ANNE SEVERN AND THE FIELDINGS

By

MAY SINCLAIR

1922

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I Children

II Adolescents

III Anne and Jerrold

IV Robert

V Eliot and Anne

VI Queenie

VII Adeline

VIII Anne and Colin

IX Jerrold

X Eliot

XI Interim

XII Colin, Jerrold, and Anne

XIII Anne and Jerrold

XIV Maisie

XV Anne, Jerrold, and Maisie

XVI Anne, Maisie, and Jerrold

XVII Jerrold, Maisie, Anne, Eliot

XVIII Jerrold and Anne

XIX Anne and Eliot

XX Jerrold, Maisie, and Anne

ANNE SEVERN AND THE FIELDINGS

I

CHILDREN

i

Anne Severn had come again to the Fieldings. This time it was becauseher mother was dead. 

She hadn't been in the house five minutes before she asked "Where'sJerrold?"

"Fancy, " they said, "her remembering. "

And Jerrold had put his head in at the door and gone out again when hesaw her there in her black frock; and somehow she had known he wasafraid to come in because her mother was dead. 

Her father had brought her to Wyck-on-the-Hill that morning, the dayafter the funeral. He would leave her there when he went back to India. 

She was walking now down the lawn between the two tall men. They weretaking her to the pond at the bottom where the goldfish were. It wasJerrold's father who held her hand and talked to her. He had a nicebrown face marked with a lot of little fine, smiling strokes, and hiseyes were quick and kind. 

"You remember the goldfish, Anne?"

"I remember everything. "

She had been such a little girl before, and they said she had forgotten. 

But she remembered so well that she always thought of Mr. Fielding asJerrold's father. She remembered the pond and the goldfish. Jerrold heldher tight so that she shouldn't tumble in. She remembered the big greyand yellow house with its nine ball-topped gables; and the lawn, shut inby clipped yew hedges, then spreading downwards, like a fan, from thelast green terrace where the two enormous peacocks stood, carved out ofthe yew. 

Where it lay flat and still under the green wall she saw the tenniscourt. Jerrold was there, knocking balls over the net to please littleColin. She could see him fling back his head and laugh as Colin ranstumbling, waving his racquet before him like a stiff flag. She heardColin squeal with excitement as the balls flew out of his reach. 

Her father was talking about her. His voice was sharp and anxious. 

"I don't know how she'll get on with your boys. " (He always talked aboutAnne as if she wasn't there. ) "Ten's an awkward age. She's too old forColin and too young for Eliot and Jerrold. "

She knew their ages. Colin was only seven. Eliot, the clever one, wasvery big; he was fifteen. Jerrold was thirteen. 

She heard Jerrold's father answering in his quiet voice. 

"You needn't worry. Jerry'll look after Anne all right. "

"And Adeline. "

"Oh yes, of course, Adeline. " (Only somehow he made it sound as if shewouldn't. )

Adeline was Mrs. Fielding. Jerrold's mother. 

Anne wanted to get away from the quiet, serious men and play withJerrold; but their idea seemed to be that it was too soon. Too soonafter the funeral. It would be all right to go quietly and look at thegoldfish; but no, not to play. When she thought of her dead mother shewas afraid to tell them that she didn't want to go and look at thegoldfish. It was as if she knew that something sad waited for her by thepond at the bottom. She would be safer over there where Jerrold waslaughing and shouting. She would play with him and he wouldn't beafraid. 

The day felt like a Sunday, quiet, quiet, except for the noise ofJerrold's laughter. Strange and exciting, his boy's voice rang throughher sadness; it made her turn her head again and again to look afterhim; it called to her to forget and play. 

Little slim brown minnows darted backwards and forwards under the olivegreen water of the pond. And every now and then the fat goldfish camenosing along, orange, with silver patches, shining, making the waterlight round them, stiff mouths wide open. When they bobbed up, smallbubbles broke from them and sparkled and went out. 

Anne remembered the goldfish; but somehow they were not so fascinatingas they used to be. 

A queer plant grew on the rock border of the pond. Green fleshy stems, with blunt spikes all over them. Each carried a tiny gold star at itstip. Thick, cold juice would come out of it if you squeezed it. Shethought it would smell like lavender. 

It had a name. She tried to think of it. 

Stonecrop. Stonecrop. Suddenly she remembered. 

Her mother stood with her by the pond, dark and white and slender. Anneheld out her hands smeared with the crushed flesh of the stonecrop; hermother stooped and wiped them with her pockethandkerchief, and there wasa smell of lavender. The goldfish went swimming by in the olive-greenwater. 

Anne's sadness came over her again; sadness so heavy that it kept herfrom crying; sadness that crushed her breast and made her throat ache. 

They went back up the lawn, quietly, and the day felt more and more likeSunday, or like--like a funeral day. 

"She's very silent, this small daughter of yours, " Mr. Fielding said. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Severn. 

His voice came with a stiff jerk, as if it choked him. He remembered, too. 

ii

The grey and yellow flagstones of the terrace were hot under your feet. 

Jerrold's mother lay out there on a pile of cushions, in the sun. Shewas very large and very beautiful. She lay on her side, heaved up on oneelbow. Under her thin white gown you could see the big lines of hershoulder and hip, and of her long full thigh, tapering to the knee. 

Anne crouched beside her, uncomfortably, holding her little body awayfrom the great warm mass among the cushions. 

Mrs. Fielding was aware of this shrinking. She put out her arm and drewAnne to her side again. 

"Lean back, " she said. "Close. Closer. "

And Anne would lean close, politely, for a minute, and then stiffen andshrink away again when the soft arm slackened. 

Eliot Fielding (the clever one) lay on his stomach, stretched out acrossthe terrace. He leaned over a book: _Animal Biology_. He was absorbed ina diagram of a rabbit's heart and took no notice of his mother or ofAnne. 

Anne had been at the Manor five days, and she had got used to Jerrold'smother's caresses. All but one. Every now and then Mrs. Fielding's handwould stray to the back of Anne's neck, where the short curls, black asher frock, sprang out in a thick bunch. The fingers stirred among theroots of Anne's hair, stroking, stroking, lifting the bunch and lettingit fall again. And whenever they did this Anne jerked her head away andheld it stiffly out of their reach. 

She remembered how her mother's fingers, slender and silk-skinned andloving, had done just that, and how their touch went thrilling throughthe back of her neck, how it made her heart beat. Mrs. Fielding'sfingers didn't thrill you, they were blunt and fumbling. Anne thought:"She's no business to touch me like that. No business to think she cando what mother did. "

She was always doing it, always trying to be a mother to her. Her fatherhad told her she was going to try. And Anne wouldn't let her. She wouldnot let her. 

"Why do you move your head away, darling?"

Anne didn't answer. 

"You used to love it. You used to come bending your funny little neckand turning first one ear and than the other. Like a little cat. And nowyou won't let me touch you. "

"No. No. Not--like that. "

"Yes. Yes. Like this. You don't remember. "

"I _do_ remember. "

She felt the blunt fingers on her neck again and started up. Thebeautiful, wilful woman lay back on her cushions, smiling to herself. 

"You're a funny little thing, aren't you?" she said. 

Anne's eyes were glassed. She shook her head fiercely and spilled tears. 

Jerrold had come up on to the terrace. Colin trotted after him. Theywere looking at her. Eliot had raised his head from his book and waslooking at her. 

"It _is_ rotten of you, mater, " he said, "to tease that kid. "

"I'm not teasing her. Really, Eliot, you do say things--as if nobody butyourself had any sense. You can run away now, Anne darling. "

Anne stood staring, with wild animal eyes that saw no place to run to. 

It was Jerrold who saved her. 

"I say, would you like to see my new buck rabbit?"

"Rather!"

He held out his hand and she ran on with him, along the terrace, downthe steps at the corner and up the drive to the stable yard where therabbits were. Colin followed headlong. 

And as she went Anne heard Eliot saying, "I've sense enough to rememberthat her mother's dead. "

In his worst tempers there was always some fierce pity. 

iii

Mrs. Fielding gathered herself together and rose, with dignity, stillsmiling. It was a smile of great sweetness, infinitely remote from alldiscussion. 

"It's much too hot here, " she said. "You might move the cushions downthere under the beech-tree. "

That, Eliot put it to himself, was just her way of getting out of it. ToEliot the irritating thing about his mother was her dexterity in gettingout. She never lost her temper, and never replied to any seriouscriticism; she simply changed the subject, leaving you with yourdisapproval on your hands. 

In this Eliot's young subtlety misled him. Adeline Fielding's mind wasnot the clever, calculating thing that, at fifteen, he thought it. Herone simple idea was to be happy and, as a means to that end, to havepeople happy about her. His father, or Anne's father, could have toldhim that all her ideas were simple as feelings and impromptu. Impulsemoved her, one moment, to seize on the faithful, defiant little heart ofAnne, the next, to get up out of the sun. Anne's tears spoiled herbright world; but not for long. Coolness was now the important thing, not Anne and not Anne's mother. As for Eliot's disapproval, she was nolonger aware of it. 

"Oh, to be cool, to be cool again! Thank you, my son. "

Eliot had moved all the cushions down under the tree, scowling as he didit, for he knew that when his mother was really cool he would have toget up and move them back again. 

With the perfect curve of a great supple animal, she turned and settledin her lair, under her tree. 

Presently, down the steps and across the lawn, Anne's father cametowards her, grave, handsome, and alone. 

Handsome even after fifteen years of India. Handsomer than when he wasyoung. More distinguished. Eyes lighter in the sallowish bronze. Sheliked his lean, eager, deerhound's face, ready to start off, sniffingthe trail. A little strained, leashed now, John's eagerness. But thatwas how he used to come to her, with that look of being ready, as ifthey could do things together. 

She had tried to find his youth in Anne's face; but Anne's blackness andwhiteness were her mother's; her little nose was still soft and vague;you couldn't tell what she would be like in five years' time. Still, there was something; the same strange quality; the sameforward-springing grace. 

Before he reached her, Adeline was smiling again. A smile of thedelicate, instinctive mouth, of the blue eyes shining between curledlids, under dark eyebrows; of the innocent white nose; of the wholesoft, milk-white face. Even her sleek, dark hair smiled, shining. Shewas conscious of her power to make him come to her, to make herself feltthrough everything, even through his bereavement. 

The subtle Eliot, looking over the terrace wall, observed her andthought, "The mater's jolly pleased with herself. I wonder why. "

It struck Eliot also that a Commissioner of Ambala and a Member of theLegislative Council and a widower ought not to look like Mr. Severn. Hewas too lively, too adventurous. 

He turned again to the enthralling page. "The student should lay openthe theoracic cavity of the rabbit and dissect away the thymous glandand other tissues which hide the origin of the great vessels; so as todisplay the heart... "

Yearp, the vet, would show him how to do that. 

iv

"His name's Benjy. He's a butterfly smut, " said Jerrold. 

The rabbit was quiet now. He sat in Anne's arms, couching, his forepawslaid on her breast. She stooped and kissed his soft nose that went inand out, pushing against her mouth, in a delicate palpitation. He waswhite, with black ears and a black oval at the root of his tail. Twowing-shaped patches went up from his nose like a moustache. That was hisbutterfly smut. 

"He _is_ sweet, " she said. 

Colin said it after her in his shrill child's voice: "He is sweet. "Colin had a habit of repeating what you said. It was his way of joiningin the conversation. 

He stretched up his hand and stroked Benjy, and Anne felt the rabbit'sheart beat sharp and quick against her breast. A shiver went throughBenjy's body. 

Anne kissed him again. Her heart swelled and shook with maternaltenderness. 

"Why does he tremble so?"

"He's frightened. Don't touch him, Col-Col. "

Colin couldn't see an animal without wanting to stroke it. He put hishands in his pockets to keep them out of temptation. By the way Jerroldlooked at him you saw how he loved him. 

About Colin there was something beautiful and breakable. Dusk-whiteface; little tidy nose and mouth; dark hair and eyes like the minnowsswimming under the green water. But Jerrold's face was strong; and hehad funny eyes that made you keep looking at him. They were blue. Nottiresomely blue, blue all the time, like his mother's, but secretly andsurprisingly blue, a blue that flashed at you and hid again, movingqueerly in the set squareness of his face, presenting at every turn adifferent Jerrold. He had a pleasing straight up and down nose, his oneconstant feature. The nostrils slanted slightly upward, making shadowsthere. You got to know these things after watching him attentively. Anneloved his mouth best of all, cross one minute (only never with Colin), sweet the next, tilted at the corners, ready for his laughter. 

He stood close beside her in his white flannels, straight and slender. He was looking at her, just as he looked at Colin. 

"Do you like him?" he said. 

"Who? Colin?"

"No. Benjy. "

"I _love_ him. "

"I'll give him to you if you'd like to have him. "

"For my own? To keep?"

"Rather. "

"Don't you want him?"

"Yes. But I'd like you to have him. "

"Oh, Jerrold. "

She knew he was giving her Benjy because her mother was dead. 

"I've got the grey doe, and the fawn, and the lop-ear, " he said. 

"Oh--I _shall_ love him. "

"You mustn't hold him too tight. And you must be careful not to touchhis stomach. If you squeeze him there he'll die. "

"Yes. If you squeeze his stomach he'll die, " Colin cried excitedly. 

"I'll be ever so careful. "

They put him down, and he ran violently round and round, drumming withhis hind legs on the floor of the shed, startling the does that couched, like cats, among the lettuce leaves and carrots. 

"When the little rabbits come half of them will be yours, because he'llbe their father. "

"Oh--"

For the first time since Friday week Anne was happy. She loved therabbit, she loved little Colin. And more than anybody or anything sheloved Jerrold. 

Yet afterwards, in her bed in the night nursery, when she thought of herdead mother, she lay awake crying; quietly, so that nobody could hear. 

v

It was Robert Fielding's birthday. Anne was to dine late that evening, sitting beside him. He said that was his birthday treat. 

Anne had made him a penwiper of green cloth with a large blue bead inthe middle for a knob. He was going to keep it for ever. He had nocandles on his birthday cake at tea, because there would have been toomany. 

The big hall of the Manor was furnished like a room. 

The wide oak staircase came down into it from a gallery that went allaround. They were waiting there for Mrs. Fielding who was always alittle late. That made you keep on thinking about her. They werethinking about her now. 

Up there a door opened and shut. Something moved along the gallery likea large light, and Mrs. Fielding came down the stairs, slowly, prolonging her effect. She was dressed in her old pearl-white gown. Arope of pearls went round her neck and hung between her breasts. Rollabove roll of hair jutted out at the back of her head; across it, theforemost curl rose like a comb, shining. Her eyes, intensely blue in hermilk-white face, sparkled between two dark wings of hair. Her mouthsmiled its enchanting and enchanted smile. She was aware that herhusband and John watched her from stair to stair; she was aware of theirmen's eyes, darkening. Then suddenly she was aware of John's daughter. 

Anne was coming towards her across the hall, drawn by the magic, by theeyes, by the sweet flower smell that drifted (not lavender, notlavender). She stood at the foot of the staircase looking up. Theheavenly thing swept down to her and she broke into a cry. 

"Oh, you're beautiful. You're beautiful. "

Mrs. Fielding stopped her progress. 

"So are you, you little darling. "

She stooped quickly and kissed her, holding her tight to her breast, crushed down into the bed of the flower scent. Anne gave herself up, caught by the sweetness and the beauty. 

"You rogue, " said Adeline. "At last I've got you. "

She couldn't bear to be repulsed, to have anything about her, even a cator a dog, that had not surrendered. 

vi

Every evening, soon after Colin's Nanna had tucked Anne up in her bedand left her, the door of the night nursery would open, letting a lightin. When Anne saw the light coming she shut her eyes and burrowed underthe blankets, she knew it was Auntie Adeline trying to be a mother toher. (You called them Auntie Adeline and Uncle Robert to please them, though they weren't relations. )

Every night she would hear Aunt Adeline's feet on the floor and hercandle clattering on the chest of drawers, she would feel her handsdrawing back the blankets and her face bending down over her. The mouthwould brush her forehead. And she would lie stiff and still, keeping hereyes tight shut. 

To-night she heard voices at the door and somebody else's feet goingtip-toe behind Aunt Adeline's. Somebody else whispered "She's asleep. "That was Jerrold. Jerrold. She felt him standing beside his mother, looking at her, and her eyelids fluttered; but she lay still. 

"She isn't asleep at all, " said Aunt Adeline. "She's shamming, thelittle monkey. "

Jerrold thought he knew why. He turned into the old nursery that was theschoolroom now, and found Eliot there, examining a fly's leg under hismicroscope. It was Eliot that he wanted.. 

"I say, you know, Mum's making a jolly mistake about that kid. Trying togo on as if she was Anne's mother. You can see it makes her sick. Itwould me, if my mother was dead. "

Eliot looked as if he wasn't listening, absorbed in his fly's leg. 

"Somebody's got to tell her. "

"Are you going to, " said Eliot, "or shall I?"

"Neither. I shall get Dad to. He'll do it best. "

vii

Robert Fielding didn't do it all at once. He put it off till Adelinegave him his chance. He found her alone in the library and she had begunit. 

"Robert, I don't know what to do about that child. "

"Which child?"

"Anne. She's been here five weeks, and I've done everything I know, andshe hasn't shown me a scrap of affection. It's pretty hard if I'm tohouse and feed the little thing and look after her like a mother and getnothing. Nothing but half a cold little face to kiss night and morning. It isn't good enough. "

"For Anne?"

"For me, my dear. Trying to be a mother to somebody else's child whodoesn't love you, and isn't going to love you. "

"Don't try then. "

"Don't try?"

"Don't try and be a mother to her. That's what Anne doesn't like. "

They had got as far as that when John Severn stood in the doorway. Hewas retreating before their appearance of communion when she called himback. 

"Don't go, John. We want you. Here's Robert telling me not to be amother to Anne. "

"And here's Adeline worrying because she thinks Anne isn't going to loveher. "

Severn sat down, considering it. 

"It takes time, " he said. 

She looked at him, smiling under lowered brows. 

"Time to love me?"

"Time for Anne to love you. She--she's so desperately faithful. "

The dressing-bell clanged from the belfry. Robert left them to finish adiscussion that he found embarrassing. 

"I said I'd try to be a mother to her. I _have_ tried, John; but thelittle thing won't let me. "

"Don't try too hard. Robert's right. Don't--don't be a mother to her. "

"What am I to be?"

"Oh, anything you like. A presence. A heavenly apparition. An impossibleideal. Anything but that. "

"Do you think she's going to hold out for ever?"

"Only against that. As long as she remembers. It puts her off. "

"She doesn't object to Robert being a father to her. "

"No. Because he's a better father than I am; and she knows it. "

Adeline flushed. She understood the implication and was hurt, unreasonably. He saw her unreasonableness and her pain. 

"My dear Adeline, Anne's mother will always be Anne's mother. I wasnever anywhere beside Alice. I've had to choose between the Governmentof India and my daughter. You'll observe that I don't try to be a fatherto Anne; and that, in consequence, Anne likes me. But she'll _love_Robert. "

"And 'like' me? If I don't try. "

"Give her time. Give her time. "

He rose, smiling down at her. 

"You think I'm unreasonable?"

"The least bit in the world. For the moment. "

"My dear John, if I didn't love your little girl I wouldn't care. "

"Love her. Love her. She'll love you too, in her rum way. She's fightingyou now. She wouldn't fight if she didn't feel she was beaten. Nobodycould hold out against you long. "

She looked at the clock. 

"Heavens! I must go and dress. "

She thought: "_He_ didn't hold out against me, poor dear, five minutes. I suppose he'll always remember that I jilted him for Robert. "

And now he wanted her to see that if Anne's mother would be alwaysAnne's mother, his wife would be always his wife. Was he desperatelyfaithful, too? Always?

How could he have been? It was characteristic of Alice Severn that whenshe had to choose between her husband and her daughter she had chosenAnne. It was characteristic of John that when he had to choose betweenhis wife and his Government, he had not chosen Alice. He must have hadadventures out in India, conducted with the discretion becoming in aCommissioner and a Member of the Legislative Council, but adventures. Perhaps he was going back to one of them. 

Severn dressed hastily and went into the schoolroom where Anne satreading in her solitary hour between supper time and bed-time. He tookher on his knee, and she snuggled there, rubbing her head against hisshoulder. He thought of Adeline, teasing, teasing for the child'scaresses, and every time repulsed. 

"Anne, " he said, "don't you think you can love Auntie Adeline?"

Anne straightened herself. She looked at him with candid eyes. "I don'tknow, Daddy, really, if I can. "

"Can't you love her a little?"

"I--I would, if she wouldn't try--"

"Try?"

"To do like Mummy did. "

Robert was right. He knew it, but he wanted to be sure. 

Anne went on. "It's no use, you see, her trying. It only makes me thinkof Mummy more. "

"Don't you _want_ to think of her?"

"Yes. But I want to think by myself, and Auntie Adeline keeps on gettingin the way. "

"Still, she's awfully kind to you, isn't she?"

"Awfully. "

"And you mustn't hurt her feelings. "

"Have I? I didn't mean to. "

"You wouldn't if you loved her. "

"_You_ haven't ever hurt her feelings, have you, Daddy?"

"No. "

"Well, you see, it's because I keep on thinking about Mummy. I want herback--I want her so awfully. "

"I know, Anne, I know. "

Anne's mind burrowed under, turning on its tracks, coming out suddenly. 

"Do you love Auntie Adeline, Daddy?"

It was terrible, but he owned that he had brought it on himself. 

"I can't say. I've known her such a long time; before you were born. "

"Before you married Mummy!"

"Yes. "

"Well, won't it do if I love Uncle Robert and Eliot and Colin? AndJerrold?"

That night he said to Adeline, "I know who'll take my place when I'mgone. "

"Who? Robert?"

"No, Jerrold. "

In another week he had sailed for India and Ambala. 

 * * * * *

viii

Jerrold was brave. 

When Colin upset the schoolroom lamp Jerrold wrapped it in thetablecloth and threw it out of the window just in time. He put the chainon Billy, the sheep-dog, when he went mad and snapped at everybody. Itseemed odd that Jerrold should be frightened. 

A minute ago he had been happy, rolling over and over on the grass, shouting with laughter while Sandy, the Aberdeen, jumped on him, growling his merry puppy's growl and biting the balled fists that pushedhim off. 

They were all out on the lawn. Anne waited for Jerry to get up and takeher into Wyck, to buy chocolates. 

Every time Jerrold laughed his mother laughed too, a throaty, girlishgiggle. 

"I love Jerry's laugh, " she said. "It's the nicest noise he makes. "

Then, suddenly, she stopped it. She stopped it with a word. 

"If you're going into Wyck, Jerry, you might tell Yearp----"

Yearp. 

He got up. His face was very red. He looked mournful and frightened too. Yes, frightened. 

"I--can't, Mother. "

"You can perfectly well. Tell Yearp to come and look at Pussy's ears, Ithink she's got canker. "

"She hasn't, " said Jerry defiantly. 

"She jolly well has, " said Eliot. 

"Rot. "

"You only say that because you don't like to think she's got it. "

"Eliot can go himself. _He's_ fond of Yearp. "

"You'll do as you're told, Jerry. It's downright cowardice. "

"It isn't cowardice, is it, Daddy?"

"Well, " said his father, "it isn't exactly courage. "

"Whatever it is, " his mother said, "you'll have to get over it. You goon as if nobody cared about poor Binky but yourself. "

Binky was Jerry's dog. He had run into a motor-bicycle in the Easterholidays and hurt his back, so that Yearp, the vet, had had to come andgive him chloroform. That was why Jerrold was afraid of Yearp. When hesaw him he saw Binky with his nose in the cup of chloroform; he heardhim snorting out his last breath. And he couldn't bear it. 

"I could send one of the men, " his father was saying. 

"Don't encourage him, Robert. He's got to face it. "

"Yes, Jerrold, you'd better go and get it over. You can't go on funkingit for ever. "

Jerrold went. But he went alone, he wouldn't let Anne go with him. Hesaid he didn't want her to be mixed up with it. 

"He means, " said Eliot, "that he doesn't want to think of Yearp everytime he sees Anne. "

ix

It was true that Eliot was fond of Yearp's society. He would spend hourswith him, learning how to dissect frogs and rabbits and pigeons. Hedrove about the country with Yearp seeing the sick animals, the ewes atlambing time and the cows at their calving. And he spent half themidsummer holidays reading _Animal Biology_ and drawing diagrams offrogs' hearts and pigeons' brains. He said he wasn't going to Oxford orCambridge when he left Cheltenham; he was going to Barts. He wanted tobe a doctor. But his mother said he didn't know what he'd want to be inthree years' time. She thought him awful, with his frogs' hearts andhorrors. 

Next to Jerrold and little Colin Anne loved Eliot. He seemed to knowwhen she was thinking about her mother and to understand. He took herinto the woods to look for squirrels; he showed her the wildflowers andtold her all their names: bugloss, and lady's smock and speedwell, king-cup, willow herb and meadow sweet, crane's bill and celandine. 

One day they found in the garden a tiny egg-shaped shell made ofgold-coloured lattice work. When they put it under the microscope theysaw inside it a thing like a green egg. Every day they watched it; itput out two green horns, and a ridge grew down the middle of it, and onemorning they found the golden shell broken. A long, elegant fly withslender wings crawled beside it. 

When Benjy died of eating too much lettuce Eliot was sorry. Aunt Adelinesaid it was all put on and that he really wanted to cut him up and seewhat he was made of. But Eliot didn't. He said Benjy was sacred. Thatwas because he knew they loved him. And he dug the grave and lined itwith moss and told Aunt Adeline to shut up when she said it ought tohave been lettuce leaves. 

Aunt Adeline complained that it was hard that Eliot couldn't be nice toher when he was her favorite. 

"Little Anne, little Anne, what have you done to my Eliot?" She wasalways saying things like that. Anne couldn't think what she meant tillJerrold told her she was the only kid that Eliot had ever looked at. Thebig Hawtrey girl from Medlicote would have given her head to be inAnne's shoes. 

But Anne didn't care. Her love for Jerrold was sharp and exciting. Shebrought tears to it and temper. It was mixed up with God and music andthe deaths of animals, and sunsets and all sorrowful and beautiful andmysterious things. Thinking about her mother made her think aboutJerrold; but she never thought about Eliot at all when he wasn't there. 

She would run away from Eliot any minute if she heard Jerrold calling. It was Jerrold, Jerrold, all the time, said Aunt Adeline. 

And when Eliot was busy with his microscope and Jerrold had turned fromher to Colin, there was Uncle Robert. He seemed to know the moments whenshe wanted him. Then he would take her out riding with him over theestate that stretched from Wyck across the valley of the Speed andbeyond it for miles over the hills. And he would show her the reapingmachines at work, and the great carthorses, and the prize bullocks intheir stalls at the Manor Farm. And Anne told him her secret, the secretshe had told to nobody but Jerrold. 

"Some day, " she said, "I shall have a farm, with horses and cows andpigs and little calves. "

"Shall you like that?"

"Yes, " said Anne. "I would. Only it can't happen till Grandpapa's dead. And I don't want him to die. "

x

They were saying now that Colin was wonderful. He was only seven, yet hecould play the piano like a grown-up person, very fast and with loudnoises in the bass. And he could sing like an angel. When you heard himyou could hardly believe that he was a little boy who cried sometimesand was afraid of ghosts. Two masters came out from Cheltenham twice aweek to teach him. Eliot said Colin would be a professional when he grewup, but his mother said he should be nothing of the sort and Eliotwasn't to go putting nonsense like that into his head. Still, she wasproud of Colin when his hands went pounding and flashing over the keys. Anne had to give up practising because she did it so badly that it hurtColin to hear her. 

He wasn't in the least conceited about his playing, not even whenJerrold stood beside him and looked on and said, "Clever Col-Col. Isn'the a wonderful kid? Look at him. Look at his little hands, all over theplace. "

He didn't think playing was wonderful. He thought the things thatJerrold did were wonderful. With his child's legs and arms he tried todo the things that Jerrold did. They told him he would have to wait nineyears before he could do them. He was always talking about what he woulddo in nine years' time. 

And there was the day of the walk to High Slaughter, through the valleyof the Speed to the valley of the Windlode, five miles there and back. Eliot and Jerrold and Anne had tried to sneak out when Colin wasn'tlooking; but he had seen them and came running after them down thefield, calling to them to let him come. Eliot shouted "We can't, Col-Col, it's too far, " but Colin looked so pathetic, standing there inthe big field, that Jerrold couldn't bear it. 

"I think, " he said, "we might let him come. "

"Yes. Let him, " Anne said. 

"Rot. He can't walk it. "

"I can, " said Colin. "I can. "

"I tell you he can't. If he's tired he'll be sick in the night and thenhe'll say it's ghosts. "

Colin's mouth trembled. 

"It's all right, Col-Col, you're coming. " Jerrold held out his hand. 

"Well, " said Eliot, "if he crumples up _you_ can carry him. "

"I can, " said Jerrold. 

"So can I, " said Anne. 

"Nobody, " said Colin "shall carry me. I can walk. "

Eliot went on grumbling while Colin trotted happily beside them. "You'rea fearful ass, Jerrold. You're simple ruining that kid. He thinks he cancome butting into everything. Here's the whole afternoon spoiled for allthree of us. He can't walk. You'll see he'll drop out in the firstmile. "

"I shan't, Jerrold. "

And he didn't. He struggled on down the fields to Upper Speed and alongthe river-meadows to Lower Speed and Hayes Mill, and from Hayes Mill toHigh Slaughter. It was when they started to walk back that his legsbetrayed him, slackening first, then running, because running was easierthan walking, for a change. Then dragging. Then being dragged betweenAnne and Jerrold (for he refused to be carried). Then staggering, stumbling, stopping dead; his child's mouth drooping. 

Then Jerrold carried him on his back with his hands clasped underColin's soft hips. Colin's body slipped every minute and had to bejerked up again; and when it slipped his arms tightened round Jerrold'sneck, strangling him. 

At last Jerrold, too, staggered and stumbled and stopped dead. 

"I'll take him, " said Eliot. He forbore, nobly, to say "I told you so. "

And by turns they carried him, from the valley of the Windlode to thevalley of the Speed, past Hayes Mill, through Lower Speed, Upper Speed, and up the fields to Wyck Manor. Then up the stairs to the schoolroom, pursued by their mother's cries. 

"Oh Col-Col, my little Col-Col! What have you done to him, Eliot?"

Eliot bore it like a lamb. 

Only after they had left Colin in the schoolroom, he turned on Jerrold. 

"Some day, " he said, "Col-Col will be a perfect nuisance. Then you andAnne'll have to pay for it. "

"Why me and Anne?"

"Because you'll both be fools enough to keep on giving in to him. "

"I suppose, " said Jerrold bitterly, "you think you're clever. "

Adeline came out and overheard him and made a scene in the gallerybefore Pinkney, the footman, who was bringing in the schoolroom tea. Shesaid Eliot was clever enough and old enough to know better. They wereall old enough. And Jerrold said it was his fault, not Eliot's, and Annesaid it was hers, too. And Adeline declared that it was all their faultsand she would have to speak to their father. She kept it up long afterEliot and Jerrold had retreated to the bathroom. If it had been anybodybut her little Col-Col. She wouldn't _have_ him dragged about thecountry till he dropped. 

She added that Col-Col was her favourite. 

xi

It was the last week of the holidays. Rain had come with the west wind. The hills were drawn back behind thick sheets of glassy rain. Shiningspears of rain dashed themselves against the west windows. Jets of rainrose up, whirling and spraying, from the terrace. Rain ran before thewind in a silver scud along the flagged path under the south front. 

The wind made hard, thudding noises as if it pounded invisible bodies inthe air. It screamed high above the drumming and hissing of the rain. 

It excited the children. 

From three o'clock till tea-time the sponge fight stormed up and downthe passages. The house was filled with the sound of thudding feet andshrill laughter. 

Adeline lay on the sofa in the library. Eliot was with her there. 

She was amused, but a little plaintive when they rushed in to her. 

"It's perfectly awful the noise you children are making. I'm tired outwith it. "

Jerrold flung himself on her. "Tired? What must _we_ be?"

But he wasn't tired. His madness still worked in him. It sought somesupreme expression. 

"What can we play at next?" said Anne. 

"What can we play at next?" said Colin. 

"Something quiet, for goodness sake, " said his mother. 

They were very quiet, Jerrold and Anne and Colin, as they set thebooby-trap for Pinkney. Very quiet as they watched Pinkney's innocentapproach. The sponge caught him--with a delightful, squelchingflump--full and fair on the top of his sleek head. 

Anne shrieked with delight. "Oh Jerry, did you _hear_ him say 'Damn'?"

They rushed back to the library to tell Eliot. But Eliot couldn't seethat it was funny. He said it was a rotten thing to do. 

"When he's a servant and can't do anything to _us_. "

"I never thought of that, " said Jerrold. (It _was_ pretty rotten. ) ... "I could ask him to bowl to me and let him get me out. "

"He'd do that in any case. "

"Still--I'll have _asked_ him. "

But it seemed that Pinkney was in no mood to think of cricket, and theyhad to be content with begging his pardon, which he gave, as he said, "freely. " Yet it struck them that he looked sadder than a booby-trapshould have made him. 

It was just before bed-time that Eliot told them the awful thing. 

"I suppose you know, " he said, "that Pinkney's mother's dying?"

"I didn't, " said Jerrold. "But I might have known. I notice that whenyou're excited, _really_ excited, something awful's bound to happen.... Don't cry, Anne. It was beastly of us, but we didn't know. "

"No. It's no use crying, " said Eliot. "You can't do anything. "

"That's it, " Anne sobbed. "If we only could. If we could go to him andtell him we wouldn't have done it if we'd known. "

"You jolly well can't. It would only bother the poor chap. Besides, itwas Jerry did it. Not you. "

"It _was_ me. I filled the sponge. We did it together. "

What they had done was beastly--setting booby-traps for Pinkney, andlaughing at him when his mother was dying--but they had done ittogether. The pain of her sin had sweetness in it since she shared itwith Jerry. Jerry's arm was round her as she went upstairs to bed, crying. They sat together on her bed, holding each other's hands; theyfaced it together. 

"You'd never have done it, Anne, if I hadn't made you. "

"I wouldn't mind so much if we hadn't laughed at him. "

"Well, we couldn't help _that_. And it wasn't as if we'd known. "

"If only we could tell him--"

"We can't. He'd hate us to go talking to him about his mother. "

"He'd hate us. "

Then Anne had an idea. They couldn't talk to Pinkney but they couldwrite. That wouldn't hurt him. Jerry fetched a pencil and paper from theschoolroom; and Anne wrote. 

 Dear Pinkney: We didn't know. We wouldn't have done it if we'd known. We are awfully sorry. 

 Yours truly, ANNE SEVERN. 

 P. S. You aren't to answer this. 

 JERROLD FIELDING. 

Half an hour later Jerrold knocked at her door. 

"Anne--are you in bed?"

She got up and stood with him at the door in her innocent nightgown. 

"It's all right, " he said. "I've seen Pinkney. He says we aren't toworry. He knew we wouldn't have done it if we'd known. "

"Was he crying?"

"No. Laughing.... All the same, it'll be a lesson to us, " he said. 

xii

"Where's Jerrold?"

Robert Fielding called from the dogcart that waited by the porch. Eliotsat beside him, very stiff and straight, painfully aware of his motherwho stood on the flagged path below, and made yearning faces at him, doing her best, at this last moment, to destroy his morale. Colin satbehind him by Jerrold's place, tearful but excited. He was to go withthem to the station. Eliot tried hard to look as if he didn't care; and, as his mother said, he succeeded beautifully. 

It was the end of the holidays. 

"Adeline, you might see where Jerrold is. "

She went into the house and saw Anne and Jerrold coming slowly down thestairs together from the gallery. At the turn they stopped and looked ateach other, and suddenly he had her in his arms. They kissed, withclose, quick kisses and then stood apart, listening. 

Adeline went back. "The monkey, " she thought; "and I who told her shedidn't know how to do it. "

Jerrold ran out, very red in the face and defiant. He gave himself tohis mother's large embrace, broke from it, and climbed into the dogcart. The mare bounded forward, Jerrold and Eliot raised their hats, shoutedand were gone. 

Adeline watched while the long lines of the beech-trees narrowed onthem, till the dogcart swung out between the ball-topped pillars of thePark gates. 

Last time their going had been nothing to her. Today she could hardlybear it. She wondered why. 

She turned and found little Anne standing beside her. They movedsuddenly apart. Each had seen the other's tears. 

xiii

Outside Colin's window the tree rocked in the wind. A branch brushedbackwards and forwards, it tapped on the pane. Its black shadow shook onthe grey, moonlit wall. 

Jerrold's empty bed showed white and dreadful in the moonlight, coveredwith a sheet. Colin was frightened. 

A narrow passage divided his room from Anne's. The doors stood open. Hecalled "Anne! Anne!"

A light thud on the floor of Anne's room, then the soft padding of nakedfeet, and Anne stood beside him in her white nightgown. Her hair rose ina black ruff round her head, her eyes were very black in the sharpwhiteness of her face. 

"Are you frightened, Colin?"

"No. I'm not exactly frightened, but I think there's something there. "

"It's nothing. Only the tree. "

"I mean--in Jerry's bed. "

"Oh no, Colin. "

"Dare you, " he said, "sit on it?"

"Of course I dare. _Now_ you see. _Now_ you won't be frightened. "

"You know, " Colin said, "I don't mind a bit when Jerrold's there. Theghosts never come then, because he frightens them away. "

The clock struck ten. They counted the strokes. Anne still sat onJerrold's bed with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms claspedround them. 

"I'll tell you a secret, " Colin said. "Only you mustn't tell. "

"I won't. "

"Really and truly?"

"Really and truly. "

"I think Jerrold's the wonderfullest person in the whole world. When Igrow up I'm going to be like him. "

"You couldn't be. "

"Not now. But when I'm grown-up, I say. "

"You couldn't be. Not even then. Jerrold can't sing and he can't play. "

"I don't care. "

"But you mustn't do what he can't if you want to be like him. "

"When I'm singing and playing I shall pretend I'm not. "

"You needn't. You won't ever be him. "

"I--shall. "

"Col-Col, I don't want you to be like him. I don't want anybody else tobe like Jerrold in the whole world. "

"But, " said Colin, "I shall be like him. "

xiv

Every night Adeline still came to see Anne in bed. The little thing hadleft off pretending to be asleep. She lay with eyes wide open, yieldingsweetly to the embrace. 

To-night her eyelids lay shut, slack on her eyes, and Adeline thought"She's really asleep, the little lamb. Better not touch her. "

She was going away when a sound stopped her. A sound of sobbing. 

"Anne--Anne--are you crying?"

A tremulous drawing-in of breath, a shaking under the bed-clothes. OnAnne's white cheek the black eyelashes were parted and pointed with hertears. She had been crying a long time. 

Adeline knelt down, her face against Anne's face. 

"What is it darling? Tell me. "

Anne shivered. 

"Oh Anne, I wish you loved me. You don't, ducky, a little bit. "

"I do. I do. Really and truly. "

"Then give me a kiss. The proper kind. "

Anne gave her the tight, deep kiss that was the proper kind. 

"Now--tell me what it is. " She knew by Anne's surrender that, this time, it was not her mother. 

"I don't know. "

"You _do_ know. Is it Jerry? Do you want Jerry?"

At the name Anne's crying broke out again, savage, violent. 

Adeline held her close and let the storm beat itself out against herheart. 

"You can't want him more than I do, little Anne. "

"You'll have him when he comes back. And I shan't. I shall be gone. "

"You'll come again, darling. You'll come again. "

II

ADOLESCENTS

i

For the next two years Anne came again and again, staying four months atWyck and four months in London with Grandmamma Severn and Aunt Emily, and four months with Grandpapa Everitt at the Essex Farm. 

When she was twelve they sent her to school in Switzerland for threeyears. Then back to Wyck, after eight months of London and Essex inbetween. 

Only the times at Wyck counted for Anne. Her calendar showed them clearwith all their incidents recorded; thick black lines blotted out theother days, as she told them off, one by one. Three years and eightmonths were scored through in this manner. 

Anne at fifteen was a tall girl with long hair tied in a big black bowat the cape of her neck. Her vague nose had settled into theforward-raking line that made her the dark likeness of her father. Herbody was slender but solid; the strong white neck carried her head highwith the poise of a runner. She looked at least seventeen in herclean-cut coat and skirt. Probably she wouldn't look much older foranother fifteen years. 

Robert Fielding stared with incredulity at this figure which had pursuedhim down the platform at Wyck and now seized him by the arm. 

"Is it--is it Anne?"

"Of course it is. Why, didn't you expect me?"

"I think I expected something smaller and rather less grown-up. "

"I'm not grown-up. I'm the same as ever. "

"Well, you're not little Anne any more. "

She squeezed his arm, hanging on it in her old loving way. "No. But I'mstill me. And I'd have known _you_ anywhere. "

"What? With my grey hair?"

"I love your grey hair. "

It made him handsome, more lovable than ever. Anne loved it as she lovedhis face, tanned and tightened by sun and wind, the long hard-drawnlines, the thin, kind mouth, the clear, greenish brown eyes, quick andkind. 

Colin stood by the dogcart in the station yard. Colin was changed. Hewas no longer the excited child who came rushing to you. He stood foryou to come to him, serious and shy. His child's face was passing fromprettiness to a fine, sombre beauty. 

"What's happened to Col-Col? He's all different?"

"Is he? Wait, " Uncle Robert said, "till you've seen Jerrold. "

"Oh, is Jerrold going to be different, too?"

"I'm afraid he'll _look_ a little different. "

"I don't care, " she said. "He'll _be_ him. "

She wanted to come back and find everybody and everything the same, looking exactly as she had left them. What they had once been for herthey must always be. 

They drove slowly up Wyck Hill. The tree-tops meeting overhead made agreen tunnel. You came out suddenly into the sunlight at the top. Theroad was the same. They passed by the Unicorn Inn and the Post Office, through the narrow crooked street with the church and churchyard at theturn; and so into the grey and yellow Market Square with the two tallelms standing up on the little green in the corner. They passed theQueen's Head; the powder-blue sign hung out from the yellow front thesame as ever. Next came the fountain and the four forked roads by thesignpost, then the dip of the hill to the left and the grey ball-toppedstone pillars of the Park gates on the right. 

At the end of the beech avenue she saw the house; the three big, sharp-pointed gables of the front: the little gable underneath in themiddle, jutting out over the porch. That was the bay of Aunt Adeline'sbed-room. She used to lean out of the lattice windows and call to thechildren in the garden. The house was the same. 

So were the green terraces and the wide, flat-topped yew walls, and thegreat peacocks carved out of the yew; and beyond them the lawn, flowingout under banks of clipped yew down to the goldfish pond. They werethings that she had seen again and again in sleep and memory; thingsthat had made her heart ache thinking of them; that took her back andback, and wouldn't let her be. She had only to leave off what she wasdoing and she saw them; they swam before her eyes, covering the Swissmountains, the flat Essex fields, the high white London houses. Theywaited for her at the waking end of dreams. 

She had found them again. 

A gap in the green walls led into the flower garden, and there, down thepath between tall rows of phlox and larkspurs and anchusa, of blueheaped on blue, Aunt Adeline came holding up a tall bunch of flowers, blue on her white gown, blue on her own milk-white and blue. She came, looking like a beautiful girl; the same, the same; Anne had seen her indreams, walking like that, tall among the tall flowers. 

She never hurried to meet you; hurrying would have spoiled the beauty ofher movement; she came slowly, absent-mindedly, stopping now and then topluck yet another of the blue spires. Robert stood still in the path towatch her. She was smiling a long way off, intensely aware of him. 

"Is _that_ Anne?" she said. 

"Yes, Auntie, _really_ Anne. "

"Well, you _are_ a big girl, aren't you?"

She kissed her three times and smiled, looking away again over herflower-beds. That was the difference between Aunt Adeline and UncleRobert. His eyes made you important; they held you all the time hetalked to you; when he smiled, it was for you altogether and not forhimself at all. Her eyes never looked at you long; her smile wandered, it was half for you and half for herself, for something she was thinkingof that wasn't you. 

"What have you done with your father?" she said. 

"I was to tell you. Daddy's ever so sorry; but he can't come tillto-morrow. A horrid man kept him on business. "

"Oh?" A little crisping wave went over Aunt Adeline's face, a wave ofvexation. Anne saw it. 

"He is _really_ sorry. You should have heard him damning and cursing. "

They laughed. Adeline was appeased. She took her husband's arm and drewhim to herself. Something warm and secret seemed to pass between them. 

Anne said to herself: "That's how people look--" without finishing herthought. 

Lest she should feel shut out he turned to her. 

"Well, are you glad to be back again, Anne?" he said. 

"Glad? I'm never glad to be anywhere else. I've been counting the weeksand the days and the minutes. "

"The minutes?"

"Yes. In the train. "

They had come up on to the flagged terrace. Anne looked round her. 

"Where's Jerrold?" she said. 

And they laughed again. "There's no doubt, " said Uncle Robert, "about itbeing the same Anne. "

ii

A day passed. John Severn had come. He was to stay with the Fieldingsfor the last weeks of his leave. He had followed Adeline from the hotterrace to the cool library. When she wanted the sun again he wouldfollow her out. 

Robert and Colin were down at the Manor Farm. Eliot was in theschoolroom, reading. 

Jerrold and Anne sat together on the grass under the beech trees, alone. 

They had got over the shock of the first encounter, when they met atarms' length, not kissing, but each remembering, shyly, that they usedto kiss. If they had not got over the "difference, " the change of Annefrom a child to a big girl, of Jerrold from a big boy to a man's heightand a man's voice, it was because, in some obscure way, that differencefascinated them. The great thing was that underneath it they were both, as Anne said, "the same. "

"I don't know what I'd have done, Jerrold, if you hadn't been. "

"You might have known I would be. "

"I did know. "

"I say, what a thundering lot of hair you've got. I like it. "

"Do you like what Auntie Adeline calls my new nose?"

"Awfully. "

She meditated. "Jerrold, do you remember Benjy?"

