed along sluggishly, a hot brown stream, -rapidly settling. - -Pamela started back. Some of those spitting brown grease spots were -already hardening on her skirt, on the toes of her shoes. - -“How careless of you!” she cried wrathfully. “You have spoilt my -skirt.” - -Gainah made that disquieting sound again. It did not seem to come from -her throat: it was a threatening sound--outside, beyond her. She was -now sitting bolt-upright in the chair. She made an odd figure, with her -stiff, blanched face, her unreadable eyes, her uncouthly-cut gown, and -her flat, stiffly planted feet. The fat was settling around her, going -white and hard on the cold floor. The sausages were stuck in it. The -pan was face downward on the floor. - -Her crooked fingers were caught in at her throat, between the limp -collar and the gown. She seemed to be desperately clawing the stuff -away from her skin, as if she could bear no contact, as if she -suffocated. Her feet were fast in grease, it molded them like a plaster -cast. She didn’t seem to be in any pain, although the fat was thick -on her feet. Her jaw had dropped, like a poor dead jaw. Her eyes were -blank. - -Such eyes! Pamela thought of a mechanical toy--broken. Gainah looked -like that. Something had given the last pull at the wire, the -superfluous dangerous turn of the key--the one turn too many, the last -turn. It was just the same: there was the fixed grin, the hard stare, -the obstinate refusal to perform. There had been too violent a pull; -now there was Oblivion where a moment before there had been a semblance -at least of intelligence. She had always intolerantly considered Gainah -very stupid, only half developed in a mental sense. Yet she had never -before been an absolute, helpless, insensate, staring fool. - -The door opened, Jethro came in. - -He had been out early in the keen brief frost. The bridge of his high -nose was ruddy, his eyes shone. There was about him the intolerant -aggravating air of the person who gets up and goes out while others -sleep. He seemed hungry--a trifle cross. - -“I saw you through the window,” he said curtly, giving her a bluff -little nod, and approaching as if to kiss her--the calm kiss that she -imagined she wanted from his mouth. “Haven’t they got breakfast ready? -Will you make the coffee, Pamela? The way you used to make it; nobody -does it so well.” - -“Yes, yes!--but look! But what is the matter with her, Jethro? Is it a -fit?” - -She pointed to Gainah, stiff, staring, widely smiling; a terrified grin -that had petrified on her wrinkled mouth. He looked. He gave a long, -high whistle, then he seemed terribly touched. - -“Aunt Sophy’s been afraid of this,” he said gravely. “We must get her -up to bed.” - -He picked the rigid figure up tenderly, as he would have picked up an -ailing child. - -Pamela followed him. On the way through the kitchen she told the maids -to send two messengers--one to Turle, another to Liddleshorn for -Egbert. - -Jethro was halfway up the stairs, the odd figure bunched up like a -short-coated baby in his long arms. It looked so ludicrous, so -fearsome, that Pamela stepped back from the fixed eyes and stretched -mouth. He went slowly, his hands gripped round the blue gown. He paused -on the landing; paused by the window, with its tiny dull panes, its -wide ledge, on which stood a jar of white honesty-pods--“money in both -pockets,” as Gainah had always called it. Pamela slid by him, keeping -her skirt, her head and hands from contact with the blue gown and -hanging arms. She flung back the door of her old room. - -“Carry her in here,” she said. “It is nearer. It is a better room than -her own, too. When the doctor comes--I have sent for Egbert--the room -must be tidy.” - -He crossed the threshold; she ran in front and flung back the curtains, -letting in the glad November sun. - -“Put her in here. Then go down and send Nettie up. We’ll undress her,” -she said tersely, with the cool air of business that follows a shock. - -They both looked at the bed at the same moment. Pamela stared, started, -contracted her forehead. Then she threw a stronger look of terror and -dislike at the doll-like, silly head of Gainah, which hung over -Jethro’s shoulder. - -“The wicked old woman!” she gasped. “I always knew she wasn’t safe; -these queer people are much more dangerous than a full-blown lunatic. -All the crimes that one reads of in the newspapers are committed by -people like she was--peculiar people. She meant to murder me. She -thought I was sleeping in this bed. Look at the knife.” - -She stopped, with a wild leaping at her throat. Jethro had tumbled his -burden down on one side of the humped-up bed. He drew out the knife. -Pamela was close behind him. Together they traced its course. She put -her shaking, twitching fingers through the close long cuts, which rent -everything down to the very bed. All around the cut in the ticking were -down and feathers that had puffed out. The down flew about their heads, -stirred by the quick, short breaths of horror which gushed from their -lungs. - -“She meant to kill me. I took the sheets away and slept in the -guest-room. It looked rather like a body--you can see the likeness -yourself: the doubled-up bolster, the blankets all heaped up under the -quilt. She meant to kill me. Show her the knife.” - -She took it from Jethro and held it up, held it close to the stony, -widely-opened eyes of the figure at the edge of the bed. But the eyes -gave no sign, the mouth did not relax. - -“She doesn’t understand; it is no good trying to make any impression on -her.” - -She put the knife on the dressing-table. - -“I’m afraid to touch her,” she said. “What an escape!” - -“She’s lost her reason.” He looked down sorrowfully. - -“You don’t care for _me_. You don’t think of my escape.” - -He lifted his eyes from the bed, seeming suddenly to remember. Then he -pulled her to him, kissed her with all the calm restraint of last -night, smoothed her hair--petted her as if she were a startled bird. -But all the time his eyes were turning to the bed. He treated her -tenderly--as a pet thing who had narrowly missed destruction. But any -pet was less than a woman. Gainah was a woman--the wreck of the woman -who had been his mother, his mentor, his tyrant all his days. His eyes -dwelt sorrowfully on the bed. Pamela pushed him to the door rather -pettishly. - -“We must get her undressed,” she said. “Egbert will be here soon. Tell -Nettie to bring up a needle and thread. The tick must be sewn or we -shall have the feathers all over the place.” - -He went away reluctantly. When Pamela was alone she sat down on the -edge of the sofa. Once she shrugged her shoulders and gave a cold short -laugh of terror. Only last night she had been discontented because her -return to Folly Corner had lacked the elements of drama. There had been -tragedy brewing for her all the while. - -Gainah was on her side, just as Jethro had left her. A gentle, almost -imperceptible, vibration of her head was unceasing; it extended to her -hands, which clutched round the edge of the blanket. She seemed to be -slowly crawling back to some muffled kind of consciousness. Once, when -her eyes met Pamela’s, the girl fancied that she saw a gleam of terror. -In another moment she felt certain that Gainah recognized her, was -abjectly afraid of her, was trying, in an agony and without the least -avail, to slip down in the bed and get out of sight. - -It was the monthly washing day. It had been the day of the monthly wash -when Pamela first came to Folly Corner. She thought of that as she -threw back the window and heard the rasping, spasmodic sound of the -brush. - -Nettie came up. Between them they took off Gainah’s clothes, divested -her of her many flannel packings. Then Pamela went and looked for a -nightgown. She opened all Gainah’s boxes and drawers in the search. She -wanted a fairly smart nightgown--for the doctor. She rejected those of -daily wear--coarse, plain things which any self-respecting housemaid -would disdain--narrow things, like bolster-cases with the bottoms out. - -She found, at last, a parcel sewn in linen. On it was pinned a paper -with the words, written in an uncertain, illiterate hand: - -“For my laying out.” - -She hesitated--for sentimental reasons. Then--for practical reasons, -and the practical was usually uppermost with her when it came to other -people’s affairs--she unpinned the parcel. Woman’s pity for another -woman touched her heart as she flipped the carefully-made nightgown, of -fair, thin stuff, over her arm. - -“Poor thing!” she said pitifully, and hesitated once more. Then she -said brusquely to herself: - -“Well, at the worst, if she dies, it can be washed, and she can be -buried in it as she wished.” - -She shut the drawer, it was a bottom drawer, with her foot. Gainah’s -quilts, the blue one still unfinished, were folded carefully away. - -When she went back she found the cook and washerwoman standing by the -bed. The former had brought clean sheets, the latter was standing -stolidly, her crinkled hands on her hips. She sent them all away and -finished Gainah’s toilet herself. She fancied that the helpless figure -shrank from the touch of her hands; fancied that the eyes tried -eloquently and quite in vain to say things which the lips could not. - -When the bed was made and Gainah was stretched straight and stiff and -robed in snow-white linen of the very finest, Pamela tidied the room. -She picked up the old woman’s garments with a “finicky,” fine air of -distaste. She twisted together strips of flannel and rolled up -stockings which had been frugally re-footed. Last of all she plunged -her hand into the pocket of the dim blue gown and brought out the heavy -bunch of housekeeping keys. The clinking sound they made roused Gainah. -She tried piteously to move in the bed. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -“THAT head-flannel may do for Annie; you know there is to be another -little one about Lady Day. I must say that it is a pity when young -wives have a family too fast.” - -Mrs. Turle gently laved her ample hands in the fancy-work box, -apportioning the different articles according to her mind. - -“Nancy would like that embroidered newspaper rack. She and Duncan are -so very literary. I’m sure Nancy would have distinguished herself in -literature, if it had been necessary. She would have made her -mark--ladies take up so many things nowadays, and are received by the -best people just the same. When Nancy stayed with the Cluttons she -moved in a very literary set, and was much admired.” - -“Have you heard from Barbara lately?” asked Pamela. - -She was sitting by the fire, with her back to the view of gravel drive -and brand-new park land of Turle House. The big, dazzling white -mantelpiece was a little above her head, loaded with family photos--a -long, ogling, simpering line of family features. - -“No. But I saw her name in the papers; I am always seeing it. Her -husband is really a very distinguished man in his way. I can’t think -why she buried herself at the Buttery, and talked so much at random, -making enemies of so many people. How could anyone be expected to -understand her? Nancy says that in London, when staying with the -Cluttons, she met a great many women of that type--ill-balanced -women, my dear, with a trick of extravagant talk and an unchristian, -uncomfortable habit of poking fun at everything.” - -Pamela shifted her chair a little back from the hot fire. A quick, -poignant shadow just flecked her face. A vivid picture of London, hot, -restless, virile, flamed before her eyes and shook her calm for a -moment. Then the peaceful slowness dropped down on her again. She -looked, with a gasp of relief, at her surroundings--the big, ugly -room--old-fashioned enough in its appointments and furniture to mark a -distinct period. She looked at Mrs. Turle--who might or might not be -her Aunt Sophy--looked at her motherly figure and hard, high-featured -face. She remembered that Barbara had once said, with a laugh, that -there was a strong streak of “old cat” in Aunt Sophy’s face. - -Nothing changed: nothing ever would change. Everything in that room was -the same as it had always been in her knowledge of it. It was restful -and slow: it fed and stilled one’s nerves. She no longer wanted London, -no more wanted Love. But the mention of London, which had held Love, -just stirred her--made her remember that she had never heard anything -of Edred. She wondered if he and Sutton were still at Marquise -Mansions; if they, with Milligan and a few more, were still carrying -on risky financial schemes. The newspapers never mentioned them, the -advertisements of their companies no longer necessitated an extra sheet. - -“How is Gainah?” Mrs. Turle brought out a cushion of crazy patchwork. -“I’ll buy this for her, poor soul! What an invaluable woman she was! -What a manager! Folly Corner would have gone all to pieces after Lilith -died but for Gainah. It is a dreadful end for an active woman. I -suppose, dear, you notice no change?” - -“None. She just sits upstairs--she won’t leave that room; my old room, -you know----” - -“I know. You certainly had a most providential escape.” - -“She does patchwork; she cries to Jethro--never to me--for new pieces.” - -“She shall certainly have this cushion. It would give her a new idea. -She might copy it. She has never done crazy patchwork.” - -“If any of you have any pieces, do send them to Folly Corner. Whenever -we drive into Liddleshorn I will buy her some.” - -“I’ll have a hunt. We all remember Gainah. Maria brought some over from -the Warren last week--you can take them back with you. And Annie had -some beautiful corners of sateen. She has been re-covering the cot -eiderdown. I went to help her last Monday; it takes two--one to machine -and the other to hold the work perfectly steady. Annie is rather early -with her preparations, but your Aunt Jerusha always insisted on having -everything ready at least three months before: Annie is a very dutiful -daughter. And Gainah still has that extraordinary dislike for you?” - -“Yes. She is afraid of me. It is natural and uncanny. She thinks I am a -ghost; she knows she killed me. The knife was dug in to the very hilt. -What an escape I had! Jethro won’t send her to the asylum. He could -pay. She would have every care. Half the parlormaid’s time is taken up -with Gainah.” - -“I can understand that it is a trial for you. It is telling on you, -dear. You really look quite faded. I can see by your eyes that your -head is aching at this moment. Take a dose of caffeine when you get -back. And ask Egbert to give you a tonic. I must say that it isn’t -natural, dear, for a young woman not quite thirty to look so yellow.” - -“Gainah and Chalcraft ought to be comfortably provided for away from -Folly Corner,” Pamela persisted. “Chalcraft is anything but a graceful -pauper. He is most familiar to me whenever I go to his cottage.” - -She laughed uncomfortably. She had grown into an elegant habit of -philanthropy, after the manner of country ladies. Philanthropy was very -gratifying. She bought courtesy with old gowns and paid for heavenly -benedictions with a milk pudding. But Chalcraft was obdurate. He -declined to bend his ancient knee to the interloper. He kept his bed -nearly all the winter. He made his “missus” bring it down to the -living-room and set it behind the door, so that he might see, in part, -how the world went. At Pamela’s entrance, foolish, half-daft Mrs. -Chalcraft would courtesy and flip a chair, but Chalcraft only grunted. -The cold stare of his rheumy blue eyes reminded her of the day when she -first came to Folly Corner, when she trod down the gray tendrils of the -vine with the pointed toes of her town shoes. She had been an -adventuress then. She was assured now--the mistress of Folly Corner. -She had routed them all--Gainah, Chalcraft, the rude manner of life. -The fierce old head on the pillow behind the door, the blank, worn old -face at the window of her old room, were unpleasant reminders. She -would gladly have sent Chalcraft and Gainah away. But this was the one -point on which Jethro was firm. - -“You haven’t heard from Edred lately?” - -Aunt Sophy’s placid, purring query struck her ears like a gunshot. -“No,” she said shortly. - -Aunt Sophy’s keen blue eyes were full on her face. - -“He had a very serious illness?” - -“Yes.” - -“Why doesn’t he come down to Folly Corner?” - -“He’s busy. The train service is so bad.” - -“The train service is very good, now that we have the new line. He -could go up every morning quite easily, with a quick horse to take him -to the station. It would be better, dear. We hardly care for you to -live alone with Jethro. You’re really much younger than you look. -Strangers might consider the arrangement a fitting one, but we in the -family, who know that you are really not thirty, consider it hardly -proper. People talk. You know,” she laughed indulgently, “what a long -tongue Maria has--and she visits at so many nice houses. You and -Jethro ought to marry. Why doesn’t the wedding come off? Everyone is -wondering. It is fifteen months since you came back from nursing -Edred.” - -“We have changed our minds. We neither of us wish to marry. It doesn’t -matter what people say.” - -“My dear, your family has every confidence. But I’m sure my idea is -excellent. Let Edred come and live at Folly Corner. If you had your -brother with you no one could say a word. Isn’t this a pretty workbag?” - -She held up a limp blue thing, worked with straggling leaves in brown -silk. She held it so persistently, swinging it tantalizingly by the -string, that Pamela was compelled to meet her inquisitive eyes--eyes -that she had always known suspected her. There was more than a spark of -malice in Aunt Sophy. She had been young once, a coquette, so they -said. The embers of coquetry lay in her eyes still. She had never been -a mere pink and silly girl like her daughter Nancy. - -“If you had your brother with you,” she repeated with emphasis, “no one -could say a word. Why doesn’t he come? Is it because of Nancy? He was -in love with Nancy. But she is married now.” - -“He cannot come. He has his business.” - -“Well, then, my dear,”--she never shifted her questioning eyes,--“I -must say that you ought to marry to Jethro.” - -Pamela walked home thoughtfully. There was, then, nothing stationary in -life--outside a happy marriage. The family had combined to drive her -from Folly Corner or into Jethro’s arms. The family did not know the -cold, sad repugnance that they both had for love-making--the dread -avoidance of it, as a poignant, heart-wrenching thing. Aunt Sophy might -suspect, but she would never be sure. - -She walked through the woods which she had once trodden with Edred on a -spring day. Crisp frost--like the icing of Maria’s cakes: Maria’s forte -was iced cake--spread over the thick, dead leaves. Every point on which -her eye dwelt was glittering and white. When she reached Folly Corner -she stopped to look at the cows, standing in golden straw and fenced by -a gray paling on which serpent-green moss stood in a thick pile. Why -wouldn’t the family let them alone--she and Jethro? They were -happy--slow, peaceful, like their cattle: _their_ cattle--she had come -to believe that everything was hers, without the burning, binding tie -of marriage. They were happy. The pensive melancholy and roundness of -the old place, which no builder could inspire with modern feeling, had -eaten into them. They only wanted to be left alone. - -She went round the house, meaning to enter, as she usually did, by the -garden door. As she passed beneath the window of her old room she -looked up. It stood open. Gainah was indifferent to temperature: she -was stitching at her interminable quilts. All she had kept of her sane -days was the feverish energy, which now wrought itself on snipping up -stuff and sewing it together again. She wore the same old gown of -blue--they could not take it from her; her hair bunched out on each -side of her chalky face in the absurd bunches of corkscrew curls. The -velvet band across her head was tightly strained: it had made a bald -spot in the middle of the parting--a spot which was rapidly spreading. -Pamela saw her plainly: the restless fingers, distorted by rheumatism, -but quite clean and yellow-white, now that she did not do any housework -or cooking; the worn, blank face, the constantly moving lips. She stood -looking up, not knowing why she stopped, lost in speculation which had -little enough to do with this dormant Gainah. - -As she stood there Gainah suddenly looked down. She met the upturned -eyes and gave a terrified baby’s cry. She tried to move, to scuttle out -of sight. But her stricken limbs refused their aid; she began to -whimper with fright at the sight of her victim. A flash of anger -lighted on Pamela’s face. She had never forgiven. - -She held up her finger and shook it threateningly. - -“Go back,” she cried, “go back to the fire at once,” forgetting in her -irritation that the old woman could not move across the room without -help. - -The parlormaid came forward to the window. She caught Gainah by the -shoulder, none too gently, and pulled her away, shutting the casement -with an impatient click. - -Jethro was in the field beyond the garden. Pamela went to him over the -border of crisp, crunching grass which edged the furrows. She loved -that field in all its moods. She had watched it, consulted it so often -from the shadow of the deep bay window. She remembered just how it -appeared at each particular crisis of her life at Folly Corner--half -shorn of its yellow corn on that first day; mystic with clearing mist -and great green moon the night she came back; dull brown to-day with -thin ice on the upturned tips of its even furrows. - -He was near the hedge, talking to Buckman, who was ditching. She went -up and hooked her hand through his arm without saying a word. They had -grown into that attitude--the affectionate, silent attitude of long, -dear familiarity. Sometimes they would sit without speech for a whole -evening, until he suddenly looked up from the paper with a tender look -and stretched his big hand out to touch her fingers. - -The ditch was clean, the hedge hacked. Small heaps of black leaf mold -spotted the fringe of grass. - -“You’ll be about done that job to-morrow,” Jethro said. “Just tie the -fagots together and put them on the stack.” - -The two walked toward the house. - -“I think,” she said timidly, “that I would like to go to London -to-morrow. Some shopping--that’s all. And I’d like a sight of London -streets--a bit of color and movement. One wants that twice in a -winter.” - -He looked at her suspiciously. The clear fire blazed in her face. -Standing there with the icy ground under their feet and the scurrying, -sunless sky above their heads, they read each other’s souls. - -“No,” she said passionately; “you can trust me. I think I can trust -myself. London is very big. I am not likely to meet him.” - -“Go, if you like. But there will be a hard frost to-night and very -likely snow to-morrow,” he returned, looking up to the sky for a -weather sign. - -The clear, hard light showed his rugged face, stern and simple. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -HE stopped at the door and said he must drive over to the Flagon House -before dusk. Pamela went alone into the drawing-room and sat by the -fire. The luxury and completeness of the room touched her with a sense -of Jethro’s boundless generosity--all the more creditable because he -was a frugal man. It was quite a modern room now--it had the thin, -elegant touch which she preferred. - -Her tea came in. She threw aside her hat and coat, and toasted her -knees while she read the newspaper. A queer hurry and unrest had taken -possession of her. She kept worrying herself. Should she go to London -to-morrow? Aunt Sophy had stirred her by the mere mention of London. -Should she go? Should she stay at home? - -There was no harm in going. Shopping, tea with Barbara perhaps--nothing -more. She would stop at Liddleshorn and ask Nancy or Egbert’s wife to -go with her. There would surely be safety in that. Safety! The word -made her blench and shrink. She instantly suspected herself. So there -was really danger! - -She wasn’t sure of herself--not yet: wasn’t sure--would never be. -Wasn’t it more than possible that, directly she was in London alone, -unchecked, unwatched, she would go straight to Marquise Mansions, not -meaning to enter? But, at the foot of the stairs, wasn’t it certain, -miserably certain, that she would go up? If she saw him! Then--that -she admitted, with a violent shame and misery--everything would depend -on his attitude. The woman in brown! The woman--didn’t count. - -She wouldn’t think, wouldn’t speculate, wouldn’t decide just now. It -would be premature to decide yet. There was no hurry. - -She picked up the paper, which had dropped to the floor. Then she -remembered that it had been the paper which had tempted her to leave -Jethro before. Suppose Edred’s name should be on the next sheet! That -would settle everything--so she feared. - -Would it never end--this evil, incomprehensible witchery? Wasn’t she -ever going to be safe? Was her life to be spent in veering between the -happy lethargy of Folly Corner and the periodic joy and black misery of -life with Edred? She despaired of herself. She hadn’t any shame, any -self-respect, any modesty--any of those cold, praiseworthy qualities -which romance has for centuries built up and labeled “feminine -character.” - -She read on. One word, at last, became more than a dancing string of -letters. It was the word Sutton. Here at last, after fifteen months of -vigilant watching, was a sign. Here, beneath her eyes, was an indirect -message from Marquise Mansions. - -Had he been knighted or sent to penal servitude? Either was equally -likely--in their mode of life. She read. It was a highly respectable -announcement: he was a member of the County Council--a prominent -member--and he had been agitating about some strike--yes, the -plasterers’ strike. Whatever sympathy had he with plasterers? She -laughed softly, and put the paper down. He was evidently prosperous, -this sleek minion of Edred’s. The paragraph was redolent of prosperity. -He was spoken of deferentially as a promising man--a coming man. She -knew his future. He’d go into Parliament, pick his way up the social -ladder. - -There was no word of Edred. The omission was a knell on her brow. - -She must go to London to-morrow. It would be safe. She wasn’t quite so -weak as she supposed. After all, there really would not be much danger -in going to Marquise Mansions--just to inquire of the porter. - -The room grew dark as she sat, stooping forward, her chin in her hands. -The wind rose, and lapped like rising waves about the lonely house. She -put more coal on the fire, feeling the intense cold of the night even -there, in the nest of carpets, thick curtains, and cushions. - -Suddenly she heard muffled feet on the red, newly-spread gravel -outside. No wheels, but the steady, heavy tramping of feet! She heard -voices, the rustic, slow voices of the farm men. There was a momentary -silence: then Jethro spoke. She could not catch the words, but there -was a sinister intonation in his voice. - -She ran to the window. When she hastily dragged the curtain back she -saw that the glass was spread with a fine cloth of silver. The -casement was fast with frost; it took a determined movement of her -wrist to throw it back. - -When she put her head stealthily out into the night, the cold dashed -against her with the sting of a blow. There had not been so cold a -night that winter. The snow fell in solid steady flakes. - -It was a typical winter’s night; it was quite theatrical in its -completeness. She might have been looking at the drop-scene of a -domestic drama. Snow, intense cold, slow-tongued, heavy-footed -rustics--everything was ripe for a crisis; but there was to be no -crisis in her life, no more drama. She was in harbor. - -Jethro saw her before she spoke. - -“Go back!” he said peremptorily. “Go back to the fire!” - -Those were the words she had used to Gainah. - -“Go back!” he repeated. - -She couldn’t see his face; she could see nothing distinctly. The men -were in a circle, as if they covered something. But she didn’t want to -see. The strange ring in his voice was enough. - -She shut the window, caught a rug from the cozy corner, and went -through the warm, well-lighted corridor out of doors. - - * * * * * - -They were going very slowly, very cautiously, the group of farm men, -headed by Jethro, toward the barn. She could see them--the bent -shoulders, the rough clothes, the shambling, swinging steps and loose -swing of the body. They were all familiar, these men. She knew them -by name--knew how many shillings a week each had, and of how many -children each was the father. At that moment she didn’t seem to know -them at all. They were instinct with mystery--mystery flavored with -dread. - -What were they carrying? She could see now, as she gained on them -silently in her thin slippers, that they guardedly carried a thing--a -long, shrouded bundle. It was shapeless; yet, somehow, it cried out of -life beneath the roughly piled coverings. It was nothing agricultural -that they were carrying toward the barn so carefully. - -She heard them speak, heard Daborn say in his cheery voice and -deferential way: - -“’Course, sir, it aint as _I_ thinks, it’s as _you_ thinks. But _I_ -should jus’ lay ’un in the barn.” - -Lay what in the barn? A formless fear quickened her feet. She was very -close, none of them yet suspected her presence--the heavy snow now -extinguished all sound of feet. - -They had covered the shrouded thing with sacks--wet sacks that were -already stiffening with frost. - -She crept behind them in the shadow of the newly-planted shrubs. She -followed to the barn--the great barn, full of cobwebs, scored by huge -beams. Its new roof of corrugated iron, covering the heavy thatch, -gleamed like a strange, new precious metal. - -They stopped to throw open the great door. How cold she was! And yet -how her heart under the sofa-rug blazed and beat--she couldn’t have -told why. - -They all went stolidly, carefully into the barn. She slipped like a -wraith in after them. - -Jethro turned and saw her. - -“Go back!” he said wrathfully. “Go back!” repeating it, with no wrath -at all, but with exquisite pleading and gentleness. “Go back! Dear -love, go back to the fire.” - -She looked up at him meaningly, knowingly. She began to feel what it -was that stretched under those wet sacks. Dear love! It was the first -time since her return that he had used those words--his favorite pet -expression during the brief, agitated period of their engagement. - -There were frozen flakes of snow scattered over the orange silk rug -which wrapped her from her chin to the toe-caps of her slippers. Her -white face, framed in disheveled, dust-colored hair, was shadowy. They -stood together at the door of the barn. At the back of them, the men, -each with his lantern, made a patch of light. An evil spirit seemed to -stare out of each corner of the vast raftered place--to stare down at -the thing under the sacks. - -“I will not go back,” she said firmly. “I want to see. What is there?” - -She pointed with a steady finger. They had improvised a bench. They -were laying it out--straightening it, with rough, pitiful reverence, as -she could very well see. - -“What is there?” - -Her voice rang out in the lofty barn amid the perfect, unnatural -silence which suddenly fell over the rest. Jethro only repeated, -touching her coaxingly on the wrist: - -“Go back. I’ll come in and tell you presently.” - -She shook her head. - -“I stay. I mean to see.” - -The group of men, with rare delicacy, without a word or a gesture of -recognition, clumped out, with heads down and heavy feet, trying in -vain to tread lightly. - -Jethro and Pamela were alone. She shot forward and touched the sacks. - -“You mustn’t touch. I insist on your going in, Pamela.” - -But her hand was already on the soiled, wet sacking, and she flipped it -down with fearful eagerness. - -“I knew, I knew,” she called out almost exultingly. “I felt sure.” - -She looked at the dead face for a long time, and very steadily. - -“I was driving home from the Flagon House,” Jethro explained in a husky -voice and averting his eyes from those dead ones which would not close. -“Something went wrong with the harness just as I got to the pond. I -jumped down. By the light of the lamps. I saw--his arm was thrust out.” - -She didn’t speak. Her eyes were steady and luminous on Edred’s rigid -face. There was a ticking sound as the water dropped from his sodden -clothes to the floor. Then a quick clatter of a horse’s hoofs fell on -their ears. - -Jethro said simply: - -“That’s young Buckman gone to Liddleshorn for Egbert. I told him to -saddle the black mare.” - -She only looked and looked. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, her lips -were steady. She looked from the handsome dead face to the shabby, -drenched clothes, which were splintered all over with little -spear-shaped fragments of ice. - -They were the clothes of a tramp. His boots were burst, a dirty -handkerchief was knotted round his long throat, and on his chin was an -unkempt beard--a piebald beard, half black, half gray. He was handsome -still, but it was the wreck of comeliness--the sodden face of a -dissolute man of fifty. - -“He must have had ill luck lately,” Jethro said. “He was evidently -coming back to us.” - -“If he had come back--alive,” she said thoughtfully, “I wonder----” - -Her steady gaze on the dead, aged, handsome face never wavered. If he -had come back to Folly Corner alive--so--would he have possessed the -old magic? - -His eyes were fathoming the raftered roof. In every corner, clothed in -the swaying black cobwebs, was an imp--the evil spirits who had swayed -his life. - -“We shall never know what brought him to this. Come away, dear,” urged -Jethro. - -She shook Jethro’s big hand off with petulance. The water from the dead -man’s clothes was freezing at her feet, beneath her slippers, and -chilled her. That was the nearest approach to contact she reached with -the dead. She made no attempt to touch him, to go a little nearer, to -stoop and stare into the glazing, fearful surface of his wide dark eyes. - -What a mystery he had always been! What a mystery he was now! She had -never been certain even of his name. She didn’t know and never would -know the secret history of the last fifteen months. Two might tell -her--Sutton or the woman in brown. But she did not wish to revive -either of them. That was past. Everything was past. She was stripped at -last of everything; the world was simply Folly Corner. She felt as a -slave might feel when he heard the blows which loosened his shackles. -She was free. She had always been free--in the letter; in the spirit -she had been a wretched slave. A slave to first love--that indefinable, -holding thing. - -She turned away suddenly, turned her back on the dead man--not with -horror, grief, or repulsion, but apathetically--as if she had seen -enough. She dismissed him. She put her head to Jethro’s coat, with the -persuasive, rubbing air of a cat. - -“I can’t feel,” she said, holding one hand out toward the roughly -improvised bier. “I thank God that I don’t feel any longer. I’m not -touched in the least, not even by ordinary natural emotions. I’m not -sorry; I’m not ashamed; I’m not even glad. I’m only free. Jethro!” - -“Dear love!” His great hand was on her hair. - -“I don’t feel--for him,” she went on with more passion, “the ordinary -pity and sadness that one feels for any dead thing. I can’t--for him. -There’s no dignity, no pathos in Death when it touches him. You mustn’t -think me hard; mustn’t put this down to vengeance because he injured -me. I can still feel pity. I cried only this morning over a tomtit -which the cat had mangled. But I don’t cry for this. I don’t feel. I’m -stone where he is concerned. Until to-night I have been wax. I’m not -sorry or shocked; not anything womanly, anything human that I ought to -be. I can’t feel. I’m free. Take me away. We’ll get warm in the house.” - -They stepped out into the driving snow. The world was white and -pitiless that night. - -The door thudded solemnly when Jethro pulled it to. He had his arm -round Pamela, his coat held out to form a screen for her. Midway to the -house she stopped, the blinding, desolate snow whirling above their -heads. She looked up and he looked down. There was a strange fire in -each pair of eyes. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her on the -mouth--roughly, brutally. - -Her mouth smarted with the rudeness of that kiss, but a sweet, -permanent content ran through her body. He loved her! She would be -Cousin Pamela no more, save in the tender jest of matrimony. He had -always loved her. His reserve, his brotherly attitude, had been forced. -They were part of his prudent nature, part of his hereditary economy. -He would never expend when there was small chance of any result. - -The house was warm--a gently filtering warmth that seemed to wrap them -directly they shut the door. - -The discreet clink of china, the savory smell of soup, came from the -kitchen. They were preparing dinner--the place was wholly regardless of -that miserable dead man. - -They shut themselves in the drawing-room. Pamela abandoned herself to -the luxury of the fire. Jethro paced about nervously, his ears alert -for wheels. - -“Egbert can do nothing,” he said. “The poor chap was dead when I found -him--dead and stiff. He must have been in the pond some time. If I -hadn’t found him to-night the ice would have pinned him in by -to-morrow. We should have been obliged to cut him out. I can’t think -how he got in. It isn’t dark: he never drank--too much. His head was -strong. He could stand a lot of whisky. We don’t know----” - -“We shall never know,” she said with the oddest lethargy. - -All the time he walked about the room, indulging as he did so in kind -commonplace reflections concerning Edred, she was saying to -herself--lilting the words to a queer dancing air that hummed in her -head: - -“Free, free, free.” - -She tried herself, probed herself, insisted on proving. She recalled -all sorts of things--her happiest, tenderest moments with the dead man. -She felt nothing at all, except faint disgust for the woman--it could -not have been herself--who had so madly loved that creature who was -lying in the barn searching the roof with his fixed, shallow eyes. - -“No,” she said, half to herself, half to Jethro, “I don’t feel.” - -She waited a moment, let that flow of recollections rush on. Nothing -touched her. It had been another woman--a dogged, shameful, spiritless -creature. She repeated devotionally, as if she had been kneeling in a -great church, swept by religious frenzy: - -“I thank God. I don’t feel.” - - * * * * * - - “Beaufort Street, May 24. - -“MY DEAREST PAMELA: Tim and I will be delighted to spend all June at -Folly Corner, as you suggest: you’ll really see Tim at last! - -“We have let this house, and think of settling in the country. It will -not be the real thing, as you have it. We shall go to one of those -intellectual settlements with a good railway service to town; a theater -train once a week. We shall live on a hill; there will be a splendid -view from our windows. We shall have to pay for that view; we shall ask -our friends down to look at it; we shall see it every morning--rave -over it, become callous to it, abuse it--want to murder it. A true -English home is in a hollow, like Folly Corner. I shall have to content -myself with the hard monotony of a pine wood--after Sussex oak! We -shall belong to a coterie--everybody will be an artistic something. -Everybody will flatter and hate his neighbor. - -“I want to see the baby. Of course you’ll call him Jethro. I can -understand your disquietude at Gainah’s fondness for him. - -“Your letter was too domestic altogether. _Do_ remember that a ‘good -manager’ degenerates into a shrew after thirty. - -“Of course your husband is trying--it is a way they have: a man is the -most difficult of all domestic pets. Never mind his occasional morose -moods; never mind his attempts at domestic economy. When a man decides -on domestic economy he smokes a shilling cigar while he lectures his -wife on the sinful extravagance of afternoon tea. A wise woman gives -him his head on such occasions, and never varies her course. - -“You are very much to be envied; our life is a struggle to make both -ends meet. Tim’s book of essays, which made such a splash last year, -has been the ruin of him. He is a melancholy object lesson--a man -ruined by press notices. Still, that is not a fate likely to befall you -or Mr. Jayne. My poor Tim no longer has confidence in anything he does. -I tell him--without making the least impression on him--that a thing -doesn’t cease to be clever because you’ve found out the way to do it. -He’s versatile--that is his stumbling-block. To succeed, you must be -superlatively skillful at one thing, and a perfect fool at everything -else. - -“So Nancy has won the literary prize in the _Liddleshorn Herald_ -competition--and dear Mrs. Turle has justified her opinion. - -“As Chalcraft and his wife are dead, of course there will be a sale. -Buy me the oak chair, if I am not present to buy it myself. - -“I remember Nettie; she didn’t look the kind of girl who would go off -in a decline. But the rustics are dreadfully unhealthy. When I was at -the Buttery buying things of the cottagers I had a fixed rule by which -I ingratiated myself. If a woman was under fifty I inquired after the -baby; over fifty, I inquired after the bad leg. It sounds horrid, but -was invariably successful. If the victim was a man, I asked if his -ground grew good onions, and said how sorry I was that I couldn’t keep -a pig. - -“By the way, when you see Mrs. Silas Daborn, ask her to save me a -kitten next time they occur. The cat we have won’t catch mice--lets -them frisk with the tip of her tail. I cannot think what cats are -coming to. Tim, who is not a Progressive, says it is all the fault of -the School Board. - -“We shall come by the quick afternoon train on Wednesday, June 2. We -arrive at five something; Mr. Jayne will please look it up in the -time-table. - - “Affectionately yours, with a kiss for the baby, - - “BARBARA CLUTTON.” - - -THE END. - - - - -Transcriber’s Note - - -This transcription is based on images made available by the University -of Wisconsin and Google: - - books.google.com/books?id=KSXQAAAAMAAJ - -These scans are also available through the Hathi Trust Digital Library: - - hdl.handle.net/2027/wu.89011718319 - -The following changes were made to the printed text: - -• Added a table of contents. - -• p. 7: She knew the effect of foxgolve on the human heart--Changed -“foxgolve” to “foxglove”. - -• p. 12: “No glass,” said Palema in astonishment.--Changed “Palema” to -“Pamela”. - -• p. 26: he rolled down the covering and showed his bandaged -limb.--Changed “he” to “He”. - -• p. 33: The farmhouse was so overgrown with fruit-trees and ivy that -the mellow bricks were shouded.--Changed “shouded” to “shrouded”. - -• p. 63: “It’s the Shakepere class, mamma.”--Changed “Shakepere” to -“Shakspere” for consistency. - -• p. 65: She was introduced to all of then--Changed “then” to “them”. - -• p. 71: And you never how these queer people from London may turn -out.--Inserted “know” after “never”. - -• p. 127: Don’t say anthing dreadful.--Changed “anthing” to “anything”. - -• p. 204: His tips have puts hundreds into my pocket.--Changed “puts” to -“put”. - -• p. 213: They gave her flowers, one or twice a jewel.--Changed “one” to -“once”. - -• p. 242: It was sombeody else--one of the blessed bungles--Changed -“sombeody” to “somebody”. - -• p. 255: it’s frill tickling her cheeks.--Changed “it’s” to “its”. - -• pp. 256–57: it was part of the compact that that she was not to go -beyond--Deleted the second “that”. - -• pp. 303–04: “Put her in here. Then go down and send Nettie up. “We’ll -undress her,”--Deleted the opening double quotation mark before -“We’ll”. - -In the plain text version of this ebook, italics have been denoted by -underscores, and small capitals have been changed to all capitals. -Except where noted otherwise, inconsistencies of spelling and -hyphenation have been preserved. - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLLY CORNER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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- line-height:100%; - margin-bottom:0em - } -div.tnote p { - padding-left: 0; - padding-top: 0.25em; - margin-left: 0 - } -ul { - margin-top: 0.5em; - margin-bottom: 0 - } -li { - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - } -div.tnote p.link { - padding-left: 0; - color: gray; - text-indent: 0em; - text-align: center; - padding-top: 0.4em; - line-height: 100%; - padding-bottom: 0.4em - } -</style> -</head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Folly Corner, by Mrs. H. Dudeney</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Folly Corner</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mrs. H. Dudeney</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 9, 2023 [eBook #69758]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Paul Haxo from images generously made available by the University of Wisconsin, Google and the Hathi Trust Digital Library.</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLLY CORNER ***</div> -<div class="image"> -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" width="450" title=""> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="title_page"> -<h1> -FOLLY CORNER -</h1> -<p class="by"> -BY -</p> -<p class="author"> -MRS. H. DUDENEY -</p> -<p class="author_of"> -AUTHOR OF “THE MATERNITY OF HARRIOTT WICKEN” -</p> -<p class="center"> -<img style="max-width:10%; height: auto" src="images/decoration.jpg" alt="Decoration" width="45" title=""> -</p> -<p class="publisher_city"> -NEW YORK -</p> -<p class="publisher_name"> -HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY -</p> -<p class="publisher_date"> -1900 -</p> -<hr class="tp x-ebookmaker-drop"> -</div> - -<div class="chapter verso" id="verso"> -<p class="copyright"> -C<small>OPYRIGHT</small>, 1900,<br> -<small>BY</small><br> -HENRY HOLT & CO. -</p> -<p class="printer"> -THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS<br> -RAHWAY, N. J. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter contents" id="contents"> -<h2 class="contents"> -CONTENTS -</h2> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_100_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_100_hdg"> -PROLOGUE.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_101_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_101_hdg"> -CHAPTER I.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_102_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_102_hdg"> -CHAPTER II.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_103_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_103_hdg"> -CHAPTER III.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_104_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_104_hdg"> -CHAPTER IV.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_105_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_105_hdg"> -CHAPTER V.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_106_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_106_hdg"> -CHAPTER VI.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_107_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_107_hdg"> -CHAPTER VII.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_108_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_108_hdg"> -CHAPTER VIII.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_109_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_109_hdg"> -CHAPTER IX.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_110_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_110_hdg"> -CHAPTER X.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_111_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_111_hdg"> -CHAPTER XI.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_112_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_112_hdg"> -CHAPTER XII.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_113_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_113_hdg"> -CHAPTER XIII.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_114_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_114_hdg"> -CHAPTER XIV.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_115_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_115_hdg"> -CHAPTER XV.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_116_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_116_hdg"> -CHAPTER XVI.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_117_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_117_hdg"> -CHAPTER XVII.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_118_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_118_hdg"> -CHAPTER XVIII.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_119_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_119_hdg"> -CHAPTER XIX.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_120_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_120_hdg"> -CHAPTER XX.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_121_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_121_hdg"> -CHAPTER XXI.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_122_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_122_hdg"> -CHAPTER XXII.</a> -</p> -<p class="contents" id="chapter_123_toc"> -<a href="#chapter_123_hdg"> -CHAPTER XXIII.</a> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="Prologue"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-iii">[iii]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_100_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_100_toc">PROLOGUE.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -T<small>HE</small> steam of that stifling London day rose up in a choking, enervating -haze from the hot grass. The shrill cries of children, loose from the -Board School, cut the thick air. A train rushed across the bridge. Two -or three cyclists tinkled their bells irritably as they spun down Wood -Lane to the Uxbridge Road, leaving a cloud of gray grit behind them. -Omnibuses pulled up at the corner of the short street near the few -newly-built shops. From Portobello Road came the heavy rumble of more -traffic, mixed with the nearer shout of costers vending dried fish and -over-ripe fruit. -</p> -<p> -She was a young woman. She stood still, in a limp, hopeless attitude, -her face turned on Wormwood Scrubbs, her strained eyes vacantly -fastened on the buildings, spires, and chimneys in the distance. -</p> -<p> -Some simple sound from the frowning prison on her left made her turn -her head with the swift, watching movement of a cat. But there was -nothing to see; no hint, no hope. Behind those walls! Her throat, -rising white and firm from the tumbled collar of the cotton blouse, -contracted. Those walls! those impenetrable walls! those relentless -walls! -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-iv">[iv]</a></span> -She put out two hands in baggy gloves; she held them up, flat palms -upward, toward the speechless prison. Her attitude was one of strong -appeal, of hope, almost—as if she half expected that despair would -work a miracle. They stretched out, big, strong, shapeless in the old -gloves—those quivering, appealing hands of hers. -</p> -<p> -With a sharp agonized movement of the wrists she let her hands drop -nervelessly to her side. A sob was strangled in her throat; she turned -her head abruptly, so that her eyes no longer rested on the walls. With -a sudden impulse she started running across the grass; ran across the -road and under the bridge to the spot where an omnibus was waiting. -</p> -<p> -It grew dusk as she rattled back on the garden-seat to London. One by -one the lights of night gleamed out. The life of night began. She -looked down and saw the interior of smoothly rolling carriages, with -women in evening dress lying idly back inside. Women on foot, smartly -clad and with happy faces, flitted along the white pavements. Women -clambered to the top of the omnibus, chattering and tittering. The one -who sat next her glanced curiously at her grim mouth and shadowed eyes. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -The lights grew thicker; fantastic chains of light—red and yellow. -London glittered like some fairy mine of jewels: jewels already cut and -polished, every facet gleaming. Words winked out letter by letter, then -vanished. She saw them come and go on the fronts of the houses. O<small>X</small> -F<small>ORCE</small>—N<small>INON</small> S<small>OAP</small>—D<small>UNN</small>’<small>S</small> N<small>OSTRUM</small>. To her strained senses<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-v">[v]</a></span> they lost -all common meaning and symbolized the weird, the threatening, the -unknown. -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p class="no_top"> -It was blinding hot in the market town that Wednesday. Sheep straggled -into the pens; the drovers choked and cursed as the dust dried in their -throats. A smart trap, driven by a girl, with a groom behind, bowled -down the High Street, leaving behind an impression of coolness and -smartness. Now and again a sharp, imperious cycle-bell cut the air, and -as some female cyclist darted by pedestrians heard the soft flutter of -sleeves, like the flapping sails of a yacht. -</p> -<p> -A man came, with a slightly rolling walk, down the street. He made an -imperial progress, nodding his head bluffly to deferential shopkeepers -who stood at their doors, exchanging a jovial word or so with other -substantial yeomen. Everyone knew and respected Jethro Jayne—“Young -Jethro” of Folly Corner. Everyone in and around Liddleshorn knew that -there had been Jaynes at Folly in unbroken succession since before the -days of Cromwell. -</p> -<p> -He was a picturesque figure, with his open, weather-tanned face, his -clean-shaven lip, his buff breeches, and brown gaiters. He wore a linen -coat and a flapping white linen hat. His eyes were lazily merry and -roguish under the starched brim. -</p> -<p> -He turned in at the door of the inn, with the low-pitched, paneled -dining-room, where most of the farmers dined on market-day. -</p> -<p> -A round-faced, pretty girl brought him his plate<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-vi">[vi]</a></span> of beef and his -two vegetables. Bread and cheese, and a jug of sweet cider, completed -the meal. -</p> -<p> -He looked at her thoughtfully whenever she approached: so very -blue-eyed and round; such a plump, neat figure in a black gown! He -looked at her through a strong cloud of smoke as he puffed at his pipe -and drank a last glass of the cider. She had suggested something. He -was thoughtfully asking himself, Why not? -</p> -<p> -Presently he took a pencil and a letter from his breeches pocket. He -began to write on the back of the envelope, making many erasions, -knitting his brows and pouting his lips like an anxious child. -</p> -<p> -The girl came softly to the table and took away the mustard for another -customer. Jethro never looked up at her. She had done her part. She had -suggested. -</p> -<p> -He paid the bill and emerged into High Street. He looked a trifle more -bluff and lurching than before. His face was red—with cider, with the -excitement of his daring plan. -</p> -<p> -For the first time in his life he was yielding to impulse. Already he -half regretted yielding. He was afraid of himself; he was more afraid -of Gainah. -</p> -<p> -Yet he bent his head and went down two steps into the editorial offices -of the <i>Liddleshorn Herald.</i> The place was empty save for a -sharp-featured youth who was lounging at the side of the counter. He -sharply asked the visitor what he wanted. He was a new importation, an -embryo journalist, with a London journal as his goal. He touched -the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-vii">[vii]</a></span> town side of things only. He had a smoldering contempt for -farmers, and knew nothing of the master of Folly Corner. -</p> -<p> -Jethro pushed his envelope across the counter with a sheepish gesture. -</p> -<p> -“How many insertions?” asked the youth laconically, yet throwing an -amused, curious glance at the big figure which stood near the door—an -unconscious, unappreciated color scheme—in white and russet, buff and -brown. -</p> -<p> -“How many times in?” The gentleman-farmer’s big, embarrassed laugh -seemed to shake the silent place. “Well—once.” -</p> -<p> -As he went slowly out of the town the tinkle of a piano came out -clearly from the front room of a little buff villa. There were rows of -these buff villas on the outskirts of the town. Some navvies were -putting down new drain-pipes. The notes of the piano and the reedy -voice of a girl came out slowly, each note isolated and mingled with -the nervous tap of the pickax. Jethro stood still and listened. It was -a song of Purcell’s: -</p> -<blockquote> -<p style="padding-left: 1.25em; padding-right: 1em"> -“To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin and love those that hate.” -</p> -</blockquote> -<p> -He walked on, a queer stirring at his heart. The thin voice of the girl -in the villa had touched the romantic spot in him. He thought of that -other girl at the inn—plump, blue-eyed, smiling. He thought of his -carefully-worded advertisement which, by to-morrow, would be worming -its way<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-viii">[viii]</a></span> through Sussex, through Surrey and Hampshire to London -perhaps. -</p> -<p> -It was a joke; he began to regret, to blame the cider, or the demure -little rings of light hair on the waitress’ unlined brow. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -And yet he could still hear the piano. He still felt the slow, -wondering work of his heart. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_101"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-1">[1]</a></span> -</p> -<p class="title_p1" id="chapter_101_hdg"> -FOLLY CORNER. -</p> -<hr class="p1" > -<h2 class="first"> -<a href="#chapter_101_toc">CHAPTER I.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -T<small>HE</small> story begins with the emotions of two women—the two women -principally concerned—on a morning ten days after Jethro Jayne had -imprudently indulged in sweet cider at the market dinner in -Liddleshorn. -</p> -<p> -One woman was young—twenty-five or less. She was a big, fair girl; a -handsome girl, in the elementary way that satisfies most men. She -looked well able to take care of herself; an up-to-date girl, -accustomed to fight her way alone, to meet men on their own ground, to -jealously look after her own interests. There was, however, an -occasional haggard line at her mouth, and in her well-opened, rather -prominent gray eyes was a hunted, hopeless look. -</p> -<p> -She wore a coat and skirt, with sleeves of last year’s cut. Her hat was -trimmed with strict attention to fashion, and yet bore the brand -“home-made.” There was a crisp new veil tied about the brim. -</p> -<p> -She smacked so of cities that the few people she met turned round to -slowly gape at her, and a couple<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-2">[2]</a></span> of small girls coming home from the -village shop laughed aloud in her angry face. -</p> -<p> -She walked slowly along the white road, stopping now and then to lift -her veil and wipe her burning cheeks. -</p> -<p> -The scenery was beautiful—with the characteristic beauty of the Sussex -Weald. But she did not notice: she was too preoccupied. Her own affairs -were in a critical state, and when one is anxious there is small -consolation in undulating hills, long stretches of pasture, and -red-roofed farmhouses. Her attitude was quite cockney—prim regard -for her shoes and half-contemptuous admiration of her surroundings -predominated. -</p> -<p> -Once she stopped to rest. A thatched and plastered cottage stood empty -under the shadow of huge oaks. Wide green glades wound into the very -heart of a little wood. The turf, inch-deep in moss, yielded like down. -It was irresistible. She threw herself flat on her back, settling her -skirt smoothly under her, and looked lazily through the wide mesh of -the veil at the sky. The heat and the perfect silence almost made her -sleep. A trap went by full of gayly-dressed country girls; a young man, -hideous in his Sunday clothes, was driving. They were all off to some -festivity, and they looked curiously at the prone figure on the turf. -At first they thought it was some tramp, but the thin-soled morocco -shoes stuck out from the dusty skirt contradicted that assumption. Such -vagrant ways these town folk had! They laughed derisively, and the -sound roused her. She sat up and stared a trifle<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-3">[3]</a></span> vaguely at the -watchful hills, the glades of the wood, the white, winding ribbon of -highroad. Then she rose and whisked her skirt and went on again. -</p> -<p> -Only once more was she tempted to stop—at a bramble bush where the -blackberries were loose and juicy. She drew up her veil to her nose and -drew them off the stalks with widely parted lips, because she was -anxious not to soil the fingers of her gloves. It was so necessary to -make a good impression: the woman who could always make a good -impression had the world at her feet. -</p> -<p> -She crossed a common; fowls were scratching and shaking their wings in -the mounds of dust; a long string of geese waddled by, conversing -volubly, and with evident arrogance. A man with a timber wagon came -toward her, and she stopped him to ask the way. He told her that she -had a mile or more to go. -</p> -<p> -She went on, her feet dragging at every step. At every step she grew -more nervous, more undecided. She took a letter from her pocket and -read it over twice. She stopped, half turned back. Her face was violent -red and chalk-white in turn. Still she went on, with lagging, heavy -feet and a queer, terrified shame and excitement at her heart: went on -over that open common which was just beginning to flush with heather. -Another man came by, driving a black pig. It grunted, and seemed to run -in every direction but the right one. He looked a stupid man; but, -then, they were all half-witted in the country. She said—very slowly -and deliberately,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-4">[4]</a></span> as if she were speaking to a small child—that she -wanted Folly Corner. He gave a vacillating grin, keeping one eye on the -pig, and pointed to a substantial stack of chimneys on the left. -</p> -<p> -“That be Folly,” he said laconically, and left her. -</p> -<p> -She could see the house through the dense leafage of three great elms. -She stood, with one hand firmly gripping her gay parasol, and the other -twitching at the crisp edge of her veil. She looked at the red gables, -at the spreading outbuildings, at the garden, at the yard; she looked -back at the hot road cutting across the common. Should she go back or -should she go on? For a moment she closed her eyes, and immediately the -dark, straight wall of the prison shot up slowly like a specter and -chilled her. -</p> -<p> -The prison! The prison and the one damned, dear soul beating within its -walls! But that was past. She had wrestled out that finally—at night, -in her London room, close beneath the slates; at night, in her bed, the -letter under her pillow, or twisting in her hot fingers. -</p> -<p> -The gate which led into the garden was a white wicket. At each side was -a poplar. These had grown so thick and tall that they met midway and -formed an arch. There was a path of red brick, a little raised, leading -up to the house door; it led up straight, between box edgings two feet -high. The garden-beds were rather neglected, but a great clump of -red-hot pokers pointed flame fingers to the sky, and a loose white -rose, like foam, clung to the walls and ran along the low roof. There -was a<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-5">[5]</a></span> long window each side the door, and in front of the one on the -right was a yew-tree clipped into the shape of an umbrella. The -clipping had been neglected, and the tree had the dishevelled -appearance of a man who neglects to shave. There was an air of -indolence about the garden, but it did not seem the indolence of -poverty. A pond partly encircled the place. A red-and-white cow came -down to drink and to look at her reflectively with its big, -closely-veined eyes. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -What sort of greeting was garnering for her beyond that door with the -wooden hood, the veil of white roses, and the rough iron knocker? She -looked at a Virginia creeper twisting among the roses. Autumn had -touched it. She looked at the red leaves, then at the white flowers. -They seemed flame and pale fire to strained eyes, short of sleep and -dazzled with the sun. The deep, haggard line curved round her mouth. -Within! What waited within? -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p class="no_top"> -Within was the second woman, old Gainah Toat. She sat in a low-pitched -room—the room on the right, made dark by the umbrella yew. There was a -great open hearth. There were three doors: one led into a dairy; it was -open, and showed the bricked floor, the yellow and brown pans, the -thick cream and made-up butter; the second door opened into the -passage; the third into the garden. -</p> -<p> -She sat by the third door, which was thrown well back. She could see -the orchard strewn with mussel plums, ripe to rottenness, with little -yellow stewing pears<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-6">[6]</a></span> and apples specked with black. She did not seem -to see anything; she had those eyes—cold blue with a dash of -gray—that are always dull; eyes that evade and puzzle. They were very -wide open, the lids rolled well back, and the lashes sparse. -</p> -<p> -She had a white face; there was a general appearance of wasting about -her. The fingers, holding a letter—the other woman had been influenced -by a letter too—were twisted and disfigured with rheumatism. Her body -was flat and square; her faded gown made no pretense of slurring the -defect. It went straight from her stringy throat to her hardly -perceptible hips without a break, without a kindly fold or ruck of the -stuff. -</p> -<p> -She was an odd-looking figure; a spectral woman almost—with her -bloodless skin, her dead eyes, her twisted, transparent hands. But the -people around Folly Corner were not given to fanciful imaginings; they -only knew that Gainah seemed made of iron, that she worked on the farm -without tiring from sunrise until night. Her life was spent in making -things for other people to eat. She belonged to a dying type: she was -one of those women who devote themselves to tickling the masculine -palate. Machine-made food did not enter into her economy. Her mushroom -ketchup, her marmalade, her blackberry jelly were renowned. She gave -them to anyone who asked, not because she was generous, but because she -was inordinately proud of her productions. She toyed with medicine too; -made balm tea, and, from a particular sort of nettle, green ointment -that would cure a gathering. She made herb beer and<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-7">[7]</a></span> water cider to -save beer at harvest-time. She knew the effect of foxglove on the human -heart, and made a concoction of a certain herb which she gathered -secretly. With it she claimed to cure palsy. She was mistress at Folly -Corner. She had come to old Jethro Jayne when his wife died. She had -brought up the present master by hand; she ruled him still. -</p> -<p> -Every master of Folly Corner had been a Jayne, and every male Jayne had -been a Jethro since the first farmer had hidden his pet mare for ten -days in a cellar so that Cromwell’s Ironsides should not steal her. -</p> -<p> -The room was always cool because the yew threw a continual shadow. -Gainah, sitting without a glint of sun in her chilly blue gown and with -her feet flat on the stone floor, seemed to have no part with the hot, -throbbing world outside. -</p> -<p> -They were threshing on the farm; the whirring sound hummed in and the -smell from the engine hung on the air. On the south wall a man, by her -orders, was cutting back the foliage from the vine so that the sun -might get freely at the Sweet-water grapes. In a few weeks it would be -time to think about wine-making. The busiest time of the year was -coming on. She hadn’t a moment to waste. She should at that moment have -been straining the mushroom-juice from the salt and boiling it with -spices. But the letter, fluttering in her veined, gnarled hand, had -made her an idle woman before noon. She read it again with the weighty -deliberation of an almost illiterate person. It was written<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-8">[8]</a></span> in a -dashing but undecided hand, and the words were stilted. Evidently the -writer had been ill at ease. -</p> -<p> -She got up stiffly at last and moved about the room, flicking a duster -over the ancient furniture. There was an oak cupboard reaching to the -ceiling—a double corner cupboard with delicate brass escutcheons and -an inlaid border of boxwood. -</p> -<p> -She ran the duster down the dark panels and breathed softly on the -brass. Then she took out her keys from her apron pocket and opened the -doors of the upper half. There were three shelves, the edge of each -scalloped out. On every shelf were bottles and jars full of preserves -and pickles. She touched them quite tenderly, looking at the faintly -written labels, pursing up her colorless lips and moving her head -spasmodically. -</p> -<p> -She shut the cupboard at last and went slowly on her journey round the -room. She dusted the oak sideboard, the long oak table, with the form -against the wall and the carved joint stools—the high one for the -master, the low one for the dame—at each end. She dusted the chairs, -some of solid oak, some of golden beech with rush seats. She dusted the -clock; its hand pointed ominously to twelve. -</p> -<p> -It was about time then. In a few minutes she should be here. Gainah -chuckled a little, remembering that she had purposely neglected to send -the trap to the station. All the men were at harvest, and she had -wanted old Chalcraft to trim the vine. She sat down by the door again, -looking out blankly at the warmth and life. There were thick -parchment-like mushrooms dotted over the meadow beyond<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-9">[9]</a></span> the quickset -hedge, and in the orchard fruit kept thudding softly from the trees. It -was the beginning of rich autumn, when one makes provision for winter. -She was always so busy through August and September; on her feet until -late at night—late for Folly Corner—straining and boiling, and -pulping and stirring; scolding the two maids and tyrannizing over -Jethro. -</p> -<p> -Those mushrooms had been in salt too long; the wind-fall apples were -almost past preserving. It was washing-day, too—they had washed on the -first Monday in the month for thirty years. The soapy smell floated -into the dining-parlor; she could hear the rasping sound of the brush -and the gurgling swill of suds. She heard also the cackle of the two -maids and the mellow voice of the elderly washerwoman. They were -wasting their time. Yet she didn’t move. Her eyes fell to the letter -which she had taken out of her pocket again. Her lips mumbled the -signature—“P<small>AMELA</small> C<small>RISP</small>.” -</p> -<p> -After thirty-three years! And she had served his father before him! It -was very hard! She wouldn’t give up her keys—he wouldn’t expect that. -She smiled dryly. He wouldn’t expect that—he was a Jayne and he knew -when he was well off. He would never get anyone else to slave so. Even -the green tomatoes were pickled—with onions and apples and mysterious -spices. She was the only woman for miles round who had the recipe, and -before she died she meant to burn it, having no daughter to bequeath it -to. And scarlet runners put down every year for winter eating. Her -butter<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-10">[10]</a></span> had never been known to have a twang. She could make cakes -without fat and used snow for puddings when eggs were scarce. -</p> -<p> -The bed in the best room had been made under her eye from the feathers -of birds killed on the farm. -</p> -<p> -Birds! It was not many henwives who could manage to hatch a full -sitting. She never thought fifteen eggs too many to put under a hen; -the Dorking might manage even more. The gray-and-white hen—didn’t it -steal a nest of twenty-two and come clucking home at the end of three -weeks with nineteen chicks, most of them pullets, too! A young, flighty -woman would have spoilt everything by poking about and interfering with -the bird. She had known all along that it was sitting in the barn, but -she wasn’t going to let it know she knew. Young women spoilt their -lives by haste. They spoilt the lives of other people too. Her eye -dropped again to the dashing signature—“P<small>AMELA</small> C<small>RISP</small>.” -</p> -<p> -She sat brooding by the door, thinking proudly of all her domestic -achievements and telling herself piteously that Jethro would never -allow her to be displaced. Of course, she had known that he would marry -some day, but then, in her own mind, she had picked him out a wife: -pretty, soft-looking Nancy from Turle House. A wife—pliable and a -little foolish, like Nancy—would not have mattered. But a cousin on -the mother’s side! An unknown girl from London! A girl whose capital -“P” trailed to the edge of the envelope! -</p> -<p> -She got up again and went round the dull room in her halting way, -dusting and tidying mechanically.