"Rather. "

"Dear Benjy... Do you know, I can hardly believe I'm here. I neverthought I should come again. "

"But why shouldn't you?"

"I don't know. Only I think every time something'll happen to preventme. I'm afraid of being ill or dying before I can get away. And theymight send me anywhere any day. It's awful to be so uncertain. "

"Don't think about it. You're here now. "

"Oh Jerrold, supposing it was the last time--"

"It isn't the last time. Don't spoil it by thinking. "

"_You'd_ think if you were me. "

"I say--you don't mean they're not decent to you?"

"Who, Grandmamma and Grandpapa? They're perfect darlings. So's AuntEmily. But they're awfully old and they can't play at anything, exceptbridge. And it isn't the same thing at all. Besides, I don't--"

She paused. It wasn't kind to the poor things to say "I don't love themthe same. "

"Do you like us so awfully, then?"

"Yes. "

"I'm glad you like us. "

They were silent. 

Up and down the flagged terrace above them Aunt Adeline and Uncle Robertwalked together. The sound of his voice came to them, low and troubled. 

Anne listened, "Is anything wrong?" she said. "They've been like thatfor ages. "

"Daddy's bothered about Eliot. "

"Eliot?"

"About his wanting to be a doctor. "

"Is Auntie Adeline bothered?"

"No. She would be if she knew. But she doesn't think it'll happen. Shenever thinks anything will happen that she doesn't like. But it will. They can't keep him off it. He's been doing medicine at Cambridgebecause they won't let him go and do it at Bart's. It's just come outthat he's been at it all the time. Working like blazes. "

"Why shouldn't he be a doctor if he likes?"

"Because he's the eldest son. It wouldn't matter so much if it was onlyColin or me. But Eliot ought to have the estate. And he says he won'thave it. He doesn't want it. He says Daddy's got to leave it to me. That's what's worrying the dear old thing. He thinks it wouldn't befair. "

"Who to?"

Jerrold laughed. "Why, to _Eliot_. He's got it into his dear old headthat he _ought_ to have it. He can't see that Eliot knows his ownbusiness best. It _would_ be most awfully in his way... It's prettybeastly for me, too. I don't like taking it when I know Daddy wantsEliot to have it. That's to say, he _doesn't_ want; he'd like me to haveit, because I'd take care of it. But that makes him all the more stuckon Eliot, because he thinks it's the right thing. I don't like having itin any case. "

"Why ever not?"

"Well, I _can_ only have it if Daddy dies, and I'd rather die myselffirst. "

"That's how I feel about my farm. "

"Beastly, isn't it? Still, I'm not worrying. Daddy's frightfullyhealthy, thank Heaven. He'll live to be eighty at the very least. Why--Ishould be fifty. "

"_You're_ all right, " said Anne. "But it's awful for me. Grandpapa mightdie any day. He's seventy-five _now_. It'll be ages before you'refifty. "

"And I may never be it. India may polish me off long before that. " Helaughed his happy laugh. The idea of his own death seemed to Jerroldirresistibly funny. 

"_India_?"

He laughed again at her dismay. 

"Rather. I'm going in for the Indian Civil. "

"Oh Jerrold--you'll be away years and years, nearly all the time, likeDaddy, and I shan't ever see you. "

"I shan't start for ages. Not for five years. Lots of time to see eachother in. "

"Lots of time for _not_ seeing each other ever again. "

She sat staring mournfully, seeing before her the agony of separation. 

"Nonsense, " said Jerrold. "Why on earth shouldn't you come out to Indiatoo? I say, that would be a lark, wouldn't it? You would come, wouldn'tyou?"

"Like a shot, " said Anne. 

"Would you give up your farm to come?"

"I'd give up anything. "

"_That's_ all right. Let's go and play tennis. "

They played for two hours straight on end, laughing and shouting. Adeline, intensely bored by Eliot and his absurd affairs, came down thelawn to look at them. She loved their laughter. It was good to have Annethere. Anne was so happy. 

John Severn came to her. 

"Did you ever see anything happier than that absurd boy?" she said. "Whycan't Eliot be jolly and contented, too, like Jerrold?"

"Don't you think the chief reason may be that he _isn't_ Jerrold?"

"Jerrold's adorable. He's never given me a day's trouble since he wasborn. "

"No. It's other women he'll give trouble to, " said John, "before he'sdone. "

iii

Colin was playing. All afternoon he had been practising with fury; firstscales, then exercises. Then a pause; and now, his fingers slipped intothe first movement of the Waldstein Sonata. 

Secretly, mysteriously he began; then broke, sharply, impatiently, crescendo, as the passion of the music mounted up and up. And now as itsettled into its rhythm his hands ran smoothly and joyously along. 

The west window of the drawing-room was open to the terrace. Eliot andAnne sat out there and listened. 

"He's wonderful, isn't he?" she said. 

Eliot shook his head. "Not so wonderful as he was. Not half so wonderfulas he ought to be. He'll never be good enough for a professional. Heknows he won't. "

"What's happened?"

"Nothing. That's just it. Nothing ever will happen. He's stuck. It's thesame with his singing. He'll never be any good if he can't go away andstudy somewhere. If it isn't Berlin or Leipzig it ought to be London. But father can't live there and the mater won't go anywhere without him. So poor Col-Col's got to stick here doing nothing, with the same rottenold masters telling him things he knew years ago.... It'll be worse nextterm when he goes to Cheltenham. He won't be able to practice, andnobody'll care a damn.... Not that that would matter if he caredhimself. "

Colin was playing the slow movement now, the grave, pure passion, pressed out from the solemn bass, throbbed, tense with restraint. 

"Oh Eliot, he _does_ care. "

"In a way. Not enough to keep on at it. You've got to slog like blazes, if you want to get on. "

"Jerrold won't, ever, then. "

"Oh yes he will. _He'll_ get on all right, because he _doesn't_ care;because work comes so jolly easy to him. He hasn't got to break hisheart over it.... The trouble with Colin is that he cares, awfully, forsuch a lot of other things. Us, for instance. He'll leave off in themiddle of a movement if he hears Jerrold yelling for him. He ought to beable to chuck us all; we're all of us in his way. He ought to hate us. He ought to hate Jerrold worst of all. "

Adeline and John Severn came round the corner of the terrace. 

"What's all this about hating?" he said. 

"What do you mean, Eliot?" said she. 

Eliot raised himself wearily. "I mean, " he said, "you'll never be anygood at anything if you're not prepared to commit a crime for it. "

"I know what I'd commit a crime for, " said Anne. "But I shan't tell. "

"You needn't. _You'd_ do it for anybody you were gone on. "

"Well, I would. I'd tell any old lie to make them happy. I'd steal forthem if they were hungry. I'd kill anybody who hurt them. "

"I believe you would, " said Eliot. 

"We know who Anne would commit her crimes for. "

"We don't. We don't know anything she doesn't want us to, " said Eliot, shielding her from his mother's mischief. 

"That's right, Eliot, stick up for her, " said John. He knew what she wasthinking of. "Would Jerrold commit a crime?" he said. 

"Sooner than any of us. But not for the Indian Civil. He'd rob, butcher, lie himself black in the face for anything he really cared for. "

"He would for Colin, " said Anne. 

"Rob? Butcher and lie?" Her father meditated. 

"It sounds like Jerrold, doesn't it?" said Adeline. "Absurd children. Thank goodness they don't any of them know what they're talkingabout.... And here's tea. "

Indoors the music stopped suddenly and Colin came out, ready. 

"What's Jerrold doing?" he said. 

It was, as Eliot remarked, a positive obsession. 

iv

Tea was over. Adeline and Anne sat out together on the terrace. Theothers had gone. Adeline looked at her watch. 

"What time is it?" said Anne. 

"Twenty past five. "

Anne started up. "And I'm going to ride with Jerrold at half-past. "

"Are you? I thought you were going to stay with me. "

Anne turned. "Do you want me to, Auntie?"

"What do you think?"

"If you really want me to, of _course_ I'll stay. Jerry won't mind. "

"You darling... And I used to think you were never going to like me. Doyou remember?"

"I remember I was a perfect little beast to you. "

"You were. But you do love me a bit now, don't you?"

"What do you _think_?"

Anne leaned over her, covering her, supporting herself by the arms ofthe garden chair. She brought her face close down, not kissing her, butlooking into her eyes and smiling, teasing in her turn. 

"You love me, " said Adeline; "but you'd cut me into little bits if itwould please Jerrold. "

Anne drew back suddenly, straightened herself and turned away. 

"Run off, you monkey, or you'll keep him waiting. I don't want you ... Wait ... Where's Uncle Robert?"

"Down at the farm. "

"Bother his old farm. Well--you might ask that father of yours to comeand amuse me. "

"I'll go and get him now. Are you sure you don't want me?"

"Quite sure, you funny thing. "

Anne ran, to make up for lost time. 

v

The sun had come round on to the terrace. Adeline rose from her chair. John Severn rose, stiffly. 

She had made him go with her to the goldfish pond, made him walk roundthe garden, listening to him and not listening, detaching herselfwilfully at every turn, to gather more and more of her blue flowers;made him come into the drawing-room and look on while she arranged themexquisitely in the tall Chinese jars. She had brought him out again tosit on the terrace in the sun; and now, in her restlessness, she was upagain and calling to him to follow. 

"It's baking here. Shall we go into the library?"

"If you like. " He sighed as he said it. 

As long as they stayed out of doors he felt safe and peaceful; but hewas afraid of the library. Once there, shut in with her in that roomwhich she was consecrating to their communion, heaven only knew whatsort of fool he might make of himself. Last time it was only the suddenentrance of Robert that had prevented some such manifestation. Andto-day, her smile and her attentive attitude told him that she expectedhim to be a fool, that she looked to his folly for her entertainment. 

He had followed her like a dog; and as if he had been a dog her handpatted a place on the couch beside her. And because he was a fool andforedoomed he took it. 

There was a silence. Then suddenly he made up his mind. 

"Adeline, I'm very sorry, but I find I've got to go to-morrow. "

"Go? Up to town?"

"Yes. "

"But--you're coming back again. "

"I'm--afraid--not. "

"My dear John, you haven't been here a week. I thought you were going tostay with us till your leave was up. "

"So did I. But I find I can't. "

"Whyever not?"

"Oh--there are all sorts of things to be seen to. "

"Nonsense, what do you suppose Robert will say to you, running off likethis?"

"Robert will understand. "

"It's more than I do. "

"You can see, can't you, that I'm going because I must, not because Iwant to. "

"Well, I think it's horrid of you. I shall miss you frightfully. "

"Yes, you were good enough to say I amused you. "

"You're not amusing me now, my dear ... Are you going to take Anne awayfrom me too?"

"Not if you'd like to keep her. "

"Of course I'd like to keep her. "

He paused, brooding, wrenching one of his lean hands with the other. 

"There's one thing I must ask you--"

"Ask, ask, then. "

"I told you Anne would care for you if you gave her time. She does carefor you. "

"Yes. Odd as it may seem, I really believe she does. "

"Well--don't let her be hurt by it. "

"Hurt? Who's going to hurt her?"

"You, if you let her throw herself away on you when you don't want her. "

"Have I behaved as if I didn't want her?"

"You've behaved like an angel. All the same, you frighten me a little. You've a terrible fascination for the child. Don't use it too much. Lether feelings alone. Don't work on them for the fun of seeing what she'lldo next. If she tries to break away don't bring her back. Don't jerk heron the chain. Don't--amuse yourself with Anne. "

"So that's how you think of me?"

"Oh, you know how I think. "

"Do I? Have I ever known? You say the cruellest things. Is thereanything else I'm not to do to her?"

"Yes. For God's sake don't tease her about Jerrold. "

"My dear John, you talk as if it was serious. I assure you Jerrold isn'tthinking about Anne. "

"And Anne isn't 'thinking' about Jerrold. They don't think, poor dears. They don't know what's happening to them. None of us know what'shappening to us till it happens. Then it's too late. "

"Well, I'll promise not to do any of these awful things if you'll tellme, honestly, why you're going. "

He stared at her. 

"Tell you? You know why. I am going for _the same reason_ that I came. How can you possibly ask me to stay?"

"Of course, if you feel like that about it--"

"You'll say I'd no business to come if I feel like that. But I knew Iwasn't hurting anybody but myself. I knew _you_ were safe. There's neverbeen anybody but Robert. "

"Never. Never for a minute. "

"I tell you I know that. I always have known it. And I understand it. What I can't understand is why, when that's that, you make it so hardfor me. "

"Do I make it hard for you?"

"Damnably. "

"You poor thing. But you'll get over it. "

"I'm not young enough to get over it. Does it look like getting over it?It's been going on for twenty-two years. "

"Oh come, not all the time, John. "

"Pretty nearly. On and off. "

"More off than on, I think. "

"What does that matter when it's 'on' now? Anyhow I've got to go. "

"Go, if you must. Do the best for yourself, my dear. Only don't say Imade you. "

"I'm not saying anything. "

"Well--I'm sorry. "

All the same her smile declared her profound and triumphant satisfactionwith herself. It remained with her after he had gone. She would ratherhe had stayed, following her about, waiting for her, ready to her call, amusing her; but his going was the finer tribute to her power: thefinest, perhaps, that he could have well paid. She hadn't been preparedfor such a complete surrender. 

vi

Something had happened to Eliot. He sulked. Indoors and out, working andplaying, at meal-times and bed-time he sulked. Jerrold said of him thathe sulked in his sleep. 

Two things made his behaviour inexplicable. To begin with, it wasuncalled for. Robert Fielding, urged by John Severn in a last interview, had given in all along the line. Not only had Eliot leave to stick tohis medicine (which he would have done in any case), but he was to go toBart's to work for his doctor's degree when his three years at Cambridgewere ended. His father had made a new will, leaving the estate toJerrold and securing to the eldest son an income almost large enough tomake up for the loss. Eliot, whose ultimate aim was research work, nowsaw all the ways before him cleared. He had no longer anything to sulkfor. 

Still more mysteriously, his sulking appeared to be related to Anne. Hehad left off going for walks alone with her in the fields and woods; hedidn't show her things under his microscope any more. If she leaned overhis shoulder he writhed himself away; if his hand blundered against hershe drew it back as if her touch burnt him. More often than not he wouldgo out of the room if she came into it. Yet as long as she was there hecouldn't keep his eyes off her. She would be sitting still, reading, when she would be aware, again and again, of Eliot's eyes, lifted fromhis book to fasten on her. She could feel them following her when shewalked away. 

One wet day in August they were alone together in the schoolroom, reading. Suddenly Anne felt his eyes on her. Their look was intent, penetrating, disturbing; it burned at her under his jutting, sombreeyebrows. 

"Is there anything funny about me?" she said. 

"Funny? No. Why?"

"Because you keep on looking at me. "

"I didn't know I was looking at you. "

"Well, you were. You're always doing it. And I can't think why. "

"It isn't because I want to. "

He held his book up so that it hid his face. 

"Then don't do it, " she said. "You needn't. "

"I shan't, " he snarled, savagely, behind his screen. 

But he did it again and again, as if for the life of him he couldn'thelp it. There was something about it mysterious and exciting. It madeAnne want to look at Eliot when he wasn't looking at her. 

She liked his blunt, clever face, the half-ugly likeness of his father'swith its jutting eyebrows and jutting chin, its fine grave mouth andgreenish-brown eyes; mouth and eyes that had once been so kind and werenow so queer. Eliot's face made her keep on wondering what it was doing. She _had_ to look at it. 

One day, when she was looking, their eyes met. She had just time to seethat his mouth had softened as if he were pleased to find her looking athim. And his eyes were different; not cross, but dark now and unhappy;they made her feel as if she had hurt him. 

They were in the library. Uncle Robert was there, sitting in his chairbehind them, at the other end of the long room. She had forgotten UncleRobert. 

"Oh, Eliot, " she said, "have I done anything?"

"Not that I know of. " His face stiffened. 

"You look as if I had. Have I?"

"Don't talk such putrid rot. As if I cared what you did. Can't you leaveme alone?"

And he jumped up and left the room. 

And there was Uncle Robert in his chair, watching her, looking kind andsorry. 

"What's the matter with him?" she said. "Why is he so cross?"

"You mustn't mind. He doesn't mean it. "

"No, but it's so funny of him. He's only cross with me; and I haven'tdone anything. "

"It isn't that. "

"What is it, then? I believe he hates me. "

"No. He doesn't hate you, Anne. He's going through a bad time, that'sall. He can't help being cross. "

"Why can't he? He's got everything he wants. "

"Has he?"

Uncle Robert was smiling. And this time his smile was for himself. Shedidn't understand it. 

vii

Anne was going away. She said she supposed now that Eliot would behappy. 

Grandmamma Severn thought she had been long enough running loose withthose Fielding boys. Grandpapa Everitt agreed with her and they decidedthat in September Anne should go to the big girls' college inCheltenham. Grandmamma and Aunt Emily had left London and taken a housein Cheltenham and Anne was to live with them there. 

Colin and she were going in the same week, Colin to his college and Anneto hers. 

They were discussing this prospect. Colin and Jerrold and Anne inColin's room. It was a chilly day in September and Colin was in bedsurrounded by hot water bottles. He had tried to follow Jerrold in hisbig jump across the river and had fallen in. He was not ill, but hehoped he would be, for then he couldn't go back to Cheltenham next week. 

"If it wasn't for the hot water bottles, " he said, "I _might_ get achill. "

"I wish I could get one, " said Anne. "But I can't get anything. I'm sobeastly strong. "

"It isn't so bad for you. You haven't got to live with the girls. It'llbe perfectly putrid in my house now that Jerrold isn't there. "

"Haven't you _any_ friends, Col-Col?"

"Yes. There's little Rogers. But even he's pretty rotten after Jerry. "

"He would be. "

"And that old ass Rawly says I'll be better this term without Jerrold. He kept on gassing about fighting your own battles and standing on yourown feet. You never heard such stinking rot. "

"You're lucky it's Cheltenham, " Jerrold said, "and not some other rottenhole. Dad and I'll go over on half-holidays and take you out. You andAnne. "

"You'll be at Cambridge. "

"Not till next year. And it isn't as if Anne wasn't there. "

"Grannie and Aunt Emily'll ask you every week. I've made them. It'll bea bit slow, but they're rather darlings. "

"Have they a piano?" Colin asked. 

"Yes. And they'll let you play on it all the time. "

Colin looked happier. But he didn't get his chill, and when the day camehe had to go. 

Jerrold saw Anne off at Wyck station. 

"You'll look after Col-Col, won't you?" he said. "Write and tell me howhe gets on. "

"I'll write every week. "

Jerrold was thoughtful. 

"After all, there's something in that idea of old Rawlings', that I'mbad for him. He's got to do without me. "

"So have I. "

"You're different. You'll stand it, if you've got to. Colin won't. Andhe doesn't chum up with the other chaps. "

"No. But think of me and all those awful girls--after you and Eliot"(she had forgotten Eliot's sulkiness) "and Uncle Robert. And Grannie andAunt Emily after Auntie Adeline. "

"Well, I'm glad Col-Col'll have you sometimes. "

"So'm I... Oh, Jerrold, here's the beastly train. "

It drew up along the platform. 

Anne stood in her carriage, leaning out of the window to him. 

His hand was on the ledge. They looked at each other without speaking. 

The guard whistled. Carriage doors slammed one after another. The trainmoved forward. 

Jerrold ran alongside. "I say, you'll let Col-Col play on that piano?"

Anne was gone. 

III

ANNE AND JERROLD

i

 "'Where have you been all the day, Rendal, my son? Where have you been all the day, my pretty one?... '"

Five years had passed. It was August, nineteen ten. 

Anne had come again. She sat out on the terrace with Adeline, whileColin's song drifted out to them through the open window. 

It was her first day, the first time for three years. Anne's calendarwas blank from nineteen seven to nineteen ten. When she was seventeenshe had left Cheltenham and gone to live with Grandpapa Everitt at theEssex farm. Grandpapa Everitt wanted her more than Grandmamma Severn, who had Aunt Emily; so Anne had stayed with him all that time. She hadspent it learning to farm and looking after Grandpapa on his bad days. For the last year of his life all his days had been bad. Now he wasdead, dead three months ago, and Anne had the farm. She was going totrain for five years under the man who had worked it for Grandpapa;after that she meant to manage it herself. 

She had been trying to tell Aunt Adeline all about it, but you could seeshe wasn't interested. She kept on saying "Yes" and "Oh" and "Really"?in the wrong places. She never could listen to you for long together, and this afternoon she was evidently thinking of something else, perhapsof John Severn, who had been home on leave and gone again without comingto the Fieldings. 

 "'I've been to my sweetheart, mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to my heart and I fain would lie down... '"

Mournful, and beautiful, Colin's song came through the windows, and Annethought of Jerrold who was not there. He was staying in Yorkshire withsome friends of his, the Durhams. He would be back to-morrow. He wouldhave got away from the Durhams. 

 ... "'make my bed soon... '"

To-morrow. To-morrow. 

"Who are the Durhams, Auntie?"

"He's Sir Charles Durham. Something important in the Punjaub. Some highgovernment official. He'll be useful to Jerrold if he gets a job outthere. They're going back in October. I suppose I shall have to ask. Maisie Durham before they sail. "

Maisie Durham. Maisie Durham. But to-morrow he would have got away. 

 "'What will you leave your lover, Rendal, my son? What will you leave your lover, my pretty one? A rope to hang her, mother, A rope to hang her, mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick to my heart and I fain would lie down. '"

"Sing something cheerful, Colin, for Goodness sake, " said his mother. But Colin sang it again. 

 "'A rope to hang her'"

"Bless him, you'd think he'd known all the wicked women that ever were. My little Col-Col. "

"You like him the best, don't you?"

"No. Indeed I do not. I like my laughing boy best. You wouldn't catchJerry singing a dismal song like that. "

"Darling, you used to say Colin was your favourite. "

"No, my dear. Never. Never. It was always Jerrold. Ever since he wasborn. He never cried when he was a baby. Colin was always crying. "

"Poor Col-Col. "

"There you are. Nobody'll ever say, 'Poor Jerrold'. I like happy people, Anne. In this tiresome world it's people's duty to be happy. "

"If it was, would they be? Don't look at me as if I wasn't. "

"I wasn't thinking of you, ducky... You might tell Pinkney to take _all_those tea-things off the terrace and put them _back_ into the lounge. "

ii

The beech-trees stood in a half ring at the top of the highest field. Jerrold had come back. He and Anne sat in the bay of the beeches, looking out over the hills. 

Curve after curve of many-coloured hills, rolling together, flung offfrom each other, an endless undulation. Rounded heads carrying a clumpof trees like a comb; long steep groins packed with tree-tops; rakingnecks hog-maned with stiff plantations. Slopes that spread out fan-wise, opened wide wings. An immense stretching and flattening of arcs up tothe straight blue wall on the horizon. A band of trees stood up therelike a hedge. 

Calm, clean spaces emerging, the bright, sharp-cut pattern of thefields; squares and fans and pointed triangles, close fitted; emeraldgreen of the turnips; yellow of the charlock lifted high and clear; redbrown and pink and purple of ploughed land and fallows; red gold of thewheat and white green of the barley; shimmering in a wash of thin air. 

Where Anne and Jerrold sat, green pastures, bitten smooth by the sheep, flowed down below them in long ridges like waves. On the right thebright canary coloured charlock brimmed the field. Its flat, vanilla andalmond scent came to them. 

"What's Yorkshire like?"

"Not a patch on this place. I can't think what there is about it thatmakes you feel so jolly happy. "

"But you'd always be happy, Jerrold, anywhere. "

"Not like that. I mean a queer, uncanny feeling that you sort of can'tmake out. "

"I know. I know... There's nothing on earth that gets you like the smellof charlock. "

Anne tilted up her nose and sniffed delicately. 

"Fancy seeing this country suddenly for the first time, " he said. 

"There's such a lot of it. You wouldn't see it properly. It takes agesjust to tell one hill from another. "

He looked at her. She could feel him meditating, considering. 

"I say, I wonder what it would feel like seeing each other for the firsttime. "

"Not half so nice as seeing each other now. Why, we shouldn't rememberany of the jolly things we've done: together. "

He had seen Maisie Durham for the first time. She wondered whether thathad made him think of it. 

"No, but the effect might be rather stunning--I mean of seeing _you_. "

"It wouldn't. And you'd be nothing but a big man with a face I ratherliked. I suppose I should like your face. We shouldn't _know_ eachother, Jerrold. "

"No more we should. It would be like not knowing Dad or Mummy or Colin. A thing you can't conceive. "

"It would be like not knowing anything at all ... Of course, the bestthing would be both. "

"Both?"

"Knowing each other and not knowing. "

"You can't have it both ways, " he said. 

"Oh, can't you! You don't half know me as it is, and I don't half knowyou. We might both do anything any day. Things that would make eachother jump. "

"What sort of things?"

"That's the exciting part of it--we wouldn't know. "

"I believe you _could_, Anne--make me jump. "

"Wait till I get out to India. "

"You're really going?"

"Really going. Daddy may send for me any day. "

"I may be sent there. Then we'll go out together. "

"Will Maisie Durham be going too?"

"O Lord no. Not with us. At least I hope not ... Poor little Maisie, Iwas a beast to say that. "

"Is she little?"

"No, rather big. But you think of her as little. Only I don't think ofher. "

They stood up; they stood close; looking at each other, laughing. As helaughed his eyes took her in, from head to feet, wondering, admiring. 

Anne's face and body had the same forward springing look. In their verystillness they somehow suggested movement. Her young breasts sprangforwards, sharp pointed. Her eyes had no sliding corner glances. He wasfor ever aware of Anne's face turning on its white neck to look at himstraight and full, her black-brown eyes shining and darkening andshining under the long black brushes of her eyebrows. Even her noseexpressed movement, a sort of rhythm. It rose in a slender arch, rakedstraight forward, dipped delicately and rose again in a delicatelyquesting tilt. This tilt had the delightful air of catching up andshortening the curl of her upper lip. The exquisite lower one sprangforward, sharp and salient from the little dent above her innocent, rounded chin. Its edge curled slightly forward in a line firm as ivoryand fine as the edge of a flower. As long as he lived he would rememberthe way of it. 

And she, she was aware of his body, slender and tense under his whiteflannels. It seemed to throb with the power it held in, prisoned in thesmooth, tight muscles. His eyes showed the colour of dark hyacinths, setin his clear, sun-browned skin. He smiled down at her, and his mouth andlittle fawn brown moustache followed the tilted shadow of his nostrils. 

Suddenly her whole body quivered as if his had touched it. And when shelooked at him she had the queer feeling that she saw him for the firsttime. Never before like that. Never before. 

But to him she was the same Anne. He knew her face as he knew hismother's face or Colin's. He knew, he remembered all her ways. 

And this was not what he wanted. He wanted some strange wonder andexcitement; he wanted to find it in Anne and in nobody but Anne, and hecouldn't find it. He wanted to be in love with Anne and he wasn't. Shewas too near him, too much a part of him, too well-known, toowell-remembered. She made him restless and impatient, looking, lookingfor the strangeness, the mystery he wanted and couldn't find. 

If only he could have seen her suddenly for the first time. 

iii

It was extraordinary how happy it made her to be with Aunt Adeline, walking slowly, slowly, with her round the garden, stretched out besideher on the terrace, following her abrupt moves from the sun into theshade and back again; or sitting for hours with her in the big darkenedbedroom when Adeline had one of the bad headaches that attacked her now, brushing her hair, and putting handkerchiefs soaked in eau-de-cologne onher hot forehead. 

Extraordinary, because this inactivity did violence to Anne's nature;besides, Auntie Adeline behaved as if you were uninteresting andunimportant, not attending to a word you said. Yet her strength lay inher inconsistency. One minute her arrogance ignored you and the next shecame humbly and begged for your caresses; she was dependent, like achild, on your affection. Anne thought that pathetic. And there wasalways her fascination. That was absolute; above logic and morality, irrefutable as the sweetness of a flower. Everybody felt it, even theservants whom she tormented with her incalculable wants. Jerrold andColin, even Eliot, now that he was grown-up, felt it. As for UncleRobert he was like a young man in the beginning of first love. 

Adeline judged people by their attitude to her. Anne, whether shelistened to her or not, was her own darling. Her husband and John Severnwere adorable, Major Markham of Wyck Wold and Mr. Hawtrey of Medlicote, who admired her, were perfect dears, Sir John Corbett of Underwoods, whodidn't, was that silly old thing. Resist her and she felt no meanresentment; you simply dropped out of her scene. Thus her world waspeopled with her adorers. 

Anne couldn't have told you whether she felt the charm on its ownaccount, or whether the pleasure of being with her was simply part ofthe blessed state of being at Wyck-on-the-Hill. Enough that AuntieAdeline was there where Uncle Robert and Eliot and Colin and Jerroldwere; she belonged to them; she belonged to the house and garden; shestood with the flowers. 

Anne was walking with her now, gathering roses for the house. The gardenwas like a room shut in by the clipped yew walls, and open to the sky. The sunshine poured into it; the flagged walks were pale with heat. 

Anne's cat, Nicky, was there, the black Persian that Jerrold had givenher last birthday. He sat in the middle of the path, on his haunches, his forelegs straight and stiff, planted together. His face had a lookof sweet and solemn meditation. 

"Oh Nicky, oh you darling!" she said. 

When she stroked him he got up, arching his back and carrying his tailin a flourishing curve, like one side of a lyre; he rubbed against herankles. A white butterfly flickered among the blue larkspurs; when Nickysaw it he danced on his hind legs, clapping his forepaws as he tried tocatch it. But the butterfly was too quick for him. Anne picked him upand he flattened himself against her breast, butting under her chin withhis smooth round head in his loving way. 

And as Adeline wouldn't listen to her Anne talked to the cat. 

"Clever little thing, he sees everything, all the butterflies and thedicky-birds and the daddy-long-legs. Don't you, my pretty one?"

"What's the good of talking to the cat?" said Adeline. "He doesn'tunderstand a word you say. "

"He doesn't understand the words, he says, but he feels the feeling ... He was the most beautiful of all the pussies, he was, he was. "

"Nonsense. You're throwing yourself away on that absurd animal, for allthe affection you'll get out of him. "

"I shall get out just what I put in. He expects to be talked to. "

"So do I. "

"I've been trying to talk to you all afternoon and you won't listen. Andyou don't know how you can hurt Nicky's feelings. He's miserable if Idon't tell him he's a beautiful pussy the minute he comes into my room. He creeps away under the washstand and broods. We take these darlingthings and give them little souls and hearts, and we've no business tohurt them. And they've such a tiny time to live, too... Look at him, sitting up to be carried, like a child. "

"Oh wait, my dear, till you _have_ a child. You ridiculous baby. "

"Oh come, Jerrold's every bit as gone on him. "

"You're a ridiculous pair, " said Adeline. 

"If Nicky purred round _your_ legs, you'd love him, too, " said Anne. 

iv

Uncle Robert was not well. He couldn't eat the things he used to eat; hehad to have fish or chicken and milk and beef-tea and Benger's food. Jerrold said it was only indigestion and he'd be all right in a day ortwo. But you could see by the way he walked now that there was somethingquite dreadfully wrong. He went slowly, slowly, as if every step tiredhim out. 

"Sorry, Jerrold, to be so slow. "

But Jerrold wouldn't see it. 

They had gone down to the Manor Farm, he and Jerrold and Anne. He wantedto show Jerrold the prize stock and what heifers they could breed fromnext year. "I should keep on with the short horns. You can't do better, "he said. 

Then they had gone up the fields to see if the wheat was ready forcutting yet. And he had kept on telling Jerrold what crops were to besown after the wheat, swedes to come first, and vetch after the swedes, to crowd out the charlock. 

"You'll have to keep the charlock down, Jerrold, or it'll kill thecrops. You'll have the devil of a job. " He spoke as though Jerrold hadthe land already and he was telling him the things he wanted him toremember. 

They came back up the steep pasture, very slowly, Uncle Robert leaningon Jerrold's arm. They sat down to rest under the beech-trees at thetop. They looked at the landscape, the many-coloured hills, rollingtogether, flung off from each other, an endless undulation. 

"Beautiful country. Beautiful country, " said Uncle Robert as if he hadnever seen it before. 

"You should see _my_ farm, " Anne said. "It's as flat as a chess-boardand all squeezed up by the horrid town. Grandpapa sold a lot of it forbuilding. I wish I could sell the rest and buy a farm in the Cotswolds. Do you ever have farms to sell, Uncle Robert?"

"Well, not to sell. To let, perhaps, if a tenant goes. You can have theBarrow Farm when old Sutton dies. He can't last long. But, " he went on, "you'll find it very different farming here. "

"How different?"

"Well, in some of those fields you'll have to fight the charlock all thetime. And in some the soil's hard. And in some you've got to ploughacross the sun because of the slope of the land... Remember, Jerrold, Anne's to have the Barrow Farm, if she wants it, when Sutton dies. "

Jerrold laughed. "My dear father, I shall be in India. "

"I'll remind you, Uncle Robert. "

Uncle Robert smiled. "I'll tell Barker to remember, " he said. Barker washis agent. 

It was as if he were thinking that when Sutton died he might not bethere. And he had said that Sutton wouldn't last long. Anne looked atJerrold. But Jerrold's face was happy. He didn't see it. 

They left Uncle Robert in the library, drinking hot water for tea. 

"Jerrold, " Anne said, "I'm sure Uncle Robert's ill. "

"Oh no. It's only indigestion. He'll be as right as rain in a day ortwo. "

V

Anne's cat Nicky was dying. 

Jerrold struggled with his sleep, pushing it back and back before him, trying to remember. 

There was something; something that had hung over him the night before. He had been afraid to wake and find it there. Something--. 

Now he remembered. 

Nicky was dying and Anne was unhappy. That was what it was; that waswhat he had hated to wake to, Anne's unhappiness and the little cat. 

There was nothing else. Nothing wrong with Daddy--only indigestion. Hehad had it before. 

The room was still dark, but the leaded squares of the window latticesbarred a sky pale with dawn. In her room across the passage Anne wouldbe sitting up with Nicky. He remembered now that he had to get up earlyto make her some tea. 

He lit a candle and went to her door to see if she were still awake. Hervoice answered his gentle tapping, "Who's there?"

"Me. Jerrold. May I come in?"

"Yes. But don't bring the light in. He's sleeping. "

He put out the candle and made his way to her. Against the window paneshe could see the outline of her body sitting upright in a chair. Sheglimmered there in her white wrapper and he made out something blackstretched straight and still in her lap. He sat down in the window-seatand watched. 

The room was mysterious, full of dusk air that thinned as the dawnstirred in it palpably, waking first Anne's white bed, a strip of whitecornice and a sheet of watery looking-glass. Nicky's saucer of milkgleamed white on the dark floor at Anne's feet. The pale ceilinglightened; and with a sliding shimmer of polished curves the furniturerose up from the walls. Presently it stood clear, wine-coloured, shiningin the strange, pure light. 

And in the strange, pure light he saw Anne, in her white wrapper withthe great rope of her black hair, plaited, hanging down her back. Thelittle black cat lay in her white lap, supported by her arm. 

She smiled at Jerrold strangely. She spoke and her voice was low andstrange. 

"He's asleep, Jerry. He kept on looking at me and mewing. Then he triedto climb into my lap and couldn't. And I took him up and he was quietthen. I think he was pleased that I took him ... I've given him themorphia pill and I don't think he's in pain. He'll die in his sleep. "

"Yes. He'll die in his sleep. "

He hardly knew what he was saying. He was looking at Anne, and it was asif now, at last, he saw her for the first time. This, this was what hewanted, this mysterious, strangely smiling Anne, this white Anne withthe great plaited rope of black hair, who belonged to the night and thedawn. 

"I'm going to get you some tea, " he said. 

He went down to the kitchen where everything had been left ready for himover-night. He lit the gas-ring and made the tea and brought it to herwith cake and bread and butter on a little tray. He set it down besideher on the window-seat. But Anne could neither eat nor drink. She criedout to him. 

"Oh, Jerry, look at him. Do you think he's dying now?"

He knelt down and looked. Nicky's eyes were two slits of glaze betweenhalf-shut lids. His fur stood up on his bulging, frowning forehead. Hislittle, flat cat's face was drawn to a point with a look of helplessinnocence and anguish. His rose-leaf tongue showed between his teeth ashe panted. 

"Yes. I'm awfully afraid he's dying. "

They waited half an hour, an hour. They never knew how long. Once hesaid to her, "Would you rather I went or stayed?" And she said, "Stayed, if you don't mind. "

Through the open window, from the fields of charlock warm in the risensun, the faint, smooth scent came to them. 

Then Nicky began to cough with a queer quacking sound. Jerrold went toher, upsetting the saucer as he came. 

"It's his milk, " she said. "He couldn't drink it. " And with that sheburst into tears. 

"Oh, Anne, don't cry. Don't cry, Anne darling. "

He put his arm round her. He laid his hand on her hair and stroked it. He stooped suddenly and kissed her face; gently, quietly, because of thedead thing in her lap. 

It was as if he had kissed her for the first time. 

For one instant she had her arm round his neck and clung to him, hidingher face on his shoulder. Then suddenly she loosed herself and stood upbefore him, holding out the body of the little cat. 

"Take him away, please, Jerry, so that I don't see him. "

He took him away. 

All day the sense of kissing her remained with him, and all night, withthe scent of her hair, the sweet rose-scent of her flesh, the touch ofher smooth rose-leaf skin. That was Anne, that strangeness, that beautyof the clear, cold dawn, that scent, that warm sweet smoothness, thatclinging of passionate arms. And he had kissed her gently, quietly, asyou kiss a child, as you kiss a young, small animal. 

He wanted to kiss her close, pressing down on her mouth, deep into hersweet flesh; to hold her body tight, tight, crushed in his arms. If ithadn't been for Nicky that was the way he would have kissed her. 

To-morrow, to-morrow, he would kiss Anne that way. 

IV

ROBERT

i

But when to-morrow came he did not kiss her. He was annoyed with Annebecause she insisted on taking a gloomy view of his father's illness. 

The doctors couldn't agree about it. Dr. Ransome of Wyck said it wasgastritis. Dr. Harper of Cheltenham said it was colitis. He had had thatbefore and had got better. Now he was getting worse, fast. For the lastthree days he couldn't keep down his chicken and fish. Yesterday noteven his milk. To-day, not even his ice-water. Then they both said itwas acute gastritis. 

"He's never been like this before, Jerrold. "

"No. But that doesn't mean he isn't going to get better. People withacute gastritis do get better. It's enough to make him die, everybodyinsisting that he's going to. And it's rot sending for Eliot. "

That was what Anne had done. 

Eliot had written to her from London: 10 Welbeck St. , _Sept. 35th, 1910. _

 My dear Anne:

 I wish you'd tell me how Father really is. Nobody but you has any intelligence that matters. Between Mother's wails and Jerrold's optimism I don't seem to be getting the truth. If it's serious I'll come down at once. 

 Always yours, Eliot. 

And Anne had answered:

 My dear Eliot, It _is_ serious. Dr. Ransome and Dr. Harper say so. They think now it's acute gastritis. I wish you'd come down. Jerrold is heart-breaking. He won't see it; because he couldn't bear it if he did. I know Auntie wants you. 

 Always very affectionately yours, Anne. 

She addressed the letter to Dr. Eliot Fielding, for Eliot had taken hisdegree. 

And on that to-morrow of Jerrold's Eliot had come. Jerrold told him hewas a perfect idiot, rushing down like that, as if Daddy hadn't an hourto live. 

"You'll simply terrify him, " he said. "He hasn't got a chance with allyou people grousing and croaking round him. "

And he went off to play in the lawn tennis tournament at Medlicote as aprotest against the general pessimism. His idea seemed to be that if he, Jerrold, could play in a lawn tennis tournament, his father couldn't beseriously ill. 

"It's perfectly awful of Jerrold, " his mother said. "I can't make himout. He adores his father, yet he behaves as if he hadn't any feeling. "

She and Anne were sitting in the lounge after luncheon, waiting forEliot to come from his father's room. 

"Didn't you _tell_ him, Anne?"

"I did everything I know.... But darling, he isn't unfeeling. He does itbecause he can't bear to think Uncle Robert won't get better. He'strying to make himself believe he will. I think he does believe it. Butif he stayed away from the tournament that would mean he didn't. "

"If only _I_ could. But I must. I _must_ believe it if I'm not to gomad. I don't know what I shall do if he doesn't get better. I can't livewithout him. It's been so perfect, Anne. It can't come to an end likethis. It can't happen. It would be too cruel. "

"It would, " Anne said. But she thought: "It just will happen. It'shappening now. "

"Here's Eliot, " she said. 

Eliot came down the stairs. Adeline went to him. 

"Oh Eliot, what do you think of him?"

Eliot put her off. "I can't tell you yet. "

"You think he's very bad?"

"Very. "

"But you don't think there isn't any hope?"

"I can't tell yet. There may be. He wants you to go to him. Don't talkmuch to him. Don't let him talk. And don't, whatever you do, let himmove an inch. "

Adeline went upstairs. Anne and Eliot were alone. "You _can_ tell, " shesaid. "You don't think there's any hope. "

"I don't. There's something quite horribly wrong. His temperature's ahundred and three. "

"Is that bad?"

"Very. "

"I do wish Jerry hadn't gone. "

"So do I. "

"It'll be worse for him, Eliot, than for any of us when he knows. "

"I know. But he's always been like that, as long as I can remember. Hesimply can't stand trouble. It's the only thing he funks. And hisfunking it wouldn't matter if he'd stand and face it. But he runs away. He's running away now. Say what you like, it's a sort of cowardice. "

"It's his only fault. "

"I know it is. But it's a pretty serious one, Anne. And he'll have topay for it. The world's chock full of suffering and all sorts ofhorrors, and you can't go turning your back to them as Jerrold doeswithout paying for it. Why, he won't face anything that's even a littleunpleasant. He won't listen if you try to tell him. He won't read a bookthat hasn't a happy ending. He won't go to a play that isn't a comedy... It's an attitude I can't understand. I don't like horrors any more thanhe does; but when I hear about them I want to go straight where they areand do something to stop them. That's what I chose my profession for. "

"I know. Because you're so sorry. So sorry. But Jerry's sorry too. Sosorry that he can't bear it. "

"But he's got to bear it. There it is and he's got to take it. He's onlymaking things worse for himself by holding out and refusing. Jerroldwill never be any good till he _has_ taken it. Till he's suffereddamnably. "

"I don't want him to suffer. I don't want it. I can't bear him to bearit. "

"He must. He's got to. "

"I'd do anything to save him. But I can't. "

"You can't. And you mustn't try to. It would be the best thing thatcould happen to him. "

"Oh no, not to Jerry. "

"Yes. To Jerry. If he's ever to be any good. You don't want him to be amoral invalid, do you?"

"No... Oh Eliot, that's Uncle Robert's door. "

Upstairs the door opened and shut and Adeline came to the head of thestairs. 

"Oh Eliot, come quick----"

Eliot rushed upstairs. And Anne heard Adeline sobbing hysterically andcrying out to him. 

"I can't--I can't. I can not bear it!"

She saw her trail off along the gallery to her room; she heard her lockherself in. She had every appearance of running away from something. From something she could not bear. Half an hour passed before Eliot cameback to Anne. 

"What was it?" she said. 

"What I thought. Gastric ulcer. He's had a haemorrhage. "

That was what Aunt Adeline had run away from. 

"Look here, Anne, I've got to send Scarrott in the car for Ransome. Thenhe'll have to go on to Cheltenham to fetch Colin. "

"Colin?" This was the end then. 

"Yes. He'd better come. And I want you to do something. I want you todrive over to Medlicote and bring Jerrold back. It's beastly for you. But you'll do it, won't you?"

"I'll do anything. "

It was the beastliest thing she had ever had to do, but she did it. 

From where she drew up in the drive at Medlicote she could see thetennis courts. She could see Jerrold playing in the men's singles. Hestood up to the net, smashing down the ball at the volley; his back wasturned to her as he stood. 

She heard him shout. She heard him laugh. She saw him turn to come upthe court, facing her. 

And when he saw her, he knew. 

ii

He had waited ten minutes in the gallery outside his father's room. Eliot had asked Anne to go in and help him while Jerrold stood by thedoor to keep his mother out. She was no good, Eliot said. She lost herhead just when he wanted her to do things. You could have heard her allover the house crying out that she couldn't bear it. 

She opened her door and looked out. When she saw Jerrold she came tohim, slowly, supporting herself by the gallery rail. Her eyes were sorewith crying and there was a flushed thickening about the edges of hermouth. 

"So you've come back, " she said. "You might go in and tell me how heis. "

"Haven't you seen him?"

"Of course I've seen him. But I'm afraid, Jerrold. It was awful, awful, the haemorrhage. You can't think how awful. I daren't go in and see itagain. I shouldn't be a bit of good if I did. I should only faint, or beill or something. I simply can not bear it. "

"You mustn't go in, " he said. 

"Who's with him?"

"Eliot and Anne. "

"Anne?"

"Yes. "

"Jerrold, to think that Anne should be with him and me not. "

"Well, she'll be all right. She can stand things. "

"It's all very well for Anne. He isn't _her_ husband. "

"You'd better go away, Mother. "

"Not before you tell me how he is. Go in, Jerrold. "

He knocked and went in. 

His father was sitting up in his white, slender bed, raised on Eliot'sarm. He saw his face, strained and smoothed with exhaustion, sallowwhite against the pillows, the back-drawn-mouth, the sharp, peaked nose, the iron grey hair, pointed with sweat, sticking to the forehead. A faceof piteous, tired patience, waiting. He saw Eliot's face, close, closebeside it by the edge of the pillow, grave and sombre and intent. 

Anne was crossing the room from the bed to the washstand. Her face wasvery white but she had an air of great competence and composure. Shecarried a white basin brimming with a reddish froth. He saw little redspecks splashed on the sleeve of her white linen gown. He shuddered. 

Eliot made a sign to him and he went back to the door where his motherwaited. 

"Is he better?" she whispered. "Can I come in?"

Jerrold shook his head. "Better not--yet. "

"You'll send for me if--if--"

"Yes. "

He heard her trailing away along the gallery. He went into the room. Hestood at the foot of the bed and stared, stared at his father lyingthere in Eliot's arms. He would have liked to have been in Eliot'splace, close to him, close, holding him. As it was he could do nothingbut stand and look at him with that helpless, agonized stare. He _had_to look at him, to look and look, punishing himself with sight for nothaving seen. 

His eyes felt hot and brittle; they kept on filling with tears, burnedthemselves dry and filled again. His hand clutched the edge of thefootrail as if only so he could keep his stand there. 

A stream of warm air came through the open windows. Everything in theroom stood still in it, unnaturally still, waiting. He was aware of thepattern of the window curtains. Blue parrots perched on brown branchesamong red flowers on a white ground; it all hung very straight andstill, waiting. 

Anne looked at him and spoke. She was standing beside the bed now, holding the clean basin and a towel, ready. 

"Jerrold, you might go and get some more ice. It's in the bucket in thebath-room. Break it up into little pieces, like that. You split it witha needle. "

He went to the bath-room, moving like a sleepwalker, wrapped in hisdream-like horror. He found the ice, he broke it into little pieces, like that. He was very careful and conscientious about the size, andgrateful to Anne for giving him something to do. Then he went back againand took up his station at the foot of the bed and waited. His fatherstill lay back on his pillow, propped by Eliot's arm. His hands werefolded on his chest above the bedclothes. 

Anne still stood by the bed holding her basin and her towel ready. Fromtime to time they gave him little pieces of ice to suck. 

Once he opened his eyes, looked round the room and spoke. "Is yourmother there?"

"Do you want her?" Eliot said. 

"No. It'll only upset her. Don't let her come in. "

He closed his eyes and opened them again. 

"Is that Anne?"

"Yes. Who did you think it was?"

"I don't know... I'm sorry, Anne. "

"Darling--" the word broke from a tender inarticulate sound she made. 

Then: "Jerrold--, " he said. 

Jerrold came closer. His father's right arm unfolded itself andstretched out towards him along the bed. 

Anne whispered, "Take his hand. " Jerrold took it. He could feel ittremble as he touched it. 

"It's all right, Jerry, " he said. "It's all right. " He gave a littlechoking cough. His eyes darkened with a sudden anxiety, a fear. His handslackened. His head sank forward. Anne came between them. Jerrold feltthe slight thrust of her body pushing him aside. He saw her armsstretched out, and the white gleam of the basin, then, the haemorrhage, jet after jet. Then his father's face tilted up on Eliot's arm, verywhite, and Anne stooping over him tenderly, and her hand with the towel, wiping the red foam from his lips. 

Then eyes glazed between half-shut lids, mouth open, and the noise ofdeath. 

Eliot's arm laid down its burden. He got up and put his hand onJerrold's shoulder and led him out of the room. "Go out into the air, "he said. "I'll tell Mother. "

Jerrold staggered downstairs, and through the hall and out into theblinding sunshine. 

Far down the avenue he could hear the whirring of the car coming backfrom Cheltenham; the lines of the beech trees opened fan-wise to let itthrough. He saw Colin sitting up beside Scarrott. 

Above his head a lattice ground and clattered. Somebody was goingthrough the front rooms, shutting the windows and pulling down theblinds. 

Jerrold turned back into the house to meet Colin there. 

Upstairs his father's door opened and shut softly and Anne came out. Shemoved along the gallery to her room. Between the dark rails he could seeher white skirt, and her arm, hanging, and the little specks of redsplashed on the white sleeve. 

iii

Jerrold was afraid of Anne, and he saw no end to his fear. He had beendashed against the suffering he was trying to put away from him and theshock of it had killed in one hour his young adolescent passion. Shewould be for ever associated with that suffering. He would never seeAnne without thinking of his father's death. He would never think of hisfather's death without seeing Anne. He would see her for ever through anatmosphere of pain and horror, moving as she had moved in his father'sroom. He couldn't see her any other way. This intolerable memory of hereffaced all other memories, memories of the child Anne with the rabbit, of the young, happy Anne who walked and rode and played with him, of thestrange, mysterious Anne he had found yesterday in her room at dawn. That Anne belonged to a time he had done with. There was nothing leftfor him but the Anne who had come to tell him his father was dying, whohad brought him to his father's death-bed, who had bound herself upinseparably with his death, who only moved from the scene of it toappear dressed in black and carrying the flowers for his funeral. 

She was wrapped round and round with death and death, nothing but death, and with Jerrold's suffering. When he saw her he suffered again. And ashis way had always been to avoid suffering, he avoided Anne. His eyesturned from her if he saw her coming. He spoke to her without looking ather. He tried not to think of her. When he had gone he would try not toremember. 

His one idea was to go, to get away from the place his father had diedin and from the people who had seen him die. He wanted new unknownfaces, new unknown voices that would not remind him------

Ten days after his father's death the letter came from John Severn. Hewrote:

"... I'm delighted about Sir Charles Durham. You are a lucky devil. Anychap Sir Charles takes a fancy to is bound to get on. He can't helphimself. You're not afraid of hard work, and I can tell you we give ourAssistant Commissioners all they want and a lot more. 

"It'll be nice if you bring Anne out with you. If you're stationedanywhere near us we ought to give her the jolliest time in her lifebetween us. "

"But Jerrold, " said Adeline when she had read this letter. "You're notgoing out _now_. You must wire and tell him so. "

"Why not now?"

"Because, my dear boy, you've got the estate and you must stay and lookafter it. "

"Barker'll look after it. That's what he's there for. "

"Nonsense, Jerrold. There's no need for you to go out to India. "

"There _is_ need. I've got to go. "

"You haven't. There's every need for you to stop where you are. Eliotwill be going abroad if Sir Martin Crozier takes him on. And if Colingoes into the diplomatic service Goodness knows where he'll be sent to. "

"Colin won't be sent anywhere for another four years. "

"No. But he'll be at Cheltenham or Cambridge half the time. I must haveone son at home. "

"Sorry, Mother. But I can't stand it here. I've got to go, and I'mgoing. "

To all her arguments and entreaties he had one answer: He had got to goand he was going. 

Adeline left him and went to look for Eliot whom she found in his roompacking to go back to London. She came sobbing to Eliot. 

"It's too dreadfully hard. As if it weren't bad enough to lose mydarling husband I must lose all my sons. Not one of you will stay withme. And there's Anne going off with Jerrold. _She_ may have him with herand I mayn't. She's taken everything from me. You'd have said if awife's place was anywhere it was with her dying husband. But no. _She_was allowed to be with him and _I_ was turned out of his room. "

"My dear Mother, you know you weren't. "

"I _was_. You turned me out yourself, Eliot, and had Anne in. "

"Only because you couldn't stand it and she could. "

"I daresay. She hadn't the same feelings. "

"She had her own feelings, anyhow, only she controlled them. She stoodit because she never thought of her feelings. She only thought of whatshe could do to help. She was magnificent. "

"Of course you think so, because you're in love with her. She must takeyou, too. As if Jerrold wasn't enough. "

"She hasn't taken me. She probably won't if I ask her. You shouldn't saythose things, Mother. You don't know what you're talking about. "

"I know I'm the most unhappy woman in the world. How am I going to live?I can't stand it if Jerry goes. "

"He's got to go, Mother. "

"He hasn't. Jerrold's place is here. He's got a duty and aresponsibility. Your dear father didn't leave him the estate for him tolet it go to wrack and ruin. It's most cruel and wrong of him. "

"He can't do anything else. Don't you see why he wants to go? He can'tstand the place without Father. "

"I've got to stand it. So he may. "

"Well, he won't, that's all. He simply funks it. "

"He always was an arrant coward where trouble was concerned. He doesn'tthink of other people and how bad it is for them. He leaves me when Iwant him most. "

"It's hard on you, Mother; but you can't stop him. And I don't think youought to try. "

"Oh, everybody tells me what _I_ ought to do. My children can do as theylike. So can Anne. She and Jerrold can go off to India and amusethemselves as if nothing had happened and it's all right. "

But Anne didn't go off to India. 

When she spoke to Jerrold about going with him his hard, unhappy faceshowed her that he didn't want her. 

"You'd rather I didn't go, " she said gently. 

"It isn't that, Anne. It isn't that I don't want you. It's--it's simplythat I want to get away from here, to get away from everything thatreminds me--I shall go off my head if I've got to remember every minute, every time I see somebody who--I want to make a clean break and grow anew memory. "

"I understand. You needn't tell me. "

"Mother doesn't. I wish you'd make her see it. "

"I'll try. But it's all right, Jerrold. I won't go. "

"Of course you'll go. Only you won't think me a brute if I don't takeyou out with me?"

"I'm not going out with you. In fact, I don't think I'm going at all. Ionly wanted to because of going out together and because of the chanceof seeing you when you got leave. I only thought of the heavenly timeswe might have had. "

"Don't--don't, Anne. "

"No, I won't. After all, I shouldn't care a rap about Ambala if youweren't there. And you may be stationed miles away. I'd rather go backto Ilford and do farming. Ever so much rather. India would really havewasted a lot of time. "

"Oh, Anne, I've spoilt all your pleasure. "

"No, you haven't. There isn't any pleasure to spoil--now. "

"What a brute--what a cad you must think me. "

"I don't, Jerry. It's not your fault. Things have just happened. And yousee, I understand. I felt the same about Auntie Adeline after Motherdied. I didn't want to see her because she reminded me--and yet, really, I loved her all the time. "

"You won't go back on me for it?"

"I wouldn't go back on you whatever you did. And you mustn't keep onthinking I _want_ to go to India. I don't care a rap about India itself. I hate Anglo-Indians and I simply loathe hot places. And Daddy doesn'twant me out there, really. I shall be much happier on my farm. And it'llsave a lot of expense, too. Just think what my outfit and passage wouldhave cost. "

"You wouldn't have cared what it cost if--"

"There isn't any if. I'm not lying, really. " Not lying. Not lying. Shewould have given up more than India to save Jerrold that pang of memory. Only, when it was all over and he had sailed without her, she realizedin one wounding flash that what she had given up was Jerrold himself. 

V

ELIOT AND ANNE

i

Anne did not go back to her Ilford farm at once. Adeline had made thatimpossible. 

At the prospect of Anne's going her resentment died down as suddenly asit had risen. She forgot that Anne had taken her sons' affection and herplace beside her husband's deathbed. And though she couldn't helpfeeling rather glad that Jerrold had gone to India without Anne, she wassorry for her. She loved her and she meant to keep her. She said shesimply could not bear it if Anne left her, and _was_ it the time tochoose when she wanted her as she had never wanted her before? She hadnobody to turn to, as Anne knew. Corbetts and Hawtreys and Markhams andpeople were all very well; but they were outsiders. 

"It's the inside people that I want now, Anne. You're deep inside, dear. "

Yes, of course she had relations. But relations were no use. They wereall wrapped up in their own tiresome affairs, and there wasn't one ofthem she cared for as she cared for Anne. 

"I couldn't care more if you were my own daughter. Darling Robert feltabout you just the same. You _can't_ leave me. "

And Anne didn't. She never could resist unhappiness. She thought: "I wasglad enough to stop with her through all the happy times. I'd be aperfect beast to go and leave her now when she's miserable and hasn'tgot anybody. "

It would have been better for Anne if she could have gone. RobertFielding's death and Jerrold's absence were two griefs that inflamedeach other; they came together to make one immense, intolerable wound. And here at Wyck, she couldn't move without coming upon something thattouched it and stung it to fresh pain. But Anne was not like Jerrold, toturn from what she loved because it hurt her. For as long as she couldremember all her happiness had come to her at Wyck. If unhappiness camenow, she had got, as Eliot said, "to take it. "

And so she stayed on through the autumn, then over Christmas to the NewYear; this time because of Colin who was suffering from depression. Colin had never got over his father's death and Jerrold's going; and thelast thing Jerrold had said to her before he went was; "You'll lookafter Col-Col, won't you? Don't let him go grousing about by himself. "

Jerrold had always expected her to look after Colin. At seventeen therewas still something piteous and breakable about him, something thatclung to you for help. Eliot said that if Colin didn't look out he'd bea regular neurotic. But he owned that Anne was good for him. 

"I don't know what you do to him, but he's better when you're there. "

Eliot was the one who appeared to have recovered first. He met the shockof his father's death with a defiant energy and will. 

He was working now at bacteriology under Sir Martin Crozier. Coveredwith a white linen coat, in a white-washed room of inconceivablecleanness, surrounded by test-tubes and mixing jars, Eliot spent thebest part of the day handling the germs of the deadliest diseases;making cultures, examining them under the microscope; preparingvaccines. He went home to the brown velvety, leathery study in hisWelbeck Street flat to write out his notes, or read some monograph oninoculation; or he dined with a colleague and talked to him aboutbacteria. 

At this period of his youth Eliot had more than ever the appearance ofinhuman preoccupation. His dark, serious face detached itself with asort of sullen apathy from the social scene. He seemed to have no keeninterests beyond his slides and mixing jars and test-tubes. Women, forwhom his indifference had a perverse fascination, said of him: "Dr. Fielding isn't interested in people, only in their diseases. And notreally in diseases, only in their germs. "

They never suspected that Eliot was passionate, and that a fierce pityhad driven him into his profession. The thought of preventable diseasefilled him with fury; he had no tolerance for the society that toleratedit. He suffered because he had a clearer vision and a profounder senseof suffering than most persons. Up to the time of his father's death allEliot's suffering had been other people's. He couldn't rest till he haddone something to remove the cause of it. 

Add to this an insatiable curiosity as to causes, and you have the mainbent of Eliot's mind. 

And it seemed to him that there was nobody but Anne who saw that hiddenside of him. _She_ knew that he was sorry for people, and that beingsorry for them had made him what he was, like Jerrold and yet unlikehim. Eliot was attracted to suffering by the same sensitiveness thatmade Jerrold avoid everything once associated with it. 

And so the very thing that Jerrold couldn't bear to remember was whatdrew Eliot closer to Anne. He saw her as Jerrold had seen her, moving, composed and competent, in his father's room; he saw her stooping overhim to help him, he saw the specks of blood on her white sleeve; and hethought of her with the more tenderness. From that instant he reallyloved her. He wanted Anne as he had never conceived himself wanting anywoman. He could hardly remember his first adolescent feeling for her, that confused mixture of ignorant desire and fear, so different was itfrom the intense, clear passion that possessed him now. At night whenhis work was done, he lay in bed, not sleeping, thinking of Anne withdesire that knew itself too well to be afraid. Anne was the one thingnecessary to him beside his work, necessary as a living part of himself. She could only not come before his work because Eliot's work came beforehimself and his own happiness. When he went down every other week-end toWyck-on-the-Hill he knew that it was to see Anne. 

His mother knew it too. 

"I wish Eliot would marry, " she said. 

"Why?" said Anne. 

"Because then he wouldn't be so keen on going off to look for germs indisgusting climates. "

Anne wondered whether Adeline knew Eliot. For Eliot talked to her abouthis work as he walked with her at a fine swinging pace over the opencountry, taking all his exercise now while he could get it. That wasanother thing he liked about Anne Severn, her splendid physical fitness;she could go stride for stride with him, and mile for mile, and nevertire. Her mind, too, was robust and active, and full of curiosity; itlistened by the hour and never tired. It could move, undismayed, amonghorrors. She could see, as he saw, the "beauty" of the long trains ofresearch by which Sir Martin Crozier had tracked down the bacillus ofamoebic dysentery and established the difference between typhoid andMalta fever. 

Once started on his subject, the grave, sullen Eliot talked excitedly. 

"You do see, Anne, how thrilling it is, don't you? For me there'snothing but bacteriology. I always meant to go in for it, and SirMartin's magnificent. Absolutely top-hole. You see, all these disgustingdiseases can be prevented. It's inconceivable that they should betolerated in a civilized country. People can't care a rap or theycouldn't sleep in their beds. They ought to get up and make a public rowabout it, to insist on compulsory inoculation for everybody whether theylike it or not. It really isn't enough to cure people of diseases whenthey've got them. We ought to see that they never get them, that therearen't any to get... What we don't know yet is the complete behaviour ofall these bacteria among themselves. A bad bacillus may be doing goodwork by holding down a worse one. It's conceivable that if we succeededin exterminating all known diseases we might release an unknown one, supremely horrible, that would exterminate the race. "

"Oh Eliot, how awful. How can _you_ sleep in your bed?"

"You needn't worry. It's only a nightmare idea of mine. "

And so on and so on, for he was still so young that he wanted Anne to beexcited by the things that excited him. And Anne told him all about herIlford farm and what she meant to do on it. Eliot didn't behave likeAunt Adeline, he listened beautifully, like Uncle Robert and Jerrold, asif it was really most important that you should have a farm and work onit. 

"What I want is to sell it and get one here. I don't want to be anywhereelse. I can't tell you how frightfully home-sick I am when I'm away. Ikeep on seeing those gables with the little stone balls, and thepeacocks, and the fields down to the Manor Farm. And the hills, Eliot. When I'm away I'm always dreaming that I'm trying to get back to themand something stops me. Or I see them and they turn into something else. I shan't be happy till I can come back for good. "

"You don't want to go to India?" Eliot's heart began to beat as he askedhis question. 

"I want to work. To work hard. To work till I'm so dead tired that Iroll off to sleep the minute I get into bed. So tired that I can'tdream. "

"That isn't right. You're too young to feel like that, Anne. "

"I do feel like it. You feel like it yourself--My farm is to me whatyour old bacteria are to you. "

"Oh, if I thought it was the farm--"

"Why, what else did you think it was?"

Eliot couldn't bring himself to tell her. He took refuge in apparentirrelevance. 

"You know Father left me the Manor Farm house, don't you?"

"No, I didn't. I suppose he thought you'd want to come back, like me. "

"Well, I'm glad I've got it. Mother's got the Dower House in Wyck. Butshe'll stay on here till--"

"Till Jerrold comes back, " said Anne bravely. 

"I don't suppose Jerry'll turn her out even then. Unless--"

But neither he nor Anne had the courage to say "unless he marries. "

Not Anne, because she couldn't trust herself with the theme of Jerrold'smarrying. Not Eliot, because he had Jerrold's word for it that if hemarried anybody, ever, it would not be Anne. 

 * * * * *

It was this assurance that made it possible for him to say what he hadbeen thinking of saying all the time that he talked to Anne about hisbacteriology. Bacteriology was a screen behind which Eliot, uncertain ofAnne's feelings, sheltered himself against irrevocable disaster. Hemeant to ask Anne to marry him, but he kept putting it off because, solong as he didn't know for certain that she wouldn't have him, he was atliberty to think she would. He would not be taking her from Jerrold. Jerrold, inconceivable ass, didn't want her. Eliot had made sure of thatmonths ago, the night before Jerrold sailed. He had simply put it tohim: what did he mean to do about Anne Severn? And Jerrold had made itvery plain that his chief object in going to India was to get away fromAnne Severn and Everything. Eliot knew Jerrold too well to suspect hissincerity, so he considered that the way was now honorably open to him. 

His only uncertainty was Anne herself. He had meant to give her a yearto forget Jerrold in, if she was ever going to forget him; though inmoments of deeper insight he realized that Anne was not likely toforget, nor to marry anybody else as long as she remembered. 

Yet, Eliot reasoned, women did marry, even remembering. They married andwere happy. You saw it every day. He was content to take Anne on her ownterms, at any cost, at any risk. He had never been afraid of risks, andonce he had faced the chance of her refusal all other dangers wereinsignificant. 

A year was a long time, and Eliot had to consider the probability of hisgoing out to Central Africa with Sir Martin Crozier to investigatesleeping sickness. He wanted the thing settled one way or another beforehe went. 

He put it off again till the next week-end. And in the meanwhile SirMartin Crozier had seen him. He was starting in the spring and Eliot wasto go with him. 

It was on Sunday evening that he spoke to Anne, sitting with her underthe beeches at the top of the field where she and Jerrold had sattogether. Eliot had chosen his place badly. 

"I wouldn't bother you so soon if I wasn't going away, but I simplymust--must know--"

"Must know what?"

"Whether you care for me at all. Not much, of course, but just enoughnot to hate marrying me. "

Anne turned her face full on him and looked at him with her innocent, candid eyes. And all she said was, "You _do_ know about Jerrold, don'tyou?"

"Oh God, yes. I know all about him. "

"He's why I can't. "

"I tell you, I know all about Jerrold. He isn't a good enough reason. "

"Good enough for me. "

"Not unless--" But he couldn't say it. 

"Not unless he cares for me. That's why you're asking me, then, becauseyou know he doesn't. "

"Well, it wouldn't be much good if I knew he did. "

"Eliot, it's awful of me to talk about it, as if he'd said he did. Henever said a word. He never will. "

"I'm afraid he won't, Anne. "

"Don't imagine I ever thought he would. He never did anything to make methink it for a minute, really. "

"Are you quite sure he didn't?"

"Quite sure. I made it all up out of my head. My silly head. I don'tcare what you think of me so long as you don't think it was Jerry'sfault. I should go on caring for him whatever he did or didn't do. "

"I know you would. But it's possible--"

"To care for two people and marry one of them, no matter which? It isn'tpossible for me. If I can't have the person I want I won't haveanybody. "

"It isn't wise, Anne. I tell you I could make you care for me. I knowall about you. I know how you think and how you feel. I understand youbetter than Jerrold does. You'd be happy with me and you'd be safe. "

"It's no use. I'd rather be unhappy and in danger if it was withJerrold. "

"You'll be unhappy and in danger without him. "

"I don't care. Besides, I shan't be. I shall work. You'll work, too. It'll be so exciting that you'll soon forget all about me. "

"You know I shan't. And I'll never give you up, unless Jerrold getsyou. "

"Eliot--I only told you about Jerrold, because I thought you ought toknow. So that you mightn't think it was anything in you. "

"It isn't something in me, then? Tell me--if it hadn't been for Jerry, do you think you might have cared for me?"

"Yes. I do. I quite easily might. And I think it would be a jolly goodthing if I could, now. Only I can't. I can't. "

"Poor little Anne. "

"Does it comfort you to think I'd have cared if it hadn't been forJerry?"

"It does, very much. "

"Eliot--you're the only person I can talk to about him. Do you mindtelling me whether he said that to you, or whether you just guessed it. "

"What?"

"Why, that he wouldn't--ever--"

"I asked him, Anne, because I had to know. And he told me. "

"I thought he told you. "

"Yes, he told me. But I'm a cad for letting you think he didn't care foryou. I believe he did, or that he would have cared--awfully--if myfather hadn't died just then. Your being in the room that day upset him. If it hadn't been for that--"

"Yes, but there _was_ that. It was like he was when Binky died and hecouldn't stand Yearp. Don't you remember how he wouldn't let me go withhim to see Yearp because he said he didn't want me mixed up with it. Well--I've been mixed up, that's all. "

"Still, Anne, I'm certain he'd have cared--if that's any comfort to you. You didn't make it up out of your dear little head. We all thought it. Father thought it. I believe he wanted it. If he'd only known!"

She thought: If he'd only known how he had hurt her, he who had neverhurt anybody in all his beautiful life. 

"Dear Uncle Robert. There's no good talking about it. I knew, the minuteJerry said he didn't want me to go to India with him. "

"Is that why you didn't go?"

"Yes. "

"That was a mistake, Anne. You should have gone. "

"How could I, after that? And if I had, he'd only have kept away. "

"You should have let him go first and then gone after him. You shouldhave turned up suddenly, in wonderful clothes, looking cheerful andbeautiful. So that you wiped out the memory he funked. As it is you'veleft him nothing else to think of. "

"I daresay that's what I should have done. But it's too late. I can't doit now. "

"I'm not so sure. "

"What, go _after_ Jerrold? Hunt him down? Dress up and scheme to makehim marry me?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes. "

"Eliot, you know I couldn't. "

"You said once you'd commit a crime for anybody you cared about. "

"A crime, yes. But not that. I'd rather die. "

"You're too fastidious. It's only the unscrupulous people who get whatthey want in this world. They know what they want and go for it. Theystamp on everything and everybody that gets in their way. "

"Oh, Eliot dear, I know what I want, and I'd go for it. If only Jerroldknew, too. "

"He would know if you showed him. "

"And that's just what I can't do. "

"Well, don't say I didn't give you the best possible advice, against myown interests, too. "

"It was sweet of you. But you see how impossible it is. "

"I see how adorable you are. You always were. "

iv

For the first time in her life Adeline was furious. 

She had asked Eliot whether he was or was not going to marry AnneSevern, and was told that he had asked her to marry him that afternoonand that she wouldn't have him. 

"Wouldn't have you? What's she thinking of?"

"You'd better ask her, " said Eliot, never dreaming that she would. 

But that was what Adeline did. She came that night to Anne's room justas Anne was getting into bed. Unappeased by her defenseless attitude, she attacked with violence. 

"What's all this about Eliot asking you to marry him?"

Anne uncurled herself and sat up on the edge of her bed. 

"Did he tell you?"

"Yes. Of course he told me. He says you refused him. Did you?"

"I'm afraid I did. "

"Then Anne, you're a perfect little fool. "

"But Auntie, I don't love him. "

"Nonsense; you love him as much as most people love the men they marry. He's quite sensible. He doesn't want you to go mad about him. "

"He wants more than I can give him. "

"Well, all I can say is if you can't give him what he wants you'd nobusiness to go about with him as you've been doing. "

"I've been going about with him all my life and I never dreamed he'dwant to marry me. "

"What did you suppose he'd want?"

"Why, nothing but just to go about. As we always did. "

"You idiot. "

"I don't see why you should be so cross about it. "

Adeline sat down in the armchair at the head of the bed, prepared to"have it out" with Anne. 

"I suppose you think my son's happiness is nothing to me? Didn't itoccur to you that if you refuse him he'll stick for years in that awfulplace he's going to? Whereas if he had a wife in England there'd be achance of his coming home now and then. Perhaps he'd never go outagain. "

"I'm sorry, Auntie. I can't marry Eliot even to keep him in England. Even to please you. "

"Even to save his life, you mean. You don't care if he dies of somehideous tropical disease. "

"I care awfully. But I can't marry him. He knows why. "

"It's more than I do. If you're thinking of Jerrold, you needn't. Ithought you'd done with that schoolgirlish nonsense. "

"I'm not 'thinking' of him. I'm not 'thinking' of anybody and I wishyou'd leave me alone. "

"My dear child, how can I leave you alone when I see you making themistake of your life? Eliot is absolutely the right person for you, ifyou'd only the sense to see it. He's got more character than anybody Iknow. Much more than dear Jerry. He'll be ten times more interesting tolive with. "

"I thought Jerrold was your favourite. "

"No, Eliot, my dear. Always Eliot. He was my first baby. "

"Well, I'm awfully sorry you mind so much. And I'd marry Eliot if Icould. I simply hate him to be unhappy. But he won't be. He'll live tobe frightfully glad I didn't... What, aren't you going to kiss megood-night?"

Adeline had risen and turned away with the great dignity of herrighteous anger. 

"I don't feel like it, " she said. "I think you've been thoroughlyselfish and unkind. I hate girls who go on like that--making a man madabout you by pretending to be his comrade, and then throwing him over. I've had more men in love with me, Anne, than you've seen in your life, but I never did _that_. "

"Oh Auntie, what about Father? And you were engaged to him. "

"Well, anyhow, " said Adeline, softened by the recollection, "I _was_engaged. "

She smiled her enchanting smile; and Anne, observing the breakdown ofdignity, got up off the bed and kissed her. 

"I don't suppose, " she said, "that Father was the only one. "

"He wasn't. But then, with _me_, my dear, it was their own risk. Theyknew where they were. "

v

In March, nineteen eleven, Eliot went out to Central Africa. He stayedthere two years, investigating malaria and sleeping sickness. Then hewent on to the Straits Settlements and finally took a partnership in apractice at Penang. 

Anne left Wyck at Easter and returned in August because of Colin. Thenshe went back to her Ilford farm. 

The two years passed, and in the spring of the third year, nineteenfourteen, she came again. 

VI

QUEENIE

i

Something awful had happened. Adeline had told Anne about it. 

It seemed that Colin in his second year at Cambridge, when he shouldhave given his whole mind to reading for the Diplomatic Service, had hadthe imprudence to get engaged. And to a girl that Adeline had neverheard of, about whom nothing was known but that she was remarkablyhandsome and that her family (Courthopes of Leicestershire) were, inAdeline's brief phrase, "all right. "

From the terrace they could see, coming up the lawn from the goldfishpond, Colin and his girl. 

Queenie Courthope. She came slowly, her short Russian skirt swinging outfrom her ankles. The brilliance of her face showed clear at a distance, vermilion on white, flaming; hard, crystal eyes, sweeping and flashing;bobbed hair, brown-red, shining in the sun. Then a dominant, squarishjaw, and a mouth exquisitely formed, but thin, a vermilion thread drawnbetween her staring, insolent nostrils and the rise of her round chin. 

This face in its approach expressed a profound, arrogant indifference toAdeline and Anne. Only as it turned towards Colin its grey-black eyeslowered and were soft dark under the black feathers of their brows. 

Colin looked back at it with a shy, adoring tenderness. 

Queenie could be even more superbly uninterested than Adeline. InAdeline's self-absorption there was a passive innocence, a candor thatdisarmed you, but Queenie's was insolent and hostile; it took possessionof the scene and challenged every comer. 

"Hallo, Anne!" Colin shouted. "How did you get here?"

"Motored down. "

"I say, have you got a car?"

"Only just. "

"Drove yourself?"

"Rather. "

Queenie scowled as if there were something disagreeable to her in theidea that Anne should have a car of her own and drive it. She enduredthe introduction in silence and addressed herself with an air ofexclusiveness to Colin. 

"What are we going to do?"

"Anything you like, " he said. 

"I'll play you singles, then. "

"Anne might like to play, " said Colin. But he still looked at Queenie, as she flamed in her beauty. 

"Oh, three's a rotten game. You can't play the two of us unless MissSevern handicaps me. "

"She won't do that. Anne could take us both on and play a decent game. "

Queenie picked up her racquet and stood between them, beating her skirtswith little strokes of irritated impatience. Her eyes were fixed onColin, trying, you could see, to dominate him. 

"We'd better take it in turns, " he said. 

"Thanks, Col-Col. I'd rather not play. I've driven ninety-seven miles. "

"Really rather?"

Queenie backed towards the court. 

"Oh, come on, Colin, if you're coming. "

He went. 

"What do you think of Queenie?" Adeline said. 

"She's very handsome. "

"Yes, Anne. But it isn't a nice face. Now, is it?"

Anne couldn't say it was a nice face. 

"It's awful to think of Colin being married to it. He's only twenty-onenow, and she's seven years older. If it had been anybody but Colin. Ifit had been Eliot or Jerrold I shouldn't have minded so much. They canlook after themselves. He'll never stand up against that horrible girl. "

"She does look terribly strong. "

"And cruel, Anne, as if she might hurt him. I don't want him to be hurt. I can't bear her taking him away from me. My little Col-Col.... I didhope, Anne, that if you wouldn't have Eliot--"

"I'd have Colin? But Auntie, I'm years older than he is. He's a baby. "

"If he's a baby he'll want somebody older to look after him. "

"Queenie's even better fitted than I am, then. "

"Do you think, Anne, she proposed to Colin?"

"No. I shouldn't think it was necessary. "

"I should say she was capable of anything. My only hope is they'll tireeach other out before they're married and break it off. "

All afternoon on the tennis court below Queenie played against Colin. She played vigorously, excitedly, savagely, to win. She couldn't hideher annoyance when he beat her. 

"What was I to do?" he said. "You don't like it when I beat you. But ifI was beaten you wouldn't like _me_. "

ii

Adeline's only hope was not realized. They hadn't had time to tire ofeach other before the War broke out. And Colin insisted on marryingbefore he joined up. Their engagement had left him nervous and unfit, and his idea was that, once married, he would present a betterappearance before the medical examiners. 

But after a month of Queenie, Colin was more nervous and unfit thanever. 

"I can't think, " said Adeline, "what that woman does to him. She'll wearhim out. "

So Colin waited, trying to get fitter, and afraid to volunteer lest heshould be rejected. 

Everybody around him was moving rapidly. Queenie had taken up motoring, so that she could drive an ambulance car at the front. Anne had gone upto London for her Red Cross training. Eliot had left his practice to hispartner at Penang and had come home and joined the Army Medical Corps. 

Eliot, home on leave for three days before he went out, tried hard tokeep Colin back from the War. In Eliot's opinion Colin was not fit andnever would be fit to fight. He was just behaving as he always hadbehaved, rushing forward, trying insanely to do the thing he never coulddo. 

"Do you mean to say they won't pass me?" he asked. 

"Oh, they'll pass you all right, " Eliot said. "They'll give you anexpensive training, and send you into the trenches, and in any time froma day to a month you'll be in hospital with shell-shock. Then you'll bedischarged as unfit, having wasted everybody's time and made a damnednuisance of yourself.... I suppose I ought to say it's splendid of you towant to go out. But it isn't splendid. It's idiotic. You'll be simplybutting in where you're not wanted, taking a better man's place, takinga better man's commission, taking a better man's bed in a hospital. Itell you we don't want men who are going to crumple up in their firstaction. "

"Do you think I'm going to funk then?" said poor Colin. 

"Funk? Oh, Lord no. You'll stick it till you drop, till you'reparalyzed, till you've lost your voice and memory, till you're an utterwreck. There'll be enough of 'em, poor devils, without you, Col-Col. "

"But why should I go like that more than anybody else?"

"Because you're made that way, because you haven't got a nervous systemthat can stand the racket. The noises alone will do for you. You'll beas right as rain if you keep out of it. "

"But Jerrold's coming back. _He_'ll go out at once. How can I stick athome when he's gone?"

"Heaps of good work to be done at home. "

"Not by men of my age. "

"By men of your nervous organization. Your going out would be sheerwaste. "

"Why not?" Does it matter what becomes of me?"

"No. It doesn't. It matters, though, that you'll be taking a betterman's place. "

Now Colin really did want to go out and fight, as he had always wantedto follow Jerrold's lead; he wanted it so badly that it seemed to him aform of self-indulgence; and this idea of taking a better man's place soworked on him that he had almost decided to give it up, since that wasthe sacrifice required of him, when he told Queenie what Eliot had said. 

"All I can say is, " said Queenie, "that if you don't go out I shall give_you_ up. I've no use for men with cold feet. "

"Can't you see, " said Colin (he almost hated Queenie in that moment), "what I'm afraid of? Being a damned nuisance. That's what Eliot saysI'll be. I don't know how he knows. "

"He doesn't know everything. If _my_ brother tried to stop my going tothe front I'd jolly soon tell him to go to hell. I swear, Colin, if youback out of it I won't speak to you again. I'm not asking you to doanything I funk myself. "

"Oh, shut up. I'm going all right. Not because you've asked me, butbecause I want to. "

"If you didn't I should think you'd feel pretty rotten when I'm out withmy Field Ambulance, " said Queenie. 

"Damn your Field Ambulance!... No, I didn't mean that, old thing; it'ssplendid of you to go. But you'd no business to suppose I funked. I_may_ funk. Nobody knows till they've tried. But I was going all righttill Eliot put me off. "

"Oh, if you're put off as easily as all that----"

She was intolerable. She seemed to think he was only going because she'dshamed him into it. 

That evening he sang:

 "'What are you doing all the day, Rendal, my son? What are you doing all the day, my pretty one?'"

He understood that song now. 

 "'What will you leave to your lover, Rendal, my son? What will you leave to your lover, my pretty one? A rope to hang her, mother, A rope to hang her, mother.... '"

"Go it, Col-Col!" Out on the terrace Queenie laughed her harsh, cruellaugh. 

 "'For I'm sick to my heart and I fain would lie down. '"

"'I'm sick to my heart and I fain would lie down, '" Queenie echoed, withclipped words, mocking him. 

He hated Queenie. 

And he loved her. At night, at night, she would unbend, she would betender and passionate, she would touch him with quick, hurryingcaresses, she would put her arms round him and draw him to her, kissingand kissing. And with her young, beautiful body pressed tight to him, with her mouth on his and her eyes shining close and big in thedarkness, Colin would forget. 

iii

 Dr. Cutler's Field Ambulance, British Hospital, Antwerp. 

 _September 20th, 1914. _

 Dearest Auntie Adeline, --I haven't been able to write before. There's been a lot of fighting all round here and we're frightfully busy getting in wounded. And when you've done you're too tired to sit up and write letters. You simply roll into bed and drop off to sleep. Sometimes we're out with the ambulances half the night. 

 You needn't worry about me. I'm keeping awfully fit. I _am_ glad now I've always lived in the open air and played games and ploughed my own land. My muscles are as hard as any Tommie's. So are Queenie's. You see, we have to act as stretcher bearers as well as chauffeurs. You're not much good if you can't carry your own wounded. 

 Queenie is simply splendid. She really _doesn't_ know what fear is, and she's at her very best under fire. It sort of excites her and bucks her up. I can't help seeing how fine she is, though she was so beastly to poor old Col-Col before he joined up. But talk of the War bringing out the best in people, you should simply see her out here with the wounded. Dr. Cutler (the Commandant) thinks no end of her. She drives for him and I drive for a little doctor man called Dicky Cartwright. He's awfully good at his job and decent. Queenie doesn't like him. I can't think why. 

 Good-bye, darling. Take care of yourself. 

 Your loving

 Anne. 

 Antwerp. _October 3rd. _

 ... You ask me what I really think of Queenie at close quarters. Well, the quarters are very close and I know she simply hates me. She was fearfully sick when she found we were both in the same Corps. She's always trying to get up a row about something. She'd like to have me fired out of Belgium if she could, but I mean to stay as long as I can, so I won't quarrel with her. She can't do it all by herself. And when I feel like going back on her I tell myself how magnificent she is, so plucky and so clever at her job. I don't wonder that half the men in our Corps are gone on her. And there's a Belgian Colonel, the one Cutler gets his orders from, who'd make a frantic fool of himself if she'd let him. But good old Queenie sticks to her job and behaves as if they weren't there. That makes them madder. You'd have thought they'd never have had the time to be such asses in, but it's wonderful what a state you can get into in your few odd moments. Dicky says it's the War whips you up and makes it all the easier. I don't know.... 

 FURNES. 

 _November. _

 That's where we are now. I simply can't describe the retreat. It was too awful, and I don't want to think about it. We've "settled" down in a house we've commandeered and I suppose we shall stick here till we're shelled out of it. 

 Talking of shelling, Queenie is funny. She's quite annoyed if anybody besides herself gets anywhere near a shell. We picked up two more stretcher-bearers in Ostend and a queer little middle-aged lady out for a job at the front. Cutler took her on as a sort of secretary. At first Queenie was so frantic that she wouldn't speak to her, and swore she'd make the Corps too hot to hold her. But when she found that the little lady wasn't for the danger zone and only proposed to cook and keep our accounts for us, she calmed down and was quite decent. Then the other day Miss Mullins came and told us that a bit of shell had chipped off the corner of her kitchen. The poor old thing was ever so proud and pleased about it, and Queenie snubbed her frightfully, and said she wasn't in any danger at all, and asked her how she'd enjoy it if she was out all day under fire, like us. 

 And she was furious with me because I had the luck to get into the bombardment at Dixmude and she hadn't. She talked as if I'd done her out of her shelling on purpose, whereas it only meant that I happened to be on the spot when the ambulances were sent out and she was away somewhere with her own car. She really is rather vulgar about shells. Dicky says it's a form of war snobbishness (he hasn't got a scrap of it), but I think it really is because all the time she's afraid of one of us being killed. It must be that. Even Dicky owns that she's splendid, though he doesn't like her.... 

iv

Five months later. 

 The Manor, Wyck-on-the-Hill, Gloucestershire. 

 _May 30th, 1915. _

 My darling Anne, --Queenie will have told you about Colin. He was through all that frightful shelling at Ypres in April. He's been three weeks in the hospital at Boulogne with shell-shock--had it twice--and now he's back and in that Officers' Hospital in Kensington, not a bit better. I really think Queenie ought to get leave and come over and see him. 

 Eliot was perfectly right. He ought never to have gone out. Of course he was as plucky as they make them--went back into the trenches after his first shell-shock--but his nerves couldn't stand it. Whether they're treating him right or not, they don't seem to be able to do anything for him. 

 I'm writing to Queenie. But tell her she must come and see him. 

 Your loving

 Adeline Fielding. 

Three months later. 

 The Manor, Wyck-on-the-Hill, Gloucestershire. 

 _August 30th. _

 Darling Anne, --Colin has been discharged at last as incurable. He is with me here. I'm so glad to have him, the darling. But oh, his nerves are in an awful state--all to bits. He's an utter wreck, my beautiful Colin; it would make your heart bleed to see him. He can't sleep at night; he keeps on hearing shells; and if he does sleep he dreams about them and wakes up screaming. It's awful to hear a man scream. Anne, Queenie must come home and look after him. My nerves are going. I can't sleep any more than Colin. I lie awake waiting for the scream. I can't take the responsibility of him alone, I can't really. After all, she's his wife, and she made him go out and fight, though she knew what Eliot said it would do to him. It's too cruel that it should have happened to Col-Col of all people. _Make_ that woman come. 

 Your loving

 Adeline Fielding. 

 Nieuport. _September 5th, 1915. _

 Darling Auntie, --I'm so sorry about dear Col-Col. And I quite agree that Queenie ought to go back and look after him. But she won't. She says her work here is much more important and that she can't give up hundreds of wounded soldiers for just one man. Of course she is doing splendidly, and Cutler says he can't spare her and she'd be simply thrown away on one case. They think Colin's people ought to look after him. It doesn't seem to matter to either of them that he's her husband. They've got into the way of looking at everybody as a case. They say it's not even as if Colin could be got better so as to be sent out to fight again. It would be sheer waste of Queenie. 

 But Cutler has given me leave to go over and see him. I shall get to Wyck as soon as this letter. 

 Dear Col-Col, I wish I could do something for him. I feel as if we could never, never do too much after all he's been through. Fancy Eliot knowing exactly what would happen. 

 Your loving

 Anne. 

 Nieuport. _September 7th. _

 Dear Anne, --Now that you _have_ gone I think I ought to tell you that it would be just as well if you didn't come back. I've got a man to take your place; Queenie picked him up at Dunkirk the day you sailed, and he's doing very well. 

 The fact is we're getting on much better since you left. There's perfect peace now. You and Queenie didn't hit it off, you know, and for a job like ours it's absolutely essential that everybody should pull together like one. It doesn't do to have two in a Corps always at loggerheads. 

 I don't like to lose you, and I know you've done splendidly. But I've got to choose between Queenie and you, and I must keep her, if it's only because she's worked with me all the time. So now that you've made the break I take the opportunity of asking you to resign. Personally I'm sorry, but the good of the Corps must come before everything. 

 Sincerely yours, Robert Cutler. 

 The Manor, Wyck-on-the-Hill, Gloucestershire. 

 _September 11th, 1915. _

 Dear Dicky, --This is only to say good-bye, as I shan't see you again. Cutler's fired me out of the Corps. He _says_ it's because Queenie and I don't hit it off. I shouldn't have thought that was my fault, but he seems to think it is. He says there's been perfect peace since I left. 

 Well, we've had some tremendous times together, and I wish we could have gone on. 

 Good-bye and Good Luck, Yours ever, Anne Severn. 

 P. S. --Poor Colin Fielding's in an awful state. But he's been a bit better since I came. Even if Cutler'd let me come back I couldn't leave him. This is my job. The queer thing is he's afraid of Queenie, so it's just as well she didn't come home. 

 Nieuport. 

 _September 15th, 1915. _

 Dear Old Thing, --We're all furious here at the way you've been treated. I've resigned as a protest, and I'm going into the R. A. M. So has Miss Mullins--: resigned I mean--so Queenie's the only woman left in the Corps. That'll suit her down to the ground. 

 I gave myself the treat of telling Cutler what I jolly well think of him. But of course you know she made him hoof you out. She's been trying for it ever since you joined. It's all rot his saying you didn't hit it off with her, when everybody knows you were a perfect angel to her. Why, you backed her every time when we were all going for her. It's quite true that the peace of God has settled on the Corps since you left it; but that's only because Queenie doesn't rage round any more. 

 You'll observe that she never went for Miss Mullins. That's because Miss Mullins kept well out of the line of fire. And if you hadn't jolly well distinguished yourself there she'd have let you alone, too. The real trouble began that day you were at Dixmude. It wasn't a bit because she was afraid you'd be killed. Queenie doesn't want you about when the War medals are handed round. Everybody sees that but old Cutler. He's too much gone on her to see anything. She can twist him round and round and tie him up in knots. 

 But Cutler isn't in it now. Queenie's turned him down for that young Noel Fenwick who's got your job. Cutler's nose was a sight, I can tell you. 

 Well, I'm not surprised that Queenie's husband funks her. She's a terror. Worse than war. 

 Good-bye and Good Luck, Old Thing, till we meet again. 

 Yours ever, Dicky Cartwright. 

VII

ADELINE

i

They would never know what it cost her to come back and look afterColin. That knowledge was beyond Adeline Fielding. She congratulatedAnne and expected Anne to congratulate herself on being "well out ofit. " Her safety was revolting and humiliating to Anne when she thoughtof Queenie and Cutler and Dicky, and Eliot and Jerrold and all theallied armies in the thick of it. She had left a world where life waslived at its highest pitch of intensity for a world where people wereonly half-alive. To be safe from the chance of sudden violent death wasto be only half-alive. 

Her one consolation had been that now she would see Jerrold. But she didnot see him. Jerrold had given up his appointment in the Punjaub threeweeks before the outbreak of the war. His return coincided with theretreat from Mons. He had not been in England a week before he was intraining on Salisbury Plain. Anne had left Wyck when he arrived; andbefore he got leave she was in Belgium with her Field Ambulance. Andnow, in October of nineteen fifteen, when she came back to Wyck, Jerroldwas fighting in France. 

At least they knew what had happened to Colin; but about Eliot andJerrold they knew nothing. Anything might have happened to them sincethey had written the letters that let them off from week to week, telling them that they were safe. Anything might happen and they mightnever know. 