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-11">[11]</a></span> Then all at once she straightened -her back and listened. There were light steps on the brick path which -led round to the garden door. The clip-clip of the shears ceased. There -were two voices—a young feminine one and the hoarse croak of old -Chalcraft, who was past work, and lived out his life of long service -like an ancient horse, doing light jobs, so that he might still believe -himself useful and independent. -</p> -<p> -Gainah went out, the sun on her uncovered head, with its wide parting -and gray-brown hair. She went round the corner. Chalcraft was on the -ladder still. The shears yawned in his tremulous hand; he had clipped -to the wall, and the Sweet-waters hung close to it and stripped of -foliage, pale green and luscious. The long trails of grayish leaves -were on the path; the girl trod them down. When she saw the elder woman -she made a step forward. She seemed half defiant, half ashamed. Her hat -was on one side; it gave her a rakish air of towns. Such a slight thing -may imperil a woman’s reputation—in prejudiced eyes. Gainah’s cold -eyes contracted, and her brows drew over them a harsh ridge. -</p> -<p> -Pamela put out her hand—in a new glove. A slim gold bracelet, from -which dangled a green charm, swung on her wrist. -</p> -<p> -“You must be Gainah,” she said in a conciliating way, and smiling. -</p> -<p> -Then she added, with a faint touch of injury, “I wrote to say I was -coming this morning. I hoped that you would send to meet me. It’s a -long walk.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-12">[12]</a></span> -Gainah gave her a sharp look; she thought that this was the first -indication of authority. -</p> -<p> -“It’s harvest-time,” she said curtly; “the best harvest for seventeen -years. Come inside.” -</p> -<p> -They both slipped over the threshold of that dim gray room with the -stone floor and the solid family furniture. Pamela gave a swift glance -round to see if the room was empty. There was a flaming spot on each -cheek, and her glittering eyes moved uneasily behind her loose veil. -</p> -<p> -“I’d like to put myself tidy,” she said in the confiding whisper of one -woman to another, “before I go in to him.” -</p> -<p> -“To your Cousin Jethro?” Gainah’s dull eyes fastened on the hectic -face. -</p> -<p> -“To my Cousin Jethro—yes,” she laughed nervously; then added quickly, -“It seems strange to call him ‘cousin.’ We’ve—we’ve never met. You got -my letter? Yes. I—I want to be friends.” -</p> -<p> -Gainah didn’t answer. She only opened the door leading to the stairs. -The two went up together. There was a high window halfway up, with a -lattice of thick oak bars. -</p> -<p> -“No glass,” said Pamela in astonishment. -</p> -<p> -“They didn’t use glass in the days when that was cut,” Gainah said, -“and the Jaynes are not people to go with new-fangled ways. Every Jayne -says that what was good enough for his father is good enough for him. -It’s a family not given to changing. You ought to know that; you belong -to it.” -</p> -<p> -“On the mother’s side—yes,” returned the girl in a half-hearted way. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-13">[13]</a></span> -Gainah opened the door of her own bedroom. It was poorly furnished with -her own furniture, which she had brought with her to Folly Corner. -There was a wooden bedstead, painted clay color and touched with lines -of apple-green. The washstand and drawers matched it. There was a strip -or so of shabby felt carpet, and on the shelf a pair of brass -candlesticks and a red china cow milked by a diminutive woman. The girl -looked about her disdainfully, assertiveness getting the better of -nervousness. She took off her hat and veil before the murky glass, -splashed water over her face, patted her hair caressingly, arranged -again the smart hat and veil. Gainah watched this pretty toying of -youth with grim disapproval; even the girl’s big arms lifted to her -head were an offense. -</p> -<p> -“Like a brass button in a sweep’s eye, all glitter,” the old woman -mumbled to herself, as the yellow and green bracelet swung on the round -wrist and the jet buckles flashed in the elaborate hat. -</p> -<p> -On the way downstairs she was afforded a peep into other bedrooms. -</p> -<p> -“I can’t let you have the best spare room,” she declared -autocratically. “This is it. It’s never used, except for layin’s out -and weddin’ nights, and layin’s in. All the Jaynes, right back to King -Charles, have been born in that bed—and died in it afterward.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela looked at the ponderous piece of furniture and shuddered. -</p> -<p> -“I wouldn’t sleep there for worlds,” she said. -</p> -<p> -Gainah, her claw-like hand caught stiffly round<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-14">[14]</a></span> the banisters to -help her progress, went slowly down, stair by stair. Pamela, close -behind her, looked contemptuous—of everything: the old-fashioned -place, the odd old woman. -</p> -<p> -They crossed the room which the yew made so dark. Gainah opened the -door into the narrow corridor. Pamela followed. There was a window -looking out at the garden. On the ledge were blood-red geraniums, and -on the distempered walls queer prints in black frames. -</p> -<p> -She didn’t approve of those crinkled, brownish prints; they were hardly -decent. -</p> -<p> -Gainah flung open the door of the other room. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -“Jethro,” she said in her high, grating voice, “here’s your Cousin -Pamela—on the mother’s side.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_102"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-15">[15]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_102_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_102_toc">CHAPTER II.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -T<small>HE</small> girl winced and hung back, as one does at physic or a possible -blow. She looked along the narrow passage, as if for the support of -another woman. But Gainah had hobbled away, shutting the door behind -her. Pamela stood alone. She looked round her—at the oak table strewn -with papers—old copies of the <i>Field</i> and <i>Farm and Home.</i> -</p> -<p> -There were a pair of driving-gloves thrown down, and a whip with a -broken thong. There was a great blue bowl half full of waste paper and -ends of string. A pair of brass candlesticks winked on the ledge beside -the vivid geraniums. She gave a second nervous look at the colored -prints in black frames, prints of which she did not quite approve. A -full voice from inside the room said impatiently, “Come in.” -</p> -<p> -She didn’t advance, so the voice added, with a mellow laugh in it, -“Come in. Why did Gainah go away? Come in, Cousin Pamela. I cannot move -from this confounded sofa.” -</p> -<p> -So he was crippled! Her wild gray eyes darted across the garden and -along the hot road. If she could only just softly open that door and -slip out without seeing him! A cripple! She might have known that there -was something. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-16">[16]</a></span> -“Come in.” -</p> -<p> -She made a desperate step forward: it was so like a fool to stay -outside. She had come to the house on certain business, and she must go -through with it. Her foot in the arched morocco shoe tapped on the bare -oak floor. Then it sunk into a thick carpet. She could not see the -occupant of the room yet; he was on a couch in the bay window which -looked across the harvest fields. All that she could see was a wall -hung with gorgeous flowered paper, a carpet with a green ground and -bunches of Provence roses, a round walnut table, and a piano with a -closed lid. -</p> -<p> -It was like coming from December to June at a breath—this transit from -the dim ancestral living-room to the parlor with the walnut and velvet -suite from the best shop in Liddleshorn. Yet Pamela hardly noticed. The -only thing that mattered was the sofa in the bay window. Would that -man, that cripple on the sofa, be favorably impressed with her? -</p> -<p> -She was sick and hot with apprehension. Had any girl been in such a -position before? She began to think dimly of early tales that she had -read of slave markets, of a poem learnt and recited at school about a -quadroon girl. -</p> -<p> -Of course old Gainah didn’t know all—didn’t know anything that was -truth. What an odd old woman! Not pleasant to live with. Not a cheerful -house in which to spend the winter! She went slowly over that thick -carpet to the bay window, her head down, her upper lip caught fiercely -over her lower. When she reached the sofa she was in an agony of shame, -and hardly lifted her eyes. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-17">[17]</a></span> -Jethro said, almost tenderly: -</p> -<p> -“Do sit down.” -</p> -<p> -The words were simple, but she liked him from that moment. She felt -sure of him. He wouldn’t be—coarse. She sat down. There was a low -walnut chair with a green cover drawn into the bay all ready. Then she -dared to look up. -</p> -<p> -Jethro was flat on his back. He was so spare that his body seemed to -curve inward; but it was the spareness of a tough, muscular man. His -upper lip was bare and his eyes were keen, merry blue. A life of -sunshine and wind and rain had tanned his skin. The backs of his hairy -hands looked as if they had been steeped in tobacco juice; beyond his -wrist, where his coat sleeve pushed up, his skin was milky. He wore an -Oxford shirt with an unstarched collar. She saw a ring of milk-white -skin when he turned his head to look at her, and immediately above it -he was the color of delicate old leather. -</p> -<p> -She looked at his handsome face and muscular body with interest. Well! -It might be worse—or better. A little round table with a red and gold -cloth was within touch. He put out his hand and touched a toppling pile -of letters. -</p> -<p> -“These were all answers,” he said, smiling drolly. “I had them -addressed to Liddleshorn post-office, as you know. Three hundred and -fifty. I shall get some more to-morrow morning, no doubt.” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t!” she cried out sharply, “oh, don’t! It—it—it—a man doesn’t -know.... A woman has little secret shames—you won’t understand.... I<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-18">[18]</a></span> -wish I hadn’t come. Three hundred and fifty girls! Oh! They are not -coming here, too?” -</p> -<p> -She stopped, panting. Her eyes were on those letters, letters in every -shape and color, some with gilt monograms on the back, one with a gilt -“Nell.” She looked at the handwriting, some blotted and some scrawling, -some neatly masculine and clerk-like. Her face looked old, her eyes -blistered with tears. -</p> -<p> -Jethro struggled to rise. Then with a groan of pain and sharp twist of -his injured leg he fell back on the cushions. -</p> -<p> -Her back was firm against the carved walnut of the green-seated chair, -as they sat in such strange conference in the deep shadow of the bay. -Through the hot mist of her tears she saw the harvest field, half -clipped, like the shorn head of beauty. A big brown fellow of a humble -bee came through the open casement and settled on her. She flinched. -Jethro regarded it as an omen. -</p> -<p> -“When a humble bee flies in at the open window and lights on a stranger -and flies out again, it’s a sign the stranger will not stay long,” he -said, looking quite disturbed as the insect droned out into the sun -again. -</p> -<p> -She looked at him with mild contempt, thinking it most extraordinary -that a big fellow such as he was should entertain such notions. -</p> -<p> -There were the usual sounds of fully blown summer; petulant buzz of -overworked insects, voices of harvesters, the whirr of the engine. Taps -from the smithy at the corner intensified in Pamela’s aching<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-19">[19]</a></span> head; -ever afterward she regarded smithy sounds as indispensable to the -perfection of an August day. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly she broke out passionately: -</p> -<p> -“I can’t stay. I shouldn’t have come. It is the sort of thing that a -barmaid, a shop girl—someone a little reckless—would do. I am -different.” She stretched her hand and directed it haughtily toward the -letters. “I am not like these others. But it was a temptation: such a -rest, such a certainty for the future. And ... it was half a joke, -too.” -</p> -<p> -Jethro put out his immense brown hand and gripped her by the forefinger -and thumb round the wrist. She looked fully at him for the first time, -and, in spite of herself, she liked his face. It was handsome. The thin -high nose and beautifully curved lips made it even aristocratic. She -was a shallow town product, and had a flimsy horror of anything that -she considered coarse. Yet she admitted that on this man’s face was no -touch of boorishness. He looked, so she thought, like a patrician who -was masquerading in queer clothes. Her idea of masculine raiment was -confined to black cloth, with tweeds for the seaside and flannel for -tennis. -</p> -<p> -“I like you,” he said simply. “You are a nice-minded girl. It was a -joke with me, too—half a joke. I did it on market day; a fellow gets a -bit jolly then, perhaps. I shouldn’t have gone any further with these.” -He touched the letters with his free hand, and the touch was enough to -scatter them rudely on the floor. “But your name took my fancy. P<small>AMELA</small> -C<small>RISP</small>! Now, my mother was a Crisp.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-20">[20]</a></span> -“Yes, so you told me in your letter,” she said faintly, and gently -fluttering her white, veined wrist in its handcuff. “You told me to -write and tell Miss Toat that we were cousins—on the mother’s side. I -did it—as a joke. Oh! a joke—you believe me?” -</p> -<p> -“Of course—a joke. It is nothing more—not yet.” His clear, blue eyes -were on her pastel-like face. Then he added ponderingly: “But we may be -cousins, after all. It wouldn’t make any difference—in the end. You -understand?” -</p> -<p> -She showed how fully she understood by the quick wave of color on her -cheek. -</p> -<p> -“My mother’s name was Lilith,” he went on. -</p> -<p> -“The name of my little sister who died.” -</p> -<p> -“My mother had a brother who ran away—some boy’s scrape at home. He -was never heard of afterward. His name was John.” -</p> -<p> -“My father’s name.” She became suddenly confidential. “He was a -contractor; plenty of money while he lived. We had a house a little way -out of London. He drove to his office every day. Two servants, a -governess for me, a dinner party now and then. When I grew up, a little -shopping, a little housework in an elegant way—arranging flowers, -setting the maids by the ears. You know. Thousands of girls live like -that and are bored to death. He died bankrupt; mother died of a broken -heart, or broken fortunes, poor dear. I was thrown on the world—the -creditors took everything. That is five years ago.” -</p> -<p> -He had been listening attentively, watching every<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-21">[21]</a></span> shade and shine -upon her face, admiring her vivacious, half tragic gestures—not -understanding her in the least. The genteel life she so scornfully -sketched was unknown to him. -</p> -<p> -“You were the only one?” -</p> -<p> -“What?” -</p> -<p> -She lifted her head, rearing it almost, like an aggressive serpent. -</p> -<p> -“You were my Uncle John’s only child?” -</p> -<p> -“No.” The word came full and rounded from her mouth, and the eyes -behind the curtaining lashes were somber. “There was a—a brother. He -has gone away, a long voyage. He has a passion for the sea.” -</p> -<p> -“That settles it. Another brother of my mother’s, Uncle Thomas, was a -captain in the navy. He ran away before he was sixteen; nothing would -stop him. Every Crisp has a salt drop in his veins.” -</p> -<p> -“Father, in his most prosperous days, had a little yacht.” -</p> -<p> -“There you are again! The Crisp love for water. Well! I believe from my -heart that we really are cousins—Cousin Pamela. I shall tell the folk -hereabout that I advertised for my kin—Uncle John or his children—and -that you, seeing the advertisement, answered. That will make things -easy for us both. And now, cousin”—his voice was meaning, and his -handsome open face became roguish and bold—“I ought to kiss you.” -</p> -<p> -She slipped her wrist from his finger and thumb and fell back. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-22">[22]</a></span> -She looked at his face—handsome, thin, almost ascetic if it had not -been for the tan—with distaste. -</p> -<p> -“A kiss!” she murmured, with a quick, startled breath. “No, no; I -couldn’t dream of it.” -</p> -<p> -He seemed pleased at what he assumed to be her modesty. There was a -quaint pause, during which he thoughtfully examined her face, picking -feature from feature and dwelling most on the downcast lids. Then he -said, almost tenderly: -</p> -<p> -“What have you been doing these five years for a living? Cousin Pamela! -if only I had known that Uncle John’s child——” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t talk like that. We are not sure. What did I do?” She gave a -short, rather grating laugh. “Anything—short of scrubbing floors. I’ve -been a governess. I’ve tried to draw fashion-plates—but my drawing was -against me there. I’ve collected money for charitable institutions—on -commission. I was a companion. She was a publican’s widow with heaps of -money—one dare not be too particular. She was queer—a secret drinker -I always thought. I had twenty-five pounds a year. She liked me so much -that she raised my money at one bound to forty; money was only dirt to -her. Forty pounds a year—and she died before the first quarter was -due. I have always been unlucky.” -</p> -<p> -“And then?” -</p> -<p> -She shrugged with an artificial callousness. -</p> -<p> -“Looking out. Answering advertisements—until I answered yours.” -</p> -<p> -Directly she mentioned his the shame and outraged modesty in her surged -up again. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-23">[23]</a></span> -“I’ve never answered an advertisement like that before,” she burst out. -“But—it was fun, as you say. And I had put three advertisements in a -paper for a situation—at three-and-sixpence for forty words. Three -three-and-sixpences! Not a single answer! Something made me look at the -<i>Liddleshorn Herald.</i> It was in the stationer’s shop—ordered specially -for some customer. When I was a little thing I seem to remember that -paper about at home. The name, Liddleshorn, was familiar. Something -made me touch it, look down the advertisements. Then! You know!” -</p> -<p> -She put out her hands with a dramatic gesture. Jethro appeared to think -that it was time he made his explanations of the situation. -</p> -<p> -“I did it for fun—at first,” he said. “Afterward I was rather taken -with the idea. But not with the girls,” seeing her glance vindictively -at the scattered letters. “I wanted to marry; Gainah’s getting too -tight a hold on the place. And there is no one to entertain lady -visitors—no mistress. It isn’t natural. I wanted a wife. I advertised -for one. I wanted a change, too—a change of blood. It’s good for -stock, why not for us? That’s the way I argued it out with myself.” -</p> -<p> -Her chin was sunk in the puffs of her white muslin blouse and the color -was in her cheeks again. But he went on, apparently not noticing her -confusion. -</p> -<p> -“For generations back every Jayne has married in the neighborhood. We -are all related in some way; you meet the Jayne nose on a Crisp -face—you<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-24">[24]</a></span> have the Crisp chin—and a Furlonger little finger,” he -crooked out his own, “on a Jayne hand. Nancy Turle has my father’s -waving red hair, and I’ve got the Turles’ white skin.” -</p> -<p> -He tucked up the sleeve of his coat to show her his smooth, milky skin. -</p> -<p> -“I thought,” he continued, as she neither looked nor spoke, “that a -change would be good. Change! You see it in stock; you see it in -flowers. Those crimson phloxes,” he pointed through the window, “are -twice as high this year because last autumn they were shifted in the -border. And Gainah, who knows all about flowers, says she can’t grow -heartsease three years running without lifting. They dwindle to -farthing-faces. Even cabbage mustn’t follow cabbage. I said to myself -that I’d graft new blood on the old Jayne stock.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela lifted her flaming face, and, putting out her thin foot, -contemptuously kicked the nearest letter. -</p> -<p> -“Then you had better take one of these,” she said, with temper, “if, as -you seem to think, I am a Crisp and your cousin.” -</p> -<p> -He looked at the foot which darted from her skirt. -</p> -<p> -“It’s a Furlonger foot,” he said simply. “Cousins! There isn’t a doubt. -But I’m content to take the way of my fathers.” -</p> -<p> -“I—I don’t know. It is early. You’d better let me go back.” -</p> -<p> -As she spoke she fleetly shut her eyes, so that she could see neither -the golden wheat-field nor the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-25">[25]</a></span> handsome face. At once the steep -wall of the prison ran up, and above it, searing her eyes, was the -blinding dome of sky. Beyond she saw the railway line, the dreary waste -land, a solitary old cottage, a tethered goat; on the edge of the -earth, meeting the sky, the bristling chimneys of the distant suburb -beyond the Scrubbs. -</p> -<p> -The prison! That chapter of her life was nearly ended. She knew that -she was weak; knew that she would yield to Jethro. Already she almost -felt as if that golden field of wheat half belonged to her. She would -yield. Why not? It was so simple, so idle. How she had longed for rest, -and more—for freedom! The heel of another woman had been very hard on -her neck. Just to go back to London, pack her boxes, take a cab, bid -her landlady farewell—and leave no trace. When <i>he</i> came out from -prison he would not find her—that was all. -</p> -<p> -“I might stay—and see,” she said faintly, opening her gray eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Very well. You want a situation; I offer you one. I pay you -thirty-five pounds a year for gowns and things. That between ourselves. -At the end of the year—we’ll see. To the world, to Gainah, you are my -Cousin Pamela.” -</p> -<p> -“I’d like to earn my thirty-five pounds,” she said sturdily. -</p> -<p> -“Of course. You’ll make the place pretty, as young women can. You’ll -entertain all your distant relations—the Turles and Crisps and -Furlongers. You can write letters for me until I get about again. I’m -like a log just now. Look here!”<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-26">[26]</a></span> He rolled down the covering and -showed his bandaged limb. “I got a fork run into my leg in the harvest -field, and it turned to a nasty wound. But I shall be about again -soon.” -</p> -<p> -“That is all?” She breathed relief, and the glint of distaste in her -eyes faded out. -</p> -<p> -“That is all. You didn’t think I was a cripple?” -</p> -<p> -“I didn’t know.” -</p> -<p> -“You really do favor my Uncle John,” Jethro said, after a pause. “Do -you mind—it will be your first duty—getting a leather case from that -top, left-hand drawer? Yes, that’s it,” when she brought it back. “See! -Here he is. Now, isn’t the mouth the same?” -</p> -<p> -He held before her the faded likeness, taken on silver, of a young man -in staid black clothes, and with straggling side whiskers. -</p> -<p> -“Taken just before he ran away. Is it anything like your father?” -</p> -<p> -She stared at the dim old portrait for a long time before she answered. -Her eyes took in every detail—the doubled fist on a bulky book, the -vapid smile, the too apparent watch-chain with its bunch of seals. -</p> -<p> -“I can’t say,” she returned faintly at last. “This is a young man. -Father was gray when I remember him. He married late in life. He had a -white beard. But I think,” she held the portrait thoughtfully sideways, -“that the mouth is something like. Father had a bare lip to the end of -his days.” -</p> -<p> -She shut the case and laid it on the table. Another<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-27">[27]</a></span> bee came in and -darted at the nodding cherries in her hat. The metallic clink from the -smithy became more persistent. Jethro said gently at last, putting out -the big brown hand which was so dry and yielding: -</p> -<p> -“Then it is settled?” -</p> -<p> -Pamela, her head down, the long, haggard line deep on her lips, said -almost inaudibly: -</p> -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -The word had hardly died away before Gainah, in her dim blue cotton -gown with the skimped skirt and straight bodice, put her head in at the -door and asked harshly if the newly-found cousin meant to stay to -dinner. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_103"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-28">[28]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_103_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_103_toc">CHAPTER III.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -H<small>ER</small> past was tightly packed away behind her—packed as remorselessly, -as perfectly, as she had corded her boxes; with much effort and -expenditure of strength, but with a perfect regard to safety. She was -out of London. Never again would she let her eyes of anguish light on -the prison. -</p> -<p> -She was driving with Jasper along the dusty Sussex road, which barely a -week before she had trudged wearily and with many misgivings. The -prosperity and ease and promise of her new life struck at her, soothed -her, with many minute details—the soft carriage-rug, the sleek coat of -the mare, the polished harness. She had a passion for ease, for pretty -things, for worldly status. -</p> -<p> -Folly Corner became her home—her sheltered home. Time passed. As the -weeks wore on her face grew mobile and careless, dull pink begun to -timidly bloom on her skin, her eyes brightened. She was happy, -occupied, free from anxiety. Above all, she had plenty of pence, need -never deny herself a penny pleasure—and she was one of those mercurial -women who can be made happy by a bar of French chocolate, and miserable -by a shabby hat. Once she said, with a bitter-sweet laugh, to Jethro: -</p> -<p> -“I was never made for responsibility. I ought to live in a harem. A -bon-bon, a pat on the head<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-29">[29]</a></span> from my master, would make me absolutely -content.” -</p> -<p> -He seemed amused at first, then he looked puzzled, and then displeased. -He had decided already in his serious, practical way, that she was to -be his wife, and whimsicality struck him as unorthodox—nearly as bad -as dissent. The Jaynes had always been stanch churchmen, and never -spoke without first weighing every word. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes, in spite of herself, she gave a backward thought. Sometimes -the hunted, tragic gleam lighted its taper in her happy eyes. Some -shadow of the old grief, some touch of the old delirious joy and -misery, stirred her. Rain against the window, a rumble of thunder, a -shrieking wind, or a harsh voice was enough to frighten her. She felt a -gnawing uncertainty. Would this peace, this ease, continue? -</p> -<p> -When these uncomfortable thoughts assailed her she plunged fiercely -into work, clicking her needle and thimble through new calico, or -darting about the rambling house with a duster. She was pathetically -anxious to earn her salary, to be absolutely independent of Jethro’s -charity. She had not yet decided whether her torn heart would allow her -to marry him when the time came. -</p> -<p> -One morning he strolled down the weedy gravel path of the oblong -kitchen-garden, with the holly hedge as wall on all four sides, and the -holly arch as postern at the entrance. There were grass paths between -the beds: they wanted mowing and leveling. The wide herbaceous borders -were full of<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-30">[30]</a></span> weeds. The gravel path going straight from one end to the -other was a harmony in green and yellow. -</p> -<p> -There was a gardener at Folly Corner, but Gainah made him clean boots, -chop wood, and carry buckets; while Jethro made him drive and groom the -horses, and pressed him into service when he was short of hands on the -farm. Consequently the garden was unattended. Scarlet pimpernel was -vivid on the dry ground, bindweed bound round the cabbage-stalks, and -wild clumps of blazing corn marigold bloomed unheeded. -</p> -<p> -Pamela was loitering in an archway of dead scarlet-runners, collecting -seed, by Gainah’s orders. Gainah was mistress of the garden. Jethro -came along the alley in his thick brown boots. His hands were in his -breeches pockets; a Michaelmas daisy, which he had pulled from the -border as he strolled, was in his mouth. He looked at Pamela, half -tenderly, half quizzically—a look which always set her pulses -throbbing. She could never forget, when she was alone with him, the -piquant circumstances which had brought her under his roof. Sometimes -when Gainah imposed distasteful tasks her neck would swell, and she -told herself proudly that by next autumn she could, if she chose, be -mistress of Folly Corner. -</p> -<p> -Her basket was three parts full of seed-pods—like the fingers of -dainty gloves stretched over bones. As she moved the seeds made a -dice-like rattle. Jethro took the basket from her and begun to pull the -pods off the dry yellow stalks himself. -</p> -<p> -“You shouldn’t be at this work,” he said, lifting<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-31">[31]</a></span> her white hand with -his free one. “Why can’t Daborn do it?” -</p> -<p> -“Gainah likes to see to these things herself.” -</p> -<p> -“You must be mistress over Gainah.” -</p> -<p> -“Not yet,” she broke out involuntarily, and then flushed. -</p> -<p> -Jethro laughed. -</p> -<p> -“I’m glad you put it that way. Evidently we are of the same mind. -Suppose we say six months instead of a year, Cousin Pamela.” -</p> -<p> -“No, no! A year, as we decided.” -</p> -<p> -She looked vaguely through the wasted tendrils of the dead beans as -they clung to the sticks—looked in the direction of London. Jethro had -once said carelessly London was that way, jerking his broad brown thumb -widely. After that, she looked across the common whenever that chill -thought of the prison stole in and numbed her brain. -</p> -<p> -“Come a little way along the road. If Gainah sees us she’ll call you -in,” he said almost pleadingly. “I never get you to myself.” -</p> -<p> -He pulled out his turnip-like silver watch, which had been his -grandfather’s, and added that he had ten minutes. Daborn was grooming -the roan mare, ready to drive him in the dogcart to Liddleshorn. -</p> -<p> -“You might come too,” he said. -</p> -<p> -“No. Gainah would be angry.” -</p> -<p> -“You mustn’t think too much of her. After all, she’s a paid servant.” -</p> -<p> -“So am I.” -</p> -<p> -Her face, under the brim of her Panama hat, was arch and mournful at -the same moment. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-32">[32]</a></span> -They went along the gravel path. Jethro took out his pocket-knife and -cut off the head of a great plantain. -</p> -<p> -“The place wants seeing to,” he said with dissatisfaction, looking at -the weeds in the bed. “It wants a mistress. You should see the garden -at Turle House. Nancy manages that. Nancy in some sort of way must be -your cousin. We are all relations.” -</p> -<p> -It was the last day of September, and there had been a frost early in -the morning. The blackened marrow plants straggled on their mound. -Daborn had clamped the beet the day before, and the broken leaves, with -their wine-colored stems, were scattered. The plumy foliage of the -carrots had died down. The sparkling parsnip leaves were yellow, and -dew glittered on the crinkled, bluish leaves of the savoys with their -tight hearts. The sun shone brightly, but the air was crisp. Everything -was ominous of winter. Pamela shivered as she looked at the solid -chimney stacks of Folly Corner, and pictured an iron winter in the -fastness of that old house, with Gainah as grim companion. -</p> -<p> -They went through the yard into the road. Daborn had the dogcart out. -Pamela stopped by the wall of the granary, her foot twined in a bit of -trailing periwinkle. -</p> -<p> -“Give me the basket,” she said, “and good-by.” -</p> -<p> -Jethro looked at her. -</p> -<p> -“You’d better come too,” he said. “Jump in.” -</p> -<p> -“No. My dress; no gloves.” -</p> -<p> -“Tuck your hands under the rug. At Liddleshorn<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-33">[33]</a></span> we’ll buy gloves. Jump -up. We shan’t want you, Daborn. Here’s the basket. Miss Crisp will hold -the reins.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela still hesitated, looking back at the house, and remembering she -had promised Gainah that she would mark some pillow-slips. But it was -such a magic morning, with an intensely blue sky—a March sky almost, -with a spice of frost lurking behind the hot sun. There were long -trails of red bryony berries on the hedges; glittering gossamer webs -were woven across the clumps of broom on the common. Jethro looked so -strong and masterful—such a man! She believed that in the end she -would marry him whether she wanted to or not. He had a rough manner of -command with women—savage, yet tender. Pamela, like a woman, loved it. -She lifted her foot, swung up to the blue cushion, and a moment later -they were bowling smoothly along the road. -</p> -<p> -He didn’t speak. He flicked at the mare with a tinge of pettishness. -Pamela sat well back. She felt a person of some importance; every small -girl they met bobbed her little skirts into the dust, and the -heavy-footed laboring men lifted a finger to their hair as Jethro -bowled by in the flashing sunshine. -</p> -<p> -He pulled up at the gate of a small farm, and asked Pamela to hold the -mare while he went in. The farmer had a farrowing sow for sale. -</p> -<p> -She just clasped the slack reins. The farmhouse was so overgrown with -fruit-trees and ivy that the mellow bricks were shrouded. By and by -Jethro came swinging down the path, with a weak old man<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-34">[34]</a></span> hobbling -behind him. They went and leaned over the piggeries, which were on the -left of the gate. She caught a word or two here and there; it was Greek -to her. Jethro surveyed the huge black sow keenly before he closed the -bargain. Then he swung open the gate in his familiar impetuous way, and -just before he got up into the cart he turned to the old man and said -with a kind of careless authority: -</p> -<p> -“You ought to get out of this. Sell up and go into lodgings. It isn’t -good for a man to live alone.” -</p> -<p> -To Pamela he added in a bluff aside: -</p> -<p> -“Mansell has lost his missus.” -</p> -<p> -She leaned toward the straggling, shambling figure, and threw a faint -smile of sympathy. He was a foolish-looking old man, with a face made -more imbecile by a loose, slobbering lip and the short silvery spikes -of a week-old beard. He began to pour out his misery and loneliness, -perhaps because she, like his dead wife, was a woman. -</p> -<p> -“Missis died six months ago,” he said tremulously, as he twisted his -dirty hands and gave his watery smile. “She was a good missis. But,” -with a crowing cackle of laughter, “I was good, too. I never knocked -her down, nor give her a black eye. I didn’t offen even scold her. Step -inside.” His face and voice were eager. “I’d like you to have a look -round.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela, oddly touched, said gently to Jethro: -</p> -<p> -“Let me go. You come too.” -</p> -<p> -They tied the mare to the gatepost, and went up the path to the -brooding house in its tangle of ivy<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-35">[35]</a></span> and its unpruned jungle of ancient -plum-trees. The widower went first, chattering volubly all the time, -his back bent, his hand heavy on the polished knob of his stick. -</p> -<p> -They went into the low-pitched living-room. The fusty smell turned -Pamela faint. The old man seemed to divine her nausea. -</p> -<p> -“You should ha’ seen how missis kept it,” he said deprecatingly. “But, -Lord bless you, I am a helpless old man, seventy-nine come October, and -I can’t clean. I’m alone. Missis and the children dead. But I aint -afraid.” He gave an apprehensive glance at the shadows of the murky -room. “Why should I be? What I always says is this”—he kept peppering -his platitudes with the silly laugh that went to the girl’s -heart—“God, who made me, aint a-goin’ to kill me.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela looked round the room. Everything, inside and out of the farm, -had gone to pieces for the lack of a capable woman. -</p> -<p> -“I did used to keep the garden terrible nice,” the old man said, seeing -her gray eyes look through the door into the sunny wilderness. “But -there! missis is gone! I’ll show you her earrings.” -</p> -<p> -He hobbled away into the adjoining room. Pamela heard him jingling -metal and scrooping wooden furniture over the flag floor. Presently he -came out with a card-board box shaking in his hand. He took the lid off -reverently and held out the open box. A pair of earrings, of very pale -gold, such as you can buy at fairs for a trifle, were on a bed of -tissue paper. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-36">[36]</a></span> -“Very pretty,” the girl said lamely. -</p> -<p> -Jethro had gone outside. He was viewing the neglected fruit-trees -severely. -</p> -<p> -“And there’s one more thing I must show you.” -</p> -<p> -Mansell hobbled away, up the crazy stairs this time, and came back with -a snow-white smock, which he thrust into her hands. -</p> -<p> -“Missis made this for me to be married in.” He stuck his foolish red -face forward and grinned more widely. “She put her best work into it. -Lord bless you, when I was but a boy—I’m seventy-nine come October—we -used to go to church on Sundays, every man in his clean smock. Missis -did it. She was a rare one at her needle.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela looked at the exquisite, delicate stitching. The whole heart of -that dead woman was woven into the diamonds and honeycombs and lattices -of the wedding smock. -</p> -<p> -“Very pretty,” she said lamely again. -</p> -<p> -“I must get to Liddleshorn before ten,” Jethro cried out from the -garden. -</p> -<p> -She stepped into the sun, Mansell behind her. He followed them to the -gate, seeming pathetically anxious to hold on to human companionship as -long as he could. A sheep-dog came running out from the barn. Pamela, -who was distrustful of dogs, felt glad that she was in the cart. -</p> -<p> -“He won’t bite, bless you; he’s too old. But when he was young he <i>was</i> -s’ savage. Missis used to set one side of the fire winter nights, and I -used to set the other. And she, just for fun, used to say to me, ‘Oh, -dear,’ and I used to say, ‘Oh, dear.’<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-37">[37]</a></span> You should have heard him growl. -He was s’ savage you durstn’t move or speak.” -</p> -<p> -Jethro gathered the reins with an air of business. -</p> -<p> -“You must get out of this,” he advised, with curt good nature. -</p> -<p> -“I suppose I must. Yet I’d like to stop on. Yet since missis died -everything’s gone to pieces. I used to get such good living—fresh -butter and new-laid eggs. I can churn myself, but no one seems to care -for my butter. Don’t know why; there was a great call for missis’s.” -</p> -<p> -“Well, good-by to you,” said Jethro, with masculine intolerance of his -whimpering garrulity. -</p> -<p> -“Good-by and God bless you. Take care of yourselves. Come and see me -again.” His bleared blue eyes were turned pleadingly on Pamela. “And, -Master Jayne”—he looked from one to the other, and his shrill voice -quavered childishly—“when you gets a missis may you never lose her. A -man’s no good without a missis.” -</p> -<p> -The cart moved on. Presently Pamela said softly, “Poor old thing! he -made me feel quite miserable.” -</p> -<p> -“He’s not quite right in his head. But—you heard what he said, Cousin -Pamela? A man’s no good without a missis.” -</p> -<p> -The strong brown hand in the worn driving-glove plunged under the -holland carriage-rug and took her bare fingers significantly. -</p> -<p> -“It’s true enough,” Jethro said thoughtfully, after a bit. “I’m worried -about Folly Corner. Something’s wanting. The food’s all right——” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-38">[38]</a></span> -“Now, the food isn’t right,” she put in briskly. “Plenty of it—yes. -But the serving! Who ever heard of a meat pudding brought to table in -its basin! Fancy cheese on the breakfast-table! White sugar should be -grated over the tarts and—oh, many things. Some of them I couldn’t -mention to you: it wouldn’t be nice.” -</p> -<p> -She was thinking of a thrifty trick of Gainah’s: the unhatched eggs -found in a hen that had been killed were used for cakes. She thought it -perfectly horrid, and her town squeamishness made her feel that there -was a certain indelicacy involved in the proceeding. At all events she -couldn’t mention such a thing to Jethro. -</p> -<p> -“And the other day,” she continued, broodingly, “a pig was killed. -Gainah was in the kitchen all day. She made me go out, too. The things -they did with that pig! The savory horrors she turned out!” -</p> -<p> -Jethro gave a great jolly laugh. -</p> -<p> -“Chitterling and fagots and scraps,” he cried. “I like them. You are -not a farmer’s wife—yet. Gainah is a splendid housekeeper. It isn’t -the housekeeping. It is the—the—difference. You know what I mean. -Flowers in the vases; the dinner-table dainty, not solid. Foolish -things—but they make a difference.” -</p> -<p> -“They are important things. They certainly make a difference—all the -difference. You’ve been dominated too long by that old woman. The place -has the wrong tone. Do you understand what I mean? It looks a farmer’s -house. It ought to look a gentleman’s.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-39">[39]</a></span> -“But I <i>am</i> a farmer—and proud of it.” -</p> -<p> -“Of course. It is the fashion to farm nowadays. It is quite genteel -if—if you lose money over it.” -</p> -<p> -He seemed puzzled at her pert extravagance, and said stolidly that he -was glad that his farming paid—every Jayne was a good farmer; it was -in the blood. -</p> -<p> -“Well,” said Pamela, with a shrug and a droll smile, “you can get the -effect anyhow. We must put up with prosperity. There are many things -I’ll do, if you’ll let me. The housemaid must wear a cap with lappets -in the afternoons. She should wait at table, and bring your newspaper -in on a tray; letters, too, when there are any. I’ll train her. Of -course, Gainah does not know how; she will be grateful to me for hints. -You are very slow down here in Sussex. Did I tell you that I lived for -six months in a boarding-house?” There was the faintest quiver of her -heavy lids. “I carved and kept accounts. Things were done very well -there. I have moved about the world and kept my eyes open.” -</p> -<p> -While she was making this smug little speech Jethro looked at her with -satisfaction. She was a woman of wit, of knowledge. Her glib tongue was -refreshing and piquant after the demure monosyllables and faint -opinions—always watered by Mamma—of the Liddleshorn damsels. -</p> -<p> -They were smoothly clattering down the High Street. -</p> -<p> -“Furniture.” Pamela pointed to the upholsterer’s. “There should be oak -in the dining-room.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-40">[40]</a></span> -“There is oak at Folly Corner.” -</p> -<p> -“Is that oak?” She opened her big eyes and arched her faint dun brows. -“Then it is different. We had a beautiful carved dinner-wagon at the -boarding-house.” -</p> -<p> -“It was my father’s grandfather’s furniture, and his grandfather’s -before him,” Jethro said conservatively. -</p> -<p> -Pamela ran on: -</p> -<p> -“And cushions. There should be lots of cushions with frills.” She threw -a longing glance at the draper’s. -</p> -<p> -Jethro looked too. One window was full of down cushions—big, square, -and with frills deeper than the cushions themselves. -</p> -<p> -“They would look lovely on the settle,” Pamela said gloatingly. -</p> -<p> -Every woman has her pet weakness. Hers had always been <i>carte blanche</i> -at the Oriental shop. There was a spatter of Oriental fripperies in a -side window at the Liddleshorn draper’s; it was an up-to-date shop. -</p> -<p> -“And embroidered mats,” she added, “and big bowls to stand flower-pots -in; and those green specimen glasses for the table; and a bit or two of -that Benares brass; and—it’s really a very good assortment—one of -those guitars to hang on the wall with ribbons. You should have -fretwork ornaments and some lacquered brackets, on which to stand -plates or little blue tear-bottles.” -</p> -<p> -Jethro beckoned to a small boy on the curb, and threw him the reins. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-41">[41]</a></span> -“We’ll go in,” he said, jumping down and holding out his hand to -Pamela. -</p> -<p> -“I must get some gloves first of all,” she said, as her foot touched -the pavement. -</p> -<p> -When she had bought them, she led Jethro captive through the Oriental -department. He told her carelessly to buy what she chose, and she moved -eagerly from one counter to another. She chose some gaudy rugs to toss -about the oak floors. She bought brass bowls and trays, a few grotesque -ornaments for the shelves, mats, a guitar, a Chinese woman’s shoe, a -mandarin’s petticoat to throw over an armchair, a bundle of peacock’s -feathers, a few bits of coarsely-printed china, various embroidered -table-covers—all the vividly-colored, alluring rubbish that she -fancied. -</p> -<p> -They had it packed up and stowed in the dogcart. She carried the china -gingerly on her knee for fear of breakage. Her eyes danced. After years -of poverty, this careless throwing away of money was delightful. -</p> -<p> -When they reached home she made Daborn take everything out and carry it -into the dining-room—the dining-parlor, as Gainah persisted in calling -it. There was a strong smell of raw onion from the kitchen; it was -being packed away in wide-mouthed bottles, with alternate slices of -beet and a savory bath of spiced vinegar. Gainah came in, her hands -dyed with onion juice. -</p> -<p> -Pamela was excitedly unswathing her treasures from yards of tissue -paper. -</p> -<p> -“We’ve bought a few things,” she said pleasantly.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-42">[42]</a></span> “Sit down and look -at them. That is an Indian god.” She held out an abominable brown -figure. “Jethro was saying that the place wanted improving—bringing up -to date. Of course, you never hear of the newest things down here. How -should you? I got these cushions for the settle, and this—isn’t the -embroidery lovely?—for the piano. A piano should never have its back -against the wall. It is an ugly piece of furniture; its form is all -against it. I told Jethro that there should have been a grand in that -big room. That is the only endurable form of piano.” -</p> -<p> -She was chattering the artistic jargon of a belated æsthete who had -boarded at the house in Bloomsbury. Gainah hardly seemed to hear her. -She had toppled down into one of the high-backed, rush-seated chairs, -and was nervously moving her stained hands on her lap. -</p> -<p> -“Don’t you like these rugs?” Pamela cut the string with one of the -heavy buck-handled knives which was on the dinner-table. “They are to -be thrown down in odd corners—anywhere. You can’t have too much color -in a room. I must go and take my hat off.” She glanced at the waiting -dinner-table and stacked her purchases carefully on the horsehair sofa. -“I’ll arrange everything this afternoon. By tea-time you will hardly -recognize the place. Cousin Jethro is so kind; he says that if I -haven’t thought of everything he will drive me into Liddleshorn again -to-morrow. These green glasses are for flowers. I must arrange them -every day for dinner in schemes of color. There! That<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-43">[43]</a></span> is one thing I -forgot—an embroidered centerpiece. And we might have candle-shades, -too. Those candlesticks,” she glanced at some heavy ones of Sheffield -plate on the oak sideboard, “are the rage in London just now.” -</p> -<p> -She ran out of the room. Gainah did not stir from her chair by the -yawning hearth on which the first fire of the season smoldered. She -gazed fixedly in her vacant way at the trash on the sofa. Only one -thing that Pamela had said worked in her slow brain: “Jethro was saying -that the place wanted improving.” -</p> -<p> -She looked at the gaudy plates and jars; then thought of the delicate -family china which was locked away in the little closet leading out of -the keeping-room. She looked at the red and yellow brackets, the -ornaments, and then looked round at the distempered walls, against -which stood the beautiful golden oak, every piece of which she had -tended as if it were a child. Every week she had rubbed that oak with -beeswax and turpentine. Every week she had washed the china bowls and -figures on the shelf. Every week for more than thirty years! She knew -now that the landmarks of those years were going to be swept away. Her -face grew harsh and vindictive—the face of a worn old panther—worn, -old, feeble, but still with claws. Pamela, who meant everything in the -kindest spirit possible, and who never doubted that her efforts would -be received with gratitude, was breeding tragedy. Gainah, in the -upright chair, her mournful eyes roving sluggishly round the -ancestral<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-44">[44]</a></span> furniture that she loved, was working up to a climax. -</p> -<p> -Why should this girl—this pert jade, this strange cousin on the -mother’s side—ruin the lives of her elders? Why should she sneer at -rustic customs which were old enough to be as sacred as the Bible? -</p> -<p> -Gainah’s mental attitude changed from injury to rebellion. She began to -ask herself stupidly, with an agonized questioning of her slow brain, -if Pamela could not be got rid of, banished from Folly Corner. How -should she lift from the farm the shadow thrown across it? She only -wanted to serve her master in her old faithful way, according to her -own lights. She had brought him up from his birth. She almost believed -that she was his mother. She had even chosen his wife for him. Nancy -Turle wouldn’t have taken the housekeeping keys. She clutched at them -as they weighed down her apron pocket. Pamela should never take them -either. Nancy Turle would never have spent money like water at -Liddleshorn. She glowered at the brightly colored stuffs and crockery. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -Only to go on serving him until the end. Wasn’t that a simple thing to -ask? Just to be allowed to save and screw, to manage the farmhouse and -to manage him in her hectoring way, which was all tenderness and -devotion at bottom. She got up, turned her back on the new purchases, -and ran her hand along the heavy sideboard lovingly, as if it were -alive. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_104"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-45">[45]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_104_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_104_toc">CHAPTER IV.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -W<small>HEN</small> the purchases from the Oriental department were finally arranged, -Pamela retreated to the door of the keeping-room—the drawing-room as -she had privately determined to call it—and shut her eyes; then, -opening them quickly and glancing comprehensively round, she tried to -imagine what the effect of the room would be on a stranger. The round -walnut table was pushed into a corner and covered with a red and yellow -cloth, on which storks were painted. The piano cut across a corner, and -had its back draped. The brackets were fixed on the wall and upheld -Kaga plates. The mandarin’s petticoat, that had cost a great deal, -nearly covered the green chair, and the green sofa was piled with -cushions. The gaudy rugs did their best to cover up the bunches of pink -Provence roses on the carpet. -</p> -<p> -Things really made a very good show. The place looked almost civilized. -These were her complacent thoughts as she stood at the door with her -head on one side. Instinctively she went upstairs and put on her best -gown, and arranged her hair in the elaborate way which she reserved for -special occasions. When she came downstairs she shut her eyes again, -then opened them spasmodically. Yes, it would do. -</p> -<p> -She felt quite excited. Anyone could see that the hand of a person of -taste had touched everything. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-46">[46]</a></span> -A feeling of towns came over her. She looked through the diamond panes -of the long window as if she expected to see hansoms bowling along the -road. Then she sighed and glanced in the mirror again. What was the -good of dressing one’s hair and wearing one’s best gown? Nobody would -call. -</p> -<p> -Gainah was still in the kitchen. She could hear her grating voice and -slow step. Jethro was tramping over the stubble, his Irish terrier, -Rob, at his heels. She put her softly-puffed head out of the bay window -and called out pleadingly: -</p> -<p> -“Oh! do come in and look.” -</p> -<p> -He came across the field—came tolerantly, leisurely, as if he were -good-humoredly indulging the whim of a child. When he opened the door -he seemed too heavy for the transformed room, with its elegant tags of -foreign frippery. He seemed to put it to shame; he brought an -intangible, sterling feeling with him. Pamela, without knowing why, -felt a little less satisfied. -</p> -<p> -“Do you like it?” she asked nervously. -</p> -<p> -He dropped into the green chair, his broad hands gripped round the -petticoat, and looked about him with amusement. -</p> -<p> -“Everything’s crooked,” he said lazily, at last, his mouth drolly -curved and his eyes merry. They were such keen, outdoor eyes; they -seemed to pierce through shams. She was afraid that he saw the pins in -the piano back. She had been obliged to join two lengths of silk -together, and had been too eager to stay and sew it. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, everything is crooked; that is one of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-47">[47]</a></span> fundamental rules -of modern decoration,” she told him flippantly. “Piano across one -corner, table across the other; nothing stiff, nothing solid.” -</p> -<p> -“Umph!” -</p> -<p> -He was not impressed. He was certainly laughing at the single -knickerbocker of silk into which she had stuck a pot of late musk. -</p> -<p> -“You’ve blocked the door of the china closet with that jar of -feathers.” -</p> -<p> -“The china closet! How delightful. It never occurred to me to ask what -was beyond that door.” She tried the handle, then asked him for the -key. -</p> -<p> -“Gainah has it.” -</p> -<p> -“I’ll get her to give it me.” -</p> -<p> -She dashed out into the corridor and met the housekeeper midway. -</p> -<p> -“I was coming to look for you,” she said, with her unfailing good -temper and self-satisfaction. “I want your opinion on the drawing-room. -There! Isn’t that pretty? Cousin Jethro doesn’t care a bit; but, then, -men are no good at decoration. -</p> -<p> -“And I want you to give me the key of the china closet,” she added. -</p> -<p> -A queer flush stole over Gainah’s cheeks, and her distorted hand went -involuntarily to her apron pocket, and her cold eyes sought Jethro’s -beseechingly. Pamela had her palm outspread. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, we’ll have a look in the closet,” Jethro said easily. “Don’t know -when I went in last. There is a lot of stuff that was my mother’s and -your aunt’s.” As he put in this touch, he glanced meaningly at Gainah, -with the half-timid assertion of a<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-48">[48]</a></span> big, kindly man who has been -subjugated by a mean woman. -</p> -<p> -He wanted her to remember, without troubling him to hurt her by putting -it into words, that Pamela was one of the family, and had a close -interest in the family crockery. -</p> -<p> -“The closet is only opened once a year, when we clean in spring,” -Gainah said grudgingly. “I don’t want strange fingers handling the -china.” -</p> -<p> -But she opened the door. Pamela, quite as a matter of course, took the -key off the ring and slipped it into her own pocket. -</p> -<p> -“It is a mistake to hide old china. The room won’t want locking again,” -she said, gliding over the bare, dusty floor. “What a lovely -collection! I wish I had known, then I need not have wasted money on -Kaga. Anyone can buy that for so much three farthings—farthings play a -most important part in modern decorations, Cousin Jethro.” -</p> -<p> -She dimpled round at his puzzled face, and threw a conciliatory glance -at Gainah, who had taken up a canary-colored jug with uneven black -lettering straggling round its bulging middle. They were all three in -the tiny room, lighted by one high window, across which the foamy white -rose crept. -</p> -<p> -“May I look?” Pamela took the canary jug. -</p> -<div class="verse_container"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Long may we leve.</p> - -<p class="i2">Happy may we be,</p> - -<p class="i0b">Blest with content,</p> - -<p class="i2">And from misfortin’ free.’</p> -</div> -</div> -<p class="noindent"> -“Most delightful sentiments, and equally delightful spelling,” she -commented lightly, while Jethro<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-49">[49]</a></span> watched her with a growing admiration, -and the cold light slanted through the window on Gainah’s worn, -malevolent face. -</p> -<p> -“What blue bowls and dishes! What luster! I think they call that -coppery stuff luster.” -</p> -<p> -“My mother’s best tea set.” Jethro took up a tiny handleless cup with -purplish-pink trails of flowers painted on it. -</p> -<p> -“Lowestoft, I think.” Pamela cocked her head on one side. “But I know -nothing of china. Therefore I admire it all—that is a very safe rule -in art. Now you and Gainah must run away.” She made a feint of pushing -him toward the door. “I’m going to be busier than ever. All this must -be arranged to the best advantage. Then the door will be left open, and -when next we go to Liddleshorn you must buy a portière.” -</p> -<p> -She jumped upon a chair, and lifted bowls and dishes from the top -shelf, making a running comment as she did so. -</p> -<p> -“I wish I knew printed from painted. This dish is either very valuable -or utterly worthless; some things are just on the borderland. You two -must really go away.” She put out one hand deprecatingly. “There ought -to be some tin tacks, or a ledge, in front of the shelves, so that the -plates could stand up.” -</p> -<p> -Gainah looked at her, a brilliant, dainty, voluble creature, high up on -a mahogany chair whose back was carved in wheat-ears. She had all the -color and pertness of a bullfinch. She looked at her, this dangerous -republican; looked at white fingers carelessly<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-50">[50]</a></span> handling china which -for over thirty years only her own hands had touched. She had grown to -believe that it was hers, that Jethro himself was hers, and the farm -too, with its fat acres and its ripe family tradition. She had been -undisputed queen at Folly Corner the best part of her life. All the -family connections, when they paid Jethro a rare visit, had deferred to -her. Yet not one of them knew the truth—that Jethro’s father had -almost married her. -</p> -<p> -She thought of that as she watched Pamela standing radiant on the -chair. A horrible pang for the muddles, incomplete past, and a still -more set feeling of bitterest, merciless revenge contracted her heart. -She turned away without a word, leaving the cousins in the china -closet. She sat herself down in the ruins of her temple, and looked -blankly at the devastation wrought by Pamela’s active fingers in two -short hours. -</p> -<p> -She knew for whom this room had been refurnished more than thirty years -before. Not for Jethro’s mother. She, after the fashion of frugal first -wives, had saved and gone short of household elaborations. The room had -been furnished for <i>her.</i> She, Gainah Toat, had been the elder Jethro’s -second fancy. She had been a good-looking woman well within thirty in -those days; while he had been nearer sixty, having married a -middle-aged cousin—of the plain variety of women, warranted to wear -well—when he was fifty or more. But she, Gainah, had inspired him with -positive passion. Bah! She knew what a man’s passion was, and how far -it led<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-51">[51]</a></span> him. She knew that it made even a miser like the elder Jethro -dip deeply into his pocket. -</p> -<p> -She remembered driving with him into Liddleshorn, just as Pamela had -to-day driven in with his son, and choosing the flowery carpet, the -round table, the piano—on which she could never hope to play a note. -Neighbors had condoled with her on the prospect of a new wife at Folly -Corner. She had said nothing, by his wish—he was a taciturn man. But -she remembered the flutter of triumph which had worked behind her dry -lips all the time. She knew that <i>she</i> was to be the bride of whom they -gossiped and about whose appearance they speculated. -</p> -<p> -What might have been! He had been dead more than thirty years, and she -had dutifully kept the secret of his weakness. Not even Jethro knew -that there had been love passages, of a fairly practical sort—on one -side at least—between Gainah and his father. Her courting scenes had -been seasoned with matter-of-fact reference to the crops or the -prospects of early ducklings. She had always been grim and unbending. -</p> -<p> -What might have been! If only the master of Folly Corner had not been -pitched out of the high gig. His head had cracked on a heap of big -stones by the road, piled high all ready for autumn breaking. -</p> -<p> -She remembered so well the day they brought him home. It was on a -Monday, and she had, for once, managed to cut her nails without -thinking of a fox’s tail—sure sign of a present. -</p> -<p> -That was the present they brought her—the dying<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-52">[52]</a></span> body of the -substantial man, who loved her in his common-sense way, who would have -redeemed her from service. -</p> -<p> -She remembered the day of the funeral. It was a cold day. The bereft -house had seemed to rock and moan with every wail of the agonized wind -outside. The front door, through which they carried the long, wide -coffin, was flung widely back by her orders until the burial service -had been read at the church. If that had not been done there would have -been another death within the year. Bitterly as she had been -disappointed and foiled, she did not want to die. Neither did she want -baby Jethro to die; she loved him a great deal better than she had -loved his father—there was no ulterior motive mixed up with her regard -for the child. -</p> -<p> -The farmer had not even made a will in her favor. He had not left her -one penny. She stayed on as paid housekeeper, the conclave of relatives -deciding that it would be best. Mrs. Turle, the dead man’s sister, paid -her quarterly. She stayed on. She managed the farm until Jethro grew -up. She managed Jethro—had never left off managing him. She was a -masterful woman. -</p> -<p> -And now she was to be put aside, like the pair of china figures which -had lost an arm apiece, and which stared at each other hopelessly on -their dim attic shelf. -</p> -<p> -Jethro came out from the closet, looking handsome and happy. Pamela, -still on the chair, was softly humming a gay little air. -</p> -<p> -Gainah struggled up from the sofa. She looked<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-53">[53]</a></span> at Jethro. She moved her -dry pale lips, and moved her oddly-dressed brown head too. She wanted -to speak to him—to implore, to insist. But the words strangled in -her throat at the sight of his exultant face and shining eyes. -</p> -<p> -It was useless for age to pit itself against youth. Her time was past. -She knew, although it was gall to admit it, that the girl she hated had -Nature on her side. All her comparisons were drawn from Nature; her -untiring energy of pickle and preserve making had gone hand-in-hand -with Nature. -</p> -<p> -Didn’t the old potatoes rot off to make room for the new? Wasn’t it -natural? -</p> -<p> -Her feet moved slowly over the carpet. It had been her choice nearly -thirty-five years before. But it was hardly worn; they rarely used the -keeping-room. -</p> -<p> -She went into the garden. She looked at the brown stalks of the -summer’s annuals in her borders. They were dead, dry—only fit for the -waste-heap. Yet their young seedlings were green and vigorous. It was -all so simple, so natural. Yet—yet! She was far too practical, too -mentally sluggish, to put the half-formed thought into clear shape. -They were only fit for the waste-heap—but did they want to go there? -Wasn’t there some dumb, desperate struggle against extinction going on -between those brown, sadly swaying stalks? -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -Then she saw a wagonette pull up at the white gate, saw a head of rich -red hair between the poplars, and hurried indoors to put on her black -silk gown. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_105"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-54">[54]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_105_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_105_toc">CHAPTER V.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -P<small>AMELA</small> saw the wagonette, too, as she perched on the chair, her head -level with the high window. She was so surprised and fluttered that the -Oriental bowl she was lifting down nearly dropped from her fingers. She -called through the open door to Jethro: -</p> -<p> -“Here’s a carriage at the gate. Inside, an elderly lady and a girl with -red hair. They are coming up the path.” -</p> -<p> -“Aunt Sophy—Mrs. Turle, of Turle House—and Nancy.” -</p> -<p> -“They have come to call on me.” -</p> -<p> -She gave a soft breath of satisfaction as she jumped from the chair; -her best gown, her waved hair, were justified. She had only just time -to add, “What a pity I hadn’t finished the china closet!” before they -were announced, in rustic, familiar fashion, by the red-armed -housemaid, who hadn’t yet changed her cotton gown for her afternoon -stuff one. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Turle was a big woman with a stately carriage. Nancy was slim, and -either shy or stupid. She had a very white skin—the Turle skin, as -Jethro had said. Whenever she spoke or was spoken to, a silly pink -flooded her face. Her dress<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-55">[55]</a></span> was precise and perfect in detail; the -very best that the best shop in Liddleshorn could supply. Mrs. Turle, -too, wore a stiff silk, and the set of golden sable which had been part -of her wedding outfit, and was only just beginning to look damaged by -moth. This was evidently a state call. Pamela saw her look swiftly -round the room, as she threw back her net veil with the deep hem. -</p> -<p> -Jethro, after a few awkward words—he never excelled in the presence of -women—went back to his stubble and his dog. Pamela was left alone with -these two—evidently bent on criticism—who might or might not be of -her blood. Mrs. Turle said, looking at her steadfastly: -</p> -<p> -“My dear, you are like Jethro’s mother. She died when he was born, you -know. Always weak here.” She laid her plump hand on the sable that -crossed her ample bosom. “I hope your chest is not weak. You don’t look -very strong.” -</p> -<p> -“I am quite strong, thank you,” the new cousin returned rather -awkwardly, conscious that Nancy was trying to puzzle out the -construction of her <i>coiffure.</i> -</p> -<p> -“You may think so”—Mrs. Turle dealt out the sweet, maternal smile for -which she was famous,—“but one can never be sure of one’s own -constitution. I must send you down a large bottle of the cough syrup I -make for Nancy every autumn.” -</p> -<p> -She kept looking round the room. Pamela felt sure that she resented -everything—the tablecloth with storks, the winking brass bowls, the -very petticoat, which her portly shoulders crushed. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-56">[56]</a></span> -“I should have called before,” she continued apologetically, “but I -couldn’t have the horse. We only keep one since Mr. Turle died, and my -man, Evergreen, like all old servants, must be indulged. He doesn’t -care to drive in bad weather, and we have had so many mists lately. -Besides”—there was a tinge of reproach in her purring voice—“I hadn’t -seen you at church. I didn’t know if you were ready for callers.” -</p> -<p> -“Church! Oh, I haven’t been yet. It seemed such a pity to waste half a -beautiful day indoors,” said Pamela innocently. She saw timid Nancy -glance at her mother and smile. They were very tepid people. She -already felt as if little cascades of lukewarm water played on her. -</p> -<p> -“In London,” she added, in extenuation, “so few people go to church.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Turle looked grave. -</p> -<p> -“I must say,” she said softly—and Pamela soon learnt that “I must say” -was her favorite formula—“that people in towns are very lax. You can’t -bring up a large family—I’ve had fifteen—without method. When my -children were little they went to church twice on Sunday—what else -could you do with boys? They would only loaf about. Next Sunday, dear, -Nancy and I will call for you. We always drive.” -</p> -<p> -“Thank you very much.” -</p> -<p> -“And you have always lived in London? Your mother and father are dead, -so Jethro told us. I knew your father. He was a very handsome young -man. I must say,” her scintillating eyes<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-57">[57]</a></span> were full on the girl’s face, -“that I should never have known you for his daughter. There is no -resemblance; poor John had such regular features.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela looked a little awkward. Nancy said kindly in her weak, sweet -voice, and with her languishing smile: -</p> -<p> -“Do you ride a bicycle?” -</p> -<p> -“No. I—I’ve never had the chance.” -</p> -<p> -“Oh! you must get one. Mustn’t she, mamma? It is such fun. In the -summer we have picnics, and in the winter paper chases.” -</p> -<p> -“That would be nice.” -</p> -<p> -The cascades of tepid water were growing in volume. She was new to this -class of caller. Her London experience was pretty large; she had -knocked about in her search for bread. She knew the art jargon of -Hampstead, the conscientious struggle for intellect and high purpose -which distinguishes the prosperous quarter of Bloomsbury. She could -talk shops with a feather-headed woman, babies, even, with a bovine -one, or the divine duties of sex with the serious. But with these -people there was no give-and-take, no merry tossing with the ball, no -brightening of the wits. -</p> -<p> -“And I suppose you were living with some other relations in London?” -</p> -<p> -“No,” she said curtly, “I was working for my living. Jethro is my only -relation.” -</p> -<p> -“We are all kin, are we not, mamma?” -</p> -<p> -“Of course. So you had a career, dear? Yes. Art? So many girls go in -for that. Nancy attended the Liddleshorn school for a time. But I<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-58">[58]</a></span> -don’t think the influence is good for a young woman. I must say that -drawing from a model is not <i>my</i> idea of delicacy.” -</p> -<p> -“Never from the nude, mamma.” -</p> -<p> -“Oh! never from the nude, of course. Unless it was a foot. I think you -drew from a foot once, Nancy, love.” -</p> -<p> -“Oh, yes, mamma; but the model only came once. She hadn’t understood -that she must take her stockings off.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela was yawning. “I haven’t studied art,” she said curtly. -</p> -<p> -“Literature? A great many girls go in for that. We had an author at -Mere Cottage. A most extraordinary person. He put a Latin text over his -door. What was it, Nancy?” -</p> -<p> -“<i>Parva domus magna quies</i>, mamma.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes, something like that. I’m not quite sure that your Latin is right. -But Egbert would know. He is my son at Cambridge.” -</p> -<p> -“The people were so puzzled,” said Nancy. “Old Mrs. Chalcraft declared -it meant knock and ring. But one of the other old women said it was a -spell to keep witches away.” -</p> -<p> -“It was a stupid thing to put,” Mrs. Turle broke in with impatience. -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>A little house for great quiet.’ That is how my son translated it—my -youngest son at Cambridge. That is absurd, of course; little houses -never <i>are</i> quiet.” -</p> -<p> -“But he meant, mamma, that he didn’t want people to call.” -</p> -<p> -“Then he need not have troubled to put such a<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-59">[59]</a></span> sentence over his door, -dear. Old Timms, who is a painter by trade, was half afraid to do it.” -</p> -<p> -“His wife made him give up the job when he got to <i>magna</i>, mamma. Some -of the old people are so superstitious. She was afraid he might be -signing some compact about his soul with the devil.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela laughed. The conversation was waking up, she thought, but Mrs. -Turle looked grave. -</p> -<p> -“It was in very bad taste,” she said, “and he need not have troubled. -No one meant to call on such people.” -</p> -<p> -“And was it literature, dear?” she continued, more genially. “We are -quite literary down here.” She laughed pleasantly, as if introducing -Pamela to a congenial atmosphere. “What is the name of that person at -the new house on the Liddleshorn Road, Nancy? She keeps a poultry farm -and takes in type-writing.” -</p> -<p> -“Samuels, mamma.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes, Mrs. Samuels. And there is Mrs. Clutton at the Buttery. Her -husband is a journalist—so she says.” -</p> -<p> -The last three words were spoken impressively. Pamela immediately -divined that Mrs. Clutton, of the Buttery, was not a local favorite. -</p> -<p> -“Nancy has a great taste for literature,” Mrs. Turle continued, with a -fond glance at her daughter, who immediately blushed. “I think that if -there had ever been any question of her going out into the world she -would have chosen literature.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-60">[60]</a></span> -“Only I can never think of a subject,” Nancy said pathetically. “If -only I could think of a subject and get somebody else to begin!” -</p> -<p> -“We subscribe to Smith’s,” Mrs. Turle said, smiling sweetly. “We like -to keep abreast with the times. Nancy goes in for serious subjects; she -is halfway through Ruskin’s——” -</p> -<p> -“Huxley’s, mamma.” -</p> -<p> -“There is very little difference, dear. But I confine myself to current -fiction. I’m just reading Kingsley’s ‘Westward Ho!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -<p> -“I’m not at all literary,” said Pamela. “I was governess for a time. -Then I was a companion. And—and I managed a boarding-house.” -</p> -<p> -“Really! Then you understand housekeeping. That will be a help to -Gainah, who is growing old. Ah! here she is. I suppose you have made -your elderberry wine, Gainah? I only got a cask and a half this year.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela opened her gray eyes when Mrs. Turle of Turle affectionately -greeted the housekeeper. She was astounded to see Gainah, in her black -silk, and with a worn gold chain round her scraggy neck, sit down with -the easy air of an equal on the sofa. She couldn’t understand her -position. She derided the idea of her importance—an ignorant old woman -who was always cooking. Gainah in her eyes was a servant—nothing more. -But in local opinion she was entitled to much deference. The laborers -regarded her as even more important than “young Jethro,” who was only a -stripling. -</p> -<p> -Nancy took Pamela’s hand. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-61">[61]</a></span> -“Come out in the garden,” she said. “I so love a garden. Do you?” -</p> -<p> -“I don’t know anything about it,” said Pamela, as they strolled about -in the sun, and the other girl made little gurgling comments. -</p> -<p> -“How sweet those stocks are! What a show of asters! Ours were a -failure. Evergreen doesn’t care for asters. He likes carpet-bedding and -I bought him a half-crown packet of petunia seed; so I did hope he -would succeed with the asters. You must get Jethro to build you a -little greenhouse. I could give you plenty of geranium cuttings next -spring. It is a little late to take them now. I think it is a little -late; but I must ask Evergreen. You should have a bicycle.” She was -evidently anxious to be friendly. “Would you like to join our Shakspere -class? It is quite proper, you know.” -</p> -<p> -“Perhaps,” said Pamela vaguely. -</p> -<p> -Directly she heard the tea bell she hastened her steps almost rudely. -She was determined that Gainah should not take the head of the table, -and she managed to slip on to the oak stool behind the urn just as the -two elder women came along the corridor. -</p> -<p> -Gainah sat down at the side, shaking her hands and vibrating her head -with anger. But Mrs. Turle smiled approval. -</p> -<p> -“You must find a young lady in the house a great help,” she said -innocently, as she sat down, spreading her thick silk skirt flat -beneath her. “Nancy always pours out for me.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-62">[62]</a></span> -Pamela was sulky. She hated what she called a “sit-down” tea. Tea was -not a meal; it was an interlude, a good way of helping out an idle -afternoon. -</p> -<p> -Jethro on the high stool at the end was hospitably carving a ham. The -smiling housemaid kept coming with fresh plates of toasted tea-cake, -preserve, or buns. -</p> -<p> -“You must give me the recipe for these rice cakes,” Mrs. Turle said. -</p> -<p> -“Two cups of rice flour,” returned Gainah solemnly. -</p> -<p> -“You beat your butter to a cream, of course?” -</p> -<p> -“Yes. Two eggs.” -</p> -<p> -“That is very economical. We have hardly any eggs. The hens are all -getting broody again, and I must say an October brood is not worth -hatching. I wish Evergreen would let me have a non-setting breed.” -</p> -<p> -“Nothing better than Leghorns,” said Jethro. -</p> -<p> -“Tch!” interrupted Gainah, with her air of absolutism, “Langshans are -better.” -</p> -<p> -“But they are not nice table birds.” Mrs. Turle smiled on them both and -took another cake. “Now, I must say I like the Plymouth Rock—only its -legs are yellow.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela, with the superior air of a being on a higher plane, poured out -her newly-found aunt a third cup of tea. -</p> -<p> -The talk went on. She heard Gainah and Mrs. Turle talk of wine-making, -cider-making, apple-storing. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-63">[63]</a></span> -“Our Blenheims,” Gainah complained, “have all gone a-bitel.” -</p> -<p> -“They will go mildewed some years. I don’t know why,” returned Mrs. -Turle sympathetically; “ours have kept beautifully so far. I’ll ask -Evergreen if we can spare you some.” -</p> -<p> -It was a very long meal. The dying sun straggled round the house and -filled the dull room with yellow light. Through the latticed window -they could see the mist rising like a huge bridal wreath from the wet -grass. Mrs. Turle got up hurriedly when the housemaid came in to say -that her carriage had come round. -</p> -<p> -“You must spend a long afternoon with us soon,” she said, kissing -Pamela. “What are we doing on Wednesday, Nancy?” -</p> -<p> -“It’s the Shakspere class, mamma.” -</p> -<p> -“Of course. Pamela must join the Shakspere class. Mrs. McAlpine, my -dear, who started it, is extremely clever—she reads German novels in -the original. And she is very particular—they only read the <i>nice</i> -parts of the plays. I inquired into that when Nancy joined. For -although one admires and loves dear Shakspere, I must say one is never -sure of him. It seems such a pity. Are we free on Thursday, Nancy?” -</p> -<p> -“I usually go round with the <i>Parish Magazines</i>, mamma—it is the third -Thursday in the month.” -</p> -<p> -“So it is. And Friday is unlucky. I don’t believe in such nonsense, of -course, but it is as well not to run unnecessary risk. And Saturday, -that is no day at all.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-64">[64]</a></span> -“I usually give out stores on Saturday, mamma.” -</p> -<p> -“Then we’ll say Monday. No, Tuesday—that will give us time to make a -cake. I must ask some more of your relations to meet you, dear. And, -Nancy, we must be careful with the cake; Maria’s are always so -excellent, and she is so critical. And now run out, dear, and tell -Evergreen I’ll come in a moment. I’m afraid he won’t like being kept in -the mist.” -</p> -<p class="break2"> -On Tuesday Jethro, who was driving into Liddleshorn, dropped Pamela at -Turle. She stood and watched him out of sight, admiring the smartly -turned-out trap and his broad back in the light covert coat. Then she -went, with lagging feet, up the drive. -</p> -<p> -Turle was an old house which had been improved into an appearance of -juvenility. Mr. Turle bought it when he retired with a comfortable -fortune from the milling—a comfortable fortune, and a determination on -the part of his wife—to end his days as a gentleman. He spent so much -money that people forgot that he had been a miller. When he died his -widow was actually on the skirts of small gentrydom. She was a -diplomatic woman, and managed to steer fairly clear of family -connections who were still in superior family trade. She drove her -social four-in-hand skillfully, and kept several distinct sets in -perfect balance, smiling on them all with the same motherly, expansive -sweetness, yet never offending the aristocratic susceptibilities of -Mrs. Sugden, the Paper King’s wife, who called on<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-65">[65]</a></span> her twice a year, -nor hurting the feelings of the Jeremy Crisp girls, whose father still -carried on the family grocer’s business in Liddleshorn. -</p> -<p> -Pamela liked Turle. The farm-buildings were hidden, the surrounding -meadows had been knocked into a miniature park and planted with trees. -They were young trees, but everything must have a beginning. -</p> -<p> -When she was announced she saw that the big drawing-room was full of -strange women. She looked hurriedly from one face to another, finding -family characteristics everywhere. Mrs. Turle kissed her. -</p> -<p> -“You don’t look quite up to the mark,” she said affectionately. “A -touch of bile?” -</p> -<p> -She was introduced to all of them; handed over from one to another, -like a bale of samples. They had been engrossed at her entrance over a -big box of fancy work. One of the Jeremy Crisp girls—who was only a -girl by courtesy—went into elderly raptures over a woolwork jacket, -which looked a capital fit for an organ-grinder’s monkey, and was -intended for a baby. -</p> -<p> -“The box comes round to us once a quarter,” Mrs. Turle explained. “It -goes round to all members. Every member works something, prices it, -puts it in the box, and sends it on to another member. If we see -anything we like we buy it.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela was beginning to find out that her new cousins and aunts were -tremendously busy women—over nothing at all; that they had a frenzy -for<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-66">[66]</a></span> belonging to classes and societies; that they took themselves and -their efforts very seriously. -</p> -<p> -The cheerful coal fire winked on the foolish satisfied faces with their -ridiculous monotony of outline and color. A crunching on the gravel -made everybody glance out of the window. Mrs. Turle seemed a little -frightened and annoyed. She looked deprecatingly at Cousin Maria -Furlonger, from the “Warren,” who was so very exclusive, who moved in -such a good set, and habitually went up to help Mrs. Sugden when she -gave a charitable entertainment. -</p> -<p> -“It’s Mrs. Clutton, my dear. You didn’t want to meet her, did you?” -</p> -<p> -“Oh, never mind, Aunt Sophy. I needn’t know her if I meet her again.” -</p> -<p> -“I wish she wouldn’t drop in so unceremoniously,” poor Mrs. Turle said -in a hurried whisper. “Mrs. Sugden was here the other day. She begged -me to let her out of the back door because Mrs. Clutton was coming in -at the front. Of course a woman in her position couldn’t possibly meet -anybody like that. -</p> -<p> -“My dear,” she swept her ample skirts across the room, “this is a -pleasure. Nancy and I were wondering what had happened to you. We’ve -seen nothing of you for at least three days. You’re a little pale. The -weather is trying, and makes one look so fagged and worn.” -</p> -<p> -It was a trick of Aunt Sophy’s to compassionate everyone and comment on -the fragility of their appearance. Pamela, when she grew to know -her<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-67">[67]</a></span> better, was never sure whether it was a feline trick or a -sympathetic one. -</p> -<p> -The new-comer was dark and lean. She was a young woman, whose face -looked as if it had weathered storms. She was carelessly dressed in -perfectly cut clothes, rather worn. She carried a damp, loosely-tied -parcel, which she handed to Nancy. -</p> -<p> -“Here are your pinks and white phloxes. Put the roots in soon.” -</p> -<p> -“If Evergreen has time to-morrow——” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t wait for him; he’ll kill them. Gardeners have a knack of -sticking their spades through the things they dislike. Do it yourself. -I am so glad I can’t afford a gardener—to give me a plant for the -table when he chooses.” Her eye fell on a melancholy petunia. -</p> -<p> -“Have you been to any more sales, dear?” asked Mrs. Turle. “Have you -added to your interesting collection of nice old things?” -</p> -<p> -“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Clutton’s voice became enthusiastic. “I went to such a -delightful sale at Carrsland. I bought a little oak table. A dealer ran -it up to thirty shillings—the wretch! He passed me on the road! I was -walking, as usual; he was cycling. I instantly smelt him out as a -dealer, and I was half inclined to tip him off the bicycle with the -point of my umbrella, gag him, bind him to a tree until the sale was -over. I wish I had; it would have been so deliciously simple.” -</p> -<p> -There was an awkward silence; then Nancy said, in her gently gushing -way: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-68">[68]</a></span> -“I wish you’d ride a bicycle. It’s such fun.” -</p> -<p> -Maria Furlonger, of the “Warren,” added politely: -</p> -<p> -“Yes. You should ride; it’s so good for the brain; and I’ve heard you -write—or something of the sort.” -</p> -<p> -“Bicycling’s very bad for one’s logic; you can’t imagine a logician on -a bicycle. I don’t write; my husband does.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Turle, anxious for perfect harmony, and knowing—also sharing—the -local skepticism regarding Mrs. Clutton’s husband, put in blandly: -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Clutton is a journalist. He has gone for a tour round the world.” -</p> -<p> -“Oh!” -</p> -<p> -Maria Furlonger’s wide smile full in Mrs. Clutton’s face was a little -dangerous. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Turle added quite irrelevantly: -</p> -<p> -“Poor Mrs. Peter Hone has another baby. That’s twelve.” -</p> -<p> -“Sympathy is wasted on the poorer classes,” Mrs. Clutton put in, with -her calm, dogmatic air. “You pet them too much. Once it was lap-dogs; -now it’s paupers. Any old dame with a clean apron and a courtesy, any -old man with his trousers tied round the calf and his chin like -stubble, can take you in. Merely a question of livery! Now, it is the -man in the top hat who wants petting—the man who is at his wits’ end -to keep up his insurance payments.” -</p> -<p> -The tea bell rang. They all filed solemnly into the dining-room. -</p> -<p> -Maria Furlonger, who was rather taken with Pamela’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-69">[69]</a></span> silence, which, of -course, meant modesty, began to tell her graciously about the old Manor -House at Carrsland, where her father, Jethro’s mother’s brother, had -been born. -</p> -<p> -“It’s a very old place. There is a moat all round. It has been filled -up.” -</p> -<p> -“I am so glad it has been filled,” cried another cousin. “It was so -awkward, so dangerous. You see”—addressing herself to Pamela—“it was -just under the drawing-room window, and a lady might so easily have -fallen out. What a terrible thing it would be for a lady to fall out of -her own drawing-room window—into a moat!” -</p> -<p> -“When ladies have a tendency that way they should sign the pledge,” -said Mrs. Clutton tersely. -</p> -<p> -Nancy, meeting her mother’s diplomatic eye, rushed into the breach: -</p> -<p> -“Have you heard about the nice butcher boy?” -</p> -<p> -“That boy at Churnside’s?” -</p> -<p> -“Yes. He has stolen ten pounds. They have arrested him.” -</p> -<p> -“Dishonesty on a small scale never pays,” said Mrs. Clutton. “Honesty -is really the best policy—now that we have such an excellent police -force.” -</p> -<p> -She was putting on her gloves, and they looked at each other with -secret satisfaction. She seemed anxious to go. She looked as if the -double row of placid faces irritated her. Mrs. Turle and Nancy kissed -her. The former said: -</p> -<p> -“Come in again soon; we see so little of you. And take a tonic, -dear—you’re really looking run down.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-70">[70]</a></span> -“What a vulgar person!” said Maria Furlonger, when the place was clear -of her. -</p> -<p> -Annie Jayne—the Jaynes of the “Mount”—said: -</p> -<p> -“She struck me as being a little weak—mentally. Dear mother used to -say that no properly-balanced woman should have opinions of her -own—outside the domestic circle.” -</p> -<p> -“I must say that some of her remarks are in bad taste,” Mrs. Turle -admitted gently. It was her policy to offend nobody, to speak ill of -nobody; ill-natured remarks never helped your social ascent. -</p> -<p> -“She’s quite incorrigible,” one of the Jeremy Crisps said. “Do you know -that she cut Mr. Meadows?” -</p> -<p> -“She didn’t!” -</p> -<p> -“She <i>did!</i>” -</p> -<p> -“The clergyman of the parish! A rural dean!” -</p> -<p> -“He called on her—merely a parochial call. He said that he liked to be -identified with all his parishioners—whatever their views. Could -anything be more broad, more generous?” -</p> -<p> -“Well?” -</p> -<p> -The Jeremy Crisp girl continued: -</p> -<p> -“She actually laughed in his face, and said she had not any views; -didn’t he consider views narrow?” -</p> -<p> -“She’s not a lady.” -</p> -<p> -“That’s not all. He met her in the lane next day. He nodded most -affably; you know his rule: a nod to people who walk, a bow to those -who keep a carriage. It is a wise rule—it defines the classes<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-71">[71]</a></span> so -well, which is absolutely necessary, or where should we be?” -</p> -<p> -One or two superior cousins sneered at each other across the teacups. -The airs of these Jeremy Crisps! -</p> -<p> -“<i>She cut him dead!</i>” -</p> -<p> -“I spoke to her about <i>that</i>,” Mrs. Turle said gently. -</p> -<p> -“Well! What did she say? Short sight? She wears glasses for effect, no -doubt.” -</p> -<p> -“Those eye-glasses make one look so intelligent, they really do,” put -in a quiet cousin, who had scarcely spoken all the afternoon; “I -thought of getting some.” -</p> -<p> -“She said that the men of her acquaintance might touch their hats or -raise them—which they choose. If none of us would put that -insufferable Mr. Meadows in his place, she must.” -</p> -<p> -“You never should have called on her, Aunt Sophy.” -</p> -<p> -“My dear Maria, she is a neighbor. And you never know how these queer -people from London may turn out. Sometimes they prove desirable. I -hesitated a long time, though, when I heard her husband was a -journalist: very often journalist means swindler.” -</p> -<p> -“She looks to me like a woman who drinks,” Maria Furlonger said. “Drink -makes people talk at random; drink makes people forget their duty to -their superiors in the parish.” -</p> -<p> -“Dear mother always said that a drunken woman was such a much more -painful sight than a drunken<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-72">[72]</a></span> man,” Annie Jayne said. “Oh! I can’t -believe it of her, Maria. She was quite nice to Baby the other day.” -</p> -<p> -Annie had her first baby, and thought of very little else besides. If -anyone admired Baby she concluded, in her simple, ardently maternal -way, that such admiration was a moral certificate. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -“Drink! Nonsense!” said Mrs. Turle, quite sharply for her. “I must say -she has very clever ideas. She told me the other day that she was -thinking of patenting an automatic arrangement for making cyclists -swallow their own dust—though it would never do for you, Nancy, with -your chest. Why, here is Jethro. I suppose he has come to take you -away, Pamela?” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_106"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-73">[73]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_106_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_106_toc">CHAPTER VI.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -T<small>HE</small> autumn rains set in early that year. Every night when Pamela fell -asleep in her bedstead with the fluted posts and hangings of chintz, -having a fearful pattern of black roses, she heard the murmuring rush -of rain down the pipes and into the soft-water tubs. Every morning she -was awakened by the swish of rain against the casement and the clatter -of the maidservant’s clogs on the stones in the yard. -</p> -<p> -She spent long afternoons in the drawing-room staring dismally out at -the sodden fields and the hills beyond, which shed sad mist. She was -left very much to her own resources; her new relations rarely visited -in bad weather. -</p> -<p> -She gave the house the benefit of her active brain, instituting all -sorts of changes which she honestly believed to be reforms. She flung a -modern, flimsy feeling of culture about the staid old place—a feeling -expressed by current magazines, superficial opinions, shallow daring. -</p> -<p> -Jethro was pleased and invigorated by her reckless dogmatic opinions, -by her dainty domestic ways. He used to watch her graceful figure flit -from room to room, used to listen to her high young voice giving -peremptory orders. She fascinated him. She was always changing, and the -women to whom he<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-74">[74]</a></span> had been accustomed all his life never changed. Each -one said and did exactly what her mother had said and done before her: -to be original was to break the fifth commandment. -</p> -<p> -They sat round the great open hearth on wet, wild evenings. Gainah -would be sewing or painfully writing out recipes in a dirty copy-book. -Pamela generally had a catalogue of bulbs, a sheet of paper, and a -pencil. Nancy’s gushing, incapable enthusiasm, and Mrs. Clutton’s -practical knowledge of flower gardening had infected her. She already -knew them well enough for that. She was full of ideas for spring -bedding. -</p> -<p> -“I must have a hundred early tulips,” she would say coaxingly. -</p> -<p> -When Jethro, looking up from the local paper, returned indulgently, -“Order what you please,” she added the hundred tulips to her list with -the glee of a child. -</p> -<p> -Gainah seldom said anything. She had always been a silent woman, and -Pamela’s whirling, modern influence had petrified her altogether. The -thin white lips hardly opened except to timidly rate the two maids, who -now tossed their heads at their former tyrant. She took Pamela’s -presence passively, never commenting on anything she did. But -sometimes, when the girl looked up suddenly from the fascinating bulb -catalogue, and found those odd eyes on her, she shivered. They were so -dead—those eyes. Yet such a secret, such a terrible soul seemed to -play and lurk behind them. -</p> -<p> -Gainah never protested. Little by little she felt<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-75">[75]</a></span> the scepter slip -from her powerless hand. Little by little her life lost color. Pamela -laughed at her methods, was often disgusted by her thrifty, traditional -economies. She had a superior trick of saying, “My way is the correct -one.” Or she would quote the domestic routine of her father’s house, in -the prosperous time when they lived in a detached house with a carriage -drive and stabling. She was more than a bit of snob, but Jethro knew -nothing of snobbery. He approved of all she did. -</p> -<p> -She gabbled on hygiene. She took tickets for a course of lectures on -domestic economy, driving into Liddleshorn every alternate Friday. When -she returned, she was more ardent than ever for reform. She penetrated -to the scullery, and examined the dishcloth—with a scared murmur of -microbes, because it had not been scalded in soda water and hung up in -the air to dry. She insisted on making the tea herself in a patent pot. -Once she said lightly that Gainah was trying to poison them all because -she told the cook to boil halfpence with the cabbage to make it green. -The flash in Gainah’s eye had been sinister, but Pamela did not see it. -She laughed Jethro out of his favorite supper—a loaf hot from the oven -and soaked in cider. She tried very hard to abolish supper as a -meal—wishing to call the eight-o’clock meal dinner. But here she was -stopped by the opposition of every member of the family; even Aunt -Sophy entered a diplomatic protest. -</p> -<p> -She begged Jethro to make Chalcraft wring the necks of the poultry. She -couldn’t bear the slow<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-76">[76]</a></span> sounds of death. It was barbarous—the slight, -skillful slit of the knife, the long bleeding, the fluttering -“glug-glug” in the throat, growing fainter and fainter. Gainah had -always insisted on that method; she said it made the flesh white. -Gainah shut the doomed birds for twenty-four hours before death in a -coop, and made them fast, so that they might be more easily got ready -for table: Pamela went surreptitiously to the corn sack, and gave them -an extra feed before the ordeal. Gainah, in hot weather, hung meat down -the well to keep it fresh; she buried sour milk in the earth, tied up -in a muslin bag, and dug it up cream cheese. She had a theory about leg -of mutton: it should be buried in the earth for three days to make it -tender; the same might be done with an old hen. She did not approve of -eggs in a milk pudding, and never used butter in white sauce if the -milk was new and not skimmed. To waste nothing, to be lavish with -nothing—that had been her religion. The hygiene lecturer—through -Pamela, who conscientiously took notes—told her that some of her -antique tricks were not only dirty, but dangerous. -</p> -<p> -Pamela taught the cook to make bread without touching it with the hand. -She told Boyce how to milk the cows, washing his hands in an antiseptic -first. She had chemical tests for the milk, and made a rigorous -inspection of the dairy each morning. Gainah was calmly put aside as a -domestic fossil. She was openly flouted. She was told to sit by the -fire, to do nothing. Even needlework<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-77">[77]</a></span> was not necessary—things could -be bought so cheaply ready-made, ready-marked even. -</p> -<p> -She was pushed aside. She must do nothing. Yet for over thirty years -she had done everything. Her life had been one long fury of immaculate -housekeeping according to her lights. She had thrown all the fierce -energy of a naturally passionate woman into her dairy and her -store-room. Love had just brushed her, then slipped away; maternity had -never been hers. Religion she regarded as a respectable duty, varied by -the clergyman coming to tea, which was a nervous trial, and meant -getting out the best china. She couldn’t write poems, or lecture, or be -an athlete; every outlet of the emotional woman was denied her by -circumstance or temperament. She had flung herself upon the altar of -good management, and now she was told that good management was not an -art—it was the merest detail in the day’s work of a truly capable -woman. -</p> -<p> -She said nothing. But there was a constant throbbing and seething in -her aching head, above the turgid eyes. If Pamela could have foreseen, -could have guessed, she might have been more temperate, more gradual. -But she was sublimely unconscious. -</p> -<p> -On those autumn nights the heavy rain drove down from the hills and -swept the sad common and beat against the thick walls of the farm. The -wind skirled across space, and the cider-press creaked and moaned. -Gainah let the press out to the villagers if they cared to make cider. -They paid her so much<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-78">[78]</a></span> an hour for the use of it. This was one of her -economies. -</p> -<p> -Jethro would sit and sprawl and blink at the fire like a well-fed, -thoroughly satisfied, and sleepy dog after a day in the covers. Now and -again in the course of the evening he would get up, stretch his arms, -shake himself, fling back the doors, and look deep into the black -night. He was such a hearty, open-air being that he seemed to pant at -intervals for draughts of that strong wind down his throat, for an -angry splutter of the shot-like rain in his eyes. -</p> -<p> -When the wind blew in, Gainah, her back creaking and cold with -rheumatism at the merest draught, would say with acerbity: -</p> -<p> -“You come from Hartin’, where they have no doors.” -</p> -<p> -The rustic sarcasm was quite lost on Pamela. She regarded the old woman -as antiquated, dirty, and even slightly half-witted. All her attention -centered on Jethro. -</p> -<p> -When he walked across the room she watched him slyly. She admired him -very much. He was so big and strong; so independent. The men of her -acquaintance had always been under orders—Government clerks, and so -on. Here was a man, savage in his strength, who had never been in -bondage except to the great Earth. She admired him, but she didn’t love -him yet. -</p> -<p> -Love! She would never love him; never. She didn’t want to. She prayed -that the acrid taste of Love might never sear her lips again. And -then<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-79">[79]</a></span> she thought of the prison. And the cruel wall rose up before her -blinding eyes, and her quick fingers dropped the pencil and caught -nervously at her side. -</p> -<p> -Jethro would come back to the fire and sink luxuriously into the big -horsehair-covered chair with the protecting ears. He would put out his -foot in the thick boot and touch the glowing logs. His gun was in the -corner just as he had left it when he came in tired and muddy from -pheasant shooting. Pamela was afraid of the gun, but it pleased her. It -was part of Jethro’s strength and masculinity. So were his careless -clothes, and so was his blunt Shaksperean tongue. She liked a man to be -frank, a little coarse even, when the man was Jethro. She once thought -fancifully that she wouldn’t mind being beaten by a man like that. -</p> -<p> -She already began to regard him as her own possession. She felt a -personal pride in him; the very hang of his homespun tweeds on his -tough, spare body seemed eloquent of sturdy independence. -</p> -<p> -The yellow firelight glided across the brass rosette-like heads of the -fire-dogs. They seemed to wink knowingly at every flicker. Now and -again the two hounds in the barn snarled as an infrequent foot came -slouching along the wet road, for it was always raining and blowing. -Rain, mist, and wind! These were the elements which watched over the -slow, reluctant growth of Pamela’s love for big Jethro. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes he read a paragraph from the paper to Gainah—about local -doings or people. Sometimes he would ask her advice—about a sale of -underwood<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-80">[80]</a></span> or the fate of a cow. Sometimes he and Pamela would be left -alone for a moment, and then they were both shy. Neither of them forgot -that this was a time of probation. Who knew? When the rain and wind and -mist of next autumn came they might be man and wife. -</p> -<p> -Autumn grew to winter. She was happy—with a hushed dull happiness that -she wished would last forever. No anxieties, no fierce, tearing burst -of emotion, gay or sad. She was happy; satisfied with the mild -amusements of the simple family connections. They no longer irritated -her—these placid, narrow women—slow and heavy, but very useful and -harmless. She laughed at Mrs. Clutton’s extravagances, but did not -indorse them. She had become very intimate with the dark, sarcastic -woman whose husband was abroad. -</p> -<p> -She had her little excitements—skating parties, small dances, -occasionally the visit of a dramatic company to Liddleshorn. In this -way winter went. The last snow melted into a puddle; the first flowers -of March came. She was delighted with the dazzling white of the arabis. -Gainah called it snow-on-the-mountains; but Annie Jayne, who brought -her baby round in the mail-cart on sunny mornings, said that “dear -mother” had always called it March-pride. -</p> -<p> -She ran out frequently to look at the thin green spears which begun to -bristle in the borders: these were her bulbs. She spent long hours in -her new greenhouse, giving Daborn orders. He was retained exclusively -for the garden now, at her wish.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-81">[81]</a></span> There wasn’t a weed to be seen, and -every bed was raked and cleaned. -</p> -<p> -As the sun strengthened in the sky Gainah grew more silent than ever. -Spring was here, summer on the way, and she had nothing to do. Pamela -had taken the keys. The maids went to her for orders. She paid them -their wages and gave them each an evening out during the week—an -indulgence which until her coming had never been dreamt of. -</p> -<p> -Nothing to do! Not wanted! In her idle hours Gainah wandered over the -rambling house alone, going from room to room, touching things without -meaning, taking up and putting down; mumbling vaguely to herself. One -morning she put on her shabby cloth cap—an old one of Jethro’s—and -went into the garden. It was raining—a soft, warm rain, with the sun -behind it. -</p> -<p> -“Good growing weather,” she said to herself with satisfaction—and -then remembered that the garden had been taken from her. -</p> -<p> -Winter storms had made the borders draggled in spite of Daborn’s labor -and Pamela’s enthusiasm. Gainah felt, in a fumbling, wordless way, that -this garden was like the devastation of her own life. She carried a -little fork; force of habit had made her get it from the tool-shed. Now -and then, again from habit, she bent her stiff back to dig out a weed; -but there were no weeds. -</p> -<p> -The stalks of the Michaelmas daisies had been left—by Pamela’s orders, -so that the frost might not get down to the roots. Gainah viewed the -stiff clumps of brown wood with injury; <i>her</i> rule had<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-82">[82]</a></span> been to cut down -everything in November. She remembered that she had promised a bit of -white daisy to Chalcraft’s “missus” in exchange for a deep purple one -with a golden eye—her generosity took the form of barter. -</p> -<p> -She went round and round in the spraying rain. There was no wind, -simply a feeling of soft, patient dampness and melancholy in the -garden. Over the wall was the sodden, empty road, and on the horizon -the streaming, formless hills. -</p> -<p> -Her eyes spied out a few self-sown hardy plants in the neatly-raked -beds. She dropped little fragments of criticism as she went. -</p> -<p> -“The slugs have been at the ‘reckless’ plants,” she murmured -regretfully, stooping to look more closely at a clump of sickly -auricula, which seemed mostly thick stalk. -</p> -<p> -“There’s a Glory in bud already. I remember old Jethro budding the -brier. He was a good hand at budding, and it was a wet season, with the -sap running well, that year. Ah! the Glory Die! John makes a fine head -on a standard.” -</p> -<p> -She touched the yellow bud—a little pinched and small—with tender -fingers. A faint touch of red rushed into her white face. -</p> -<p> -“That green Yule when she was taken,”—she was thinking of Jethro’s -mother—“I picked a Glory full out on Christmas morning, and kept it in -water for more ’n a week. The hard frost came soon after—the hardest -for forty years. The old sow was frozen stiff in the sty, and Joan -Wadey’s boy was out digging swedes for old Farmer Scotter, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-83">[83]</a></span> he set -down and his breeches turned into ice and burned into his flesh. I mind -that—and the Glory blooming on the shelf.” -</p> -<p> -Perhaps it was the memory of the frost and the sow who fell a victim to -it; at all events, she went round to the piggeries, taking a stick from -the bristling fagot stack on the way. It had always been one of her -recreations to stand over the sty and scratch the great rough backs of -the animals. She did it now, rubbing the stick insinuatingly up and -down, across and across, and almost fancying that the thick grunts held -meaning, and that there were appreciation, friendliness, and compassion -in the small, slitlike eyes that looked up at her. -</p> -<p> -Then, restless and idle, she went round again to the garden and stood -staring stupidly at the red, newly graveled paths and the glass of the -new greenhouse. She could see Daborn inside pricking out seedlings into -boxes. -</p> -<p> -There was a weedy patch—the one weedy patch—in a corner of the -garden. She fetched the spud and began to dig for dandelion-roots. She -had almost forgotten that she made dandelion-tea every spring and -insisted on Jethro taking a cup in the morning to clear his liver. She -took them up, transferring them from her knotted, earth-caked hand to -her apron. She meant to take them back to the house, wash them, cut -them up, and infuse them in water for a certain number of hours. But -halfway along the path she stopped blankly, a sudden thought dismaying -her. Pamela would not let her make the tea. Scalding childish tears -rose in<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-84">[84]</a></span> her eyes. She felt sure she would not be allowed to make the -dandelion-tea. She went stumblingly back to the weed-grown patch and -let the roots drop in a little hill from her apron to the ground. Then -she looked up, and saw old Chalcraft, who was beginning to trench up -the farther end. He was leaning idly on his spade, watching her with -affectionate solicitude. There was a little suspicion mixed with his -compassion; your true rustic is always distrustful of what he doesn’t -understand. She, standing there idle, vacant, with a still tongue, was -a mystery. He didn’t know what blighting thing had touched and turned -her. -</p> -<p> -She stood there stupidly, dead to the familiar sounds on the farm—the -excited cluck of laying hens, two cocks crowing in rivalry, the weak -bleat of very early lambs in the fold, and the yapping of puppies in -the barn. She didn’t hear the steady break of stones in the road, nor -the song of a lark as it rose from the neighboring field. -</p> -<p> -The weedy patch had last year been sown with beet. Sparrows had eaten -it—beet on that soil being, with carrots and spinach, a chance crop. -Chalcraft was digging the weeds in and preparing to make a second -sowing of broad beans. Pamela had not yet brought her reforming -intellect to bear on the kitchen-garden; she thought vegetables very -uninteresting. -</p> -<p> -The spade was deep in the stiff soil. The piece that Chalcraft had -already turned up was wet and yellow in contrast to the hard gray of -the untouched piece. Gainah watched him closely, as if he had<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-85">[85]</a></span> been a -stranger and digging was to her a new and intricate performance. She -saw his bald head: there was a red, shining wen on one side. There were -two careful patches, side by side and of a different color and stuff, -on the back of his waistcoat. -</p> -<p> -“You’ve got another patch on the back of your waistcoat, Master -Chalcraft,” she said childishly. -</p> -<p> -He spat thoughtfully, first on the palms of his hands and then into the -trench where the weeds were buried. He looked at her—looked with the -slow wonder of the aged, to whom nothing matters very much. Then he -said, with a chuckle: -</p> -<p> -“Aye! so there be! Patch side by side look neighborly, but patch upon -patch be beggarly, Mis’ Toat.” -</p> -<p> -She didn’t answer. She still stood in that wavering, uncertain way on -the other side of the trench. -</p> -<p> -“The worms in this ’ere patch is past believin’,” he said, with an -infantile slobber and chuckle, at last, stolidly chopping through the -writhing bunches. -</p> -<p> -“It must be nearly dinner-time, Master Chalcraft,” said Gainah -mechanically, with a steady glare across the trench with her pale eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Aye, that it be,” he returned rather nervously; “I’ve had mine.” -</p> -<p> -She turned and went back to the path. He stood and watched her. He was -conscious, in his slow-witted way, that some queer change had come to -her. The sun broke through the rain-cloud and touched the silver tip of -his spade and the hard red<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-86">[86]</a></span> lump on his head. He bent his back again and -turned up slab after slab of sticky ground. -</p> -<p> -Gainah went round to the front of the house. She had a bed of lilies of -the valley beneath the umbrella yew. She stooped down behind the wall -of somber green and saw the tender leaves uncurling. One root already -had a cluster of snowy buds. Then, as she stooped, she heard a -voice—the high, imperious voice of Pamela. Looking through the yew, -she saw her standing by the wall with Jethro. She was talking very -fast, moving impetuously now and then, throwing out her firm white -hands, and pointing eagerly. -</p> -<p> -“It would be the simplest thing in the world. Oh, you must do -it—<i>please.</i> Then the house would look like Turle. You take away the -gate and build the wall along—so. Then you take up those horrid -cabbages.” She threw a look of intolerance at the leggy stalks of -Brussels sprouts which were thickly covered with widely opened -miniature cabbages. -</p> -<p> -“Chalcraft likes this patch. It is the richest in the garden, so he -says. In June the old man will dibble in his cauliflowers; they want a -rich soil.” -</p> -<p> -“They’ll grow anywhere; ground is ground,” she cried, with Cockney -superiority. “You are too indulgent to Chalcraft; he and Gainah are -past work. They should be pensioned off. She might be allowed to come -to dinner on Sundays.” -</p> -<p> -“She has been a mother to me.” -</p> -<p> -Gainah, behind the yew, her head furtively poked forward, saw the girl -look at him—a look that said plainly enough: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-87">[87]</a></span> -“And shall not I be your wife? Doesn’t a man leave all and cleave to -his wife?” -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -The elder woman’s hands, rubbed over with wet mold which was drying and -caking, crossed convulsively on her chest. This was not new to -her—this comedy of love. She had played it, too, with something less -of fancy. She knew what was coming. She waited, sick at heart, for the -first kiss. She nearly fell upon the half-opened leaves of the young -lilies when Jethro dropped his massive head and pointed his lips to -Pamela’s. Her fingers lost their last hold of the domestic scepter when -she heard the quick, liquid chirrup of his kiss on the firm scarlet -flesh. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_107"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-88">[88]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_107_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_107_toc">CHAPTER VII.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -P<small>AMELA</small> ran up to her room with the long, low lattice window and the -somber furniture. She threw herself full length on the old sofa which -she had rescued from one of the attics and covered in the most approved -be-frilled style with cretonne. Her head was back on the cushions, her -sparkling eyes were on a level with the garden. She looked at the -Brussels sprouts with satisfaction, imagining shaven emerald turf and -lozenge-shaped beds of standard roses and geraniums in their place. -</p> -<p> -She was going to marry Jethro. Their eyes and lips had met—the thing -was settled. Men did not propose in set words and the conventional -attitude nowadays. She would marry Jethro. Her future life stretched -out before her—smooth, level, pleasant—like the big tennis lawn at -Turle. She thought of all the country houses round where she was sure -of a hearty welcome because she was a cousin. They were comfortable, -easy people, these Turles and Crisps and Jaynes and Furlongers. She had -grown really fond of Nancy, with her simper, her pretty pink face, and -her glorious red hair. Annie Jayne, in her spick and span nursery with -her beaming face bent over her baby boy and her lips flowing forth -pious reminiscences of her mother, had her own particular charm. To be -simple, to be<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-89">[89]</a></span> sterling, that was all one wanted; everything else was -garish, meretricious. Hearts were better than the flimsy things called -brains. -</p> -<p> -She saw her life roll away year after year, so placid, so uneventful, -so comfortable and prosperous. She loved money for her pleasure, not -her pocket. She always felt her greatest admiration for Jethro when he -hauled out a canvas bag of sovereigns. -</p> -<p> -She began to form social plans. She would be exclusive, yet catholic, -like Aunt Sophy. Jethro must let her have another servant—that would -be three. The wagonette must be done up, and she’d try for a Battlesden -car like Furlonger’s. She’d aim at culture, too—a Browning class, in -opposition to Mrs. McAlpine’s Shakspere. There wouldn’t be so many -expurgations necessary. The members of the Shakspere class had neatly -written slips sent them with a list of passages to be slurred. She -would like to take a rise out of Mrs. McAlpine, who lived in a cottage, -but gave herself tremendous airs because she was a J. P.’s daughter, -and had instituted afternoon tea with cucumber or cress sandwiches. -</p> -<p> -In the afternoon she slipped on her things and went to the Buttery, the -ancient cottage where the absentee journalist’s wife lived with a small -maid. Mrs. Clutton had become her most confidential friend. She didn’t -mean to mention her engagement, but she was twitching with excitement, -dragged here and there with emotions of very different sorts. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-90">[90]</a></span> -She went across the common in the March sun and wind. Her heart and -feet danced, but her face was like the changing sky. Forget! She must -forget. She was to marry Jethro. It was so easy to say forget, so -difficult to do it. Once she stopped, her eyes strained in the -direction of London—far away over moor and hill and sleek pasture. She -groaned aloud. She knew that she would give it all—greenhouse, -Battlesden, big, fond man with the bulging bag of sovereigns—for one -touch on the mouth from one other man. <i>He</i> was still in prison, still -only a number behind the high wall. When he came out? Emigration or the -army. But that was not her affair. -</p> -<p> -When she reached the Buttery she went through the high green trellis -door into the garden, sure of finding her hostess there on such a day, -at such a season. It was a fair-sized garden in apple-pie order. The -long borders were gay. At one end were substantial pig-sties. In them -Mrs. Clutton kept fowls. She was leaning over the wall, her elbows -spread out on the wire netting which was nailed across to keep the -birds from flying over. -</p> -<p> -She came running excitedly along the neat asphalt path. In one hand she -held an egg. It was evidently only just laid. It hardened as the air -touched it. -</p> -<p> -“Look!” she said with a laugh, “I’m going to give this to the cock. -What would your thrifty Gainah say? They are all going—my pet -hens—Flirt and Prim and Sheila. My cock, too—Tatters.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-91">[91]</a></span> Isn’t he a -fine fellow? But morals! None. They are neurotic. Old Chalcraft says -they eat their eggs because the floor of the run is brick and they -can’t scratch. I hate a person who snouts round for a practical -solution. It’s just environment—because I am their mistress. Tatters -has been more trouble to me than able-bodied twins. I fed him from the -very shell with hard-boiled egg and bread-crumb, thereby sowing the -seed of future vice, no doubt. I’ve scrubbed his legs with carbolic and -anointed him with vaseline for scaly-leg. I read about it in a paper. I -came and stood out here, paper in hand, comparing his leg with the -symptoms. And then, after all, I found that humpy-bumpy legs were -natural to that particular breed. I was overjoyed at his first -baby-crow—such a throaty, silly sound. -</p> -<p> -“To be practical—the eggs went. Every time Flirt or Prim or Sheila -cackled I rushed out, only to find them stalking gravely up and down -with an unconscious expression faintly tinged with injury. And then one -day I saw that villain Tatters gulping down the last bit of shell. I’ve -sold them at a sacrifice, on condition that they are sent to market and -not allowed to demoralize another run. Hone will be here directly; he’s -taking them to Liddleshorn. But—Tatters—here!” -</p> -<p> -She threw the egg, flinging back her head at the same moment. The cock -rushed at it. In an instant it was gone, yellow yolk, brown shell, -stringy white. Mrs. Clutton shrugged and pushed the picturesque black -hair from her brow. Pamela said, with a laugh: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-92">[92]</a></span> -“Well, you <i>are</i> mad. No one else would have done that.” -</p> -<p> -“Of course not. I get more and more ridiculous. But what can one do? I -pay afternoon calls and say mad things. You must shock the people down -here—it’s your only chance. I’m bound to talk extravagantly. You can’t -discuss gravely for a whole afternoon whether servants should be -allowed to wear veils on their afternoons out, or whether it is really -economical to wash at home. I wonder what Tim’s first impression of me -will be when he comes home!” -</p> -<p> -“You expect him soon?” -</p> -<p> -“Who knows!” She shrugged and led the way into the house. “He’s -irresponsible. I got these at a sale—and these—and these.” She -pointed out various ornaments on the shelf of her sitting-room. “And -Tryphena says that old Mrs. Hillyar is dead. So I shall be able to get -her tallboys chest of drawers for the merest trifle: collectors have no -conscience.” -</p> -<p> -“Does Mr. Clutton care for old things?” Pamela looked round -intolerantly at the mixed collection of antique furniture and -bric-a-brac which crowded the room. -</p> -<p> -“Of course. He is most artistic: master of every art—except that of -earning a decent living. As for hobbies! He has exhausted them. I -suggested that paying his debts would be a novel one—a complete -collection of receipted bills! But the idea didn’t appeal to him. He -was never afflicted with the form of indigestion called conscience.” -</p> -<p> -“He’s a journalist?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-93">[93]</a></span> -“Yes; most brilliant. He assimilates everything—but his food. A -confirmed dyspeptic; he would have three serious internal diseases in -one week.” -</p> -<p> -Tryphena Hone, the little maidservant, brought in tea. The two young -women sat and chatted until the room grew dark. When the lamp came in, -it burned steadily. Pamela said: -</p> -<p> -“Our lamps never burn like that. Yet I see to them myself. Aunt Sophy -taught me her own particular way of trimming a lamp.” -</p> -<p> -“My lamp burns well because I never see to it myself. The whole duty of -the foolish young housekeeper is ‘doing the lamps.’ -</p> -<p> -“I was telling you about Tim.” She seemed in a confidential mood. “He -was brought up to the profession of great expectations. One’s greatest -curse is a modest competence. We had it—until Tim’s father died, -without even leaving him the shilling with which he cut him off. We -hadn’t a halfpenny. Tim, with his unfailing originality, suggested -earning a living, but his profession had spoiled him. He was like the -Irishman who was willing to do anything but work or run errands. I took -in boarders, but it didn’t pay; I never happened on a <i>paying</i> paying -guest. He tried journalism; every failure tries that. At last a man on -a rather prominent paper—worn out with importunities, no -doubt—shipped him to South America and told him to study -out-of-the-way sides of things. He paid him for it, too. His articles -have been a great success. It really seems as if our luck has turned. -Journalists are short-sighted; the man need not have<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-94">[94]</a></span> sent him abroad -in search of novelty. I could tell strange tales. Every cottage here -has its skeleton, and I wheedle round the old people until they show -me the bones. I am making a note-book for Tim—he can write a series -of articles on Sussex skeletons when he comes home.” -</p> -<p> -She looked round at her bits of china and brass; at the shabby -furniture which she had picked up at sales and in odd corners. -</p> -<p> -“Every little thing,” she said, “has its history. Such tender -tales—such fierce, curdling, terrible tales—I hear from plodding men -and heavy women in these little Sussex cottages! And it is all the more -impressive because they are so phlegmatic. They tell you of a ruined -life much more calmly than they would tell you of a bad batch of bread -or a chicken stolen by the fox.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela was hardly listening. Her feet were on the gleaming rail of the -pierced brass fender; her eyes thoughtful on the winking coals. -</p> -<p> -“Do you consider one runs a risk in marrying?” she asked tentatively at -last. -</p> -<p> -“No risk—if you marry for the right motive. I haven’t found out what -that is: not money; not duty—only prigs do their duty; not impulse; -certainly not love.” -</p> -<p> -“Can one marry for peace?” -</p> -<p> -“Maybe. Peace is a great thing; I’ve found that since dear Tim went -away and took his imaginary incurable troubles with him. I would write -over every baby girl’s cradle: ‘D<small>ON</small>’<small>T</small> M<small>ARRY</small> <small>A</small> D<small>YSPEPTIC</small>!’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-95">[95]</a></span> -“Must you really go? Here is Nancy’s latest photograph.” She took it -from the table. “Of course you have one. Nancy is just the average -woman—insatiable desire to have herself photographed in evening-dress. -Nancy is stupid; she actually believed that a Papal Bull was a live -animal. Just wit enough to dress her magnificent hair according to the -latest fashion plate—that’s Nancy! She’s callous, too. The other day -she ran down one of the Peter Buckman children when she was cycling. -She only said calmly that it ‘was bad for the wheel.’ Fortunately the -child wasn’t hurt.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela went home in bright moonlight; it was only a stone’s throw from -the Buttery to Folly Corner. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -She thought calmly of her future as she walked: the moon, the sweet, -crisp March night cooled and stilled her. She was not going to marry -for love. To marry for love had once been the dear dream of her life. -But that was over; the prison had engulfed her poor romance—it had -been a mean one at the best. It was all over—the first wild, keen -shame and rebellion, the steadfast belief in him, the passionate -waiting for the future. It was all over—dead. She was going to marry -Jethro; going to take refuge in his kindliness—as if he were a wayside -barn on a wet day. She meant to be a good wife, a happy wife. Nothing -was more contemptible than a tiresome, melancholy woman with a past. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_108"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-96">[96]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_108_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_108_toc">CHAPTER VIII.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -S<small>HE</small> was loitering in the drawing-room next morning when Jethro came in. -There was a strong touch of out-door sweetness about him. He was not -one of those men who smell of hot rooms and tobacco. -</p> -<p> -He went up and kissed her, taking her fair round face reverently in his -hands as a matter of course. She was thrilled, not with love, but with -pleasure at the open adoration in his light blue eyes. His great hands -placed gently under her chin, his fine head well set on his broad -shoulders, and his big limbs in the breeches and gaiters, stirred in -her the primitive passion of woman for brute strength in a man. -</p> -<p> -He threw himself on the couch and blinked lazily at the gewgaws of the -room, which his very presence always made so trivial. Then he lugged -out his worn brown pocket-book and took from it a slip of paper roughly -torn from a newspaper. Directly she saw it Pamela’s cheeks blazed, and -the same agonized shame and degradation which she had felt on her first -visit to that room she felt then. -</p> -<p> -“Come here.” -</p> -<p> -He spoke gently, yet with command; the voice of a man who after -marriage will tell his wife to fetch<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-97">[97]</a></span> his slippers or his pipe, as if -service were a matter of course. -</p> -<p> -She stepped into the great embrasure of the bay window and sat down on -the green-covered walnut-wood chair—just as she had sat down on the -first day. Her eyes looked straight ahead, not at ripe grain, but at -the burning purple of furrowed earth. -</p> -<p> -Jethro touched her idle hand with the privileged tenderness of an -accepted lover. -</p> -<p> -“You are a slipped thing,” he said fondly. -</p> -<p> -“Slipped?” -</p> -<p> -“Slender, then. I always fancied a woman with a trim, hard waist like -yours. But I came to talk business.” -</p> -<p> -He held out the roughly torn bit of newspaper. -</p> -<p> -“Tear it up,” she said thickly. -</p> -<p> -Her head hung on her bosom and her eyes fell until the lashes rested on -her flaming skin. -</p> -<p> -“Not yet.” -</p> -<p> -She put out her hand to snatch it from him, with the wicked, stealthy -air of a cat after a bird. Until that shameful bit of paper was -destroyed her womanhood was vulgarized. -</p> -<p> -“Give it me,” she besought humbly. -</p> -<p> -He laid it in her open hand and she tore it into minute bits, opened -the casement, and cast it out. The wind caught it, carried it, and shed -it like snowflakes over the ridged furrows. -</p> -<p> -“We needn’t wait long for the wedding,” he said, as she latched the -casement and came back to the green chair. -</p> -<p> -It pleased him to watch her changing face, now<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-98">[98]</a></span> pink like Nancy’s, -now white like the hidden skin on his own arms and chest. -</p> -<p> -“When you like,” she returned docilely—thinking it would be better to -settle soon. -</p> -<p> -“And I’ve drawn you a check—a year’s salary and a year more instead of -notice,” he continued, twisting up his face into cunning wrinkles with -satisfaction at his own artifice. “Take Aunt Sophy with you into -Liddleshorn and buy clothes.” -</p> -<p> -She took the strip of paper, her eyes dilating at the magnificence of -the amount. -</p> -<p> -“You are a great deal too good to me.” -</p> -<p> -“When we are married,” he went on, pressing her hand jovially, “I’ll -make any alterations about the place you like. But the carriage drive -must wait till winter—hedging and ditching time; labor’s cheap then. -How about inside?” -</p> -<p> -“I should like a bath-room.” -</p> -<p> -“You shall have it. And nurseries.” His voice was perfectly -matter-of-fact. “The two sunny rooms up top will do. I’ll have bars to -the windows; it’s as well to be ready.” -</p> -<p> -“Not too ready,” she said faintly, hardly knowing whether to retreat or -to laugh. -</p> -<p> -“A son,” Jethro said dreamily, “to come beating with me when shooting’s -on. They soon grow up. He shall have a little horse and ride to hounds. -We say in these parts about a woman’s children: -</p> -<div class="verse_container2"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">“If ye’ve got one, ye can run. If ye’ve got two, ye can goo.</p> - -<p class="i0a">But if ye’ve got three ye must bide where ye be.”</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -She got up nervously, not knowing whether he<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-99">[99]</a></span> would be betrayed into -rustic sayings yet more suggestive. -</p> -<p> -“I’d like to go to Liddleshorn to-morrow,” she said, folding the check -in her purse. “There will be time before dinner to run over to Turle -and see if Aunt Sophy can come with me—if you wish it.” -</p> -<p> -“She’s a splendid manager.” -</p> -<p> -“Very well. I’ll take her and Nancy. What are you doing this morning? -We might go to Turle together.” -</p> -<p> -“I must see Boyce”—(he was the cowman)—“about those newly dropped -lambs. He thought maybe you’d like a sock.” -</p> -<p> -“A what?” -</p> -<p> -“A sock—pet lamb.” -</p> -<p> -“That would be nice—but, when it grew a sheep?” -</p> -<p> -“You could send it to the butcher.” -</p> -<p> -“Never. Tell Boyce, with thanks for his remembrance, I’d rather not. -Well, good-by until dinner.” -</p> -<p> -She ran upstairs, humming complacently, and in a leisurely way put on -her short skirt and narrow-brimmed hat. Through her window she saw -Jethro cross the garden and stroll into the yard, his broad shoulders -proudly back and his hands deep in his breeches pockets. Her heart -swelled with satisfaction—in him and in the broad acres, plowed or -pasture, and in the beautifully built golden ricks which hedged the -house. Everything was hers. -</p> -<p> -She went downstairs. Gainah, for the first time<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-100">[100]</a></span> for ten years, had -gone out for the day to see an old friend some miles up the line. -Pamela thought that the house seemed more like home, more her own, -without the elder woman, and she began to speculate on the time when -Folly Corner would no longer roof them both. -</p> -<p> -She stood in the passage by the window. Gainah’s geraniums, preserved -from frost in the kitchen all through the winter, were blooming. The -future mistress decided that she would banish them. She had not reached -the altitude of admiring an earthenware pot. Then she glanced at the -wall, at the rude prints in narrow black frames. Mrs. Clutton had been -enthusiastic about them, saying they were “Bunbury’s”—which meant -nothing to Pamela. She couldn’t endure those fat women in low dresses, -and those men with wigs and lewd expressions. -</p> -<p> -She sat down in the armchair by the oak table, idly putting -on her gloves. There was a hand-bell on the table—one of her -institutions—together with a smart tray for letters. The blue Oriental -bowl, instead of being littered with string and screwed envelopes, was -reserved for cards, and in place of the farming papers was the current -copy from the library of the most cultured magazine then running its -brief life. She thought that the extraordinary cover struck a -distinctive note directly one entered the house. -</p> -<p> -The kitchen door was at the other end of the passage, immediately -opposite the drawing-room. It was ajar. She was just stretching her -gloved hand to the bell, to tell them that Daborn might bring<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-101">[101]</a></span> round -her bicycle, when a man’s voice struck on her heart. -</p> -<p> -At first she half struggled to her feet, and they failed her. Then she -fell back in the chair helplessly, like a woman with an overstrained -spine. That voice! <i>His</i> voice! No. It couldn’t be. There was very -little in a voice; each individual had not the monopoly of one. Now, a -face would be different. How absurd she was! The dates did not agree. -She had a head for dates, and that one—the date of his release—had -eaten into her brain like an acid into metal. It was too soon. -</p> -<p> -The air through the open window—she had opened it herself only a -minute ago, before the world changed—was warm. The full red heads of -the geraniums nodded heavily with occasional puffs of vigorous March -wind. It was a warm, noisy world. The beseeching, persistent bleat of -the little new lambs rung like a mournful bell with every second, and -through it filtered the confused song of every madly happy bird that -had mated and built a nest. -</p> -<p> -She put out her hand again for the bell, calling herself a fanciful, -nervous fool. As she gripped the handle she heard the voice -again—persuasive, winning. Hadn’t she often heard it like that? It -said: -</p> -<p> -“You can have one by very easy payments.” -</p> -<p> -The bell fell on the table, rolled off, and clanged its noisy tongue as -it touched the oak floor. The pretty, ruddy housemaid came in, looked -flurried. She left the kitchen door wide behind her, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-102">[102]</a></span> Pamela saw -the well-scrubbed table, the gleaming brass preserving-pan on top of an -oak corner cupboard in which candles, soaps, and so on were stored. She -could, with the tail of her eye, see the back door leading to the -flagged yard, and she seemed to feel that he was standing there. -Certainly someone was there, because the sheep dog, who was so savage -on the chain, barked angrily. -</p> -<p> -“I want my bicycle,” she said as calmly as she could, “and, Nettie, who -is that at the back door?” -</p> -<p> -“A piker—I beg pardon, miss—a tramp. Yet not just a piker; he never -begged. But he wants me and Cook to buy a sewing-machine, paying it off -by little bits each month.” -</p> -<p> -“I shouldn’t like the noise of a sewing-machine in the kitchen.” -</p> -<p> -“Then I’ll tell him to go away.” -</p> -<p> -“Nettie.