Anne's fear was dumb and secret. She couldn't talk about Jerrold. Shelived every minute in terror of Adeline's talking, of the cries thatcame from her at queer unexpected moments: between two cups of tea, twoglances at the mirror, two careful gestures of her hands pinning up herhair. 

"I cannot bear it if anything happens to Jerrold, Anne. "

"Oh Anne, I wonder what's happening to Jerrold. "

"If only I knew what was happening to Jerrold. "

"If only I knew where Jerrold _was_. Nothing's so awful as not knowing. "

And at breakfast, over toast and marmalade: "Anne, I've got such anawful feeling that something's happened to Jerrold. I'm sure thesefeelings aren't given you for nothing... You aren't eating anything, darling. You _must_ eat. "

Every morning at breakfast Anne had to look through the lists of killed, missing and wounded, to save Adeline the shock of coming upon Jerrold'sor Eliot's name. Every morning Adeline gazed at Anne across the tablewith the same look of strained and agonised enquiry. Every morningAnne's heart tightened and dragged, then loosened and lifted, as theywere let off for one more day. 

One more day? Not one more hour, one minute. Any second the wire fromthe War Office might come. 

ii

Anne never knew the moment when she was first aware that Colin's motherwas afraid of him. Aunt Adeline was very busy, making swabs andbandages. Every day she went off to her War Hospital Supply work at theTown Hall, and Anne was left to take care of Colin. She began to wonderwhether the swabs and bandages were not a pretext for getting away fromColin. 

"It's no use, " Adeline said. "I cannot stand the strain of it. Anne, he's worse with me than he is with you. Everything I say and do iswrong. You don't know what it was like before you came. "

Anne did know. The awful thing was that Colin couldn't bear to be leftalone, day or night. He would lie awake shivering with terror. If hedropped off to sleep he woke screaming. At first Pinkney slept with him. But Pinkney had joined up, and old Wilkins, the butler, was impossiblebecause he snored. 

Anne had her old room across the passage where she had slept when theywere children. And now, as then, their doors were left open, so that ata sound from Colin she could get up and go to him. 

She was used to the lacerating, unearthly scream that woke her, thescream that terrified Adeline, that made her cover her head tight withthe bed-clothes, to shut it out, that made her lock her door to shut outColin. Once he had come into his mother's room and she had found himstanding by her bed and looking at her with the queer frightened facethat frightened her. She was always afraid of this happening again. 

Anne couldn't bear to think of that locked door. She was used to thesight of Colin standing in her doorway, to the watches beside his bedwhere he lay shivering, holding her hand tight as he used to hold itwhen he was a child. To Anne he was "poor Col-Col" again, the little boywho was afraid of ghosts, only more abandoned to terror, moreunresisting. 

He would start and tremble at any quick, unexpected movement. He wouldburst into tears at any sudden sound. Small noises, whisperings, murmurings, creakings, soft shufflings, irritated him. Loud noises, theslamming of doors, the barking of dogs, the crowing of cocks, made himwrithe in agony. For Colin the deep silence of the Manor was the ambushfor some stupendous, crashing, annihilating sound; sound that was alwayscoming and never came. The droop of the mouth that used to appearsuddenly in his moments of childish anguish was fixed now, and fixed thelittle tortured twist of his eyebrows and his look of anxiety and fear. His head drooped, his shoulders were hunched slightly, as if he coweredbefore some perpetually falling blow. 

On fine warm days he lay out on the terrace on Adeline's long chair; onwet days he lay on the couch in the library, or sat crouching over thefire. Anne brought him milk or beef tea or Benger's Food every twohours. He was content to be waited on; he had no will to move, no desireto get up and do things for himself. He lay or sat still, shiveringevery now and then as he remembered or imagined some horror. And as hewas afraid to be left alone Anne sat with him. 

"How can you say this is a quiet place?" he said. 

"It's quiet enough now. "

"It isn't. It's full of noises. Loud, thundering noises going on and on. Awful noises.... You know what it is? It's the guns in France. I canhear them all the time. "

"No, Colin. That isn't what you hear. We're much too far off. Nobodycould hear them. "

"_I_ can. "

"I don't think so. "

"Do you mean it's noises in my head?"

"Yes. They'll go away when you're stronger. "

"I shall never be strong again. "

"Oh yes, you will be. You're better already. "

"If I get better they'll send me out again. "

"Never. Never again. "

"I ought to be out. I oughtn't to be sticking here doing nothing.... Anne, you don't think Queenie'll come over, do you?"

"No, I don't. She's got much too much to do out there. "

"You know, that's what I'm afraid of, more than anything, Queenie'scoming. She'll tell me I funked. She thinks I funked. She thinks that'swhat's the matter with me. "

"She doesn't. She knows it's your body, not you. Your nerves are shakento bits, that's all. "

"I didn't funk, Anne. " (He said it for the hundredth time. ) "I mean Istuck it all right. I went back after I had shell-shock the firsttime--straight back into the trenches. It was at the very end of thefighting that I got it again. Then I couldn't go back. I couldn't move. "

"I know, Colin, I know. "

"Does Queenie know?"

"Of course she does. She understands perfectly. Why, she sees men withshell-shock every day. She knows you were splendid. "

"I wasn't. But I wasn't as bad as she thinks me. ... Don't let her seeme if she comes back. "

"She won't come. "

"She will. She will. She'll get leave some day. Tell her not to come. Tell her she can't see me. Say I'm off my head. Any old lie that'll stopher. "

"Don't think about her. "

"I can't help thinking. She said such beastly things. You can't thinkwhat disgusting things she said. "

"She says them to everybody. She doesn't mean them. "

"Oh, doesn't she!... Is that mother? You might tell her I'm sleeping. "

For Colin was afraid of his mother, too. He was afraid that she wouldtalk, that she would talk about the War and about Jerrold. Colin hadbeen home six weeks and he had not once spoken Jerrold's name. He readhis letters and handed them to Anne and Adeline without a word. It wasas if between him and the thought of Jerrold there was darkness and asupreme, nameless terror. 

One morning at dawn Anne was wakened by Colin's voice in her room. 

"Anne, are you awake?"

The room was full of the white dawn. She saw him standing in it by herbedside. 

"My head's awfully queer, " he said. "I can feel my brain shaking andwobbling inside it, as if the convolutions had come undone. Could they?"

"Of course they couldn't. "

"The noise might have loosened them. "

"It isn't your brain you feel, Colin. It's your nerves. It's just theshock still going on in them. "

"Is it never going to stop?"

"Yes, when you're stronger. Go back to bed and I'll come to you. "

He went back. She slipped on her dressing-gown and came to him. She satby his bed and put her hand on his forehead. 

"There--it stops when you put your hand on. "

"Yes. And you'll sleep. "

Presently, to her joy, he slept. 

She stood up and looked at him as he lay there in the white dawn. He wasutterly innocent, utterly pathetic in his sleep, and beautiful. Sleepsmoothed out his vexed face and brought back the likeness of the boyColin, Jerrold's brother. 

That morning a letter came to her from Jerrold. He wrote: "Don't worrytoo much about Col-Col. He'll be all right as long as you'll look afterhim. "

She thought: "I wonder whether he remembers that he asked me to. "

But she was glad he was not there to hear Colin scream. 

iii

"Anne, can _you_ sleep?" said Adeline. Colin had gone to bed and theywere sitting together in the drawing-room for the last hour of theevening. 

"Not very well, when Colin has such bad nights. "

"Do you think he's ever going to get right again?"

"Yes. But it'll take time. "

"A long time?"

"Very long, probably. "

"My dear, if it does, I don't know how I'm going to stand it. And if Ionly knew what was happening to Jerrold and Eliot. Sometimes I wonderhow I've lived through these five years. First, Robert's death; then theWar. And before that there was nothing but perfect happiness. I thinktrouble's worse to bear when you've known nothing but happinessbefore.... If I could only die instead of all these boys, Anne. Whycan't I? What is there to live for?"

"There's Jerrold and Eliot and Colin. "

"Oh, my dear, Jerrold and Eliot may never come back. And look at poorColin. _That_ isn't the Colin I know. He'll never be the same again. I'dalmost rather he'd been killed than that he should be like this. If he'dlost a leg or an arm.... It's all very well for you, Anne. He isn't yourson. "

"You don't know what he is, " said Anne. She thought: "He's Jerrold'sbrother. He's what Jerrold loves more than anything. "

"No, " said Adeline. "Everything ended for me when Robert died. I shallnever marry again. I couldn't bear to put anybody in Robert's place. "

"Of course you couldn't. I know it's been awful for you, Auntie. "

"I couldn't bear it, Anne, if I didn't believe that there is SomethingSomewhere. I can't think how you get on without any religion. "

"How do you know I haven't any?"

"Well, you've no faith in Anything. Have you, ducky?"

"I don't know what I've faith in. It's too difficult. If you lovepeople, that's enough, I think. It keeps you going through everything. "

"No, it doesn't. It's all the other way about. It's loving people thatmakes it all so hard. If you didn't love them you wouldn't care whathappened to them. If I didn't love Colin I could bear his shell-shockbetter. "

"If _I_ didn't love him, I couldn't bear it at all. "

"I expect, " said Adeline, "we both mean the same thing. "

Anne thought of Adeline's locked door; and, in spite of her love forher, she had a doubt. She wondered whether in this matter of loving theyhad ever meant the same thing. With Adeline love was a passive statethat began and ended in emotion. With Anne love was power in action. More than anything it meant doing things for the people that you loved. Adeline loved her husband and her sons, but she had run away from thesight of Robert's haemorrhage, she had tried to keep back Eliot andJerrold from the life they wanted, she locked her door at night and shutColin out. To Anne that was the worst thing Adeline had done yet. Shetried not to think of that locked door. 

"I suppose, " said Adeline, "you'll leave me now your father's cominghome?"

John Severn's letter lay between them on the table. He was retiringafter twenty-five years of India. He would be home as soon as hisletter. 

"I shall do nothing of the sort, " said Anne. "I shall stay as long asyou want me. If father wants me he must come down here. "

In another three days he had come. 

iv

He had grey hair now and his face was a little lined, a little faded, but he was slender and handsome still--handsomer, more distinguished, Adeline thought, than ever. 

Again he sat out with her on the terrace when the October days werewarm; he walked with her up and down the lawn and on the flagged pathsof the flower garden. Again he followed her from the drawing-room to thelibrary where Colin was, and back again. He waited, ready for her. 

Again Adeline smiled her self-satisfied, self-conscious smile. She hadthe look of a young girl, moving in perfect happiness. She wasperpetually aware of him. 

One night Colin called out to Anne that he couldn't sleep. People werewalking about outside under his window. Anne looked out. In the fullmoonlight she saw Adeline and her father walking together on theterrace. Adeline was wrapped in a long cloak; she held his arm and theyleaned toward each other as they walked. His man's voice sounded tenderand low. 

Anne called to them. "I say, darlings, would you mind awfully goingsomewhere else? Colin can't sleep with you prowling about there. "

Adeline's voice came up to them with a little laughing quiver. 

"All right, ducky; we're going in. "

v

It was the end of October; John Severn had gone back to London. He hadtaken a house in Montpelier Square and was furnishing it. 

One morning Adeline came down smiling, more self-conscious than ever. 

"Anne, " she said, "do you think you could look after Colin if I went upto Evelyn's for a week or two?"

Evelyn was Adeline's sister. She lived in London. 

"Of course I can. "

"You aren't afraid of being alone with him?"

"Afraid? Of Col-Col? What do you take me for?"

"Well--" Adeline meditated. "It isn't as if Mrs. Benning wasn't here. "

Mrs. Benning was the housekeeper. 

"That'll make it all right and proper. The fact is, I must have a restand change before the winter. I hardly ever get away, as you know. AndEvelyn would like to have me. I think I must go. "

"Of course you must go, " Anne said. 

And Adeline went. 

At the end of the first week she wrote:

 12 Eaton Square. November 3d, 1915. 

 Darling Anne, --Will you be very much surprised to hear that your father and I are going to be married? You mayn't know it, but he has loved me all his life. We _were_ to have married once (you knew _that_), and I jilted him. But he has never changed. He has been so faithful and forgiving, and has waited for me so patiently--twenty-seven years, Anne--that I hadn't the heart to refuse him. I feel that I must make up to him for all the pain I've given him. 

 We want you to come up for the wedding on the 10th. It will be very quiet. No bridesmaids. No party. We think it best not to have it at Wyck, on Colin's account. So I shall just be married from Evelyn's house. 

 Give us your blessing, there's a dear. 

 Your loving

 Adeline Fielding. 

Anne's eyes filled with tears. At last she saw Adeline Fieldingcompletely, as she was, without any fascination. She thought: "She'smarrying to get away from Colin. She's left him to me to look after. Howcould she leave him? How could she?"

Anne didn't go up for the wedding. She told Adeline it wasn't much useasking her when she knew that Colin couldn't be left. 

"Or, if you like, that _I_ can't leave him. "

Her father wrote back:

 Your Aunt Adeline thinks you reproach her for leaving Colin. I told her you were too intelligent to do anything of the sort. You'll agree it's the best thing she could do for him. She's no more capable of looking after Colin than a kitten. She wants to be looked after herself, and you ought to be grateful to me for relieving you of the job. 

 But I don't like your being alone down there with Colin. If he isn't better we must send him to a nursing home. 

 Are you wondering whether we're going to be happy?

 We shall be so long as I let her have her own way; which is what I mean to do. 

 Your very affectionate father, JOHN SEVERN. 

And Anne answered:

 DEAREST DADDY, --I shouldn't dream of reproaching Aunt Adeline any more than I should reproach a pussycat for catching birds. 

 Look after her as much as you please--_I_ shall look after Colin. Whether you like it or not, darling, you can't stop me. And I won't let Colin go to a nursing home. It would be the worst possible place for him. Ask Eliot. Besides, he _is_ better. 

 I'm ever so glad you're going to be happy. 

 Your loving

 ANNE. 

VIII

ANNE AND COLIN

i

Autumn had passed. Colin's couch was drawn up before the fire in thedrawing-room. Anne sat with him there. 

He was better. He could listen for half an hour at a time when Anne readto him--poems, short stories, things that were ended before Colin tiredof them. He ate and drank hungrily and his body began to get back itsstrength. 

At noon, when the winter sun shone, he walked, first up and down theterrace, then round and round the garden, then to the beech trees at thetop of the field, and then down the hill to the Manor Farm. On mild daysshe drove him about the country in the dog-cart. She had tried motoringbut had had to give it up because Colin was frightened at the hooting, grinding and jarring of the car. 

As winter went on Anne found that Colin was no worse in cold or wetweather. He couldn't stand the noise and rush of the wind, but hisstrange malady took no count of rain or snow. He shivered in the clear, still frost, but it braced him all the same. Driving or strolling, shekept him half the day in the open air. 

She saw that he liked best the places they had gone to when they werechildren--the Manor Farm fields, High Slaughter, and Hayes Mill. Theywere always going to the places where they had done things together. When Colin talked sanely he was back in those times. He was safe there. There, if anywhere, he could find his real self and be well. 

She had the feeling that Colin's future lay somewhere through his past. If only she could get him back there, so that he could be what he hadbeen. There must be some way of joining up that time to this, if onlyshe could find a bridge, a link. She didn't know that she was the way, she was the link binding his past to his present, bound up with hisyouth, his happiness, his innocence, with the years before Queenie andthe War. 

She didn't know what Queenie had done to him. She didn't know that thewar had only finished what Queenie had begun. That was Colin's secret, the hidden source of his fear. 

But he was safe with Anne because they were not in love with each other. She left his senses at rest, and her affection never called for anyemotional response. She took him away from his fear; she kept him backin his childhood, in his boyhood, in the years before Queenie, with acontinual, "Do you remember?"

"Do you remember the walk to High Slaughter?"

"Do you remember the booby-trap we set for poor Pinkney?"

That was dangerous, for poor Pinkney was at the War. 

"Do you remember Benjy?"

"Yes, rather. "

But Benjy was dangerous, too; for Jerrold had given him to her. Shecould feel Colin shying. 

"He had a butterfly smut, " he said. "Hadn't he? ... Do you remember how Iused to come and see you at Cheltenham?"

"And Grannie and Aunt Emily, and how you used to play on their piano. And how Grannie jumped when you came down crash on those chords in theWaldstein. "

"Do you mean the _presto?_"

"Yes. The last movement. "

"No wonder she jumped. I should jump now. " He turned his mournful faceto her. "Anne--I shall never be able to play again. "

There was danger everywhere. In the end all ways led back to Colin'smalady. 

"Oh yes, you wall when you're quite strong. "

"I shall never be stronger. "

"You will. You're stronger already. "

She knew he was stronger. He could sleep three hours on end now and hehad left off screaming. 

And still the doors were left open between their rooms at night. He wasstill afraid to sleep alone; he liked to know that she was there, closeto him. 

Instead of the dreams, instead of the sudden rushing, crashing horror, he was haunted by a nameless dread. Dread of something he didn't know, something that waited for him, something he couldn't face. Somethingthat hung over him at night, that was there with him in the morning, that came between him and the light of the sun. 

Anne kept it away. Anne came between it and him. He was unhappy andfrightened when Anne was not there. 

It was always, "You're _not_ going, Anne?"

"Yes. But I'm coming back. "

"How soon?"

And she would say, "An hour;" or, "Half an hour, " or, "Ten minutes. "

"Don't be longer. "

"No. "

And then: "I don't know how it is, Anne. But everything seems all rightwhen you're there, and all wrong when you're not. "

ii

The Manor Farm house stands in the hamlet of Upper Speed. It has thegrey church and churchyard beside it and looks across the deep roadtowards Sutton's farm. 

The beautiful Jacobean house, the church and church-yard, Sutton's farmand the rectory, the four cottages and the Mill, the river and itsbridge, lie close together in the small flat of the valley. Greenpastures slope up the hill behind them to the north; pink-brown arablelands, ploughed and harrowed, are flung off to either side, east andwest. 

Northwards the valley is a slender slip of green bordering the slenderriver. Southwards, below the bridge, the water meadows widen out pastSutton's farm. From the front windows of the Manor Farm house you seethem, green between the brown trunks of the elms on the road bank. Fromthe back you look out across orchard and pasture to the black, stillwater and yellow osier beds above the Mill. Beyond the water a doubleline of beeches, bare delicate branches, rounded head after roundedhead, climbs a hillock in a steep curve, to part and meet again in athick ring at the top. 

The house front stretches along a sloping grass plot, the immense porchbuilt out like a wing with one ball-topped gable above it, a smallergable in the roof behind. On either side two rows of wide black windows, heavy browed, with thick stone mullions. 

Barker, Jerrold Fielding's agent, used to live there; but before thespring of nineteen sixteen Barker had joined up, Wyck Manor had beenturned into a home for convalescent soldiers, and Anne was living withColin at the Manor Farm. 

Half of her Ilford land had been taken by the government; and she hadlet the rest together with the house and orchard. Instead of her ownestate she had the Manor to look after now. It had been impossible inwar-time to fill Barker's place, and Anne had become Jerrold's agent. She had begun with a vague promise to give a look round now and then;but when the spring came she found herself doing Barker's work, keepingthe farm accounts, ordering fertilizers, calculating so manyhundredweights of superphosphate of lime, or sulphate of ammonia, ormuriate of potash to the acre; riding about on Barker's horse, lookingafter the ploughing; plodding through the furrows of the hill slopes tosee how the new drillers were working; going the round of the sheep-pensto keep count of the sick ewes and lambs; carrying the motherless lambsin her arms from the fold to the warm kitchen. 

She went through February rain and snow, through March wind and sleet, and through the mists of the low meadows; her feet were loaded withearth from the ploughed fields; her nostrils filled with the cold, richsmell of the wet earth; the rank, sharp smell of swedes, the dry, pungent smell of straw and hay; the thick, oily, woolly smell of thefolds, the warm, half-sweet, half sour smell of the cattle sheds, ofchamped fodder, of milky cow's breath; the smell of hot litter and dung. 

At five and twenty she had reached the last clear decision of herbeauty. Dressed in riding coat and breeches, her body showed moreslender and more robust than ever. Rain, sun and wind were cosmetics toher firm, smooth skin. Her eyes were bright dark, washed with the cleanair. 

On her Essex farm and afterwards at the War she had learned how tohandle men. Sulky Curtis, who grumbled under Barker's rule, surrenderedto Anne without a scowl. When Anne came riding over the Seven Acrefield, lazy Ballinger pulled himself together and ploughed through thetwo last furrows that he would have left for next day in Barker's time. Even for Ballinger and Curtis she had smiles that atoned for her littleair of imperious command. 

And Colin followed her about the farmyard and up the fields till hetired and turned back. She would see him standing by the gate she hadpassed through, looking after her with the mournful look he used to havewhen he was a little boy and they left him behind. 

He would stand looking till Anne's figure, black on her black horse, stood up against the skyline from the curve of the round-topped hill. Itdipped; it dipped and disappeared and Colin would go slowly home. 

At the first sound of her horse's hoofs in the yard he came out to meether. 

One day he said to her, "Jerrold'll be jolly pleased with what you'vedone when he comes home. "

And then, "If he ever can be pleased with anything again. "

It was the first time he had said Jerrold's name. 

"That's what's been bothering me, " he went on. "I can't think howJerrold's going to get over it. You remember what he was like whenFather died?"

"Yes. " She remembered. 

"Well--what's the War going to do to him? Look what it's done to me. Heminds things so much more than I do. "

"It doesn't take everybody the same way, Colin. "

"I don't suppose Jerrold'll get shell-shock. But he might get somethingworse. Something that'll hurt him more. He must mind so awfully. "

"You may be sure he won't mind anything that could happen to himself. "

"Of course he won't. But the things that'll happen to other people. Seeing the other chaps knocked about and killed. "

"He minds most the things that happen to the people he cares about. Toyou and Eliot. They're the sort of things he can't face. He'd pretendthey couldn't happen. But the war's so big that he can't say it isn'thappening; he's got to stand up to it. And the things you stand up todon't hurt you. I feel certain he'll come through all right. "

That was the turning point in Colin's malady. She thought: "If he cantalk about Jerrold he's getting well. "

The next day a letter came to her from Jerrold. He wrote: "I wish togoodness I could get leave. I don't want it _all_ the time. I'm quiteprepared to stick this beastly job for any reasonable period; but awhole year without leave, it's a bit thick... "

"About Colin. Didn't I tell you he'd be all right? And it's all _you_, Anne. You've made him; you needn't pretend you haven't. I want mostawfully to see you again. There are all sorts of things I'd like to sayto you, but I can't write 'em. "

She thought: "He's got over it at last, then. He won't be afraid of meany more. "

Somehow, since the war she had felt that Jerrold would come back to her. It was as if always, deep down and in secret, she had known that hebelonged to her and that she belonged to him as no other person could;that whatever happened and however long a time he kept away from her hewould come back at some time, in some way. She couldn't distinguishbetween Jerrold and her sense of Jerrold; and as nothing could separateher from the sense of him, nothing could separate her from Jerroldhimself. He had part in the profound and secret life of her blood andnerves and brain. 

IX

JERROLD

i

At last, in March, nineteen-sixteen, Jerrold had got leave. 

Anne was right; Jerrold had come through because he had had to stand upto the War and face it. He couldn't turn away. It was too stupendous afact to be ignored or denied or in any way escaped from. And as he hadto "take" it, he took it laughing. Once in the thick of it, Jerrold wassustained by his cheerful obstinacy, his inability to see the things hedidn't want to see. He admitted that there was a war, the most appallingwar, if you liked, that had ever been; but he refused, all the time, tobelieve that the Allies would lose it; he refused from moment to momentto believe that they could be beaten in any single action; he denied thepossibility of disaster to his own men. Disaster to himself--possibly;probably, in theory; but not in practice. Not when he turned back in therain of the enemy's fire to find his captain who had dropped woundedamong the dead, when he swung him over his shoulder and staggered to thenearest stretcher. He knew he would get through. It was inconceivable toJerrold that he should not get through. Even in his fifth engagement, when his men broke and gave back in front of the German parapet, and headvanced alone, shouting to them to come on, it was inconceivable thatthey should not come on. And when they saw him, running forward byhimself, they gathered again and ran after him and the trench was takenin a mad rush. 

Jerrold got his captaincy and two weeks' leave together. He had meant tospend three days in London with his mother, three days in Yorkshire withthe Durhams, and the rest of his time at Upper Speed with Anne andColin. He was not quite sure whether he wanted to go to the Durhams. More than anything he wanted to see Anne again. 

His last unbearable memory of her was wiped out by five years of Indiaand a year of war. He remembered the child Anne who played with him, thegirl Anne who went about with him, and the girl woman he had found inher room at dawn. He tried to join on to her the image of the Anne thatEliot wrote to him about, who had gone out to the war and come back fromit to look after Colin. He was in love with this image of her and readyto be in love again with the real Anne. He would go back now and findher and make her care for him. 

There had been a time, after his father's death, when he had tried tomake himself think that Anne had never cared for him, because he didn'twant to think she cared. Now that he did want it he wasn't sure. 

Not so sure as he was about little Maisie Durham. He knew Maisie cared. That was why she had gone out to India. It was also why she had beensent back again. He was afraid it might be why the Durhams had asked himto stay with them as soon as he had leave. If that was so, he wasn'tsure whether he ought to stay with them, seeing that he didn't care forMaisie. But since they had asked him, well, he could only suppose thatthe Durhams knew what they were about. Perhaps Maisie had got over it. The little thing had lots of sense. 

It hadn't been his fault in the beginning, Maisie's caring. Afterwards, perhaps, in India, when he had let himself see more of her than he wouldhave done if he had known she cared; but that, again, was hardly hisfault since he didn't know. You don't see these things unless you're onthe lookout for them, and you're not on the lookout unless you're aconceited ass. Then when he did see it, when he couldn't help seeing, after other people had seen and made him see, it had been too late. 

But this was five years ago, and of course Maisie had got over it. Therewould be somebody else now. Perhaps he would go down to Yorkshire. Perhaps he wouldn't. 

At this point Jerrold realised that it depended on Anne. 

But before he saw Anne he would have to see his mother. And before hesaw his mother his mother had seen Anne and Colin. 

ii

And while Anne in Gloucestershire was answering Jerrold's letter, Jerrold sat in the drawing-room of the house in Montpelier Square andtalked to his mother. They talked about Colin and Anne. 

"What's Colin's wife doing?" he said. 

"Queenie? She's driving a field ambulance car in Belgium. "

"Why isn't she looking after Colin?"

"That isn't in Queenie's line. Besides--"

"Besides what?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I don't suppose she'll live with Colinafter--"

"After _what_?"

"Well, after Colin's living with Anne. "

Jerrold stiffened. He felt the blood rushing to his heart, betrayinghim. His face was God only knew what awful colour. 

"You don't mean to say they--"

"I don't mean to say I blame them, poor darlings. What were they to do?"

"But" (he almost stammered it) "you don't know--you can't know--itdoesn't follow. "

"Well, of course, my dear, they haven't _told_ me. You don't shout thesethings from the house-tops. But what is one to think? There they are;there they've been for the last five months, living together at theFarm, absolutely alone. Anne won't leave him. She won't have anybodythere. If you tell her it's not proper she laughs in your face. AndColin swears he won't go back to Queenie. What _is_ one to think?"

Jerrold covered his face with his hands. He didn't know. 

His mother went on in a voice of perfect sweetness. "Don't imagine Ithink a bit the worse of Anne. She's been simply splendid. I never sawanything like her devotion. She's brought Colin round out of the mostappalling state. We've no business to complain of a situation we're allbenefitting by. Some people can do these things and you forgive them. Whatever Anne does or doesn't do she'll always be a perfect darling. Asfor Queenie, I don't consider her for a minute. She's been simply askingfor it. "

He wondered whether it were really true. It didn't follow that Anne andColin were lovers because his mother said so; even supposing that shereally thought it. 

"You don't go telling everybody, I hope?" he said. 

"My dear Jerrold, what do you think I'm made of? I haven't even toldAnne's father. I've only told you because I thought you ought to know. "

"I see; you want to put me off Anne?"

"I don't _want_ to. But it would, wouldn't it?"

"Oh Lord, yes, if it was true. Perhaps it isn't. "

"Jerry dear, it may be awfully immoral of me, but for Colin's sake Ican't help hoping that it is. I did so want Anne to marry Colin--reallyhe's only right when he's with her--and if Queenie divorces him Isuppose she will. "

"But, mother, you _are_ going ahead. You may be quite wrong. "

"I may. You can only suppose--"

"How on earth am I to know? I can't ask them. "

"No, you can't ask them. "

Of course he couldn't. He couldn't go to Colin and say, "Are you Anne'slover?" He couldn't go to Anne and say, "Are you Colin's mistress?"

"If they wanted us to know, " said Adeline, "they'd have told us. Thereyou are. "

"Supposing it isn't true, do you imagine he cares for her?"

"Yes, Jerrold. I'm quite, quite sure of that. I was down there last weekand saw them. He can't bear her out of his sight one minute. He couldn'tnot care. "

"And Anne?"

"Oh, well, Anne isn't going to give herself away. But I'm certain... Would she stick down there, with everybody watching them and thinkingthings and talking, if she didn't care so much that nothing matters?"

"But would she--would she--"

The best of his mother was that in these matters her mind jumped to meetyours halfway. You hadn't got to put things into words. 

"My dear, if you think she wouldn't, supposing she cared enough, youdon't know Anne. "

"I shall go down, " he said, "and see her. "

"If you do, for goodness' sake be careful. Even supposing there'snothing in it, you mustn't let Colin see you think there is. He'd feelthen that he ought to leave her for fear of compromising her. And if heleaves her he'll be as bad as ever again. And _I_ can't manage him. Nobody can manage him but Anne. That's how they've tied our hands. Wecan't say anything. "

"I see. "

"After all, Jerrold, it's very simple. If they're innocent we must leavethem in their innocence. And if they're not----"

"If they're not?"

"Well, we must leave them in _that_. "

Jerrold laughed. But he was not in the least amused. 

iii

He went down to Wyck the next day; he couldn't wait till the day after. 

Not that he had the smallest hope of Anne now. Even if his mother'ssuspicion were unfounded, she had made it sufficiently clear to him thatAnne was necessary to Colin; and, that being so, the chances were thatColin cared for her. In these matters his mother was not such a fool asto be utterly mistaken. On every account, therefore, he must be preparedto give Anne up. He couldn't take her away from Colin, and he wouldn'tif he could. It was his own fault. What was done was done six years ago. He should have loved Anne then. 

Going down in the train he thought of her, a little girl with shortblack hair, holding a black-and-white rabbit against her breast, alittle girl with a sweet mouth ready for kisses, who hung herself roundhis neck with sudden, loving arms. A big girl with long black hair tiedin an immense black bow, a girl too big for kisses. A girl sitting inher room between her white bed and the window with a little black cat inher arms. Her platted hair lay in a thick black rope down her back. Heremembered how he had kissed her; he remembered the sliding of her sweetface against his, the pressure of her darling head against his shoulder, the salt taste of her tears. It was inconceivable that he had not lovedAnne then. Why hadn't he? Why had he let his infernal cowardice stophim? Eliot had loved her. 

Then he remembered Colin. Little Col-Col running after them down thefield, calling to them to take him with them; Colin's hands playing;Colin's voice singing _Lord Rendal_. He tried to think of Queenie, thewoman Colin had married. He had no image of her. He could see nothingbut Colin and Anne. 

She was there alone at the station to meet him. She came towards himalong the platform. Their eyes looked for each other. Something chokedhis voice back. She spoke first. 

"Jerrold------"

"Anne. " A strange, thick voice deep down in his throat. 

Their hands clasped one into the other, close and strong. 

"Colin wanted to come, but I wouldn't let him. It would have been toomuch for him. He might have cried or something ... You mustn't mind ifhe cries when he sees you. He isn't quite right yet. "

"No, but he's better. "

"Ever so much better. He can do things on the farm now. He looks afterthe lambs and the chickens and the pigs. It's good for him to havesomething to do. "

Jerrold agreed that it was good. 

They had reached the Manor Farm now. 

"Don't take any notice if he cries, " she said. 

Colin waited for him in the hall of the house. He was trying hard tocontrol himself, but when he saw Jerrold coming up the path he brokedown in a brief convulsive crying that stopped suddenly at the touch ofJerrold's hand. 

Anne left them together. 

iv

"Don't go, Anne. "

Colin called her back when she would have left them, again after dinner. 

"Don't you want Jerrold to yourself?" she said. 

"We don't want you to go, do we, Jerrold?"

"Rather not. "

Jerrold found himself looking at them all the time. He had tried topersuade himself that what his mother had told him was not true. But hewasn't sure. Look as he would, he was not sure. 

If only his mother hadn't told him, he might have gone on believing inwhat she had called their innocence. But she had shown him what to lookfor, and for the life of him he couldn't help seeing it at every turn:in Anne's face, in the way she looked at Colin, the way she spoke tohim; in her kindness to him, her tender, quiet absorption. In the wayColin's face turned after her as she came and went; in his restlessnesswhen she was not there; in the peace, the sudden smoothing of his vexedbrows, when having gone she came back again. 

Supposing it were true that they--

He couldn't bear it to be true; his mind struggled against the truth ofit, but if it _were_ true he didn't blame them. So far from being untrueor even improbable, it seemed to Jerrold the most likely thing in theworld to have happened. It had happened to so many people since the warthat he couldn't deny its likelihood. There was only one thing thatcould have made it impossible--if Anne had cared for him. And whatreason had he to suppose she cared? After six years? After he had toldher he was trying to get away from her? He had got away; and he saw asort of dreadful justice in the event that made it useless for him tocome back. If anybody was to blame it was himself. Himself and Queenie, that horrible girl Colin had married. 

When he asked himself whether it was the sort of thing that Anne wouldbe likely to do he thought: Why not, if she loved him, if she wanted tomake him happy? How could he tell what Anne would or would not do? Shehad said long ago that he couldn't, that she might do anything. 

They spent the evening talking, by fits and starts, with long silencesin between. They talked about the things that happened before the war, before Colin's marriage, the things they had done together. They talkedabout the farm and Anne's work, about Barker and Curtis and Ballinger, about Mrs. Sutton who watched them from her house across the road. 

Mrs. Sutton had once been Colin's nurse up at the Manor: she had marriedold Sutton after his first wife's death; old Sutton who wouldn't die andlet Anne have his farm. And now she watched them as if she were afraidof what they might do next. 

"Poor old Nanna, " Jerrold said. 

"Goodness knows what she thinks of us, " said Anne. 

"It doesn't matter what she thinks, " said Colin. 

And they laughed; they laughed; and Jerrold was not quite sure, yet. 

But before the night was over he thought he was. 

They had given him the little room in the gable. It led out of Colin'sroom. And there on the chimneypiece he saw an old photograph of himselfat the age of thirteen, holding a puppy in his arms. He had given it toAnne on the last day of the midsummer holidays, nineteen hundred. Alsohe found a pair of Anne's slippers under the bed, and, caught in a crackof the dressing-table, one long black hair. This room leading out ofColin's was Anne's room. 

And Colin called out to him, "Do you mind leaving the door open, Jerry?I can't sleep if it's shut. "

v

It was Jerrold's second day. He and Anne climbed the steep beech walk tothe top of the hillock and sat there under the trees. Up the fields onthe opposite rise they could see the grey walls and gables of the Manor, and beside it their other beech ring at the top of the last field. 

They were silent for a while. He was intensely aware of her as sheturned her head round, slowly, to look at him, straight and full. 

And the sense of his nearness came over her, soaking in deeper, swampingher brain. Her wide open eyes darkened; her breathing came in tight, short jerks; her nerves quivered. She wondered whether he could feeltheir quivering, whether he could hear her jerking breath, whether hecould see something queer about her eyes. But she had to look at him, not shyly, furtively, but straight and full, taking him in. 

He was changed. The war had changed him. His face looked harder, themouth closer set under the mark of the little clipped fawn-brownmoustache. His eyes that used to flash their blue so gayly, to rest solightly, were fixed now, dark and heavy with memory. They had seen toomuch. They would never lose that dark memory of the things they hadseen. She wondered, was Colin right? Had the war done worse things toJerrold than it had done to him? He would never tell her. 

"Jerrold, " she said, suddenly, "did you have a good time in India?"

"I suppose so. I dare say I thought I had. "

"And you hadn't?"

"Well, I can't conceive how I could have had. "

"You mean it seems so long ago. "

"No, I don't mean that. "

"You've forgotten. "

"I don't mean that, either. "

Silence. 

"Look here, Anne, I want to know about Colin. Has he been very bad?"

"Yes, he has. "

"How bad?"

"So bad that sometimes I was glad you weren't there to see him. Youremember when he was a kid, how frightened he used to be at night. Well, he's been like that all the time. He's like that now, only he's a bitbetter. He doesn't scream now.... All the time he kept on worrying aboutyou. He only told me that the other day. He seemed to think the war musthave done something more frightful to you than it had done to him; hesaid, because you'd mind it more. I told him it wasn't the sort of thingyou'd mind most. "

"It isn't the sort of thing it's any good minding. I don't suppose Iminded more than the other chaps. If anything had happened to you, orhim, or Eliot, I'd have minded that. "

"I know. That's what I told him. I knew you'd come through. "

"Eliot was dead right about Colin. He knew he wouldn't. He ought neverto have gone out. "

"He wanted so awfully to go. But Eliot could have stopped him if ithadn't been for Queenie. She hunted and hounded him out. She told him hewas funking. Fancy Colin funking!"

"What's Queenie like?"

"She's like that. She never funks herself, but she wants to make outthat everybody else does. "

"Do you like Queenie?"

"No. I hate her. I don't mind her hounding him out so much since shewent herself; I _do_ mind her leaving him. Do you know, she's never eventried to come and see him. "

"Good God! what a beast the woman must be. What on earth made him marryher?"

"He was frightfully in love. An awful sort of love that wore him out andmade him wretched. And now he's afraid for his life of her. I believehe's afraid of the war ending because then she'll come back. "

"And if she does come back?"

"She may try and take Colin away from me. But she shan't. She can't takehim if he doesn't want to go. She left him to me to look after and Imean to stick to him. I won't have him frightened and made all ill againjust when I've got him well. "

"I'm afraid you've had a very hard time. "

"Not so hard as you think. "

She smiled a mysterious, quiet smile, as if she contemplated some happysecret. He thought he knew it, Anne's secret. 

"Do you think it's funny of me to be living here with Colin?"

He laughed. 

"I suppose it's all right. You always had pluck enough for anything. "

"It doesn't take pluck to stick to Colin. "

"Moral pluck. "

"No. Not even moral. "

"You were always fond of him, weren't you?"

That was about as far as he dare go. 

She smiled her strange smile again. 

"Yes. I was always fond of him.... You see, he wants me more thananybody else ever did or ever will. "

"I'm not so sure about that. But he always did get what he wanted. "

"Oh, does he! How about Queenie?"

"Even Queenie. I suppose he wanted her at the time. "

"He doesn't want her now. Poor Colin. "

"You mustn't ask me to pity him. "

"Ask you? He'd hate you to pity him. I'd hate you to pity _me_. "

"I shouldn't dream of pitying you, any more than I should dream ofcriticising you. "

"Oh, you may criticise as much as you like. "

"No. Whatever you did it would make no difference. I should know it wasright because you did it. "

"It wouldn't be. I do heaps of wrong things, but _this_ is right. "

"I'm sure it is. " "Here's Colin, " she said. 

He had come out to look for them. He couldn't bear to be alone. 

vi

Jerrold had gone to Sutton's Farm to say good-bye to their old nurse, Nanny Sutton. 

Nanny talked about the war, about the young men who had gone from Wyckand would not come back, about the marvel of Sutton's living on throughit all, and he so old and feeble. She talked about Colin and Anne. 

"Oh, Master Jerrold, " she said, "I do think it's a pity she should belivin' all alone with Mr. Colin like this 'ere. "

"They're all right, Nanny. You needn't worry. "

"Well--well, Miss Anne was always one to go her own way and make it seemthe right way. "

"You may be perfectly sure it is the right way. "

"I'm not sayin' as 'tisn't. And I dunnow what Master Colin'd a donewithout her. But it do make people talk. There's a deal of strangethings said in the place. "

"Don't listen to them. "

"Eh dear, I'll not 'ear a word. When anybody says anything to me I tell'em straight they'd oughter be ashamed of themselves, back-bitin' andslanderin'. "

"That's right, Nanny, you give it them in the neck. "

"If it'd only end in talk, but there's been harm done to the innocent. There's Mr. And Mrs. Kimber. Kimber, 'e's my 'usband's cousing. " Nannypaused. 

"What about him?"

"Well, 'tis this way. They're doin' for Miss Anne, livin' in the housewith her. Kimber, 'e sees to the garden and Mrs. Kimber she cooks andthat. And Kimber--that's my 'usband's cousin--'e was gardener at thevicarage. And now 'e's lost his job along of Master Colin and MissAnne. "

"What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, 'tis the vicar. 'E says they 'adn't oughter be livin' in thehouse with Miss Anne, because of the talk there's been. So 'e saysKimber must choose between 'em. And Kimber, 'e says 'e'd have mindedwhat parson said if it had a bin a church matter or such like, butparson or no parson, 'e says 'e's his own master an' 'e won't have nointerferin' with him and his missus. So he's lost his job. "

"Poor old Kimber. What a beastly shame. "

"Eh, 'tis a shame to be sure. "

"Never mind; I can give him a bigger job at the Manor. "

"Oh, Master Jerrold, if you would, it'd be a kindness, I'm sure. AndKimber 'e deserves it, the way they've stuck to Miss Anne. "

"He does indeed. It's pretty decent of them. I'll see about that beforeI go. "

"Thank you, sir. Sutton and me thought maybe you'd do something for him, else I shouldn't have spoken. And if there's anything I can do for MissAnne I'll do it. I've always looked on her as one of you. But 'tis apity, all the same. "

"You mustn't say that, Nanny. I tell you it's all perfectly right. "

"Well, I shall never say as 'tisn't. No, nor think it. You can trust mefor that, Master Jerrold. "

He thought: Poor old Nanny. She lies like a brick. 

vii

He said to himself that he would never know the truth about Anne andColin. If he went to them and asked them he would be no nearer knowing. They would have to lie to him to save each other. In any case, hismother had made it clear to him that as long as Anne had to look afterColin he couldn't ask them. If they were innocent their innocence mustbe left undisturbed. If they were not innocent, well--he had lost theright to know it. Besides, he was sure, as sure as if they had told him. 

He knew how it would be. Colin's wife would come home and she woulddivorce Colin and he would marry Anne. So far as Jerrold could see, thatwas his brother's only chance of happiness and sanity. 

As for himself, there was nothing he could do now but clear out andleave them. 

And, as he had no desire to go back to his mother and hear about Anneand Colin all over again, he went down to the Durhams' in Yorkshire forthe rest of his leave. 

He hadn't been there five days before he and Maisie were engaged; andbefore the two weeks were up he had married her. 

X

ELIOT

i

Eliot stood in the porch of the Manor Farm house. There was nobody thereto greet him. Behind him on the oak table in the hall the wire he hadsent lay unopened. 

It was midday in June. 

All round the place the air was sweet with the smell of the mown hay, and from the Broad Pasture there came the rattle and throb of themowing-machines. 

Eliot went down the road and through the gate into the hay-field. Colinand Anne were there. Anne at the top of the field drove the mower, mounted up on the shell-shaped iron seat, white against the blue sky. Colin at the bottom, slender and tall above the big revolving wheel, drove the rake. The tedding machine, driven by a farm hand, wentbetween. Its iron-toothed rack caught the new-mown hay, tossed it andscattered it on the field. Beside the long glistening swaths the cutedge of the hay stood up clean and solid as a wall. Above it the raisedplane of the grass-tops, brushed by the wind, quivered and swayed, whitish green, greenish white, in a long shimmering undulation. 

Eliot went on to meet Anne and Colin as they turned and came up thefield again. 

When they saw him they jumped down and came running. 

"Eliot, you never told us. "

"I wired at nine this morning. "

"There's nobody in the house and we've not been in since breakfast atseven, " Colin said. 

"It's twelve now. Time you knocked off for lunch, isn't it?"

"Are you all right, Eliot?" said Anne. 

"Rather. "

He gave a long look at them, at their sun-burnt faces, at their clean, slender grace, Colin in his cricketing flannels, and Anne in herland-girl's white-linen coat, knickerbockers, and grey wideawake. 

"Colin doesn't look as if there was much the matter with him. He mighthave been farming all his life. "

"So I have, " said Colin; "considering that I haven't lived till now. "

And they went back together towards the house. 

ii

Colin's and Anne's work was done for the day. The hay in the BroadPasture was mown and dried. Tomorrow it would be heaped into cocks andcarried to the stackyard. 

It was the evening of Eliot's first day. He and Anne sat out under theapple trees in the orchard. 

"What on earth have you done to Colin?" he said. "I expected to find hima perfect wreck. "

"He was pretty bad three months ago. But it's good for him being downhere in the place he used to be happy in. He knows he's safe here. It'sgood for him doing jobs about the farm, too. "

"I imagine it's good for him being with you. "

"Oh, well, he knows he's safe with me. "

"Very safe. He owes it to you that he's sane now. You must have beenastonishingly wise with him. "

"It didn't take much wisdom. Not more than it used to take when he was alittle frightened kid. That's all he was when he came back from the war, Eliot. "

"The point is that you haven't treated him like a kid. You've made a manof him again. You've given him a man's life and a man's work. "

"That's what I want to do. When he's trained he can look after Jerrold'sland. You know poor Barker died last month of septic pneumonia. The campwas full of it. "

"I know. "

"What do you think of my training Colin?"

"It's all right for him, Anne. But how about you?"

"Me? Oh, _I'm_ all right. You needn't worry about me. "

"I do worry about you. And your father's worrying. "

"Dear old Daddy. It _is_ silly of him. As if anything mattered butColin. "

"_You_ matter. You see, your father doesn't like your being here alonewith him. He's afraid of what people may think. "

"I'm not. I don't care what people think. They've no business to. "

"No; but they will, and they do... You know what I mean, Anne, don'tyou?"

"I suppose you mean they think I'm Colin's mistress. Is that it?"

"I'm afraid it is. They can't think anything else. It's beastly of them, I know, but this is a beastly world, dear, and it doesn't do to go onbehaving as if it wasn't. "

"I don't care. If people are beastly it's their look-out, not mine. Thebeastlier they are the less I care. "

"I don't suppose you care if the vicar's wife won't call or if LadyCorbett and the Hawtreys cut you. But that's why. "

"Is it? I never thought about it. I'm too busy to go and see them and Isupposed they were too busy to come and see me. I certainly don't care. "

"If it was people you cared about?"

"Nobody I care about would think things like that of me. "

"Anne dear, I'm not so sure. "

"Then it shows how much they care about _me_. "

"But it's because they care. "

"I can't help it. They may care, but they don't know. They can't knowanything about me if they think that. "

"And you honestly don't mind?"

"I mind what _you_ think. But you don't think it, Eliot, do you?"

"I? Good Lord no! Do you mind what mother thinks?"

"Yes, I mind. But it doesn't matter very much. "

"It would matter if Jerrold thought it. "

"Oh Eliot--_does_ he?"

"I don't suppose he thinks precisely that. But I'm pretty sure hethought you and Colin cared for each other. "

"What makes you think so?"

"His marrying Maisie like that. "

"Why shouldn't he marry her?"

"Because it's you he cares about. "

Eliot's voice was quiet and heavy. She knew that what he said was true. That quiet, heavy voice was the voice of her own innermost conviction. Yet under the shock of it she sat silent, not looking at him, lookingwith wide, fixed eyes at the pattern the apple boughs made on the sky. 

"How do you know?" she said, presently. 

"Because of the way he talked to mother before he came to see you here. She says he was frightfully upset when she told him about you andColin. "

"She told him _that?_"

"Apparently. "

"What did she do it for, Eliot?"

"What does mother do anything for? I imagine she wanted to put Jerroldoff so that you could stick on with Colin. You've taken him off herhands and she wants him kept off. "

"So she told him I was Colin's mistress. "

"Mind you, she doesn't think a bit the worse of you for that. Sheadmires you for it no end. "

"Do you suppose I care what she thinks? It's her making Jerrold thinkit... Eliot, how could she?"

"She could, because she only sees things as they affect herself. "

"Do you believe she really thinks it?"

"She's made herself think it because she wanted to. "

"But why--why should she want to?"

"I've told you why. She's afraid of having to look after Colin. I've noillusions about mother. She's always been like that. She wouldn't seewhat she was doing to you. Before she did it she'd persuaded herselfthat it was Colin and not Jerrold that you cared for. And she wouldn'tdo it deliberately at all. I know it has all the effect of low cunning, but it isn't. It's just one of her sudden movements. She'd rush into iton a blind impulse. "

Anne saw it all, she saw that Adeline had slandered her to Jerrold andto Eliot, that she had made use of her love for Colin, which was herlove for Jerrold, to betray her; that she had betrayed her to safeguardher own happy life, without pity and without remorse; she had done allof these things and none of them. They were the instinctive movements ofher funk. Where Adeline's ease and happiness were concerned she was oneincarnate funk. You couldn't think of her as a reasonable andresponsible being, to be forgiven or unforgiven. 

"It doesn't matter how she did it. It's done now, " she said. 

"Really, Anne, it was too bad of Colin. He oughtn't to have let you. "

"He couldn't help it, poor darling. He wasn't in a state. Don't put thatinto his head. It just had to happen... I don't care, Eliot. If it wasto be done again to-morrow I'd do it. Only, if I'd known, I could havetold Jerrold the truth. The others can think what they like. It'll onlymake me stick to Colin all the more. I promised Jerrold I'd look afterhim and I shall as long as he wants me. It serves them all right. Theyall left him to me--Daddy and Aunt Adeline and Queenie, I mean--and theycan't stop me now. "

"Mother doesn't want to stop you. It's your father. "

"I'll write and tell Daddy. Besides, it's too late. If I left Colinto-morrow it wouldn't stop the scandal. My reputation's gone and I can'tget it back, can I?"

"Dear Anne, you don't know how adorable you are without it. "

"Look here, Eliot, what did your mother tell _you_ for?"

"Same reason. To put me off, too. "

They looked at each other and smiled. Across their memories, across theyears of war, across Anne's agony they smiled. Besides its courage andits young, candid cynicism, Anne's smile expressed her utter trust inhim. 

"As if, " Eliot said, "it would have made the smallest difference. "

"Wouldn't it have?"

"No, Anne. Nothing would. "

"That's what Jerrold said. And _he_ thought it. I wondered what hemeant. "

"He meant what I mean. "

The moments passed, ticked off by the beating of his heart, time and hisheart beating violently together. Not one of them was his moment, notone would serve him for what he had to say, falling so close on theirintolerable conversation. He meant to ask Anne to marry him; but if hedid it now she would suspect him of chivalry; it would look as if hewanted to make up to her for all she had lost through Colin; as if hewanted more than anything to save her. 

So Eliot, who had waited so long, waited a little longer, till theevening of his last day. 

iii

Anne had gone up with him to Wyck Manor, to see the soldiers. Ever sincethey had come there she had taken cream and fruit to them twice a weekfrom the Farm. Unaware of what was thought of her, she never knew thatthe scandal of young Fielding and Miss Severn had penetrated theConvalescent Home with the fruit and cream. And if she had known it shewould not have stayed away. People's beastliness was no reason why sheshouldn't go where she wanted, where she had always gone. TheConvalescent Home belonged to the Fieldings, and the Fieldings were herdearest friends who had been turned into relations by her father'smarriage. So this evening, absorbed in the convalescents, she never sawthe matron's queer look at her or her pointed way of talking only toEliot. 

Eliot saw it. 

He thought: "It doesn't matter. She's so utterly good that nothing cantouch her. All the same, if she marries me she'll be safe from this sortof thing. "

They had come to the dip of the valley and the Manor Farm water. 

"Let's go up the beech walk, " he said. 

They went up and sat in the beech ring where Anne had sat with Jerroldthree months ago. Eliot never realised how repeatedly Jerrold had beenbefore him. 

"Anne, " he said, "it's more than five years since I asked you to marryme. "

"Is it, Eliot?"

"Do you remember I said then I'd never give you up?"

"I remember. Unless Jerrold got me, you said. Well, he hasn't got me. "

"I wouldn't want you to tie yourself up with me if there was theremotest chance of Jerrold; but, as there isn't, don't you think--"

"No, Eliot, I don't. "

"But you do care for me, Anne, a little. I know you do. "

"I care for you a great deal; but not in that sort of way. "

"I'm not asking you to care for me in the way you care for Jerrold. Youmay care for me any way you please if you'll only marry me. You don'tknow how awfully little I'd be content to take. "

"I shouldn't be content to give it, though. You oughtn't to haveanything but the best. "

"It would be the best for me, you see. "

"Oh no, Eliot, it wouldn't. You only think it would because you're anangel. It would be awful of me to give so little when I take such a lot. I know what your loving would be. "

"If you know you must have thought of it. And if you've thought of it--"

"I've only thought of it to see how impossible it is. It mightn't be ifI could leave off loving Jerrold. But I can't... Eliot, I've got thequeerest feeling about him. I know you'll think me mad, when he's goneand married somebody else, but I feel all the time as if he hadn't, asif he belonged to me and always had; and I to him. Whoever Maisie'smarried it isn't Jerrold. Not the real Jerrold. "

"The fact remains that she's married him. "

"No. Not him. Only a bit of him. Some bit that doesn't matter. "

"Anne darling, I'd try not to think that. "

"I don't think it. I feel it. Down there, deep inside me. I've alwaysfelt that Jerrold would come back to me and he came back. Then there wasColin. He'll come back again. "

"Then there'll be Maisie. "

"No, then there won't be Maisie. There won't be anything if he reallycomes... Now you see how mad I am. Now you see how awful it would be tomarry me. "

"No, Anne. I see it's the only way to keep you safe. "

"Safe from what? Safe from Jerrold? I don't want to be safe from him. Eliot, I'm telling you this because you trust me. I want you to see meas I really am, so that you won't want to marry me any more. "

"Ah, that's not the way to make me. Nothing you say makes anydifference. Nothing you could do would make any difference. "

"Supposing it had been true what your mother said, wouldn't that?"

"No. If you'd given yourself to Colin I should only have thought it wasyour goodness. It would have been good because you did it. "

"How queer. That's what Jerrold said. Then he _did_ love me. "

"I told you he loved you. "

"Then I don't care. Nothing else matters. "

"That's all you have to say to me?"

"Yes. Unless I lie. "

"You'd lie for Jerrold. "

"For him. Not to him. I should never need to. "

"You've no need to lie to me, dear. I know you better than he does. Youforget that I didn't think what he thought. "

"That only shows that he knew. "

"Knew what?"

"What I am. What I might do if I really cared. "

"There are things you'd never do. You'd never do anything mean ordishonourable or cruel. "

"Oh, you don't know what I'd do... Don't worry, Eliot. I shall be toobusy with the land and with Colin to do very much. "

"I'm not worrying. "

All the same he wondered which of them knew Anne best, he or Anneherself, or Jerrold. 

XI

INTERIM

i

Colin thought with terror of the time when Queenie would come back fromthe war. At any moment she might get leave and come; if she had not hadit yet that only made it more likely that she would have it soon. 

The vague horror that waited for him every morning had turned into thisdefinite fear of Queenie. He was afraid of her temper, of her voice andeyes, of her crude, malignant thoughts, of her hatred of Anne. More thananything he was afraid of her power over him, of her vehement, exhausting love. He was afraid of her beauty. 

One morning, early in September, the wire came. Colin shook withagitation as he read it. 

"What is it?" Anne said. 

"Queenie. She's got leave. She'll be here today. At four o'clock. "

"Don't you want to see her?"

"No, I don't. "

"Then you'd better drive over to Kingden and look at those bullocks ofLedbury's. "

"I don't know anything about bullocks. They ought to be straight linesfrom their heads to their tails. That's about all I know. "

"Never mind, you'll have gone to look at bullocks. And you can tellLedbury I'm coming over to-morrow. Do you mind driving yourself?"

Colin did mind. He was afraid to drive by himself; but he was much moreafraid of Queenie. 

"You can take Harry. And leave me to settle Queenie. "

Colin went off with Harry to Chipping Kingden. And at four o'clockQueenie came. Her hard, fierce eyes stared past Anne, looking for Colin. 

"Where's Colin?" she said. 

"He had to go out, but he'll be back before dinner. "

Presently Queenie asked if she might go upstairs. As they went you couldsee her quick, inquisitive eyes sweeping and flashing. 

The door of Colin's room stood open. 

"Is that Colin's room?"

"Yes. "

She went in, opened the inner door and looked into the gable room. 

"Who sleeps here?" she said. 

"I do, " said Anne. 

"You?"

"Have you any objection?"

"You might as well sleep in my husband's room. "

"Oh no, this is near enough. I can tell whether he's asleep or awake. "

"_Can_ you? And, please, how long has this been going on?"

"I've been sleeping in this room since November. Before that we had ourold rooms at the Manor. There was a passage between, you remember. ButI left the doors wide open. "

"Oh no, this is near enough. I can tell whether he's asleep or awake. "

"Can you? And, please, how long has this been going on?"

"I've been sleeping in this room since November. Before that we had ourold rooms at the Manor. There was a passage between, you remember. But Ileft the doors wide open. "

"I suppose, " said Queenie, with furious calm, "you want me to divorcehim?"

"Divorce him? Why on earth should you? Just because I looked after himat night? I _had_ to. There wasn't anybody else. And he was afraid tosleep alone. He is still. But he's all right as long as he knows I'mthere. "

"You expect me to believe that's all there is in it?"

"No, I don't, considering what your mind's like. "

"Oh yes, when people do dirty things it's always other people's dirtyminds. Do you imagine I'm a fool, Anne?"

"You're an awful fool if you think Colin's my lover. "

"I think it, and I say it. "

"If you think it you're a fool. If you say it you're a liar. A damnedliar. "

"And is Colin's mother a liar, too?"

"Yes, but not a damned one. It would serve you jolly well right, Queenie, if he _was_ my lover, after the way you left him to me. "

"I didn't leave him to you. I left him to his mother. "

"Anyhow, you left him. "

"I couldn't help it. _You_ were not wanted at the front and I was. Icouldn't leave hundreds of wounded soldiers just for Colin. "

"_I_ had to. He was in an awful state. I've looked after him day andnight; I've got him almost well now, and I think the least you can do isto keep quiet and let him alone. "

"I shall do nothing of the sort. I shall divorce him as soon as thewar's over. "

"It isn't over yet. And I don't advise you to try. No decent barristerwould touch your case, it's so rotten. "

"Not half so rotten as you'll look when it's in all the papers. "

"You can't frighten me that way. "

"Can't I? I suppose you'll say you were looking, poor darling, if you dobring your silly old action. Only please don't do it till he's quitewell, or he'll be ill again... I think that's tea going in. Will you godown?"

They went down. Tea was laid in the big bare hall. The small round oaktable brought them close together. Anne waited on Queenie with everyappearance of polite attention. Queenie ate and drank in long, fiercesilences; for her hunger was even more imperious than her pride. 

"I don't _want_ to eat your food, " she said at last. "I'm only doing itbecause I'm starving. I dined with Colin's mother last night. It was thefirst dinner I've eaten since I went to the war. "

"You needn't feel unhappy about it, " said Anne. "It's Eliot's house andJerrold's food. How's Cutler?"

"Much the same as when you saw him. " Queenie answered quietly, but herface was red. 

"And that Johnnie--what was his name?--who took my place?"

Queenie's flush darkened. She was holding her mouth so tight that thethin red line of the lips faded. 

"Noel Fenwick, " said Anne, suddenly remembering. 

"What about him?" Queenie's throat moved as if she swallowed somethingbig and hard. 

"Is he there still?"

"He was when I left. "

Her angry, defiant eyes were fixed on the open doorway. You could seeshe was waiting for Colin, ready to fall on him and tear him as soon ashe came in. 

"Am I to see Colin or not?" she said as she rose. 

"Have you anything to say to him?"

"Only what I've said to you. "

"Then you won't see him. In fact I think you'd better not see him atall. "

"You mean he funks it?"

"I funk it for him. He isn't well enough to be raged at and threatenedwith proceedings. It'll upset him horribly and I don't see what goodit'll do you. "

"No more do I. I'm not going to live with him after this. You can tellhim that. Tell him I don't want to see him or speak to him again. "

"I see. You just came down to make a row. "

"You don't suppose I came down to stay with you two?"

Queenie was so far from coming down to stay that she had taken rooms forthe night at the White Hart in Wyck. Anne drove her there. 

ii

Two and a half years passed. Anne's work on the farm filled up her daysand marked them. Her times were ploughing time and the time for sowing:wheat first, and turnips after the wheat, barley after the turnips, sainfoin, grass and clover after the barley. Oats in the five-acre fieldthis year; in the seven-acre field the next. Lambing time, calving time, cross-ploughing and harrowing, washing and shearing time, time forhoeing; hay time and harvest. Then threshing time and ploughing again. 

All summer the hard fight against the charlock, year after year thesame. You harrowed it out and ploughed it down and sprayed it withsulphate of copper; you sowed vetches and winter corn to crowd it out;and always it sprang up again, flaring in bright yellow stripes and fansabout the hills. The air was sweet with its smooth, delicious smell. 

Always the same clear-cut pattern of the fields; but the colors shifted. The slender, sharp-pointed triangle that was jade-green last June, thisJune was yellow-brown. The square under the dark comb of the plantationthat had been yellow-brown was emerald; the wide-open fan beside it thathad been emerald was pink. By August the emerald had turned to red-goldand the jade-green to white. 

These changes marked the months and the years, a bright patterned, imperceptibly moving measure, rolling time off across the hills. 

Nineteen-sixteen, seventeen. Nineteen-eighteen and the armistice. Nineteen-nineteen and the peace. 

iii

In the spring of that year Anne and Colin were still together at theManor Farm. He was stronger. But, though he did more and more work everyyear, he was still unfit to take over the management himself. Responsibility fretted him and he tired soon. He could do nothingwithout Anne. 

He was now definitely separated from his wife. Queenie had come backfrom the war a year ago. As soon as it was over she had begun to rageand consult lawyers and write letters two or three times a week, threatening to drag Anne and Colin through the Divorce Court. But MissMullins (once the secretary of Dr. Cutler's Field Ambulance Corps), recovering at the Farm from an excess of war work, reassured them. Queenie, she said, was only bluffing. Queenie was not in a position tobring an action against any husband, she had been too notorious herself. Miss Mullins had seen things, and she intimated that no defence couldstand against the evidence she could give. 

And in the end Queenie left off talking about divorce and contentedherself with a judicial separation. 

Colin still woke every morning to his dread of some blank, undefineddisaster; but, as if Queenie and the war had made one obsession, he wasno longer haunted by the imminent crash of phantom shells. It wassettled that he was to live with Jerrold and Maisie when they came backto the Manor, while Anne stayed on by herself at the Farm. 

Every now and then Eliot came down to see them. He had been sent homeearly in nineteen-seventeen with a shrapnel wound in his left leg, thebone shattered. He obtained his discharge at the price of a permanentlimp, and went back to his research work. 

For the last two years he had been investigating trench fever, withresults that were to make him famous. But that was not for another year. 

In February, nineteen-nineteen, Jerrold had come back. He and Maisie hadbeen living in London ever since he had left the Army, filling in timetill Wyck Manor would be no longer a Home for Convalescent Soldiers. Hehad tried to crowd into this interval all the amusement he hadn't hadfor four years. His way was to crush down the past with the present; topile up engagements against the future, party on party, dances onsuppers and suppers on plays; to dine every evening at some place wherethey hadn't dined before; to meet lots of nice amusing people withdemobilised minds who wouldn't talk to him about the war; to let himselfgo in bursts of exquisitely imbecile laughter; never to be quiet for anhour, never to be alone with himself, never to be long alone withMaisie. 

After the first week of it this sort of thing ceased to amuse him, buthe went on with it because he thought it amused Maisie. 

There was something he missed; something he wanted and hadn't got. Atnight, when he lay awake, alone with himself at last, he knew that itwas Anne. 

And he went on laughing and amusing Maisie; and Maisie, with aheart-breaking sweetness, laughed back at him and declared herselfamused. She had never had such a jolly time in all her life, she said. 

Then, very early in the spring, Maisie went down to her people inYorkshire to recover from the jolly time she had had. The convalescentsoldiers had all gone, and Wyck Manor, rather worn and shabby, was WyckManor again. 

Jerrold came back to it alone. 

XII

COLIN, JERROLD, AND ANNE

i

He went through the wide empty house, looking through all the rooms, trying to find some memory of the happiness he had had there long ago. The house was full of Anne. Anne's figure crossed the floors before him, her head turned over her shoulder to see if he were coming; her voicecalled to him from the doorways, her running feet sounded on the stairs. That was her place at the table; that was the armchair she used to curlup in; just there, on the landing, he had kissed her when he went toschool. 

They had given his mother's room to Maisie, and they had put his thingsinto the room beyond, his father's room. Everything was in its place asit had been in his father's time, the great wardrobe, the whitemarble-topped washstand, the bed he had died on. He saw him lying thereand Anne going to and fro between the washstand and the bed. The parrotcurtains hung from the windows, straight and still. 

Jerrold shuddered as he looked at these things. 

They had thought that he would want to sleep in that room because he wasmarried, because Maisie would have the room it led out of. 

But he couldn't sleep in it. He couldn't stay in it a minute; he wouldnever pass its door without that sickening pang of memory. He moved histhings across the gallery into Anne's room. 

He would sleep there; he would sleep in the white bed that Anne hadslept in. 

He told himself that he had to be near Colin; there was only the passagebetween and their doors could stand open; that was why he wanted tosleep there. But he knew that was not why. He wanted to sleep therebecause there was no other room where he could feel Anne so near him, where he could see her so clearly. When the dawn came she would be withhim, sitting in her chair by the window. The window looked to the west, to Upper Speed and the Manor Farm house. The house was down there behindthe trees, and somewhere there, jutting out above the porch, was thewindow of Anne's room. 

He looked at his watch. One o'clock. At two he would go and see Anne. 

ii

When Jerrold called at the Manor Farm house Anne was out. Old Ballingercame slouching up from the farmyard to tell him that Miss Anne had goneup to the Far Acres field to try the new tractor. 

The Far Acres field lay at the western end of the estate. Jerroldfollowed her there. Five furrows, five bright brown bands on the sallowstubble, marked out the Far Acres into five plots. In the turning spaceat the top corner he saw Anne on her black horse and Colin standingbeside her. 

With a great clanking and clanging the new American, tractor struggledtowards them up the hill, dragging its plough. It stopped and turned atthe "headland" as Jerrold came up. 

A clear, light wind blew over the hill and he felt a sudden happinessand excitement. He was beginning to take an interest in his land. Heshouted:

"I say, Anne, you look like Napoleon at the battle of Waterloo. "

"Oh, not Waterloo, I hope. I'm going to win _my_ battle. "

"Well, Marengo--Austerlitz--whatever battles he did win. Does Curtisunderstand that infernal thing?"

Young Curtis, sulky and stolid on his driver's seat, stared at his newmaster. 

"Yes. He's been taught motor mechanics. He's quite good at it ... Ifonly he'd do what you tell him. Curtis, I said you were not to use thosedisc coulters for this field. I've had three smashed in two weeks. They're no earthly good for stony soil. "

"Tis n' so bad 'ere as it is at the east end, miss. "

"Well, we'll see. You can let her go now. "

With a fearful grinding and clanking the tractor started. The revolvingdisc coulter cut the earth; the three great shares gripped it and turnedit on one side. But the earth, instead of slanting off clear from thefurrows, fell back again. Anne dismounted and ran after the tractor andstopped it. 

"He hasn't got his plough set right, " she said. "It's too deep in. "

She stooped, and did something mysterious and efficient with a lever;the wheels dipped, raising the shares to their right level, and thetractor set off again. This time the earth parted clean from the furrowswith the noise of surge, and three slanting, glistening waves ran thelength of the field in the wake of the triple plough. 

"Oh, Jerrold, look at those three lovely furrows. Look at the pace itgoes. This field will be ploughed up in a day or two. Colin, aren't youpleased?"

The tractor was coming towards them, making a most horrible noise. 

"No, " he said, "I don't like the row it makes. Can't I go, now I've seenwhat the beastly thing can do?"

"Yes. You'd better go if you can't stand it. "

Colin went with quick, desperate strides down the field away from theterrifying sound of the tractor. 

They looked after him sorrowfully. 

"He's not right yet. I don't think he'll ever be able to stand noises. "

"You must give him time, Anne. "

"Time? He's had three years. It's heart-breaking. I must just keep himout of the way of the tractors, that's all. "

She mounted her horse and went riding up and down the field, abreast ofthe plough. 

Jerrold waited for her at the gate of the field. 

iii

It was Sunday evening between five and six. 

Anne was in the house, in the great Jacobean room on the first floor. Barker had judged it too large and too dilapidated to live in, and ithad been left empty in his time. Eliot had had it restored and Jerroldhad furnished it. Black oak bookcases from the Manor stretched alongthe walls, for Jerrold had given Eliot half of their father's books. This room would be too dilapidated to live in, and it had been leftempty in his time. Eliot had had it restored and Jerrold had furnishedit. Black oak bookcases from the Manor stretched along the walls, forJerrold had given Eliot half of their father's books. This room would beEliot's library when he came down. It was now Anne's sitting-room. 

The leaded windows were thrown open to the grey evening and a drizzlingrain; but a fire blazed on the great hearth under the arch of the carvedstone chimney-piece. Anne's couch was drawn up before it. She laystretched out on it, tired with her week's work. 

She was all alone in the house. The gardener and his wife went outtogether every Sunday to spend the evening with their families atMedlicote or Wyck. She was not sorry when they were gone; the stillnessof the house rested her. But she missed Colin. Last Sunday he had beenthere, sitting beside her in his chair by the hearth, reading. Today hewas with Jerrold at the Manor. The soft drizzle turned to a quick patterof rain; a curtain of rain fell, covering the grey fields between thefarm and the Manor, cutting her off. 

She was listening to the rain when she heard the click of the gate andfeet on the garden path. They stopped on the flagstones under herwindow. Jerrold's voice called up to her. 

"Anne--Anne, are you there? Can I come up?"

"Rather. "

He came rushing up the stairs. He was in the room now. 

"How nice of you to come on this beastly evening. "

"That's why I came. I thought it would be so rotten for you all alonedown here. "

"What have you done with Colin?"

"Left him up there. He was making no end of a row on the piano. "

"Oh Jerrold, if he's playing again he'll be all right. "

"He didn't sound as if there was much the matter with him. "

"You never can tell. He can't stand those tractors. "

"We must keep him away from the beastly things. I suppose we've got tohave 'em?"

"I'm afraid so. They save no end of labour, and labour's short anddear. "

"Is that why you've been working yourself to death?"

"I haven't. Why, do I look dead?"

"No. Eliot told me. He saw you at it. "

"I only take a hand at hay time and harvest. All the rest of the yearit's just riding about and seeing that other people work. And Colin doeshalf of that now. "

"All the same, I think it's about time you stopped. "

"But if I stop the whole thing'll stop. The men must have somebody overthem. "

"There's me. "

"You don't know anything about farming, Jerry dear. You don't know a tegfrom a wether. "

"I suppose I can learn if Colin's learnt. Or I can get another Barker. "

"Not so easy. Don't you like my looking after your land, then? Aren'tyou pleased with me? I haven't done so badly, you know. Seven hundredacres. "

"You've been simply splendid. I shall never forget what you've done. AndI shall never forgive myself for letting you do it. I'd no idea what itmeant. "

"It's only meant that Colin's better and I've been happier than I everthought I could have been. "

"Happier? Weren't you happy then?"

She didn't answer. They were on dangerous ground. If they began talkingabout happiness--

"If I gave it up to-morrow, " she said, "I should only go and work onanother farm. "

"Would you?"

"Jerrold--do you want me to go?"

"Want you?"

"Yes. You did once. At least, you wanted to get away from _me_. "

"I didn't know what I was doing. If I had known I shouldn't have doneit. I can't talk about that, Anne. It doesn't bear thinking about. "

"No. But, Jerrold--tell me the truth. Do you want me to go because ofColin?"

"Colin?"

"Yes. Because of what your mother told you?"

"How do you know what she told me?"

"She told Eliot. "

"And he told _you_? Good God! what was he thinking of?"

"He thought it better for me to know it. It _was_ better. "

"How could it be?"

"I can't tell you... Jerrold, it isn't true. "

"I know it isn't. "

"But you thought it was. "

"When did I think?"

"Then; when you came to see me. "

"Did I?"

"Yes. And you're not going to lie about it now. "

"Well, if I did I've paid for it. "

(What did he mean? Paid for it? It was she who had paid. )

"When did you know it wasn't true?" she said. 

"Three months after, when Eliot wrote and told me. It was too latethen.... If only you'd told me at the time. Why didn't you?"

"But I didn't know you thought it. How could I know?"

"No. How could you? Who would have believed that things could havehappened so damnably as that?"

"But it's all right now. Why did you say it was too late?"

"Because it _was_ too late. I was married. "

"What _do_ you mean?"

"I mean that I lied when I told you it made no difference. It made thatdifference. If I hadn't thought that you and Colin were... If I hadn'tthought that, I wouldn't have married Maisie. I'd have married you. "

"Don't say that, Jerrold. "

"Well--you asked for the truth, and there it is. "

She got up and walked away from him to the window. He followed herthere. She spread out her hands to the cold rain. 

"It's raining still, " she said. 

He caught back her hands. 

"Would you have married me?"

"Don't, Jerrold, don't. It's cruel of you. "

He was holding her by her hands. 

"_Would_ you? Tell me. Tell me. "

"Let go my hands, then. "

He let them go. They turned back to the fireplace. Anne shivered. Sheheld herself to the warmth. 

"You haven't told me, " he said. 

"No, I haven't told you, " she repeated, stupidly. 

"That's because you _would_. That's because you love me. You do loveme. "

"I've always loved you. "

She spoke as if from some far-off place; as if the eternity of her loveremoved her from him, put her beyond his reach. 

"But--what's the good of talking about it?" she said. 

"All the good in the world. We owed each other the truth. We know itnow; we know where we are. We needn't humbug ourselves and each otherany more. You see what comes of keeping back the truth. Look how we'vehad to pay for it. You and me. Would you rather go on thinking I didn'tcare for you?"

"No, Jerrold, no. I'm only wondering what we're to do next. "

"Next?"

"Yes. _That's_ why you want me to go away. "

"It isn't. It's why I want you to stay. I want you to leave off workingand do all the jolly things we used to do. "

"You mustn't make me leave off working. It's my only chance. "

They turned restlessly from the fireplace to the couch. They sat one ateach end of it, still for a long time, without speaking. The fire dieddown. The evening darkened in the rain. The twilight came between them, poignant and disquieting, dimming their faces, making them strange andwonderful to each other. Their bodies loomed up through it, wonderfuland strange. The high white stone chimney-piece glimmered like an archinto some inner place. 

Outside, from the church below the farm house, the bell tinkled forservice. 

It ceased. 

Suddenly they rose and he came towards her to take her in his arms. Shebeat down his hands and hung on them, keeping him off. 

"Don't, Jerry, please, please don't hold me. "

"Oh Anne, let me. You let me once. Don't you remember?"

"We can't now. We mustn't. "

And yet she knew that it would happen in some time, in some way. But notnow. Not like this. 

"We mustn't. "

"Don't you want me to take you in my arms?"

"No. Not that. "

"What, then?" He pressed tighter. 

"I want you not to hurt Maisie. "

"It's too late to think of Maisie now. "

"I'm not thinking of her. I'm thinking of you. You'll hurt yourselffrightfully if you hurt her. " She wrenched his hands apart and went fromhim to the door. 

"What are you going to do?" he said. 

"I'm going to fetch the lamp. "

She left him standing there. 

A few minutes later she came back carrying the lighted lamp. He took itfrom her and set it on the table. 

"And now?"

"Now you're going back to Colin. And we're both going to be good... Youdo want to be good--don't you?"

"Yes. But I don't see how we're going to manage it. "

"We could manage it if we didn't see each other. If I went away. "

"Anne, you wouldn't. You can't mean that. I couldn't stand not seeingyou. You couldn't stand it, either. "

"I have stood it. I can stand it again. "

"You can't. Not now. It's all different. I swear I'll be decent. I won'tsay another word if only you won't go. "

"I don't see how I can very well. There's the land... No. Colin mustlook after that. I'll go when the ploughing's done. And some day you'llbe glad I went. "

"Go. Go. You'll find out then. "

Their tenderness was over. Something hard and defiant had come in tothem with the light. He was at the door now. 

"And you'll come back, " he said. "You'll see you'll come back. "

XIII

ANNE AND JERROLD

i

When he was gone she turned on herself in fury. What had she done itfor? Why had she let him go? She didn't want to be good. She wantednothing in the world but Jerrold. 

She hadn't done it for Maisie. Maisie was nothing to her. A woman shehad never seen and didn't want to see. She knew nothing of her but hername, and that was sweet and vague like a perfume coming from some placeunknown. She had no sweet image of Maisie in her mind. Maisie mightnever have existed for all that Anne thought about her. 

What did she do it for, then? Why didn't she take him when he gavehimself? When she knew that in the end it must come to that?

As far as she could see through her darkness it was because she knewthat Jerrold had not meant to give himself when he came to her. She haddriven him to it. She had made him betray his secret when she asked forthe truth. At that moment she was the stronger; she had him at adisadvantage. She couldn't take him like that, through the suddenmovement of his weakness. Before she surrendered she must know firstwhether Jerrold's passion for her was his weakness or his strength. Jerrold didn't know yet. She must give him time to find out. 

But before all she had been afraid that if Jerrold hurt Maisie he wouldhurt himself. She must know which was going to hurt him more, herrefusal or her surrender. If he wanted "to be good" she must go away andgive him his chance. 

And before the ploughing was all over she had gone. 

She went down into Essex, to see how her own farm was getting on. Thetenant who had the house wanted to buy it when his three years' leasewas up. Anne had decided that she would let him. The lease would be upin June. Her agent advised her to sell what was left of the farm landfor building, which was what Anne had meant to do. She wanted to get ridof the whole place and be free. All this had to be looked into. 

She had not been gone from Jerrold a week before the torture ofseparation became unbearable. She had said that she could bear itbecause she had borne it before, but, as Jerrold had pointed out to her, it wasn't the same thing now. There was all the difference in the worldbetween Jerrold's going away from her because he didn't want her, andher going away from Jerrold because he did. It was the differencebetween putting up with a dull continuous pain you had to bear, andenduring a sharp agony you could end at any minute. Before, she had onlygiven up what she couldn't get; now, she was giving up what she couldhave to-morrow by simply going back to Wyck. 

She loathed the flat Essex country and the streets of little white roughcast and red-tiled houses on the Ilford side where the clear fields hadonce lain beyond the tall elm rows. She was haunted by the steep, many-coloured pattern of the hills round Wyck, and the grey gables ofthe Manor. Love-sickness and home-sickness tore at her together till herheart felt as if it were stretched out to breaking point. 

She had only to go back and she would end this pain. Then on the sixthday Jerrold's wire came: "Colin ill again. Please come back. Jerrold. "

ii

It was not her fault and it was not Jerrold's. The thing had been takenout of their hands. She had not meant to go and Jerrold had not meant tosend for her. Colin must have made him. They had lost each other throughColin and now it was Colin who had brought them together. 

Colin's terror had come again. Again he had the haunting fear of thetremendous rushing noise, the crash always about to come that nevercame. He slept in brief fits and woke screaming. 

Eliot had been down to see him and had gone. And again, as before, nobody could do anything with him but Anne. 

"I couldn't, " Jerrold said, "and Eliot couldn't. Eliot made me send foryou. "

They had left Colin upstairs and were together in the drawing-room. Hestood in the full wash of the sunlight that flooded in through the westwindow. It showed his face drawn and haggard, and discoloured, as thoughhe had come through a long illness. His mouth was hard with pain. Hestared away from her with heavy, wounded eyes. She looked at him and wasfrightened. 

"Jerrold, have you been ill?"

"No. What makes you think so?"

"You look ill. You look as if you hadn't slept for ages. "

"I haven't. I've been frightfully worried about Colin. "

"Have you any idea what set him off again?"

"I believe it was those infernal tractors. He would go out with themafter you'd left. He said he'd have to, as long as you weren't there. And he couldn't stand the row. Eliot said it would be that. And theresponsibility, the feeling that everything depended on him. "

"I see. I oughtn't to have left him. "

"It looks like it. "

"What else did Eliot say?"

"Oh, he thinks perhaps he might be better at the Farm than up here. Hethinks it's bad for him sleeping in that room where he was frightenedwhen he was a kid. He says it all hooks on to that. What's more, he sayshe may go on having these relapses for years. Any noise or strain orexcitement'll bring them on. Do you mind his being at the Farm again?"

"Mind? Of course I don't. If I'm to look after him _and_ the land it'llbe very much easier there than here. "

For every night at Colin's bedtime Anne came up to the Manor. She sleptin the room that was to be Maisie's. When Colin screamed she went to himand sat with him till he slept again. In the morning she went back tothe Farm. 

She had been doing this for a week now, and Colin was better. 

But he didn't want to go back. If, he said, Jerrold didn't mind havinghim. 

Jerrold wanted to know why he didn't want to go back and Colin told him. 

"Hasn't it occurred to you that I've hurt Anne enough without beginningall over again? All these damned people here think I'm her lover. "

"You can't help that. You're not the only one that's hurt her. We musttry and make it up to her, that's all. "

"How are we going to do it?"

"My God! I don't know. I shall begin by cutting the swine who've cuther. "

"That's no good. She doesn't care if they do cut her. She only caresabout us. She's done everything for us, and among us all we've donenothing for her. Absolutely nothing. We can't give her anything. Wehaven't got anything to give her that she wants. "

Jerrold was silent. 

Presently he said, "She wants Sutton's farm. Sutton's dying. I shallgive it to her when he's dead. "

"You think that'll make up?"

"No, Colin, I don't. Supposing we don't talk about it any more. "

"All right. I say, when's Maisie coming home?"

"God only knows. I don't. "

He wondered how much Colin knew. 

iii

February had gone. They were in the middle of March, and still Maisiehad not come back. 

She wrote sweet little letters to him saying she was sorry to be so longaway, but her mother wanted her to stay on another week. When Jerroldwrote asking her to come back (he did this so that he might feel that hehad really played the game) she answered that they wouldn't let her gotill she was rested, and she wasn't quite rested yet. Jerrold mustn'timagine she was the least bit ill, only rather tired after the winter'sracketing. It would be heavenly to see him again. 

Then when she was rested her mother got ill and she had to go with herto Torquay. And at Torquay Maisie stayed on and on. 

And Jerrold didn't imagine she had been the least bit ill, or even verytired, or that Lady Durham was ill. He preferred to think that Maisiestayed away because she wanted to, because she cared about her peoplemore than she cared about him. The longer she stayed the moreobstinately he thought it. Here was he, trying to play the game, tryingto be decent and keep straight, and there was Maisie leaving him alonewith Anne and making it impossible for him. 

Anne had been back at the Farm a week and he had not been to see her. But Maisie's last letter made him wonder whether, really, he need tryany more. He was ill and miserable. Why should he make himself ill andmiserable for a woman who didn't care whether he was ill and miserableor not? Why shouldn't he go and see Anne? Maisie had left him to her. 

And on Sunday morning, suddenly, he went. 

There had been a sharp frost overnight. Every branch and twig, everyblade of grass, every crinkle in the road was edged with a white fur ofrime. It crackled under his feet. He drank down the cold, clean air likewater. His whole body felt cold and clean. He was aware of its strengthin the hard tension of his muscles as he walked. His own movementexhilarated and excited him. He was going to see Anne. 

Anne was not in the house. He went through the yards looking for her. Inthe stockyard he met her coming up from the sheepfold, carrying a younglamb in her arms. She smiled at him as she came. 

She wore her farm dress, knee breeches and a thing like an old trenchcoat, and looked superb. She went bareheaded. Her black hair was brushedup from her forehead and down over her ears, the length of it rolled inon itself in a curving mass at the back. Over it the frost had raised acrisp web of hair that covered its solid smoothness like a net. Anne'shead was the head of a hunting Diana; it might have fitted into thesickle moon. 

The lamb's queer knotted body was like a grey ligament between its hindand fore quarters. It rested on Anne's arms, the long black legsdangling. The black-faced, hammer-shaped head hung in the hollow of herelbow. 

"This is Colin's job, " she said. 

"What are you doing with it?"

"Taking it indoors to nurse it. It's been frozen stiff, poor darling. Doyou mind looking in the barn and seeing if you can find some old sacksthere?"

He looked, found the sacks and carried them, following her into thekitchen. Anne fetched a piece of old blanket and wrapped the lamb up. They made a bed of the sacks before the fire and laid it on it. Shewarmed some milk, dipped her fingers in it and put them into the lamb'smouth to see if it would suck. 

"I didn't know they'd do that, " he said. 

"Oh, they'll suck anything. When you've had them a little time they'llclimb into your lap like puppies and suck the buttons on your coat. Itsmother's dead and we shall have to bring it up by hand. "

"I doubt if you will. "

"Oh yes, I shall save it. It can suck all right. You might tell Colinabout it. He looks after the sick lambs. "

She got up and stood looking down at the lamb tucked in its blanket, while Jerrold looked at her. When she looked down Anne's face wasdivinely tender, as if all the love in the world was in her heart. Heloved to agony that tender, downward-looking face. 

She raised her eyes and saw his fixed on her, heavy and wounded, and hisface strained and drawn with pain. And again she was frightened. 

"Jerrold, you _are_ ill. What is it?"

"Don't. They'll hear us. " He glanced at the open door. 

"They can't. He's in church and she's upstairs in the bedrooms. "

"Can't you leave that animal and come somewhere where we can talk?"

"Come, then. "

He followed her out through the hall and into the small, oak-panelleddining-room. They sat down there in chairs that faced each other oneither side of the fireplace. 

"What is it?" she repeated. "Have you got a pain?"

"A beastly pain. "

"How long have you had it?"

"Ever since you went away. I lied when I told you it was Colin. Itisn't. "

"What is it, then? Tell me. Tell me. "

"It's not seeing you. It's this insane life we're leading. It's makingme ill. You don't know what it's been like. And I can't keep my promise. I--I love you too damnably. "

"Oh, Jerrold--does it hurt as much as that?"

"You know how it hurts. "

"I don't want you to be hurt----But--darling--if you care for me likethat how could you marry Maisie?"

"Because I cared for you. Because I was so mad about you that nothingmattered. I thought I might as well marry her as not. "

"But if you didn't care for her?"

"I did. I do, in a way. Maisie's awfully sweet. Besides, it wasn't that. You see, I was going out to France, and I thought I was bound to bekilled. Nobody could go on having the luck I'd had. I wanted to bekilled. "

"So you were sure it would happen. You always thought things wouldhappen if you wanted them. "

"I was absolutely sure. I was never more sold in my life than when itdidn't. Even then I thought it would be all right till Eliot told me. Then I knew that if I hadn't been in such a damned hurry I might havemarried you. "

"Poor Maisie. "

"Poor Maisie. But she doesn't know. And if she did I don't think she'dmind much. I married her because I thought she cared about me--andbecause I thought I'd be killed before I could come back to her--But shedoesn't care a damn. So you needn't bother about Maisie. And you won'tgo away again?"

"I won't go away as long as you want me. "

"That's all right then. "

He looked at his watch. 

"I must be off. They'll be coming out of church. I don't want them tosee me here now because I'm coming back in the evening. We shall have tobe awfully careful how we see each other. I say--I _may_ come thisevening, mayn't I?"

"Yes. "

"Same time as last Sunday? You'll be alone then?"

"Yes. " Her voice sounded as if it didn't belong to her. As if some otherperson stronger than she, were answering for her. 

When he had gone she called after him. 

"Don't forget to tell Colin about the lamb. "

She went upstairs and slipped off her farm clothes and put on thebrown-silk frock she had worn when he last came to her. She looked inthe glass and was glad that she was beautiful. 

iv

She began to count the minutes and the hours till Jerrold came. Dinnertime passed. 

All afternoon she was restless and excited. She wandered from room toroom, as if she were looking for something she couldn't find. She wentto and fro between the dining-room and kitchen to see how the lamb wasgetting on. Wrapped in its blanket, it lay asleep after its meal ofmilk. Its body was warm to the touch and under its soft ribs she couldfeel the beating of its heart. It would live. 

Two o'clock. She took up the novel she had been reading before Jerroldhad come and tried to get back into it. Ten minutes passed. She had readthrough three pages without taking in a word. Her mind went back andback to Jerrold, to the morning of today, to the evening of last Sunday, going over and over the things they had said to each other; seeingJerrold again, with every movement, every gesture, the sudden shiningand darkening of his eyes, and his tense drawn look of pain. How shemust have hurt him!

It was his looking at her like that, as if she had hurt him--Anne nevercould hold out against other people's unhappiness. 

Half past two. 

She kicked off her shoes, put on her thick boots and her coat, andwalked two miles up the road towards Medlicote, for no reason but thatshe couldn't sit still. It was not four o'clock when she got back. Shewent into the kitchen and looked at the lamb again. 

She thought: Supposing Colin comes down to see it when Jerrold's here?But he wouldn't come. Jerrold would take care of that. Or supposing theKimbers stayed in? They wouldn't. They never did. And if they did, whynot? Why shouldn't Jerrold come to see her?

Four o'clock struck. She had the fire lit in the big upstairssitting-room. Tea was brought to her there. Mrs. Kimber glanced at herwhere she lay back on the couch, her hands hanging loose in her lap. 

"You're tired after all your week's work, miss?"

"A little. "

"And I dare say you miss Mr. Colin?"

"Yes, I miss him very much. "

"No doubt he'll be coming down to see the lamb. "

"Oh yes; he'll want to see the lamb. "

"And you're sure you don't mind me and Kimber going out, miss?"

"Not a bit. I like you to go. "

"It's a wonder to me, " said Mrs. Kimber, "as you're not afraid to beleft alone in this 'ere house. But Kimber says, Miss Anne, she isn'tafraid of nothing. And I don't suppose you are, what with going out tothe war and all. "

"There's not much to be afraid of here. "

"That there isn't. Not unless 'tis people's nasty tongues. "

"_They_ don't frighten me, Mrs. Kimber. "

"No, miss. I should think not indeed. And no reason why they should. "

And Mrs. Kimber left her. 

A sound of pails clanking came from the yard. That was Minchin, the cowman, going from the dairy to the cow sheds. Milking time, then. It mustbe half past four. 

Five o'clock, the slamming of the front door, the click of the gate, andthe Kimbers' voices in the road below as they went towards Wyck. 

Anne was alone. 

Only half an hour and Jerrold would be with her. The beating of herheart was her measure of time now. What would have happened before hehad gone again? She didn't know. She didn't try to know. It was enoughthat she knew herself, and Jerrold; that she hadn't humbugged herself orhim, pretending that their passion was anything but what it was. She sawit clearly in its reality. They couldn't go on as they were. In the endsomething must happen. They were being drawn to each other, irresistibly, inevitably, nearer and nearer, and Anne knew that a momentwould come when she would give herself to him. But that it would cometoday or to-morrow or at any fore-appointed time she did not know. Itwould come, if it came at all, when she was not looking for it. She hadno purpose in her, no will to make it come. 

She couldn't think. It was no use trying to. The thumping of her heartbeat down her thoughts. Her brain swam in a warm darkness. Every now andthen names drifted to her out of the darkness: Colin--Eliot--Maisie. 

Maisie. Only a name, a sound that haunted her always, like a vague, sweet perfume from an unknown place. But it forced her to think. 

What about Maisie? It would have been awful to take Jerrold away fromMaisie, if she cared for him. But she wasn't taking him away. Shecouldn't take away what Maisie had never had. And Maisie didn't care forJerrold; and if she didn't care she had no right to keep him. She hadnothing but her legal claim. 