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes, miss.” -</p> -<p> -“I was just going to say that—I forget. I remember—you need not speak -to Daborn about the bicycle for a few moments. I’ll go into the garden -and find him myself.” -</p> -<p> -“Very well, miss.” -</p> -<p> -The buxom figure of the country girl in her deep pink gown went round -the half-opened door. Pamela sat, her head against the wall, a sound -like the thudding, throbbing noise of an engine-room in her head and at -her waist. Suddenly she stretched out her hand and rang the bell again. -The housemaid came round the door for the second time, looking a little -surprised. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-103">[103]</a></span> -“Has he gone?” -</p> -<p> -“No, miss. Cook’s going to have a machine—not to work here, miss. -She’s to be married next club day.” -</p> -<p> -“I should like to see him. Perhaps the machines are good and cheap. -Tell him to step through.” -</p> -<p> -The pink figure disappeared again and she waited—sick, expectant, -dreading; disgusted with herself for the half delight which she felt, a -delight which nearly swamped the fear. -</p> -<p> -He came through the door and they shut it after him. There was no -mistake. Her ears had not played her false. Directly he saw her sitting -there, beneath the row of black-framed prints, beside the shining brown -table which held the great bowl of blue, he gave a start, a whistle of -astonishment, and said under his breath: -</p> -<p> -“Pam!” -</p> -<p> -She looked at him for an instant—cropped hair, shoddy clothes, blunted -nails, the evasive stamp of something new and perplexing on his -handsome face: -</p> -<p> -“Edred!” -</p> -<p> -She was looking apprehensively down the long garden path which ran -between the box edgings. Jethro might come in. Then she again turned -her eyes with an effort toward the tall figure in the deplorable suit -of ginger-colored tweed. In spite of herself, an expression of ecstasy -broke across the cloud above her eyes. She half rose, put out her hand, -peaked her head toward him. He gave a<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-104">[104]</a></span> quick glance round; listened. -Everything was still, but for the lambs and birds and insects; no sound -of human life, no clink or clatter from the kitchen. He stepped up -lithely to the chair, lifted her in his long arms, and kissed her—a -long kiss which told volumes—full on the mouth. With that kiss, -fully returned, each told the history of the weary months the prison -had stolen. -</p> -<p> -She let herself lie for a moment in his arms, caring for nothing in the -world but that first re-union which she had so often imagined, so often -longed for. Then she roused herself. -</p> -<p> -“Why did you come?” she said reproachfully. “Oh, my darling, why did -you come and spoil everything?” -</p> -<p> -He shrugged. -</p> -<p> -“We don’t know that anything is spoilt yet. I wouldn’t stand in your -light for worlds. Tell me how you came here. Give me my cue.” -</p> -<p> -“Come into the other room. We shall be quieter there.” -</p> -<p> -He followed her through the low door into the room which the yew -shadowed. They were no longer in the sun; something damp, melancholy, -and threatening struck at them both. -</p> -<p> -“Sit down,” she said, pointing nervously to a chair, taking one -herself, and throwing a quick glance at the brass face of the tall -clock. “I—I didn’t know you were out. I thought that it would be -another six months——” -</p> -<p> -He stuck out his long legs and sunk his hands in his pockets. He was -tall and slim and elegant. At<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-105">[105]</a></span> each gesture she was more than ever -his slave—it brought back remembrance. Her eyes hardly left his -face—dark, sallow, cruel. A sardonic-looking man, with silky black -hair half veiling his scoffing mouth, and sleepy eyes which seemed -always to be mocking. -</p> -<p> -“Haven’t you ever heard,” he asked airily, “of a ticket-of-leave?” -</p> -<p> -She shivered as she answered, well down in her dry throat, “I think -so.” -</p> -<p> -“Tell me how you came here, and what part I’m expected to play. I’m -down on my luck at present, and you may be able to help me. Look at -these clothes.” He touched the sacklike cloth. “Nothing but paper. The -first shower would reduce me to pulp.” -</p> -<p> -“I came here,” she said, “in answer to an advertisement. A man—the man -who owns this house—wanted a wife.” -</p> -<p> -“Whew! Such is the faithfulness of woman! But it was clever of -you—confoundedly clever.” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t! It nearly killed me. He is so kind, so fond of me. He believes -I am his cousin—his mother was a Crisp. There are other confirming -details. Very likely I <i>am</i> his cousin—that doesn’t matter. They have -all been kind—my new relations. They think that he advertised for -information about his mother’s brother—who disappeared in early -life—and that I, as a surviving child, answered. They never troubled -for fuller proof; they take my word——” -</p> -<p> -“Very useful people!” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-106">[106]</a></span> -“That flippant tongue of yours,” she flashed out, “brings back bitter -memories.” -</p> -<p> -“Never mind memories—no time for them. Go on with your story. At -present I’m uncomfortable; don’t know my ground. If he should come -in——” -</p> -<p> -“Jethro!” She looked alarmed, and seemed to strain her ears for outside -sounds. -</p> -<p> -“Queer name. Jethro—what?” -</p> -<p> -“Jayne.” -</p> -<p> -“Jethro Jayne! He ought to be the villain in a melodrama—wicked squire -or something of that sort. And are you going to marry him, Pam?” -</p> -<p> -She caught her hands across her breast theatrically. -</p> -<p> -“I—I don’t know. You have changed everything.” -</p> -<p> -“Not at all. I’ll free you. I’m not”—he gave his soft, callous -laugh—“in a position to keep a wife, and he is. As Mrs. Jethro Jayne -you might be very useful to me.” -</p> -<p> -“As Mrs. Jethro Jayne I dare not look at you.” -</p> -<p> -“Pooh! You were always too intense. Marry him and help me. That would -be the act of a sensible woman. You are quite free.” -</p> -<p> -“Absolutely free,” she assented dreamily, looking a little wildly at -the handsome face. -</p> -<p> -She was free; in no sense was she tied to him. She wasn’t in his power; -he couldn’t rake up against her any discreditable past. This was not -the stock position of the sensational drama—confiding husband, -blackmailing lover, wife with unclean or imprudent past. She was free, -free, free! Free to<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-107">[107]</a></span> order him away from the house and out of her -life. If Jethro came in she could afford to tell the truth. There was -nothing wrong in it. -</p> -<p> -And yet, hating herself all the time, because she knew he wasn’t -worthy, she adored this dark-haired cynical ex-criminal. His prison -taint, marked elusively on his face, only made her yearn over him the -more. Free! And yet chained like a slave. She cursed and despised -herself for the contemptible, dog-like devotion which a true woman -calls love. She couldn’t send him away. She couldn’t live without him. -She wanted him to kiss her again, to call her Pam in that careless, -caressing voice. Jethro was nothing—but a good-natured money-bag. This -man had been the first to stir in her some wonderful, untamable -passion. She was insisting to her heart that a woman must always love -the <i>first</i>, return to him, cleave to him, however unworthy he may be. -</p> -<p> -There were steady steps outside. Someone was coming round the house, -brushing the wall across which the vine spread its stout arms. She knew -the step. She knew the melodious whistle. It was Jethro. She pictured -him coming in his leisurely way round to the garden door, little -dreaming; his hands stuck in the pockets of his shooting breeches, his -cap a little tilted over his eyes to keep the hard March sun out. -</p> -<p> -She sprang to her feet. The man sprang up too. He had heard the steps -before she heard them. His life had been one that lent itself to -stealth and minute caution. He knew that the next moment would<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-108">[108]</a></span> decide -her, and consequently would decide his fate. He had no claim on -her—she might turn him adrift if she chose, as he had reminded her. -And he much preferred to stay. Lucky accident had brought him here. -Selling sewing-machines by easy payments at the back door was not a -life to his taste. -</p> -<p> -The steady, leisurely steps grew more distinct. The two—desperate girl -and desperate man—were close, eye to eye. With a fleet movement he -folded his arms about her and kissed her for the second time on the -mouth. She whispered fiercely, as soon as she got her breath: -</p> -<p> -“When I came—that first day—he asked me if I had brothers or sisters. -I thought of you—you were never out of my head. Something, -someone—God or the devil—made me say I had a brother, a sailor on a -long voyage. You understand?” -</p> -<p> -“Perfectly.” He nodded his head approvingly. “Now sit down, darling, -and leave off trembling.” -</p> -<p> -The long, broad shadow of a man fell across the floor from the open -door to the plinth of the tall clock. It stopped on the threshold. -Pamela’s feet, which had turned numb and cold, were set fast. She tried -to get up unconcernedly, but could only grip her hands round the curved -arms of the rush-seated chair of golden beechwood. The last remnant of -a struggle was fighting itself out within her. Should she stand up and -say: -</p> -<p> -“I knew this man once. He boarded at the house where I was an -assistant. He made love to<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-109">[109]</a></span> me. I was flattered and I responded—but -that was nothing. It was all over long ago. Send him away and let us be -happy together as we have settled to be.” -</p> -<p> -Should she say that? Should she tell the bald, mean, ugly truth? -</p> -<p> -They were both looking at her—these two men who between them held the -strings of her future. Jethro’s light eyes were a bit cold and hard. He -was suspicious, like all simple men. She said, putting one hand stiffly -toward the companion beechwood chair: -</p> -<p> -“This is my brother——” -</p> -<p> -She broke off, a nervous dread sealing her lips. She had nearly said -“my brother Edred,” and then she could not remember whether, at that -first interview in the big bay window, she had given him a name. -</p> -<p> -“My brother—the sailor,” she went on falteringly, her stiff hand still -out, like the wooden arm of a signal, toward the chair in which he sat -looking carelessly nonchalant. “He has come home from sea. His ship,” -she seemed to see the suspicion deepen on Jethro’s open face as he -glanced at the visitor’s rough hands and cheap suit, “was wrecked.” -</p> -<p> -“The <i>Matador</i>—wrecked off the coast of West Africa. I was second -officer. A Dutch vessel ran into us. Made off without offering to help. -That’s like those cowardly Dutchmen. I was hanging on to a mast for ten -hours. Everything I had in the world gone, of course.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-110">[110]</a></span> -The lies rolled glibly off his ready tongue. Pamela felt her cheeks -flame as if hot irons had brushed them. She did not look up. Let these -two settle her fate between themselves. -</p> -<p> -Jethro took a wide stride into the room and put out his brown hand. -</p> -<p> -“Glad to see you,” he said with simple heartiness. “Glad to see any of -my mother’s people at Folly Corner.” -</p> -<p> -After that they went on talking. She didn’t hear a word—only the -amicable voices. That Edred was smoothly lying she felt sure; that -Jethro was taking every word as solemnly as he took his Bible or the -advice of his head man she felt equally sure. They were so simple, so -true, these Sussex folk. They had taken her on trust. They would take -him on trust too—this unscrupulous jail-bird, her lover, hero, the -wrecker of her life. -</p> -<p> -Why couldn’t she stand up and say: -</p> -<p> -“We are both liars and impostors. He is no sailor; merely a shady city -man who has just served his time for dishonesty”? -</p> -<p> -He was talking cleverly of the sea, using nautical terms, fashioning -his sentences tersely and rudely like a bluff sailor. What a clever, -heartless villain he was—and how she loved him! -</p> -<p> -Nettie came in to lay the cloth for dinner. Pamela got up and walked -across the room mechanically, beckoning to the maid to follow. -</p> -<p> -When they were outside in the sunny, narrow corridor she said—looking -steadily into the girl’s unexpressive eyes: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-111">[111]</a></span> -“That gentleman is my brother—Mr. Edred Crisp.” -</p> -<p> -“The piker!—oh, miss, I ask your pardon.” -</p> -<p> -“He is a sailor,” Pamela went on steadily, “and he was wrecked. He went -through dreadful hardships. Everything he had was lost at sea. He was -obliged to sell machines for a living. It was quite by accident that he -happened to come here and find me.” -</p> -<p> -“It was Providence sent him, miss.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes, Providence—of course. And you will lay for one extra at dinner, -and you will get the best room ready.” -</p> -<p> -“To be sure I will, miss. Wrecked at sea! Whatever will Cook say when I -tells her?” -</p> -<p> -“And Nettie.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes, miss. How pale you look, miss! It’s shook you, and no wonder.” -</p> -<p> -“Here are the keys. Get out some little things for dessert. I’ve told -you how to manage for dessert. And the best table linen—and everything -of the best.” -</p> -<p> -“To be sure, miss.” -</p> -<p> -She went back to the parlor. It struck a gray note after the stream of -hopeful sun in the corridor. The yew—impenetrable, glistening, -green—blocked the latticed window; logs on the yawning brick hearth -had broken in the middle amid a wreck of wood-ash. She dropped on her -knees and began to ply the bellows. Presently the smoke and flames -curled blue and yellow round the wood, and reflected on her face, -remorselessly showing the careworn<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-112">[112]</a></span> line of her mouth and the hopeless -droop of her lids. Edred had taken a piece of paper from his pocket -and was drawing a pretended plan of something—it didn’t matter -what—lies, of course—and he was talking glibly of the different parts -of a ship and the habits of the natives off the coast of West Africa. -Her hands moved softly on the bellows, and the gentle plaintive -“shoo-shoo” as they puffed made a sad accompaniment to that -high-pitched, eager voice and the occasional slow, mellow note of -Jethro’s. -</p> -<p> -He was talking in his innocence of his mother’s brother. He spoke of -the other uncle—Thomas—who had also been a sailor. He said that a -love of the sea was evidently in the Crisp blood. And then he added -heartily that he hoped Edred would make a long stay; the place was -large enough and there was always a home for kindred. Pamela said -nothing. She looked round fitfully from time to time. She blew the -bellows more vigorously, with a fancy that the ruddy light should fall -on those two faces near the table—one big and ruddy and restful, the -other dark, sallow, full of a guilty, eager brilliance. -</p> -<p> -She could hardly breathe. Her heart was playing her such mad pranks. At -one moment she could feel nothing but the most lawless, unrestrained -delight at Edred’s return to her—in any circumstance. At the next she -felt a profound pity for her own extraordinary position and the sudden -sinister twirl of her fortunes. On Jethro she bestowed only one -emotion, and that—mild contempt. The queer feminine twist—small -regard for the man who<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-113">[113]</a></span> blindly loves and is gulled—was strong in -her. She had illogically looked to him to get her out of her -difficulty. He was, in his ignorance, making things harder; he was -placidly wrecking his own life. He loved her. She would have made him a -good wife; she had a very grateful regard for him. If only she had gone -to Turle ten minutes before! If she had been quicker in changing her -gown! If, if, if! The little word, which sometimes means so much more -than the very biggest in the language, chimed in her racked head. -</p> -<p> -How should she shape her course? Edred’s nautical sentences, coming to -her now and then in a nonsensical jumble, disposed her to a sailor’s -simile. With him under the same roof, with him in daily association, -she could see only one thing possible—elopement with him when, if -ever, he chose to suggest it. One kiss on the mouth from him would take -her from Jethro, even at the moment when she stood with that confiding, -admirable simpleton at the altar steps. One kiss, she shuddered, would -win her from Jethro even if she were his wife of years’ standing. -Contemptible, animal, womanly devotion! -</p> -<p> -Nettie came in again and lingered curiously, staring at the visitor. -She had taken off her pink cotton and put on her black stuff, with the -white collar and cuffs. The lappets of her cap floated to her neat -waist. Pamela, with disgust, saw Edred look at her approvingly. She had -often seen him look like that at any pretty parlor-maid they happened -to have at the boarding-house. It was a low<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-114">[114]</a></span> type of man who would -smirk at a servant. He was really very vulgar; he hadn’t one good -quality. And yet—she wished that big, stupid Jethro would leave them -alone for a moment! -</p> -<p> -She hung the bellows on the nail and scrambled to her feet. -</p> -<p> -“You’d like to come up to your room,” she said, her pleading gray eyes -on the flushed dark face and her feet moving toward the door. -</p> -<p> -He got up with alacrity. The ginger tweeds he wore were too short at -the arms and legs, too wide across the back, but nothing could make him -look anything but carelessly elegant. He had the lethargic air of the -true Piccadilly product—the men you jostle by the dozen on the -pavement there, who have just life enough and energy enough to put on -an immaculate frock-coat, with a wired flower in the buttonhole. -</p> -<p> -They went up the oak stairs and into the best spare room. Pamela shut -the door. -</p> -<p> -“It’s a bigger room than I’ve been accustomed to,” he said, with a -shrug of his thin shoulders and a bitter smile. -</p> -<p> -“If you were more ashamed,” she said, trying to let condemnation get -the stronger hold of her, “I should be more pleased. You are not -ashamed; you are not silent.” -</p> -<p> -“Why should I be? To be found out is a blunder. I am annoyed, that’s -all. I was a catspaw—in other words, a fool. Overent and Bladden both -got off to Spain: £40,000 in the cab that took them to Victoria! What -luck! I tell you, Pamela,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-115">[115]</a></span> the thought of those two fellows nearly -drove me to suicide when I was in prison. But the game isn’t up——” -</p> -<p> -She gave a little scream; then, in a fright, put her hand on her mouth. -</p> -<p> -“But you’ll never again——” -</p> -<p> -“Pooh! my darling—business is business. Bogus company promoting is as -honest a profession as—stock-broking, for example, or making a corner. -Suppose the gold-fields, or diamond-fields, or petroleum-wells <i>don’t</i> -exist—that’s business. If not, where is the use of fools? The small -capitalist must have been created with some object.” -</p> -<p> -“You are hopeless. I dread to think of what the end may be. At all -events”—she moved her head toward the door and tapped her foot softly -on the floor—“you’ll leave him alone.” -</p> -<p> -“I’ll be a pattern. As for him—there is nothing left for me to do. I -leave him entirely to you. Marry him. Perhaps you know a pretty girl -with a little fortune who would suit me.” -</p> -<p> -She thought of Nancy, and immediately an unreasoning, murderous -jealousy of that pink-faced, foolish thing took possession of her. She -sat down on the low window-seat. The casement was hooked back, and the -new shoots of ivy tickled her chin as she leaned out with a tired groan -and looked down at the glistening garden. Then she pulled herself back -to every-day detail with a jerk, and got up, saying that she would send -him up what was necessary—brushes, soap, and so on. The room had -not yet been prepared. The silk quilt was spread<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-116">[116]</a></span> gauntly over a -blanketless bed. Edred was looking at it and at the dim hangings with -idle interest. -</p> -<p> -“You don’t often see a bed like this nowadays,” he said. -</p> -<p> -“It is a state bed, in a way. They were all born in it; they all die in -it. Full of ghosts! I’d rather you slept in it than I.” -</p> -<p> -“I’m inured to them—the prison’s full. Not the ghosts of small -capitalists who come wringing their hands for their swamped savings; -only women and weaklings see ghosts of that kind. It was one ghost of -lost opportunity—that tormented me; the ghost of £40,000 collared by -Overent and Bladden, who were a shade more clever than I was.” -</p> -<p> -She took up a corner of the patchwork quilt. -</p> -<p> -“It is made,” she said dreamily, “from bits of wedding dresses. Each -bride contributed her patches. It is a pretty idea—the people about -here are full of fancies.” -</p> -<p> -“You’ll be contributing your patches before long,” he said airily. “By -Jove! I, as only brother, must give you away. We never imagined that -particular position in the old days, Pam.” -</p> -<p> -“I don’t admit it now.” She shook her pale head. “Oh, why did you come? -Why am I fool enough to love you?” -</p> -<p> -“No heroics, dear. I’m fond of you—too fond to stand in your light. I -won’t dispute that I’ve some regard for myself, too. Run away now and -send me a few things. I want to make myself as decent as these -confounded clothes will allow.” -</p> -<p> -She went away. Directly Jethro heard her foot<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-117">[117]</a></span> on the stairs he called -her, in a masterful way, just as if she already belonged to him. -</p> -<p> -He said, his face shining with hospitality and kinsmanship, how pleased -he was. He spoke of driving Edred over to Turle that very day, but she -negatived it as skillfully as she could. Then he spoke heartily of the -wedding and of Edred’s opportune arrival. She was afraid that he meant -to kiss her again; he seemed prone to hearty lover’s kisses, without -considering mood or asking for permission. Nettie, bearing a steaming -soup tureen, saved her. -</p> -<p> -The gong—one of her civilized institutions—was beaten. Edred came -humming down the shallow stairs. The three took their seats at the low, -narrow table—Jethro on the high master’s stool at one end, Pamela on -the other, Edred modestly at the side. -</p> -<p> -Both men ate and talked heartily, Pamela childishly crumbled bread in -her soup. When the meal was over she left them; decanters on the table, -the smoke of tobacco mingling with the smoke from the fire. She went -into the gay drawing-room and stretched flat on the sofa. -</p> -<p> -She looked at the trivial vanities which she had brought home so -joyfully from Liddleshorn. She looked, as Gainah had looked, with -somber eyes. Her life was wrecked too. She would never be the mistress -of Folly Corner now. -</p> -<p> -Through the stout doors came the men’s laughter. Edred’s became more -roystering as the minutes ticked on. She could hear in the intervals -the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-118">[118]</a></span> steady stroke of the clock, the rumbling groan it gave before it -delivered itself of the quarters. -</p> -<p> -Her arms were above her head, her widely-opened eyes looked across the -hot purple furrows of the field. She could see a long way, over hedges, -across copses. She saw stretches of pasture, dotted with cows; saw -verdant fields of rye-grass; fields of turnips half devoured by sheep, -which were shut in by hurdles. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -The sun shone, the birds sang, one or two adventurous bees came in at -the window. Every now and then that laugh of license, of reckless -disregard, pierced the thick doors, and she blenched. She could no -longer see the future. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_109"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-119">[119]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_109_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_109_toc">CHAPTER IX.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -A<small>UNT</small> S<small>OPHY</small> was giving her first garden party of the season—to her -second-best set. That meant a family gathering, with the Jeremy Crisps -left out. Maria Furlonger drew the line at the Jeremy Crisps, and said -she did her duty to them as a relative by buying groceries at their -father’s shop. -</p> -<p> -Edred was to go with Pamela. He was already a local favorite. He had -all the qualities which commend themselves to country society. He could -sing, play tennis, do conjuring tricks at the local entertainments. -</p> -<p> -Jethro wasn’t going; men with a serious occupation were never even -asked. Aunt Sophy collected her men painfully; a town failure or so, -who happened to be trying poultry farming or fruit culture—having -tried everything else of which he knew anything whatever; the curate; -one or two old gentlemen who had retired from something or the other, -one or two young ones who admired a particular girl. -</p> -<p> -Pamela ran out to the barn before she started. Jethro was at the door, -with a couple of half-bred retrievers at his heels and a trio of -mongrel pups that he was training for sheep-dogs gamboling in the muck -of the yard. -</p> -<p> -The vast proportions of the barn—the biggest and<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-120">[120]</a></span> oldest for many -miles round—were a fitting background for Jethro with his muscular -frame and fair, sun-seared face. He was so English, so brown, so spare. -There was nothing of the student’s pallor and stoop about him—no -irritating subtlety. There was no furrow in his face, no ridge of -superfluous flesh, no mark of painful thought. It was all tough muscle. -Pamela looked at him admiringly, her desire going out to strength and -health and simplicity of life and motive. The clean shocks of yellow -straw in the barn, the dirty, trodden straw in the yard, agreed well -with his blue checked shirt and tan waistcoat; with his voluminous -checked tie, made in the time-honored rustic fashion. His father had -worn such ties and <i>his</i> father before him. What had been seemly in -“Old Jethro” was seemly in “Young Jethro”; that was the spirit of Folly -Corner. It was a blue check tie made out of half a silk handkerchief, -cut cornerwise and deftly folded into proper shape by the iron. His -sleeves were rolled to the elbow, showing his delicately textured upper -arm. He had been helping his men with some necessary job—he was a -master, by heredity, of all the intricate sublime art of agriculture. -She said: -</p> -<p> -“We are going now. I wish you could come too.” -</p> -<p> -As she spoke, a loud angry hiss came from behind the house. It was like -the threatening bubble of a pot that is boiling too fast. -</p> -<p> -“Chalcraft is taking a starling’s nest,” Jethro said. “Tell Aunt Sophy -I may be up after tea.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-121">[121]</a></span> -He turned into the barn, through the dim shadow of which she could see -two men, Peter Hone and another. She turned to go back through the -yard, placing the points of her shoes carefully on the ground so that -she might not soil above the toe-cap. Edred was leaning over the white -paling and watching her gingerly progress with amusement. -</p> -<p> -“Beastly dirty place, isn’t it?” he said, sneering and glancing down at -the trodden straw. “I say, what a jolly dance you could have in that -great barn! Do you remember the dance I took you to at Westminster Town -Hall?” -</p> -<p> -She nodded, hardly glancing at his slim, foppish figure. He was tinsel -compared to Jethro—Jethro with his muscular arms bared amid the golden -straw of his barn. She saw poetry in the vast gray place, with its -dusty, murky rafters; to Edred it only suggested a subscription dance -and Westminster Town Hall. For the moment she preferred Jethro, with -his white strong throat. -</p> -<p> -They went down the road and through the wood, talking commonplaces. -Edred had been nearly three months at Folly Corner, and one cannot for -three months keep up the strain of a dramatic attitude. Pamela still -had her moments of anguish, of struggle—but she no longer talked about -those moments. She waited with turgid, stupid hopelessness for what the -future might fling at her. She drifted; the matter had been taken -completely out of her hands. She was—so she understood—to be married -to Jethro directly the harvest was in: until the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-122">[122]</a></span> harvest was in, she -allowed herself time to breathe. She was garnering up strength. -</p> -<p> -The woods were in their fullest flush of beauty. The anemones were -widely blown, with the quiet watchfulness which comes before death. The -heavy heads of the blue-bells were voluptuous. Here and there one -caught the deep yellow of the oxlip; snowy stitchwork was a delicate -groundwork to every leaf and flower. -</p> -<p> -No feet but their own disturbed the silence. Jethro was savage on the -rights of property, and this was his land. No old woman might pick up -sticks, no child gather wild-flowers in his preserves. They were small; -he was fond of saying scornfully that he was a working farmer, not a -rich yard-stick from London. He did not make pheasants the sole -business of October, and what he shot he ate or gave away. The contents -of his bag never went to market. -</p> -<p> -He had the grasping spirit of the farmer who flourished in the early -years of the century, in the roaring times before Parish Councils and -educated, supercilious cockneys, keen on rights of way. He would, when -the opportunity occurred, put a padlocked, five-barred gate across a -little-used public path. He cunningly inclosed wayside waste, doing it -gradually; grubbing the old hedge, bringing his newly planted, -carefully clipped one to the edge of the road. He honestly believed -that he was doing a good act; in his view, all waste land was wasted -land, and he would have had the Government parcel out the commons to -farmers for redemption. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-123">[123]</a></span> -Edred kept his eyes on the ground and grumbled at the deep yellow ruts -made in winter by timber wagons and horses’ hoofs. But Pamela forgot -her dainty shoes, the edge of her new skirt, with the tiny frills. She -looked ardently at every new beauty which slid before her -eyes—bursting twigs, drifted blossom, dry, feathery fagots tied into -bundles, little heaps of creamy wood chips; the hacked hedge-rows and -banks, with the warm orange of the amputated tree-trunks. -</p> -<p> -It was early June. The day was so hot and dry that when they reached -Turle they could see from the road that even careful matrons like Aunt -Sophy were sitting about the big sloping lawn without even a shawl. -They made little groups—like modern pictures of the ladies in the -“Decameron.” -</p> -<p> -Nancy came running across the lawn, her heavy red-ringed croquet mallet -in her hand. She had a loose flannel shirt and her cycling skirt with -the big smoked pearl buttons at each hip. -</p> -<p> -“A cycling skirt always makes a girl look coarse,” Edred murmured -critically. -</p> -<p> -Pamela gave him a pleased glance; she loved to hear him depreciate -Nancy. -</p> -<p> -“Oh! do come and play!” cried the girl, addressing herself pointedly to -Edred. “We are making up a fresh set. Croquet is such fun.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela, the thin stream of gall flowing from her heart, saw him return -Nancy’s pleading, babyish glance tenderly. She turned away. She took -Aunt Sophy’s effusive kiss without a word, only assuring her that she -hadn’t a headache. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-124">[124]</a></span> -Egbert Turle, who had left Cambridge and was walking the hospital, -nodded with patronage from his post by the tennis-net. He came -dutifully to Turle every week. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Clutton ran along the grass in her careless gown. -</p> -<p> -“Come and sit under the elms with me,” she said. -</p> -<p> -There were several ladies under the elms, in green wooden chairs with -sloping backs. They had not come to play tennis or croquet; their sole -aim was to talk scandal, snub people in the set a shade beneath their -own, and drink astringent tea. They wore long skirts and elaborate -light wraps, as distinguished from the athletic women a few paces off, -who were running about and screaming to each other in the sun. -</p> -<p> -The earnest topic of the moment turned out to be false hair. Mrs. -McAlpine had confessed to an increasing thinness on the left temple. -Her doctor told her that she used the right side of the brain too -much—and darkly hinted that she must go up to Lechaux—a hairdresser -recommended by the ladies’ paper—and get a front. Annie Jayne cried -out in earnest horror: -</p> -<p> -“Oh, don’t! My mother never wore false hair in her life. She took to -caps when she was thirty-five. I shall take to caps myself in a year or -two—they look matronly.” -</p> -<p> -“But no one wears caps nowadays,” cried Mrs. Clutton tersely. “Women -buy false hair instead of lace. If, since the creation, each woman had -done<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-125">[125]</a></span> just as her mother did, fig-leaves would still be the height of -fashion.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. McAlpine, who had the greatest contempt for the journalist’s -wife—<i>she</i> was a J. P.’s daughter and the widow of a Government -official—broke out in her languidly genteel voice: -</p> -<p> -“I was afraid I should have been prevented from coming, dear Mrs. -Turle. One can’t possibly attend a garden-party in a coat and skirt”; -she looked complacently at her embroidered bodice, “and my lost box -only turned up last night.” -</p> -<p> -The face of every lady immediately became solemnly sympathetic. -</p> -<p> -“I told you all about it, didn’t I? I’d been visiting at Warne—taking -my best things, of course. The things, you know”—she gave a quick -glance of her narrow eyes at Mrs. Clutton—“that one takes with one on -a visit at a house where they are—well, rather particular. Dear Laura -entertains so largely at Warne.” -</p> -<p> -One or two ladies on the edge of the second-best set looked at her with -reverential alarm. Here was a person who visited on such positively -equal terms at Warne, the biggest seat for miles round, that she called -the hostess by her Christian name! -</p> -<p> -“I was in despair.” She flattened out her hands. “My box lost! My -diamond comb and pendant, my jeweled girdle, a miniature set with -diamonds that was given to my great-uncle by the Duke of Wellington, my -ivory-backed brushes and silver toilet set—all the small, necessary -trifles that one takes on a visit.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-126">[126]</a></span> -“And you got them back?” asked a little lady breathlessly. -</p> -<p> -She was a shabby Jayne. Sophy did not often ask her to a garden-party, -and she was feverishly voluble and deprecating in turn. She had a -home-made blouse, with a funny tucker, and very new black kid gloves, -the perfect palms of which she constantly displayed. -</p> -<p> -“I got it back,” Mrs. McAlpine said carelessly, giving the home-made -blouse a look of amiable condescension. “But you may all imagine how I -felt; one sets such store by one’s poor trifles.” -</p> -<p> -A massive girl, with a white gown, threw down her mallet as a member of -the opposition clicked her ball against the stick. -</p> -<p> -“I can’t play any more; too slow,” she said. “I’ll tell somebody’s -fortune instead.” -</p> -<p> -“My dear”—the dowdy Jayne cousin looked alarmed—“do you think that it -is in quite good taste?” -</p> -<p> -She stopped with a jerk as Mrs. McAlpine said sweetly: -</p> -<p> -“Palmistry is all the rage just now in the best houses. Prejudice of -any sort is so very middle-class. We had a professional palmist at Lady -Clara’s last week, when I ran up to Grosvenor Gardens for her -reception. She implored me to come; we are such very old friends.” -</p> -<p> -“Mother always thought it was best to ignore such things as -fortune-telling, table-turning, scientific lectures, and anything -unsettling,” Annie<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-127">[127]</a></span> Jayne said simply. “I don’t think I’ll have mine -told, Isabel.” -</p> -<p> -Half a dozen hands were held out. The girl in white went round -phlegmatically. -</p> -<p> -She distributed journeys, legacies, surprises, and mishaps with equal -calm. When it came to Mrs. Clutton’s turn she held out her pretty hand, -a little coarsened by devotion to her neurotic fowls and her garden, -with pretended nervousness. Isabel looked at it thoughtfully and -murmured something about the lines not being very clear—a certain one, -at least, confusing. -</p> -<p> -“Don’t say anything dreadful. Don’t tell me I’m going to be hanged; -I’ve always had a foreboding that I shall be; and Tim—my husband, you -know—used to say in his most savagely dyspeptic moments that I -certainly deserved the fate.” -</p> -<p> -Isabel dropped the roughened hand suddenly. -</p> -<p> -“I can’t make out your fortune,” she said coldly. “There is no one -else, is there? Yours is settled, Pamela. I’ll go and have a game of -tennis, if Egbert will join—croquet’s duffing.” -</p> -<p> -She moved away in her statuesque fashion, her white skirt bellowing out -in the May breeze. There was a sudden coldness and constraint. Even -diplomatic Mrs. Turle looked vexed. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Clutton made a mouth at Pamela, and said: -</p> -<p> -“Shall we go and have a look at Nancy’s flowers in the walled garden?” -</p> -<p> -They skirted the shrubbery, with its clumps of yellow berberis and -laurustinus gone shabby. There<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-128">[128]</a></span> was a swing between the double-flowered -cherry trees; Nancy still used it—on rare occasions when she read -fiction. Usually she was honestly intent on improving her mind. A thick -volume lay face downward on the seat. Mrs. Clutton picked it up, read -the title, and dropped the book with a gesture of distaste. -</p> -<p> -“Nancy shouldn’t be allowed to read that woman’s stories.” -</p> -<p> -“She is very popular.” -</p> -<p> -“She ought to lecture—‘for men only.’ However, Nancy won’t hurt; she -won’t understand—half. She is a little more than shallow; all surface, -like a dish—not even a well-dish. Nancy and Isabel Crisp—you know -Isabel is staying here now that Egbert is down from the hospital—will -read the same book. One reads a bit, puts in a marker; the other takes -up the book, reads on from the marker, then puts it in where she leaves -off. That’s how they get through. I’m fond of Nancy—she’s so -picturesquely idiotic. Of course, she will marry your brother?” -</p> -<p> -Pamela dropped the almond-scented stalk of plum-colored wallflower -which she had pulled and was sticking in her belt. -</p> -<p> -“I—I don’t know. Oh, no! I wouldn’t let him marry Nancy.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Clutton looked at her suspiciously. -</p> -<p> -She said meaningly, “There is one man in the world for you—Jethro -Jayne. A woman has only to concern herself about her husband. Of course -your brother will be cruel to Nancy in his own particular<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-129">[129]</a></span> fashion. -Some kick with their feet, some lash with their tongues—I prefer the -former; they kiss a bruise, but no man’s lips can reach a woman’s -heart. After all, he’ll make a better husband than that prig, Egbert -Turle; <i>he’s</i> going to marry Isabel Crisp. He’s insufferable. He would -divide the animal kingdom into four groups: the lower animals, hospital -cases, human beings, and ’Varsity men. He talks of nothing but -dissecting-rooms. He alludes constantly to the ‘laity.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -<p> -Mrs. McAlpine’s genteel voice filtered through the shrubs. -</p> -<p> -“I knew the dear Duchess very well—in her maiden days. We visited at -the same house in the Midlands.” -</p> -<p> -“That humbug! Her motto is ‘Who’s who?’ I don’t believe that she ever -got farther than the housekeeper’s room at Warne. Some day, when I’ve -bought enough oak and china, I’ll devote a little time to unmasking -her. Tea will be served in half an hour. There’s dear Mrs. Turle going -weightily toward the house to coach her three maids how to set cups.” -</p> -<p> -“Gainah is like that—or was before I deposed her. Cook did nothing but -wash dishes.” -</p> -<p> -“You may sort women into two classes: those who can’t touch a chicken -unless they’ve cleaned it themselves, and those who, if they are -obliged to clean it, can’t eat it. Do come with me to Mrs. Hone’s—this -way; through the gate, across the field, and into the Liddleshorn road. -She has a Chippendale teatray which she has half promised<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-130">[130]</a></span> to sell. We -shall have plenty of time before tea.” -</p> -<p> -They went across the field, black-horned cattle following them -curiously. Occasional cottages sparsely dotted the straight road -leading to Liddleshorn. Two new ones, with vivid roofs of smooth tiles -running up in conical shape to a chimney like an exaggerated pimple, -had a blue metal plate lettered with white between the narrow doors. -</p> -<p> -“You are pretty safe in saying that every singularly ugly cottage is -tenanted by the county police. Mrs. Hone lives at this next one with -the bush of Jew’s mallow.” -</p> -<p> -They went in single file up the narrow flag path. Sheets of white -candytuft crept coldly along the edge of the borders from the wooden -gate to the door. In the little patch of kitchen garden row after row -of cabbage with a blue bloom looked to Pamela like a generously flung -out art carpet. The man at the best shop in Liddleshorn had shown her -one just that shade. Straight ahead, across the railway bridge, a train -shot past, the tails of smoke like drifting opal under the bright sun. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Hone was hobbling about her garden. -</p> -<p> -“Poor old dear! She looks like a camel whose hump has slipped. Now, you -must say nothing, look nothing—or you’ll spoil my bargain. -Good-afternoon, Mrs. Hone. How’s the rheumatism?” -</p> -<p> -The sweet wrinkled face lifted and a thin voice said shrilly: -</p> -<p> -“It aint what you call rheumatism, ma’am; it’s paralism, that’s what I -tells Dr. Frith.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-131">[131]</a></span> -“You’re busy in your garden. I’ve been working very hard in mine. Your -broad beans are in blossom. And you’ve planted out your French -marigolds already.” -</p> -<p> -“Aye. But I doubt the frost ’ull nip ’em.” -</p> -<p> -She laughed; the pretty, brainless cackle of a very old woman—the -light laugh something like a child’s and yet with the knell of decay in -it. -</p> -<p> -“When I plants out they little seedlin’s I thinks o’ my children—all -planted out; some in London, some on the hill. Some livin’ to blossom, -some nipped by the frost. I’ve had thirteen, bless you! You’ll step -inside?” -</p> -<p> -They went into the tiny living room, the strangely twisted mistress -painfully leading the way. At a round table an old man sat at -tea—bread, lettuce that had bolted, a handful of spring onions. The -mahogany tray that Mrs. Clutton coveted was on a ledge beside the -low-burning fire. The old wife stepped up to her husband and shook him -none too gently by the shoulder, dropping her head at the same time, -and shouting: -</p> -<p> -“Get up and let the ladies come to the fire.” -</p> -<p> -To them she added apologetically: -</p> -<p> -“He’s very old. I’m only seventy-eight, but he’s pretty nigh eighty. -Deaf, too. I can’t make him hear—not when I wants him to do anything. -I very offen say to him, ‘You don’t want to hear; you don’t want to -hear, that’s what it is,’ I says.” -</p> -<p> -He turned round savagely at the touch of her hand on his shoulder and -looked at the two women in light gowns on the threshold. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-132">[132]</a></span> -“What are you doing?” he demanded gruffly. “Damn it all, I means to -have my tea.” -</p> -<p> -“He’s been one of those who lash and kick, too—the brute. And she such -a sweet old fragrant thing! Never mind, Mrs. Hone; don’t you trouble to -move, Mr. Hone; we should be sorry to disturb your tea.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Clutton squeezed round the other side of the table and took the -tray in her hands. It was oval, cut out of the solid wood, and daintily -inlaid with box. -</p> -<p> -“You’d sell this, Mrs. Hone?” -</p> -<p> -“The lady wants to know if we’ll sell the tray.” -</p> -<p> -“What’s she goin’ to give we for it?” he demanded sharply. -</p> -<p> -“Ten shillings!” screamed Mrs. Clutton. -</p> -<p> -“No, no! We couldn’t let it go for that. I thought fifteen.” -</p> -<p> -“Too much.” She put the tray back on the ledge. -</p> -<p> -He stuffed the last hunk of bread into his fierce old mouth, and -spluttered out: -</p> -<p> -“Will you give twelve-and-six?” -</p> -<p> -“Well—yes. Is that settled?” -</p> -<p> -“You must settle with missus. I’m only a lodger.” -</p> -<p> -His eyes glittered at the half-sovereign she took from her purse and -laid in Mrs. Hone’s hand. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, he’s only a lodger, as I often tells him when he’s tiresome. It’s -my house. I was borned here—my brother left it me; he says, ‘You was -borned here and you shall die here.’ My father built it<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-133">[133]</a></span> and my brother -added on this front room. His wife wanted to pull the old place down -and put up a new; but he says, ‘No; what the father’s hands had put up -the son’s should never pull down.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -<p> -She kept laughing feebly and looking at them, from one to the other, -with her dim eyes, deep in the web of seventy-eight years. -</p> -<p> -“It’s my cottage, and that’s why they won’t give me parish relief. It’s -very hard. I ses to ’em, ‘I can’t fill my poor empty belly with bricks -and mortar. An’ I am so fond of a bit of meat.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -<p> -She was like a small child begging for sweets. -</p> -<p> -“Haven’t you any daughter to come in and look after you?” -</p> -<p> -“No. My daughter died fifty-five year ago. She was a pretty little gal. -He’s my second husband, you know.” She nodded her head toward the deaf -man, who, mollified by the gold, was munching vegetables like an -amiable donkey. “My first husband died. He was coachman at Warne. When -the new one come I was told to turn out of my nice cottage. So I -married him. I couldn’t leave my nice cottage, could I, my dears? I was -a silly gal and got married agen. I married the new coachman. That was -before my brother died and left me this. If I’d known he was going to -die and leave me this cottage when I was borned, I wouldn’t ha’ been a -silly gal and got married agen. He was a dwarf, my brother. You come -agen some day, and I’ll show you his trousers. I’ll show you my -husband’s trousers, too. I got four shillin’s prize at the show last -year for the best patch put on her husband’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-134">[134]</a></span> trousers by an old woman -over sixty. And I’m seventy-eight—there’s a difference! There did -ought to be another class for them over seventy. I can use my needle. -Mother always taught us to use our needles. The gals nowadays can’t put -a shirt together.” -</p> -<p> -“Tea will be ready at Turle,” whispered Pamela. -</p> -<p> -“Yes. We must go. Good-by, Mrs. Hone; good-day, Mr. Hone. I’ll take the -tray under my arm. Oh, don’t you bother about paper.” -</p> -<p> -They went down the uneven path with the stiff lines of snowy flowers. -</p> -<p> -“Poor old soul!” said Pamela, when they reached the road. -</p> -<p> -“Did she take you in with what she so eloquently calls her ‘poor, empty -belly’? I left off being sentimental long ago. Mrs. Hone has a fat -account in the post-office savings bank. I know that for a fact.” -</p> -<p> -“Shall we hurry a little? I hate to keep Aunt Sophy waiting, or to vex -her. She didn’t like your remark about being hanged.” -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -“Of course she didn’t. Wasn’t it fun to see them petrify? No doubt -they’ve been discussing me; saying what bad taste it was to set up a -gallows-tree at a garden party. I give them endless topics for -conversation. They don’t believe me even when I do tell the truth. -There was a comic song Tim used to sing, ‘The only time I told the -truth she said I was a liar.’ That is just my position. I tell the -unvarnished truth: that my husband is a journalist traveling in search -of sensation. They<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-135">[135]</a></span> don’t believe me. If he were doing time at Portland -and I said he was stalking big game, my social popularity would rival -Mrs. McAlpine’s. Here’s your brother Edred coming across the meadow to -look for us. He’s a very handsome man; not a bit like you. He reminds -me of some splendid snake. Do you understand? As his sister, you won’t. -You’ll only be shocked; there is a strong streak of the local prudery -and orthodoxy about you, Pamela. I could go to destruction with a man -of that type—hating him and myself all the time.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_110"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-136">[136]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_110_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_110_toc">CHAPTER X.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -J<small>ETHRO</small> was hoeing peas in the burning June sun. His white linen hat -flapped over his calm, shrewd eyes. Pamela, loitering along the grass -paths, marveled intolerantly at his choice of an occupation. Why should -a man of substance, a man of birth, a man with acres and with laborers, -hoe peas? She paced the paths thoughtfully, looking at her neat, broad -border of new roses, taking up a fluttering label now and then to read -the half-obliterated name. They were all the very latest and choicest -roses, and had been planted in the spring by the nurseryman at -Liddleshorn, to whom she had given a large order. -</p> -<p> -Her heart told her that Edred was close behind, and she turned, her -eyes seeking his humbly, pleading for tender recognition. He did not -trouble to look at her, but merely plucked one of her beautiful pink -Verdier roses without permission, and stuck it in his coat, with a -scornful laugh at its huge size. -</p> -<p> -Jethro, across his little heaps of flagging weeds and clods of yellow -earth, watched the two gloomily. He was tired of Pamela’s elegant -brother; he was suspicious, although he could not have explained why. -His welcome to the shipwrecked stranger had been warm—it had even -extended to a free drawing on his check-book; but he did not<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-137">[137]</a></span> want his kinsman’s-hospitality to be construed into a life invitation. He -remembered a funny story he had once heard about an engaging Irishman -who had come on a month’s visit to a country house and stayed -forty-five years. Edred had lamed his best horse; he had considerably -reduced the cask of old whisky; he dipped too deeply into the -tobacco-jar. He might stay until the wedding, and when that was over he -must take himself off—to the West Coast of Africa, to another wreck, -if he chose. The busy man, hoeing peas not because it was necessary but -as a positive outlet for his energy, was heartily sick of the idle one, -who strolled languidly along the rose border, the smoke from his cigar -making a lean, blue string. -</p> -<p> -The wicket-gate creaked. Pamela looked up sharply. Heels clattered on -the raised brick path, and a blithe voice called out, “Where are you -all?” -</p> -<p> -“It’s Nancy.” -</p> -<p> -Edred moved forward so abruptly that he broke the long ash of his -cigar, which he had been carefully preserving. Pamela followed. A tall, -slim figure stood for a moment in the frame of the shining holly arch -at the entrance of the garden. The sun caught Nancy’s masses of -brick-red hair and enveloped her pretty face in flame. She called out -to Jethro: -</p> -<p> -“Mother wants you to tell me how much you think she ought to get a load -for her hay. Write it down, please, or I am sure to forget.” -</p> -<p> -She met Pamela at the beginning of the grass path. They kissed. Edred -watched the tame little salute<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-138">[138]</a></span> cynically. Then he took Nancy’s -hand in the cycling glove with the perforated palm—like a thin -crumpet—and watched her white lids fall. She was such a child that she -never tried to hide her feelings. -</p> -<p> -Pamela dragged off a great branch of damask rose and tore her fingers. -</p> -<p> -“You should always cut roses,” Nancy said reprovingly, taking up a -label. “Francesca Kruger—that’s flesh, tinged with saffron, isn’t it?” -</p> -<p> -“Copper,” returned Pamela curtly. -</p> -<p> -“I wish we could have some good roses. Evergreen isn’t successful with -flowers. But he lets us have plenty of vegetables. I came to know if -you would both come over to Malling Flower Show next Thursday. We could -bike—that would be great fun, wouldn’t it? Mr. Meadows has asked me to -judge the wild flowers, and I feel so horribly nervous. But I’ve been -reading it up.” -</p> -<p> -“You can’t go to Malling,” Pamela said, looking sternly at the weak, -radiant face, and hating Nancy all the more fiercely because her -temples were so purely white, and because the ruddy hair grew round -them so charmingly. “It’s lecture-day at Liddleshorn—the nursing -lecture. It will be very interesting; we are going to bandage a small -boy.” -</p> -<p> -“But I don’t care for the lecture. We are not going to finish the -course. Annie says that her mother—Aunt Jerusha—thought scientific -nursing a great mistake, and always said that no woman could expect to -be a good nurse until she had been the mother of a large family and had -buried two-thirds of it. You <i>must</i> come to Malling.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-139">[139]</a></span> -She was speaking to Pamela, but her blue eyes were on Edred. -</p> -<p> -“I’ll come, anyhow,” he said lightly. “I’ll call at Turle about three. -Will that do? Pamela would rather go to Liddleshorn and bandage her -small boy.” -</p> -<p> -“That would be fun. And you’ll come into supper afterward. I must go -now. Mother told me to look in at Hone’s—Nick Hone’s.” -</p> -<p> -“Where there are so many children?” asked Pamela, her gloomy eyes on -the straight line of beauty afforded by her choice roses. -</p> -<p> -“No. Those are the Peter Hones. The Bert Hones live near us. But Nick -Hone is a neighbor of yours. Jethro!” she called out shrilly, and he -came across the rough, dry ground, hoe in hand, “do send poor Nick Hone -in some new potatoes. You have plenty.” She glanced along the beds at -the rows in white blossom. “He’s dying, and he keeps saying that if he -had a dish of new potatoes he’d get better. Mrs. Hone went and dug some -yesterday, but they were only as large as cob-nuts. Mother would have -sent some, but Evergreen is a little touchy. He doesn’t like us to -interfere with the vegetables.” -</p> -<p> -“Daborn shall take a trug full,” said Jethro carelessly. “Dying, is he? -That’s drink. Never knew such a fellow! Three gallons of cider a day at -harvest time wasn’t enough for him. The other men save some and take it -home to their wives.” -</p> -<p> -“That is kind of you. Mrs. Hone will be so<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-140">[140]</a></span> pleased. I’ll be off now. -Three o’clock on Thursday, Mr. Crisp.” -</p> -<p> -He seemed amused by her adorable air of sheepishness when he took her -hand. They all four went out into the inclosed garden, Jethro and -Pamela dropping behind as a matter of course—his eyes on her, and hers -fixed blankly on the well-cut back of Edred’s coat. Jethro picked up a -flat wooden basket, with pieces of wood at the bottom like the rockers -of a cradle. It stood by a row of early peas. -</p> -<p> -“Here’s a trug. Daborn shall take it to Hone when he goes home to -dinner. Here, Daborn!” -</p> -<p> -He put his earthy, hard hand to his mouth and shouted. Pamela saw the -man hurrying from the greenhouse, where he was getting young tomato -plants ready for planting out. She followed Nancy and Edred, dreading -to leave them alone for a moment, despising herself for dreading. They -had just passed through the holly hedge. She scurried after, not -knowing why she put her feet so softly on the gravel and coaxed her -skirt close to her limbs so that it should not brush the box edging. -When she stood in the frame of the arch she stopped. Her clear, jealous -eyes went straight across the garden, across the bed of newly-planted -cauliflowers which Chalcraft had been allowed to dibble in for the last -time—next year she would have a lawn and carriage-drive. She looked -across the brick path, through the tall heads of June flowers, to the -umbrella yew-tree beneath which Gainah’s lilies were blooming. -</p> -<p> -They were standing behind it, between the thick<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-141">[141]</a></span> foliage and the -square lattice of the dining-parlor window. She saw Edred peer through -to see if the room was empty. She saw Nancy, her head down, her arms -and hands jerking, pretending to admire the lilies—bemoaning, in her -imbecile way, no doubt, because Evergreen would not let her have lilies -too. -</p> -<p> -They were very close together in the bosky kindness of the yew; no -doubt it had been a witness to many like scenes and been discreet. -Nancy seemed to sway a bit nearer the lithe figure in gray. Pamela saw -his face and her heart came to a startled stop. He had looked like that -when he kissed her for the first time—on the stairs of the -boarding-house. It had been the first man’s kiss of her life. -</p> -<p> -Nancy’s eyes and cheeks and lips blazed like her ruddy hair. He pulled -her toward him with the easy, insolent air of a man who is sure of his -woman—who has been sure of women all his life—and kissed her on lids, -lips, brows. -</p> -<p> -Pamela, wearing a white cotton gown, her head bare, looked like -statue—one of the statues that used to decorate old gardens. She -forgot everything—her approaching marriage and magnificence, her -border of tea roses, the carriage-drive, her wedding clothes—all the -big and little things which equally made her happiness or misery. For -the first time for many months she seemed to touch her past self. She -had almost forgotten, in the new strong life, the old one of dull -days, and sloppy streets, and shop-windows, and a struggle for the -latest fashion at the least possible cost. She was again that -sharp-witted<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-142">[142]</a></span> girl in Bloomsbury, that wildly wretched one who used to -take omnibus in spare hours just to stand on the common and stare -hungrily at a wall. -</p> -<p> -He was kissing Nancy; he meant to marry her. She couldn’t let him do -that. She must abandon Jethro. Her life must run side by side with -Edred’s. She didn’t care what sort of life—one of poverty, hard work, -hard words; blows, perhaps. One of guilty prosperity, winding up with -the prison again for him. It didn’t matter—so long as they were -together, if only for a little. He didn’t love her. He wasn’t capable, -as she knew love. But she loved him, even when she saw him stoop again -to those red pouting lips behind the yew. All her rage was for Nancy. -</p> -<p> -Daborn came behind with the trug full of yellow-skinned potatoes. She -stepped back and watched him go through the yard, and presently watched -Nancy go down the bricked path, mount her bicycle, and skim away like a -light swallow. Nancy had forgotten the marked quotation for hay. She -could not carry two ideas in that limited head of hers. -</p> -<p> -The world was too gay and warm for Pamela’s blank misery. The hot sun -darted into her strained eyes like needles. She went round the house, -hugging the lichened wall, her head down, the woolly leaves and spiral -tendrils of the vine touching her dull hair. At the garden door she met -Gainah, with a flush on her wasted face and a gleam of the old industry -and importance in her cold eyes. She was attired in a loose garment of -unbleached calico, cut like an antiquated bathing garment. Her -skirts<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-143">[143]</a></span> were bunched under it. She had a battered straw hat, round which -was firmly fixed a veil of green net. A pair of old stockings were -pulled over her hands and arms. She carried a tin frying-pan, which she -constantly beat with a long iron skimmer. -</p> -<p> -The air was hot and noisy. There seemed an unusual commotion along the -line of beehives which were set by the south wall. They were straw -skeps, which in winter were covered with turf to keep out the cold. -Pamela, who had read up bee-keeping, with other branches of country -life, had long decided to have bar-frame hives when she was mistress of -Folly Corner. But her knowledge of bees was only theoretical. She was -very frightened of them, and the deft, fearless way in which Gainah -would take a swarm excited her admiration and made her grudgingly admit -that it might be a point of superiority. -</p> -<p> -The angry buzzing grew louder, the monotonous tom-tom beating of the -frying-pan and skimmer more persistent. -</p> -<p> -“There’s a swarm over there in the crab-tree,” Gainah said excitedly, -forgetting for the time all party feeling. “I must go and take it. They -know me. They’ve been talking all the morning; I knew we should have a -flitting by dinner-time.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela languidly turned her head. A dark, pear-shaped mass hung from -the lower branch of the crab tree in the oat-field. -</p> -<p> -“They know I’m coming,” Gainah said, advancing and still beating, “they -know everything.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-144">[144]</a></span> These are fierce—I crossed them with an Italian -queen ten years ago—but they never sting me. They have more sense and -feeling than half the folk about. When old Bert Hone died and young -Bert took the bees from his mother, they didn’t flourish. He hadn’t -acted fair and they knew it. When there’s a swarm in the thatch none of -the girls in a house ever get married. All Len Daborn’s girls are maids -still.” -</p> -<p> -She strode on, a spare distorted figure in her calico wrapper, with the -green veil tucked safely down in her scraggy throat. Pamela watched her -vanish and reappear beyond the fruit-bushes. On any other day she might -have asserted herself—given a wise homily on bee-keeping up to date, -or deprecated old-world superstitions. -</p> -<p> -She went under the low door with the wooden hood and sat down in the -dull dining-parlor, her eyes vaguely looking out of the window at the -space between the casement and the yew. Nancy’s flame-colored hair and -thick scarlet lips seemed to stand out in relief from the curled somber -leaves. -</p> -<p> -Gainah’s work, just as she had thrown it down when the bees swarmed, -was huddled on the floor, and the blue cambric hearts which she had cut -ready for patching on the white dimity were dotted like huge pale -turquoises on the narrow oak table. -</p> -<p> -Pamela looked at the half-made quilt. Gainah had told her once, in a -moment of expansiveness, that the blue cambric and white dimity had -been her mother’s wedding petticoat and gown. It was a dainty quilt, -all white groundwork, with blue bordering<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-145">[145]</a></span> and bands and carefully cut -hearts and leaves. The stitches were small and regular. Gainah sat at -patchwork from breakfast until supper, now that the garden and the -house were no longer under her control. In the lower drawer of her -chest she already had five quilts folded neatly away in camphor. -</p> -<p> -The front door opened. Edred came in, rang the hand-bell on the table -in the passage. Pamela heard voices—a little deprecating cackle, a -man’s voice subdued to a cautious bass growl. Unable to bear any more, -she started up, threw back the door, and advanced into the passage. As -she did so, the deep rose-color of Nettie’s cotton gown whisked out of -sight into the kitchen. She went, her head high on her throat, into the -drawing-room, and Edred followed. -</p> -<p> -Fate seemed to decide that her moments of decided comedy or tragedy -should be played in that room: the room with the ugly grate and marble -mantelpiece which Jethro’s father had put in to make the place smart -for Gainah; with the painted milking-stools and fretwork brackets and -cheap embroideries which she had herself brought from Liddleshorn. -</p> -<p> -The roses in the blue bowls were drooping, candle-grease had dropped on -to the keys of the piano, the open door of the china closet displayed -dusty shelves and a floor on which the gay red-and-blue rugs were -kicked up. Pamela saw these things; they reminded her sharply of the -change that of late had come over her. She no longer took a -housewifely<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-146">[146]</a></span> pride in anything; her life was occupied in playing cat, -with Nancy and Edred for mice. -</p> -<p> -“Are you going to marry Nancy?” she asked abruptly. -</p> -<p> -“Are you going to marry Jethro?” he returned aptly. -</p> -<p> -“I—I suppose so. And yet, when it comes to the point—— Everything -depends on you.” -</p> -<p> -She looked at him again in an appealing way. -</p> -<p> -“We’re in a bit of a mess,” he said, shrugging his thin shoulders and -impatiently pulling the fine points of his black mustache. -</p> -<p> -She hunched her shoulders and clenched her hands between her knees as -if she were in actual physical pain. -</p> -<p> -“Oh! why did you come?” she moaned. -</p> -<p> -“Nonsense. It was very fortunate for me. I couldn’t have kept on with -sewing-machines—cut my throat, rather. And you can’t execute a <i>coup</i> -of any kind without capital. This sort of thing isn’t permanent, of -course. Old Jeth’s getting sick—he’s a good fellow. Men of that type -always show their feeling in mean ways. He ought to swear at me, kick -me out—he only looks blue when I fill up my glass. I must either marry -Nancy—it can’t make any difference to you, Pam—or I must get a couple -of hundred to set me up in life again. There are lots of good things -going in the City—beastly nuisance not seeing the evening papers. My -head is full of ideas. If I had a couple of hundreds I could turn them -into thousands in a week. Balaclavas have run up to——” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-147">[147]</a></span> -“Don’t talk to me about stocks; I don’t understand—and it is so -unimportant——” -</p> -<p> -“By Jove! it’s all-important to me.” -</p> -<p> -She straightened her curved back. He saw a convulsive lump working in -her throat, and the rims of her lids grew faintly pink. He frowned. She -was going to cry. A woman’s tears lashed him to any sort of brutality. -</p> -<p> -“When I saw you kiss Nancy,” she broke out, “it nearly killed me.” -</p> -<p> -“So you saw! But when old Jeth kisses you, in his open, whole-hearted, -smacking fashion?” -</p> -<p> -“It doesn’t affect you. Men are different—and you more different than -any other man,” she said confusedly. -</p> -<p> -“This sort of thing doesn’t help us,” he cried impatiently. “Which -shall it be? Turle, with Nancy as a wife and Aunt Sophy as a -mother-in-law, or London, with two hundred pounds in my pocket?” -</p> -<p> -“I haven’t fifty pounds.” -</p> -<p> -“But Jethro has. Get it out of him; you’ll do it better than I should. -Go to him frankly; say I’ve a scheme for making a fortune. He will be -delighted to get rid of me. He’s suspicious, without knowing why, poor -chap. This brother and sister humbug is the merest farce. If these -people were not fools, the most generous, gullible fools in the world, -they would have found us out long ago.” -</p> -<p> -He crossed to the sofa, threw himself beside her, and laxly hooked his -long arm round her firm waist. -</p> -<p> -“Get me the couple of hun, Pam,” he said tenderly,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-148">[148]</a></span> “and I’ll be off. -Nancy is a pretty imbecile. I’ll go to town. I’ll keep out of mischief, -sail just within the wind—don’t bother your dear anxious head about -me. Marry old Jeth; cut a figure in the neighborhood. With his money -and your brains you can be county swells.” -</p> -<p> -“And you?” -</p> -<p> -“I told you—don’t worry. Forget No. 4658.” -</p> -<p> -She started nervously. -</p> -<p> -“How can you think of that time without a shudder? Even now, when I go -to sleep at night, the prison wall shoots up and blinds me. Yet -you—were inside. And you say that number—the number that <i>was</i> -you—without a tremor. I’m afraid to let you go. It will happen again.” -</p> -<p> -“Not if I know it. I was green. Overent and Bladden victimized me. Only -fools are found out. Sin is a short name for stupidity. I shall never -overshoot the mark again. There are fifty ways—five hundred—of making -a fortune. No man but a fool need work—in these commercial days. -Milligan cleared fifty thousand only last week, just by buying a -concern and turning it into a company. He’s a prominent man, a -politician, a baronet. Ten years ago he kept a newspaper and sweetstuff -shop at Hornsey. Lady Milligan, whose drawing-room gowns are sketched -in the fashion papers, boiled toffee and sold it in pennyworths. No one -calls Milligan a blackguard.” -</p> -<p> -“He must have swindled somebody. It’s impossible else.” -</p> -<p> -“Of course he did. But everybody swindles<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-149">[149]</a></span> everybody else—that’s the -commercial spirit; it has made us a great nation.” -</p> -<p> -“Jethro——” -</p> -<p> -“Was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He is a fool; without his -inheritance, he’d be plowing and hay-making. Why discuss idly and waste -time? The dinner gong will sound soon.” -</p> -<p> -He took out his watch. It was a costly gold hunter, which he had bought -in his brief prosperous time. He had put it in her hands only half an -hour before his arrest—when Overent and Bladden had flown with forty -thousand pounds and he was madly packing his bag in the Bloomsbury back -bedroom. -</p> -<p> -“What am I to do?” -</p> -<p> -“Get two hundred pounds out of Jethro. I will go away and make my -fortune. Some day, when you read the papers—a day old,” he sneered, -“you’ll see my name as chairman of a public dinner, or recipient of a -testimonial. I mean to be generous—when generosity can be made to pay. -I’ll present my district with a public library, a clock tower, or a -drinking fountain, and be knighted.” -</p> -<p> -“You’ll come to Folly Corner sometimes?” -</p> -<p> -“Never.” Even his honor, just because he was a man, was stronger than -hers. “I thought at first that it would work—you as Jethro’s wife, I -as Nancy’s husband. But you are one of those emotional women who go to -the devil and drag a man with them. When I leave here it will be for -good. You won’t even know my address.” -</p> -<p> -“I couldn’t bear it.