Besides, what was done was done. The sin against Maisie had beencommitted already in Jerrold's heart when it turned from her. Whateverhappened, or didn't happen, afterwards, nothing could undo that. AndMaisie wouldn't suffer. She wouldn't know. Her thoughts went out againon the dark flood. She couldn't think any more. 

Half past five. 

She started up at the click of the gate. That was Jerrold. 

v

He came to her quickly and took her in his arms. And her brain wasswamped again with the warm, heavy darkness. She could feel nothing buther pulses beating, beating against his, and the quick droning of theblood in her ears. Her head was bent to his breast; he stooped andkissed the nape of her neck, lightly, brushing the smooth, sweet, roseleaf skin. They stood together, pressed close, closer, to eachother. He clasped his hands at the back of her head and drew it to him. She leaned it hard against the clasping hands, tilting it so that shesaw his face, before it stooped again, closing down on hers. 

Their arms slackened; they came apart, drawing their hands slowly, reluctantly, down from each other's shoulders. 

They sat down, she on her couch and he in Colin's chair. 

"Is Colin coming?" she said. 

"No, he isn't. "

"Well--the lamb's better. "

"I never told him about the lamb. I didn't want him to come. "

"Is he all right?"

"I left him playing. "

The darkness had gone from her brain and the tumult from her senses. Shefelt nothing but her heart straining towards him in an immensetenderness that was half pity. 

"Are you thinking about Colin?" he said. 

"No. I'm not thinking about anything but you... _Now_ you know why I washappy looking after Colin. Why I was happy working on the land. Becausehe was your brother. Because it was your land. Because there wasn'tanything else I could do for you. "

"And I've done nothing for you. I've only hurt you horribly. I'vebrought you nothing but trouble and danger. "

"I don't care. "

"No, but think. Anne darling, this is going to be a very risky business. Are you sure you can go through with it? Are you sure you're notafraid?"

"I've never been much afraid of anything. "

"I ought to be afraid for you. "

"Don't. Don't be afraid. The more dangerous it is the better I shalllike it. "

"I don't know. It was bad enough in all conscience for you and Colin. It'll be worse for us if we're found out. Of course we shan't be foundout, but there's always a risk. And it would be worse for you than forme, Anne. "

"I don't care. I want it to be. Besides, it won't. It'll be far worsefor you because of Maisie. That's the only thing that makes it wrong. "

"Don't think about that, darling. "

"I don't. If it's wrong, it's wrong. I don't care how wrong it is if itmakes you happy. And if God's going to punish either of us I hope it'llbe me. "

"God? The God doesn't exist who could punish _you_. "

"I don't care if he does punish me so long as you're let off. "

She came over to him and slid to the floor and crouched beside him andlaid her head against his knees. She clasped his knees tight with herarms. 

"I don't want you to be hurt, " she said. "I can't bear you to be hurt. But what can I do?"

"Stay like that. Close. Don't go. "

She stayed, pressing her face down tighter, rubbing her cheek againsthis rough tweed. He put his arm round her shoulder, holding her there;his fingers stroked, stroked the back of her neck, pushed up through thefine roots of her hair, giving her the caress she loved. Her nervesthrilled with a sudden secret bliss. 

"Jerrold, it's heaven when you touch me. "

"I know. It's hell for me when I don't. "

"I didn't know. I didn't know. If only I'd known. "

"We know now. "

There was a long silence. Now and again she felt him stirring uneasily. Once he sighed and her heart tightened. At last he bent over her andlifted her up and set her on his knee. She lay back gathered in hisarms, with her head on his breast, satisfied, like a child. 

"Jerrold, do you remember how you used to hold me to keep me fromfalling in the goldfish pond?"

"Yes. "

"I've loved you ever since then. "

"Do you remember how I kissed you when I went to school?"

"Yes. "

"And the night that Nicky died?"

"Yes. "

"I've been sleeping in that room, because it was yours. "

"Have you? Did you love me _then_, that night?"

"Yes. But I didn't know I did. And then Father's death came and stoppedit. "

"I know. I know. "

"Anne, what a brute I was to you. Can you ever forgive me?"

"I forgave you long ago. "

"Talk of punishments--"

"Don't talk of punishments. "

Presently they left off talking, and he kissed her. He kissed her againand again, with light kisses brushing her face for its sweetness, withquick, hard kisses that hurt, with slow, deep kisses that stayed wherethey fell; kisses remembered and unremembered, longed for, imagined andunimaginable. 

The church bell began ringing for service, short notes first, tinklingand tinkling; then a hurrying and scattering of sounds, sounds fallingtogether, running into each other, covering each other; one longthrobbing and clanging sound; and then hard, slow strokes, measuring outthe seconds like a clock. They waited till the bell ceased. 

The dusk gathered. It spread from the corners to the middle of the room. The tall white arch of the chimney-piece jutted out through the dusk. 

Anne stirred slightly. 

"I say, how dark it's getting. "

"Yes. I like it. Don't get the lamp. "

They sat clinging together, waiting for the dark. 

The window panes were a black glimmer in the grey. He got up and drewthe curtains, shutting out the black glimmer of the panes. He came toher and lifted her in his arms and carried her to the couch and laid heron it. 

She shut her eyes and waited. 

XIV

MAISIE

i

He didn't know what he was going to do about Maisie. 

On a fine, warm day in April Maisie had come home. He had motored her upfrom the station, and now the door of the drawing-room had closed onthem and they were alone together in there. 

"Oh, Jerrold--it _is_ nice--to see you--again. "

She panted a little, a way she had when she was excited. 

"Awfully nice, " he said, and wondered what on earth he was going to donext. 

He had been all right on the station platform where their greetings hadbeen public and perfunctory, but now he would have to do somethingintimate and, above all, spontaneous, not to stand there like a stick. 

They looked at each other and he took again the impression she hadalways given him of delicate beauty and sweetness. She was tall and herneck bent slightly forward as she walked; this gave her the air ofbowing prettily, of offering you something with a charming grace. Hershoulders and her hips had the same long, slenderly sloping curves. Herhair was mole brown on the top and turned back in an old-fashioned waythat uncovered its hidden gold. Her face was white; the thin bluishwhiteness of skim milk. Her mauve blue eyes looked larger than they werebecause of their dark brows and lashes, and the faint mauve smears abouttheir lids. The line of her little slender nose went low and straight inthe bridge, then curved under, delicately acquiline, its nostrils wereclose and clean cut. Her small, close upper lip had a flying droop; andher chin curved slightly, ever so slightly, away to her throat. When shetalked Maisie's mouth and the tip of her nose kept up the samesensitive, quivering play. But Maisie's eyes were still; they had nosparkling speech; they listened, deeply attentive to the person who wasthere. They took up the smile her mouth began and was too small tofinish. 

And now, as they looked at him, he felt that he ought to take her in hisarms, suddenly, at once. In another instant it would be too late, theaction would have lost the grace of spontaneous impulse. He wondered howyou simulated a spontaneous impulse. 

But Maisie made it all right for him. As he stood waiting for hisimpulse she came to him and laid her hands on his shoulders and kissedhim, gently, on each cheek. Her hands slid down; they pressed hardagainst his arms above the elbow, as if to keep back his too passionateembrace. It was easy enough to return her kiss, to pass his arms underhers and press her slight body, gently, with his cramped hands. Did sheknow that his heart was not in it?

No. She knew nothing. 

"What have you been doing with yourself?" she said. "You do look fit. "

"Do I? Oh, nothing much. "

He turned away from her sweet eyes that hurt him. 

At least he could bring forward a chair for her, and put cushions at herback, and pour out her tea and wait on her. He tried by a number ofcareful, deliberate attentions to make up for his utter lack ofspontaneity. And she sat there, drinking her tea, contented; pleased tobe back in her happy home; serenely unaware that anything was missing. 

He took her over the house and showed her her room, the long room withthe two south windows, one on each side of the square, cross-lighted bayabove the porch. It was full of the clear April light. 

Maisie looked round, taking it all in, the privet-white panels, thelovely faded Persian rugs, the curtains of old rose damask. An armchairand a round table with a bowl of pink tulips on it stood in the centreof the bay. 

"Is this mine, this heavenly room?"

"I thought so. "

He was glad that he had something beautiful to give her, to make up. 

She glanced at the inner door leading to his father's room. "Is thatyours in there?"

"Mine? No. That door's locked. It... I'm on the other side next toColin. "

"Show me. "

He took her into the gallery and showed her. 

"It's that door over there at the end. "

"What a long way off, " she said. 

"Why? You're not afraid, are you?"

"Dear me, no. Could anybody be afraid here?"

"Poor Colin's pretty jumpy still. That's why I have to be near him. "

"I see. "

"You won't mind having him with us, will you?"

"I shall love having him. Always. I hope he won't mind _me_. "

"He'll adore you, of course. "

"Now show me the garden. "

They went out on to the green terraces where the peacocks spread theirgreat tails of yew. Maisie loved the peacocks and the clipped yew wallsand the goldfish pond and the flower garden. 

He walked quickly, afraid to linger, afraid of having to talk to her. Hefelt as if the least thing she said would be charged with someunendurable emotion and that at any minute he might be called on torespond. To be sure this was not like what he knew of Maisie; but, everything having changed for him, he felt that at any minute Maisiemight begin to be unlike herself. 

She was out of breath. She put her hand on his arm. "Don't go so fast, Jerry. I want to look and look. "

They went up on to the west terrace and stood there, looking. Brown-crimson velvet wall-flowers grew in a thick hedge under theterrace wall; their hot sweet smell came up to them. 

"It's too beautiful for words, " she said. 

"I'm glad you like it. It is rather a jolly old place. "

"It's the most adorable place I've ever been in. It looks so good andhappy. As if everybody who ever lived in it had been good and happy. "

"I don't know about that. It was a hospital for four years. And ithasn't quite recovered yet. It's all a bit worn and shabby, I'm afraid. "

"I don't care. I love its shabbiness. I don't want to forget what it'sbeen.... To think that I've missed seven weeks of it. "

"You haven't missed much. We've had beastly weather all March. "

"I've missed _you_. Seven weeks of you. "

"I think you'll get over that, " he said, perversely. 

"I shan't. It's left a horrid empty space. But I couldn't help it. Ireally couldn't, Jerry. "

"All right, Maisie, I'm sure you couldn't. "

"Torquay was simply horrible. And this is heaven. Oh, Jerry dear, I'mgoing to be so awfully happy. "

He looked at her with a sudden tenderness of pity. She was visiblyhappy. He remembered that her charm for him had been her habit ofenjoyment. And as he looked at her he saw nothing but sadness in herhappiness and in her sweetness and her beauty. But the sadness was notin her, it was in his own soul. Women like Maisie were made for men tobe faithful to them. And he had not been faithful to her. She was madefor love and he had not loved her. She was nothing to him. Looking ather he was filled with pity for the beauty and sweetness that werenothing to him. And in that pity and that sadness he felt for the firsttime the uneasy stirring of his soul. 

If only he could have broken the physical tie that had bound him to heruntil now; if only they could give it all up and fall back on someinnocent, immaterial relationship that meant no unfaithfulness to Anne. 

When he thought of Anne he didn't know for the life of him how he wasgoing through with it. 

ii

Maisie had been talking to him for some seconds before he understood. Atlast he saw that, for reasons which she was unable to make clear to him, she was letting him off. He wouldn't have to go through with it. 

As Jerrold's mind never foresaw anything he didn't want to see, so inthis matter of Maisie he had had no plan. Not that he trusted to theinspiration of the moment; in its very nature the moment wouldn't havean inspiration. He had simply refused to think about it at all. It wastoo unpleasant. But Maisie's presence forced the problem on him withsome violence. He had given himself to Anne without a scruple, but whenit came to giving himself to Maisie his conscience developed a suddensense of guiltiness. For Jerrold was essentially faithful; only hisfidelity was all for Anne. His marrying Maisie had been a sin againstAnne, its sinfulness disguised because he had had no pleasure in it. Thethought of going back to Maisie after Anne revolted him; the thought ofAnne having to share him with Maisie revolted him. Nobody, he said tohimself, was ever less polygamous than he. 

At the same time he was sorry for Maisie. He didn't want her to suffer, and if she was not to suffer she must not know, and if she was not toknow they must go on as they had begun. He was haunted by the fear ofMaisie's knowing and suffering. The pity he felt for her was poignantand accusing, as if somehow she did know and suffer. She must at leastbe aware that something was wanting. He would have to make up to hersomehow for what she had missed; he would have to give her all the otherthings she wanted for that one thing. Maisie's coldness might have madeit easy for him. Nothing could move Jerrold from his conviction thatMaisie was cold, that she was incapable of caring for him as Anne cared. His peace of mind and the freedom of his conscience depended on thisbelief. But, in spite of her coldness, Maisie wanted children. He knewthat. 

According to Jerrold's code Maisie's children would be an injury toAnne, a perpetual insult. But Anne would forgive him; she wouldunderstand; she wouldn't want to hurt Maisie. 

So he went through with it. 

And now he made out that mercifully, incredibly, he was being let off. He wouldn't have to go on. 

He stood by Maisie's bed looking down at her as she lay there. She hadgrasped his hands by the wrists, as if to hold back their possiblecaress. And her little breathless voice went on, catching itself up andtripping. 

"You won't mind--if I don't let you--come to me?"

"I'm sorry, Maisie. I didn't know you felt like that about it. "

"I don't. It isn't because I don't love you. It's just my silly nerves. I get frightened. "

"I know. I know. It'll be all right. I won't bother you. "

"Mother said I oughtn't to ask you. She said you wouldn't understand andit would be too hard for you. _Will_ it?"

"No, of course it won't. I understand perfectly. "

He tried to sound like one affectionately resigned, decently renouncing, not as though he felt this blessedness of relief, absolved from dread, mercifully and incredibly let off. 

But Maisie's sweetness hated to refuse and frustrate; it couldn't bearto hurt him. She held him tighter. "Jerrold--if it _is_--if you can'tstand it, you mustn't mind about me. You must forget I ever saidanything. It's nothing but nerves. "

"I shall be all right. Don't worry. "

"You _are_ a darling. "

Her grasp slackened. "Please--please go. At once. Quick. "

As he went she put her hand to her heart. She could feel the paincoming. It filled her with an indescribable dread. Every time it cameshe thought she should die of it. If only she didn't get so excited;excitement always brought it on. She held her breath tight to keep itback. 

Ah, it had come. Splinters of glass, sharp splinters of glass, firstpricking, then piercing, then tearing her heart. Her heart closed downon the splinters of glass, cutting itself at every beat. 

She looked under the pillow for the little silver box that held herpearls of nitrate of amyl. She always had it with her, ready. Shecrushed a pearl in her pocket handkerchief and held it to her nostrils. The pain left her. She lay still. 

iii

And every Sunday at six in the evening, or nine (he varied the hour toescape suspicion), Jerrold came to Anne. 

In the weeks before Maisie's coming and after, Anne's happiness wasperfect, intense and secret like the bliss of a saint in ecstasy, ofgenius contemplating its finished work. In giving herself to Jerrold shehad found reality. She gave herself without shame and without remorse, or any fear of the dangerous risks they ran. Their passion was too cleanfor fear or remorse or shame. She thought love was a finer thing goingfree and in danger than sheltered and safe and bound. The game of loveshould be played with a high, defiant courage; you were not fit to playit if you fretted and cowered. Both she and Jerrold came to it with anextreme simplicity, taking it for granted. They never vowed or protestedor swore not to go back on it or on each other. It was inconceivablethat they should go back on it. And as Anne saw no beginning to it, shesaw no end. All her past was in her love for Jerrold; there never hadbeen a time when she had ceased to love him. This moment when theyembraced was only the meeting point between what had been and what wouldbe. Nothing could have disturbed Anne's conscience but the sense thatJerrold didn't belong to her, that he had no right to love her; and shehad never had that sense. They had belonged to each other, always, fromthe time when they were children playing together. Maisie was theintruder, who had no right, who had taken what didn't belong to her. AndAnne could have forgiven even that if Maisie had had the excuse of agreat passion; but Maisie didn't care. 

So Anne, unlike Jerrold, was not troubled by thinking about Maisie. Shehad never seen Jerrold's wife; she didn't want to see her. So long asshe didn't see her it was as if Maisie were not there. 

And yet she _was_ there. Next to Jerrold she was more there for Annethan the people she saw every day. Maisie's presence made itself felt inall the risks they ran. She was the hindrance, not to perfect bliss, butto a continuous happiness. She was the reason why they could only meetat intervals for one difficult and dangerous hour. Because of Maisie, Jerrold, instead of behaving like himself with a reckless disregard ofconsequences, had to think out the least revolting ways by which theymight evade them. He had to set up some sort of screen for his Sundayvisits to the Manor Farm. Thus he made a habit of long walks after darkon week-days and of unpunctuality at meals. To avoid being seen by thecottagers he approached the house from behind, by the bridge over themill-water and through the orchard to the back door. Luckily the estateprovided him with an irreproachable and permanent pretext for seeingAnne. 

For Jerrold, going about with Anne over the Manor Farm, had conceived aprofound passion for his seven hundred acres. At last he had come intohis inheritance; and if it was Anne Severn who showed him how to use it, so that he could never separate his love of it from his love of her, theland had an interest of its own that soon excited and absorbed him. Hedetermined to take up farming seriously and look after his estatehimself when Anne had Sutton's farm. Anne would teach him all she knew, and he could finish up with a year or two at the Agricultural College inCirencester. He had found the work he most wanted to do, the work hebelieved he could do best. All the better if it brought him every daythis irreproachable companionship with Anne. His conscience was appeasedby Maisie's coldness, and Jerrold told himself that the life he led nowwas the best possible life for a sane man. His mind was clear and keen;his body was splendidly fit; his love for Anne was perfect, hiscompanionship with her was perfect, their understanding of each otherwas perfect. They would never be tired of each other and never bored. Herode with her over the hills and tramped with her through the furrows inall weathers. 

At times he would approach her through some sense, sharper than sight ortouch, that gave him her inmost immaterial essence. She would be sittingquietly in a room or standing in a field when suddenly he would be thusaware of her. These moments had a reality and certainty more poignanteven than the moment of his passion. 

At last they ceased to think about their danger. They felt, ironically, that they were protected by the legend that made Anne and Colin lovers. In the eyes of the Kimbers and Nanny Sutton and the vicar's wife, andthe Corbetts and Hawtreys and Markhams, Jerrold was the stern guardianof his brother's morals. They were saying now that Captain Fielding hadput a stop to the whole disgraceful affair; he had forced Colin to leavethe Manor Farm house; and he had taken over the estate in order to keepan eye on his brother and Anne Severn. 

Anne was not concerned with what they said. She felt that Jerrold andshe were safe so long as she didn't know Maisie. It never struck herthat Maisie would want to know _her_, since nobody else did. 

iv

But Maisie did want to know Anne and for that reason. One day she cameto Jerrold with the visiting cards. 

"The Corbetts and Hawtreys have called. Shall I like them?"

"I don't know. _I_ won't have anything to do with them. "

"Why not?"

"Because of the beastly way they've behaved to Anne Severn. "

"What have they done?"

"Done? They've been perfect swine. They've cut her for five yearsbecause she looked after Colin. They've said the filthiest things abouther. "

"What sort of things?"

"Why, that Colin was her lover. "

"Oh Jerrold, how abominable. Just because she was a saint. "

"Anne wouldn't care what anybody said about her. My mother left her allby herself here to take care of him and she wouldn't leave him. Shethought of nothing but him. "

"She must be a perfect angel. "

"She is. "

"But about these horrible people--what do you want me to do?"

"Do what you like. "

"_I_ don't want to know them. I'm thinking what would be best for Anne. "

"You needn't worry about Anne. It isn't as if she was _your_ friend. "

"But she _is_ if she's yours and Colin's. I mean I want her to be.... Ithink I'd better call on these Corbett and Hawtrey people and just showthem how we care about her. Then cut them dead afterwards if they aren'tdecent to her. It'll be far more telling than if I began by beingrude.... Only, Jerrold, how absurd--I don't know Anne. _She_ hasn'tcalled yet. "

"She probably thinks you wouldn't want to know her. "

"Do you mean because of what they've said? That's the very reason. Why, she's the only person here I do want to know. I think I fell in lovewith the sound of her when you first told me about her and how she tookcare of Colin. We must do everything we can to make up. We must have herhere a lot and give her a jolly time. "

He looked at her. 

"Maisie, you really _are_ rather a darling. "

"I'm not. But I think Anne Severn must be.... Shall I go and see her orwill you bring her?"

"I think--perhaps--I'd better bring her, first. "

He spoke slowly, considering it. 

Tomorrow was Sunday. He would bring her to tea, and in the evening hewould walk back with her. 

On Sunday afternoon he went down to the Manor Farm. He found Anneupstairs in the big sitting-room. 

"Oh Jerrold, darling, I didn't think you'd come so soon. "

"Maisie sent me. "

"Maisie?"

For the first time in his knowledge of her Anne looked frightened. 

"Yes. She wants to know you. I'm to bring you to tea. "

"But--it's impossible. I can't know her. I don't want to. Can't you seehow impossible it is?"

"No, I can't. It's perfectly natural. She's heard a lot about you. "

"I've no doubt she has. Jerrold--do you think she guesses?"

"About you and me? Never. It's the last thing she'd think of. She'sabsolutely guileless. "

"That makes it worse. "

"You don't know, " he said, "how she feels about you. She's furious withthese brutes here because they've cut you. She says she'll cut _them_ ifthey won't be decent to you. "

"Oh, worse and worse!"

"You're afraid of her?"

"I didn't know I was. But I am. Horribly afraid. "

"Really, Anne dear, there's nothing to be afraid of. She's not a bitdangerous. "

"Don't you see that that makes her dangerous, her not being? You've toldme a hundred times how sweet she is. Well--I don't want to see how sweetshe is. "

"Her sweetness doesn't matter. "

"It matters to me. If I once see her, Jerrold, nothing'll ever be thesame again. "

"Darling, really it's the only thing you can do. Think. If you don't, can't you see how it'll give the show away? She'd wonder what on earthyou meant by it. We've got to behave as if nothing had happened. Thisisn't behaving as if nothing had happened, is it?"

"No. You see, it has happened. Oh Jerrold, I wouldn't mind if only wecould be straight about it. But it'll mean lying and lying, and I can'tbear it. I'd rather go out and tell everybody and face the music. "

"So would I. But we can't.... Look here, Anne. We don't care a damn whatpeople think. You wouldn't care if we were found out to-morrow----"

"I wouldn't. It would be the best thing that could happen to us. "

"To us, yes. If Maisie divorced me. Then we could marry. It would be allright for us. Not for Maisie. You do care about hurting Maisie, don'tyou?"

"Yes. I couldn't bear her to be hurt. If only I needn't see her. "

"Darling, you must see her. You can't not. I want you to. "

"Well, if you want it so awfully, I will. But I tell you it won't be thesame thing, afterwards, ever. "

"I shall be the same, Anne. And you. "

"Me? I wonder. "

He rose, smiling down at her. 

"Come, " he said. "Don't let's be late. "

She went. 

v

In the garden with Maisie, the long innocent conversation coming backand back; Maisie's sweetness haunting her, known now and remembered. Maisie walking in the garden among the wall flowers and tulips, betweenthe clipped walls of yew, showing Anne her flowers. She stooped to lifttheir faces, to caress them with her little thin white fingers. 

"I don't know why I'm showing you round, " she said; "you know it allmuch better than I do. "

"Oh, well, I used to come here a lot when I was little. I sort of livedhere. "

Maisie's eyes listened, utterly attentive. 

"You knew Jerrold, then, when he was little, too?"

"Yes. He was eight when I was five. "

"Do you remember what he was like?"

"Yes. "

Maisie waited to see whether Anne were going on or not, but as Annestopped dead she went on herself. 

"I wish _I_'d known Jerry all the time like that. I wish I rememberedrunning about and playing with him.... You were Jerrold's friend, weren't you?"

"And Elliot's and Colin's. "

The lying had begun. Falsehood by implication. And to this creature ofpalpable truth. 

"Somehow, I've always thought of you as Jerrold's most. That's whatmakes me feel as if you were mine, as if I'd known you quite a longtime. You see, he's told me things about you. "

"Has he?"

Anne's voice was as dull and flat as she could make it. If only Maisiewould leave off talking about Jerrold, making her lie. 

"I've wanted to know you more than anybody I've ever heard of. There areheaps of things I want to say to you. " She stooped to pick the lasttulip of the bunch she was gathering for Anne. "I think it was perfectlysplendid of you the way you looked after Colin. And the way you'velooked after Jerry's land for him. "

"That was nothing. I was very glad to do it for Jerrold, but it was myjob, anyway. "

"Well, you've saved Colin. And you've saved the land. What's more, Ibelieve you've saved Jerrold. "

"How do you mean, 'saved' him? I didn't know he wanted saving. "

"He did, rather. I mean you've made him care about the estate. He didn'tcare a rap about it till he came down here this last time. You've foundhis job for him. "

"He'd have found it himself all right without me. "

"I'm not so sure. We were awfully worried about him after the war. Hewas all at a loose end without anything to do. And dreadfully restless. We thought he'd never settle to anything again. And I was afraid he'dwant to live in London. "

"I don't think he'd ever do that. "

"He won't now. But, you see, he used to be afraid of this place. "

"I know. After his father's death. "

"And he simply loves it now. I think it's because he's seen what you'vedone with it. I know he hadn't the smallest idea of farming it before. It's what he ought to have been doing all his life. And when you thinkhow seedy he was when he came down here, and how fit he is now. "

"I think, " Anne said, "I'd better be going. "

Maisie's innocence was more than she could bear. 

"Jerry'll see you home. And you'll come again, won't you? Soon.... Willyou take them? I gathered them for you. "

"Thanks. Thanks awfully. " Anne's voice came with a jerk. Her breathchoked her. 

Jerrold was coming down the garden walk, looking for her. She saidgood-bye to Maisie and turned to go with him home. 

"Well, " he said, "how did you and Maisie get on?"

"It was exactly what I thought it would be, only worse. "

He laughed. "Worse?"

"I mean she was sweeter.... Jerrold, she makes me feel such a brute. Such an awful brute. And if she ever knows--"

"She won't know. "

When he had left her Anne flung herself down on the couch and cried. 

All evening Maisie's tulips stood up in the blue-and-white Chinese bowlon the table. They had childlike, innocent faces that reproached her. Nothing would ever be the same again. 

XV

ANNE, JERROLD, AND MAISIE

i

It was a Sunday in the middle of April. 

Jerrold had motored up to London on the Friday and had brought Eliotback with him for the week-end. Anne had come over as she always did ona Sunday afternoon. She and Maisie were sitting out on the terrace whenEliot came to them, walking with the tired limp that Anne found piteousand adorable. Very soon Maisie murmured some gentle, unintelligibleexcuse, and left them. 

There was a moment of silence in which everything they had ever said toeach other was present to them, making all other speech unnecessary, asif they held a long intimate conversation. Eliot sat very still, notlooking at her, yet attentive as if he listened to the passing of thoseunuttered words. Then Anne spoke and her voice broke up his mood. 

"What are you doing now? Bacteriology?"

"Yes. We've found the thing we were looking for, the germ of trenchfever. "

"You mean _you_ have. "

"Well, somebody would have spotted it if I hadn't. A lot of us were outfor it. "

"Oh Eliot, I am so glad. That means you'll stamp out the disease, doesn't it?"

"Probably. In time. "

"I knew you'd do it. I knew you'd do something big before you'dfinished. "

"My dear, I've only just begun. But there's nothing big about it but theresearch, and we were all in that. All looking for the same thing. Happening to spot it is just heaven's own luck. "

"But aren't you glad it was you?"

"It doesn't matter who it is. But I suppose I'm glad. It's the sort ofthing I wanted to do and it's rather more important than most things onedoes. "

He said no more. Years ago, when he had done nothing, he had talkedexcitedly and arrogantly about his work; now that he had done what hehad set out to do he was reserved, impassive and very humble. 

"Do Jerrold and Colin know?" she said. 

"Not yet. You're the first. "

"Dear Eliot, you _did_ know I'd be glad. "

"It's nice of you to care. "

Of course she cared. She was glad to think that he had that supremesatisfaction to make up for the cruelty of her refusal to care more. Perhaps, she thought, he wouldn't have had it if he had had her. Hewould have been torn in two; he would have had to give himself twiceover. She felt that he didn't love her more than he loved his science, and science exacted an uninterrupted and undivided service. One lifehadn't room enough for two such loves, and he might not have done somuch if she had been there, calling back his thoughts, drawing hispassion to herself. 

"What are you going to do next?" she said. 

"Next I'm going off for a month's holiday. To Sicily--Taormina. I'vebeen overworking and I'm a bit run down. How about Colin?"

"He's better. Heaps better. He soon got over that relapse he had when Iwas away in February. "

"You mean he got over it when you came back. "

"Well, yes, it was when I came back. That's just what I don't like abouthim, Eliot. He's getting dependent on me, and it's bad for him. I wishhe could go away somewhere for a change. A long change. Away from me, away from the farm, away from Wyck, somewhere where he hasn't beenbefore. It might cure him, mightn't it?"

"Yes, " he said. "Yes. It would be worth trying. "

He didn't look at her. He knew what she was going to say. She said it. 

"Eliot--do you think you could take him with you? Could you stand thestrain?"

"If you could stand it for four years I ought to be able to stand it fora month. "

"If he gets better it won't be a strain. He isn't a bit of trouble whenhe's well. He's adorable. Only--perhaps--if you're run down you oughtn'tto. "

"I'm not so bad as all that. The only thing is, you say he ought to getaway from you, and I wanted you to come too. "

"Me?"

"You and Maisie and Jerrold. "

"I can't. It's impossible. I can't leave the farm. "

"My dear girl, you mustn't be tied to it like that. Don't you ever getaway?"

"Not unless Jerrold or Colin are here. We can't all three be away atonce. But it's awfully nice of you to think of it. "

"I didn't. It was Maisie. "

Maisie? Would she never get away from Maisie, and Maisie's sweetness andkindness, breaking her down?

"She'll be awfully disappointed if you don't go. "

"Why should she be?"

"Because she wants you to. "

"Maisie?"

"Yes. Surely you know she likes you?"

"I was afraid she was beginning to--"

"Why? Don't you want her to like you? Don't you like _her_?"

"Yes. And I don't want to like her. If I once begin I shall end byloving her. "

"My dear, it would be the best thing you could do. "

"No, Eliot, it wouldn't. You don't know.... Here she is. "

Maisie came to them along the terrace. She moved with an unresistinggrace, a delicate bowing of her head and swaying of her body, andbreathless as if she went against a wind. Eliot gave up his chair andlimped away from them. 

"Has he told you about Taormina?" she said. 

"Yes. It's sweet of you to ask me to go with you----"

"You're coming, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid I can't. "

"Why ever not?"

"I can't leave the land for one thing. Not if Jerrold and Colin aren'there. "

"Oh, bother the old land! You _must_ leave it. It can get on without youfor a month or two. Nothing much can happen in that time. "

"Oh, can't it! Things can happen in a day if you aren't there to seethat they don't. "

"Well, Jerrold won't mind much if they do. But he'll mind awfully if youdon't come. So shall I. Besides, it's all settled. He's to come backwith Eliot in time for the hay harvest, and you and I and Colin are togo on to the Italian Lakes. My father and mother are joining us at Comoin June. We shall be there a month and come home through Switzerland. "

"It would be heavenly, but I can't do it. I can't, really, Maisie. " Shewas thinking: He'll be back for the hay harvest. 

"But you must. You can't go and spoil all our pleasure like that. Jerrold's and Eliot's and Colin's. _And_ mine. I never dreamed of yournot coming. "

"Do you mean you really want me?"

"Of course I want you. So does Jerrold. It won't be the same thing atall without you. I want to see you enjoying yourself for once. You'd doit so well. I believe I want to see that more than Taormina and theItalian Lakes. Do say you'll come. "

"Maisie--why are you such an angel to me?"

"I'm not. I want you to come because--oh _because_ I want you. Because Ilike you. I'm happy when you're there. So's Jerrold. Don't go and sayyou care more for the land than Jerrold and me. "

"I don't. I--It isn't the land altogether. It's Colin. I want him to getaway from me for a time and do without me. It's frightfully importantthat he should get away. "

"We could send Colin to another part of the island with Eliot. Only thatwouldn't be very kind to Eliot. "

"No. It won't do, Maisie. I'll go off somewhere when you've come back. "

"But that's no good to _us_. Jerrold will be here for the haying, ifyou're thinking of that. "

"I'm not thinking of that. I'm thinking of Colin. "

As she said it she knew that she was lying. Lying to Maisie. Lying forthe first time. That came of knowing Maisie; it came of Maisie'ssweetness. She would have to lie and lie. She was not thinking of Colinnow; she was thinking that if Jerrold came back for the hay harvest andMaisie went on with Colin to the Italian Lakes, she would have her loverto herself; they would be alone together all June. She would lie in hisarms, not for their short, reckless hour of Sunday, but night afternight, from long before midnight till the dawn. 

For last year, when the warm weather came, Anne and Colin had slept outof doors in wooden shelters set up in the Manor fields, away from thenoises of the farm. A low stone wall separated Anne's field fromColin's. This year, when Jerrold came home, Colin's shelter had beenmoved up from the field to the Manor garden. In the summer Anne wouldsleep again in her shelter. The path to her field from the Manor gardenlay through three pastures and two strips of fir plantation with a greendrive between. 

Jerrold would come to her there. He would have his bed in Colin'sshelter in the garden, and when the night was quiet he would get up andgo down the Manor fields and through the fir plantation to her shelterat the bottom. They would lie there in each other's arms, utterly safe, hidden from passing feet and listening ears, and eyes that watchedbehind window panes. 

And as she thought of his coming to her, and heard her own voice lyingto Maisie, the blood mounted to her face, flooding it to the roots ofher hair. 

"I'm thinking of Colin. "

Her voice kept on sounding loud and dreadful in her brain, whileMaisie's voice floated across it, faint, as if it came from somewhere along way off. 

"You never think of yourself. You're too good for anything, Anne. "

She would never be safe from Maisie and Maisie's innocence that accused, reproached and threatened her. Maisie's sweetness went through her likea thrusting sword, like a sharp poison; it had words that cut deeperthan threats, reproaches, accusations. Before she had seen Maisie shehad been fearless, pitiless, remorseless; now, because of Maisie, shewould never be safe from remorse and pity and fear. 

She recovered. She told herself that she hadn't lied; that she _had_been thinking of Colin; that she had thought of him first; that she hadrefused to go to Taormina before she knew that Jerrold was coming backfor the hay harvest. She couldn't help it if she knew that now. It wasnot as if she had schemed for it or counted on it. She had never for onemoment counted on anything or schemed. And still, as she thought ofJerrold, her heart tightened on the sharp sword-thrust of remorse. 

Because of Maisie, nothing would ever be the same again. 

ii

In the last week of April they had gone, Jerrold and Maisie, Eliot andColin, to Taormina. In the last week in May Jerrold and Eliot tookMaisie up to Como on their way home. They found Sir Charles and LadyDurham there waiting for her. They had left Colin by himself atTaormina. 

From the first moment of landing Colin had fallen in love with Sicilyand refused to be taken away from it. He was aware that his recovery wasnow in his own hands, and that he would not be free from his malady solong as he was afraid to be alone. He had got to break himself of hishabit of dependence on other people. And here in Taormina he had comeupon the place that he could bear to be alone in. There was freedom inhis surrender to its enchantment and in the contemplation of its beautythere was peace. And with peace and freedom he had found hisindestructible self; he had come to the end of its long injury. 

One day, sitting out on the balcony of his hotel, he wrote to Anne. 

"Don't imagine because I've got well here away from you that it wasn'tyou who made me well. In the first place, I should never have gone awayif you hadn't made me go. You knew what you were about when you sent mehere. I know now what Jerrold meant when he wanted to get away byhimself after Father died. He said he wanted to grow a new memory. Well, that's what I've done here. 

"It seemed to happen all at once. One day I'd left them all and gone outfor a walk by myself. It came over me that between me and being well, perfectly well, there was nothing but myself, that I was really hangingon to my illness for some sort of protection that it gave me, just asI'd hung on to you. I'd been thinking about it all the time, filling mymind with my illness, hanging on to the very fear of it; to save myself, I suppose, from a worse fear, the fear of life itself. And suddenly, outthere, I let go. And the beauty of the place got me. I can't describethe beauty, except that there was a lot of strong blue and yellow in it, a clear gold atmosphere, positively quivering, and streaming overeverything like gold water. I seemed to remember it as if I'd been herebefore, a long, steady memory, not just a flash. It was like findingsomething you'd lost, or when a musical phrase you've been looking forsuddenly comes back to you. It was the most utter, indescribable peaceand satisfaction. And somehow this time joined on to the times at Wyckwhen we were all there and happy together; and the beastly time inbetween slipped through. It just dropped out, as if it had neverhappened, and I got a sense of having done with it forever. I can't tellyou what it was like. But I think it means I'm well. 

"And then, on the top of it all, I remembered you, Anne, and all yourgoodness and sweetness. I got right away from my beastly self and sawyou as you are. And I knew what you'd done for me. I don't believe Iever knew, really _knew_, before. I had to be alone with myself before Icould see it, just as I always had to be alone with my music before Icould get it right. I've never thanked you properly. I can't thank you. There aren't any words to do it in. And I only know now what it's costyou.... "

Did he know? Did he know that it had once cost her Jerrold?

"... For instance, I know you gave up coming here with us because youthought it would be better for me without you. "

Colin, too, turning it in her heart, the sharp blade of remorse. Wouldthey never have done punishing her?

And then: "Maisie knows what you are. She told Eliot you were the mostbeautiful thing, morally, she had ever known. The one person, she said, whose motives would always be clean. "

If he had tried he couldn't have hit on anything that would have hurther so. It was more than she could bear to be punished like this throughthe innocence of innocent people, through their kindness and affection, their belief, their incorruptible trust in her. There was nothing in theworld she dreaded more than Maisie's trust. It was as if she foresawwhat it would do to her, how at any minute it would beat her, it wouldbreak her down. 

But she was not beaten yet, not broken down. After every fit of remorseher passion asserted itself again in a superb recovery. Her motivesmight not be so spotless as they looked to Maisie, but her passionitself was clean as fire. Nothing, not even Maisie's innocence, Maisie'strust in her, could make her go back on it. Hard, wounding tears cutthrough her eyelids as she thought of Maisie, but she brushed them awayand began counting the days till Jerrold should come back. 

iii

He came back the first week in June, in time for the hay harvest. And ithappened as she had foreseen. 

It would have been dangerous for Jerrold to have left the house at nightto go to the Manor Farm. At any moment he might have been betrayed byhis own footsteps treading the passages and stairs, by the slipping oflocks and bolts, the sound of the opening and shutting of doors. Theservants might be awake and hear him; they might go to his room and findthat he was not there. 

But Colin's shelter stood in a recess on the lawn, open to the fieldsand hidden from the house by tall hedges of yew. Nobody could see himslip out into the moonlight or the darkness; nobody could hear the softpadding of his feet on the grass. He had only to run down the threefields and cross the belt of firs to come to Anne's shelter at thebottom. The blank, projecting wall of the mill hid it from the cottagesand the Manor Farm house; the firs hid it from the field path; a highbank, topped by a stone wall, hid it from the road and Sutton's Farm. Its three wooden walls held them safe. 

Night after night, between eleven and midnight, he came to her. Nightafter night, she lay awake waiting till the light rustling of the meadowgrass told her he was there: on moonlit nights a quick brushing sound;in the thick blackness a sound like a slow shearing as he felt his way. The moon would show him clear, as he stood in the open frame of theshelter, looking in at her; or she would see him grey, twilit andmysterious; or looming, darker than dark, on black nights without moonor stars. 

They loved the clear nights when their bodies showed to each other whiteunder the white moon; they loved the dark nights that brought themclose, shutting them in, annihilating every sensation but that of histense, hard muscles pressing down, of her body crushed and yielding, tightening and slackening in surrender; of their brains swimming intheir dark ecstasy. 

They loved the warmth of each other's bodies in the hot windless nights;they loved their smooth, clean coolness washed by the night wind. Nothing, not even the sweet, haunting ghost of Maisie, came between. They would fall asleep in each other's arms and lie there till dawn, till Anne woke in a sudden fright. Always she had this fear that someday they would sleep on into the morning, when the farm people would beup and about. Jerrold lay still, tired out with satisfaction, sunk underall the floors of sleep. She had to drag him up, with kisses first andlight stroking, then with a strong undoing of their embrace, pushingback his heavy arms that fell again to her breast as she parted them. Then she would wrench herself loose and shake him by the shoulders tillshe woke him. He woke clean, with no ugly turning and yawning, but witha great stretching of his strong body and a short, sudden laugh, thelaugh he had for danger. Then he would look at his wrist watch and showit her, laughing again as she saw that this time, again, they were safe. And they would lie a little while longer, looking into each other'sfaces for the sheer joy of looking, reckless with impunity. And he wouldstart up suddenly with, "I say, Anne, I must clear out or we shall becaught. " And they would get up. 

Outside, the world looked young and unknown in the June dawn, in thestill, clear, gold-crystal air, where green leaves and green grass shonewith a strange, hard lustre like fresh paint, and yet unearthly, uncreated, fixed in their own space and time. 

And she would go with him, her naked feet shining white on the queer, bright, cold green of the grass, up the field to the belt of firs thatstood up, strange and eternal, under the risen sun. 

They parted there, holding each other for a last kiss, a last clinging, as if never in this world they would meet again. 

Dawn after dawn. They belonged to the dawn and the dawn light; the dawnwas their day; they knew it as they knew no other time. 

And Anne would go back to her shelter, and lie there, and live throughtheir passion again in memory, till she fell asleep. 

And when she woke she would find the sweet, sad ghost of Maisie hauntingher, coming between her and the memory of her dark ecstasy. Maisie, utterly innocent, utterly good, trusting her, sending Jerrold back toher because she trusted her. Only to think of Maisie gave her a fearfulsense of insecurity. She thought: If I'd loved her I could never havedone it. If I were to love her even now that would end it. We couldn'tgo on. She prayed God that she might not love her. 

By day the hard work of the farm stopped her thinking. And the nextnight and the next dawn brought back her safety. 

iv

The hay harvest was over by the last week of June, and in the first weekof July Maisie had come back. 

Maisie or no Maisie, the work of the farm had to go on; and Anne feltmore than ever that it justified her. When the day of reckoning came, ifit ever did come, let her be judged by her work. Because of her love forJerrold here was this big estate held together, and kept going; becauseof his love for her here was Jerrold, growing into a perfect farmer anda perfect landlord; because of her he had found the one thing he wasbest fitted to do; because of him she herself was valuable. Anne broughtto her work on the land a thoroughness that aimed continually atperfection. She watched the starting of every tractor-plough and drilleras it broke fresh ground, to see that machines and men were working attheir highest pitch of efficiency. She demanded efficiency, and, on thewhole, she got it; she gave it by a sort of contagion. She wrung out ofthe land the very utmost it was capable of yielding; she saw that therewas no waste of straw or hay, of grain or fertilizers; and she knew howto take risks, spending big sums on implements and stock wherever shesaw a good chance of a return. 

Jerrold learned from her this perfection. Her work stood clear for thewhole countryside to see. Nobody could say she had not done well by theland. When she first took on the Manor Farm it had stood only in thesecond class; in four years she had raised it to the first. It was nowone of the best cultivated estates in the county and famous for itsprize stock. Sir John Corbett of Underwoods, Mr. Hawtrey of Medlicote, and Major Markham of Wyck Wold owned to an admiration for Anne Severn'smanagement. Her morals, they said, might be a trifle shady, but herfarming was above reproach. More reluctantly they admitted that she hadmade something of that young rotter, Colin, even while they supposedthat he had been sent abroad to keep him out of Anne Severn's way. Theyalso supposed that as soon as he could do it decently Jerrold would getrid of Anne. 

Then two things happened. In July Maisie Fielding came back and was seendriving about the country with Anne Severn; and in the same month oldSutton died and the Barrow Farm was let to Anne, thus establishing herpermanence. 

Anne had refused to take it from Jerrold as his gift. He had pressed herpersistently. 

"You might, Anne. It's the only thing I can give you. And what is it? Ascrubby two hundred acres. "

"It's a thundering lot of land, Jerrold. I can't take it. "

"You must. It isn't enough, after all you've done for us. I'd like togive you everything I've got; Wyck Manor and the whole blessed estate tothe last turnip, and every cow and pig. But I can't do that. And youused to say you wanted the Barrow Farm. "

"I wanted to rent it, Jerry darling. I can't let you give it me. "

"Why not? I think it's simply beastly of you not to. "

At that point Maisie had passed through the room with her flowers and hehad called to her to help him. 

"What are you two quarrelling about?" she said. 

"Why, I want to give her the Barrow Farm and she won't let me. "

"Of course I won't let him. A whole farm. How could I?"

"I think you might, Anne. It would please him no end. "

"She thinks, " Jerrold said, "she can go on doing things for us, but wemustn't do anything for her. And I say it's beastly of her. "

"It is really, Anne darling. It's selfish. He wants to give it you soawfully. He won't be happy if you won't take it. "

"But a farm, a whole thumping farm. It's a big house and two hundredacres. How can I take a thing like that? You couldn't yourself if youwere me. "

Maisie's little white fingers flickered over the blue delphiniumsstacked in the blue-and-white Chinese jar. Her mauve-blue eyes weresmiling at Anne over the tops of the tall blue spires. 

"Don't you want to make him happy?" she said. 

"Not that way. "

"If it's the only way--?"

She passed out of the room, still smiling, to gather more flowers. Theylooked at each other. 