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-150">[150]</a></span> -Her eyes were not on him, but on the lattice. She looked across the -great field, with its uplands and its belt of oaks. She had seen it in -so many aspects—half shorn; plowed, the wet furrows shining like -glass; seen it smoothly iced with January snow; watched the green -needle-points of young grain. That outlook, that deep bay window, had -known the tearing of her heart. -</p> -<p> -She looked. The ripeness of harvest was suggested. There were the long -stretches of gray-green grain, soon to be golden, soon to rustle with -the dry, hot breeze of August. She saw the tossed-up lavish boughs of -wild roses wreathing above the hedge-rows, and saw the long grass on -the banks, tropical in its growth, and going rapidly to seed. -</p> -<p> -She couldn’t stay here and watch the changes of the season for -years—year after year and then death—without word of him. -</p> -<p> -“I couldn’t bear it,” she repeated. -</p> -<p> -“You wouldn’t be fool enough to throw Jethro over? You wouldn’t come -with me to London and take pot luck—a knight’s wife some day, perhaps, -or only the starving wife of—a number. I mean to be careful—but -failure’s on the cards. Even men like Milligan come a cropper now and -then. I’ve heard shaky stories about him. He doesn’t know when to -stop.” -</p> -<p> -His eyes were shining. Something of the old passion was stamping itself -anew on his face. She was looking lovely—the daredevil expression -of perfect abandonment and sacrifice strong on her<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-151">[151]</a></span> mouth, on her -quickly-breathing body, on the very hands which shook in the lap of her -white gown. -</p> -<p> -“You wouldn’t come?” he said, under his breath. -</p> -<p> -She gave a quick sigh, a last sharp glance at the gray, gently-moving -uplands and the wreaths of dog-roses. -</p> -<p> -“I would go with you—anywhere. I would have gone with you to the -prison, been a number, a thing less than an animal behind the prison -wall—but they wouldn’t let me.” -</p> -<p> -He put his mouth to hers. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -“Dear little woman! In India you’d go to the Suttee. Then it is -settled. Tackle Jethro to-night.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_111"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-152">[152]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_111_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_111_toc">CHAPTER XI.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -S<small>HE</small> waited until supper was over, and then she asked Jethro for half an -hour alone in the little room looking due north, where he kept his -papers, his boots, his agricultural catalogues, stray packets of seeds, -and so on. -</p> -<p> -The door shut on them. It was nearly dark—the sun setting luridly and -throwing a coppery light across the wall. The oak bureau filled one -corner of the tiny room; turned full to the gaping hearth was a -high-backed oak chair, with the initials “J. J. 1625” cut into its -back. An oak chest beneath the window, carved also, and bearing the -initials “J. J. 1604,” with a coat of arms, showed that the Jaynes had -in the past been even more important people than they were now. A -shadow passed the window. Edred, a dog at his heels, the usual fat -cigar in his mouth, shouted through, saying that he’d stroll up to -Turle and tell Nancy that he couldn’t go to Malling on Thursday. He -gave Pamela a significant look and moved off. The copper light burned -on the wall again. There was a strong scent of jasmine; the wan white -blossoms looked in at the open window. Pamela sat in the chair by the -grate, her head against the carved wood. -</p> -<p> -“I wanted to speak to you about my—about Edred,” she said. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-153">[153]</a></span> -“I’m going to speak to him myself,” Jethro returned promptly. “He -oughtn’t to be loafing about here like this. The place is big enough -for all of us, but it’s bad for a man to be out of collar so long.” -</p> -<p> -“He’s very anxious to get something to do. He is full of ideas. He is -very clever.” -</p> -<p> -Jethro did not answer. He was sitting on the end of the chest, his back -to the window, one foot in a heavy shoe idly dangling. His clean-cut, -rugged face was in shadow; her guilty conscience made her fancy that -his mouth was relentless. -</p> -<p> -“He doesn’t want to go to sea again,” she straggled on. “His nerves -have been tried—you can understand that?” -</p> -<p> -“What <i>does</i> he want?” -</p> -<p> -She heard the wicket-gate creak. Through the summer haze and the misty, -heavy-leaved trees she saw him pass along the road; white dog at his -heels, burning tobacco between his lips. -</p> -<p> -“He wants two hundred pounds. He would go away from Folly Corner; never -come back, never trouble you for a penny more, for a meal, even.” -</p> -<p> -Jethro’s light eyes opened. They looked to her like filings of steel in -the uncertain light. His voice came through the twilight suspiciously. -</p> -<p> -“Why does he talk like that? He is your brother, isn’t he? I want my -wife’s brother to have the run of my house whenever he’s in the -neighborhood.” -</p> -<p> -“He is afraid that he has trespassed on your hospitality too long.” How -parrot-like her voice was, how stilted her words! She burst out -feverishly: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-154">[154]</a></span> -“Give him the two hundred pounds—if you love me. Let him go at once. -If he delays he may lose his chance. I don’t understand business, but -he will explain it to you; it is something that will not wait.” -</p> -<p> -“He could come back for the wedding.” -</p> -<p> -“We shouldn’t want him; we could manage without him, I mean. He would -not be able to get away; business—a new business would be too -engrossing.” -</p> -<p> -“Two hundred pounds is a good lump.” -</p> -<p> -“But to set him up in life—to get rid of him.” -</p> -<p> -“You don’t want to get rid of your own flesh and blood, surely! There’s -no hurry. Wait until after the wedding. It’s in August—just six -weeks.” -</p> -<p> -He got up, bent over the high chair in his clumsy, hearty fashion, and -kissed her mouth. That kiss decided her, made her inflexible. She -gulped down a little scornful laugh in her throat: a man who kissed in -that way deserved to be jilted. -</p> -<p> -“Go back to the chest,” she cried petulantly. “This isn’t the proper -time for nonsense; we are talking business. You will give him the money -at once, won’t you?” -</p> -<p> -“I must think it over. Two hundred pounds!” -</p> -<p> -“It is nothing to you—everything to us.” -</p> -<p> -“To him.” -</p> -<p> -“To him—that is what I meant. Open the bureau; get your check-book. It -will only take a moment.” -</p> -<p> -“There is no hurry. I never rush things. I’ll talk the affair over with -Edred to-morrow—no, on<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-155">[155]</a></span> Wednesday, before I drive in to market. -To-morrow I must see old Crisp, of the Flagon House, about that rye of -his.” -</p> -<p> -He pulled a wan, white jasmine bloom to pieces slowly, put his head -half out of the window into the damp, scented air, and said casually -that a couple of bats had flown out of the ivy. -</p> -<p> -Her palms tingled with rage and despair. This matter of two hundred -pounds was nothing to him. The clock in the dining-parlor struck nine -very softly; on the hedge across the road a nightingale was performing -a sad recitative. She jumped to her feet in a passion. -</p> -<p> -“If you don’t promise to give him the two hundred pounds to-morrow -morning, I’ll go away—I won’t marry you,” she cried. -</p> -<p> -Jethro only laughed. He felt so secure. The wedding was to be in six -weeks; workmen were coming out from Liddleshorn to-morrow to fit up the -bathroom and paint the place. Nearly every day a young woman came with -things from the draper’s at Liddleshorn. It was all settled. But she -looked pretty in a passion. He rose heavily from the chest again. -</p> -<p> -“If you touch me I shall strike you.” -</p> -<p> -“What’s the matter, dear? You’ve been cycling too much. I told Edred -that thirty-five miles would be more than you could manage, and it’s -nearly forty to Beer Hill and back.” -</p> -<p> -“It wasn’t a bit too long a ride. The others did it; even Nancy, who is -supposed to be so delicate. I cannot endure to think you so mean, so -lethargic—over<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-156">[156]</a></span> a little thing. You must give him the money to-morrow, -or I swear——” -</p> -<p> -“Pam.” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t call me that. Will you——” -</p> -<p> -“He shall have a check to-morrow morning, as you wish it so much.” -</p> -<p> -He opened the bureau. -</p> -<p> -“I’ve got it in notes somewhere. I meant to bank on Wednesday. Two -hundred pounds!” Hereditary closeness got the better of him again. “It -is a good lump. But what is mine is yours—or will be in six weeks. If -it makes you happy.” -</p> -<p> -“It makes him secure. What are you doing?” -</p> -<p> -Jethro was pressing his broad thumbs carefully into the sides of a -pigeonhole. -</p> -<p> -“There is a secret drawer here. I wouldn’t show it to everyone—but you -are flesh of my flesh.” -</p> -<p> -“Not yet.” -</p> -<p> -“In six weeks.” -</p> -<p> -“Show me the secret drawer.” -</p> -<p> -“Wait a bit; it wants humoring. This is a home-made bureau. My -great-grandfather was a clever old chap, wasn’t he? I’ve heard my -father say that when he died the drawer was overhauled for money, but -all they found was three farthings of the year 1732. Here they are.” -</p> -<p> -The long shallow drawer was open. Bank notes were lying flat and crisp -in it; in one corner were the farthings, spotted with verdigris. -</p> -<p> -A shadow passed across the window again. Edred put his handsome, -insouciant face through the tangle of white blossom and green: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-157">[157]</a></span> -“Aren’t you two coming out?” he cried chaffingly. “The moon’s up, and I -never heard the nightingale in better form. I’ll run over to Turle in -the morning.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela flitted across the dusky room. -</p> -<p> -“We are coming—in a moment,” she said in a loud voice, looking at him -significantly; then looking back in the gloom at Jethro—burly and -well-favored—by the open bureau, with its shallow secret drawer and -pigeon-holes full of bills. -</p> -<p> -She watched Edred go down to the gate and lean over; the twin poplars -shooting up like two giant brooms above his head, the white dog like a -wraith in the green light. She shut the window and stepped back into -the silent little room, which, although it was June, felt cold. Jethro -had the notes in his hand. She put out hers with a sudden impulse. -</p> -<p> -“Give them to me to give to him—as a surprise,” she besought faintly. -</p> -<p> -She looked at the bank notes—white, crisp, heavily lettered with -black. -</p> -<p> -“Come,” she said, with a forced air of archness and spontaneity, her -hand still out, and Jethro’s diamonds burning with a pale fire on her -finger. Her gesture was a trifle ghastly in its struggle after -playfulness. Her lips were rolled back, showing the set teeth. -</p> -<p> -It was such a sudden, breathless impulse. She looked from one to the -other—the man at the bureau, who was so close that she could feel his -breath—sweet as a cow’s—on her hair; the man at the gate, jailed by -poplars. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-158">[158]</a></span> -Why shouldn’t she yield to this new impulse? Why shouldn’t she go away -from them both and begin a new, an absolutely feminine and nunlike -life? These men drove poor women mad. She knew what a future would be -with Edred—delirium, misery, wealth, disaster, disgrace. She knew what -a future would be with Jethro—fat ease, heart-hunger. But a future -apart she did not know. She would run away from them both—with two -hundred pounds in her pocket. Two hundred pounds in notes! -</p> -<p> -Jethro looked at her strangely. -</p> -<p> -“I’ll give it him myself—to-morrow morning,” he said soberly, putting -the notes into the drawer and letting it spring back into its -hiding-place. -</p> -<p> -She sat down in the oak chair, letting body and brain collapse. She -didn’t bother to think—to regret, to rage, to feel. Things were -decided for her. -</p> -<p> -“You’ll give it to him to-morrow morning, then. How serious you are! -Why do you look at me so oddly? Of course, I did not want the notes. -You never see a joke.” -</p> -<p> -“I’ll go out and have a talk with Edred now about this business. I -shall be too busy in the morning. You go to bed.” He tried to see her -face through the teasing dusk which had drawn between them; his voice -was tender. “You’ve been doing too much lately. Good-night, dear. Have -a long night’s rest.” -</p> -<p> -“Good-night.” -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -As she undressed, slipping her<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-159">[159]</a></span> petticoats from her waist to her feet, -she saw through the half-drawn dimity curtains the two men and the dog -strolling about in the uncertain moonlight. Jethro looked magnificently -broad and kingly. When she stretched herself in the bed, almost sinking -in the feathers, she told herself that this might be her last night at -Folly Corner. Before she went to sleep she recalled Jethro’s girth and -bearing, together with his balance at the bank, and hesitated. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_112"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-160">[160]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_112_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_112_toc">CHAPTER XII.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -N<small>EXT</small> morning when she awoke workmen were hammering and whistling. When -she looked out of her window she saw scaffolding. Long ladders were set -up stealthily against the old red walls. They were getting Folly Corner -ready for a bride. Those long ladders, that swung scaffolding, reminded -her that her wedding-day was fixed. She dressed and went down into the -garden, where the roses were all embroidered with dew and a white mist -puffed slowly across the meadows beyond the hedge. It was very early. -Len Daborn, going heavily to his work, looked like a patriarch, with -his crook-like stick and spreading white beard. She thought of his -daughters, all maids—because the bees had swarmed in the thatch. She -was very anxious to see Edred before breakfast, and, picking up one of -the potatoes which Daborn had left on the ground when he took the trug -to Hone, threw it in at the open window, crying, with meretricious -raillery: -</p> -<p> -“Come down. It is a lovely morning.” -</p> -<p> -She tried to speak quite airily, purposely choosing her words and tone. -Jethro was already about—looking after the young turkeys. Edred, his -voice muffled by sleep and the drawn curtains, called out that he -wouldn’t be long. She healed her heart by looking at her roses. The -garden always comforted<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-161">[161]</a></span> her—drew her to it with strange, silent -magnetism. Before he came down, heavy-eyed and irritable, as he always -was in the early morning, she had decided, with infinite relief, that -she would stay at Folly Corner, and let him go back alone, fight life -alone, take his garish triumphs and risks without her. -</p> -<p> -“Jethro’s going to give you the two hundred pounds this morning,” she -said tersely, hardly lifting her head. -</p> -<p> -“You are a brick, Pam. We can leave here this afternoon. Pretend that -you have promised to take me over to Annie Jayne’s. We’ll bike to the -station. Never mind luggage. I can spare you plenty of frocks out of -the two hundred. London to-night. We’ll dine somewhere—a good dinner. -Then I’ll drive you to Bloomsbury—they’ll take you in. I can go to a -hotel. To-morrow I’ll get a license and we’ll be married.” -</p> -<p> -She picked a rose and pressed her nose right into the exquisite petals. -The fresh morning air, the farm sounds; dew, sun in a haze of slow -fire, bees streaming brown and yellow from the hives, the old house -foaming with the loose Devoniensis rose and lichened to the roof—all -these drew her. -</p> -<p> -“To-morrow morning,” he continued, with satisfaction, “I shall be able -to have a whisky-and-soda directly I wake. It pulls a fellow together. -Leave me alone with old Jeth after breakfast—I’m sorry for the poor -devil; you are treating him badly—but a woman has no heart. And, Pam, -hurry up dinner to-day. We’d better start soon after.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-162">[162]</a></span> -Jethro came round the house from the yard. He looked a little careless -and rough. Directly he caught Pamela’s glance, his aristocratic face, -with the wholesome russet skin, lighted, and he jerked his thumb, with -a smile and a droll, tender gesture, toward the tall ladders and the -litter of the builders. -</p> -<p> -The house—restful, spacious, substantial; the figure beside it, all -honest devotion, decided her. She turned to Edred, lithe and dark, -flushed at the prospect of early emancipation from Folly Corner, which -had been to him merely a rambling prison with lax rules. -</p> -<p> -“I’ve altered my mind,” she whispered hurriedly, not daring to look at -him, not daring to stand close, for fear her hand should touch his -coat-sleeve and make her waver. “I’ll stay. I’ll marry Jethro. Don’t -come down. Lead your own life. In future, as you said, I shall only -know you in the newspapers—a day late. I shall be content, happy; -you’ll be free.” -</p> -<p> -He stared at her in frank amazement. He was disappointed, astounded, -relieved. -</p> -<p> -“You’ll stay.” He gave his cynical smile; then, as Jethro came up, his -face shining and his hands soiled with the poultry-yard, he strolled -off. -</p> -<p> -When breakfast was over she threw a look of meaning across the table -and left the room. As she turned to shut the door she saw the two men -disappear in the direction of Jethro’s little den—the home-made bureau -was in there, with the secret drawer and the bank notes. -</p> -<p> -Gainah was already settled at the oval table by<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-163">[163]</a></span> the window, cutting -patchwork hearts, with the aid of a piece of carefully shaped tin. -</p> -<p> -Pamela went along the narrow passage into the drawing-room and tried to -dust, to rearrange china, alter furniture—anything for bodily energy. -</p> -<p> -Now and then she heard the loose lick of a plasterer’s brush. The -workmen outside were whistling blithely and calling to each other. They -all seemed to be named Bill. She sat down on the couch and laughed -foolishly. Why was the workingman always called Bill? -</p> -<p> -Nettie, the supercilious smirk stronger than usual on her pretty face, -came in to ask for the grocer’s list; the man was at the back door -waiting for orders. She gave it, forgetting nothing—table salt, -bedroom candles, matches, more turpentine—they had their own -beeswax—all the irritating, narrow things that make up the sum total -of a well-managed house. When the girl had gone, she sat down, -listening to the fluty whistles and rough voices outside, and wondering -if she would ever again give the order for the grocer. -</p> -<p> -She was a weathercock. Hadn’t she said that she would stay and be -Jethro’s wife? Edred had not been disappointed—but then he took -everything with a hard, cynical philosophy. She was to be Jethro’s -wife. Then why did she listen so intently for the opening and shutting -of doors; why gasp and spring to her feet at a footstep? -</p> -<p> -She was standing, the checked duster in one hand, the other painfully -at her side, when Jethro came in. Her white face was all lines and -furrows. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-164">[164]</a></span> -“I’ve given Edred the notes,” he said shortly. “He wants to be off as -soon as possible. I shan’t go to the Flagon House; very likely I shall -meet old Crisp at market to-morrow. We’ll all drive to the station in -the wagonette after dinner.” -</p> -<p> -He looked annoyed; the two hundred pounds had gone against the grain; -he was naturally close-fisted—it was the quality which had made the -fortunes of his house. Presently his face lighted, and he said: -</p> -<p> -“What color would you like them to paint the outside of the place? The -foreman suggests chocolate, but I fancy a nice green.” -</p> -<p> -“It must be white,” she said positively. “That is fashionable now, and -so clean and fresh—in the country.” -</p> -<p> -“Then I’ll tell him white. You’d like to see the last of Edred? We -might drive round by Turle on the way back; Nancy will be upset—I -thought there would be a match there.” -</p> -<p> -She didn’t answer; only rubbed viciously at the polished table. -</p> -<p> -All that morning she kept away from Edred, although she saw him -lounging about outside—in the garden, in the orchard, waiting for a -word with her. At dinner-time she came down in her most becoming dress. -Her cheeks were flushed, and her gray eyes sparkled and darted. She ate -very little. The two men made a hearty meal, Edred very voluble betwixt -his hurried mouthfuls—talking to Jethro in the superior, pitying way -of the town man. Gainah said nothing; they had ceased to regard her. -She was a machine. She stitched all day; she fed<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-165">[165]</a></span> methodically; she -stared at them with her glassy, stupid eyes. -</p> -<p> -Jethro went out to hurry Daborn with the horse. Pamela, the untasted -pudding steaming on her plate, got up with a jerk, and spoke of putting -on her hat and gloves. Edred, who had been trying to catch her eye all -through the meal, touched her softly on the back of the hand with his -fingers. She gave a little cry, and flinched as if they had been hot -coal. Her wide eyes, searching his face for the first time, were wildly -appealing. He was piqued by her decision to stay behind and marry -Jethro. Now that there was a chance of losing her, she suddenly became -desirable. -</p> -<p> -“This won’t do,” he whispered eagerly. “You must come.” -</p> -<p> -“I can’t. Everything is settled.” -</p> -<p> -“Pooh! You could arrange——” -</p> -<p> -He had her hand. He was looking at her ardently. The impulse to go with -him—let fate bring what it might—was strong. She looked at him. He -was more in earnest, more in love than he had ever been. She had always -understood that it was a mistake to let a man know you loved him—but -then her feeling had always been so intense that she had been incapable -of hiding it. Her love had bubbled in her eyes, on her eager lips. But -it was bad strategy all the same. -</p> -<p> -She looked at the cold, dim room, at the foolishly intent old woman by -the window, stitching blue hearts on worn white dimity in a perfect -fury of aimless industry. She looked at the grim shadow<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-166">[166]</a></span> of the yew, -at the yawning cavern of the open hearth, at the somber furniture. And -she thought of London, with its glitter, its hurry, and vivacity. -London and Love! She let her wrist relax, let her whole fluttering hand -be buried in that long, cool one. -</p> -<p> -“I might arrange——” -</p> -<p> -She broke off as Jethro came through the low door. -</p> -<p> -“You two ought to be ready,” he called out. “The horse is coming -round.” -</p> -<p> -She turned and faced him, with her cheeks like rouged cheeks and her -eyes like polished, many-faceted diamonds. -</p> -<p> -“There is really no need for you to go,” she said unsteadily “Edred -wouldn’t mind. Let Daborn drive us. You know you had an appointment at -the Flagon House.” -</p> -<p> -“But that was this morning. Of course I’ll come. Be quick and get your -hat on.” -</p> -<p> -She went up the shallow stairs, woe at her wavering, passionate heart. -It was no good; he must go alone. It was far better that he should go -alone. -</p> -<p> -“Edred can sit on the box with me. The wagonette is half filled up with -luggage,” Jethro said, as she came out of the gate. -</p> -<p> -“We can manage very well behind. Can’t we?” She turned, trembling, to -Edred, who was digging at his shoes with the point of his cane. -</p> -<p> -“Then jump in.” Jethro had the reins in his hand. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-167">[167]</a></span> -They flashed along the white roads. She and Edred kept their hands -clasped under the summer rug of Holland. Once she bent forward, first -looking cautiously at the figure on the box, and shook her head, and -whispered: -</p> -<p> -“I can’t do it. You see he <i>would</i> come.” -</p> -<p> -Now and then Jethro, by a flick of his whip, pointed out some -feature of great interest—to him: another farmer’s hay or cattle, -a badly tilled field, a line of old cottages which he had been -renovating—putting slate roofs in place of thatch and square panes of -glass instead of lead lights. Those cottages were for Pamela; the rent -would be her pin money. -</p> -<p> -As they whizzed down the steep hill leading to the little wayside -station, the signal fell. The porter, who was just throwing back the -gates of the level crossing, waited for the horse to pass. -</p> -<p> -“We mustn’t stop to see him off,” Jethro said, as Edred’s baggage was -got out. “The mare shies at an engine.” -</p> -<p> -“We must wait.” -</p> -<p> -Her voice was so shrill that it startled her. She added, touching -Jethro’s arm, and feeling like Jael of old as she did so: -</p> -<p> -“Do please wait.” -</p> -<p> -“Very well. Here, sonny; hold the horse.” -</p> -<p> -He threw the reins to a boy, and the three of them walked into the tiny -station. Edred went into the booking office for his ticket. On the -platform there were several people—a few rustics, with baskets or -bulging red cotton handkerchiefs; one<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-168">[168]</a></span> young woman with a tight, -leafless posy bound carefully round with newspaper. -</p> -<p> -“He ought to have had some flowers,” Jethro said, throwing a glance -inside at the lean figure at the ticket window. -</p> -<p> -“What would be the good? He hasn’t any home. He will go to an hotel -to-night.” -</p> -<p> -A wild, impotent desire to go with him made her quiver. -</p> -<p> -Another wagonette drove up and Mrs. Turle with Nancy alighted. -</p> -<p> -The girl’s face flooded when she saw Edred—in dark clothes—and saw -the various leather bags lying about on the platform. They were being -hurriedly labeled by the porter. -</p> -<p> -“Edred’s going away—for good.” Pamela turned her veiled cheek to the -red lips. -</p> -<p> -“To sea?” -</p> -<p> -Nancy’s face grew piteous. -</p> -<p> -“No. To the city.” -</p> -<p> -“Then he will come down sometimes.” -</p> -<p> -“Perhaps—but it is doubtful. He has found Folly Corner dull. London is -so full of attractions for a man.” -</p> -<p> -“Going away!” Aunt Sophy’s clear eyes seemed to pierce behind the lying -mask of her burning face. “Isn’t it very sudden, dear? You look quite -feverish, Pamela. A touch of headache?” -</p> -<p> -“My head never aches,” she said, almost rudely. -</p> -<p> -“Nancy and I will have an escort up. We are shopping; the summer sales -get earlier and earlier every year.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-169">[169]</a></span> -The porter began to clang the noisy brass bell, and along the line, -which ran perfectly straight for a mile or more, they saw the blue -smoke and bulky, indistinct outline of the approaching engine: -</p> -<p> -“I’ll go and hurry Edred.” -</p> -<p> -She stepped out of the sun into the little booking-office, with its -torn excursion-bills and gay pictures of ocean liners. -</p> -<p> -He was scooping up his change, throwing it, with his accustomed -carelessly reckless air, into his trousers pocket. The door of the -waiting-room was half open. On the platform Aunt Sophy was talking -earnestly to Jethro about farming affairs, and Nancy was staring at the -enameled advertisement of a local seedsman. -</p> -<p> -“Come in here for a moment.” -</p> -<p> -She jerked her hand toward the open door. They went in. The window was -of frosted glass. -</p> -<p> -“I can’t go with you,” she said, looking up hopelessly through her -veil. “You see how it is! Aunt Sophy and Nancy are going up. Everything -is against us. Perhaps it is as well. Good-by.” -</p> -<p> -He had never been so nearly disposed to sacrifice himself for a woman. -Then, with his unquenchable selfishness, he remembered too that a -pretty woman would be positively useful in his mode of life: many a -dubious bit of business had been pulled off by a good dinner and an -attractive woman. She was so devoted to him. A devoted woman was -invaluable and very rare. They usually played their own game. -</p> -<p> -He kissed her turbulently on her closed eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-170">[170]</a></span> through the crisp net, -on her burning cheeks and dry lips. They both felt the rush and sway of -the train as it rushed into the station. They both became conscious of -a figure in the narrow door. She lifted her head, unclasped her fierce -arms, to see Jethro. -</p> -<p> -“We were saying good-by,” she stammered. -</p> -<p> -Edred was cool. -</p> -<p> -“Pam and I have always been chums—we were left in the world together,” -he said in a matter-of-fact way, and insolently meeting the doubt in -Jethro’s steely eyes. “Good-by, old girl. By the way, I’ll send you a -telegram when I get to town, just to let you know I am all right.” -</p> -<p> -He went out into the sun, got into a carriage with the Turles, raised -his hat gayly as the train steamed out. -</p> -<p> -He was gone. It was all over. The railway banks were gay with -snapdragons, self-sown; ferns had sown themselves in the cutting and -thrust out their fronds like forked green tongues. The station-master’s -black-and-tan terrier bounded round Pamela’s skirts. Every little thing -was emphasized—as it would be in a nightmare. -</p> -<p> -“Did you think to ask Aunt Sophy the name of her kitchen-range?” asked -Jethro, as they went slowly up the hill. -</p> -<p> -She was on the box beside him. She felt cold and sick. She looked back -now and then at the empty seats. -</p> -<p> -“It is the Camelot,” she returned mechanically, and for the rest of the -drive she kept saying to herself,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-171">[171]</a></span> in a dazed way, “Camelot,” as if it -were a new word. -</p> -<p> -After tea Jethro drove to the Flagon House, saying he might stay to -supper. Folly Corner was quiet, growing mystic with twilight. Pamela -went down the bricked path, without a glance at the rich mosaic of the -herbaceous borders, and stood between the poplars, her arms on the -gate. By and by a boy came along the road. When he got close she saw -that he carried a red envelope. She took it languidly, saying that -there was no answer, and paying him sixpence for porterage. -</p> -<blockquote class="letter"> -<p> -“Be ready to start for London with me at half-past ten to-night. Am -coming back. Will wait under yew.” -</p> -</blockquote> -<p> -It had been sent from Liddleshorn. Edred was waiting at Liddleshorn -now—waiting for the night, which was always kind to criminals. -</p> -<p> -She went into the house, put a few things together. Jethro came in soon -after nine. He was a bit surly—he had surly fits occasionally. -To-night she took no notice. She couldn’t find it in her heart to look -at him, knowing the part she was going to play. -</p> -<p> -By ten she was dressed and standing under the yew. Her bag and -umbrella, set against the wall of the house, seemed a grotesquely -modern touch beside the silence and starlight, in contrast to the sharp -delight and terror of her own face. -</p> -<p> -How white and gaunt the ladders and scaffolding looked! What a queer, -old-world interior the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-172">[172]</a></span> dining-room made! She could see straight -through; they rarely drew the curtains these light June nights. -</p> -<p> -The night-jar called harshly, a beetle dashed against her face, then -whirred away. From the stall came loud, human-sounding, trumpeting -moans. They made her shudder. She knew that one of the cows was -calving. Once she saw the light of a lantern—muddy and yellow, like a -bilious eye, beside the hard stars—go round the building. She hid -behind the yew, listening to the steady clump of Boyce’s boots as he -went in to tend the animal. -</p> -<p> -The church clock struck a quarter to eleven. He was late, a quarter of -an hour late; perhaps they wouldn’t catch the last up-train from -Liddleshorn. Very likely he was out in the road merely waiting, as a -matter of prudence, until Boyce went away. The loud moans of the -tortured cow struck her heart. -</p> -<p> -She strained her eyes, expecting every moment to see the tall, lithe -figure steal across the garden. She strained her ears, imagining she -heard the sharp ring of hoofs along the road. They came nearer, more -certain, more distinct. She advanced like a guilty thing to the gate, -creeping along in the starlight. Each time she reached the poplar there -was perfect silence. Each time she looked along the road it stretched -straight and blank across the common. Yet when she waited at the yew -again she fancied that she heard the ring of those quick hoofs. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-173">[173]</a></span> -The quarters chimed on. Boyce, with his yellow-eyed lantern, shuffled -out of sight. The world was only stars and boding night-jar and -sentinel trees which had hardly stirred a leaf in the hot, still air. -</p> -<p> -Twelve! Two clocks chimed midnight together, tripping each other up, -like stammering tongues. -</p> -<p> -He would never come now. Even as she stood there, sick and flushing, -the whistle of the last up-train tore the night, and on the horizon she -saw the lurid tail of fire. -</p> -<p> -She only wanted him to come, to creep behind the yew and kiss her, as -he had kissed that little pink fool, Nancy Turle. She didn’t trouble -her head about anything more; didn’t add to her agitation by worrying -over practical details. They could walk under the stars until -dawn—anything. Mere trifles like food, sleep, sore feet, light head, -were nothing. If only he would come! Those maddening hoofs kept ringing -along the road. A dozen times she ran along the bricked path. -</p> -<p> -As the clock struck one she turned away, went under the hooded door -like a thief, up the still staircase into her own room. She flung -herself, wide awake, dry-eyed, and tingling, on her smooth bed. -</p> -<p> -At two she heard the steady passing of feet—not Boyce’s this time. -With a strangled cry of joy she slipped off the bed and glided to the -open window. The stars were clouded, and a violent summer rain struck -straight from the sky. The feet stopped below Jethro’s window, a rattle -of gravel went against the glass. She looked out cautiously; listened; -heard Chalcraft tell his master that the ricks were<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-174">[174]</a></span> not covered. -Jethro answered back that he, too, had heard the rain, and would be -down directly. -</p> -<p> -She heard him go down, heard the feet of the two men die away. Every -star was hidden. It was too dark to see anything. -</p> -<p> -She returned to the bed without undressing. She lay there flat on her -back, fully clothed, with her hands and lips clenched. Jethro came back -to the house, to his bed. She heard him steal by her door without his -shoes. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -There was silence. Then the restless life of the farm began. Cocks -crowed; there were feet along the wet road. Across the fields, through -the dimness and mystery of the half-born day, Boyce, the cowman, was -weirdly hooting in the morning mist for the cattle to come and be -milked. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_113"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-175">[175]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_113_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_113_toc">CHAPTER XIII.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -“M<small>OTHER</small> used to say that when a girl was married she should wear a -bonnet and never jest with gentlemen. Mrs. Clutton’s hats are very -large, and her manner to Jim has always been flippant.” -</p> -<p> -Annie Jayne, her hair already thin at the temples, and her pretty -narrow brow seamed with a thousand solicitous premature creases, looked -down fondly at her second baby. Its legs had been unswathed; it was -kicking and gurgling on the drawing-room rug. -</p> -<p> -“She certainly is a little flippant—I must say that,” admitted Aunt -Sophy diplomatically, as she beamed at the rug, and gave vent to a -voluble string of infantile expletives. -</p> -<p> -“You never should have called on her,” Maria Furlonger cried -reproachfully. “And it did have boofy nickle legs, so it did.” -</p> -<p> -She, too, beamed at the baby. He returned her wide grin with a look of -stolid, pitying superiority. Annie, her eyes swimming with tenderness -as they rested on the naked, purplish limbs, said: -</p> -<p> -“Isn’t it <i>wonderful</i>, the way he takes notice?” -</p> -<p> -“She is no more married than you are—than I am,” Maria continued, -returning to the attack, and pulling her mouth back to its natural -limits. -</p> -<p> -Annie and Aunt Sophy froze a little after the manner of matrons. They -said instinctively and together: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-176">[176]</a></span> -“My <i>dear!</i>” -</p> -<p> -“A married man never sneaks home to his wife after dark when he has -been away for months,” Maria persisted. “It was past ten. Mrs. Daborn -was calling in her cat—the tortoiseshell she has had for sixteen -years. You know that Si Daborn’s cottage is just opposite the Buttery. -She saw him go in like a thief—not even a hand-bag.” -</p> -<p> -“A married man always has luggage. Mother used to pack father’s bag -herself. If there are buttons off or a thin place in the socks it -reflects on the wife.” -</p> -<p> -“I must say”—Aunt Sophy held out her finger for the child to -clutch—“that a gentleman doesn’t usually—return from South -America——” -</p> -<p> -“Without so much as a tooth-brush,” broke in Maria. -</p> -<p> -“He might have had it in his pocket,” Annie reminded her gently. “We -mustn’t condemn until we are certain.” -</p> -<p> -“They came down quite coolly to breakfast in the morning,” Maria -continued. “Not a word of explanation to Tryphena—Hone’s eldest girl; -the Hones of Marrow’s farm. I was always against Tryphena taking -service at the Buttery. The Hones are in my district.” -</p> -<p> -There was a little pause. The baby broke it by cooing. Then Maria cried -out suddenly: -</p> -<p> -“Good gracious! He can’t be the Birmingham murderer in hiding at the -Buttery. He may be her husband, after all—which makes it all the more -reprehensible. Mrs. Daborn tells me he looked a <i>most</i><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-177">[177]</a></span> suspicious -character: one of those men with a bronzed face, bold eyes, and a suit -with a large check.” -</p> -<p> -“Mrs. Si Daborn is nearly blind with cataract.” -</p> -<p> -“You always try to make out a good case for people, Annie. Mrs. Si -Daborn can see a large-checked suit. She is a most respectable old -soul; I think a great deal of her judgment. Her eldest daughter married -a builder; he is in a large way of business at Walthamstow.” -</p> -<p> -“A murderer! Maria!” Aunt Sophy for once forgot to be diplomatically -gentle. “I must say that it isn’t wise to talk so wildly. You’ll -frighten Annie and upset the darling baby.” -</p> -<p> -“The Birmingham murderer! Is that the man who murdered his employer and -his employer’s six motherless children? Boiled them in the copper, -didn’t he?” -</p> -<p> -Annie put the questions quite calmly—as if they merely referred to a -family recipe for making pickled walnuts. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, that’s the man.” -</p> -<p> -“Then he can’t be at the Buttery. Jim brought home the evening paper -from Liddleshorn. There is a portrait of the murderer and his -victims—<i>before</i> they went into the copper—poor things. He was -arrested. He committed suicide in his cell.” -</p> -<p> -The sweet, spiteful expression stole across Aunt Sophy’s face as she -glanced at Maria, who only said tartly: -</p> -<p> -“He wasn’t the only criminal in the country, after all. Read the papers -regularly, both of you, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-178">[178]</a></span> see how many crimes there are which are -never fastened on to the right person.” -</p> -<p> -“I rather thought,” said Annie placidly, “that Pamela would come up to -tea. I told her that I was going to short-coat baby to-day.” -</p> -<p> -“Rather funny about her brother, wasn’t it?” -</p> -<p> -Maria had a faculty for starting aggressive subjects. -</p> -<p> -Aunt Sophy put on her best dignity air—the air she adopted toward -people who only kept one servant, who hadn’t a “conveyance,” who didn’t -get invited to the Vicarage. -</p> -<p> -“I used to think that he was courting Nancy,” Maria continued, -unabashed. -</p> -<p> -“My dear! What an extraordinary notion! Isn’t darling Maria’s brain -original, Annie? Nancy is almost engaged to Mr. Minns, the Liddleshorn -curate. He is an extremely intellectual young man. Naturally he was -drawn to Nancy, whose tastes are so literary.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela was slowly driving up the hill in her governess car. She was -startled by a sharp voice behind. It took little to startle her. Her -gray eyes had lately a vague, fixed look—they seemed to petrify as the -wedding-day grew near—a day not to be evaded. -</p> -<p> -“I thought that I should never make you hear.” Mrs. Clutton put one -hand on the cart and the other to her pulsing brown throat. -</p> -<p> -“I’m sorry. Jump in. Are you going to the Mount?” -</p> -<p> -“Not I. My reception wouldn’t be warm.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-179">[179]</a></span> She laughed merrily. “You must -have heard the scandal.” -</p> -<p> -“What scandal?” -</p> -<p> -Pamela’s high voice seemed to whistle through her teeth; the reins -dropped slackly on Betsy’s back. -</p> -<p> -“About my husband, of course. He came home quite unexpectedly last -night; came just as he was from his club, where he is putting up until -we settle. I opened the door myself; Tryphena was in bed. He looked so -big and brown and self-assured—so prosperous—nothing of the flabby, -dubious, hard-up artist about him. He ate cold pork for supper, and -slept all night. No more dyspepsia, no more rows! He is a success—a -decent income assured us for life. He climbed some peak in America that -no one else has ever climbed. His book will be the sensation of the -season.” -</p> -<p> -She stopped, her black eyes snapping and gleaming. -</p> -<p> -“I’m very glad,” Pamela said, with a kind of sad heartiness. “Very glad -that someone is going to be happy.” -</p> -<p> -“Someone else, you mean. Your happiness is beyond question, though -happiness is only attitude. What alterations Mr. Jayne is making at -Folly Corner!” -</p> -<p> -“We couldn’t do without a new wing. A country house isn’t complete -without a billiard-room,” Pamela said, with her limp, forced air of -breeding, of doing the “correct thing.” -</p> -<p> -“And your brother will be bringing men down, week ends, no doubt.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-180">[180]</a></span> -“Edred!” She caught the reins up tightly. “He will not come again.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Clutton looked at her shrewdly. Then she said: -</p> -<p> -“Tim and I are to live at Chelsea; one of those delightful new houses, -all white paint and wrought iron. He has gone back to town. He is much -too busy to stay. I am making all arrangements for leaving the Buttery -at the end of the week. He was so delighted with the oak. When I showed -him my notebook, full of rustic skeletons, he fairly shouted. It will -make a most sensational thing to run in an up-to-date paper: daily -installments, skillfully backed up by interviews, paragraphs, -photographs of the Chelsea house, when we are settled.” -</p> -<p> -“There is nothing scandalous in all this.” -</p> -<p> -“How discursive I am! Never mind. You will hear it all, from the proper -point of view, at the Mount. I can see them sitting in judgment! Annie -Jayne, quoting her mother; that horrid Maria Furlonger, an animated -sneer; dear Mrs. Turle, trying to pull both ways, enjoying the scandal -and yet not wishing to take sides against me, in case Tim should turn -out all right and be a vehicle for eligible bachelors. She has a fury -for marrying Nancy. -</p> -<p> -“A married man should come back with his halter round his neck. Tim -should have had the station fly full of boxes. He just walked in -without a word—without a clean collar or a nightshirt. I thought that -he was in Venezuela. When Tryphena saw us both come down next morning -she dropped the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-181">[181]</a></span> butter-dish—hand-painted willow—the little fool! Then -she sneaked off and told her mother. Mrs. Hone, very fat, very shiny -with outraged virtue, came back to say that she couldn’t allow <i>her</i> -girl to stay in such a place. <i>Her</i> children had always been brought -up respectable. No one could say that one of <i>her</i> daughters had been -compelled to marry in a hurry.” -</p> -<p> -“And you are going away? You won’t be here for my wedding—a week next -Thursday.” -</p> -<p> -“I’m afraid not. But you must come and see us in town. I’ve told Tim -all about you. He adores big, dun-haired girls. He likes women as he -likes wine—with body. -</p> -<p> -“I want you to go to Mrs. Hone’s,” she continued, “that is why I ran -after the cart. Say I’ll give her five shillings for that figure with -the skull in its hand. Tim thinks an exhibition of Staffordshire would -be a good idea.” -</p> -<p> -“Bert Hone’s?” -</p> -<p> -“Yes. He is dead. Queer old savage! Good-by. I’m going to talk to the -landlord of the Buttery.” -</p> -<p> -She turned off at the cross-roads. Pamela drove to Mrs. Hone’s, haggled -for the figure, wrapped it in newspaper, and put it in the cart. As she -did so she mentioned carelessly that Mrs. Clutton was going away. -</p> -<p> -“Be she now?” the doubled-up old woman cried. “Sure! London now. You -don’t say so, my dear soul. I shall miss her. When my man died she came -in to look at him. He worked up to<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-182">[182]</a></span> the very last, although he was so -old—past eighty. He took his turn with the hayin’. He never wasted a -hour; it was Sunday when he died, so it was. She come and looked at -him a-layin’ in his coffin, and she shed a tear. The other ladies gi’ -me black clothes. Young Mis’ Jayne up at the Mount brought the little -baby for me to see, and Mis’ Turle sent Miss Nancy down with a bottle -o’ doctor’s stuff—it’s nothin’ but camphor; jest smell it. But Mis’ -Clutton brought a fine wreath like wax. He went down into his grave as -if he was a gentleman farmer. Nobody else thought o’ flowers; wreaths -aint for the likes o’ we.” -</p> -<p> -As Pamela turned the pony’s head she decided not to go to the Mount -that day. There were still moments when Annie’s impenetrability and -Aunt Sophy’s phlegm jarred. -</p> -<p> -She drove home across the common. It was a burning day—the last in -July. There was a ticking sound in the hot air, as the black seed pods -of the broom burst. High in the sky was an intense angry sun, swept now -and then by boding thunder-clouds. Across the common stretched a carpet -of heather, exquisite purple, just breaking into bloom. When she turned -off and drove down Waggoner’s Lane on the way to Folly Corner, the -hedges were full of blackberry blossoms, widely opened, and pale -heliotrope. There was a fishy smell of privet from a cottage garden, -and the soft, tearing swish of a scythe came from a field. The high -hedges were hung with butter-colored hay, which had caught in the -branches as the loaded wain toiled by. At<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-183">[183]</a></span> Folly Corner, in her -garden, the long edgings of white pinks were dry, and brown, and -scentless, and sad. The elder tree which hung over the barn was shabby. -The leaves on the poplars rustled dryly, as they never had done in -June. -</p> -<p> -The newspaper, which the carrier brought daily from Liddleshorn, was on -the table in the corridor, neatly folded, tied with twine, and -addressed to Jethro. She carried it into the drawing-room and read it -listlessly. Politics didn’t interest her—foreign politics in -particular seemed singularly superfluous. But she read the art -notices and the reviews of new books as a matter of duty, and the -advertisements as a matter of interest. There were twelve pages to the -paper that day. One was taken up with an advertisement—the prospectus -of a new company. It was something about a ruby mine—it didn’t matter -much, anyhow. She was far too languid to read it all. Still, her eye -ran listlessly down. When she came to the names of the directors she -cried out. Edred Crisp, Esq., of Marquise Mansions, W., headed the -list. -</p> -<p> -That name brought everything back. She drove it into her brain letter -by letter. She stared at it so long, so fixedly, that her eyes played -pranks, and the one name, Edred Crisp, took up the whole sheet. -</p> -<p> -There was a barking of dogs, a grating grind of wheels outside, -Jethro’s voice. She jumped up, her face suddenly stern, desperate. She -looked out of the window, her head framed in fully-blown roses which -had shriveled and turned brown. -</p> -<p> -“Come in here,” she said metallically, looking at<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-184">[184]</a></span> the spare figure and -keen, kind eyes. “I want to speak to you.” -</p> -<p> -“My boots are dirty.” -</p> -<p> -“Never mind. Come now; if you don’t, I may change again, and that will -be the worse for both of us.” -</p> -<p> -Until he came in at the door, stooping his head a little because it was -so low, she kept her throbbing eyes upon those words, “Edred Crisp, -Esq., Marquise Mansions, W.” -</p> -<p> -“I’ve been to Liddleshorn and seen Preece about the wedding-cake,” he -said. -</p> -<p> -“The wedding-cake!” she repeated blankly. “Oh, you need not have -troubled. It does not matter in the least.” -</p> -<p> -Jethro was looking puzzled—a little annoyed, too. Her unequal moods of -late vexed him. He was a short-tempered man, given to fits of silence -and <i>brusquerie</i>, just as his father had been. Men in the country are -often so; she had noticed that young Jim Jayne snubbed Annie. In towns -a man goes out and blows off his temper—at his club or a music-hall; -in the country he vents it on his women. -</p> -<p> -“Doesn’t matter? That sounds strange from you, Pamela.” -</p> -<p> -She laughed. The steady look in her eyes, the lambent light on -her face, struck him. She seemed swept, dominated by a sudden -fierce, irrevocable decision. The newspaper, wide open at the -page-advertisement of the new company, was on her knees. She put her -finger under Edred’s name and showed it to him. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-185">[185]</a></span> -“Umph! Well, he has never written a line since he went away—didn’t -even send the telegram. Still, I’m glad he’s getting on. Looks like -business, doesn’t it?” He read the name and address in a rather -awe-struck way. “There seems to be money in that. How much capital, do -they say? He hasn’t been long in making his fortune. Perhaps he’ll pay -me back the two hundred. It was understood between us to be only a -loan—if he succeeded. What are the Chinese beggars doing at——” -</p> -<p> -He lifted the paper to turn it. She drew it away. -</p> -<p> -“Never mind the Chinese. You will have time—your whole life—for -them.” -</p> -<p> -“My whole life!” He laughed. “By Jove! we mean to settle them in less -than a month—judging by the telegrams. Just let me have a look at the -summary, dear.” -</p> -<p> -“But I want to speak to you.” -</p> -<p> -“You have spoken. It was to tell me about Edred, wasn’t it?” -</p> -<p> -“About Edred—yes.” -</p> -<p> -“You haven’t had a letter from him? You don’t know anything but that?” -He pointed to the paper. -</p> -<p> -She shook her head. -</p> -<p> -“I’ve never had a letter from him since he left; but this,” she put her -finger on the words, “has decided me. The mere look of the letters put -together to form <i>him</i> was enough. Can’t you guess, Jethro? You are not -stupid.” -</p> -<p> -“Guess!” An angry darkness suddenly overspread his face. “Guess what?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-186">[186]</a></span> -“You don’t guess. You only suspect—and suspicion never decides a -woman’s fate. I shall have to tell you.” -</p> -<p> -She seemed to pull herself together, giving a last fierce look of -affection round the room and out of the window, at the flowers and the -fripperies that she was so fond of. Then she said coldly—with the -unerring cold, callousness of steel: -</p> -<p> -“Edred is not my brother. He was my lover in London. We were engaged to -be married. He got into trouble—some business affair. The others were -to blame. They got away and he had to pay the penalty. When I came here -he was in prison. I decided never to see him again; not to let him know -my address. He came to the back door with machines that day—that day, -dear; oh, Jethro, I’m so sorry—when you gave me the check for my -wedding things and asked me about the pet lamb. I can’t marry you; I -can’t stay. He doesn’t love me—as you do. He’ll be unkind to me: he’s -that sort of man. I’m a fool, a traitor—everything that is ignoble. -Why don’t you strike me?” She threw up her face and looked at him -mournfully—that wild, sharp face, which was just a mask for her -racking brain. -</p> -<p> -“Why don’t you curse me? I have spoilt your life—but it might have -been worse. If he came back, or sent a message saying he wanted me, I -should have gone. Yes, your wife, Jethro, would have gone. I’ve been -trying to cure myself. I saw his name, and it all came back. He was the -first man—no one else before had said or looked love, or<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-187">[187]</a></span> kissed -me. I suppose that must be the reason. There can be no other—he is -worthless. You are a god compared to him. But he was first. I can’t -help it.” She shook her head hopelessly, the molten, heavy tears -rolling slowly down her face. -</p> -<p> -“That isn’t all. You shall know the very worst. Then you won’t care so -much. You’ll drive me away from Folly Corner—and forget. Marry some -good, even-minded girl—some girl without the horrible strength that I -have. I must tell you the rest. He did send a telegram. You were at the -Flagon House. He said he was coming back to fetch me. I waited under -the yew until past midnight. He never came. Until to-day, until I saw -this”—she touched his name—“I thought—I hoped that he might be dead. -He wouldn’t have any power over me then. -</p> -<p> -“You saw him kissing me in the waiting-room. Why didn’t you guess -then—why did you stop short—just suspecting? Suspicion is no good—it -is only a petty thing. If you had not driven us to the station I should -have gone to London with him. That day I kept changing my mind. Do -speak, Jethro. Don’t look at me in that queer way. You must be angry. -Show it. Strike me. Call me all the disgraceful names you are surely -thinking.” -</p> -<p> -He got up, giving himself a slow shake in the shaggy coat of homespun, -which was of a very light color and looked something like hairy -sacking. -</p> -<p> -“You must go to him,” he said simply, not a trace of anger on his face. -“It’s natural—I wouldn’t stand up against Nature for the world.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-188">[188]</a></span> -Nature mates us all—no good our meddling. Even with the cattle——” -</p> -<p> -“Never mind the cattle,” she broke in, her squeamishness asserting -itself even now—his speech was apt to be blunt enough when he spoke of -the simple facts which he had been accustomed to take as a matter of -course all his life. -</p> -<p> -“You can’t help it,” he continued, with superb generosity. “I don’t -blame you. He was first—you were meant for him. It isn’t your -fault—or his. I am the fool, the meddler. You can’t mate through the -newspaper. I ought to have known.” -</p> -<p> -He went toward the door, his head down, his face gentle and strong. She -started up. -</p> -<p> -“You are not going?” -</p> -<p> -“There is nothing to stay for.” -</p> -<p> -“You don’t say one word of blame——” -</p> -<p> -“It is no good, and I have no right. Go to him, dear.” -</p> -<p> -“You forgive me?” -</p> -<p> -“There is nothing to forgive. I should have done as you have done. Not -a woman in the world would hold me back from you, if you were free.” -</p> -<p> -“But the wedding? What will people say?” -</p> -<p> -“Let them say. That’s nothing.” -</p> -<p> -“Those things are everything. You are going to live and die in this -place. For your sake, not mine”—she looked lingeringly at the yellow -fields and rainbow flower-beds—“we must tell Aunt Sophy a plausible -story. I’ll write a note, tell her that Edred is ill—a long -illness—and wants me. Later<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-189">[189]</a></span> on, by degrees, you can let them know that -I am never coming back.” -</p> -<p> -“You’ll tell her that Edred is ill—a long illness—and wants you,” he -repeated in a slow, painstaking voice, as if, for her sake, he was very -anxious to remember. “Very well, I’ll try not to forget. Would you like -me to drive you to the station this afternoon?” -</p> -<p> -He saw the lightening of her face. -</p> -<p> -“So soon! But I could be ready. I’ll start packing now.” She went -crisply across the room. “But not you. Let Daborn drive.” -</p> -<p> -“I’d rather come, if it’s the same to you. There’s a train at four.” -</p> -<p> -“Four. Very well.” -</p> -<p> -“We can have an early tea. You like your tea.” -</p> -<p> -“Tea—yes.” -</p> -<p> -“Take some flowers. There are plenty of eggs, too. Some of those early -pullets are laying already, although the old birds are on the moult. He -liked quince jam. Could you manage to pack a pot or so?” -</p> -<p> -“Jethro!” Her keen voice made the name more a shrill, birdlike cry than -a word. “I can’t bear to hear you talk so calmly. I would not mind so -much if you looked the martyr. But you sound so every-day—quince jam, -pullet eggs! And yet I know how bitterly you care.” -</p> -<p> -“I must try not to. I’ve made a muddle. I hurried things when I should -have let them alone.” -</p> -<p> -“You’ll forget,” she said, with miserable lack of<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-190">[190]</a></span> conviction. “We -shall be—Edred and I—a bad dream. Never trouble to give us a -thought.” -</p> -<p> -“But I shall expect to hear from you; to see you, perhaps, if I go to -London. I’ve often thought of a week in London. I haven’t been since my -father died. We saw most of the sights, but missed the Doré Gallery. -Everyone ought to go there.” -</p> -<p> -She gasped. -</p> -<p> -“You could come up, see us together—man and wife. You can talk of the -Doré Gallery!” -</p> -<p> -“Why not? I mustn’t lose sight of you, my mother’s kin.” -</p> -<p> -“Kin!” she cried out, with bitter scorn for herself and Edred. “He -isn’t, at all events. His real name I don’t know; he was sentenced as -Edred Pugin. As for me! Very likely my father was not your missing -uncle at all. I hope not—for your sake. I’m no credit to you.” -</p> -<p> -“You must send me your address. If that ruby company is good and all -the shares are not allotted, I’ve money lying by—I shan’t need to -spend so much now——” -</p> -<p> -“You don’t know Edred. Never let him have another penny. He has done -you harm enough. You won’t want our address; we shan’t be creditable -people—for you to know. Up to-day and down to-morrow—I know the life -I’m going to lead. But I step into it with my eyes open, -because—because it will be with him. I want you to know the very worst -of me—you’ll be cured all the sooner. Your misery is nothing—compared -to him. My heart is all stone—until he dissolves it. He doesn’t -want<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-191">[191]</a></span> me. But I’m glad, mad to go. Remember all this when I’m gone. Say -she was a callous, reckless, scheming, unprincipled creature—she is -well forgotten.” -</p> -<p> -She slipped past him, and out of the room, and up the stairs. Once he -thought he heard her sing and then stop abruptly. He went out and -tramped moodily across his acres, finding fault with everything, -swearing freely at the men, kicking his dog, and roughly ordering away -a party of children who were playing in the meadow. -</p> -<p> -Pamela packed. She said good-by to Gainah, who never troubled to lift -her head, tipped the two maids. When she told them, in a marked and -significant way, that her brother was dangerously ill, pretty Nettie -began to blubber. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -When the wagonette was out of sight Gainah put her patchwork away -methodically. Then she went into the garden, looking at things -critically, speaking to Daborn in a sharp voice—the imperious voice of -old. She was a little cramped yet—mentally and bodily. But the fact -that Pamela had gone was beginning to glimmer in on her poor -intelligence. When she saw the housekeeping keys in the basket, she -picked them up and dropped them in her deep pocket with a cunning -chuckle. Then she marched solemnly into the kitchen. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_114"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-192">[192]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_114_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_114_toc">CHAPTER XIV.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -W<small>HEN</small> Pamela walked out into the yard at Victoria, the stale stable -smell, the heavy air, and coarse sounds instantly made her feel at -home. The last time she had breathed London was on that hot, stifling -August morning nearly a year ago when she had started for Folly Corner. -Her head had been heavy then, her eyes inflamed with crying, her feet -sore and burning with the ceaseless, hopeless walk of the night -before—backward and forward across the common, keeping the stolid -prison—his shameful casket—in sight. -</p> -<p> -To-day her mouth curved happily, the blood ran in and out of her face -with the intensity of her emotion. Folly Corner was far behind -her—behind forever; Aunt Sophy, Nancy, Annie—all the kind, -slow-witted women—were mere phantoms; Jethro, clumping his fields -stupidly, his head hanging, his big heart sore, was simply a rustic -figure of no particular interest. -</p> -<p> -That life at Folly Corner had been a different incarnation. The one -moment when it seemed real was when a ruddy-faced man had brushed by -her on the platform—a pointed Niphetos rosebud in his coat. She -thought then fleetly of her garden, of all the bushes which had been -her choice, which had been planted for her. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-193">[193]</a></span> -She listened joyously to the hoarse voices of the drivers, to the -mellow rattle of the piano-organ playing a tune which she had never -heard. An orderly boy, looking pertly up in her face as she got into -the cab, said: -</p> -<p> -“Now we <i>shan’t</i> be long.” -</p> -<p> -That must be the new catchword; once she had been well up in these -things. Edred had taken her to music-halls. -</p> -<p> -How hot and misty and stuffy it was! And how delicious! She leaned back -in the cab, laughing softly and continuously, like a mad thing. Then -she began to be afraid, not knowing how Edred would receive her. Then -she smiled again, knowing that she knew how to make herself -adorable—at least for a little while. There were certain gestures, -certain airs and words, which always pleased him. She coaxed a finger -under her veil, and pulled a loose bit of hair on the temple over her -brow. He liked loose hair. -</p> -<p> -It was a misty, gray-gold afternoon. London was empty—for London. -</p> -<p> -The Green Park was thick and mystic, the white frocks of the little -children standing out solidly in the haze; an occasional white -perambulator moving along slowly, like a fairy boat. -</p> -<p> -Marquise Mansions. The cab pulled up. The driver called out ironically -to the conductor of a Hammersmith omnibus, “Fancy meeting <i>you!</i>”—that -must be another catchword. How she had lost touch of the gay, silly, -witty London life! She had been contemptuous of it, imagined that she -hated it,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-194">[194]</a></span> that she only longed for it because Edred was there. Was it -possible that only yesterday, about this time, she had been watching -Jethro’s cart horses, with their elaboration of brass harness and head -decking? She had thought then that the country was so large, so utterly -satisfying; that towns, with their hotbed air of struggle and scheming, -would choke her. Only yesterday! It had all faded into a sad, tender -dream. She was very glad to be awake again. Marquise Mansions! -</p> -<p> -It was a leviathan block of latter-day flats; red brick, white paint -already turning smoke-colored, muslin curtains at the windows, little -fragile balconies to the upper stories. A maid in smart black-and-white -livery came daintily out and flicked a duster over one of the -balconies. She looked down into the street and smirked at a man with a -milk cart. -</p> -<p> -The place was like Edred. It was a typical place for him to choose: all -swagger show, all glitter, very smart and ostentatious, very thin. -</p> -<p> -She dismissed her cab, went up the tesselated steps, consulted the -names which were displayed on the wall. The hall porter rang the lift -bell. The lift came down. She got in, reclined on the thickly-cushioned -back, and watched the floors skim by, dip down. -</p> -<p> -Edred was on the third. She knocked with some trepidation at the -extravagantly shaped copper knocker which flaunted itself on a peacock -door. A little pert page, all claret cloth and gilt buttons, opened it. -She caught her breath at the color and<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-195">[195]</a></span> depth of the carpets lying on -the stained floor, at great copper bowls and decorative dishes which -were disposed on shelves in a room with a half-opened door. -</p> -<p> -“Is Mr. Crisp in?” -</p> -<p> -The little page smiled knowingly; it was a very horrible smile, on such -a chubby, child face. He didn’t seem at all surprised at the advent of -such a visitor—a handsome woman, young and well dressed. It was -evident—her blazing, aching heart told her this—that she was only one -of a type. -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Crisp is in, miss. What name?” -</p> -<p> -“Never mind. Tell him an old friend.” -</p> -<p> -He left her in a little ante-room, dainty, extravagant, luxurious, with -an oriel window looking over the park. She had composure enough to get -up and put her face close to an oval, gilt-framed glass which hung -above the hearth. She had hardly turned away when the door opened. With -lips parted and hands out she advanced, then fell back as a strange man -put his chin and a pair of keen eyes round the lintel. He was a -nondescript. She took an instant dislike to the weak face and reedy -figure. He was dressed in brown tweed of an ugly herring-bone pattern; -he had a thick new watch-chain. She didn’t know who he was, but she -instantly hated—and resented—him. -</p> -<p> -He came a little farther into the room, looked at her thoughtfully, -critically—as a lady’s-maid might at her lady’s new gown—possibly to -be hers some day. Then he, too, grinned. The glance instantly fired -her; she looked and almost spoke indignant<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-196">[196]</a></span> remonstrance. But the -strange man merely grinned again and slipped away. She was left alone. -</p> -<p> -Edred was a very long time. When at last she heard lagging feet, the -ball in her throat—of frenzied delight, of trepidation and -tumult—nearly choked her. -</p> -<p> -He was faultlessly dressed. He looked prosperous—a bit bored and -languid—that was part of his mask—but happy and very much plumper. -She fancied that his puffy cheeks detracted from his good looks. He -hadn’t missed her. He had left her at Folly Corner—to die if she -liked, to do worse—without caring. -</p> -<p> -She struggled up from the extravagantly stuffed divan of figured silk. -</p> -<p> -“Edred!” -</p> -<p> -“By Jove! Pam! You?” -</p> -<p> -She had nervously pulled her gloves off while she waited. His eyes fell -to her hands at once. There wasn’t a ring on them. -</p> -<p> -“Whew! He hasn’t found out? The wedding isn’t off?” -</p> -<p> -“Aren’t you glad to see me?” -</p> -<p> -“My dear little girl—it is such a surprise. Fancy meeting <i>you!</i>” he -laughed airily. “Where’s old Jeth? What’s the joke?” His eyes fell to -her hands again. “You’re married? It was to be the sixth—wasn’t it? -No—the sixteenth?” He looked at a calendar. -</p> -<p> -“The tenth.” -</p> -<p> -“To-day’s the fourth. Are you playing a trick? How did you know I was -here? I say, Pam, be<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-197">[197]</a></span> square. Is he—Jethro, you know—waiting outside? -The old fellow must look odd in a frock-coat. Does he lift each foot -along the pavement, as if he were walking through stubble? If he’s up, -I can give him a good tip. The new company——” -</p> -<p> -“The ruby mine. I know. I saw your name—that is why I came.” -</p> -<p> -“Does he want an investment?” -</p> -<p> -She clasped her hands with an air of hopeless, helpless tragedy. -</p> -<p> -“You men are all alike. Can’t you see an inch before your nose? Do you -think I should come up here about rubies? Oh! can’t you see it on my -face? Jethro was just as bad; he made me tell him everything.” -</p> -<p> -“Everything?” -</p> -<p> -His handsome face became blank. -</p> -<p> -“Everything.” She threw a hard laugh at him. “Everything—No. 4658 and -all.” -</p> -<p> -“You didn’t?” -</p> -<p> -“I did. It is your fault. I couldn’t marry him, Eddie. I had to come. -He wished it. He knows everything. He sent me.” -</p> -<p> -“He sent you to me?” -</p> -<p> -“Yes.” She was growing deadly pale. “Don’t you want me? I can go -away—but not to Folly Corner. That is finished.” -</p> -<p> -He looked troubled, stroking and tugging the coal-black, silky -mustache. He raised his eyes to her, then dropped them to the ground. -</p> -<p> -She had fallen back, her lids half fallen. It was a hot day; it had -been a long journey. She was<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-198">[198]</a></span> very tired, quite faint. She didn’t think -she cared much, now that he evidently didn’t. Yet, never for a moment -did she regret leaving Jethro; never for a moment entertain the idea of -going back. She shut her eyes, listening quite listlessly to the rumble -of life below. Her fate had long ago passed out of her own hands. She -was a chattel in spirit; although free in letter. Let him settle what -he liked. -</p> -<p> -She was roused by a kiss on her mouth. Edred was on the lounge. His -face was tender—the bold, assured tenderness that always made her -happy. -</p> -<p> -“Good little girl,” he said, in the half-sneering, half-caressing voice -which was his nearest approach to adoration. “Good little girl to come. -You must stay with me. I’ve missed you, Pam. You had the telegram?” -</p> -<p> -She let her head stay on his arm; she stretched her dusty feet out -wearily, with a gesture of absolute content. -</p> -<p> -“Yes. It was dangerous; Jethro might have opened it. I waited by the -yew half the night. Why didn’t you come?” -</p> -<p> -“Because I had just a shred or so of honor left——” -</p> -<p> -“The evasive thing that men call honor! I never could understand it.” -</p> -<p> -“A woman doesn’t. Jethro—poor old man—had been devilish good. The two -‘hun’ put me on my feet, Pam. Like the place?” He nodded his head -comprehensively at the luxury which walled them. “Decentish, isn’t it?” -</p> -<p> -“It’s very nice. Why didn’t you come, or write?<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-199">[199]</a></span> It nearly broke my -heart. If I had not seen your name in the paper yesterday I should have -married Jethro.” -</p> -<p> -“I’m very glad you didn’t.” He looked sleepily at the beauty of her -flushed cheeks, at the depths of her happy eyes. “You saw the page -advertisement in the <i>Standard?</i> We’re spending thousands in -advertisements—throw a sprat to catch a herring. Does the carrier -still bring the paper? What’s the fellow’s name?” -</p> -<p> -“Buckman.” -</p> -<p> -“That’s it. The same slow old horse—Hackty. You see I’ve remembered -that. I suppose they mean it for Hector, or perhaps Active. Gad! what a -sleepy hole! I felt like being in a dentist’s chair the whole time, -half under the gas, you know, just going off. If you went back in fifty -years, they’d be just the same. It’s so precious dull that they’d blow -their brains out—if they had any.” -</p> -<p> -“Jethro has been so good,” she said, feeling numbly that Jethro was -already very, very far away. She actually laughed, adding: “He insisted -on my bringing up flowers, eggs, some quince jam.” -</p> -<p> -“That stunning quince jam,” he said boyishly. “Jeth’s a good sort. Was -he very much cut up? It was too bad.” He gave her another kiss, without -any protest on her part, any courtliness on his; quite as a matter of -course. -</p> -<p> -“He was splendid. Poor, dear old Jethro! You wouldn’t understand. -You’ll only laugh. You always laugh at things that make me want to -cry—it’s the way with a man. He was so simple,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-200">[200]</a></span> so grand. He was like -a Greek god, very calm, but not a bit indifferent. He regarded it so -broadly—talked of Nature. He is all Nature. He is a great, simple, -clean-living ox—slow, reflective, not a bit stupid. He seemed to be -above or past all the small teasing, tearing strings which drag mean -hearts like yours and mine. I’ve been talking a great deal of nonsense -and you are annoyed.” -</p> -<p> -She looked quite frightened as Edred got up abruptly and rang the bell. -The past ten minutes had been so sweet that she would have accepted -them willingly as eternity. -</p> -<p> -“Not a bit.” He shrugged. “But it’s rather rough to compare him to one -of his own oxen. Do you remember how proud he was of his -stock—murderous black beasts with tremendous horns? I tell you I -didn’t half like crossing some of those fields in the twilight.” -</p> -<p> -The page came in. He looked at her boldly as she sat on the couch. She -decided that her first step of authority should be the dismissal of -that boy. Edred ordered tea. Everything was dainty, strangely dainty to -her, because she was fresh from the coarse, lavish hospitality of -Sussex. The sandwiches were evanescent—a suggestion of yellow and -green. Edred tilted the cream into her cup; at Folly Corner they often -had to put up with skim milk because Jethro insisted on having so many -pounds of butter made weekly. He had his stern economies; believed in -making farming thoroughly pay. When eggs fetched more than a shilling a -dozen almost every one was sent to market. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-201">[201]</a></span> -There were French cakes, toast cut in mathematically exact triangles. -The aroma of the tea seemed to fill the room. They sat by the open -window, an inlaid table spread with exquisitely drawn linen between -them. She looked at the road, across the railings into the park, where -an occasional carriage drove through the haze. She looked at Edred. The -prison stain was completely gone. His diamond ring, the pin at his -neck, all his indications of prosperity, pleased her. And yet she -thought the diamonds ostentatious. If he had been a portly man, instead -of a slim and elegant one, he would have been vulgar. -</p> -<p> -She was always touched by externals—had a painful respect for the -things money gave. In the midst of her intense happiness she paused to -consider discreetly that, love apart, Edred was a more eligible husband -than Jethro. She thought of Jethro—that side of him which had always -jarred on her: his half-sheepish, half-surly air in the presence of -strangers, his shy avoidance of women. Then she thought of his -toilet—the striped tags of his thick boots, which were generally -hanging out, the black suit, which he would speak of as his “best”; his -week-day shirts of galatea; his best white ones, which he did not often -wear because of the difficulty experienced by the old washerwoman in -getting them up. She thought of his ridiculous neckties, of his huge, -snuffy silk pocket-handkerchief, of the turnip-like repeater which had -been his grandfather’s, and which he lugged out of his capacious pocket -laboriously. She poured herself more<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-202">[202]</a></span> tea from the Queen Anne silver -pot. She poured another cup for Edred, feeling a delightful sense of -being wifely as she did it. -</p> -<p> -“We might have had some of Jeth’s jam,” he said, idly smiling at her. -His eyes seemed to contract and glitter unnaturally with undisguised -admiration. She was very flushed and triumphant, a little feverish and -reckless with her mastery of him. Yet, all the same, because she was a -woman of the world, and had been driven to consider her reputation, she -began to wonder, as the gray haze in the park grew black, what -suggestion he was going to make for the night. One could not walk out -into the street, take a hansom, and drive to be married forthwith. He -said, pushing his empty cup away and settling back in the chair: -</p> -<p> -“I’ve been lucky. Everything I’ve touched has turned up trumps.” -</p> -<p> -“The ruby mine——” -</p> -<p> -“Pooh! That is only one thing. I’ve learnt, by very bitter experience, -that it is as well to have plenty of irons in the fire.” -</p> -<p> -“Is it a genuine concern? You won’t risk anything this time?” -</p> -<p> -She put the question for his sake—for theirs. She did not wish him to -fail, to suffer again. She wanted to be rich—safe—for the rest of her -life. -</p> -<p> -“As genuine as anything can be,” he returned evasively. “But don’t -spoil yourself by being serious. The prettiest woman—and you are -looking devilish pretty to-night, darling—can’t afford to be serious: -it brings lines about the mouth.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-203">[203]</a></span> -She returned his smile, but a moment after she sobered again. -</p> -<p> -“I’m obliged to be serious,” she told him deprecatingly. “What -arrangement do you propose for to-night? If I go to Bloomsbury too late -they will not be willing to take me in.” -</p> -<p> -“Bloomsbury!” He looked annoyed at being reminded of that page in his -life. “You don’t want to go there.” -</p> -<p> -“They know me. I can think of no other place.” -</p> -<p> -He didn’t answer for a moment. She searched his flushed face anxiously -through the uncertain light. -</p> -<p> -“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last. “There’s a very fair hotel a few -doors down. Sutton shall send my traps there. I’ll engage a couple of -rooms for myself and him, and you shall have this place. Will that do? -You’ll be very comfortable. They give me service—the cooking’s fair. -One of the chambermaids will unpack your things and help dress you.” -</p> -<p> -He spoke as if she had all her life been accustomed to such attendance. -He was wonderfully plastic; it was one of his feminine attributes. In a -few weeks he had assimilated the manner, cultivated the brain of a -wealthy man who instinctively measures cost by a five-pound note: -nothing smaller than a “fiver.” -</p> -<p> -“That would do very well.” -</p> -<p> -“It won’t be for long. We must marry. I’ll get a license to-morrow. -Sutton shall see about it—he’s a rare fellow for details.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-204">[204]</a></span> -“Is that the horrid man who looked into the room while I was waiting?” -</p> -<p> -Edred laughed. -</p> -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> -<p> -“Who is he? He mustn’t come here any more. I’m sure he’s hateful.” -</p> -<p> -“He’s very useful. He lives here—a most superior fellow, much to be -pitied. He was a clerk in a City firm for twenty-five years; went there -when he left school; worked up to a salary of £150. Threw all his -energies into the business; stayed late on Saturday, took papers home -to master on Sunday. Then they chucked him—wanted a younger fellow. -Everybody must be young nowadays. Sutton is invaluable. He knows the -inside of the city. He’s my clerk. I give him a couple of pounds a week -and his grub. He’s perfectly happy—so am I. His tips have put hundreds -into my pocket. Oh! you’ll have to be civil to Sutton.” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t be in too great a hurry to make money, will you?” -</p> -<p> -He laughed. -</p> -<p> -“Too much haste leads to the dock,” he said lightly. “I’m careful -enough. Some day—in a fairly little time, too—I shall be a second -Milligan. Lady Pamela Crisp. It sounds well, doesn’t it?” -</p> -<p> -“We are going to be married—in my name. Will that be legal?” -</p> -<p> -“Extraordinary delusions a woman has about the marriage service! Of -course it will be legal.” -</p> -<p> -“I ought to be going to Victoria to get my luggage. It is in the -cloak-room.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-205">[205]</a></span> -“Sutton will see to that.” -</p> -<p> -She never forgot the witchery of that evening. Edred was so adoring, so -recklessly generous, so optimistic. They dined; they had a box at the -theater. No tinge of conscience whipped up her light heart. She never -threw one half-thought back, across the lonely miles of suburb and -common and pasture, to the mellow old house, girt with a great pond, -whose master at that moment might be sitting by the empty hearth with -his whole big faithful heart full of her. -</p> -<p> -The one disconcerting touch was when they parted at the door of -Marquise Mansions. Edred had been talking of his successes, of the many -clever, shifty schemes he had in prospect. -</p> -<p> -“We must entertain—in a Bohemian way,” he said. “Only men; jossers I -want to persuade into doing things. You understand? Very often a look -from a pretty, well-dressed woman will do more than hours of -plausibility, of convincing proof, from the woman’s husband. You must -have some Paris frocks; get your hair dressed well.” -</p> -<p> -“We shall only entertain men?” -</p> -<p> -“Women are not interesting—the wives and daughters of city men. We -shall only entertain from diplomacy—other women would spoil -everything. You must help me to play my game. It is to your interest, -isn’t it?” -</p> -<p> -She did not answer. He thought that her expression in the uncertain -light—stars and gas lamps competing—was rebellious. He became -savagely petulant. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-206">[206]</a></span> -“This marrying is a bore,” he said. “Why do you insist on it? Marriage -is only an empty form. It would be all the same—no one would know. -Married people are not branded for all the world to see, after all. We -shall never get tired of each other. It will be just the same, just as -safe, more romantic. What do you think, Pam?” -</p> -<p> -He stared at her with odd intentness, as she stood in the shadow of the -wide entrance door. She was wrapped from her soft dull hair to her shoe -in a costly evening cloak which they had hurriedly bought on the way to -the theater to cover her dusty traveling dress. -</p> -<p> -“I think that it has all been said, threshed out,” she returned firmly. -“I don’t want romance—at the expense of respectability.” -</p> -<p> -The night-rattle of London swung by them as they stood in the shadow of -the door poising their fate in their hands. The warm, misty streets -were festooned with strings of red and yellow light. Pamela was -reminded of those miserable omnibus rides from Portobello Road, when -she had watched the words “O<small>X</small> F<small>ORCE</small>—N<small>INON</small> S<small>OAP</small>—D<small>UNN</small>’<small>S</small> N<small>OSTRUM</small>” -glitter and die on the face of a house. -</p> -<p> -Edred’s eyes, contracted and brilliant, tried to destroy her will. They -were admiring, magnetic. But she was fiercely respectable; she had -struggled, had seen the seamy side of life. She loved him, she was -madly, wickedly infatuated with him, but his smooth claptrap about the -romance of an irregular union did not take her in. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-207">[207]</a></span> -“You are jesting,” she said coldly; “jesting—in very bad taste.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes. Only a jest,” he returned, gripping her hand. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -Three days after that they were married. She started a new, -intoxicating career as mistress of the gorgeously appointed flat at -Marquise Mansions. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_115"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-208">[208]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_115_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_115_toc">CHAPTER XV.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -I<small>T</small> was past eleven and they were languidly pecking at breakfast. The -brick-red sun forced himself into the room, made the gorgeously -upholstered settee and chairs look faded, showed the green tarnish on -the great copper pots, the gray rim of dust on the delft which crowded -the shelves, and the darker layer which the housemaid had left in the -interstices of the elaborately carved furniture. -</p> -<p> -Pamela’s morning gown, of some clinging primrose stuff, had caught -London smuts in the loose ruffles of its sleeves. She lifted her cup -and the ruffles fell back, showing finger-and-thumb bruises on the -white flesh. She was sallow, blotchy, her eyes muddy and swollen. Edred -kept looking up from his paper and staring savagely; the weary face, -all quiver and traces of heavy tears, infuriated him. -</p> -<p> -“I don’t know what is coming over you,” he broke out at last. “You have -only two moods—the nagging or the maudlin.” -</p> -<p> -“Edred! I—I thought you’d say you were sorry for last night. Look!” -</p> -<p> -She held up her bare arm accusingly. -</p> -<p> -“Sorry!” His frank look of amazement was absolutely genuine. “What have -I to be sorry about?” -</p> -<p> -“Look!” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-209">[209]</a></span> -The white arm, with the ugly purple marks, quivered before his eyes. -</p> -<p> -“Pooh! you bruise with a touch. It’s nothing.” -</p> -<p> -“The things you said——” -</p> -<p> -“Said! You’d madden any man with your stiff airs of prudery.” -</p> -<p> -“I’ve begged you not to ask Milligan here.” -</p> -<p> -“I shall ask him as often as I like. He’s useful. You’ll please be -civil to everybody who’s useful—to Sutton in particular. You treat the -fellow as if he were——” -</p> -<p> -“The cur he is,” she concluded scornfully. -</p> -<p> -“You’re no good if you can’t help me to play my game. That is why you -are here, confound you,” he cried savagely. “You don’t think”—his -sneer was devilish—“that I married you because I had such a supreme -longing for fireside virtue.” -</p> -<p> -“They are all alike—your men,” she cried out passionately. “They -regard me as—as—I cannot finish.” -</p> -<p> -She buried her disfigured face in her hands. Every line of her shaking -body was crouching, subjective; she was a human hound with a brute for -a master, a brute on whom she fawned. -</p> -<p> -“It’s new for you to be so particular.” -</p> -<p> -“I—I don’t understand.” She lifted her face suddenly; let him see it -all grotesquely distorted, drawn out of shape. -</p> -<p> -“I repeat; it is new for you to be so particular. If you can throw -yourself into the arms of one man——” -</p> -<p> -“One man?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-210">[210]</a></span> -“These mawkish airs of innocence don’t impress me. We’ve been quite -bare to each other for twelve months. You came here; forced yourself on -me. Why couldn’t you stay behind like a sensible, modest woman, and -marry Jethro? I was getting on perfectly well, wasn’t I? Did I look as -if I wanted you?” -</p> -<p> -“Edred!” -</p> -<p> -“That parrot cry will make me murder you some day. Be a woman, with a -clear head on your shoulders, not a sniveling fool. Be a wife to me.” A -queer, mocking expression contracted his thin mouth. “Help me when you -can. If you offend Milligan——” -</p> -<p> -“I’ll never speak to him again. Good Heavens! You don’t want me——” -</p> -<p> -He sprung up from the table, took her by the trembling shoulder, and -swung her round. -</p> -<p> -“I don’t care what the devil you do,” he said deliberately. -</p> -<p> -She looked weakly up into his face, saw that he meant it, and began to -shake and sob. This was the worst blow he could deal. He meant it! -Hitherto she had attributed his brutalities to business worry. -</p> -<p> -She cried violently, hopelessly. She was all tears. She had no spirit -left, except the spirit that vents itself in extravagant words. -Suddenly she darted to the open window. -</p> -<p> -“If I were to jump down,” she began desperately; her feverish hands -clawed round the ledge, her wild eyes turned inward to the room. -</p> -<p> -“It wouldn’t be a bad solution.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-211">[211]</a></span> -She ran back, tried to catch him round the neck with her pleading arms, -murmured pet names, shivered, sobbed, shook, tried vainly, in the wrong -way, to win back the old, transient adoration. -</p> -<p> -He wrenched himself away, as he would have freed himself from a skein. -</p> -<p> -“I’m sick of these rows,” he said savagely. “Do as I wish. Mind what -you’re at with Sutton—he knows a precious deal that I’d rather he -didn’t. Play Milligan. A clever woman would do it all without -compromise, but you are a prude—one of those ardent, faithful prudes -that make a man curse. Hang it all, I don’t want your extravagant -devotion; I’m in need of help. I don’t care what you do so long as I -don’t know—that’s married fidelity up to date. Do you understand?” -</p> -<p> -“I can’t—I won’t! My life is one degradation; you don’t care. If I -were some shameful woman, not your wife——” -</p> -<p> -“By George! if you knew all, you’re little better. That jargon in the -church—Sutton to give you away, the verger as best man—didn’t put you -on a pedestal of virtue.” -</p> -<p> -“I won’t—I can’t!” she repeated desperately, linking and unlinking her -hands, looking up at him with the devoted, obstinate eyes of a dog who -is afraid. -</p> -<p> -“Then go. You are a burden, an irritant.” -</p> -<p> -“You mean that?” -</p> -<p> -“Of course. I mean everything.” -</p> -<p> -He flung himself out of the room. Presently she heard him leave the -flat with Sutton. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-212">[212]</a></span> -She fell down on the settee, cuddling into the stuffed corners for -comfort. She shivered all over. She was cold. She ached with misery. -She told herself that she was a coward. She knew perfectly well, as -well as he did, that her heroics, her dramatic attitudes and words of -palpable restraint, were only pose. A woman who meant suicide wouldn’t -talk about it. She despised herself for that rush to the window—as he -despised her. He had told her to go; he didn’t want her. But she hadn’t -the courage to take him at his word. She loved him. She was perfectly -willing to crawl, to cringe to him—for the sake of an occasional rough -caress. -</p> -<p> -What a life it had been! She looked back along the year. She recalled -his first few ardent weeks, his gradual cynicism and disregard, the -constant vinegar lash of his reckless tongue, the frequent heavy blows. -</p> -<p> -What a strange, disreputable, luxurious life they led, the three of -them! She included Sutton without hesitation. He was only a dependent -in externals. Edred seemed more than half afraid of him. Sutton knew -every money-making shuffle, every risky deal of the game. -</p> -<p> -She gazed wildly about her. Everything was luxurious, slovenly, lonely. -She hadn’t an engagement to fill the day, hadn’t a woman friend in the -world. Then, fleetly, her thoughts ran back with deep affection to -those women she had known once—kin, perhaps—the Turles and Crisps, -and Jaynes and Furlongers. Simple women! She had laughed at them, been -scornful of them, been bored to death<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-213">[213]</a></span> by them. At the moment she longed -for them. She pictured them individually in their lonely, comfortable -homes, with their traditional, simple, brainless occupations. She -thought of them singly. Each one had her special reputation among her -neighbors—for a particular jelly, good butter, or savory pickles. -</p> -<p> -She knew dozens of men. They came to the flat with Edred; sometimes -they came when he was out, when they knew perfectly well that he was -certain to be in the City. Milligan especially cultivated that trick. -Her outraged virtue lighted to a cruel fire. She thought fiercely that -if Milligan came up the stairs that day she would find courage to kill -him. -</p> -<p> -Yes, dozens of men! They gave her flowers, once or twice a jewel. They -paid her dubious compliments, discussed music-hall artistes, told queer -stories in her presence. They flattered, ignored, or shocked her, as it -suited the mood of the moment. She occupied exactly the position of a -beautiful, expensive lap-dog, whose ears every visitor may pull, to -whom every visitor may toss a lump of sugar. -</p> -<p> -London outside was gay and hot—all blue and yellow, all dust and eager -noise. The top-heavy omnibus swung by, with gayly dressed women on the -garden seats, fluttering bows of ribbon on the drivers’ whips. The big -hats of the women, piled with feathers and imitation roses, made her -think of her blazing flower borders at Folly Corner. She sat up, wiped -her burning eyes, into which her bitter sorrow seemed to have corroded. -She thought very calmly of Jethro—thought of the slow, easeful, -reflective<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-214">[214]</a></span> life which she had so lightly, so gladly, thrown out of -reach. A year ago! They would have married—had a child, perhaps. His -simple words—“A little son to come with me and beat in shooting-time; -they soon grow up”—rippled in her throbbing head. A child! She might -have had her own child by now. The dreadful ache of a barren woman -caught her. -</p> -<p> -She walked up and down the untidy room, her primrose trail dragging -over the dusty carpet. She rang the bell, but no one came to clear. She -hadn’t a duty in the world. It was hardly noon yet. If she crawled back -to her bed and sobbed away the day, if she went headlong down through -the oriel window—it made no difference. She was perfectly free to do -exactly as she chose. -</p> -<p> -She walked up and down in her misery and indecision, the August sun -streaming into the room, where the bacon on the table was caked in a -translucent layer of white grease, and the crumpled <i>serviettes</i> were -tossed to the floor. -</p> -<p> -All her love, her passion, her folly, and heartlessness had ended in -this—a mere vulgar marriage row. Row was the word he had used. Just an -underbred squabble—they had plenty. They had flung words at each -other—the usual taunts of an ill-sorted couple. -</p> -<p> -She knew he’d come in as usual at night—Sutton behind, with his false -air of subservience; Milligan at his side, his eyes roving about for -her. She knew she’d put on her freshest dress. She knew. She was a -miserable, plastic fool, hopelessly committed.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-215">[215]</a></span> Already she was no -longer angry with Edred; only bitterly, sorely pained and degraded. -</p> -<p> -If she could only travel past caring! But every bitter word of his -found its frightful billet in her heart; every foul word pierced like a -pointed weapon. Her love was riddled with the cruelest wounds, but not -one was vital. She loved him. He had told her to go. Go! She laughed, -picking up his pipe and kissing the stem ardently. -</p> -<p> -The gay rattle and careless chaff ran under her yawning window. She -started up suddenly and put on her out-of-door things. She went down -the wide staircase thoughtfully, wondering what on earth she should do -with the day. -</p> -<p> -She hailed the first omnibus that came rocking down Piccadilly. She got -inside and sat near the door. There were only two other passengers—a -middle-aged man and his more middle-aged wife. Pamela watched them -languidly, in the mood to study other people. Her own life held nothing -now but empty days and distasteful evenings. Dinner-time was -coming—with Milligan, other men, perhaps—all the people who somehow -made her feel contemptible, passively immoral. Their insults were so -delicate, so flattering, that she could not resent them: to resent -would be an admission. She just studied the dilemma of the middle-aged -woman, who was very nervous, who expressed her preference for trams. -</p> -<p> -“I’ll go nearer the door. Then, if there should be a spill, I could -jump out.” -</p> -<p> -She rustled along the seat, the stiff folds of her<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-216">[216]</a></span> brocaded black -skirt seeming to share her terror. Then she peppered the conductor with -anxious queries, asking him if he didn’t think the driver was drunk. -</p> -<p> -“Lor’, mum! he’s drove the ’bus for twenty year,” came the not -altogether reassuring answer. -</p> -<p> -“You think he’s really sober? But, oh conductor”—her voice rose to a -shriek as the horses swerved—“I do wish I was on the Underground. I -insist on getting out.” -</p> -<p> -He rang his bell viciously and bundled her off the step. Her husband -followed, looking keenly annoyed. Pamela smiled—scenting a marriage -row. Then the blinding tears gushed to her eyes and burned there -without falling. Marriage row! A vulgar, trivial squabble! She lived in -a rain of them. -</p> -<p> -“I’ll go outside,” she said, with a sudden desire for the sky above her -head and the dry air on her face. She went with a sure foot up the -steps and along the roof, the omnibus still moving, and took the one -spare seat immediately behind the driver. Once she had been proud of -her coolness and dispatch in climbing an omnibus. That was in the old -days, when money was scarce and skirts shabby at the hem: the days when -she had carved at table, accompanied songs, and made herself generally -useful (attractive, so the advertisement stipulated) at the stuffy -boarding-house near the British Museum. Edred had been one of the -boarders—had paid thirty shillings a week, which was as much as he -could afford out of his two pounds five weekly. Those<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-217">[217]</a></span> were the days -before he became a—number. She thought of it all, as she was carried -by Kensington Gardens—occasional nights at a music-hall, merry waiting -at pit doors, Sunday jaunts to Hampton Court—with a fresh summer gown, -a smart cheap hat, and a constant dread of a shower. -</p> -<p> -The women on the seat immediately opposite were talking volubly. They -both had cheap black jackets with very big buttons and outstanding -sleeves. One, as she talked, kept licking her lips and constantly -popping out her tongue with odd vivacity and archness. The other, an -older woman, with a severe expression, took an occasional solemn swig -at a bottle which was genteelly wrapped to the nose in a confectioner’s -paper bag. -</p> -<p> -As the vivacious woman wriggled on the seat she afforded occasional -peeps of a rusty quilted petticoat with a red flannel lining. -</p> -<p> -“She done it on the Monday as we see her on the Sunday,” Pamela heard -her say mysteriously. -</p> -<p> -She fell to wondering <i>what</i> she had done: something very reprehensible -certainly, judging from the shocked expression of the elder woman, who -nodded sourly and tilted her paper bag. -</p> -<p> -“She says to me, ‘Why don’t you take in a lodger?—some young lady as -is engaged all day in business. There’s the spare room a-goin’ -beggin’,’ she says. But I aint goin’ to do it, Mrs. Whitbourn; would -you? Oh, ’e’s a good ’usban’. But there!”—the dusty head with the -black chip hat shook sideways and the quick tongue lolled out—“you -never knows nothin’, do yer?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-218">[218]</a></span> -“No, yer never does,” confirmed the solemn woman. -</p> -<p> -“Lor’! ’ere we are at the church. Well, good-by, Mrs. Whitbourn. See -you again some day.” -</p> -<p> -They kissed lusciously; the sateen petticoat with the frowsy red lining -whisked away. -</p> -<p> -Pamela stared straight in front of her thoughtfully. -</p> -<p> -“Yer never knows nothin’, do yer? No, yer never does,” kept striking in -her head. -</p> -<p> -“Yer never does.” -</p> -<p> -She didn’t. Strange, that a suspicion of the particular wrong which -Edred might do her had never before occurred to her. Had she found the -secret of his coldness and unconcern—in another woman? Was there -somebody else? -</p> -<p> -First, a fierce, instinctive jealousy swept her; then she wished -ardently that it might be so. That might be the deathblow of her mad, -headlong love for him. -</p> -<p> -She went to the very end of the journey, then took another omnibus -back. At Bond Street she alighted and walked down to the dainty shop -where she usually had tea. The woman’s words still haunted her. -</p> -<p> -“Yer never knows nothin’, do yer?” -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -One might go on for a lifetime, in a nest of different worlds like -London, and never know. That was perfectly true. She turned her sleeve -up furtively and drank in the angry purple of the bruises on her wrist. -Was another woman responsible for them? It was a new idea and a very -enticing one. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_116"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-219">[219]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_116_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_116_toc">CHAPTER XVI.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -A<small>S</small> days went on she became more than ever persuaded of the fatalism of -those suggestive, common words, “Yer never knows nothin’, do yer?” That -woman, with the soiled red lining to her kicked-up petticoat—that -woman, with the loosely sensuous mouth, big tongue, and rolling bright -eyes, had emerged from the gray routine of her particular suburban -corner, merely as a warning. Those comically meaningless words became a -gospel. She was always saying them, puzzling over them. They were on -her pale lips as she looked questioningly into Edred’s face. Once she -woke up and found herself saying them in her sleep. It was too stupid. -But, if only that persistent quoting of them, in silence, that -continual battering of them at the door of her distracted brain, would -bring solution! If she could take hold of some slight clew! She found -herself constantly longing for proof of Edred’s unfaithfulness. That, -she thought, would end her love—her reckless, shameful love for an -unworthy object: love that blows, terrible suggestions, the cruelest -words and looks could not kill. If she could free herself from that -horrid, paralyzing coil of Love! -</p> -<p> -She used to dog his steps with the patient sleuth-like tread of -an intent panther. She followed him<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-220">[220]</a></span> into strange places often -enough—unseen. She was always watching, waiting. Other wives waited -and watched, hoping all the time that nothing was wrong, that they -still had faithful husbands, might still keep their homes together with -honor. But Pamela dogged Edred desperately—much more desperately than -she would have done had there been the smallest chance of happiness -left for them. She only fiercely prayed that there might be some -entanglement, that there was some other woman—weak, innocent, or -criminal—in the background. It meant so much more to her than mere -conjugal peace and trust; her experience had made her bitterly scornful -of married life: you could never successfully blend romance and joint -housekeeping. She was playing for a much higher, nobler stake—her own -independence. A wife was an individual first, a mere married woman -afterward. She was conscious from time to time of the absolute -isolation of each human being who treads the world. -</p> -<p> -One flesh! Bare hearts! What empty jargon! One could look into the -other one’s eyes and be breeding murder, worse than murder, all the -time. This life, the beings with whom we were accidentally thrown in -contact during our half-conscious sojourn—mere detail! There was a -splendid, terrifying isolation about everyone. Each alone! She used to -look at them curiously, speculatively; figures moving along the yellow -streets at night, in tender twos, in merry companies—and yet alone. -Each one shut in, cut off from all perfect communion, by the film of -his own individuality. Each brain its<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-221">[221]</a></span> own secret world. Each body, -under such varying garments, absolutely its own, in spite of vows, -ardent protestations, respectable and legal shackles. -</p> -<p> -She used to brood thus, a little at random, as she warily trod the -streets behind that slim, carefully-dressed figure. She had become a -strange perversion. She loved her husband still, in a headlong, fierce -way. Yet she longed for him to commit himself, so that her love might -puff away, become impalpable, like smoke rising in a clear sky. There -was no chance for her, no freedom, no self-respect until she became -callous, until that hot, wayward heart of hers was dammed up. She had -read—in a girl’s superficial way—of first love as a potent thing. She -hadn’t known then that it could be such a sweeping, crowning, -involuntary thing—hadn’t dreamed that it could hold you in such grim, -iron grasp. She couldn’t get away from the magnetism of—the first. She -despised him; sometimes, for a clear moment, she loathed him. She -remembered that on one occasion it had been a keen struggle to throw -down the bread knife on the wooden platter instead of slitting it -through his long lean throat. -</p> -<p> -And yet! He had only to call the old playful, indulgent light into his -lazy eyes, only to carelessly flip at her some gesture or word of the -past, to bring her under his heel—quivering body, small subject soul. -It was horrible to be in such bondage to a man—just because he had -been first. Only because! -</p> -<p> -One night near Holywell Street she saw him meet a woman. She followed -them down the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-222">[222]</a></span> Strand, an odd, glad singing in her head. The moment had -come. -</p> -<p> -She studied that woman with a woman’s minute, critical eye. She wasn’t -satisfied. The woman was respectable, obviously, insolently -respectable. She looked like the mistress of a maid-of-all-work and a -flawless little house. -</p> -<p> -She hadn’t the right atmosphere. She took Edred’s arm, hanging on it -stolidly and looking at other women on the pavements with a sort of -virtuous sneer, seeming to say, “I have a perfect right; can any of you -say as much?” They might have been an aggressively respectable married -couple from South London going to dine at a restaurant by way of -dissipation. -</p> -<p> -As a matter of fact they turned in at one. Pamela watched Edred push -back the heavy door and gravely stand aside for his companion to pass -in first. There was no eagerness in his attitude; he seemed quite used -to it, not exactly weary, but coldly stolid. He wore the settled air of -a married man—the mild, contented, resigned air of doom, which so many -husbands wear. He was neither unhappy nor happy; he took this evening -meal in the crush and steam and the hurry of waiters as a matter of -course. Why not? -</p> -<p> -She didn’t pretend to understand him—or her. They were an odd couple. -Nothing stealthy, illicit, ecstatic about them, when there should have -been a suggestion of all three emotions! -</p> -<p> -The woman wore brown—the frump’s unfailing refuge: it was a hot, -reddish sort of brown; her hat,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-223">[223]</a></span> anxious to be in the fashion, was -painfully skewered to her head by many pins. There were fresh touches -of pink about her at ridiculously unwanted spots. She looked pleased, -shy; like a child dressed for a party. -</p> -<p> -Pamela followed them up between the line of tables, between the greedy -line of eaters, some gluttonously bending over the plates, some waiting -with an air of impatience, some replete and leaning back, quizzing and -smoking. In the long mirrors she could see the reflection of all -three—such a dramatic three: Edred, with his sheepish, sleepy air; the -strange woman, all pink and brown and narrow airs of virtue as she -looked at—and apparently suspected—every other woman a little smarter -than herself. Last of the three Pamela saw her own tall figure, -stylishly attired, the abundant dull hair bunching out beneath her -toque with the big ostrich plumes. The set and selection of her gown -was in such good, if rather striking, taste, that the over-fed and -quickly-feeding men looked after her, their faces lighting up. -</p> -<p> -The intangible feeling of shame, of smirching, which was becoming -common to her, caught at her then. She fancied she read insult in the -admiration of these many strange men. -</p> -<p> -She looked at herself again and was bound to admit that there was not -so very much difference between her costume, her carriage, and the -carriage and costume of others present whose vocation was unmistakable. -The ultra-fashionable woman sails perilously near the wind in -appearance. She felt<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-224">[224]</a></span> quite angry with her expensive garments. She -followed still, through the glass, the movements of the woman in pink -and brown. She seemed to shout, in every seam of her dowdy frock, in -every gleaming button of her badly-cut gloves, “respectable married -virtue.” She!—<i>she!</i> -</p> -<p> -The world was whirling round the wrong way. -</p> -<p> -She followed her quarry, every sense alert so that Edred might not -discover her. When the two settled at a table she deftly slipped aside -and took the one immediately behind them. So that they were sitting -back to back, she and that shameful woman with the perplexing insolent -air of calm virtue. The back of her beautifully-cut and braided -heliotrope coat was within a few inches of the contemptible little -brown bodice with the crisp pink bow at the neck and the pink-lined -ends, like lopping rabbit-ears, at the waist. -</p> -<p> -The waiter came up. Beneath her breath and mechanically she ordered a -steak, her ears strained all the time to hear what they would order. -Edred said: -</p> -<p> -“Calves’-head? You have never tasted it—as they serve it here.” -</p> -<p> -“It’s rather rich,” came a common voice dubiously. -</p> -<p> -Odd! Her voice, like her frock, like her little pursed mouth and hard -eyes, was respectable. Aggressively respectable! Women like that had no -right to appear respectable; to do so was an additional aggravation. -Wasn’t their <i>existence</i> enough? The jealous fire was rising, was -already<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-225">[225]</a></span> burning, a steady white light, at her heart. But she was very -glad, of course. Confused, conflicting thoughts kept running in her -head. -</p> -<p> -When the steak came she could not eat it; there was enough for two men. -She just played with her knife and fork, dipping deeply into the bottle -of red wine she had ordered. -</p> -<p> -“I knew it would be too rich,” the voice of the brown woman said -reproachfully. “It’s too bad of you to spoil my dinner, when you know -my stomach’s not strong. Nasty, bilious stuff! I can’t touch another -bit.” -</p> -<p> -Well! He might have chosen a handsomer, a more refined woman. Little -common narrow creature! He might have given her a more worthy rival -while he was about it. -</p> -<p> -“Where did I put my gloves? No, I couldn’t look at pudding; it would -just about finish me. Cheese? If <i>you</i> like—not for me. I’ll have a -liqueur by and by; not that beastly green stuff we had last time. -Cherry brandy. I can’t have lost the gloves.” -</p> -<p> -She twirled round suddenly, putting her hands behind her and anxiously -fumbling. Pamela wheeled round too, grasping the handle of her umbrella -by way of excuse. Their eyes met. The quick, respectable, scandalized -expression shot into those of the brown woman. -</p> -<p> -Pamela flinched and flushed. It wasn’t pleasant to be mistaken—by her, -too. The wretch—the little, common, hypocritical wretch! How dare she? -Their eyes met: the malevolent stare in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-226">[226]</a></span> pink and brown woman’s, -the eager, wide look in Pamela’s. She photographed on her alert brain -every line of that face—the face which Edred found more comely than -hers. It was long and thin, but quite youthful; she judged her to be -about twenty-five. The eyes were hot brown, like the gown, and set -close together. They were restless eyes, curiously restless. They roved -about perpetually, seeming miserably to search for something which -never came. It was like a monkey’s face—a pink, unlined monkey face. -There was cunning in it, spite, and a kind of dumb pathos. A very -curious woman for a rival! -</p> -<p> -She fished up the ginger-colored gloves. They were shamefully new; one -or two of the buttons were still covered with tissue-paper. -</p> -<p> -Edred had finished his meal; he was smoking, his head back, his eyes -dreamy. Pamela knew the attitude very well; it usually followed a good -dinner. Her heart ached for herself. The little woman fussily put on -her gloves, drew down her veil, settled her fluttering ends of pink -satin. Then she, too, fell back on the red seat and began to look idly -about her, passing audible comments on people whose appearance invited -the acid of her tongue. -</p> -<p> -“And there’s that woman behind,” she said presently, in a distinct -whisper. “Just behind me. Look—when she isn’t looking. How silly you -are! Always looking the wrong way. Didn’t I say <i>behind?</i>” -</p> -<p> -“Never mind. I’ll take your word for her,” he returned. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-227">[227]</a></span> -“But do look. I’m sure she’s—you know. Half of them are in this place. -Disgraceful, overdressed things!” -</p> -<p> -He turned with sudden curiosity. Pamela was still twisted round on the -seat. She was staring savagely at that impudent brown hat, with the -ferocious spiked pins which stuck out in all directions. Edred turned. -He saw her—saw her haggard face peering through the smoke and vulgar -glitter of the place. As, for that one supreme moment, they stared -spellbound at each other, the second woman said impatiently: -</p> -<p> -“Come on. We shall be late. The last time you took me to the theater we -were late.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela started up, slipped past the tables, past the rows of diners. -Near the door the waiter stood in her path. She dropped a coin in his -hand and hurried on. Once outside the door of that place, under the -cool sky in a dark side street, she took to her heels like a -pickpocket. She was afraid of Edred, more afraid than she had ever -been. There had been a new, ugly threat on his face. It would be -something more than words this time. After all, words were not the -worst. Her flesh was tender; she dreaded that he would beat her. -</p> -<p> -She turned, panting like a closely-pressed hare, into the Strand, held -up her umbrella to the first hansom, and hustled in. -</p> -<p> -“Marquise Mansions,” she called up to the driver. “I’ll give you double -fare if you drive very quickly.” -</p> -<p> -The horse seemed to fly through the moving,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-228">[228]</a></span> brilliant streets. Before -her heart ceased its mad, quick beat of terror and apprehension, the -crude red wall of Marquise Mansions was in sight. -</p> -<p> -She went up to the flat, locked herself in her bedroom, dragged off her -tight gown, kicked away her shoes, unfastened the piquant hat from her -fair hair—and hid everything. She rolled the things in a rough bundle -and shot them far under the bed. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -When Edred burst in ten minutes later, she was half lying in a low -chair by the drawing-room window, with a novel in her hands. The lace -and cashmere of her tea-gown spread softly about her ankles like the -delicate tail of some exquisite foreign bird. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_117"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-229">[229]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_117_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_117_toc">CHAPTER XVII.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -S<small>HE</small> had never seen his face look quite so strange, not even on that mad -day in the stuffy Bloomsbury house when she helped him throw his things -into the bag and he whispered hoarsely that “they” were after him. She -was puzzled by the intensity of his expression. He didn’t love her, he -was tired, anxious to be rid of her. That discovery of the contemptible -woman in brown should have been propitious for him. And yet he seemed -furious, and, more than that, afraid. -</p> -<p> -She had meant to calmly tell the truth. But two things froze the truth -that lay ready on her tongue. She was afraid of him: he was a mere -violent physical brute, in the mood to stamp on her, to drive his fist -into her face: that was what it had come to—her tender, first romance. -Her weak woman’s cowardice made her shiver with apprehension under her -sweeping folds of cashmere. And then, apart from fear, she couldn’t -tell him. She didn’t want him to know she knew. -</p> -<p> -It was humiliating, mortifying, delightful. She rapidly read her own -heart. She loved him still. There was no solution. The common, dowdy -woman that he had just left had no power to part them. She realized -with fear, with self-reproach, with bitter shame, yet with relief, that -any mere bodily sin he might commit was pardonable. Was<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-230">[230]</a></span> there, then, -no cardinal offense? Was she to go on loving in this despicable way -until the very end? -</p> -<p> -She looked up from the book, smiling, yawning. -</p> -<p> -There was cunning in her big clear eyes, the cunning which even the -frankest woman on earth has in reserve: handed down to her through -generations of oppressed women, who have always been slaves. -</p> -<p> -Slaves! The word suddenly came; she couldn’t have told why. And while -she sat back in the chair, chin up, eyes half afraid, mouth stiffly -smiling, she was thinking scornfully that woman always had been and -always would be slaves. They liked to be slaves. All this strident talk -about freedom and rights was froth, propounded by those imbittered free -women who hadn’t succeeded in finding a master. -</p> -<p> -“You said you were not coming back to dinner,” she said gayly, and then -grew deadly pale as she suddenly remembered that he had said something -about not coming back all night, if a certain business he had in hand -took an anxious turn. He had said that he might be called away to -Liverpool. Her lip curled. Liverpool! Kennington, more likely! That -hat, that terrible gown, had looked like Kennington. Then she rallied. -“You said you were not coming back to dinner, so I—I dined: a woman’s -dinner, you know—an egg, some cake, and three cups of tea.” -</p> -<p> -“No lies!” he returned savagely. “What were you doing half an hour ago? -An egg! Tea! There was a plate of rump-steak in front of you at the -restaurant.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-231">[231]</a></span> -She was by this time thoroughly steadied to hard, deliberate lying. She -didn’t want to lose him. She didn’t mean to hand him over publicly to -that woman. She loved him. She’d keep the semblance of him anyhow. -</p> -<p> -All her frenzied watching; all her deplorable spying; all her fierce -assurance that unfaithfulness on his part would free her soul—ended in -this. She was lying, in order to keep him. -</p> -<p> -That he had been unfaithful she was certain; his attitude toward the -woman spoke of nothing else. It was an old entanglement, purged of all -piquancy, all intensity. It had become a matter of course. -</p> -<p> -“You don’t suppose I would go out and dine alone? Steak! I never touch -it.” -</p> -<p> -“You never do,” he said ponderingly; then added, “but that was, no -doubt, part of your devilish, ingenious scheming, to throw dust in my -eyes.” -</p> -<p> -“I don’t understand, I really don’t,” she persisted, with the firmness -and absolute blankness of the deeply-committed liar. “Be a little more -clear.” -</p> -<p> -“You were there. I saw you,” he stormed, moving his hands about -nervously. “Why! You remember looking at me. You remember—her?” -</p> -<p> -“Her?” -</p> -<p> -“The woman with me. She was dressed in brown.” -</p> -<p> -“I hate brown. What woman?” -</p> -<p> -“You haven’t the impudence to stick to it that you weren’t there—with -a rump steak and a bottle of wine?” -</p> -<p> -“It doesn’t sound at all inviting—at all like me.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-232">[232]</a></span> My dear boy!” She -leapt up, and tremblingly hung her arms about his stubborn neck. “It -was a delusion—you saw my double.” -</p> -<p> -“Double be——” -</p> -<p> -“You must tell me about that woman,” she broke in, smiling falsely, her -teeth, beneath her curled-back lips, white and cruel in their -regularity and soundness. “You’ve committed yourself. Who was she? A -business connection—a person from—Liverpool? Though you’ve never -asserted that it was politic for you to keep in with the women—as it -is for me to appease the men.” -</p> -<p> -He pushed her away from him by a reckless blow on the chest. -</p> -<p> -“Curse you!” he said with fury. “You’re like a cat—all claws, all -purr. You double like a cat. I saw one chased by a dog through some -front gardens the other day. She doubled behind some shrubs, and he -lost her.” -</p> -<p> -She had one hand on her chest, where it throbbed with his fist. She was -smiling still; a demoniacal smile, but with the most hopeless outraged -tenderness behind it. -</p> -<p> -“There are no front gardens in Piccadilly,” she said, looking at him -oddly. “You must have been in the suburbs.” -</p> -<p> -He sat down. He was biting his nails fitfully, and looking up at her -from time to time with a sullen, suspicious glance. -</p> -<p> -“I’ll be even with you yet,” he said threateningly. “You <i>were</i> there.” -</p> -<p> -“I wasn’t.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-233">[233]</a></span> -“You’ll swear?” -</p> -<p> -“Women don’t swear. I wasn’t. I haven’t been out of the flat all day. -Go into the bedroom, if you don’t believe me. Look at my shoes—all in -nice shiny rows. Look at my gowns, all tidily on the pegs. By the way, -what did she wear?” -</p> -<p> -“Brown,” he returned mechanically. -</p> -<p> -“Pooh! We’ll come to her later on. I mean the other—the one you -mistook for me.” -</p> -<p> -“You wore a violet kind of thing, with black stuff sewn on it,” he -persisted. “There were violet feathers in your hat. They nodded at me -like imps when you got up and slipped away. By Jove! I won’t be fooled -like this——” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t be absurd. Did you ever see me in violet? Think.” -</p> -<p> -The dress had only come from the tailor’s that morning. She watched him -triumphantly. -</p> -<p> -“Perhaps not—but I never notice what you wear.” -</p> -<p> -“You never do,” she made answer sadly; and then she jumped up, again -meaning to kiss him, but he angrily waved her back. -</p> -<p> -“It was a very curious thing,” she said steadily, and smiling into his -angry, infuriated face. “It’s rather dree to know one has a double. I -hope you’re convinced now. If not, go into the next room. See if you -can find a violet gown. Shall we go together and hunt?” -</p> -<p> -“You’ll swear you weren’t there?” -</p> -<p> -“I’ve told you I wasn’t—I’m tired of telling. Now, about this woman?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-234">[234]</a></span> -“Never mind who she was. It’s not your affair.” -</p> -<p> -“But——” -</p> -<p> -“I’ve given you my definition of married fidelity,” he said, with an -ugly, puzzling grin full on her quivering face. “Nothing matters—so -long as the other one doesn’t find out. Find out—if you dare! If I -ever see—your double—dogging me again, I’ll turn round in the streets -and knock her down. Do you understand?” -</p> -<p> -“I hear—and I’m very sorry for the poor thing. I can only hope that -she won’t cross your path, but—it’s nothing to me. Is it?” -</p> -<p> -He was out of the room, out of the flat before her lips closed after -the mocking words. She fell back, shaking with degradation. She knew -perfectly well that he would not return that night. She might drop her -mask, spread the accusing violet gown on the bed, plant her dusty shoes -in the middle of the room. She might cry her fill—but where was the -good of that? Tears were bad diplomacy at the best of times. She was -worn out enough by the burning shame of the glib lies she had been -reeling off. -</p> -<p> -He would not come back that night. He had returned to—<i>her</i>—the brown -person. Perhaps she had been waiting outside all the time. She got up, -ran into the other room, began to feverishly unfasten her gown with one -hand, while with the other she flung back the door of the wardrobe. She -would follow them. If he saw her, knocked her down—so well! She would -follow them—to the very door. Then she dropt down on the bed, -shaking<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-235">[235]</a></span> her head mournfully, twisting her hands. She wouldn’t -follow—all motive for following was gone. She had been waiting, -watching all these degrading weeks for the advent of a woman. The woman -had come. She had believed that she would bring freedom in her hands. -But she hadn’t; no woman ever would. It needed a subtler force to kill -her love for that villain. She didn’t even feel jealous because he had -gone away with her rival. She was contemptuous of him because her rival -was so uninteresting—that was about all. Her strongest feeling was one -of being stunned—as if he had struck her on the head, instead of on -the breast. She didn’t mind much. She was relieved, immensely relieved, -that it was no longer necessary to watch—to crawl stealthily about the -streets like an unclean animal of prey. She only hoped that he would -come back in the morning—and in a good temper. One must learn to wink -at things. -</p> -<p> -As she sat on the bed, shaking her head in a foolish, silly fashion, -and smiling at the wall with the self-satisfied air of a person mildly -and harmlessly distraught, the outer door of the flat opened. She -jumped up with a wild hope, a sick dread. She gave the one essential -look in the glass, raised her hot fingers mechanically to her crumpled -hair, and went back to the drawing-room. -</p> -<p> -Sutton was standing in the middle of it, his head bent in a listening -way. -</p> -<p> -“Oh!” she said stiffly, with an air of collapse. “You!” -</p> -<p> -He did not answer, only stared at her. His face<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-236">[236]</a></span> was aflame with some -unusual emotion. It looked like a Christmas card—one of those -things—transparencies—which admit a ruddy, steady light in places -where you hold them up before a lamp. -</p> -<p> -“Edred has gone out,” she continued with abrupt impulse, “and I—I’m -going out too.” -</p> -<p> -“Where?” -</p> -<p> -“Anywhere. The pit of a theater, perhaps; he used to take me.” -</p> -<p> -He was looking at her fixedly, as well he might. Her voice, her face, -her attitude were reckless. -</p> -<p> -“Will you come to a music-hall with me?” -</p> -<p> -She looked at him. He read her contempt for him; it was steady behind -the reckless mask. But he didn’t care. For many months he had been -playing for this night. -</p> -<p> -“Wait. One moment,” she said in a staccato fashion. “I’ll put on my -long cloak—that’s all.” -</p> -<p> -She whisked through the door and was back in a moment, wrapped to her -ankles in the garment which Edred had bought for her on that fairy -summer evening—the night of the day on which she had left Jethro. -</p> -<p> -“You are going—like that?” he said musingly, as she hitched up the -tail of her gown, and plunging his hand into his pocket. -</p> -<p> -He didn’t choose his music-hall with any regard for her. He took her -somewhere—she didn’t know or care exactly where. She only knew that it -wasn’t in one of the big streets. She sat with him in the box, staring -and smiling through the performance. Nothing smote her modesty that -night. She<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-237">[237]</a></span> had suddenly turned numb. Sometimes, as she stared and -smiled at the stage, she saw, not a kicking, painted woman, but a -demure, savagely respectable figure in brown. Once a dancer suddenly -changed into a big woman, mostly jacket-buttons and red-lined -petticoat, who extravagantly popped out a very long tongue, and said, -“Yer never knows nothin’, do yer?” -</p> -<p> -As the evening wore on, and she endured without flinching the risky -songs and patter, Sutton’s attitude grew more free. In the cab on the -way home he sat beside her, seeming to press her uncomfortably into the -corner. -</p> -<p> -When he unlocked the door of the flat her instinct told her at once -that Edred had not returned. Sensation came back. She suddenly felt ill -at ease. She wished from her heart that she had not gone out for the -evening with Sutton, a man she detested and despised. She looked down -at him contemptuously—a middle-aged, vacuous, little-minded, vulgar, -cunning creature: a very good example of the played-out mercantile -clerk. -</p> -<p> -“Good-night,” she said curtly. -</p> -<p> -It seemed an almost superfluous thing to say, jammed in together and -alone as they were in the flat, where a whisper almost passed through -the walls. -</p> -<p> -“Good-night,” she repeated, with sudden constraint. -</p> -<p> -“Wait a bit”—he opened the drawing-room door—“I want to talk to you.” -</p> -<p> -“I’m tired.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-238">[238]</a></span> -“But it’s very important.” -</p> -<p> -She marveled at the remarkable change in him. He had become an -impressive figure. He absolutely commanded her, as he stood by the open -door, in his iron-gray suit. It was baggy at the knees and elbows. It -was perfectly true that he had plenty of money now; but he could not -shake off the careful habits of twenty years. He only had two new suits -a year, and he scrupulously changed his coat whenever he came indoors. -</p> -<p> -He threw out his hand and bowed—something in the way of a shop-walker. -She walked into the room, without another word of protest. -</p> -<p> -He went out again, putting his face back in his usual queer way, to -throw at her the words: -</p> -<p> -“I’ll be back in half a jiff. I’ll just put on my slippers and get my -alpaca jacket.” -</p> -<p> -When he came in again, she was sitting bolt upright on the lounge; she -had not even turned up her veil, nor unbuttoned her long gloves. -</p> -<p> -“Take off your things,” he said with ghastly jocularity. “Make yourself -at home, you know.” -</p> -<p> -Then he laughed nervously. It suddenly dawned on her that he was in a -state of great tremor. His jocular tone, his silly, vulgar -words—everything of him—jarred terribly. She reproached herself, -condemned herself again for that hideous evening of frolic at a -third-rate music-hall with such a creature. -</p> -<p> -“I’ll keep my things on,” she said firmly. “Sometimes these summer -nights are cold. It is going to rain.” -</p> -<p> -He came and sat on the other end of the lounge,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-239">[239]</a></span> and stared at her with -his unpleasant, expressionless eyes. He crossed first one leg and then -the other; he stroked and tugged at the weakly growing hair on his face. -</p> -<p> -“If you’ve anything to say,” she said crisply, “say it. It’s twenty -past twelve.” -</p> -<p> -“I’ve all night to say it in—he won’t come home.” -</p> -<p> -She nearly struck him for that free, unctuous laugh. She would have -whisked up and locked herself in her own room—but she couldn’t. Even a -mean man is commanding in moments of tremendous excitement. It was -obvious that Sutton was laboring to say something of moment; she was -impelled to sit still and let him say it. -</p> -<p> -“I don’t know where to begin,” he said helplessly, winding his -watch-chain round his finger. -</p> -<p> -“If it is business,” she said, suddenly becoming inspired with the idea -that there was some financial difficulty, and he wished to confide in -her, to break it to her, “don’t tell me. I shall not understand.” -</p> -<p> -“I never talk business with a woman,” he returned with a sneer. -</p> -<p> -“Oh! Then what do you talk?” -</p> -<p> -“The one thing of any interest. You know what—but you like to tease -me, you won’t help me out. It’s unkind to a poor beggar,” he said, with -a fearful attempt at pathos and tenderness. -</p> -<p> -Then she knew instantly what was coming, knew what had transformed him. -She was consumed with shame, with apprehension—but she could not rise -from that paralyzing lounge, could not move<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-240">[240]</a></span> one step toward the door. -Like a true woman, hypocritically obtuse to the very last, she said: -</p> -<p> -“I haven’t the least idea——” -</p> -<p> -He grabbed at her hands, held them desperately. -</p> -<p> -“You know; you’ve known all along. It’s been a pretty game, hasn’t it? -You thought I didn’t see the nods you gave me over the dinner-table, -the cunning little winks behind his back.” -</p> -<p> -“I never winked in my life,” she said indignantly. -</p> -<p> -He ignored the disclaimer, and went on calmly: -</p> -<p> -“You’ve stood a good deal more than most girls would have done—a -pretty girl like you, too. He’s been a bit of a brute, hasn’t he? Upon -my word, I wonder that you have stood it so long.” -</p> -<p> -She made a second frenzied attempt to struggle up from the cushions. -She could see that he was slowly edging up, that the red glow on his -face was more pronounced, that his eyes were nearer being expressive -than they had ever been before. -</p> -<p> -“Don’t be a fool,” he said, pushing her back. “You’re not a fool; -you’re a sharp girl—you know which side your bread’s buttered. Edred -is going all to pieces; if he doesn’t look out he’ll find himself in -the dock again—with Milligan and one or two more. But I was always -prudent. I’ve made a nice little pile. I can give you every comfort.” -</p> -<p> -“I don’t know what you mean; on my word of honor I don’t,” she said -beseechingly—too utterly staggered to be angry with him. -</p> -<p> -“You don’t know! You <i>won’t</i>, you mean. You’re bent on playing a better -game. Well! there;<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-241">[241]</a></span> I’ll marry you, if you like. No man can make a -fairer offer than that.” -</p> -<p> -Then, at last, she jumped up—positively, tangibly afraid of him. She -conceived the sudden extravagant idea that he had gone mad. She knew -nothing of his antecedents, she recalled a thousand foolish things that -he had done and looked and said. She firmly believed him to be subject -to attacks of mania. Her eyes expressed her fear. -</p> -<p> -“Do you think I’m off my head?” he demanded bluntly. “You look as if -you did.” -</p> -<p> -He rose too, his face becoming inflamed and furious. -</p> -<p> -“You know,” she said gently, “of course you remember—I was married to -Edred at St. Antony’s last year. You gave me away.” -</p> -<p> -He looked at her keenly. Then at last he said slowly: -</p> -<p> -“Haven’t you really found out? Do you still believe in that farce? Why -have you followed him about all these weeks? Oh! I know. I did it well, -didn’t I?” he laughed. “You behind him, I behind you, night after -night. I’m a cute chap. When I was in the City the firm always gave me -little delicate jobs like that to do. I can ferret out anything. And I -can tell you this—she’s beginning to suspect.” -</p> -<p> -“She?” -</p> -<p> -“His wife. Come. You must know—you must have known for a long time. I -found it out nearly a year ago. The little woman he dined with -to-night. I was there too. What on earth made you<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-242">[242]</a></span> give the waiter half -a quid? Hadn’t you less in your pocket?” -</p> -<p> -He wasn’t mad. She was—the world was. It was a bewitched night, a -topsy-turvy universe. She wasn’t afraid of him any longer; he was sane -enough, the little wriggling, contemptible reptile. He was sane, he was -speaking the absolute truth. She sat down again. -</p> -<p> -“Tell me everything,” she said. “Please tell me everything. I thought -that woman was—but—it is I. Will you please explain—everything.” -</p> -<p> -Sutton began to explain. He seemed to enjoy the task. He sat and talked -and nursed his knee and glanced ardently, hopefully, from time to time, -at the attractive, agonized face in front of him. -</p> -<p> -“It’s a nice little complication,” he said. “Of course when Edred -married you he thought that she was dead. He’s not a fool; he wouldn’t -have walked into a trap blindfold. He married her some years ago, -before you ever met him. They had a baby. It died and she went off her -head. They took her away to the asylum. Then, after a bit, he had an -official notice that she was dead. He was jolly glad, of course; any -fellow would be. Fancy a man being tied up to a cracked wife! Well! To -cut a long story short, she wasn’t dead at all. It was somebody -else—one of the blessed bungles of the asylum. It was a regular -scandal in all the papers. She’s very much alive. She’s out, cured, as -sane as you are, except for a rum look in her eyes now and then, which -I should funk if I were her husband. He’s taken a little place for her -at Mildmay<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-243">[243]</a></span> Park. He says he’s a commercial traveler. But she’s -cunning; she smells a rat.” -</p> -<p> -“And she’s his wife?” Pamela said stonily. -</p> -<p> -“I can show the register if you like. It was at a church in——” -</p> -<p> -“I don’t want proof. I believe it. I might have known it from the -first. She looks his wife. But I——” -</p> -<p> -She put up her hands and gave a short, wounded cry. -</p> -<p> -“The position’s favorable for us,” Sutton said complacently. “Of -course, you don’t care for him, a brute who strikes and bullies you. -Besides, he’ll throw you over before long. It’s getting a little too -hot for him. She suspects and you suspect. He’s afraid you’ll be -clawing each other’s faces. You see—it’s an ugly word—he’s committed -bigamy. He may be found out any day. That means——” -</p> -<p> -“I know, I know,” she said, sharply nodding her head several times; -“but I should never give him away. Never, never.” -</p> -<p> -“We needn’t send him to prison. He wouldn’t be any use to us there,” -Sutton said, with a gesture of assent. “But we can bleed him pretty -regularly. He’s in a tight corner, poor old chap. I can give him away -on the business side and you on the matrimonial.” -</p> -<p> -He laughed with relish. She said, in the most matter-of-fact way, “If -you laugh like that again, I think I shall kill you.” -</p> -<p> -“What a queer girl you are!” His voice was<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-244">[244]</a></span> steady, but he made -a furtive movement toward the grate, where there were fire -irons—efficient weapons—if he wanted them. He was thinking uneasily, -in his common, literal way, that she was a big woman, that she looked -deuced queer, that a woman when her blood was up was ten times worse -than a man. -</p> -<p> -“What a queer girl you are!” he repeated rather timidly. “Do you -forgive him?” -</p> -<p> -Her head was down on her breast. -</p> -<p> -“I love him,” she said, almost sullenly. -</p> -<p> -Sutton surveyed her in silence for a moment or so: anything out of the -ordinary run of emotions struck him dumb. He had expected her to rage, -to cry, to be hysterical, and end by dropping into his ready arms. -</p> -<p> -“You might have guessed,” he said at last. “Has he ever treated you as -if you were his wife? Have any of us treated you as if you were his -wife? You are not mistress here; the very servants see how things are; -they never come to you for orders. The manager grins openly in your -face.