"Jerrold, I can't stand it when she says things like that. "

"No more can I. But you know, she really does want you to take thatfarm. "

"Don't you see why I can't take it--from _you_? It's because we'relovers. "

"I should have thought that made it easier. "

"It makes it impossible. I've _given_ myself to you. I can't takeanything. Besides, it would look as if I'd taken it for that. "

"That's an appalling idea, Anne. "

"It is. But it's what everybody'll think. They'll wonder what on earthyou did it for. We don't want people wondering about us. If they oncebegin wondering they'll end by finding out. "

"I see. Perhaps you're right. I'm sorry. "

"It sticks out of us enough as it is. I can't think how Maisie doesn'tsee it. But she never will. She'll never believe that we--"

"Do you want her to see it?"

"No, but it hurts so, her not seeing.... Jerrold, I believe that's thepunishment--Maisie's trusting us. It's the worst thing she could havedone to us. "

"Then, if we're punished we're quits. Don't think of it, Anne darling. Don't let Maisie come in between us like that. "

He took her in his arms and kissed her, close and quick, so that nothought could come between. 

But Maisie's sweetness had not done its worst. She had yet to prove whatshe was and what she could do. 

v

July passed and August; the harvest was over. And in September Jerroldwent up to London to stay with Eliot for the week-end, and Anne stayedwith Maisie, because Maisie didn't like being left in the big house byherself. Through all those weeks that was the way Maisie had her, through her need of her. 

And on the Thursday before Anne came Maisie had called on Mrs. Hawtreyof Medlicote, and Mrs. Hawtrey had asked her to lunch with her on thefollowing Monday. Maisie said she was afraid she couldn't lunch onMonday because Anne Severn would be with her, and Mrs. Hawtrey said shewas very sorry, but she was afraid she couldn't ask Anne Severn. 

And Maisie enquired in her tender voice, "Why not?"

And Mrs. Hawtrey replied, "Because, my dear, nobody here does ask AnneSevern. "

Maisie said again, "Why not?"

Then Mrs. Hawtrey said she didn't want to go into it, the whole thingwas so unpleasant, but nobody _did_ call on Anne Severn. She was toowell known. 

And at that Maisie rose in her fragile dignity and said that nobody knewAnne Severn so well as she and her husband did, and that there wasnobody in the world so absolutely _good_ as Anne, and that she couldn'tpossibly know anybody who refused to know her, and so left Mrs. Hawtrey. 

The evening Jerrold came home, Maisie, flushed with pleasure, entertained him with a report of the encounter. 

"So you've given an ultimatum to the county. "

"Yes. I told you I'd cut them all if they went on cutting Anne. And nowthey know it. "

"That means that you won't know anybody, Maisie. Except for Anne and meyou'll be absolutely alone here. "

"I don't care. I don't want anybody but you and Anne. And if I do we canask somebody down. There are lots of amusing people who'd come. AndEliot can bring his scientific crowd. It simply means that Corbetts andHawtreys won't be asked to meet them, that's all. "

She went upstairs to lie down before dinner, and presently Anne came tohim in the drawing-room. She was dressed in her riding coat and breechesas she had come off the land. 

"What do you think Maisie's done now?" he said. 

"I don't know. Something that'll make me feel awful, I suppose. "

"If you're going to take it like that I won't tell you. "

"Yes. Tell me. Tell me. I'd rather know. "

He told her as Maisie had told him. 

"Can't you see her, standing up to the whole county? Pounding them withher little hands. "

His vision of the gentle thing, rising up in that sudden sacred fury ofprotection, moved him to admiring, tender laughter. It made Anne burstinto tears. 

"Oh, Jerrold, that's the worst that's happened yet. Everybody'll cuther, because of me. "

"Bless you, she won't care. She says she doesn't care about anybody butyou and me. "

"But that's the awful thing, her caring. That's the punishment. Thepunishment. "

Again he took her in his arms and comforted her. 

"What am I to do, Jerry? What am I to _do?_"

"Go to her, " he said, "and say something nice. "

"Go to her and take my punishment?"

"Well, yes, darling, I'm afraid you've got to take it. We can't have itboth ways. It wouldn't _be_ a punishment if you weren't so sweet, if youdidn't mind so. I wish to God I'd never told you. "

She held her head high. 

"I made you. I'm glad you told me. "

She went up to Maisie in her room. Maisie had dressed for dinner and layon her couch, looking exquisite and fragile in a gown of thick whitelace. She gave a little soft cry as Anne came to her. 

"Anne, you've been crying. What is it, darling?"

"Nothing. Only Jerrold told me what you'd done. "

"Done?"

"Yes, for me. Why did you do it, Maisie?"

"Why? I suppose it was because I love you. It was the least I could do. "

She held out her hands to her. Anne knelt down, crouching on the floorbeside her, with her face hidden against Maisie's body. Maisie put herarm round her. 

"But why are you crying about it, Anne? You never cry. I can't bear it. It's like seeing Jerrold cry. "

"It's because you're so good, so good, and I'm such a brute. You don'tknow what a brute I am. "

"Oh yes, I know. "

"Do you?" she said, sharply. For one moment she thought that Maisie didindeed know, know and understand so perfectly that she forgave. This wasforgiveness. 

"Of course I do. And so does Jerrold. _He_ knows what a brute you are. "

It was not forgiveness. It was Maisie's innocence again, her trust--thepunishment. Anne knelt there and took the pain of it. 

vi

She lay awake, alone in her shelter. She had given the excuse of aracking headache to keep Jerrold from coming to her. For that she hadhad to lie. But what was her whole existence but a lie? A lie told byher silence under Maisie's trust in her, by her acceptance of Maisie'sfriendship, by her acquiescence in Maisie's preposterous belief. Everyminute that she let Maisie go on loving and trusting and believing inher she lied. And the appalling thing was that she couldn't be alone inher lying. So long as Maisie trusted him Jerrold lied, too--Jerrold, whowas truth itself. One moment she thought: That's what I've brought himto. That's how I've dragged him down. The next she saw that reproach asthe very madness of her conscience. She had not dragged Jerrold down;she had raised him to his highest intensity of loving, she had broughthim, out of the illusion of his life with Maisie, to reality and kepthim there in an immaculate faithfulness. Not even for one insane momentdid Anne admit that there was anything wrong or shameful in theirpassion itself. It was Maisie's innocence that made them liars, Maisie'sgoodness that put them in the wrong and brought shame on them, her truththat falsified them. 

No woman less exquisite in goodness could have moved her to thisincredible remorse. It took the whole of Maisie, in her uniqueperfection, to beat her and break her down. Her first instinct inrefusing to know Maisie had been profoundly right. It was as if she hadforeseen, even then, that knowing Maisie would mean loving her, andthat, loving her, she would be beaten and broken down. The awful thingwas that she did love Maisie; and she couldn't tell which was the worseto bear, her love for Maisie or Maisie's love for her. And who couldhave foreseen the pain of it? When she prayed that she might take thewhole punishment, she had not reckoned on this refinement and precisionof torture. God knew what he was about. With all his resources hecouldn't have hit on anything more delicately calculated to hurt. Nothing less subtle would have touched her. Not discovery; not thegrossness of exposure; but this intolerable security. What coulddiscovery and exposure do but set her free in her reality? Anne wouldhave rejoiced to see her lie go up in one purifying flame of revelation. But to go safe in her lie, hiding her reality, and yet defenceless underthe sting of Maisie's loving, was more than she could bear. She hadbrought all her truth and all her fineness to this passion whichMaisie's innocence made a sin, and she was punished where she hadsinned, wounded by the subtle God in her fineness and her truth. If onlyJerrold could have escaped, but he was vulnerable, too; there wasfineness and truth in him. To suffer really he had to be wounded in hissoul. 

If Jerrold was hurt then they must end it. 

As yet he had given no sign of feeling; but that was like him. Up to thelast minute he would fight against feeling, and when it came he wouldrefuse to own that he suffered, that there was any cause for suffering. It would be like the time when his father was dying, when he refused tosee that he was dying. So he would refuse to see Maisie and then, all atonce, he would see her and he would be beaten and broken down. 

vii

And suddenly he did see her. 

It was on the first Sunday after Jerrold's return. Maisie had hadanother of her heart attacks, by herself, in her bed, the night before;and she had been lying down all day. The sun had come round on to theterrace, and she now rested there, wrapped in a fur coat and leaningback on her cushions in the garden chair. 

They were sitting out there, all three, Jerrold and Anne talkingtogether, and Maisie listening with her sweet, attentive eyes. Suddenlyshe shut her eyes and ceased to listen. Jerrold and Anne went on talkingwith hushed voices, and in a little while Maisie was asleep. 

Her head, rising out of the brown fur, was tilted back on the cushions, showing her innocent white throat; her white violet eyelids were shutdown on her eyes, the dark lashes lying still; her mouth, utterlyinnocent, was half open; her breath came through it unevenly, in lightjerks. 

"She's asleep, Jerrold. "

They sat still, making no sound. 

And as she looked at Maisie sleeping, tears came again into Anne's eyes, the hard tears that cut her eyelids and spilled themselves, drop by slowdrop, heavily. She tried to wipe them away secretly with her hand beforeJerrold saw them; but they came again and again and he had seen. He hadrisen to his feet as if he would go, then checked himself and stoodbeside her; and together they looked on at Maisie's sleeping; they felttogether the infinite anguish, the infinite pathos of her goodness andher trust. The beauty of her spirit lay bare to them in the white, tilted face, slackened and smoothed with sleep. Sleep showed them herinnocence again, naked and helpless. They saw her in her poignant being, her intense reality. She was so real that in that moment nothing elsemattered to them. 

Anne set her teeth hard to keep her mouth still. She saw Jerrold glanceat her, she heard him give a soft groan of pity or of pain; then hemoved away from them and stood by the terrace wall with his back to her. She saw his clenched hands, and through his terrible, tense quietnessshe knew by the quivering of his shoulders that his breast heaved. Thenshe saw him grasp the terrace wall and grind the edge of it into thepalms of his hands. That was how he had stood by his father's deathbed, gripping the foot-rail; and when presently he turned and came to her shesaw the look on his face she had seen then, of young, blind agony, sharpened now with some more piercing spiritual pain. 

"Come, " he said, "come into the house. "

They went together, side by side, as they had gone when they werechildren, along the terrace and down the steps into the drive. In theshelter of the hall she gave way and cried, openly and helplessly, likea child, and he put his arm round her and led her into the library, awayfrom the place where Maisie was. They sat together on the couch, holdingeach other's hands, clinging together in their suffering, their memoryof what Maisie had made their sin. Even so they had sat in Anne's room, on the edge of Anne's bed, when they were children, holding each other'shands, miserable and yet glad because they were brought together, because what they had done and what they had borne they had done andborne together. And now as then he comforted her. 

"Don't cry, Anne darling; it isn't your fault. I made you. "

"You didn't. You didn't. I wanted you and I made you come to me. And Iknew what it would be like and you didn't. "

"Nobody could have known. Don't go back on it. "

"I'm not going back on it. If only I'd never seen Maisie--then Iwouldn't have cared. We could have gone on. "

"Do you mean we can't now?"

"Yes. How can we when she's such an angel to us and trusts us so?"

"It does make it pretty beastly, " he said. 

"It makes me feel absolutely rotten. "

"So it does me, when I think about it. "

"It's knowing her, Jerry. It's having to love her, and knowing that sheloves me; it's knowing what she is.... Why did you make me see her?"

"You know why. "

"Yes. Because it made it safer. That's the beastliness of it. I knew howit would be. I knew she'd beat us in the end--with her goodness. "

"Darling, it _isn't_ your fault. "

"It _is_. It's all my fault. I'm not going back on it. I'd do it againto-morrow if it weren't for Maisie. Even now I don't know whether it'sright or wrong. I only know it's the most real and valuable part of methat loves you, and it's the most real and valuable part of you thatloves me; and I feel somehow that that makes it right. I'd go on with itif it made you happy. But you aren't happy now. "

"I'm not happy because you're not. I don't mind for myself so much. OnlyI hate the beastly way we've got to do it. Covering it all up andpretending that we're not lovers. Deceiving her. That's what makes itall wrong. Hiding it. "

"I know. And I made you do that. "

"You didn't. We did it for Maisie. Anyhow, we must stop it. We can't goon like this any more. We must simply tell her. "

"_Tell_ her?"

"Yes; tell her, and get her to divorce me, so that I can marry you. It'sthe only straight thing. "

"How can we? It would hurt her so awfully. "

"Not so much as you think. Remember, she doesn't care for me. She's notlike you, Anne. She's frightfully cold. "

As he said it there came to her a sudden awful intimation of reality, asense that behind all their words, all the piled-up protection of theiroutward thinking, there hid an unknown certainty, a certainty that wouldwreck them if they knew it. It was safer not to know, to go on hidingbehind those piled-up barriers of thought. But an inward, ultimatehonesty drove her to her questioning. 

"Are you sure she's cold?"

"Absolutely sure. You go on thinking all the time that she's like you, that she takes things as hard as you do; but she doesn't. She doesn'tfeel as you do. It won't hurt her as it would hurt you if I left you forsomebody else. "

"But--it'll hurt her. "

"It's better to hurt her a little now than to go on humbugging andshamming till she finds out. That would hurt her damnably. She'd hateour not being straight with her. But if we tell her the truth she'llunderstand. I'm certain she'll understand and she'll forgive _you_. Shecan't be hard on you for caring for me. "

"Even if she doesn't care?"

"She cares for _you_, " he said. 

She couldn't push it from her, that importunate sense of a certaintythat was not his certainty. If Maisie did care for him Jerrold wouldn'tsee it. He never saw what he didn't want to see. 

"Supposing she _does_ care all the time? How do you know she doesn't?"

"I don't think I can tell you. "

"But I _must_ know, Jerrold. It makes all the difference. "

"It makes none to me, Anne. I'd want you whether Maisie cared for me ornot. But she doesn't. "

"If I thought she didn't--then--then I shouldn't mind her knowing. Whyare you so certain? You might tell me. "

Then he told her. 

After all, that sense of hidden certainty was an illusion. 

"When was that, Jerrold?"

"Oh, a night or two after she came down here in April. She didn't know, poor darling, how she let me off. "

"April--September. And she's stuck to it?"

"Oh--stuck to it. Rather. "

"And before that?"

"Before that we were all right. "

"And she'd been away, too. "

"Yes. Ages. That made it all the funnier. "

"I wish you'd told me before. "

"I wish I had, if it makes you happier. "

"It does. Still, we can't go on, Jerrold, till she knows. "

"Of course we can't. It's too awful. I'll tell her. And we'll go awaysomewhere while she's divorcing me, and stay away till I can marryyou.... It'll be all different when we've got away. "

"When you've told her. We ought to have told her long ago, before ithappened. "

"Yes. But now--what the devil _am_ I to tell her?"

He saw, as if for the first time, what telling her would mean. 

"Tell her the truth. The whole truth. "

"How can I--when it's _you_?"

"It's because it _is_ me that you've got to tell her. If you don't, Jerrold, I'll tell her myself. "

"All right. I'll tell her at once and get it over. I'll tell hertonight. "

"No. Not tonight, while she's so tired. Wait till she's rested. "

And Jerrold waited. 

XVI

ANNE, MAISIE, AND JERROLD

i

Jerrold waited, and Maisie got her truth in first. 

It was on the Wednesday, a fine bright day in September, and Jerrold wasto have driven Maisie and Anne over to Oxford in the car. And, tenminutes before starting, Maisie had declared herself too tired to go. Anne wouldn't go without her, and Jerrold, rather sulky, had set off byhimself. He couldn't understand Maisie's sudden fits of fatigue whenthere was nothing the matter with her. He thought her capricious andhysterical. She was acquiring his mother's perverse habit of upsettingyour engagements at the last moment; and lately she had beenparticularly tiresome about motoring. Either they were going too fast ortoo far, or the wind was too strong; and he would have to turn back, orhold himself in and go slowly. And the next time she would refuse to goat all for fear of spoiling their pleasure. She liked it better whenAnne drove her. 

And today Jerrold was annoyed with Maisie because of Anne. If it hadn'tbeen for Maisie, Anne would have been with him, enjoying a day's holidayfor once. Really, Maisie might have thought of Anne and Anne's pleasure. It wasn't like her not to think of other people. Yet he owned that shehadn't wanted Anne to stay with her. He could hear her pathetic voiceimploring Anne to go "because Jerry won't like it if you don't. " Also heknew that if Anne was determined not to do a thing nothing you could saywould make her do it. 

He had had time to think about it as he sat in the lounge of the hotelat Oxford waiting for the friends who were to lunch with him. Andsuddenly his annoyance had turned to pity. 

It was no wonder if Maisie was hysterical. His life with her was allwrong, all horribly unnatural. She ought to have had children. Or heought never to have married her. It had been all wrong from thebeginning. Perhaps she had been aware that there was something missing. Perhaps not. Maisie had seemed always singularly unaware. That wasbecause she didn't care for him. Perhaps, if he had loved herpassionately she would have cared more. Perhaps not. Maisie wasincurably cold. She shrank from the slightest gesture of approach; shewas afraid of any emotion. She was one of those unhappy women who areborn with an aversion from warm contacts, who cannot give themselves. What puzzled him was the union of such a temperament with Maisie'ssweetness and her charm He had noticed that other men adored her. Heknew that if it had not been for Anne he might have adored her, too. Andagain he wondered whether it would have made any difference to Maisie ifhe had. 

He thought not. She was happy, as it was, in her gentle, unexcited way. Happy and at peace. Giving happiness and peace, if peace were what youwanted. It was that happiness and peace of Maisie's that had drawn himto her when he gave Anne up three years ago. 

And again he couldn't understand this combination of hysteria andperfect peace. He couldn't understand Maisie. 

Perhaps, after all, she had got what she had wanted. She wouldn't havebeen happy and at peace if she had been married to some brute who wouldhave had no pity, who would have insisted on his rights. Some faithfulbrute; or some brute no more faithful to her than he, who had beenfaithful only to Anne. 

As he thought of Anne darkness came down over his brain. His mindstruggled through it, looking for the light. 

The entrance of his friends cut short his struggling. 

ii

Maisie lay on the couch in the library, and Anne sat with her. Maisie'seyes had been closed, but now they had opened, and Anne saw them lookingat her and smiling. 

"You are a darling, Anne; but I wish you'd gone with Jerrold. "

"I don't. I wouldn't have liked it a bit. "

"_He_ would, though. "

"Not when he thought of you left here all by yourself. "

Maisie smiled again. 

"Jerry doesn't think, thank Goodness. "

"Why 'thank Goodness'?"

"Because I don't want him to. I don't want him to see. "

"To see what?"

"Why, that I can't do things like other people. "

"Maisie--_why_ can't you? You used to. Jerrold's told me how you used torush about, dancing and golfing and playing tennis. "

"Why? Did he say anything?"

"Only that you took a lot of exercise, and he thinks it's awfully badfor you knocking it all off now. "

"Dear old Jerry. Of course he must think it frightfully stupid. But Ican't help it, Anne. I can't do things now like I used to. I've got tobe careful. "

"But--why?"

"Because there's something wrong with my heart. Jerry doesn't know it. Idon't want him to know. "

"You don't mean seriously wrong?"

"Not very serious. But it hurts. "

"Hurts?"

"Yes. And the pain frightens me. Every time it comes I think I'm goingto die. But I don't die. "

"Oh--_Maisie_--what sort of pain?"

"A disgusting pain, Anne. As if it was full of splintered glass, mixedup with bubbling blood, cutting and tearing. It grabs at you and youchoke; you feel as if your face would burst. You're afraid to breathefor fear it should come again. "

"But, Maisie, that's angina. "

"It isn't real angina; but it's awful, all the same. Oh, Anne, what mustthe real thing be like?"

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"Yes, two. A man in London and a man in Torquay. "

"Do they say it isn't the real thing?"

"Yes. It's all nerves. But it's every bit as bad as if it was real, except that I can't die of it. "

"Poor little Maisie--I didn't know. "

"I didn't mean you to know. But I _had_ to tell somebody. It's so awfulbeing by yourself with it and being frightened. And then I'm afraid allthe time of Jerrold finding out. I'm afraid of his _seeing_ me when itcomes on. "

"But, Maisie darling, he ought to know. You ought to tell him. "

"No. I haven't told my father and mother because they'd tell him. Luckily it's only come on in the night, so that he hasn't seen. But itmight come on anywhere, any minute. If I'm excited or anything ... That's the awful thing, Anne; I'm afraid of getting excited. I'm afraidto feel. I'm afraid of everything that makes me feel. I'm afraid ofJerrold's touching me, even of his saying something nice to me. Theleast thing makes my silly heart tumble about, and if it tumbles toomuch the pain comes. I daren't let Jerrold sleep with me. "

"Yet you haven't told him. "

"No; I daren't. "

"You _must_ tell him, Maisie. "

"I won't. He'd mind horribly. He'd be frightened and miserable, and Ican't bear him to be frightened and miserable. He's had enough. He'sbeen through the war. I don't mean that that frightened him; but thiswould. "

"Do you mean to say he doesn't see it?"

"Bless you, no. He just thinks I'm tiresome and hysterical. I'd ratherhe thought that than see him unhappy. Nothing in the world matters butJerrold. You see I care for him so frightfully.... You don't know howawful it is, caring like that, and yet having to beat him back all thetime, never to give him anything. I daren't let him come near me becauseof that ghastly fright. I know you oughtn't to be afraid of pain, butit's a pain that makes you afraid. Being afraid's all part of it. So Ican't help it. "

"Of course you can't help it. "

"I wouldn't mind if it wasn't for Jerry. I ought never to have marriedhim. "

"But, Maisie, I can't understand it. You're always so happy and calm. How can you be calm and happy with _that_ hanging over you?"

"I've got to be calm for fear of it. And I'm happy because Jerrold'sthere. Simply knowing that he's there.... I can't think what I'd do, Anne, if he wasn't such an angel. Some men wouldn't be. They wouldn'tstand it. And that makes me care all the more. He'll never know how Icare. "

"You must tell him. "

"There it is. I daren't even try to tell him. I just live in perpetualfunk. "

"And you're the bravest thing that ever lived. "

"Oh, I've got to cover it up. It wouldn't do to show it. But I'm gladI've told you. "

She leaned back, panting. 

"I mustn't talk--any more now. "

"No. Rest. "

"You won't mind?... But--get a book--and read. You'll be--so bored. "

She shut her eyes. 

Anne got a book and tried to read it; but the words ran together, greylines tangled on a white page. Nothing was clear to her but the factthat Maisie had told the truth about herself. 

It was the worst thing that had happened yet. It was the supremereproach, the ultimate disaster and defeat. Yet Maisie had not told heranything that surprised her. This was the certainty that hid behind thedefences of their thought, the certainty she had foreseen when Jerroldtold her about Maisie's coldness. It meant that Jerrold couldn't escape, and that his punishment would be even worse than hers. Nothing thatMaisie could have done would have been more terrible to Jerrold than herillness and the way she had hidden it from him; the poor darling goingin terror of it, lying in bed alone, night after night, shut in with herterror. Jerrold was utterly vulnerable; his belief in Maisie'sindifference had been his only protection against remorse. How was hegoing to bear Maisie's wounding love? How would he take the knowledge ofit?

Anne saw what must come of his knowing. It would be the end of theirhappiness. After this they would have to give each other up; he wouldnever take her in his arms again; he would never come to her again inthe fields between midnight and dawn. They couldn't go on unless theytold Maisie the truth; and they couldn't tell Maisie the truth now, because the truth would bring the pain back to her poor little heart. They could never be straight with her; they would have to hide what theyhad done for ever. Maisie had silenced them for ever when she got hertruth in first. To Anne it was not thinkable, either that they should goon being lovers, knowing about Maisie, or that she should keep herknowledge to herself. She would tell Jerrold and end it. 

iii

She stayed on with Maisie till the evening. 

Jerrold had come back and was walking home with her through the Manorfields when she made up her mind that she would tell him now; at thenext gate--the next--when they came to the belt of firs she would tellhim. 

She stopped him there by the fence of the plantation. The darkness hidthem from each other, only their faces and Anne's white coat glimmeredthrough. 

"Wait a minute, Jerrold. I want to tell you something. About Maisie. "

He drew himself up abruptly, and she felt the sudden start and check ofhis hurt mind. 

"You haven't told her?" he said. 

"No. It's something she told me. She doesn't want you to know. Butyou've got to know it. You think she doesn't care for you, and she does;she cares awfully. But--she's ill. "

"Ill? She isn't, Anne. She only thinks she is. I know Maisie. "

"You don't know that she gets heart attacks. Frightful pain, Jerrold, pain that terrifies her. "

"My God--you don't mean she's got _angina_?"

"Not the real kind. If it was that she'd be dead. But pain so bad thatshe thinks she's dying every time. It's what they call false angina. That's why she doesn't want you to sleep with her, for fear it'll comeon and you'll see her. "

Through the darkness she could feel the vibration of his shock; it cameto her in his stillness. 

"You said she didn't feel. She's afraid to feel because feeling bringsit on. "

He spoke at last. "Why on earth couldn't she tell me that?"

"Because she loves you so awfully. The poor darling didn't want you tobe unhappy about her. "

"As if that mattered. "

"It matters more than anything to her. "

"Do you really mean that she's got that hellish thing? Who told her whatit was?"

"Some London doctor and a man at Torquay. "

"I shall take her up to-morrow and make her see a specialist. "

"If you do you mustn't let her know I told you, or she'll never tell meanything again. "

"What am I to say?"

"Say you've been worried about her. "

"God knows I ought to have been. "

"You're worried about her, and you think there's something wrong. If shesays there isn't, you'll say that's what you want to be sure of. "

"Look here; how do those fellows know it isn't the real thing?"

"Oh, they can tell that by the state of her heart. I don't suppose for amoment it's the real thing. She wouldn't be alive if it was. And youdon't die of false angina. It's all nerves, though it hurts like sin. "

He was silent for a second. 

"Anne--she's beaten us. We can't tell her now. "

"No. And we can't go on. If we can't be straight about it we've got togive each other up. "

"I know. We can't go on. There's nothing more to be said. "

His voice dropped on her aching heart with the toneless weight offinality. 

"We've got to end it now, this minute, " she said. "Don't come anyfarther. "

"Let me go to the bottom of the field. "

"No. I'm not going that way. "

He had come close to her now, close, as though he would have taken herin his arms for the last night, the last time. He wanted to touch her, to hold her back from the swallowing darkness. But she moved out of hisreach and he did not follow her. His passion was ready to flame up if hetouched her, and he was afraid. They must end it clean, without a wordor a touch. 

The grass drive between the firs led to a gate on the hill road thatskirted the Manor fields. He knew that she would go from him that way, because she didn't want to pass by their shelter at the bottom. Shecouldn't sleep in it tonight. 

He stood still and watched her go, her white coat glimmering in thedarkness between the black rows of firs. The white gate glimmered at theend of the drive. She stood there a moment. He saw her slip like a whiteghost between the gate and the gate post; he heard the light thud of thewooden latch falling back behind her, and she was gone. 

XVII

JERROLD, MAISIE, ANNE, ELIOT

i

Maisie lay in bed, helpless and abandoned to her illness. It was no goodtrying to cover it up and hide it any more. Jerrold knew. 

The night when he left Anne he had gone up to Maisie in her room. Hecouldn't rest unless he knew that she was all right. He had stooped overher to kiss her and she had sat up, holding her face to him, her handsclasped round his neck, drawing him close to her, when suddenly the paingripped her and she lay back in his arms, choking, struggling forbreath. 

Jerrold thought she was dying. He waited till the pain passed and shewas quieted, then he ran downstairs and telephoned for Ransome. Helooked on in agony while Ransome's stethoscope wandered over Maisie'sthin breast and back. It seemed to him that Ransome was taking anunusually long time about it, that he must be on the track of someterrible discovery. And when Ransome took the tubes from his ears andsaid, curtly, "Heart quite sound; nothing wrong there, " he was convincedthat Ransome was an old fool who didn't know his business. Or else hewas lying for Maisie's sake. 

Downstairs in the library he turned on him. 

"Look here; there's no good lying to me. I want truth. "

"My dear Fielding, I shouldn't dream of lying to you. There's nothingwrong with your wife's heart. Nothing organically wrong. "

"With that pain? She was in agony, Ransome, agony. Why can't you tell meat once that it's angina?"

"Because it isn't. Not the real thing. False angina's a neurosis, not aheart disease. Get the nervous condition cured and she'll be all right. Has she had any worry? Any shock?"

"Not that I know. "

"Any cause for worry?"

He hesitated. Poor Maisie had had cause enough if she had known. But shedidn't know. It seemed to him that Ransome was looking at him queerly. 

"No, " he said. "None. "

"You're quite certain? Has she ever had any?"

"Well, I suppose she was pretty jumpy all the time I was at the front. "

"Before that? Years ago?"

"That I don't know. I should say not. "

"You won't swear?"

"No. I won't swear. It would be years before we were married. "

"Try and find out, " said Ransome. "And keep her quiet and happy. She'dbetter stay in bed for a week or two. "

So Maisie stayed in bed, and Jerrold and Anne sat with her, together orin turn. He had a bed made up in her room and slept there when he sleptat all. But half the night he lay awake, listening for the sound of herpanting and the little gasping cry that would come when the pain gother. He kept on getting up to look at her and make sure that she wassleeping. 

He was changed from his old happy, careless self, the self that used toturn from any trouble, that refused to believe that the people it lovedcould be ill and die. He was convinced that Maisie's state wasdangerous. He sent for Dr. Harper of Cheltenham and for a nervespecialist and a heart specialist from London and they all told him thesame thing. And he wouldn't believe them. Because Maisie's death was themost unbearable thing that his remorse could imagine, he felt thatnothing short of Maisie's death would appease the powers that punishedhim. He was the more certain that Maisie would die because he had deniedthat she was ill. For Jerrold's mind remembered everything andanticipated nothing. Like most men who refuse to see or foresee trouble, he was crushed by it when it came. 

The remorse he felt might have been less intolerable if he had beenalone in it; but, day after day, his pain was intensified by the sightof Anne's pain. She was exquisitely vulnerable, and for every pang thatstabbed her he felt himself responsible. What they had done they haddone together, and they suffered for it together, but in the beginningshe had done it for him, and he had made her do it. Nobody, not evenMaisie, could have been more innocent than Anne. He had no doubt that, left to herself, she would have hidden her passion from him to the endof time. He, therefore, was the cause of her suffering. 

It was as if Anne's consciousness were transferred to him, day afterday, when they sat together in Maisie's room, one on each side of herbed, while Maisie lay between them, sleeping her helpless andreproachful sleep, and he saw Anne's piteous face, white with pain. Hispity for Maisie and his pity for Anne, their pity for each other weremixed together and held them, close as passion, in an unbearablecommunion. 

They looked at each other, and their wounded eyes said, day after day, the same thing: "Yes, it hurts. But I could bear it if it were not foryou. " Their pity took the place of passion. It was as if a part of eachother passed into them with their suffering as it had passed into themwith their joy. 

ii

And through it all their passion itself still lived its inextinguishableand tortured life. Pity, so far from destroying it, only made itstronger, pouring in its own emotion, wave after wave, swelling theflood that carried them towards the warm darkness where will and thoughtwould cease. 

And as Jerrold's soul had once stirred in the warm darkness under thefirst stinging of remorse, so now it pushed and struggled to be born;all his will fought against the darkness to deliver his soul. His soulknew that Anne saved it. If her will had been weaker his would not havebeen so strong. At this moment an unscrupulous Anne might have damnedhim to the sensual hell by clinging to his pity. He would have sinnedbecause he was sorry for her. 

But Anne's will refused his pity. When he showed it she was angry. Yetit was there, waiting for her always, against her will. 

One day in October (Maisie's illness lasting on into the autumn) theyhad gone out into the garden to breathe the cold, clean air while Maisieslept. 

"Jerrold, " she said, suddenly, "do you think she knows?"

"No. I'm certain she doesn't. "

"I'm not. I've an awful feeling that she knows and that's why shedoesn't get better. "

"I don't think so. If she knew she'd have said something or donesomething. "

"She mightn't. She mightn't do anything. Perhaps she's just beingangelically good to us. "

"She _is_ angelically good. But she doesn't know. You forget her illnessbegan before there _was_ anything to know. It isn't the sort of thingshe'd think of. If somebody told her she wouldn't believe it. She trustsus absolutely.... That's bad enough, Anne, without her knowing. "

"Yes. It's bad enough. It's worse, really. "

"I know it is.... Anne--I'm awfully sorry to have let you in for allthis misery. "

"You mustn't be sorry. You haven't let me in for it. Nobody could haveknown it would have happened. It wouldn't, if Maisie had been different. We wouldn't have bothered then. Nothing would have mattered. Think howgloriously happy we were. All my life all my happiness has come throughyou or because of you. We'd be happy still if it wasn't for Maisie. "

"I don't see how we're to go on like this. I can't stand it when you'renot happy. And nothing makes any difference, really. I want you soawfully all the time. "

"That's one of the things we mustn't say to each other. "

"I know we mustn't. Only I didn't want you to think I didn't. "

"I don't think it. I know you'll care for me as long as you live. Onlyyou mustn't say so. You mustn't be sorry for me. It makes me feel allweak and soft when I want to be strong and hard. "

"You _are_ strong, Anne. "

"So are you. I shouldn't love you if you weren't. But we mustn't make ittoo hard for each other. You know what'll happen if we do?"

"What? You mean we'd crumple up and give in?"

"No. But we couldn't ever see each other alone again. Never see eachother again at all, perhaps. I'd have to go away. "

"You shan't have to. I swear I won't say another word. "

"Sometimes I think it would be easier for you if I went. "

"It wouldn't. It would be simply damnable. You can't go, Anne. That_would_ make Maisie think. "

iii

After weeks of rest Maisie passed into a period of painlesstranquillity. She had no longer any fear of her illness because she hadno longer any fear of Jerrold's knowing about it. He did know, and yether world stood firm round her, firmer than when he had not known. Forshe had now in Jerrold's ceaseless devotion what seemed to her theabsolute proof that he cared for her, if she had ever doubted it. And ifhe had doubted her, hadn't he the absolute proof that she cared, desperately? Would she have so hidden the truth from him, would she haveborne her pain and the fear of it, in that awful lonely secrecy, if shehad not cared for him more than for anything on earth? She had been moreafraid to sleep alone than poor Colin who had waked them with hisscreaming. Jerrold knew that she was not a brave woman like Anne orColin's wife, Queenie; it was out of her love for him that she had drawnthe courage that made her face, night after night, the horror of hertorment alone. If he had wanted proof, what better proof could he havethan that?

So Maisie remained tranquil, secure in her love for Jerrold, and in hislove for her, while Anne and Jerrold were tortured by their love foreach other. They were no longer sustained in their renunciation by thesight of Maisie's illness and the fear of it which more than anythinghad held back their passion. Without that warning fear they were exposedat every turn. It might be there, waiting for them in the background, but, with Maisie going about as if nothing had happened, even remorsehad lost its protective poignancy. They suffered the strain of perpetualfrustration. They were never alone together now. They had passed fromeach other, beyond all contact of spirit with spirit and flesh withflesh, beyond all words and looks of longing; they had nothing of eachother but sight, sight that had all the violence of touch without itssatisfaction, that served only to excite them, to torture them withdesire. They might be held at arm's length, at a room's length, at afield's length apart, but their eyes drew them together, set theirhearts beating; in one moment of seeing they were joined and putasunder. 

And, day after day, their minds desired each other with a subtle, incessant, intensely conscious longing, and were utterly cut off fromall communion. They met now at longer and longer intervals, for theirwork separated them. Colin had come home in October, perfectlyrecovered, and he and Jerrold managed the Manor estate together whileAnne looked after her own farm. Jerrold never saw her, he never tried tosee her unless Colin or Maisie or some of the farm people were present;he was afraid and Anne knew that he was afraid. Her sense of his dangermade her feel herself fragile and unstable. She, too, avoided everyoccasion of seeing him alone. 

And this separation, so far from saving them, defeated its own end. Every day it brought them nearer to the breaking point. It was againstall nature and all nature was against it. They had always before themthat vision of the point at which they would give in. Always there wasone thought that drew them to the edge of surrender: "I can bear it formyself, but I can't bear it for him, " "I can bear it for myself, but Ican't bear it for her. "

And to both of them had come another fear, greater than their dread ofMaisie's pain, the fear of each other's illness. Their splendid physicalhealth was beginning to break down. They worked harder than ever on theland; but hard work exhausted them at the end of the day. They went onfrom a sense of duty, dull and implacable, but they had no more pleasurein it. Anne became every night more restless, every day more tired andanaemic. Jerrold ate less and slept less. They grew thin, and theirfaces took on the same look of fatigue and anxiety and wonder, as if, more than anything, they were amazed at a world whose being connived atand tolerated their pain. 

Maisie saw it and felt the first vague disturbance of her peace. Herillness had worried everybody while it lasted, but she couldn't thinkwhy, when she was well again, Anne and Jerrold should go on looking likethat. Maisie thought it was physical; the poor dears worked too hard. 

The change had been so gradual that she saw it without consternation, but when Eliot came down in November he couldn't hide his distress. ToEliot the significant thing was not Anne's illness or Jerrold's illnessbut the likeness in their illnesses, the likeness in their faces. It wasclear that they suffered together, with the same suffering, from thesame cause. And when on his last evening Jerrold took him into thelibrary to consult him about Maisie's case, Eliot had a hard, straighttalk with him about his own. 

"My dear Jerrold, " he said, "there's nothing seriously wrong withMaisie. I've examined her heart. It isn't a particularly strong heart, but there's no disease in it. If you took her to all the specialists inEurope they'd tell you the same thing. "

"I know, but I keep on worrying. "

"That, my dear chap, is because you're ill yourself. I don't like it. I'm not bothered about Maisie, but I am bothered about you and Anne. "

"Anne? Do you think _Anne's_ ill?"

"I think she will be, and so will you if... What have you been doing?"

"We've been doing nothing. "

"That's it. You've got to do something and do it pretty quick if it's tobe any good. "

Jerrold started and looked up. He wondered whether Eliot knew. He had away of getting at things, you couldn't tell how. 

"What d'you mean? What are you talking about?" His words came with asudden sharp rapidity. 

"You know what I mean. "

"I don't know how _you_ know anything. And, as a matter of fact, youdon't. "

"I don't know much. But I know enough to see that you two can't go onlike this. "

"Maisie and me?"

"No. You and Anne. It's Anne I'm talking about. I suppose you can make amess of your own life if you like. You've no business to make a mess ofhers. "

"My God! as if I didn't know it. What the devil am I to do?"

"Leave her alone, Jerrold, if you can't have her. "

"Leave her alone? I _am_ leaving her alone. I've got to leave her alone, if we both die of it. "

"She ought to go away, " Eliot said. 

"She shan't go away unless I go with her. And I can't. "'

"Well, then, it's an impossible situation. "

"It's a damnable situation, but it's the only decent one. You forgetthere's Maisie. "

"No, I don't. Maisie doesn't know?"

"Oh Lord, no. And she never will. "

"You ought to tell her. "

Jerrold was silent. 

"My dear Jerrold, it's the only sensible thing. Tell her straight andget her to divorce you. "

"I was going to. Then she got ill and I couldn't. "

"She isn't ill now. "

"She will be if I tell her. It'll simply kill her. "

"It won't. It may--even--cure her. "

"It'll make her frightfully unhappy. And it'll bring back that infernalpain. If you'd seen her, Eliot, you'd know how impossible it is. Wesimply can't be swine. And if I could, Anne couldn't.... No. We've gotto stick it somehow, Anne and I. "

"It's all wrong, Jerrold. "

"I know it's all wrong. But it's the best we can do. You don't supposeAnne would be happy if we did Maisie down. "

"No. No. She wouldn't. You're right there. But it's a damnablebusiness. "

"Oh, damnable, yes. "

Jerrold laughed in his agony. Yet he saw, as if he had never seen itbefore, Eliot's goodness and the sadness and beauty of his love forAnne. He had borne for years what Jerrold was bearing now, and Anne hadnot loved him. He had never known for one moment the bliss of love orany joy. He had had nothing. And Jerrold remembered with a pang ofcontrition that he had never cared enough for Eliot. It had always beenColin, the young, breakable Colin, who had clung to him and followedhim. Eliot had always gone his own queer way, keeping himself apart. 

And now Eliot was nearer to him than anything in the world, except Anne. 

"I'm sorry, Jerrold. "

"You're pretty decent, Eliot, to be sorry--I believe you honestly wantme to have Anne. "

"I wouldn't go so far as that, old man. But I believe I honestly wantAnne to have you.... I say, she hasn't gone yet, has she?"

"No. Maisie's keeping her for dinner in your honour. You'll probablyfind her in the drawing-room now. "

"Where's Maisie?"

"She won't worry you. She's gone to lie down. "

Eliot went into the drawing-room and found Anne there. 

She looked at him. "You've been talking to Jerrold, " she said. 

"Yes, Anne. I'm worried about him. "

"So am I. "

"And I'm worried about you. "

"And he's worried about Maisie. "

"Yes. I suppose he began by not seeing she was ill, and now he does seeit he thinks she's going to die. I've been trying to explain to him thatshe isn't. "

"Can you explain why she's got into this state? It's not as if shewasn't happy. She _is_ happy. "

"She wasn't always happy. Jerrold must have made her suffer damnably. "

"When?"

"Oh, long before he married her. "

"But _how_ did he make her suffer?"

"Oh, by just not marrying her. She found out he didn't care for her. Herpeople took her out to India, I believe, with the idea that he wouldmarry her. And when they saw that Jerry wasn't on in that act they senther back again. Poor Maisie got it well rammed into her then that hedidn't care for her, and the idea's stuck. It's left a sort of wound inher memory. "

"But she must have thought he cared for her when he did marry her. Shethinks he cares now. "

"Of course she thinks it. I don't suppose he's ever let her see. "

"I know he hasn't. "

"But the wound's there, all the same. She's never got over it, thoughshe isn't conscious of it now. The fact remains that Maisie's marriageis incomplete because Jerry doesn't care for her. Part of Maisie, theadorable part we know, isn't aware of any incompleteness; it lives in aperpetual illusion. But the part we don't know, the hidden, secret partof her, is aware of nothing else.... Well, her illness is simplycamouflage for that. Maisie's mind couldn't bear the reality, so itescaped into a neurosis. Maisie's behaving as though she wasn't married, so that her mind can say to itself that her marriage is incompletebecause she's ill, not because Jerry doesn't care for her. It'ssubstituted a bearable situation for an unbearable one. "

"Then, you don't think she _knows_?"

"That Jerrold doesn't care for her? No. Only in that unconscious way. Her mind remembers and _she_ doesn't. "

"I mean, she doesn't know about Jerrold and me?"

"I'm sure she doesn't. If she did she'd do something. "

"That's what Jerrold said. What would she do?"

"Oh something beautiful, or it wouldn't be Maisie. She'd let Jerroldgo. "

"Yes. She'd let him go. And she'd die of it. "

"Oh no, she wouldn't. I told Jerrold just now it might cure her. "

"How _could_ it cure her?"

"By making her face reality. By making her see that her illness simplymeans that she hasn't faced it. All our neuroses come because we daren'tlive with the truth. "

"It's no good making Maisie well if we make her unhappy. Besides, Idon't believe it. If Maisie's unhappy she'll be worse, not better. "

"There _is_ just that risk, " he said. "But it's you I'm thinking about, not Maisie. You see, I don't know what's happened. "

"Jerrold didn't tell you?"

"He only told me what I know already. "

"After all, what _do_ you know?"

"I know you were all right, you and he, when I saw you together here inthe spring. So I suppose you were happy then. Jerrold looked wretchedlyill all the time he was at Taormina. So I suppose he was unhappy thenbecause he was away from you. He looks wretchedly ill now. So do you. SoI suppose you're both unhappy. "

"Yes, we're both unhappy. "

"Do you want to tell me about it, Anne?"

"No. I don't want to tell you about it. Only, if I thought you stillwanted to marry me----"

"I do want to marry you. I shall always want to marry you. I told youlong ago nothing would ever make any difference. 

"Even if----?"

"Even if--Whatever you did or didn't do I'd still want you. But I toldyou--don't you remember?--that you could never do anything dishonourableor cruel. "

"And I told you I wasn't sure. "

"And I am sure. That's enough for me. I don't want to know anythingmore. I don't want to know anything you'd rather I didn't know. "

"Oh, Eliot, you _are_ so good. You're good like Maisie. Don't worryabout Jerry and me. We'll see it through somehow. "

"And if you can't stand the strain of it?"

"But I can. "

"And if _he_ can't? If you want to be safe----"

"I told you I should never want to be safe. "

"If you want _him_ to be safe, then, would you marry me?"

"That's different. I don't know, Eliot, but I don't think so. "

He went away with a faint hope. She had said it would be different; whatshe would never do for him she might do for Jerrold. 

She might, after all, marry him to keep Jerrold safe. 

Nothing made any difference. Whatever Anne did she would still be Anne. And it was Anne he loved. And, after all, what did he know about her andJerrold? Only that if they had been lovers that would account for theirstrange happiness seven months ago; if they had given each other up thiswould account for their unhappiness now. He thought: How they must havestruggled. 

Perhaps, some day, when the whole story was told and Anne was tired ofstruggling, she would come to him and he would marry her. 

Even if----

XVIII

JERROLD AND ANNE

i

The Barrow Farm house, long, low and grey, stood back behind the tallelms and turned its blank north gable end to the road and the ManorFarm. Its nine mullioned windows looked down the field to the river. Andthe great barns were piled behind it, long roof-trees, steep, mouse-coloured slopes and peaks above grey walls. 

Anne didn't move into the Barrow Farm house all at once. She had to waitwhile Jerrold had the place made beautiful for her. 

This was the only thing that roused him to any interest. Through all hismisery he could still find pleasure in the work of throwing small roomsinto one to make more space for Anne, and putting windows into the southgable to give her the sun. 

Anne's garden absorbed him more than his own seven hundred acres. Maisieand he planned it together, walking round the rank flower-beds, and baldwastes scratched up by the hens. 

There was to be a flagged court on one side and a grass plot on theother, with a flower garden between. Here, Maisie said, there should begreat clumps of larkspurs and there a lavender hedge. They said how niceit would be for Anne to watch the garden grow. 

"He's going to make it so beautiful that you'll want to stay in itforever, " she said. 