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, thinking it all over and remembering a -thousand damning incidents. -</p> -<p> -“Why,” Sutton went on, “if you had been his wife, he would have kicked -Milligan out of the place long ago; he would have kicked us all out. -Where have your eyes been, my dear girl? Think! Did any of those men -bring their wives or sisters?” -</p> -<p> -She shook her fair, dull head: it seemed to sink lower on her breast as -Sutton went fluently on: -</p> -<p> -“This flat is a bachelor establishment; he and I<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-245">[245]</a></span> are the tenants. -If you were his wife I shouldn’t be here; the place is only a bandbox. -I’ll take you to the church where they were married to-morrow morning; -you shall see the register.” -</p> -<p> -“I don’t want to see it. I know that woman is his wife. I should have -known it from the first, when I saw her hanging on his arm in the -Strand. She is his wife. But I? What am I?” -</p> -<p> -Sutton said: -</p> -<p> -“Do you remember the night when Milligan came here with a lady?” -</p> -<p> -A queer expression of distaste crossed her white face. She remembered. -There had been a quarrel between her and Edred—one of the usual sharp -disputes. She had reproached him for bringing only men to the flat. She -remembered her quick, foaming flood of reproach and invective in answer -to his cold sneers. She remembered that when she stopped, panting for -breath, he had said: -</p> -<p> -“Well, is that all? Good Heavens! how you women can jaw!” -</p> -<p> -That night Milligan had brought Lady Milligan with him to dinner. When -they had gone Edred asked her, with an ugly look, if she were satisfied -now. “What more did she want?” -</p> -<p> -Lady Milligan! A dark young girl, with a tightly-curled fringe like a -door mat, a half dirty blouse, red hands. She remembered. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, Lady Milligan,” she said to Sutton. “A vulgar woman; but what -could one expect? She used to serve in a tobacconist’s shop.” -</p> -<p> -Sutton laughed. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-246">[246]</a></span> -“Lady Milligan,” he said, “is nearly fifty; a very religious, proper -woman. Do you understand?” -</p> -<p> -“Oh!” she breathed, seeming to collapse with this added indignity of -Edred’s. “Yes. I understand. Spare me any more confirming proofs.” -</p> -<p> -She hid her face in the sofa-cushions, her shame choking her. Sutton -put his hand on her shoulder. -</p> -<p> -“Don’t be so upset,” he said, with a pompous, condescending attempt at -comfort. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t help it. It will be all right. -I’ll marry you myself. There shall be no hanky-panky this time.” -</p> -<p> -She started up as if his hand had been the thin lash of a whip through -her cloak. -</p> -<p> -“Don’t touch me! Marry you! It is impossible for anyone like you to -understand. You don’t know how near I am to desperate crime—only I am -a coward. That makes you safe—I am a coward. I wish Edred would come -home. If only I knew where to find him!” -</p> -<p> -“The address is in my pocket-book,” he sneered. “But you can’t be -serious. What do you want him for? You can’t alter things. If you nag -at him, he’ll only laugh, or hit you.” -</p> -<p> -“If he would only come back,” she moaned. “If I could touch him, see -him, speak to him. I feel so alone, so incapable and miserable.” -</p> -<p> -“You want to have it out with him?” -</p> -<p> -“I want him,” she returned simply. -</p> -<p> -Then Sutton lost his temper. -</p> -<p> -“You are an idiot,” he said flatly. “I make you<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-247">[247]</a></span> a good offer; not many -men would make it, and you can only——” -</p> -<p> -She laughed contemptuously, looking full in his eyes. -</p> -<p> -“You droll, contemptible creature,” she said with limitless scorn. “Of -course you don’t understand. How should you? I am going out—never mind -where. I am coming back—or I am not—according to my mood. You needn’t -be certain of anything—but the one thing: I don’t intend to marry -<i>you!</i>” -</p> -<p> -She whirled out of the room before he could collect his startled wits. -She was out of the flat and half down the stairs before he could stop -her. -</p> -<p> -The vast, high house was dark. She ran down the familiar stone steps, -drew the long bolts of the entrance door. As she opened it, she heard -the patter of slippers, a little down at heel, covering the flights; -heard a hoarse, cautious voice cry out down the black shoot of the -quiet staircase. -</p> -<p> -“Pamela! Come back! Don’t be a fool! Don’t lose your head like this!” -</p> -<p> -Her only answer was another strident laugh. The door thudded after her. -She stood alone in the night—a chilly night, with a spray of rain. -She stood facing the black mass of the Park. -</p> -<p> -She swept on westward. After a while she grew cool, practical enough to -put her hand in her pocket and feel if she had her purse. It was there, -lying heavy at the bottom. Her head was on fire, her sore heart beat -rapidly. She went on trying to formulate her life as the day must see -it. Dawn meant<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-248">[248]</a></span> shame, ridicule, curiosity. She couldn’t walk London -in thin shoes with heavily jetted toes, in a cloak bordered with -swansdown and a long tea-gown. -</p> -<p> -What should she do when dawn came? She tried to be cool, practical. She -had always been practical; women who earn their own bread are compelled -to be. She walked on very quickly. The streets were almost empty. She -met with no annoyance. Yet she felt that this was the measure of her -degradation—this night alone under the London stars. What should she -do? She knew what she wanted to do. Go back; ignore everything. Yes, -she wanted that. She kept lashing herself with fierce self-reproach. -She called herself shameless, spiritless, vicious. But she couldn’t -help it. She wanted to go back—to breakfast with him as usual, to say -nothing. She loved him. That terrible cankering love! Would nothing -destroy it? -</p> -<p> -At Sloane Street she turned down, making her way instinctively, like -all hopeless, desolate creatures, to the river. She walked along and -along, not noticing distance, not feeling the soreness of her -lightly-shod feet, until she came to Chelsea. -</p> -<p> -She crossed the road and walked closely by the houses in Cheyne Walk. -She went by Oakley Street, by Cheyne Row, by the red blocks of flats -beyond, and by the Hospital, where lights still burned in certain -windows. At the corner of Beaufort Street she stopped. What on earth -was the good of going on? -</p> -<p> -A quick, frightened feminine cry, a hoarse curse from a man, startled -her, and she stumbled to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-249">[249]</a></span> pavement, conscious all in a moment -that a hansom had nearly knocked her down. It stopped at a house with a -heavy door painted white. As she stood there by the railings, unsteady, -uncertain, a woman jumped from the hansom and opened the gate of that -house. -</p> -<p> -She had a long cloak too. Beneath it hung a soft mass of black net -which flashed with steel. Their eyes met; the eyes of these two women -on the pavement. The hansom rattled off. The lights in the house, -except one on the ground floor, were out. The pavements wound away, wet -and empty. Their eyes met. Pamela forced a smile, put out her hand in a -conventional way. -</p> -<p> -“Is it really Mrs. Clutton?” she said, with an artificial accent, as if -it were broad day and Bond Street. -</p> -<p> -“Pamela! Pamela! Really? But what are you doing alone? Where is Mr. -Jayne?” -</p> -<p> -The little dark, vivacious woman’s eyes contracted as they rested on -this wild figure with the wretched, haggard face, the clown-like smile. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -Pamela said nothing. She began to cry in a low, terrified fashion, like -a lost child. The other took her by the shoulder and led her up the -flagged path to the door. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_118"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-250">[250]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_118_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_118_toc">CHAPTER XVIII.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -S<small>HE</small> opened the wide door into a hall which blazed with a yellow carpet -and led the way into a room which was lighted with a shaded -reading-lamp. The room instantly appealed to Pamela with a sense of -dear familiarity. It was filled with furniture and china from the -Buttery. -</p> -<p> -“Sit down. It is Mrs. Nick Hone’s chair. She used to stand her -washing-tub on it; Tim says it is worth five pounds.” -</p> -<p> -A little fire burned in the grate although it was a summer night. On -the bare table of brown oak was a tray set with tea things. -</p> -<p> -“I always like a cup of tea when I come home from a party; it makes me -sleep. I’ll get another cup. You remember Mrs. Silas Daborn’s corner -cupboard?” She opened it and brought out the china. -</p> -<p> -Pamela looked about her hungrily, silently, at the familiar dumb things -which seemed alive that night: warm, vital things that knew her. The -hideous china figures on the shelves grinned affably—at a former -neighbor. -</p> -<p> -“You must drink this hot.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela began to cry again as the cup was held to her mouth. -</p> -<p> -“Ssh. No. Drink the tea. Tell me everything and have a big cry -afterward.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-251">[251]</a></span> -She drank obediently, draining the cup. Then she said in a heartfelt, -passionate way, as if she were an ardent convert to a new belief: -</p> -<p> -“There is nothing like another woman when one is miserable.” -</p> -<p> -“Nothing. Men are excellent—when we are happy. At other times they -bully us—with the best intentions—putting all our emotions down to -hysteria.” -</p> -<p> -“Men are never excellent at any time. They have brought me misery. You -pay for one moment of delight with a day of anguish.” -</p> -<p> -“This tray,” said Barbara Clutton, evidently thinking it politic to -turn the conversation, “was Mrs. Bert Hone’s. You were with me when I -bought it. Do you remember how deaf she was, and how the old man -swore—most picturesque swears! Do you remember what I said that day -about your brother Edred? How is he?” -</p> -<p> -Pamela started up at the name. -</p> -<p> -“I must tell you everything,” she cried energetically. “It isn’t fair -to sit here, to stay in your house without telling you everything.” -</p> -<p> -She told it all without another moment of hesitation: told every little -thing. She didn’t care how her story would be received. She -relentlessly dissected all her emotions—however unworthy. She detailed -all her experiences—however unsavory. It was a relief to be absolutely -frank at last, to have no concealment whatever from at least one -person. It was a very long story; she touched it up almost lovingly. -The night wore away. She drained<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-252">[252]</a></span> herself of all the bitterness, all -the delight and shame and misery of three years. -</p> -<p> -The fire died out. Hushed sounds in the streets beyond the smugly drawn -curtains, a cold, dull light breaking through a chink and marking the -wall, were suggestive. Barbara Clutton, who had listened without one -word of comment, started to her feet and dragged back the curtains. -</p> -<p> -It was broad daylight in the streets outside. She put her arm around -Pamela’s shoulders, with a gesture much more eloquently tender and -sympathetic than a torrent of words would have been, and drew her to -the window. -</p> -<p> -“Did you ever see such an exquisite flush of pink?” she said, pointing -to the sky. “I’ll open the window. There! Such air on one’s cheeks, in -one’s thick eyes. We ought to go for a walk while the world is empty.” -</p> -<p> -“I wonder what it is like at this moment at Folly Corner, in my -garden,” Pamela said abstractedly. -</p> -<p> -“Ah! Folly Corner. What a garden, what a dim old house, packed with -ghosts, guilt, dead dreams, and delights! What a collection of -furniture; I’d like Tim to see it. And you put all that behind you for -a tinsel thing. My poor Pamela! But then you are a woman. Let us talk -over your plans. You’ve got to finish your life—that is a piece of -work we are not allowed to throw aside. Let us make plans.” -</p> -<p> -“I haven’t any—only desires,” Pamela returned in a shamefaced way. -</p> -<p> -“Desires! Are you thinking of Jethro? The<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-253">[253]</a></span> dawn, the quiet has brought -it all back—Folly Corner.” -</p> -<p> -“That is past—impossible. I was thinking of Edred. I had better go -back. You see, he didn’t mean to shame me. He didn’t know that she was -alive all the time. He is a victim of circumstances. He needs pity. -I’ll go back. I’ll say nothing about it. That will be the best. You -don’t know how fond I am of him! It is terrible; it frightens me -sometimes. Nothing kills it—not even last night; not even the bruises -on my body. I’ll go back. You must forget to-night. I’m not a fit -person for you—or any nice woman—to know.” -</p> -<p> -A tinge of cold disgust came into Mrs. Clutton’s dark eyes. -</p> -<p> -“I won’t wrong you by believing that you’re serious,” she said at last, -with some distaste—with a great deal more seriousness than she usually -allowed herself. “Go back! It would be immoral, horrible. You can’t do -it. You can’t possibly mean what you say. We won’t mention him again. -You must stay here; things will arrange themselves—they always do.” -</p> -<p> -“But Mr. Clutton?” -</p> -<p> -“Tim. He has gone abroad as war correspondent. It is as well. We -quarrel if we are together too long, or we grow apathetic, which is -worse. I’d rather have isolated episodes of rapture than a -matter-of-fact, unbroken affection. I could never endure the kind of -husband who calls you ‘my dear,’ who draws you a check without -grumbling, who politely wishes you good-morning when you meet<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-254">[254]</a></span> at the -breakfast table and asks anxiously if you are sure his shirts are aired. -</p> -<p> -“We are happy, prosperous. Tim makes money, although brains, as a rule, -are a positive hindrance to worldly success. We know lots of clever -people. To them I am only Tim’s wife: I used to hope that he would be -only my husband. We rush through society; he the kite, I the tail. I -used to think I was clever—I’m merely voluble. I can’t even succeed in -being positively stupid: in a brilliant age like this it’s a -distinction to be unmistakably stupid. Nancy has been up to stay with -me. I took her about. She made a tremendous sensation—with her -complexion, her red locks, her gift of silence. People said she had an -air, was uncommonly clever. She is going to be married to Mr. Minns, -the Liddleshorn curate. And some people say that Mr. Jayne is to be -married too—they talk of Maria Furlonger. Isabel Crisp has married -that prig Egbert Turle. He has bought old Dr. Smith’s practice at -Liddleshorn. Mrs. Turle—she came up with Nancy—says that old Gainah -is wonderfully active, more active than ever. Why! You are nearly -asleep. We’ll go upstairs. There is a room ready. Annie Jayne was to -have spent the night here on Monday. She has at last decided to have -false teeth—greatly against her will: her mother had only six stumps -in her head when she died. But the baby—there’s another since your -time—had an attack of rose rash, whatever that may be. It sounds -pretty.” -</p> -<p> -She led the way upstairs softly. The house was most luxurious, and the -tail of her gown, as she<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-255">[255]</a></span> swept it over the thick carpets, was like a -molten stream of silver. -</p> -<p> -Pamela fell asleep in a mahogany bed draped with some wonderful fabric -full of color and of bold design. When she woke the sun was fierce in -the room. Her limbs felt stiff and her head muddled. She started up on -her elbow, looking wildly round for her own possessions—the big toilet -table, the winged, ugly wardrobe with the long glass. Her tea-gown, all -frilled and limp and pale on a chair by the bed, was eloquent. It -brought back the nightmare: the person in brown; Sutton, with his -atrocious proposal and disclosure; the long walk, the meeting with her -hostess. She looked over the side of the bed. Her slippers were kicked -off, soles upward. There was a round hole in one, the other had broken -away at the side. Her black silk stockings, lying near, had holes, too. -She fell back despairingly on the square pillow, its frill tickling her -cheeks. Where was the use of waking? -</p> -<p> -The door opened, and Barbara Clutton stole in. When she saw that her -guest was awake she sat down on the edge of the bed. Then, as Pamela, -like a child, lifted her face, she jumped up and kissed her gravely -between the widely set, melancholy eyes. -</p> -<p> -“I was always fond of you,” she said, going back to the foot of the -bed. “I always suspected you of drama. I’ve a plan. You must stay -here—it will be a charity to me. When Tim comes home—we’ll see! I -shan’t want you then.” She made a little frank grimace. “When Tim comes -home I want no one—until the first rapture of reunion wears off.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-256">[256]</a></span> -We are like a couple of very juvenile lovers—but we don’t keep up the -strain for long. He won’t return for a couple of months at the very -least. We can have a splendid time, you and I together. There is only -one thing I must insist on—one thing.” The disgustful expression of -the night before momentarily hardened her laughing face. “You must vow, -by something solemn—what binding instrument can we get for you to kiss -or swear by? There is really nothing but a back glass—which is -frivolous—and a poker, which is threatening. Give me your bare word. -Promise not to attempt to see that man; not to degrade me by going -back, by writing. You mustn’t even speak of him. It’s all terrible -tragedy to you; to me it is merely a disgraceful, unavoidable episode. -The woman in brown transforms the situation. I’m more sorry for her -than for you; we can’t help our respectable prejudices. He is never to -be mentioned. We’ll put away, if you please, the very tea-gown which he -has touched. I’ve brought you a coat and skirt—a pale blue skirt which -ought to suit you beautifully. Is it all settled?” -</p> -<p> -“All!” Pamela returned with promptitude. “I vow. I am only too grateful -to be saved—from myself.” -</p> -<p> -In that quick way—natural to Barbara Clutton—they decided it. Pamela -fell obediently into the life at Beaufort Street. It was almost -conventual. Day after day she rose from her bed, looked at the mourning -band of river and despaired. She was cut off from London; it was part -of the compact that<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-257">[257]</a></span> she was not to go beyond the Chelsea end of -Sloane Street. She shopped in King’s Road. Sometimes she walked out to -Fulham, or penetrated farther still, to a lonely green, belted with red -and yellow houses. The omnibuses pulled up there. She used to stare at -them wistfully, and think of Wormwood Scrubbs and the old, dead days of -anguish. -</p> -<p> -Furtively she bought newspapers and read them with a hungry eye. She -read everything which might hold a trail of Edred. She bought City -papers, made her head ache by puzzling over market quotations. She read -accounts of frauds, read all the criminal news. She read the lists of -bankrupts, read death notices, advertisements. She never saw his name. -It seemed suddenly sponged from all the places which had formerly -placarded it. -</p> -<p> -She beat against the bars of that house by the river. She wasn’t happy; -neither she nor Barbara was happy after the first glow of novelty wore -off. They weren’t of the mold to be completely satisfied with the -companionship of their own sex. -</p> -<p> -Summer died; leaves, whirled by October gales, swept the Embankment. -Pamela was lonely, bored. She had fancied that the society of clever -people—people with the public certificate of cleverness—would be -invigorating. But the distinguished people who came to Beaufort Street -were stupid; they seemed to go out of their way to be commonplace. -</p> -<p> -“Conversational brilliance is out of fashion,” Barbara said flippantly. -</p> -<p> -Pamela was tired of Barbara Clutton, tired of her volubility, her -pettishness, her whims. She was<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-258">[258]</a></span> very grateful to her, she liked her -very much, of course—she was sick to death of her. -</p> -<p> -How would it end? She studied the newspapers, for other than -sentimental reasons: she looked for a situation. That would be the -end—a situation. They would never take her back at the boarding-house -in Bloomsbury; Edred’s history, and her connection with him, was too -notorious. But there were other boarding-houses. She would go back to -the old life—that would be the end. She would help carve, talk -smoothly on safe, commonplace subjects at the dinner-table. -</p> -<p> -She knew the life. She remembered; and it turned her sick. A woman in -subservience was only half a woman. But that was to be the end. She was -to finish as she had begun. Perhaps, by years of saving, she might be -able to start a boarding-house of her own. Perhaps Jethro would help -her to do so, if Maria would permit him. -</p> -<p> -The boarding-house! She remembered the narrow hall, where the dinner -always hung on the close air; remembered the shabby manservant, the -guests. They had mostly been women, those boarders: old maids who -called each other “dear,” “darling,” “sweet one,” and gathered by twos -into corners of the big, shabby drawing-room to tear each other to -shreds. They were fussy old women, susceptible to draught, and given to -wearing ragged fur tippets in the house when an east wind was blowing. -She knew—and shuddered. But it was the only thing left. -</p> -<p> -Her thoughts flew to Folly Corner, and then to<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-259">[259]</a></span> Edred. She would remind -herself reproachfully that she had not once thought of him that day. -She wanted to forget him; she tried to forget, and yet she reproached -herself because she was beginning to succeed. She must forget—it -wasn’t respectable to remember. Barbara Clutton was always impressing -that on her. -</p> -<p> -“I like,” she said one day, in explanation of her gospel, “to be a very -respectable woman; an icily virtuous one—but yet to give the -impression of being dangerous.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela had left off laughing at her oddities—she had left off laughing -at anything. She was cultivating the prim, half-formed manner of a -spinster well over thirty. She grew fussy over trifles, became morbidly -afraid of taking cold, studied her health, her diet. She gratuitously -spied over the servants, seeing an embryo burglar in every tradesman’s -boy, running her fingers along ledges for dust, measuring the contents -of the dishes with suspicious eyes. -</p> -<p> -“I want to be of some use,” she said, in extenuation. “I’ve had great -experience in housekeeping.” -</p> -<p> -“Housekeeping!” Her hostess shrugged. “A calling artfully created by -hopelessly lazy women as a blind. My dear girl, no busy woman keeps -house; it’s a terrible confession of idleness. Suppose Cook <i>does</i> give -away the dripping—why should I waste nervous energy in attempting to -stop her? The dripping isn’t worth it. If they refuse to burn small -cinders in the kitchen range—what matters? Figure out for yourself—I -can’t—the cost of a ton<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-260">[260]</a></span> of coal, and see how much Tim loses in the -year. He pays—and it can’t be more than a box of cigars.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela said nothing. She retired to her room and her newspapers. She -looked up from the lines of advertisements, and out at the gliding -river. She thought of Folly Corner, of Jethro, in all his picturesque -environment. And then she dragged herself back to thoughts of Edred; it -was becoming an effort to remember him. She thought she would set aside -half-an-hour every day for remembrance—as if he were some -tenderly-loved dead person. She became afraid of herself. She was -hopelessly fickle, of light behaviour. She was incapable of any lasting -regard. She loved him. She loved him. But the words had become -parrot-like—they no longer tore her heart to say them. She was -forgetting him—the very thing she had once struggled in vain to do. -She was becoming indifferent: the attitude she had once prayed and -struggled for. And yet she wasn’t happy. -</p> -<p> -Tim precipitated things. He send his wife a telegram, saying that he -was on his way home. Would she care to join him in Paris for a week? -</p> -<p> -“It needn’t make any difference to you, dear,” the excited little woman -said, as her cab stood at the open door, and her wraps were carried -down the path by a lilac-gowned maid, whose streaming cap-ends whirled -about on the rude November wind. -</p> -<p> -She kissed Pamela remorsefully, conscious that she had been malicious -now and then. -</p> -<p> -“It’s difficult for two women to live together without fighting, isn’t -it?” she said ingenuously.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-261">[261]</a></span> “I wonder how they manage in a nunnery! A -novel from the inside of a nunnery would cause a sensation. I’ll -commend it to Tim. He’s quite clever enough to pass as a nun—but it -wouldn’t satisfy my unquenchable sense of propriety. I’ve been very -horrid to you now and then; but when Tim comes—we shall only stay in -Paris ten days at the outside—he will keep us in order. Of course, his -coming won’t make any difference,” she added, with obviously forced -hospitality. -</p> -<p> -“I shall get a situation,” Pamela said, in the inert way which had -become habitual. “Good-by”—they kissed again. “I’ll look after the -maids. You’ll never be able to keep that between-girl. She’s hopeless.” -</p> -<p> -The other shrugged and ran out in the wind to the cab. It drove off, -the maid came in, the door shut, an unusual silence settled over the -house. Pamela went into the dining-room and sat by the window, not even -a newspaper in her hand. She felt more lonely, more unwanted than she -had ever felt at any moment in her varied life. Barbara had been in -such a frenzy to get to her husband that she hadn’t given her a -thought—hadn’t even asked her, as a matter of form, to see her off at -the railway station. -</p> -<p> -She lunched alone and meagerly. After lunch she sat by the dining-room -window until tea came in. The maid set the tray down with a bang and -moved across to the door flouncing her black skirts. -</p> -<p> -Pamela set her mouth grimly. She knew the ways of servants; they had -decided, in the absence<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-262">[262]</a></span> of their mistress, to give her a rough time. -But she was equal to any servant. She amused herself by scheming out an -elaborate house-cleaning—and then abandoned it wearily because the -house wasn’t hers. She went to bed almost directly she had eaten her -dinner. She was awake all night, lying flat and long in the bed, her -eyes open, her thoughts forced to consideration of Edred. What was he -doing? She didn’t feel much curiosity. His tenderness didn’t make her -heart throb. His brutalities no longer made it blaze and ache. -</p> -<p> -It had really come—indifference: a body, a soul of stone. She turned -on the pillow and cried from sheer loneliness. -</p> -<p> -It rained next morning. Rain—a high fog! The most miserable morning -imaginable. She had her breakfast in the little room at the back of the -house, with a French window leading to the long, suburban garden. She -didn’t know why she turned the hasp of that window and stepped out -under the gloomy sky, into the dreary rain. -</p> -<p> -It was a very uninteresting garden; a ghastly, heart-breaking travesty -of a garden. The limp creeper on the blackened wall smutted her hand -when she touched it. The narrow borders were bare and smut-laden. From -the top of the wall a lean, gray cat looked at her with a sinister -mournfulness in its yellow eyes. The fog was in her eyes and down her -throat, the rain fell coldly on her bare head. Peals of coarse, hearty -laughter rang up from the kitchen, where the maids were romping<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-263">[263]</a></span> with -the man who came every morning to fill the scuttles and clean the -boots. The gray cat stole along the wall. -</p> -<p> -She turned back to the window, not knowing why she came into the -garden, not knowing what to do with this sad day. There was a rockery -near the French window—the usual rockery, rich in clinkers. But some -blue thing stared up into the brown air boldly. She uttered a sudden -glad cry and stooped, letting her skirt brush the wet gravel. It was a -delicate blue periwinkle. There was a patch of blue periwinkle at Folly -Corner, just by the granary. Periwinkle! What nonsense was it that -Gainah told her about periwinkle? Ah, yes! If a man and his wife eat -the leaves they will ever be faithful each to the other. The blue -flower with its trail of glistening leaves was in her hand. She bit one -leaf, laughing—yet more a sob than a laugh—as she did it. She would -never be Jethro’s wife—nor any man’s. She was a tainted thing. -</p> -<p> -She stared at the flower, a long, thoughtful stare. Then she laughed -again and clapped her hands—the heavy, blinding tears in her eyes. The -world was to her one wide delicate flower of cold blue. She went -through the window, laid the trail on the table, looked at it -questioningly. Once she said to it, “Shall I? Dare I?” Then, with a -clumsy movement, she dragged herself up, hurried to the door, went up -the stairs two at a time. -</p> -<p> -The maids were making her bed. She said abruptly: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-264">[264]</a></span> -“I am going away—a visit. I may be back to-night—I cannot say. You’ll -see to everything just as if Mrs. Clutton and I were at home.” -</p> -<p> -They left her alone. She put on her things and went out of the house. -She didn’t leave a note for Barbara; she didn’t take any luggage; she -didn’t look at the house with any feeling—no lingering glance of -farewell. Her strip of needlework was hanging out of the basket. She -didn’t trouble to put it in. She might be back to-night. It was -extremely likely that she would be back. Of course she would. She was a -fool, an impudent, optimistic fool to go at all. She would be back. She -nearly rang the bell to order dinner at the usual time. She kept -assuring herself that night would find her again in London—shuddering -at every assurance. She knew very well that this journey was her last -throw. She knew very well that this journey was to decide everything. -Jethro might be married. He might be, if not already married, committed -to some nice, pure, faithful girl. Was she the sort of woman to be -introduced to a girl of that tepid, blameless description? The contempt -for mere unimpassioned, untempted virtue curled her lip. -</p> -<p> -He might be contemptuous, hard. He might be brutal; he could be -bitterly, uncompromisingly brutal when he chose. He had the reputation -of being a hard man—all the Jaynes had. -</p> -<p> -She could imagine him saying very coolly some damning, insulting thing. -She could see his ruddy patrician face as he said it, could see the -relentless glint in his cold blue eyes. Eyes a couple of shades<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-265">[265]</a></span> paler -than the periwinkle; she crushed it in her hand. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -She took her ticket; was fortunate enough to catch a quick train—there -were very few in the day to such an out-of-the-way place. She was quite -alone in the carriage. She watched the landscape eagerly; watched the -foul fog rise as they left London; watched the slow development of a -dazzling autumn day. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_119"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-266">[266]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_119_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_119_toc">CHAPTER XIX.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -T<small>HERE</small> was no one she knew at the station; she had been nervously -apprehensive that there would be. She had expected to create a small -flutter among the railway people—measuring the intensity of their -emotions during the last year by her own. No one was surprised to see -her. The station-master civilly said good-morning. The porter pulled -his cap and added that they had not sent from Folly Corner to meet her. -Should he send for the blacksmith’s pony-cart? She shook her head, -stepping out into the sun. -</p> -<p> -She crossed the common, noting every detail of the landscape with -ecstasy. It all soothed and comforted her so inexpressibly, so -mystically; she fell into it with a delicious sensation of ease. Across -the common a woman was driving kids. The old goat had got free and was -awkwardly humping after her, dragging its tether chain. She saw -everything; her heart swelled in her throat at every step, at every new -sight. She saw it all, felt it all—even to the white horse silhouetted -against the broken black sail of the disused windmill. -</p> -<p> -Each side of her, as she walked on the well-kept road, the common at -her back, were the clean-cut black ditches, half filled with -iron-reddened water, and bound by the silver of dew-soaked, glittering -grass. In a field a man was harvesting swedes.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-267">[267]</a></span> The sick, sweet smell -of them hung in the air; they were bulbed, tawny and big on the black -ground. She stood and watched him, finding added peace in these simple -occupations—the land drew her. He was stuffing the roots into a -bloated, dun-colored sack. They bulged here and bulged there until the -canvas looked like an unwieldly, headless sheep of some mammoth breed. -He threw up the green tops into a cart, the prongs of his fork flashing -in the sun. Everything was bright and cold and hard; the newly-painted -shafts of the cart blood-red and angry against the fierce, clear blue -of the drifting sky. -</p> -<p> -She noted everything minutely. She was struck by the fantastic -appearance of a copse of bare bushes—a gray-brown film of mystery. She -didn’t throw a backward glance at London, with its crowds, its hectic -flow of life. She was at home. She didn’t even think very much of -Jethro; didn’t speculate on her reception at Folly Corner. She wanted -the place, the influences of the country, as distinct from human -preference. She dreaded the thought of a man’s love. All she had longed -for was placidity. The clear, hard day, the slow, simple occupations of -the few men and women she saw, gave her that. -</p> -<p> -And then, as the time wore on, came the note of dread, of chill -threatening. The sun slipped out of sight, the sky sulked. When she -began to cross the second stretch of common, a light, delicate powdery -mist hung over the shriveled heather. The common drew away—brown, -bare, heavy with foreboding. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-268">[268]</a></span> -The autumn flaying of the turf was in progress. She saw the bare, -blue-black patches, like the skin of a dark cat. Through the mist she -saw the stolid figure of a man. He was leaning his body against a -turfing iron. A cart, half full of square turfs, was at his elbow. -</p> -<p> -The mist grew thicker at every step. The one note of comfort and warmth -came from the smithy, round which was an angry red flare, and from -which came the steady clink of iron on iron. -</p> -<p> -The afternoon grew cold. The chill, delicate powder-mist was eating -into her. She was lightly clad. When first she went to Beaufort Street -she had bought herself some cheap, necessary clothing out of the few -pounds in her purse. This was an afternoon for furs. The mist rose and -rose. The voice of a woman who plodded by with a top-heavy -perambulator, the cry of the wretched, chilled baby inside, were the -only dull sounds in the eerie, pure-white thickness. -</p> -<p> -Her hair was wet on her face, moisture stood in minute pearls on the -velvet collar of her cloth coat. Higher and higher, thicker and -thicker, rose the delicate, eating mist! She was chin high in it. A -couple of cows, a tethered goat, a long white string of geese, were -queerly-shaped wraiths. The world was white: a wet, ghostly, silent -world. There was a threat at every step; each corner, each clump of -dripping bush formed to her nervous fancy some sinister ambush. -</p> -<p> -Her spirits fell. Once she absolutely stopped, half-crying, with cold -and misery. She was disposed<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-269">[269]</a></span> to go back. It was still a long way to -Folly Corner, and the terrifying mist was triumphant. -</p> -<p> -She came at last to the cottage at the edge of the oak-scrub copse, the -thatched and plastered cottage under the great oak trees. She -remembered it so well, remembered the hot August day when she had -walked to Folly Corner for the first time, and had thrown herself on -the moss-grown turf under the burning sun. She strained her eyes to see -the wide green glades, the clumps of primrose leaves, the tangled -brambles, the great tropical growing thistles. She knew exactly what -should be there at that season, but she saw nothing save the fire of a -bush of haws. The cottage, which had stood empty on that August day, -was now tenanted. She approached, her chilled limbs moving creakily. -She slowly skirted that cottage, preferring to tread the soddened grass -just for the sake of being near somebody. The world was deserted; she -could no longer hear one single sound. She was the last desperate soul -left outside. -</p> -<p> -The languid flame of a small fire fell across the tiny casement with -its ragged curtain of brownish white net. She went up close. She could -see the gray beams across the plaster, see the plumy Irish yew standing -straight by the yellow, weather-stained wall. The door was half open. -She saw the flagged floor exuding moisture, saw one poor chair; a bare -brown dresser, on which stood a coarse crock or so. She saw the mere -hint of a table, with turned legs which winked feebly in the light. At -the deadened sound of her feet there was a heavy clumping<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-270">[270]</a></span> across the -flags. An old face, the malevolent, evil face of a man, hung in the -shadow. She saw the dull, golden fustian of his torn coat, saw his -gnarled, filthy hand close round the jamb of the door and shut it. She -likened him to an evil spirit. He was a bad omen. It was nonsense, of -course; yes, she knew it was nonsense. The man was only Chalcraft. But -the mist made everything ghostly, demoniacal. -</p> -<p> -She hadn’t far to go now. She imagined it, she knew every detail, she -knew just how it would all look on that particular day—the white -wicket-gate dirty and dripping with water, the umbrella yew in a fairy -wreath of fog, the great brown pond, with the muddy wheel-tracks -zigzagging away from it and the marks of many hoofs in the yellow mud -at its edge. The garden beds would be weedy; vivid green here and there -with patches of self-sown plants. No doubt, in her absence, Gainah and -Daborn had easefully lapsed back to the old way—weeds all the winter -and a grand forking in the spring. She pictured the long windows, -running away each side of the house door. Inside, Gainah’s red -geraniums would still be fitfully blooming. She remembered the sentinel -poplars at the gate, the raised brick path leading to the door. She -remembered the outbuildings, the untidy muck-yard—all, all. -</p> -<p> -It was here. Twenty more paces would bring her to the pond. She took -them tremblingly, things becoming practical now that she was steadily -creeping beneath the warm, wide shadow of the place.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-271">[271]</a></span> The mist must -surely be thicker than ever. She could not see the poplars; yet how was -it that she had been able to see the Irish yew outside Chalcraft’s -cottage? -</p> -<p> -It was here, it should be here, it must be. She nearly reeled in the -wide road as she peered fearfully about her, looking for so many -familiar tokens which should have studded the landscape—but didn’t. -</p> -<p> -It was, it must be, Folly Corner. But—but—was that a new house? What -was the meaning of that wall which shot up like a straight, unrelenting -shaft and mocked her? -</p> -<p> -The pond was there. The pond! She stared at the big, brown patch of -water affectionately—certain of that, anyway. -</p> -<p> -The house! Yes. The house was the same. It wasn’t a new house. She -penetrated through its modern coat, its gingerbread attempt at -gentility. The house was there. She could not see very well; the impish -mist tantalized her. But the hard, smooth line of roof told her that -the tiles were new. The yew was gone, the bristly, unclipt umbrella yew -which had watched Edred kiss pink Nancy: the yew which knew the night -of her secret vigil. -</p> -<p> -That night! The night when she had waited. The night when Boyce had -helped the poor cow with her calving; the night when Chalcraft had -thrown earth at his master’s window to rouse him, because it was -raining, and the ricks were not covered. That night! -</p> -<p> -She had crept like a criminal a dozen times down<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-272">[272]</a></span> the brick-path, had -stood between the poplars, had looked along the road, had heard feet, -phantom feet, which came and died and finally departed. That night! The -poplars were gone, the yew, the raised path of worn bricks. They had -gone and taken that old story of dishonor with them. -</p> -<p> -A sinuous carriage drive of the brightest gravel wound away, beginning -where the entrance to the yard had been. The yard had been redeemed and -planted as a shrubbery; the new wall half hid the ample farm-buildings. -The shrubbery was very new—glossy laurels and firs set at regular -intervals, the ground between newly dug. She thought—and marveled at -herself for the preference—that she would rather have seen the -mother-pig there, as in the old days—with a pendulous stomach sweeping -the soiled ground, and a litter of pink, squeaking things about her. -</p> -<p> -The gates leading to the drive were newly hung. She pushed them back -fearfully and went toward the house, treading on the beautifully-cut -grass edge, because she was afraid of the crunch of her own feet in the -death-like silence and pallor of the early evening. -</p> -<p> -Firelight danced inside the house. As she drew nearer and yet nearer -she could see that there were two fires, one in the dining-room, one in -the drawing-room. The dining-room wouldn’t be dark now that the yew was -gone. That must be an improvement. Yet, at every step she made notes of -disapproval. It was so cold, so tame, so flat and unfeeling; these -mechanically set shrubs, that gleaming<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-273">[273]</a></span> regular roof, those wide -windows. Yes! She was near enough to see. There were new windows, sash -windows, with little panes above and one large pane beneath. She had -once said impatiently to Jethro that lead lights cut up the view. He -had taken advantage of her ideas for the benefit of that girl. Of -course, there must be a girl. He would not have gone to all this -expense, except with a view to a wife. -</p> -<p> -She was near the house, so near that it seemed to throb out to her with -sympathy. She put out her hand and touched the spick, newly-painted -walls. With a quick feeling of resentment she saw that they had cut -down the Devoniensis rose—that globular, foam-like, ethereal thing -which she had worshiped more than any of the roses. She looked down, -round, up, making mental, resentful notes of everything. There were -pert pots on the wide-throated chimneys, grotesque and poor-looking. -There was a new window upstairs, high and narrow, filled with stained -glass. That must be the bath-room. Most of the upper rooms were dimly -lighted. She had often insisted that this was the proper thing to -do—in good houses. Jethro had resisted the innovation, with a view to -the oil involved. -</p> -<p> -Yes! She stopped, her head critically on one side, her heart becoming -more tolerant of the many changes. This looked a good house, a house -that a lady might live in: she was full of these commonplace -expressions that smack of the housekeeper’s room. -</p> -<p> -Lights in every window, jealously drawn blinds.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-274">[274]</a></span> It looked like a -house where they dined late, where, about this time, the maids were -tripping to the bedroom doors with cans of hot water. The house had all -the appearance of a good house—a gentleman’s, as distinct from a -yeoman’s, so she thought, beginning to be satisfied and then -remembering that it made no difference to her now. She went round the -house stealthily, like a gypsy woman with a basket of cheap lace. The -dog bounded out of the kennel, then wagged his tail when she went close -and he recognized her. She went round, went past the woodstack. As she -passed, a sandy rat, whose young family lived in the shelter of the -fagots, ran timidly over her foot. -</p> -<p> -She reached at last the back door. It stood open; she had always -grumbled at the maids, in vain, because they would have the back door -open. Everything around the door was much the same, the modern spirit -had not affected the back of the house. There was the pig-tub waiting -to be carried to the stye, there was the ash-heap, the other heap of -broken crockery and old iron. There were the rain-water tubs lurking in -the angles of the house, their green paint turning blue. She looked up -at the sky and found that the mist had risen, that the mellow moon was -full on her head. -</p> -<p> -She saw everything. Her eyes stretched away into the garden, through -the entrance-arch of which she saw the glittering glass of the -greenhouse which Jethro had bought to please her. -</p> -<p> -She stood close to the wall, her wet shoulder pressing the thick -branches of the vine, all black and<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-275">[275]</a></span> damp and with loose rough bark. -There were busy movements inside in both the kitchens, a subdued -cluttering of feet, a comforting rattle of china. The warmth and smell -of the fire puffed out. There was a band of amber light, shaming the -cold moon. It fell across the pig-tub and the ash-heap, running -straight from the open door and losing itself in the hedge, which was -being grubbed. Jethro was evidently in the grip of some frenzy of -renewal and refurbishing. -</p> -<p> -The voices came from the kitchen. One was the voice of Nettie, that -girl Edred used to kiss and squeeze on the sly in his hateful animal -way. There were a couple of strange voices. The predominant smell was -that of apples bubbling in sugar. And then at last, as she stood -shrinking by the wall and undecided what to do, she heard Gainah’s -voice. It said, in the old acid shrew’s tone: -</p> -<p> -“I’ll have ’em made int’n apple-stucklin.” -</p> -<p> -She curled her lip, remembering those stodgy apple-pasties of Gainah’s -which Jethro had eaten with such relish. If they were still eating -apple-stucklins—such a name!—the improvements were only external -after all. Gainah’s voice, Gainah’s charge to the new cook, gave her -courage. Jethro had not yet taken a wife; no young wife would endure -Gainah’s rule. -</p> -<p> -He hadn’t a wife. She would walk straight into the house; the -garden-door was always unbolted until well after dusk. She would -go into the house through the garden-door and walk through the -dining-room. If he were not there she would look<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-276">[276]</a></span> into his little room, -where he kept papers, guns, his boots, his bicycle even, when he chose. -</p> -<p> -It was a new surprise to find herself in a porch—so the dining-room no -longer opened direct into the garden! That was another improvement. -</p> -<p> -She went through the porch into the room itself. She stopped on the -threshold and cried out faintly. Everything was changed. The yawning -hearth was filled in, and a coal fire was burning in a grate of the -latest design. There was a square table in the middle of the room, in -place of the long narrow one, with the stout legs and the thick staves, -which she had always considered so rude, so uncouth. It was pushed -against the wall opposite the new door—the table beneath which so many -dead and gone Jaynes had slept off their liquor, the table whose top -was ringed with black, ring within ring, each the mark of a wet mug, -each telling the tale of some dead joviality. -</p> -<p> -She had always declared that it was only fit for a public-house. It -stood against the wall, its disreputable ringed top discreetly covered -with a cloth. They used it as a side-board. There was a filter set out, -a soda-water syphon, and various other things. -</p> -<p> -The china ornaments had gone, the brass candlesticks. The big -horsehair-covered chair had been re-covered in shrimp-colored plush. -The plaster walls were papered. The thick oak beam above had been -whitened with the rest of the ceiling. She thought that the room looked -much more light<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-277">[277]</a></span> and cheerful, much more suitable for a dining-room. But -it was empty. There was no hint of Jethro, no gun in the corner, no -cloth cap thrown carelessly down, no heavy boots drying on the hearth; -one wouldn’t expect any of those things now. And yet their absence -depressed her. -</p> -<p> -She glided across the thickly-carpeted floor—it was a new carpet—and -looked into his own particular little room. Nothing had changed there. -The bureau from which he had taken the notes for Edred was open. The -shabby rugs were kicked up, the plaster on the walls was in places -discolored. His bicycle, all muddy, leaned against the window ledge, -his gun, his boots, his cap, his thick woolen gloves were strewn about -with masculine carelessness. -</p> -<p> -“The last thing in the house that a man changes is his own room,” she -said, looking tenderly at a shapeless, deplorable old shooting jacket -which hung limply on a chair. “But she will make him tidy this place -up.” -</p> -<p> -She! She! She! Who was this girl? She ran through the list of likely -maidens—every Jayne or Crisp or Turle or Furlonger under thirty-five. -It couldn’t be Peggy Crisp of Liddleshorn. It was probably silly, -pretentious Maria Furlonger of the Warren, as Barbara had said. -</p> -<p> -She turned away, feeling a quick, painful affection for this little, -dirty, dim, north room of his—the only room left untouched. She turned -away, opened the other door, and went along the corridor, thinking that -she might find him in the drawing-room.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-278">[278]</a></span> It was most unlikely; he -disliked that room. But then he had always disliked coal fires, new -furniture, many lights about the house. She was beginning to realize -that only the unlikely would happen at Folly Corner that night. -</p> -<p> -She turned the handle of the drawing-room door, stole in, and saw with -satisfaction that very little had been touched. Her improvements were -still rampant. The various slips of Eastern embroidery were disposed -about the furniture—awkwardly, by an unskilled, stiff hand. The piano -was draped. The door of the china closet stood ajar, showing the dark -floor with its gaudy rug and the daintily-finished shelves holding the -still daintier family china. The curtains—those curtains which they -had bought together at Liddleshorn—were drawn; the standard lamp, -which had been one of his last gifts before she went away, burned -steadily. There were candles alight on the high shelf—she had always -insisted on candles in the drawing-room; they made such cool pin-points -of steel-blue and yellow. On one side of the hearth was the one thing -that she had always longed for—a cozy corner. She didn’t think that -you touched the water-mark of true refinement without a cozy corner. -Jethro had stoutly resisted it. Yet there it was; no home-made affair, -but a perfect thing, cunningly upholstered in the most artistic style -known to Regent Street. -</p> -<p> -The green sofa, the green chair, were still in the bay—that bay, -curtained now, through whose leaded lights she had looked—weighing the -uplands thick with grain in all their beauty and plenitude with<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-279">[279]</a></span> -Edred’s shallow protestations of love and worldly success. -</p> -<p> -Jethro was lying on the couch half asleep. She had seen him lie so on -many autumn evenings when he came in tired after a day’s tramping on -the farm, or in the stubble after partridges. He was dozing. She stood -under the shade of the standard lamp and looked at him. He surprised -her—everything did. He wore a brown velvet coat and waistcoat; his -slippers had thin soles. -</p> -<p> -She made an involuntary sound with her foot, and he was awake and erect -in a moment, stirred like a watch-dog by the least noise. -</p> -<p> -“Jethro!” she said humbly. -</p> -<p> -“Pamela—Cousin Pamela! You’ve come to Folly Corner at last.” -</p> -<p> -He was on his feet, at her side. He stooped and kissed her lightly, -conventionally—the lukewarm kiss of a relative, to whom a kiss has no -background. He seemed to regard it as the proper thing to do—proper, -and perfectly safe. That matter-of-fact kiss of his made her more -wildly miserable than many of Edred’s blows had done. -</p> -<p> -“You’ve come!” He looked behind her, a curious, questioning glance, as -if he were waiting for the second indispensable figure. But the door -was closed; she offered no explanation. -</p> -<p> -“How cold and wet you are!” He ran his hand down her coat. “Take that -thing off. I’ll ring for tea; you could always drink tea at any moment. -You see I remember—everything.” -</p> -<p> -He had his hand out to the bell—bells had been<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-280">[280]</a></span> added to the old place -with other things. She put out her chilled hand and tapped him lightly -on his hairy wrist, where the skin was so white. -</p> -<p> -“Not just yet. No one saw me come in. I’m cold. I had a terrible walk.” -</p> -<p> -“But you didn’t come alone! Where is Edred? If he couldn’t leave his -business you should have wired. I would have driven to the station. I -would have brought the new Battlesden. You know you had set your heart -on one. I bought it soon after you went away. It’s only been used once. -Did Edred——” -</p> -<p> -“Sit down,” she said, with another light touch. “Oh! this fire is -glorious.” She turned up the hem of her skirt and let the warmth touch -her icy ankles. -</p> -<p> -“It’s Friday,” Jethro continued thoughtfully. “Is he coming down -to-morrow? You must stay a week at least.” -</p> -<p> -“I’ll stay longer—if you will have me,” she said, looking at him -queerly. -</p> -<p> -“Good! I didn’t suppose he’d be able to get away from business for more -than a week. All the summer I’ve been talking of running up to town, -but I’ve been prevented: haying, harvest, one thing and the other. You -never wrote”—his voice was gently reproachful—“but I remembered the -address—Marquise Mansions.” -</p> -<p> -“You’ve been making improvements,” she said, looking round the room. -</p> -<p> -“Yes, I’ve done a few things—the things we settled to do before you -went away,” he returned, in a calm voice, “I knew you’d be coming down -sooner<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-281">[281]</a></span> or later, and that you would be pleased. Let me ring for -tea—though there will be dinner in half an hour”—he pulled out the -big, ancestral watch. “I dine late now, as they do at the Warren.” -</p> -<p> -“The Warren! Oh, yes. Of course you dine late now.” -</p> -<p> -So it <i>was</i> Maria Furlonger of the Warren—Maria Furlonger, who made -such agonized efforts to get on socially. -</p> -<p> -“I know you like late dinner. I thought it was as well to have it, so -that when you and Edred came down there would be no fuss—everything -ready and as usual. He used to say that early dinner gave him -indigestion. Late ones make me sleepy; I’m ready for bed before nine.” -</p> -<p> -“But you haven’t done all these things; you don’t dine late—for us?” -</p> -<p> -“The place had to be done up,” he said, rather curtly, as if he thought -she laid too much stress on a trivial point. “It doesn’t matter much -whether you call your last meal dinner or supper.” -</p> -<p> -“But——” -</p> -<p> -She broke off. The fire was warm and crackling, his voice so calm, she -didn’t wish to disturb things. She recoiled from telling him the truth, -she shrank from hearing it. For she was certain that he meant to marry. -He had learnt to be indifferent to her—his kiss was an admission of -that. -</p> -<p> -“We must have Gainah in.” He put his hand out again to that little knob -on the wall. “She shall tell them to get the guest-room ready. You’d -like to go upstairs?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-282">[282]</a></span> -“Not yet. There is something I must tell you first. Perhaps you’ll turn -me out—I don’t know. In any case you will wish me to go to-morrow -morning; even if you were willing to let me stay, she wouldn’t hear of -it.” -</p> -<p> -“Gainah! She doesn’t rule me any longer,” he laughed. “Poor old Gainah! -She’s old—and queer. Aunt Sophy is afraid she is breaking up. That -would be awkward for me; a man can’t manage maids.” -</p> -<p> -“I didn’t mean Gainah. I meant Maria Furlonger. She is a good -housekeeper. She’ll make a good mistress for Folly Corner. When you -tell her the truth—and you must tell her—she’ll be indignant. There -isn’t much mercy in Maria. But I congratulate you, Jethro.” -</p> -<p> -“You talk as if I meant to marry Maria.” -</p> -<p> -“And you don’t? Who is it, then?” -</p> -<p> -“I’m not going to marry at all,” he returned soberly. “You ought to -know that, Pamela.” -</p> -<p> -“You are not going to marry!” she cried out in a shrill, happy, -half-incredulous voice. “I am so glad. Barbara Clutton said you were. I -thought you were doing up the place for your wife.” -</p> -<p> -“I did it up for you. I thought you’d be pleased. The men had begun -before you went away; it seemed a mistake to stop them. I should have -lost by it; the builder could have claimed.” -</p> -<p> -“You’re not going to be married,” she repeated, as if it were too good -to be true. “Then, I am not afraid of you. Men are kind and just. They -don’t understand; they don’t pet you and croon over<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-283">[283]</a></span> you, as a woman -does. They talk hard business and look at things from the practical -side. You, for example, would urge me to expose him, and I could never -do it, never.” -</p> -<p> -He started. -</p> -<p> -“Has he got into trouble again? Is he in prison?” -</p> -<p> -She shook her head. -</p> -<p> -“Worse—from my point of view. He is married. His lawful wife comes -first; he married her before he ever met me. He thought she was dead—I -do not blame him for that; it was a mistake. But other things!” She -bent forward and took his big, hard hands. “You don’t know what I’ve -suffered,” she continued in a quick, passionately vibrant whisper. -“Blows! Worse than blows. He constantly urged me to terrible things. -There was one man; there were two. The second one told me the truth and -offered, in a spirit of superb generosity, to marry me. He wanted me to -run away with one—a man I loathed, whose hand I would hardly touch. -There are some like that: you couldn’t kiss them, not if you were as -free as air, not if they were the only ones in the world. Do you ever -feel like that about particular women?” -</p> -<p> -“I never thought about women—only one.” -</p> -<p> -“You are different. I think these things out, just for amusement: women -do. I imagine what might happen in particular circumstances. He wanted -to get rid of me; I was a constant danger. He was tired of me—he never -cared, after the first few weeks: no one is indifferent to an absolute -novelty.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-284">[284]</a></span> I went away directly I heard he was married. I have never seen -him, never heard of him since. Barbara Clutton took me in. This morning -I found a periwinkle. You haven’t dug up that patch near the granary?” -</p> -<p> -“Yes. Everything is altered out there. You’ll see.” -</p> -<p> -“It reminded me of you. I put on my things and drove straight away to -the station, the flower in my hand. I threw it out of the railway -carriage window. It had done its work; to bring it with me would have -been sentimental, stupid.” -</p> -<p> -“Poor Cousin Pamela!” He just pressed her fingers, then gently pushed -them away, as if they were a danger. “You must forget him. You are -free.” -</p> -<p> -“I was always free. But I went away. I left you for him.” -</p> -<p> -They looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Until that moment they had -not trusted themselves to embark on a long, steady gaze. She saw in -Jethro’s nothing but intense, almost brotherly, affection and pity. -</p> -<p> -“You might leave me again to go to him?” he asked quietly. -</p> -<p> -“I don’t know—I think, never. But I don’t know—so long as he is -alive.” -</p> -<p> -“You are free. But he isn’t. He can’t marry you—can’t make it up to -you.” -</p> -<p> -“Can’t make an honest woman of me,” she said, with bitter bluntness. -“That is what the women say about here when they force the young men -to<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-285">[285]</a></span> marry their daughters. No, he cannot. But that would make no -difference to me—if he wanted me. He was first. I don’t even hate him. -Sometimes I think I am getting indifferent; but I felt like that -before, when he was in prison. I never know—unless he dies. That would -break the terrible spell.” -</p> -<p> -He looked into her eyes again; he gave her hand a significant grip. -They understood each other. They were to be cousins—nothing more. -Nothing more was possible—she wasn’t even sure that she desired more, -and she feared that he did not. Nothing was possible now. Their love -had come to a full stop. -</p> -<p> -He got up, saying: -</p> -<p> -“I’ll go and speak to Gainah. I’ll prepare her. She’s getting old, and -surprises upset her.” -</p> -<p> -When he came back, he looked a little stubborn—the old familiar look -of rebellion at woman’s tyranny. -</p> -<p> -“She’ll be all right to-morrow,” he said, in answering Pamela’s -eloquent querying look. “She’ll be glad to-morrow. You know that her -temper’s an odd one.” -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -They dined alone. Everything seemed strange—Jethro so unusually -precise in dress and manner, the dining-room so conventionally elegant. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_120"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-286">[286]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_120_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_120_toc">CHAPTER XX.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -A<small>FTER</small> dinner they went back to the drawing-room together. Nettie -brought in coffee. She looked at Pamela curiously—with no very good -feeling. Her sharp, impudent eyes dropped to the left hand, where -Edred’s meaningless ring still gleamed. The look was not lost on -Pamela. Directly the maid had left the room she slipped the ring off -and put it in her purse. Jethro watched her, keen pity and indignation -in his light eyes. -</p> -<p> -“If ever he comes here,” he said grimly, and with the eager instinct of -a sportsman, “you must let me settle with him.” -</p> -<p> -“He will never come,” she said, slowly shaking her head. “He took all -he wanted from Folly Corner.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes; I shall never see my two hundred pounds again,” the other -returned ruefully, and a disagreeable silence fell over the room, the -fire standing red on those two painfully tense faces. -</p> -<p> -Soon after coffee Jethro grew sleepy. He dozed spasmodically, -shaking himself up at intervals, with apologetic murmurs. Pamela -sat silent, her unringed hands on her lap, her eyes sadly on the -coals. She resented the lack of drama in what she regarded as her -home-coming. The long, varying walk had been so pregnant with -possibilities. She had imagined,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-287">[287]</a></span> dreaded, dared to hope—so much. This -was the end—Jethro, inert with food, sleeping like a tired dog in the -armchair. Everything was settled. They had talked themselves out -already. She was to stay; she was to be Cousin Pamela again. Whether -they were really cousins or not they did not know—they had agreed not -to trouble—it mattered not. She was back at Folly Corner. To-morrow -she would pick up her dropped reins. She would go to Turle, to the -Warren, to all the roomy, warm old houses; she would kiss again the -placid, clumsy-souled woman. No one was to know the truth. Everything -would be just as it had been before—except that there would be no -question of love between her and Jethro. He tacitly insinuated that, -and she as delicately agreed. It had all been conveyed by a look. -</p> -<p> -When the clock struck ten, he shook himself up for the last time, -stumbled to his feet, yawned openly, and said that it was late. Was she -quite ready for bed? They went round the house together, winding the -thirty-hour clock in the kitchen, which Gainah, strangely enough, had -forgotten, trying bolts and locks, turning out lights. They went up the -oak steps. At the door of the guest-room he kissed her calmly above the -eyes. -</p> -<p> -When she was half undressed she discovered that the bed had not been -made. The blankets and quilt were there, but there were no sheets, no -slips on the pillows. She was half amused and half angry, divining at -once what had happened. Gainah with a last kick of authority had bidden -the maids prepare<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-288">[288]</a></span> the inferior room which had been hers in former days. -</p> -<p> -She went softly along the corridor and into that room. The bed was -made. She did not intend to sleep there: Gainah must be grasped with a -firm hand from the very start. She set her candle down, peeled off the -sheets, piled them with the pillows in her arms, and turned to go back -to the guest-room. When she opened the door, a puff of wind—the -draughty old house was full of strange gusts—blew out her candle. -Before the candle blew out she noticed that the key was gone from the -door. -</p> -<p> -It was a wild autumn night, the wind rising and calling warningly down -the chimney. The room was dark, the curtains closely drawn. One gleam -of light, narrow and pointed, pierced through the uncurtained window in -the corridor and fell on the tumbled bed. She had dragged the sheets up -roughly; the blankets were in billows under the cotton quilt, the -bolster, in a case of some coarse, dark stuff, was half doubled and -partly buried beneath the humped-up coverings. As she gave the last -look back before shutting the door she was struck by the oddity of that -untidy bed. Quite unwittingly, in her hurried gathering of linen, she -had achieved the similitude of a human form. The appearance was -sufficiently startling. It was one of those queer, accidental effects -which sometimes occur. The tumbled blankets, under the white quilt -which she had hastily smoothed, the doubled, coarsely-covered bolster, -half hidden, were like the curled-up body and round head of some -sleeper. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-289">[289]</a></span> -She went softly along the passage, down the steps, round the angles, in -the dark, knowing every turn of the way. When she reached the -guest-room she locked the door, lighted the candle, and made the bed. -Directly she was in the shadow of the dim old hangings she fell asleep. -</p> -<p> -When the house was quiet and dark Gainah crept out of her room and -slipped, in her flat cloth shoes, down the stairs. She had not -undressed, had not even taken the band of dusty velvet from the top of -her head. She crept down to the lower rooms, where the fires were still -burning steadily, and where every article of furniture, new or old, -took fantastic shape. She went about lingeringly from one room to the -other, moving about slowly and stiffly in the dim circle of light which -came from the candle in her quivering hand. -</p> -<p> -She walked about through one room into another, along the corridor and -back again. Sometimes she sat down for a moment: sometimes she just -stealthily opened a door and peered in. The two clocks, the eight-day -in the dining-room and the thirty-hour in the kitchen, had clanging -tongues of brass. They were the only sounds in the sleeping house. The -hours struck. She did not seem to notice. A threatening change had come -over her. She was full of fever and tremor. Her cold eyes burned with -the fire of amethysts. Her ever-increasing restlessness would not let -her stay in one room long. She went about wearily, stiffly, driven by -some malignant whip. She went into the drawing-room and screwed herself -awkwardly at one end<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-290">[290]</a></span> of the cozy corner. She started up almost -immediately. To her hardihood there was a feeling of oppressive luxury -and enervation about that soft, gayly-tricked room. She was such a -persistent worker that her back felt strange against stuffing; she was -more at ease with the broad bars of a rush-seated chair cutting from -shoulder to shoulder. -</p> -<p> -She went out in the kitchen and moved about uneasily, peering, by long -habit, into drawers, and sniffing, like an eager old dog, for fire. -</p> -<p> -There was a fatty frying-pan on the top of the kitchen range—that -new-fangled range that Pamela had made Jethro buy. A victorious gleam -hardened her glittering eyes: the maids had been cutting rashers for -their supper. Her rule was bread, cheese, and water or cider. This was -a battle to be fought out in the morning. The jades! And not wit enough -to scour the pan! -</p> -<p> -The knife-box stood on the dresser. Gainah bent over it, from habit -again. Everything definite that she did that night was done quite -mechanically and from unquenchable habit. It was her habit to peer for -dirty knives sneaked in among the clean: that was a cardinal offense. -</p> -<p> -The box was made of mahogany. There was a brass handle; it gleamed in -the light of her candle. The knives had heavy buck-horn handles. Old -Jethro had been proud of them, his son took to them as a matter of -course, but Pamela had sneered and said they were barbarous. -</p> -<p> -There were two sets—a dozen to each set. One<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-291">[291]</a></span> was of lighter make -than the other; their handles were straight and tipped with steel. The -heavier set had stouter handles, which bulged out in knots at the ends. -Gainah picked out the two carving-knives and scrutinized the blades. -There was a weary, speculative look on her wasted, corpse-white face, -in which the brilliant eyes stood out so unnaturally. The frying-pan -was at her feet, but at the touch of the keen knives she absolutely -whirled away from trivial offenses—she was swept by one superb, -dangerous emotion. -</p> -<p> -She looked round the polished, scoured kitchen, as if asking those dumb -gleaming metal things on walls and shelves to help her—to suggest. -</p> -<p> -Then she moved toward the scullery and quietly drew the long bolts of -the door. She went across the yard, skirting the generous pile of -farm-buildings. They had been overhauled with the rest of the place. -The brick walls had been pointed; she could see every even, white line -of mortar. The roofs of thick thatch had been covered with sheets of -corrugated iron, which were hard and gray in the dim night. She went to -the tool-shed. That, by some oversight or by intention, had been left -untouched. It stood apart—the walls red patched with green, the roof -of rough tiles covered with a luxurious growth of lichens and -stonecrop. -</p> -<p> -She pushed back the door and went in. There were tools and labor -implements of many sorts in the house: all the deadly array of weapons -permitted to the peaceful agriculturist. Every one was familiar, to -her; she had known them all from her<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-292">[292]</a></span> very birth—pronged fork, long -scythe, solid spade, rakes with long pointed teeth. -</p> -<p> -She sat down on a heap of sacks and rubbish by the wall. Her oddly -bright eyes roved feverishly over the collection; some on the earthen -floor, some sentinel-like against the wall, some slipped up in the -rafters, lying stealthily in wait. -</p> -<p> -After a little she got up stiffly, the rheumatism gripping her cold -limbs, and touched these things one by one lingeringly. She ran her -fingers along edges, pressed them against teeth: the speculative, -questioning look crossed her face again. Yes. She must do it. That was -necessary for the peaceful carrying on of the farm life. She had never -scrupled to destroy anything that came in the way of the farm. It must -be done. But how? -</p> -<p> -She took the hedgebill down. It had a long rounded handle of wood; its -iron head was reared, as if to strike; there was the malignity of a -cobra in the curve. -</p> -<p> -There was the scythe with which through so many early summers she had -seen them cut down the young grass; the sickle, the almost circular -faghook, the solid billhook of shining steel with which the men chopped -thick sticks that were bound in the very hearts of the fagots. -</p> -<p> -There was an old tragic tale bound round the sickle. Years ago -Chalcraft had made a clean cut with it through his child’s leg—a -three-year-old asleep in the quivering oats. They said that Chalcraft, -when the child died, tried to hang himself in<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-293">[293]</a></span> the granary; but it was -before she came to Folly Corner. -</p> -<p> -There were the shears—long-handled shears, short-handled. She stood -thoughtfully moving the handles. What sharp wide jaws! One could almost -catch a head, a human head, in them, and clip it off as easily as one -would the head of a dandelion. -</p> -<p> -She dropped the tools as wearily as she had dropped the knives, with as -great an air of bewilderment. She went back to the house, in at the -open door. She stood for a moment looking out, seeing faintly some of -the changes that had taken place and imagining the rest. Nothing was -the same. The old prosperous, easy, untidy time had gone forever. The -Jaynes were trying to be gentry. She felt convinced that there was ruin -involved in the effort—ruin to the place, ruin to the family. She -loved the place: the hard iron roofs, the white-seamed bricks affronted -her. It wasn’t the Folly Corner she loved, outside nor in. She loved -the family; loved Jethro: hadn’t she almost married his father and been -a Jayne herself? And he! He was going to marry the girl who had lightly -altered everything. He was going to marry her—the girl who had come -back with the easy, insolent air of a devil that night when the shadows -were falling. It must not be. She must save the farm, save the family. -Yes. That was certain, that was settled. She had always made up her -mind that, if Pamela ever dared return, then Pamela must be done away -with. One had to get rid of certain nuisances, certain unprofitable -things about a farm. It was settled. But how? -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-294">[294]</a></span> -She went back to the mahogany box, bent over it, brooded. She took out -the carver again, the poultry carver with the long slender blade and -the sharply pointed tip. She rubbed it stealthily along the stone -coping of the sink, then she carried it back to the kitchen and slowly -swished it backward and forward along the steel, doing everything as -silently as possible. By and by she drew the edge of the blade along -her finger. It was so keen that a thin red line of blood ran up. -</p> -<p> -She went upstairs. In one hand she carried the flat, winking -candlestick of brass, in the other the knife. Her fingers gripped the -smooth golden-brown handle convulsively. The wicked point she held -outward, her eyes fixed on it with much satisfaction. It was the best -thing after all. The tool-house, with its rude weapons of earth, had -not helped her. The knife-box had. -</p> -<p> -She was at the door of the room where she believed Pamela was sleeping. -Leaving the light outside, she turned the handle with a sure grasp. She -knew that the door could not be locked; the key was weighting her long -pocket. She had remembered to take away the key. -</p> -<p> -The room was dark. She went like a slow, certain arrow to the bed. All -her movements were slow, sure, horribly deliberate. She was used to -killing things. She knew that the great secret of success was to keep -cool. It didn’t seem to her any worse to kill a woman, when the woman -was a distinct obstruction and hindrance, than it was to kill a bird. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-295">[295]</a></span> -The knife was in her hand. She gripped the handle fiercely; the shining -red bone of her wrist stood out. She shut her eyes; it was a habit of -hers to shut her eyes at the very moment of killing—her ineradicable, -nervous, womanly habit. -</p> -<p> -She darted the point of the blade down, jabbing it furiously through -the heaped-up bedclothes. Then, her eyes hardly open, her hand out to -feel the way, she crept away, softly shutting the door behind her. -</p> -<p> -The hard lines of her worn face had relaxed, the feverish shine of her -eyes had given place to a calm light. The strained, hunted, uncertain -expression had gone forever. The rebellion and misery, the desperate -catechising of herself, were all ended. The question which, a year ago, -had rung and rung in her head so persistently, which had rung again so -noisily to-night when she heard that Pamela had come back, was -answered. That question, that weary, bitter question which had chimed -above her brow and made it ache so dully, would chime no more. There -was silence, a strange feeling of ease and lightness above her eyes, -where that maddening noise had been. -</p> -<p> -Her smoldering hatred of Pamela had taken tangible form. She wasn’t -clever; she knew not the meaning of finesse nor the nature of -conspiracy. It had never occurred to her that she might get rid of -Pamela by skillful appeal to Jethro’s dearest emotions. That was not -her way. Her way was more rough and ready, more grewsomely certain than -that. Pamela must be got rid of in the usual manner.<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-296">[296]</a></span> There were plenty -of precedents on the farm. A knife was the only solution—knife, or a -trap, or a quick twist of the neck. But you could not twist a woman’s -neck; neither could you pin her in a gin. A knife—that was the only -way. She condemned Pamela in exactly the same spirit that she would -have condemned an unprofitable animal. She arrived at the decision with -stolidity. Her nerve had shaken a little at the actual act—that was -all: it needed a man to do the killing properly—it wasn’t woman’s -work on the farm. -</p> -<p> -Pests must be exterminated; that was the simplest rule of domestic -economy. -</p> -<p> -As she went along the narrow, silent passage and up the stairs to her -own room everything was strangely threatening. The candle was burning -short and leaping desperately in the stick. All the familiar things, -things of common life, reassuring things by day, were weird now with -night and sleep. -</p> -<p> -She was afraid. She didn’t know why: she fought the feeling. She had -earned the right to repose. -</p> -<p> -She shut her bedroom door, shooting the bolt convulsively. It was the -first time in her life that she had locked herself in at night. She -undressed quickly, the candle shooting up spasmodically before it died. -She laid her clothes, precisely folded, on the particular chair. She -took the velvet band from her head, parted her poor wisps of hair into -even strands, and twisted each strand into a wisp of rag. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-297">[297]</a></span> -She peeled herself of the various flannel wrappings which increasing -rheumatism demanded. Then she took off her stockings and slipped on her -coarse nightgown and got into bed, drawing the belated last leg in with -a frightened jerk. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_121"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-298">[298]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_121_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_121_toc">CHAPTER XXI.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -T<small>HE</small> sun, peering through the carelessly-drawn curtain and falling -across her eyes, awakened Pamela next morning. -</p> -<p> -She jumped briskly to the floor from the high, enshrouded bed. She -realized, with a joyful thrill, that this was not London—not Beaufort -Street. She must write to Barbara, who had been kind; but the bread of -dependence, when a woman hands it, is never sweet. -</p> -<p> -When she was half dressed she threw back the casement and occasionally -bobbed out her head to look at the garden. Beneath her stretched the -closely-shaven, vividly green grass, the accurately-cut beds, the long, -flower-tangled borders. She saw with satisfaction, with a thrill of -gratitude to Jethro, that everything had been kept in exactly the order -that she wished. -</p> -<p> -The garden drew her, looking up at her with a bright, magnetic glance: -the satisfying, intense, and comprehensive love for a garden caught her -once more; she marveled because she had once cared more passionately -for something else. -</p> -<p> -All the things that should be blooming in that month were there. Daborn -had been very good; not a single chrysanthemum—those choice, delicate -ones—had been lost. He had taken cuttings from<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-299">[299]</a></span> her dahlias, or -preserved the tubers. They were there too. Her eyes dwelt almost -tearfully on the blazing red cactus which had been her favorite. Her -Japanese anemones, with their rough dull leaves, were heavy with pure -white or pale pink flowers—widely open and waxen, like small saucers -of the finest porcelain. -</p> -<p> -She was going to be very happy in a placid way—the most satisfactory -form of happiness. She would always be happy; the garden needed her -every month of the twelve. She had passed the stage of rapturous, -transient happiness; she was too old. As she looked in the glass, -twisting her dull, abundant hair, she saw, for the first time, -accusing, brutally frank lines across her face. -</p> -<p> -She clasped the silver buckle at her waist with a click, and settled -the crimson tie which made a mark of flame down the front of her white -flannel shirt. She ran downstairs, humming under her breath, saying to -herself that it was fortunate that Jethro was indifferent to the old, -agitating passion—looking forward to his tepid, brother’s kiss above -the eyes. -</p> -<p> -It seemed as if the whole world of Folly Corner rejoiced at her return. -There was a busy cackling in the poultry yard; the bees were flying in -the sun; the geese went, in their waddling, ludicrously dignified way, -along the dry road, cackling with satisfaction. It was like a May -morning—so blue, so warm, so golden. It was like spring; all over the -garden were little chirrups and snatches of song, as if the birds were -nesting. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-300">[300]</a></span> -The dining-room was empty; so was Jethro’s room. She went into the -drawing-room, opened the window, jubilantly ran her fingers over the -keyboard of the piano. Then she went into the kitchen; she must show -herself, assert herself. -</p> -<p> -Gainah was frying sausages over the wood fire in the back kitchen. She -rigorously tabooed the new range, and she never allowed anyone to touch -her sausages. She made them from the very foundation—putting in a good -taste of sage, in the Sussex way. She fried them, set the dish on the -table with her own hands. She had a reputation for her sausages. -</p> -<p> -Some of them were sizzling in a copper pan, others waited, long and -lean and red, on a plate close by. They were not very appetizing to -look at, although they were admittedly delicious to eat. They gave out -a great deal of fat; the pan needed frequent emptying. -</p> -<p> -Gainah had a Windsor chair with a round back set near the fire. She had -a table at her elbow. Every minute or so she got up and emptied the -surplus fat into a bowl. It was a yellow bowl, ringed with lines of -white, and decorated with brown trees roughly run on—a common yellow -bowl such as they sell in country shops. -</p> -<p> -Pamela stepped across the bricks, her high heels clittering. She put -out her hand with nonchalance, smiled, tried to look pleasant—but she -had always been repelled by Gainah. -</p> -<p> -“Good-morning,” she said. -</p> -<p> -The pan of red copper, half full of fat and bubbling<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-301">[301]</a></span> sausages, was in -Gainah’s hand. It was tipped toward the yellow bowl. -</p> -<p> -“Good-morning,” repeated Pamela, the wide smile of greeting exposing -her teeth. “Why didn’t you come into the drawing-room last night to -welcome me back?” -</p> -<p> -Gainah gave a choking cry and fell forward in the wooden chair. The pan -dropped from her nerveless hand. The sausages were thrown about the -brick floor, the fat streamed along sluggishly, a hot brown stream, -rapidly settling. -</p> -<p> -Pamela started back. Some of those spitting brown grease spots were -already hardening on her skirt, on the toes of her shoes. -</p> -<p> -“How careless of you!” she cried wrathfully. “You have spoilt my -skirt.” -</p> -<p> -Gainah made that disquieting sound again. It did not seem to come from -her throat: it was a threatening sound—outside, beyond her. She was -now sitting bolt-upright in the chair. She made an odd figure, with her -stiff, blanched face, her unreadable eyes, her uncouthly-cut gown, and -her flat, stiffly planted feet. The fat was settling around her, going -white and hard on the cold floor. The sausages were stuck in it. The -pan was face downward on the floor. -</p> -<p> -Her crooked fingers were caught in at her throat, between the limp -collar and the gown. She seemed to be desperately clawing the stuff -away from her skin, as if she could bear no contact, as if she -suffocated. Her feet were fast in grease, it molded them like a plaster -cast. She didn’t seem to be in<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-302">[302]</a></span> any pain, although the fat was thick -on her feet. Her jaw had dropped, like a poor dead jaw. Her eyes were -blank. -</p> -<p> -Such eyes! Pamela thought of a mechanical toy—broken. Gainah looked -like that. Something had given the last pull at the wire, the -superfluous dangerous turn of the key—the one turn too many, the last -turn. It was just the same: there was the fixed grin, the hard stare, -the obstinate refusal to perform. There had been too violent a pull; -now there was Oblivion where a moment before there had been a semblance -at least of intelligence. She had always intolerantly considered Gainah -very stupid, only half developed in a mental sense. Yet she had never -before been an absolute, helpless, insensate, staring fool. -</p> -<p> -The door opened, Jethro came in. -</p> -<p> -He had been out early in the keen brief frost. The bridge of his high -nose was ruddy, his eyes shone. There was about him the intolerant -aggravating air of the person who gets up and goes out while others -sleep. He seemed hungry—a trifle cross. -</p> -<p> -“I saw you through the window,” he said curtly, giving her a bluff -little nod, and approaching as if to kiss her—the calm kiss that she -imagined she wanted from his mouth. “Haven’t they got breakfast ready? -Will you make the coffee, Pamela? The way you used to make it; nobody -does it so well.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes, yes!—but look! But what is the matter with her, Jethro? Is it a -fit?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-303">[303]</a></span> -She pointed to Gainah, stiff, staring, widely smiling; a terrified grin -that had petrified on her wrinkled mouth. He looked. He gave a long, -high whistle, then he seemed terribly touched. -</p> -<p> -“Aunt Sophy’s been afraid of this,” he said gravely. “We must get her -up to bed.” -</p> -<p> -He picked the rigid figure up tenderly, as he would have picked up an -ailing child. -</p> -<p> -Pamela followed him. On the way through the kitchen she told the maids -to send two messengers—one to Turle, another to Liddleshorn for -Egbert. -</p> -<p> -Jethro was halfway up the stairs, the odd figure bunched up like a -short-coated baby in his long arms. It looked so ludicrous, so -fearsome, that Pamela stepped back from the fixed eyes and stretched -mouth. He went slowly, his hands gripped round the blue gown. He paused -on the landing; paused by the window, with its tiny dull panes, its -wide ledge, on which stood a jar of white honesty-pods—“money in both -pockets,” as Gainah had always called it. Pamela slid by him, keeping -her skirt, her head and hands from contact with the blue gown and -hanging arms. She flung back the door of her old room. -</p> -<p> -“Carry her in here,” she said. “It is nearer. It is a better room than -her own, too. When the doctor comes—I have sent for Egbert—the room -must be tidy.” -</p> -<p> -He crossed the threshold; she ran in front and flung back the curtains, -letting in the glad November sun. -</p> -<p> -“Put her in here. Then go down and send<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-304">[304]</a></span> Nettie up. We’ll undress her,” -she said tersely, with the cool air of business that follows a shock. -</p> -<p> -They both looked at the bed at the same moment. Pamela stared, started, -contracted her forehead. Then she threw a stronger look of terror and -dislike at the doll-like, silly head of Gainah, which hung over -Jethro’s shoulder. -</p> -<p> -“The wicked old woman!” she gasped. “I always knew she wasn’t safe; -these queer people are much more dangerous than a full-blown lunatic. -All the crimes that one reads of in the newspapers are committed by -people like she was—peculiar people. She meant to murder me. She -thought I was sleeping in this bed. Look at the knife.” -</p> -<p> -She stopped, with a wild leaping at her throat. Jethro had tumbled his -burden down on one side of the humped-up bed. He drew out the knife. -Pamela was close behind him. Together they traced its course. She put -her shaking, twitching fingers through the close long cuts, which rent -everything down to the very bed. All around the cut in the ticking were -down and feathers that had puffed out. The down flew about their heads, -stirred by the quick, short breaths of horror which gushed from their -lungs. -</p> -<p> -“She meant to kill me. I took the sheets away and slept in the -guest-room. It looked rather like a body—you can see the likeness -yourself: the doubled-up bolster, the blankets all heaped up under the -quilt. She meant to kill me. Show her the knife.” -</p> -<p> -She took it from Jethro and held it up, held it<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-305">[305]</a></span> close to the stony, -widely-opened eyes of the figure at the edge of the bed. But the eyes -gave no sign, the mouth did not relax. -</p> -<p> -“She doesn’t understand; it is no good trying to make any impression on -her.” -</p> -<p> -She put the knife on the dressing-table. -</p> -<p> -“I’m afraid to touch her,” she said. “What an escape!” -</p> -<p> -“She’s lost her reason.” He looked down sorrowfully. -</p> -<p> -“You don’t care for <i>me.</i> You don’t think of my escape.” -</p> -<p> -He lifted his eyes from the bed, seeming suddenly to remember. Then he -pulled her to him, kissed her with all the calm restraint of last -night, smoothed her hair—petted her as if she were a startled bird. -But all the time his eyes were turning to the bed. He treated her -tenderly—as a pet thing who had narrowly missed destruction. But any -pet was less than a woman. Gainah was a woman—the wreck of the woman -who had been his mother, his mentor, his tyrant all his days. His eyes -dwelt sorrowfully on the bed. Pamela pushed him to the door rather -pettishly. -</p> -<p> -“We must get her undressed,” she said. “Egbert will be here soon. Tell -Nettie to bring up a needle and thread. The tick must be sewn or we -shall have the feathers all over the place.” -</p> -<p> -He went away reluctantly. When Pamela was alone she sat down on the -edge of the sofa. Once she shrugged her shoulders and gave a cold short -laugh of terror. Only last night she had been discontented<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-306">[306]</a></span> because her -return to Folly Corner had lacked the elements of drama. There had been -tragedy brewing for her all the while. -</p> -<p> -Gainah was on her side, just as Jethro had left her. A gentle, almost -imperceptible, vibration of her head was unceasing; it extended to her -hands, which clutched round the edge of the blanket. She seemed to be -slowly crawling back to some muffled kind of consciousness. Once, when -her eyes met Pamela’s, the girl fancied that she saw a gleam of terror. -In another moment she felt certain that Gainah recognized her, was -abjectly afraid of her, was trying, in an agony and without the least -avail, to slip down in the bed and get out of sight. -</p> -<p> -It was the monthly washing day. It had been the day of the monthly wash -when Pamela first came to Folly Corner. She thought of that as she -threw back the window and heard the rasping, spasmodic sound of the -brush. -</p> -<p> -Nettie came up. Between them they took off Gainah’s clothes, divested -her of her many flannel packings. Then Pamela went and looked for a -nightgown. She opened all Gainah’s boxes and drawers in the search. She -wanted a fairly smart nightgown—for the doctor. She rejected those of -daily wear—coarse, plain things which any self-respecting housemaid -would disdain—narrow things, like bolster-cases with the bottoms out. -</p> -<p> -She found, at last, a parcel sewn in linen. On it was pinned a paper -with the words, written in an uncertain, illiterate hand: -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-307">[307]</a></span> -“For my laying out.” -</p> -<p> -She hesitated—for sentimental reasons. Then—for practical reasons, -and the practical was usually uppermost with her when it came to other -people’s affairs—she unpinned the parcel. Woman’s pity for another -woman touched her heart as she flipped the carefully-made nightgown, of -fair, thin stuff, over her arm. -</p> -<p> -“Poor thing!” she said pitifully, and hesitated once more. Then she -said brusquely to herself: -</p> -<p> -“Well, at the worst, if she dies, it can be washed, and she can be -buried in it as she wished.” -</p> -<p> -She shut the drawer, it was a bottom drawer, with her foot. Gainah’s -quilts, the blue one still unfinished, were folded carefully away. -</p> -<p> -When she went back she found the cook and washerwoman standing by the -bed. The former had brought clean sheets, the latter was standing -stolidly, her crinkled hands on her hips. She sent them all away and -finished Gainah’s toilet herself. She fancied that the helpless figure -shrank from the touch of her hands; fancied that the eyes tried -eloquently and quite in vain to say things which the lips could not. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -When the bed was made and Gainah was stretched straight and stiff and -robed in snow-white linen of the very finest, Pamela tidied the room. -She picked up the old woman’s garments with a “finicky,” fine air of -distaste. She twisted together strips of flannel and rolled up -stockings which had been frugally re-footed. Last of all she<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-308">[308]</a></span> plunged -her hand into the pocket of the dim blue gown and brought out the heavy -bunch of housekeeping keys. The clinking sound they made roused Gainah. -She tried piteously to move in the bed. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_122"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-309">[309]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_122_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_122_toc">CHAPTER XXII.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -“T<small>HAT</small> head-flannel may do for Annie; you know there is to be another -little one about Lady Day. I must say that it is a pity when young -wives have a family too fast.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Turle gently laved her ample hands in the fancy-work box, -apportioning the different articles according to her mind. -</p> -<p> -“Nancy would like that embroidered newspaper rack. She and Duncan are -so very literary. I’m sure Nancy would have distinguished herself in -literature, if it had been necessary. She would have made her -mark—ladies take up so many things nowadays, and are received by the -best people just the same. When Nancy stayed with the Cluttons she -moved in a very literary set, and was much admired.” -</p> -<p> -“Have you heard from Barbara lately?” asked Pamela. -</p> -<p> -She was sitting by the fire, with her back to the view of gravel drive -and brand-new park land of Turle House. The big, dazzling white -mantelpiece was a little above her head, loaded with family photos—a -long, ogling, simpering line of family features. -</p> -<p> -“No. But I saw her name in the papers; I am always seeing it. Her -husband is really a very distinguished<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-310">[310]</a></span> man in his way. I can’t think -why she buried herself at the Buttery, and talked so much at random, -making enemies of so many people. How could anyone be expected to -understand her? Nancy says that in London, when staying with the -Cluttons, she met a great many women of that type—ill-balanced -women, my dear, with a trick of extravagant talk and an unchristian, -uncomfortable habit of poking fun at everything.” -</p> -<p> -Pamela shifted her chair a little back from the hot fire. A quick, -poignant shadow just flecked her face. A vivid picture of London, hot, -restless, virile, flamed before her eyes and shook her calm for a -moment. Then the peaceful slowness dropped down on her again. She -looked, with a gasp of relief, at her surroundings—the big, ugly -room—old-fashioned enough in its appointments and furniture to mark a -distinct period. She looked at Mrs. Turle—who might or might not be -her Aunt Sophy—looked at her motherly figure and hard, high-featured -face. She remembered that Barbara had once said, with a laugh, that -there was a strong streak of “old cat” in Aunt Sophy’s face. -</p> -<p> -Nothing changed: nothing ever would change. Everything in that room was -the same as it had always been in her knowledge of it. It was restful -and slow: it fed and stilled one’s nerves. She no longer wanted London, -no more wanted Love. But the mention of London, which had held Love, -just stirred her—made her remember that she had never heard anything -of Edred. She wondered if he and Sutton were still at Marquise -Mansions; if they,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-311">[311]</a></span> with Milligan and a few more, were still carrying -on risky financial schemes. The newspapers never mentioned them, the -advertisements of their companies no longer necessitated an extra sheet. -</p> -<p> -“How is Gainah?” Mrs. Turle brought out a cushion of crazy patchwork. -“I’ll buy this for her, poor soul! What an invaluable woman she was! -What a manager! Folly Corner would have gone all to pieces after Lilith -died but for Gainah. It is a dreadful end for an active woman. I -suppose, dear, you notice no change?” -</p> -<p> -“None. She just sits upstairs—she won’t leave that room; my old room, -you know——” -</p> -<p> -“I know. You certainly had a most providential escape.” -</p> -<p> -“She does patchwork; she cries to Jethro—never to me—for new pieces.” -</p> -<p> -“She shall certainly have this cushion. It would give her a new idea. -She might copy it. She has never done crazy patchwork.” -</p> -<p> -“If any of you have any pieces, do send them to Folly Corner. Whenever -we drive into Liddleshorn I will buy her some.” -</p> -<p> -“I’ll have a hunt. We all remember Gainah. Maria brought some over from -the Warren last week—you can take them back with you. And Annie had -some beautiful corners of sateen. She has been re-covering the cot -eiderdown. I went to help her last Monday; it takes two—one to machine -and the other to hold the work perfectly steady. Annie is rather early -with her preparations, but your Aunt Jerusha always insisted on having -everything<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-312">[312]</a></span> ready at least three months before: Annie is a very dutiful -daughter. And Gainah still has that extraordinary dislike for you?” -</p> -<p> -“Yes. She is afraid of me. It is natural and uncanny. She thinks I am a -ghost; she knows she killed me. The knife was dug in to the very hilt. -What an escape I had! Jethro won’t send her to the asylum. He could -pay. She would have every care. Half the parlormaid’s time is taken up -with Gainah.” -</p> -<p> -“I can understand that it is a trial for you. It is telling on you, -dear. You really look quite faded. I can see by your eyes that your -head is aching at this moment. Take a dose of caffeine when you get -back. And ask Egbert to give you a tonic. I must say that it isn’t -natural, dear, for a young woman not quite thirty to look so yellow.” -</p> -<p> -“Gainah and Chalcraft ought to be comfortably provided for away from -Folly Corner,” Pamela persisted. “Chalcraft is anything but a graceful -pauper. He is most familiar to me whenever I go to his cottage.” -</p> -<p> -She laughed uncomfortably. She had grown into an elegant habit of -philanthropy, after the manner of country ladies. Philanthropy was very -gratifying. She bought courtesy with old gowns and paid for heavenly -benedictions with a milk pudding. But Chalcraft was obdurate. He -declined to bend his ancient knee to the interloper. He kept his bed -nearly all the winter. He made his “missus” bring it down to the -living-room and set it behind the door, so that he might see, in part, -how<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-313">[313]</a></span> the world went. At Pamela’s entrance, foolish, half-daft Mrs. -Chalcraft would courtesy and flip a chair, but Chalcraft only grunted. -The cold stare of his rheumy blue eyes reminded her of the day when she -first came to Folly Corner, when she trod down the gray tendrils of the -vine with the pointed toes of her town shoes. She had been an -adventuress then. She was assured now—the mistress of Folly Corner. -She had routed them all—Gainah, Chalcraft, the rude manner of life. -The fierce old head on the pillow behind the door, the blank, worn old -face at the window of her old room, were unpleasant reminders. She -would gladly have sent Chalcraft and Gainah away. But this was the one -point on which Jethro was firm. -</p> -<p> -“You haven’t heard from Edred lately?” -</p> -<p> -Aunt Sophy’s placid, purring query struck her ears like a gunshot. -“No,” she said shortly. -</p> -<p> -Aunt Sophy’s keen blue eyes were full on her face. -</p> -<p> -“He had a very serious illness?” -</p> -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> -<p> -“Why doesn’t he come down to Folly Corner?” -</p> -<p> -“He’s busy. The train service is so bad.” -</p> -<p> -“The train service is very good, now that we have the new line. He -could go up every morning quite easily, with a quick horse to take him -to the station. It would be better, dear. We hardly care for you to -live alone with Jethro. You’re really much younger than you look. -Strangers might consider the arrangement a fitting one, but we in the -family, who know that you are really not thirty, consider it hardly -proper. People talk. You<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-314">[314]</a></span> know,” she laughed indulgently, “what a long -tongue Maria has—and she visits at so many nice houses. You and -Jethro ought to marry. Why doesn’t the wedding come off? Everyone is -wondering. It is fifteen months since you came back from nursing -Edred.” -</p> -<p> -“We have changed our minds. We neither of us wish to marry. It doesn’t -matter what people say.” -</p> -<p> -“My dear, your family has every confidence. But I’m sure my idea is -excellent. Let Edred come and live at Folly Corner. If you had your -brother with you no one could say a word. Isn’t this a pretty workbag?” -</p> -<p> -She held up a limp blue thing, worked with straggling leaves in brown -silk. She held it so persistently, swinging it tantalizingly by the -string, that Pamela was compelled to meet her inquisitive eyes—eyes -that she had always known suspected her. There was more than a spark of -malice in Aunt Sophy. She had been young once, a coquette, so they -said. The embers of coquetry lay in her eyes still. She had never been -a mere pink and silly girl like her daughter Nancy. -</p> -<p> -“If you had your brother with you,” she repeated with emphasis, “no one -could say a word. Why doesn’t he come? Is it because of Nancy? He was -in love with Nancy. But she is married now.” -</p> -<p> -“He cannot come. He has his business.” -</p> -<p> -“Well, then, my dear,”—she never shifted her questioning eyes,—“I -must say that you ought to marry to Jethro.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-315">[315]</a></span> -Pamela walked home thoughtfully. There was, then, nothing stationary in -life—outside a happy marriage. The family had combined to drive her -from Folly Corner or into Jethro’s arms. The family did not know the -cold, sad repugnance that they both had for love-making—the dread -avoidance of it, as a poignant, heart-wrenching thing. Aunt Sophy might -suspect, but she would never be sure. -</p> -<p> -She walked through the woods which she had once trodden with Edred on a -spring day. Crisp frost—like the icing of Maria’s cakes: Maria’s forte -was iced cake—spread over the thick, dead leaves. Every point on which -her eye dwelt was glittering and white. When she reached Folly Corner -she stopped to look at the cows, standing in golden straw and fenced by -a gray paling on which serpent-green moss stood in a thick pile. Why -wouldn’t the family let them alone—she and Jethro? They were -happy—slow, peaceful, like their cattle: <i>their</i> cattle—she had come -to believe that everything was hers, without the burning, binding tie -of marriage. They were happy. The pensive melancholy and roundness of -the old place, which no builder could inspire with modern feeling, had -eaten into them. They only wanted to be left alone. -</p> -<p> -She went round the house, meaning to enter, as she usually did, by the -garden door. As she passed beneath the window of her old room she -looked up. It stood open. Gainah was indifferent to temperature: she -was stitching at her interminable quilts. All she had kept of her sane -days was the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-316">[316]</a></span> feverish energy, which now wrought itself on snipping up -stuff and sewing it together again. She wore the same old gown of -blue—they could not take it from her; her hair bunched out on each -side of her chalky face in the absurd bunches of corkscrew curls. The -velvet band across her head was tightly strained: it had made a bald -spot in the middle of the parting—a spot which was rapidly spreading. -Pamela saw her plainly: the restless fingers, distorted by rheumatism, -but quite clean and yellow-white, now that she did not do any housework -or cooking; the worn, blank face, the constantly moving lips. She stood -looking up, not knowing why she stopped, lost in speculation which had -little enough to do with this dormant Gainah. -</p> -<p> -As she stood there Gainah suddenly looked down. She met the upturned -eyes and gave a terrified baby’s cry. She tried to move, to scuttle out -of sight. But her stricken limbs refused their aid; she began to -whimper with fright at the sight of her victim. A flash of anger -lighted on Pamela’s face. She had never forgiven. -</p> -<p> -She held up her finger and shook it threateningly. -</p> -<p> -“Go back,” she cried, “go back to the fire at once,” forgetting in her -irritation that the old woman could not move across the room without -help. -</p> -<p> -The parlormaid came forward to the window. She caught Gainah by the -shoulder, none too gently, and pulled her away, shutting the casement -with an impatient click. -</p> -<p> -Jethro was in the field beyond the garden. Pamela<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-317">[317]</a></span> went to him over the -border of crisp, crunching grass which edged the furrows. She loved -that field in all its moods. She had watched it, consulted it so often -from the shadow of the deep bay window. She remembered just how it -appeared at each particular crisis of her life at Folly Corner—half -shorn of its yellow corn on that first day; mystic with clearing mist -and great green moon the night she came back; dull brown to-day with -thin ice on the upturned tips of its even furrows. -</p> -<p> -He was near the hedge, talking to Buckman, who was ditching. She went -up and hooked her hand through his arm without saying a word. They had -grown into that attitude—the affectionate, silent attitude of long, -dear familiarity. Sometimes they would sit without speech for a whole -evening, until he suddenly looked up from the paper with a tender look -and stretched his big hand out to touch her fingers. -</p> -<p> -The ditch was clean, the hedge hacked. Small heaps of black leaf mold -spotted the fringe of grass. -</p> -<p> -“You’ll be about done that job to-morrow,” Jethro said. “Just tie the -fagots together and put them on the stack.” -</p> -<p> -The two walked toward the house. -</p> -<p> -“I think,” she said timidly, “that I would like to go to London -to-morrow. Some shopping—that’s all. And I’d like a sight of London -streets—a bit of color and movement. One wants that twice in a -winter.” -</p> -<p> -He looked at her suspiciously. The clear fire blazed in her face. -Standing there with the icy<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-318">[318]</a></span> ground under their feet and the scurrying, -sunless sky above their heads, they read each other’s souls. -</p> -<p> -“No,” she said passionately; “you can trust me. I think I can trust -myself. London is very big. I am not likely to meet him.” -</p> -<p> -“Go, if you like. But there will be a hard frost to-night and very -likely snow to-morrow,” he returned, looking up to the sky for a -weather sign. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -The clear, hard light showed his rugged face, stern and simple. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_123"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-319">[319]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 class="chap" id="chapter_123_hdg"> -<a href="#chapter_123_toc">CHAPTER XXIII.</a> -</h2> -<p class="no_top"> -H<small>E</small> stopped at the door and said he must drive over to the Flagon House -before dusk. Pamela went alone into the drawing-room and sat by the -fire. The luxury and completeness of the room touched her with a sense -of Jethro’s boundless generosity—all the more creditable because he -was a frugal man. It was quite a modern room now—it had the thin, -elegant touch which she preferred. -</p> -<p> -Her tea came in. She threw aside her hat and coat, and toasted her -knees while she read the newspaper. A queer hurry and unrest had taken -possession of her. She kept worrying herself. Should she go to London -to-morrow? Aunt Sophy had stirred her by the mere mention of London. -Should she go? Should she stay at home? -</p> -<p> -There was no harm in going. Shopping, tea with Barbara perhaps—nothing -more. She would stop at Liddleshorn and ask Nancy or Egbert’s wife to -go with her. There would surely be safety in that. Safety! The word -made her blench and shrink. She instantly suspected herself. So there -was really danger! -</p> -<p> -She wasn’t sure of herself—not yet: wasn’t sure—would never be. -Wasn’t it more than possible that, directly she was in London alone, -unchecked, unwatched, she would go straight to Marquise Mansions,<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-320">[320]</a></span> not -meaning to enter? But, at the foot of the stairs, wasn’t it certain, -miserably certain, that she would go up? If she saw him! Then—that -she admitted, with a violent shame and misery—everything would depend -on his attitude. The woman in brown! The woman—didn’t count. -</p> -<p> -She wouldn’t think, wouldn’t speculate, wouldn’t decide just now. It -would be premature to decide yet. There was no hurry. -</p> -<p> -She picked up the paper, which had dropped to the floor. Then she -remembered that it had been the paper which had tempted her to leave -Jethro before. Suppose Edred’s name should be on the next sheet! That -would settle everything—so she feared. -</p> -<p> -Would it never end—this evil, incomprehensible witchery? Wasn’t she -ever going to be safe? Was her life to be spent in veering between the -happy lethargy of Folly Corner and the periodic joy and black misery of -life with Edred? She despaired of herself. She hadn’t any shame, any -self-respect, any modesty—any of those cold, praiseworthy qualities -which romance has for centuries built up and labeled “feminine -character.” -</p> -<p> -She read on. One word, at last, became more than a dancing string of -letters. It was the word Sutton. Here at last, after fifteen months of -vigilant watching, was a sign. Here, beneath her eyes, was an indirect -message from Marquise Mansions. -</p> -<p> -Had he been knighted or sent to penal servitude? Either was equally -likely—in their mode of life. She read. It was a highly respectable -announcement:<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-321">[321]</a></span> he was a member of the County Council—a prominent -member—and he had been agitating about some strike—yes, the -plasterers’ strike. Whatever sympathy had he with plasterers? She -laughed softly, and put the paper down. He was evidently prosperous, -this sleek minion of Edred’s. The paragraph was redolent of prosperity. -He was spoken of deferentially as a promising man—a coming man. She -knew his future. He’d go into Parliament, pick his way up the social -ladder. -</p> -<p> -There was no word of Edred. The omission was a knell on her brow. -</p> -<p> -She must go to London to-morrow. It would be safe. She wasn’t quite so -weak as she supposed. After all, there really would not be much danger -in going to Marquise Mansions—just to inquire of the porter. -</p> -<p> -The room grew dark as she sat, stooping forward, her chin in her hands. -The wind rose, and lapped like rising waves about the lonely house. She -put more coal on the fire, feeling the intense cold of the night even -there, in the nest of carpets, thick curtains, and cushions. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly she heard muffled feet on the red, newly-spread gravel -outside. No wheels, but the steady, heavy tramping of feet! She heard -voices, the rustic, slow voices of the farm men. There was a momentary -silence: then Jethro spoke. She could not catch the words, but there -was a sinister intonation in his voice. -</p> -<p> -She ran to the window. When she hastily dragged the curtain back she -saw that the glass was<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-322">[322]</a></span> spread with a fine cloth of silver. The -casement was fast with frost; it took a determined movement of her -wrist to throw it back. -</p> -<p> -When she put her head stealthily out into the night, the cold dashed -against her with the sting of a blow. There had not been so cold a -night that winter. The snow fell in solid steady flakes. -</p> -<p> -It was a typical winter’s night; it was quite theatrical in its -completeness. She might have been looking at the drop-scene of a -domestic drama. Snow, intense cold, slow-tongued, heavy-footed -rustics—everything was ripe for a crisis; but there was to be no -crisis in her life, no more drama. She was in harbor. -</p> -<p> -Jethro saw her before she spoke. -</p> -<p> -“Go back!” he said peremptorily. “Go back to the fire!” -</p> -<p> -Those were the words she had used to Gainah. -</p> -<p> -“Go back!” he repeated. -</p> -<p> -She couldn’t see his face; she could see nothing distinctly. The men -were in a circle, as if they covered something. But she didn’t want to -see. The strange ring in his voice was enough. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -She shut the window, caught a rug from the cozy corner, and went -through the warm, well-lighted corridor out of doors. -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p class="no_top"> -They were going very slowly, very cautiously, the group of farm men, -headed by Jethro, toward the barn. She could see them—the bent -shoulders, the rough clothes, the shambling, swinging steps and loose -swing of the body. They were all<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-323">[323]</a></span> familiar, these men. She knew them -by name—knew how many shillings a week each had, and of how many -children each was the father. At that moment she didn’t seem to know -them at all. They were instinct with mystery—mystery flavored with -dread. -</p> -<p> -What were they carrying? She could see now, as she gained on them -silently in her thin slippers, that they guardedly carried a thing—a -long, shrouded bundle. It was shapeless; yet, somehow, it cried out of -life beneath the roughly piled coverings. It was nothing agricultural -that they were carrying toward the barn so carefully. -</p> -<p> -She heard them speak, heard Daborn say in his cheery voice and -deferential way: -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Course, sir, it aint as <i>I</i> thinks, it’s as <i>you</i> thinks. But <i>I</i> -should jus’ lay ’un in the barn.” -</p> -<p> -Lay what in the barn? A formless fear quickened her feet. She was very -close, none of them yet suspected her presence—the heavy snow now -extinguished all sound of feet. -</p> -<p> -They had covered the shrouded thing with sacks—wet sacks that were -already stiffening with frost. -</p> -<p> -She crept behind them in the shadow of the newly-planted shrubs. She -followed to the barn—the great barn, full of cobwebs, scored by huge -beams. Its new roof of corrugated iron, covering the heavy thatch, -gleamed like a strange, new precious metal. -</p> -<p> -They stopped to throw open the great door. How cold she was! And yet -how her heart under the<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-324">[324]</a></span> sofa-rug blazed and beat—she couldn’t have -told why. -</p> -<p> -They all went stolidly, carefully into the barn. She slipped like a -wraith in after them. -</p> -<p> -Jethro turned and saw her. -</p> -<p> -“Go back!” he said wrathfully. “Go back!” repeating it, with no wrath -at all, but with exquisite pleading and gentleness. “Go back! Dear -love, go back to the fire.” -</p> -<p> -She looked up at him meaningly, knowingly. She began to feel what it -was that stretched under those wet sacks. Dear love! It was the first -time since her return that he had used those words—his favorite pet -expression during the brief, agitated period of their engagement. -</p> -<p> -There were frozen flakes of snow scattered over the orange silk rug -which wrapped her from her chin to the toe-caps of her slippers. Her -white face, framed in disheveled, dust-colored hair, was shadowy. They -stood together at the door of the barn. At the back of them, the men, -each with his lantern, made a patch of light. An evil spirit seemed to -stare out of each corner of the vast raftered place—to stare down at -the thing under the sacks. -</p> -<p> -“I will not go back,” she said firmly. “I want to see. What is there?” -</p> -<p> -She pointed with a steady finger. They had improvised a bench. They -were laying it out—straightening it, with rough, pitiful reverence, as -she could very well see. -</p> -<p> -“What is there?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-325">[325]</a></span> -Her voice rang out in the lofty barn amid the perfect, unnatural -silence which suddenly fell over the rest. Jethro only repeated, -touching her coaxingly on the wrist: -</p> -<p> -“Go back. I’ll come in and tell you presently.” -</p> -<p> -She shook her head. -</p> -<p> -“I stay. I mean to see.” -</p> -<p> -The group of men, with rare delicacy, without a word or a gesture of -recognition, clumped out, with heads down and heavy feet, trying in -vain to tread lightly. -</p> -<p> -Jethro and Pamela were alone. She shot forward and touched the sacks. -</p> -<p> -“You mustn’t touch. I insist on your going in, Pamela.” -</p> -<p> -But her hand was already on the soiled, wet sacking, and she flipped it -down with fearful eagerness. -</p> -<p> -“I knew, I knew,” she called out almost exultingly. “I felt sure.” -</p> -<p> -She looked at the dead face for a long time, and very steadily. -</p> -<p> -“I was driving home from the Flagon House,” Jethro explained in a husky -voice and averting his eyes from those dead ones which would not close. -“Something went wrong with the harness just as I got to the pond. I -jumped down. By the light of the lamps. I saw—his arm was thrust out.” -</p> -<p> -She didn’t speak. Her eyes were steady and luminous on Edred’s rigid -face. There was a ticking sound as the water dropped from his sodden -clothes to the floor. Then a quick clatter of a horse’s hoofs fell on -their ears. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-326">[326]</a></span> -Jethro said simply: -</p> -<p> -“That’s young Buckman gone to Liddleshorn for Egbert. I told him to -saddle the black mare.” -</p> -<p> -She only looked and looked. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, her lips -were steady. She looked from the handsome dead face to the shabby, -drenched clothes, which were splintered all over with little -spear-shaped fragments of ice. -</p> -<p> -They were the clothes of a tramp. His boots were burst, a dirty -handkerchief was knotted round his long throat, and on his chin was an -unkempt beard—a piebald beard, half black, half gray. He was handsome -still, but it was the wreck of comeliness—the sodden face of a -dissolute man of fifty. -</p> -<p> -“He must have had ill luck lately,” Jethro said. “He was evidently -coming back to us.” -</p> -<p> -“If he had come back—alive,” she said thoughtfully, “I wonder——” -</p> -<p> -Her steady gaze on the dead, aged, handsome face never wavered. If he -had come back to Folly Corner alive—so—would he have possessed the -old magic? -</p> -<p> -His eyes were fathoming the raftered roof. In every corner, clothed in -the swaying black cobwebs, was an imp—the evil spirits who had swayed -his life. -</p> -<p> -“We shall never know what brought him to this. Come away, dear,” urged -Jethro. -</p> -<p> -She shook Jethro’s big hand off with petulance. The water from the dead -man’s clothes was freezing at her feet, beneath her slippers, and -chilled her. That was the nearest approach to contact she<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-327">[327]</a></span> reached with -the dead. She made no attempt to touch him, to go a little nearer, to -stoop and stare into the glazing, fearful surface of his wide dark eyes. -</p> -<p> -What a mystery he had always been! What a mystery he was now! She had -never been certain even of his name. She didn’t know and never would -know the secret history of the last fifteen months. Two might tell -her—Sutton or the woman in brown. But she did not wish to revive -either of them. That was past. Everything was past. She was stripped at -last of everything; the world was simply Folly Corner. She felt as a -slave might feel when he heard the blows which loosened his shackles. -She was free. She had always been free—in the letter; in the spirit -she had been a wretched slave. A slave to first love—that indefinable, -holding thing. -</p> -<p> -She turned away suddenly, turned her back on the dead man—not with -horror, grief, or repulsion, but apathetically—as if she had seen -enough. She dismissed him. She put her head to Jethro’s coat, with the -persuasive, rubbing air of a cat. -</p> -<p> -“I can’t feel,” she said, holding one hand out toward the roughly -improvised bier. “I thank God that I don’t feel any longer. I’m not -touched in the least, not even by ordinary natural emotions. I’m not -sorry; I’m not ashamed; I’m not even glad. I’m only free. Jethro!” -</p> -<p> -“Dear love!” His great hand was on her hair. -</p> -<p> -“I don’t feel—for him,” she went on with more passion, “the ordinary -pity and sadness that one<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-328">[328]</a></span> feels for any dead thing. I can’t—for him. -There’s no dignity, no pathos in Death when it touches him. You mustn’t -think me hard; mustn’t put this down to vengeance because he injured -me. I can still feel pity. I cried only this morning over a tomtit -which the cat had mangled. But I don’t cry for this. I don’t feel. I’m -stone where he is concerned. Until to-night I have been wax. I’m not -sorry or shocked; not anything womanly, anything human that I ought to -be. I can’t feel. I’m free. Take me away. We’ll get warm in the house.” -</p> -<p> -They stepped out into the driving snow. The world was white and -pitiless that night. -</p> -<p> -The door thudded solemnly when Jethro pulled it to. He had his arm -round Pamela, his coat held out to form a screen for her. Midway to the -house she stopped, the blinding, desolate snow whirling above their -heads. She looked up and he looked down. There was a strange fire in -each pair of eyes. Suddenly he stooped and kissed her on the -mouth—roughly, brutally. -</p> -<p> -Her mouth smarted with the rudeness of that kiss, but a sweet, -permanent content ran through her body. He loved her! She would be -Cousin Pamela no more, save in the tender jest of matrimony. He had -always loved her. His reserve, his brotherly attitude, had been forced. -They were part of his prudent nature, part of his hereditary economy. -He would never expend when there was small chance of any result. -</p> -<p> -The house was warm—a gently filtering warmth<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-329">[329]</a></span> that seemed to wrap them -directly they shut the door. -</p> -<p> -The discreet clink of china, the savory smell of soup, came from the -kitchen. They were preparing dinner—the place was wholly regardless of -that miserable dead man. -</p> -<p> -They shut themselves in the drawing-room. Pamela abandoned herself to -the luxury of the fire. Jethro paced about nervously, his ears alert -for wheels. -</p> -<p> -“Egbert can do nothing,” he said. “The poor chap was dead when I found -him—dead and stiff. He must have been in the pond some time. If I -hadn’t found him to-night the ice would have pinned him in by -to-morrow. We should have been obliged to cut him out. I can’t think -how he got in. It isn’t dark: he never drank—too much. His head was -strong. He could stand a lot of whisky. We don’t know——” -</p> -<p> -“We shall never know,” she said with the oddest lethargy. -</p> -<p> -All the time he walked about the room, indulging as he did so in kind -commonplace reflections concerning Edred, she was saying to -herself—lilting the words to a queer dancing air that hummed in her -head: -</p> -<p> -“Free, free, free.” -</p> -<p> -She tried herself, probed herself, insisted on proving. She recalled -all sorts of things—her happiest, tenderest moments with the dead man. -She felt nothing at all, except faint disgust for the woman—it could -not have been herself—who had so madly<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-330">[330]</a></span> loved that creature who was -lying in the barn searching the roof with his fixed, shallow eyes. -</p> -<p> -“No,” she said, half to herself, half to Jethro, “I don’t feel.” -</p> -<p> -She waited a moment, let that flow of recollections rush on. Nothing -touched her. It had been another woman—a dogged, shameful, spiritless -creature. She repeated devotionally, as if she had been kneeling in a -great church, swept by religious frenzy: -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -“I thank God. I don’t feel.” -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p class="dateline"> -“Beaufort Street, May 24. -</p> -<p> -“M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAREST</small> P<small>AMELA</small>: Tim and I will be delighted to spend all June at -Folly Corner, as you suggest: you’ll really see Tim at last! -</p> -<p> -“We have let this house, and think of settling in the country. It will -not be the real thing, as you have it. We shall go to one of those -intellectual settlements with a good railway service to town; a theater -train once a week. We shall live on a hill; there will be a splendid -view from our windows. We shall have to pay for that view; we shall ask -our friends down to look at it; we shall see it every morning—rave -over it, become callous to it, abuse it—want to murder it. A true -English home is in a hollow, like Folly Corner. I shall have to content -myself with the hard monotony of a pine wood—after Sussex oak! We -shall belong to a coterie—everybody will be an artistic something. -Everybody will flatter and hate his neighbor. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="page-331">[331]</a></span> -“I want to see the baby. Of course you’ll call him Jethro. I can -understand your disquietude at Gainah’s fondness for him. -</p> -<p> -“Your letter was too domestic altogether. <i>Do</i> remember that a ‘good -manager’ degenerates into a shrew after thirty. -</p> -<p> -“Of course your husband is trying—it is a way they have: a man is the -most difficult of all domestic pets. Never mind his occasional morose -moods; never mind his attempts at domestic economy. When a man decides -on domestic economy he smokes a shilling cigar while he lectures his -wife on the sinful extravagance of afternoon tea. A wise woman gives -him his head on such occasions, and never varies her course. -</p> -<p> -“You are very much to be envied; our life is a struggle to make both -ends meet. Tim’s book of essays, which made such a splash last year, -has been the ruin of him. He is a melancholy object lesson—a man -ruined by press notices. Still, that is not a fate likely to befall you -or Mr. Jayne. My poor Tim no longer has confidence in anything he does. -I tell him—without making the least impression on him—that a thing -doesn’t cease to be clever because you’ve found out the way to do it. -He’s versatile—that is his stumbling-block. To succeed, you must be -superlatively skillful at one thing, and a perfect fool at everything -else. -</p> -<p> -“So Nancy has won the literary prize in the <i>Liddleshorn Herald</i> -competition—and dear Mrs. Turle has justified her opinion. -</p> -<p> -“As Chalcraft and his wife are dead, of course<span class="pagenum"><a id="page-332">[332]</a></span> there will be a sale. -Buy me the oak chair, if I am not present to buy it myself. -</p> -<p> -“I remember Nettie; she didn’t look the kind of girl who would go off -in a decline. But the rustics are dreadfully unhealthy. When I was at -the Buttery buying things of the cottagers I had a fixed rule by which -I ingratiated myself. If a woman was under fifty I inquired after the -baby; over fifty, I inquired after the bad leg. It sounds horrid, but -was invariably successful. If the victim was a man, I asked if his -ground grew good onions, and said how sorry I was that I couldn’t keep -a pig. -</p> -<p> -“By the way, when you see Mrs. Silas Daborn, ask her to save me a -kitten next time they occur. The cat we have won’t catch mice—lets -them frisk with the tip of her tail. I cannot think what cats are -coming to. Tim, who is not a Progressive, says it is all the fault of -the School Board. -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -“We shall come by the quick afternoon train on Wednesday, June 2. We -arrive at five something; Mr. Jayne will please look it up in the -time-table. -</p> -<p class="closing"> -“Affectionately yours, with a kiss for the baby, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“B<small>ARBARA</small> C<small>LUTTON</small>.” -</p> -<p class="end"> -THE END. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter tnote" id="tnote"> -<h2 class="tnote" id="tnote_hdg"> -Transcriber’s Note -</h2> -<p> -This transcription is based on images made available by the University -of Wisconsin and Google: -</p> -<p class="link"> -books.google.com/books?id=KSXQAAAAMAAJ -</p> -<p class="noindent"> -These scans are also available through the Hathi Trust Digital Library: -</p> -<p class="link"> -hdl.handle.net/2027/wu.89011718319 -</p> -<p class="no_bottom"> -The following changes were made to the printed text: -</p> -<ul> -<li> -Added a table of contents. -</li> -<li> -p. 7: She knew the effect of foxgolve on the human heart—Changed -“foxgolve” to “foxglove”. -</li> -<li> -p. 12: “No glass,” said Palema in astonishment.—Changed “Palema” to -“Pamela”. -</li> -<li> -p. 26: he rolled down the covering and showed his bandaged -limb.—Changed “he” to “He”. -</li> -<li> -p. 33: The farmhouse was so overgrown with fruit-trees and ivy that the -mellow bricks were shouded.—Changed “shouded” to “shrouded”. -</li> -<li> -p. 63: “It’s the Shakepere class, mamma.”—Changed “Shakepere” to -“Shakspere” for consistency. -</li> -<li> -p. 65: She was introduced to all of then—Changed “then” to “them”. -</li> -<li> -p. 71: And you never how these queer people from London may turn -out.—Inserted “know” after “never”. -</li> -<li> -p. 127: Don’t say anthing dreadful.—Changed “anthing” to “anything”. -</li> -<li> -p. 204: His tips have puts hundreds into my pocket.—Changed “puts” to -“put”. -</li> -<li> -p. 213: They gave her flowers, one or twice a jewel.—Changed “one” to -“once”. -</li> -<li> -p. 242: It was sombeody else—one of the blessed bungles—Changed -“sombeody” to “somebody”. -</li> -<li> -p. 255: it’s frill tickling her cheeks.—Changed “it’s” to “its”. -</li> -<li> -pp. 256–57: it was part of the compact that that she was not to go -beyond—Deleted the second “that”. -</li> -<li> -pp. 303–04: “Put her in here. Then go down and send Nettie up. “We’ll -undress her,”—Deleted the opening double quotation mark before -“We’ll”. -</li> -</ul> -<p class="noindent"> -Except where noted otherwise, inconsistencies of spelling and -hyphenation have been preserved. -</p> -</div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOLLY CORNER ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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