And Anne went with them and listened to them, and told them they wereangels, and pretended to be excited about her house and garden, whileall the time her heart ached and she was too tired to care. 

The house was finished by the end of November and Jerrold and Maisiehelped her to furnish it. Maisie sent to London for patterns and broughtthem to Anne to choose. Maisie thought perhaps the chintz with the creamand pink roses, or the one with the green leaves and red tulips and blueand purple clematis was the prettiest. Anne tried to behave as if allher happiness depended on a pattern, and ended by choosing the one thatMaisie liked best. And the furniture went where Maisie thought it shouldgo, because Anne was too tired to care. Besides, she was busy on herfarm. Old Sutton in his decadence had let most of his arable land run towaste, and Anne's job was to make good soil again out of bad. 

Maisie was pleased like a child and excited with her planning. Her ideawas that Anne should come in from her work on the land and find thehouse all ready for her, everything in its place, chairs and sofasdressed in their gay suits of chintz, the books on their shelves, theblue-and-white china in rows on the oak dresser. 

Tea was set out on the gate-legged table before the wide hearth-place. The lamps were lit. A big fire burned. Colin and Jerrold and Maisie werethere waiting for her. And Anne came in out of the fields, tired andwhite and thin, her black hair drooping. Her rough land dress hung slackon her slender body. 

Jerrold looked at her. Anne's tired face, trying to smile, wrung hisheart. So did the happiness in Maisie's eyes. And Anne's voice trying tosound as if she were happy. 

"You darlings! How nice you've made it. "

"Do you like it?"

Maisie was breathless with joy. 

"I love it. I adore it! But--aren't there lots of things that weren'there before? Where did that table come from?"

"From the Manor Farm. Don't you remember it? That's Eliot. "

"And the bureau, and the dresser, and those heavenly rugs?"

"That's Jerrold. "

And the china was Colin, and the chintz was Maisie. The long couch forAnne to lie down on was Maisie. Everything that was not Anne's they hadgiven her. 

"You shouldn't have done it, " she said. 

"We did it for ourselves. To keep you with us, " said Maisie. 

"Did you think it would take all that?"

She wondered whether they saw how hard she was trying to look happy, notto be too tired to care. 

Then Maisie took her upstairs to show her her bedroom and the whitebathroom. Colin carried the lamp. He left them together in Anne's room. Maisie turned to her there. 

"Darling, how tired you look. Are you too tired to be happy?"

"I'd be a brute if I weren't happy, " Anne said. 

But she wasn't happy. The minute they were gone her sadness came uponher, crushing her down. She could hear Colin and Maisie, the twoinnocent ones, laughing out into the darkness. She saw again Jerrold'shard, unhappy face trying to smile; his mouth jerking in the tight, difficult smile that was like an agony. And it used to be Jerrold whowas always happy, who went laughing. 

She turned up and down the beautiful lighted room; she looked again andagain at the things they had given her, Colin and Jerrold and Maisie. 

Maisie. She would have to live with the cruelty of Maisie's gifts, withMaisie's wounding kindness and her innocence. Maisie's curtains, Maisie's couch, covered with flowers that smiled at her, gay on thewhite ground. She thought of the other house, of the curtains that hadshut out the light from her and Jerrold, of the couch where she had lainin his arms. Each object had a dumb but poignant life that reminded andreproached her. 

This was the scene where her life was to be cast. Henceforth thesethings would know her in her desolation. Jerrold would never come to herhere as he had come to the Manor Farm house; they would never sittogether talking by this fireside; those curtains would never be drawnon their passion; he would never go up to that lamp and put it out; shewould never lie here waiting, thrilling, as he came to her through thedarkness. 

She had wanted the Barrow Farm and she had got what she had wanted, andshe had got it too late. She loved it. Yet how was it possible to lovethe place that she was to be so unhappy in? She ought to hate it withits enclosing walls, its bright-eyed, watching furniture, its air ofquiet complicity in her pain. 

She drew back the curtains. The lamp and its yellow flame hung out thereon the darkness of the fields. The fields dropped away through thedarkness to the river, and there were the black masses of the trees. 

There the earth waited for her. Out there was the only life left for herto live. The life of struggling with the earth, forcing the earth toyield to her more than it had yielded to the men who had tilled itbefore her, making the bad land good. Ploughing time would come and seedtime, and hay harvest and corn harvest. Feeding time and milking timewould come. She would go on seeing the same things done at the samehour, at the same season, day after day and year after year. There wouldhave been joy in that if it had been Jerrold's land, if she could havegone on working for Jerrold and with Jerrold. And if she had not been sotired. 

She was only twenty-nine and Jerrold was only thirty-two. She wonderedhow many more ploughing times they would have to go through, how manyseed times and harvests. And how would they go through them? Would theygo on getting more and more tired, or would something happen?

No. Nothing would happen. Nothing that they could bear to think of. Theywould just go on. 

In the stillness of the house she could feel her heart beating, measuring out time, measuring out her pain. 

ii

That winter Adeline and John Severn came down to Wyck Manor forChristmas and the New Year. 

Adeline was sitting in the drawing-room with Maisie in the heavy hourbefore tea time. All afternoon she had been trying to talk to Maisie, and she was now bored. Jerrold's wife had always bored her. She couldn'timagine why Jerrold had married her when it was so clear that he was notin love with her. 

"It's funny, " she said at last, "staying in your own house when it isn'tyour own any more. "

Maisie hoped that Adeline would treat the house as if it were her own. 

"I probably shall. Don't be surprised if you hear me giving orders tothe servants. I really cannot consider that Wilkins belongs to anybodybut me. "

Maisie hoped that Adeline wouldn't consider that he didn't. 

And there was a pause. Adeline looked at the clock and saw that therewas still another half-hour till tea time. How could they possibly fillit in? Then, suddenly, from a thought of Jerrold so incredibly marriedto Maisie, Adeline's mind wandered to Anne. 

"Is Anne dining here tonight?" she said. 

And Maisie said yes, she thought Adeline and Mr. Severn would like tosee as much as possible of Anne. And Adeline said that was very kind ofMaisie, and was bored again. 

She saw nothing before her but more and more boredom; and the subject ofAnne alone held out the prospect of relief. She flew to it as she wouldhave fled from any danger. 

"By the way, Maisie, if I were you I wouldn't let Anne see too much ofJerrold. "

"Why not?"

"Because, my dear, it isn't good for her. "

"I should have thought, " Maisie said, "it was very good for both ofthem, as they like each other. I should never dream of interfering withtheir friendship. That's the way people get themselves thoroughlydisliked. I don't want Jerry to dislike me, or Anne, either. I like themto feel that if he _is_ married they can go on being friends just thesame. "

"Oh, of course, if you like it----"

"I do like it, " said Maisie, firmly. 

Firm opposition was a thing that Adeline's wilfulness could never stand. It always made her either change the subject or revert to her originalstatement. This time she reverted. 

"My point was that it isn't fair to Anne. "

"Why isn't it?"

"Because she's in love with him. "

"That, " said Maisie, with increasing decision, "I do _not_ believe. I'venever seen any signs of it. "

"You're the only person who hasn't then. It sticks out of her. If it wasa secret I shouldn't have told you. "

"It is a secret to me, " said Maisie, "so I think you might let italone. "

"You ought to know it if nobody else does. We've all of us known aboutAnne for ages. She was always quite mad about Jerrold. It was funny whenshe was a little thing; but it's rather more serious now she's thirty. "

"She isn't thirty, " said Maisie, contradictiously. 

"Almost thirty. It's a dangerous age, Maisie. And Anne's a dangerousperson. She's absolutely reckless. She always was. "

"I thought you thought she was in love with Colin. "

"I never thought it. "

Maisie hated people who lied to her. 

"Why did you tell Jerrold they were lovers, then?" she said. 

"Did I tell Jerrold they were lovers?"

"He thinks you did. "

"He must have misunderstood what I said. Colin gave me his word ofhonour that there was nothing between them. "

But Maisie had no mercy. 

"Why should he do that if you didn't think there was? If you weremistaken then you may be mistaken now. "

"I'm not mistaken now. Ask Colin, ask Eliot, ask Anne's father. "

"I shouldn't dream of asking them. You forget, if Jerrold's my husband, Anne's my friend. "

"Then for goodness sake keep her out of mischief. Keep her out ofJerrold's way. Anne's a darling and I'm devoted to her, but she alwaysdid love playing with fire. If she's bent on burning her pretty wings itisn't kind to bring her where the lamp is. "

"I'd trust Anne's wings to keep her out of danger. "

"How about Jerrold's danger? You might think of him. "

"I do think of him. And I trust him. Absolutely. "

"I don't. I don't trust anybody absolutely. "

"One thing's clear, " said Maisie, "that it's time we had tea. "

She got up, with an annihilating dignity, and rang the bell. Adeline'ssmile intimated that she was unbeaten and unconvinced. 

That evening John Severn came into his wife's room as she was dressingfor dinner. 

"I wish to goodness Anne hadn't this craze for farming, " he said. "She'ssimply working herself to death. I never saw her look so seedy. I'msorry Jerrold let her have that farm. "

"So am I, " said Adeline. "I never saw Jerry look so seedy, either. Maisie's been behaving like a perfect idiot. If she wanted them to gooff together she couldn't have done better. "

"You don't imagine, " John said, "that's what they're after?"

"How do I know what they're after? You never can tell with people likeJerrold and Anne. They're both utterly reckless. They don't care whosuffers so long as they get what they want. If Anne had the morals ofa--of a mouse, she'd clear out. "

"I think, " John said, "you're mistaken. Anne isn't like that.... I hopeyou haven't said anything to Maisie?"

Adeline made a face at him, as much as to say, "What do you take mefor?" She lifted up her charming, wilful face and powdered it carefully. 

iii

The earth smelt of the coming rain. All night the trees had whispered ofrain coming to-morrow. Now they waited. 

At noon the wind dropped. Thick clouds, the colour of dirty sheep'swool, packed tight by their own movement, roofed the sky and walled itround, hanging close to the horizon. A slight heaving and swelling inthe grey mass packed it tighter. It was pregnant with rain. Here andthere a steaming vapour broke from it as if puffed out by some immenseinterior commotion. Thin tissues detached themselves and hung like afrayed hem, lengthening, streaming to the hilltops in the west. 

Anne was going up the fields towards the Manor and Jerrold was comingdown towards the Manor Farm. They met at the plantation as the first bigdrops fell. 

He called out to her, "I say, you oughtn't to be out a day like this. "

Anne had been ill all January with a slight touch of pleurisy after acold that she had taken no care of. 

"I'm going to see Maisie. "

"You're _not_, " he said. "It's going to rain like fury. "

"Maisie knows I don't mind rain, " Anne said, and laughed. 

"Maisie'd have a fit if she knew you were out in it. Look, how it'scoming down over there. "

Westwards and northwards the round roof and walls of cloud were shakenand the black rain hung sheeted between sky and earth. Overhead the darktissues thinned out and lengthened. The fir trees quivered; they gaveout slight creaking, crackling noises as the rain came down. It pouredoff each of the sloping fir branches like a jet from a tap. 

"We must make a dash for it, " Jerrold said. And they ran together, laughing, down the field to Anne's shelter at the bottom. He pushed backthe sliding door. 

The rain drummed on the roof and went hissing along the soaked ground;it sprayed out as the grass bent and parted under it; every hollow tuftwas a water spout. The fields were dim behind the shining, glassy beadcurtain of the rain. 

The wind rose again and shook the rain curtain and blew it into theshelter. Rain scudded across the floor, wetting them where they stood. Jerrold slid the door to. They were safe now from the downpour. 

Anne's bed stood in the corner tucked up in its grey blankets. They satdown on it side by side. 

For a moment they were silent, held by their memory. They were shut inthere with their past. It came up to them, close and living, out of thebright, alien mystery of the rain. 

He put his hand on the shoulder of Anne's coat to feel if it was wet. Athis touch she trembled. 

"It hasn't gone through, has it?"

"No, " she said and coughed again. 

"Anne, I hate that cough of yours. You never had a cough before. "

"I've never had pleurisy before. "

"You wouldn't have had it if you hadn't been frightfully run down. "

"It's all over now, " she said. 

"It isn't. You may get it again. I don't feel as if you were safe forone minute. Are you warm?"

"Quite. "

"Are your feet wet?"

"No. No. No. Don't worry, Jerry dear; I'm all right. "

"I wouldn't worry if I was with you all the time. It's not seeing you. Not knowing. "

"Don't, " she said. "I can't bear it. "

And they were silent again. 

Their silence was more real to them than the sounding storm. There wasdanger in it. It drew them back and back. It was poignant andreminiscent. It came to them like the long stillness before theirpassion. They had waited here before, like this, through moments tenseand increasing, for the supreme, toppling instant of their joy. 

Their minds went round and round, looking for words to break the silenceand finding none. They were held there by their danger. 

At last Anne spoke. 

"Do you think it's over?"

"No. It's only just begun. "

The rain hurled itself against the window, as if it would pluck them outinto the storm. It brimmed over from the roof like water poured out froma bucket. 

"We'll have to sit tight till it stops, " he said. 

Silence again, long, inveterate, dangerous. Every now and then Annecoughed, the short, hard cough that hurt and frightened him. He knew heought to leave her; every minute increased their danger. But he couldn'tgo. He felt that, after all they might have done and hadn't done, heavenhad some scheme of compensation in which it owed them this moment. 

She turned from him coughing, and that sign of her weakness, the sightof her thin shoulders shaking filled him with pity that was passionitself. He thought of the injustice life had heaped on Anne's innocence;of the cruelty that had tracked her and hunted her down; of his owncomplicity with her suffering. He thought of his pity for Maisie astreachery to Anne, of his honour as cowardice. Instead of piling up wallafter wall, he ought never to have let anything come between him andAnne. Not even Maisie. Not even his honour. His honour belonged to Annefar more than to Maisie. The rest had been his own blundering folly, andhe had no right to let Anne be punished for it. 

An hour ago the walls had stood solid between them. Now a furiousimpulse seized him to tear them down and get through to her. This timehe would hold her and never let her go. 

His thoughts went the way his passion went. Then suddenly she turned andthey looked at each other and he thought no more. All his thoughts wentdown in the hot rushing darkness of his blood. 

"Anne, " he said, "Anne"--His voice sounded like a cry. 

They stood up suddenly and were swept together; he held her tight, shutin his arms, his body straining to her. They clung to each other as ifonly by clinging they could stand against the hot darkness that drownedthem; and the more they clung the more it came over them, wave afterwave. 

Then in the darkness he heard her crying to him to let her go. 

"Don't make me, Jerrold, don't make me. "

"Yes. Yes. "

"No. Oh, why did we ever come here?"

He pressed her closer and she tried to push him off with weak hands thathad once been strong. He felt her breakable in his arms, and utterlydefenceless. 

"I can't, " she cried. "I should feel as if Maisie were there and lookingat us.... Don't make me. "

Suddenly he let her go. 

He was beaten by the sheer weakness of her struggle. He couldn't fightfor his flesh, like a brute, against that helplessness. 

"If I go, you'll stay here till the rain stops?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, Jerry. You'll get so wet. "

That made him laugh. And, laughing, he left her. Then tears came, cutting through his eyelids like blood from a dry wound. They mixed withthe rain and blinded him. 

And Anne sat on the little grey bed in her shelter and stared out at therain and cried. 

XIX

ANNE AND ELIOT

i

She knew what she would do now. 

She would go away and never see Jerrold again, never while their youthlasted, while they could still feel. She would go out of England, so faraway that they couldn't meet. She would go to Canada and farm. 

All night she lay awake with her mind fixed on the one thought of goingaway. There was nothing else to be done, no room for worry orhesitation. They couldn't hold out any longer, she and Jerrold, strainedto the breaking-point, tortured with the sight of each other. 

As she lay awake there came to her the peace that comes with all immenseand clear decisions. Her mind would never be torn and divided any more. And towards morning she fell asleep. 

She woke dulled and bewildered. Her mind struggled with a sense ofappalling yet undefined disaster. Something had happened overnight, shecouldn't remember what. Something had happened. No. Something was goingto happen. She tried to fall back into sleep, fighting against thereturn of consciousness; it came on, wave after wave, beating her down. 

Now she remembered. She was going away. She would never see Jerroldagain. She was going to Canada. 

The sharp, clear name made the whole thing real and irrevocable. It wassomething that would actually happen soon. To her. She was going. Andwhen she had gone she would not come back. 

She got up and looked out of the window. She saw the green field slopingdown to the river and the road, and beyond the road, to the right, therise of the Manor fields and the belt of firs. And in her mind, morereal than they, the Manor house, the garden, and the many-coloured hillsbeyond, rolling, curve after curve, to the straight, dark-blue horizon. The scene that held her childhood, all her youth, all her happiness;that had drawn her back, again and again, in memory and in dreams, making her heart ache. How could she leave it? How could she live withthat pain?

If she was going to be a coward, if she was going to be afraid ofpain--How was she to escape it, how was Jerrold to escape? If she stayedon they would break down together and give in; they would be loversagain, and again Maisie's sweet, wounding face would come between them;they could never get away from it; and in the end their remorse would beas unbearable as their separation. She couldn't drag Jerrold throughthat agony again. 

No. Life wasn't worth living if you were a coward and afraid. And underall her misery Anne had still the sense that life was somehow worthliving even if it made you miserable. Life was either your friend oryour enemy. If it was your friend you served it; if it was your enemyyou stood up to it and refused to let it beat you, and your enemy becameyour servant. Whatever happened, your work remained. Still there wouldbe ploughing and sowing, and reaping and ploughing again. Still theearth waited. She thought of the unknown Canadian earth that waited forher tilling. 

Jerrold was not a coward. He was not afraid--well, only afraid of thepeople he loved getting ill and dying; and she was not going to get illand die. 

She would have to tell him. She would go to him in the fields and tellhim. 

But before she did that she must make the thing irrevocable. So Annewrote to the steamship company, booking her passage in two weeks' time;she wrote to Eliot, asking him to call at the company's office and seeif he could get her a decent cabin. She went to Wyck and posted herletters, and then to the Far Acres field where Jerrold was watching theploughing. 

They met at the "headland. " They would be safe there on the ploughedland, in the open air. 

"What is it, Anne?" he said. 

"Nothing. I want to talk to you. "

"All right. "

Her set face, her hard voice gave him a premonition of disaster. 

"It's simply this, " she said. "What happened yesterday mustn't happenagain. "

"It shan't. I swear it shan't. I was a beast. I lost my head. "

"Yes, but it may happen again. We can't go on like this, Jerry. Thestrain's too awful. "

"You mean you can't trust me. "

"I can't trust myself. And it isn't fair to you. "

"Oh, me. That doesn't matter. "

"Well, then, say _I_ matter. It's the same for me. I'm never going tolet that happen again. I'm going away. "

"Going away--"

"Yes. And I'm not coming back this time. "

His voice struggled in his throat. Something choked him. He couldn'tspeak. 

"I'm going to Canada in a fortnight. "

"Good God! You can't go to Canada. "

"I can. I've booked my passage. "

His face was suddenly sallow white, ghastly. His heart heaved and hefelt sick. 

"Nothing on earth will stop me. "

"Won't Maisie stop you? If you do this she'll know. Can't you see how itgives us away?"

"No. It'll only give _me_ away. If Maisie asks me why I'm going I shalltell her I'm in love with you, and that I can't stand it; that I'm toounhappy. I'd rather she thought I cared for you than that she shouldthink you cared for me. "

"She'll think it all the same. "

"Then I shall have to lie. I must risk it.... Oh Jerry, don't look soawful! I've got to go. We've settled it that we can't go on deceivingher, and we aren't going to make her unhappy. There's nothing else to bedone. "

"Except to bear it. "

"And how long do you suppose that'll last? We _can't_ bear it. Look atit straight. It's all so horribly simple. If we were beasts and onlythought of ourselves and didn't think of Maisie it wouldn't matter to uswhat we did. But we can't be beasts. We can't lie to Maisie, and wecan't tell her the truth. We can't go on seeing each other withoutwanting each other--unbearably--and we can't go on wanting each otherwithout--some day--giving in. It comes back the first minute we'realone. And we don't mean to give in. So we mustn't see each other, that's all. Can you tell me one other thing I can do?"

"But why should it be _you_? Why should you get the worst of it?"

"Because one of us has got to clear out. It can't be you, so it's got tobe me. And going away isn't the worst of it. It'll be worse for yousticking on here where everything reminds you--At least I shall have newthings to keep my mind off it. "

"Nothing will keep your mind off it. You'll fret yourself to death. "

"No, I shan't. I shall have too much to do. You're _not_ to be sorry forme, Jerrold. "

"But you're giving up everything. The Barrow Farm. The place you wanted. You won't have a thing. "

"I don't want 'things. ' It's easier to chuck them than to hang on to themwhen they'll remind me.... Really, if I could see any other way I'd takeit. "

"But you can't go. You're not fit to go. You're ill. "

"I shall be all right when I get there. "

"But what do you think you're going to _do_ in Canada? It's not as ifyou'd got anything to go for. "

"I shall find something. I shall work on somebody's ranch first andlearn Canadian farming. Then I shall look out for land and buy it. I'vegot stacks of money. All Grandpapa Everitt's, and the money for thefarm. Stacks. I shall get on all right. "

"When did you think of all this?"

"Last night. "

"I see. I made you. "

"No. I made myself. After all, it's the easiest way. "

"For you, or me?"

"For both of us. Honestly, it's the only straight thing. I ought to havedone it long ago. "

"It means never seeing each other again. You'll never come back. "

"Never while we're young. When we're both old, too old to feel any more, then I'll come back some day, and we'll be friends. "

And still his will beat against hers in vain, till at last he stopped;sick and exhausted. 

They went together down the ploughed land into the pastures, and throughthe pastures to the mill water. In the opposite field they could see thebrown roof and walls of the shelter. 

"What are you going to plant in the Seven Acres field?"

"Barley, " he said. 

"You can't. It was barley last year. "

"Was it?"

They were silent then. Jerrold struggled with his feeling of deadlysickness. Anne couldn't trust herself to speak. At the Barrow Farm gatethey parted. 

ii

Maisie's eyes looked at him across the table, wondering. Her littledrooping mouth was half open with anxiety, as if any minute she wasgoing to say something. The looking-glass had shown him his haggard anddiscoloured face, a face to frighten her. He tried to eat, but the sightand smell of hot roast mutton sickened him. 

"Oh, Jerrold, can't you eat it?"

"No, I can't. I'm sorry. "

"There's some cold chicken. Will you have that?"

"No, thanks. "

"Try and eat something. "

"I can't. I feel sick. "

"Don't sit up, then. Go and lie down. "

"I will if you don't mind. "

He went to his room and was sick. He lay down on his bed and tried tosleep. His head ached violently and every movement made him heave; hecouldn't sleep; he couldn't lie still; and presently he got up and wentout again, up to the Far Acres field to the ploughing. He couldn'tovercome the physical sickness of his misery, but he could force himselfto move, to tramp up and down the stiff furrows, watching the tractor;he kept himself going by the sheer strength of his will. The rattle andclank of the tractor ground into his head, making it ache again. He wasstunned with great blows of noise and pain, so that he couldn't think. He didn't want to think; he was glad of the abominable sensations thatstopped him. He went from field to field, avoiding the boundaries of theBarrow Farm lest he should see Anne. 

When the sun set and the land darkened he went home. 

At dinner he tried to eat, sickened again, and leaned back in his chair;he forced himself to sit through the meal, talking to Maisie. When itwas over he went to bed and lay awake till the morning. 

The next day passed in the same way, and the next night; and always hewas aware of Maisie's sweet face watching him with frightened eyes andan unuttered question. He was afraid to tell her that Anne was goinglest she should put down his illness to its true cause. 

And on the third day, when he heard her say she was going to see Anne, he told her. 

"Oh, Jerrold, she can't really mean it. "

"She does mean it. I said everything I could to stop her, but it wasn'tany good. She's taken her passage. "

"But why--_why_ should she want to go?"

"I can't tell you why. You'd better ask her. "

"Has anything happened to upset her?"

"What on earth should happen?"

"Oh, I don't know. When did she tell you this?"

He hesitated. It was dangerous to lie when Maisie might get the truthfrom Anne. 

"The day before yesterday. "

Maisie's eyes were fixed on him, considering it. He knew she was sayingto herself, "That was the day you came home so sick and queer. "

"Jerry--did you say anything to upset her?"

"No. "

"I can't think how she could want to go. "

"Nor I. But she's going. "

"I shall go down and see if I can't make her stay. "

"Do. But you won't if I can't, " he said. 

iii

Maisie went down early in the afternoon to see Anne. 

She couldn't think how Anne could want to leave the Barrow Farm housewhen she had just got into it, when they had all made it so nice forher; she couldn't think how she could leave them when she cared forthem, when she knew how they cared for her. 

"You _do_ care for us, Anne?"

"Oh yes, I care. "

"And you _wanted_ the farm. I can't understand your going just whenyou've got it, when you've settled, in and when Jerrold took all thattrouble to make it nice for you. It isn't like you, Anne. "

"I know. It must seem awful of me; but I can't help it, Maisie darling. I've _got_ to go. You mustn't try and stop me. It only makes it harder. "

"Then it _is_ hard? You don't really want to go?"

"Of course I don't. But I must. "

Maisie meditated, trying to make it out. 

"Is it--is it because you're unhappy?"

Anne didn't answer. 

"You _are_ unhappy. You've been unhappy ever so long. Can't we doanything?"

"No. Nobody can do anything. "

"It isn't, " said Maisie at last, "anything to do with Jerrold?"

"You wouldn't ask me that, Maisie, if you didn't know it was. "

"Perhaps I do know. Do you care for him very much, Anne?"

"Yes, I care for him, very much. And I can't stand it. "

"It's so bad that you've got to go away?"

"It's so bad that I've got to go away. "

"That's very brave of you. "

"Or very cowardly. "

"No. You couldn't be a coward.... Oh, Anne darling, I'm so sorry. "

"Don't be sorry. It's my own fault. I'd no business to get into thisstate. Don't let's talk about it, Maisie. "

"All right, I won't. But I'm sorry.... Only one thing. It--it hasn'tmade you hate me, has it?"

"You know it hasn't. "

"Oh, Anne, you _are_ beautiful. "

"I'm anything but, if you only knew. "

She had got beyond the pain of Maisie's goodness, Maisie's trust. Nopossible blow from Maisie's mind could hurt her now. Nothing mattered. Maisie's trust and goodness didn't matter, since she had done all sheknew; since she was going away; since she would never see Jerrold again, never till their youth was gone and they had ceased to feel. 

iv

That afternoon Eliot arrived at Wyck Manor. His coming was his answer toAnne's letter. 

He went over to the Barrow Farm about five o'clock when Anne's workwould be done. Anne was still out, and he waited till she should comeback. 

As he waited he looked round her room. This, he thought, was the placethat Anne had set her heart on having for her own; it was the home theyhad made for her. Something terrible must have happened before she couldbring herself to leave it. She must have been driven to thebreaking-point. She was broken. Jerrold must have driven and broken her. 

He heard her feet on the flagged path, on the threshold of the house;she stood in the doorway of the room, looking at him, startled. 

"Eliot, what are you doing there?"

"Waiting for you. You must have known I'd come. "

"To say good-bye? That was nice of you. "

"No, not to say good-bye. I should come to see you off if you weregoing. "

"But I am going. You've seen about my berth, haven't you?"

"No, I haven't. We've got to talk about it first. "

He looked dead tired. She remembered that she was his hostess. 

"Have you had tea?"

"No. You're going to give me some. Then we'll talk about it. "

"Talking won't be a bit of good. "

"I think it may be, " he said. 

She rang the bell and they waited. She gave him his tea, and while theyate and drank he talked to her about the weather and the land, and abouthis work and the book he had just finished on Amoebic Dysentery, andabout Colin and how well he was now. Neither of them spoke of Jerrold orof Maisie. 

When the tea things were cleared away he leaned back and looked at herwith his kind, deep-set, attentive eyes. She loved Eliot's eyes, and hisqueer, clever face that was so like and so unlike his father's, soutterly unlike Jerrold's. 

"You needn't tell me why you're going, " he said at last. "I've seenJerrold. "

"Did he tell you?"

"No. You've only got to look at him to see. "

"Do you think Maisie sees?"

"I can't tell you. She isn't stupid. She must wonder why you're goinglike this. "

"I told her. I told her I was in love with Jerrold. "

"What did she say?"

"Nothing. Only that she was sorry. I told her so that she mightn't thinkhe cared for me. She needn't know that. "

"She isn't stupid, " he said again. 

"No. But she's good. She trusts him so. She trusted me.... Eliot, thatwas the worst of it, the way she trusted us. That broke us down. "

"Of course she trusted you. "

"Did you?"

"You know I did. "

"And yet, " she said, "I believe you knew. You knew all the time. "

"If I didn't, I know now. "

"Everything?"

"Everything. "

"How? Because of my going away? Is that it?"

"Not altogether. I've seen you happy and I've seen you unhappy. I'veseen you with Jerrold. I've seen you with Maisie. Nobody else would haveseen it, but I did, because I knew you so well. And because I was afraidof it. Besides, you almost told me. "

"Yes, and you said it wouldn't make any difference. Does it?"

"No. None. I know, whatever you did, you wouldn't do it only foryourself. You did this for Jerrold. And you were unhappy because of it. "

"No. No. I was happy. We were only unhappy afterwards because of Maisie. It was so awful going on deceiving her, hiding it and lying. I feel asif everything I said and did then was a lie. That was how I waspunished. Not being able to tell the truth. And I could have borne eventhat if it wasn't for Jerrold. But he hated it, too. It made himwretched. "

"I know it did. If you hadn't been so fine it wouldn't have punishedyou. "

"_The_ horrible thing was knowing what I'd done to Jerrold, making himhide and lie. "

"Oh, what you've done to Jerrold--You've done him nothing but good. You've made him finer than he could possibly have been without you. "

"I've made him frightfully unhappy. "

"Not unhappier than he's made you. And it's what he had to be. I toldyou long ago Jerrold wouldn't be any good till he'd suffered damnably. Well--he has suffered damnably. And he's got a soul because of it. Hehadn't much of one before he loved you. "

"How do you mean?"

"I mean he used to think of nothing but his own happiness. Now he'sthinking of nothing but Maisie's and yours. He loves you better thanhimself. He even loves Maisie better--I mean he thinks more of her--thanhe did before he loved you. There are two people that he cares for morethan himself. He cares more for his own honour than he did. And foryours. And that's your doing. Just think how you'd have wrecked him ifyou'd been a different sort of woman. "

"No. Because then he wouldn't have cared for me. "

"No, I believe he wouldn't. He chose well. "

"You were always much too good to me. "

"No, Anne. I want you to see this thing straight, and to see yourself asyou really are. Not to go back on yourself. "

"I don't go back on myself. That would be going back on Jerrold. I'msorry because of Maisie, that's all. If I'd had an ounce of sense I'dnever have known her. I'd have gone off to some place not too far awaywhere Jerrold could have come to me and where I should never have seenMaisie. That's what I should have done. We should both have been happythen. "

"Yes, Jerrold would have been happy. And he wouldn't have saved hissoul. And he'd have been deceiving Maisie all the time. You don't reallywish you'd done that, Anne. "

"No. Not now. And I'm not unhappy about Maisie now. I'm going away. I'mgiving Jerrold up. I can't do more than that. "

"You wouldn't have to go away, Anne, if you'd do what I want and marryme. You said perhaps you might if you had to save Jerrold. "

"Did I? I don't think I did. "

"You've forgotten and I haven't. You don't know what an appalling thingyou're doing. You're leaving everything and everybody you ever caredfor. You'll die of sheer unhappiness. "

"Nonsense, Eliot. You know perfectly well that people don't die ofunhappiness. They die of accidents and diseases and old age. I shall dieof old age. And I'll be back in twenty years' time if I've seen itthrough. "

"Twenty years. The best years of your life. You'll be desperatelylonely. You don't know what it'll be like. "

"Oh yes, I do. I've been lonely before now. And I've saved myself byworking. "

"Yes, in England, where you could see some of us sometimes. But outthere, with people you never saw before--people who may be brutes--"

"They needn't be. "

He went on relentlessly. "People you don't care for and never will carefor. You've never really cared for anybody but us. "

"I haven't. I'm going because I care. I can't let Jerry go on like that. I've got to end it. "

"You're going simply to save Jerrold. So that you can never go back tohim. Don't you see that if you married me you'd both be safe? Youcouldn't go back. If you were married to me Jerrold wouldn't take youfrom me. If you were married to me you wouldn't break faith with me. Ifyou had children you wouldn't break faith with them. Nothing could keepyou safer. "

"I can't, Eliot. Nothing's changed. I belong to Jerrold. I always havebelonged to him. It isn't anything physical. Even if I'm separated fromhim, thousands of miles, I shall belong to him still. My mind, or soul, or whatever the thing is, can't get away from him.... You say if Ibelonged to you I couldn't give myself to Jerrold. If I belong toJerrold, how can I give myself to you?"

"I see. It's like that, is it?"

"It's like that. "

Eliot said no more. He knew when he was beaten. 

v

Maisie sat alone in her own room, thinking it over. She didn't know yetthat Eliot had come. He had arrived while she was with Anne and she hadmissed him on the way to Barrow Farm, driving up by the hill road whilehe walked down through the fields. 

She didn't think of Jerrold all at once. Her mind was taken up with Anneand Anne's unhappiness. She could see nothing else. She remembered howAdeline had told her that Anne was in love with Jerrold. She had said, "It was funny when she was a little thing. " Anne had loved him all herlife, then. All her life she had had to do without him. 

Maisie thought: Perhaps he would have loved her and married her if ithadn't been for me. And yet Anne had loved her. 

That was Anne's beauty. 

She wondered next: If Anne had been in love with Jerrold all that time, and if they had all seen it, all the Fieldings and John Severn, how wasit that she had never seen it? She had seen nothing but a perfectfriendship, and she had tried to keep it for them in all its perfection, so that neither of them should miss anything because Jerrold had marriedher. She remembered how happy Anne had been when she first knew her, andshe thought: If she was happy then, why is she unhappy now? If she lovedJerrold all her life, if she had done without him all her life, why goaway now?

Unless something had happened. 

It was then that Maisie thought of Jerrold, and his sad, drawn face andhis sudden sickness the other day. That was the day he had been withAnne, when she had told him that she was going away. He had never beenthe same since. He had neither slept nor eaten. 

Maisie had all the pieces of the puzzle loose before her, and at firstsight not one of them looked as if it would fit. But this piece underher hand fitted. Jerrold's illness joined on to Anne's going. With aterrible dread in her heart Maisie put the two things together and sawthe third thing. Jerrold was ill because Anne was going away. Hewouldn't be ill unless he cared for her. And another thing. Anne wasgoing away, not because she cared, but because Jerrold cared. Thereforeshe knew that he cared for her. Therefore he had told her. That was whathad happened. 

When she had put all the pieces into their places she would have thewhole story. 

But Maisie didn't want to know any more. She had enough to make herheart break. She still clung to her belief in their goodness. They wereunhappy because they had given each other up. And under all herthinking, like a quick-running pain, there went her premonition of itsend. She remembered that they had been happy once when she first knewthem. If they were unhappy now because they had given each other up, hadthey been happy then because they hadn't? For a moment she askedherself, "Were they--?" and was afraid to finish and answer her ownquestion. It was enough that they were all unhappy now and that none ofthem would ever be happy again. Not Anne. Not Jerrold. _Their_unhappiness didn't bear thinking of, and in thinking of it Maisie forgother own. 

Her heart shook her breast with its beating, and for a moment shewondered whether her pain were beginning again. Then the thought of Anneand Jerrold and herself and of their threefold undivided misery cameupon her, annihilating every other thought. As if all that was physicalin Maisie were subdued by the intensity of her suffering, with thecoming of the supreme emotion her body had no pain. 

XX

MAISIE, JERROLD, AND ANNE

i

She got up and dressed for dinner as if nothing had happened, or, rather, as if everything were about to happen and she were going throughwith it magnificently, with no sign that she was beaten. She didn't knowyet what she would do; she didn't see clearly what there was to be done. She might not have to do anything; and yet again, vaguely, half-fascinated, half-frightened, she foresaw that she might be calledon to do something, something that was hard and terrible and at the sametime beautiful and supreme. 

And downstairs in the hall, she found Eliot. 

He told her that he had come down to see Anne and that he had done hisbest to keep her from going away and that it was all no good. 

"We can't stop her. She's got an unbreakable will. "

"Unbreakable, " she said. "And yet she's broken. "

"I know, " he said. 

In her nervous exaltation she felt that Eliot had been sent, that Eliotknew. Eliot was wise. He would help her. 

"Eliot----" she said. "Will you see me in the library after dinner? Iwant to ask you something. "

"If it's about Anne, I don't know that there's anything I can say. "

"It's about Jerrold, " she said. 

After dinner he came to her in the library. 

"Where's Jerrold?"

"In the drawing-room with Colin. He won't come in. "

"Eliot, there's something awfully wrong with him. He can't sleep. Hecan't eat. He's sick if he tries. "

"He looks pretty ghastly. "

"Do you know what's the matter with him?"

"How can I know? He doesn't tell me anything. "

"It's ever since he heard that Anne's going. " "He's worried about her. So am I. So are you. "

"He isn't worrying. He's fretting.... Eliot--do you think he cares forher?"

Eliot didn't answer her. He looked at her gravely, searchingly, as if hewere measuring her strength before he answered. 

"Don't be afraid to tell me. I'm not a coward. "

"I haven't anything to tell you. It isn't altogether this affair ofAnne's. Jerrold hasn't been fit for a long time. "

"It's been going on for a long time. "

"What makes you think so?"

"Oh, " said Maisie, "everything. "

"Then why don't you ask him?"

"But--if it is so--would he tell me?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he wants to tell you, only he's afraid. Anyhow, if it isn't so he'll tell you and you'll be happy. "

"Somehow I don't think I'm going to be happy. "

"Then, " he said, "you're going to be brave. "

She thought: He knows. He's known all the time, only he won't give themaway. 

"Yes, " she said, "I'll ask him. "

"Maisie--if it is so what will you do?"

"Do? There's only one thing I _can_ do. "

She turned to him, and her milk-white face was grey-white, ashen; theskin had a slack, pitted look, suddenly old. The soft flesh trembled. But her mouth and eyes were still. In this moment of her agony no baseemotion defaced their sweetness, so that she seemed to him utterlycomposed. She had seen what she could do. Something hard and terrible. 

"I can set him free. "

ii

That was the end she had seen before her, vaguely, as something not onlyhard and terrible, but beautiful and supreme. To leave off clinging tothe illusion of her happiness. To let go. And with that letting go shewas aware that an obscure horror had been hanging over her for threedays and three nights and was now gone. She stood free of herself, in agreat light and peace, so that presently when Jerrold came to her shemet him with an incomparable tranquillity. 

"Jerrold--"

The slight throbbing of her voice startled him coming out of herstillness. 

They stood up, facing each other, in attitudes that had no permanence, as if what must pass between them now would be sudden and soon over. 

"Do you care for Anne?"

The words dropped clear through her stillness, vibrating. His eyes wentfrom her, evading the issue. Her voice came with a sharper stress. 

"I _must_ know. _Do_ you care for her?"

"Yes. "

"And that's why she's going?"

"Yes. That's why she's going. Did Eliot say anything?"

"No. He only told me to ask you. He said you'd tell me the truth. "

"I have told you the truth. I'm sorry, Maisie. "

"I know you're sorry. So am I. "

"But, you see, it isn't as if I'd begun after I married you. I've caredfor her all my life. "

"Then why didn't you marry her?"

"Because, first of all, I didn't know I cared. And afterwards I thoughtshe cared for Colin. "

"You never asked her?"

"No. I thought--I thought they were lovers. "

"You thought that of her?"

"Well, yes. I thought it would be just like her to give everything. Iknew if she cared enough she'd stick at nothing. She wouldn't do it forherself. "

"That was--when?"

"The time I came home on leave three years ago. "

"The time you married me. Why did you marry me, if you didn't care forme?"

"I would have cared for you if I hadn't cared for her. "

"But, when you cared for her----?"

"I thought we should find something in it. I wanted you to be happy. More than anything I wanted you to be happy. I thought I'd be killed inmy next action and that nothing would matter. "

"That you wouldn't have to keep it up?"

"Oh, I'd have kept it up all right if Anne hadn't been there. I caredenough for you to want you to be happy. I wanted you to have a child. You'd have liked that. That would have made you happy. "

"Poor Jerrold----"

"I'd have been all right if I hadn't seen Anne again. "

"When did you see her again?"

"Last spring. "

"Only last spring?"

"Yes, only. "

"When I was away. "

She remembered. She remembered how she had first come to Wyck and foundJerrold happy and superbly well. 

"But, " she said, "you were happy then. "

He sighed, a long, tearing sigh that hurt her. 

"Yes. We were happy then. "

And in a flash of terrific clarity she remembered her home-coming andthe night that followed it and Jerrold's acquiescence in theirseparation. 

"Then, " she said, "if you were happy----"

"Do you want to know how far it went?"

"I want to know everything. I want the truth. I think you owe me thetruth. "

"It went just as far as it could go. "

"Do you mean----"

He stood silent and she found his words for him. 

"You were Anne's lover?"

"Yes. "

Her face changed before him, as it had changed an hour ago before Eliot, ashen-white and slack, quivering, suddenly old. 

Tears came into his eyes, tears of remorse and pity. She saw them andher heart ached for him. 

"It didn't last long, " he said. 

"How long?"

"From March till--till September. "

"I remember. "

"Maisie--I can't ask you to forgive me. But you must forgive Anne. Itwasn't her fault. I made her do it. And she's been awfully unhappy aboutit, because of you. "

"Ah--that was why----"

"Won't you forgive her?"

"I forgive you both. I don't know how I should have felt if you'd beenhappy. I can't see anything but your unhappiness. "

"We gave it up because of you. That was Anne. She couldn't bear going onafter she knew you, when you were such an angel. It was your goodnessand sweetness broke us down. "

"But if I'd been the most disagreeable person it would have been just as_wrong_. "

"It wouldn't, for in that case we shouldn't have deceived you. I shouldhave told you straight and left you. "

"Why didn't you tell me, Jerrold? Why didn't you tell me in thebeginning?"

"We were afraid. We didn't want to hurt you. "

"As if that mattered. "

"It did matter. We were going to tell you. Then you were ill and wecouldn't. We thought you'd die of it, with your poor little heart inthat state. "

"Oh, my dear, did you suppose I'd hurt you that way?"

"That was what we couldn't bear. Not being straight about it. That waswhy we gave each other up. It never happened again. Anne's going away sothat it mayn't happen.... Maisie--you _do_ believe me?"

"Yes, I believe you. I believe you did all you knew. "

"We did. But it's my fault that Anne's going. I lost my head, and shewas afraid. "

"If only you'd told me. I shouldn't have been hard on you, Jerry. Youknew that, didn't you?"

"Yes. I knew. "

"And you went through all that agony rather than hurt me. "

"Yes. "

"The least I can do, then, is to let you go. "

"Would you, Maisie?"

"Of course. I married you to make you happy. I must make you happy thisway, that's all. But if I do you mustn't think I don't care for you. Icare for you so much that nothing matters but your happiness. "

"Maisie, I'm not fit to live in the same world with you. "

"You mustn't say that. You're fit to live in the same world with Anne. Isuppose I could have made this all ugly and shameful for you. But I wantto keep it beautiful. I want to give you all beautiful to Anne, so thatyou'll never go back on it, and never feel ashamed. "

"You made me ashamed every time we thought of you. "

"Don't think of me. Think of each other. "

"Oh--you're adorable. "

"No, I'm doing this because I love you both. But if I didn't love you Ishould do it for myself. I should hate myself if I didn't. I can't thinkof anything more disgusting and dishonourable than to keep a man tied toyou when he cares for somebody else. I should feel as if I were livingin sin. "

"Maisie--will you be awfully unhappy?"

"Yes, Jerrold. But not so unhappy as if I'd kept you. "

"We'll go away somewhere where you won't have to see us. "

"No. It's I who'll go away. "

"But I want you to have the Manor and--and everything. Colin'll lookafter the estate for me. "

"Do you think I could stay here after you'd gone?... No, Jerry, I can'tdo that for you. You can't make it up that way. "

"I wasn't dreaming of making it up. I simply owe you everything, everlastingly, and there's nothing I can do. I only remembered that youliked the garden. "

"I couldn't bear it. I should hate the garden. I should hate the wholeplace. "

"I've done that to you?"

"Yes, you've done that to me. It can't be helped. "

"But, what will you _do_, Maisie?"

"I shall go back to my own people. They happen to care for me. "

That was her one reproach. 

"Do you think _I_ don't?"

"Oh no. I've done the only thing that would make you care. Perhapsthat's what I did it for. "

He took the hand she gave him and bowed his head over it and kissed it. 

iii

Maisie had a long talk with Eliot after Jerrold had left her. 

She was still tranquil and composed, but Jerrold was worried. He wasafraid lest the emotion roused by his confession should bring on herpain. That night Eliot slept in his father's room, so that he could goto her if the attack came. 

But it did not come. 

Late in the afternoon Jerrold went down to the Barrow Farm and saw Anne. He came back with a message from her. Anne wanted to see Maisie, ifMaisie would let her. 

"But she thinks you won't, " he said. 

"Why should I?"

"She's desperately unhappy. "

She turned from him as if she would have left him, and then stayed. 

"You want me to see her?"

"If you wouldn't hate it too much. "

"I shall hate it. But I'll see her. Go and bring her. "

She dreaded more than anything the sight of Anne. Her new knowledge ofher made Anne strange and terrible. She felt that she would be somehowdifferent. She would see something in her that she had never seenbefore, that she couldn't bear to see. Anne's face would show her thatJerrold was her lover. 

Yet, if she had never seen that look, if she had never seen anything inAnne's face that was not beautiful, what did that mean but that Anne'slove for him was beautiful? Before it had touched her body it had liveda long time in her soul. Either Anne's soul was beautiful because of it, or it was beautiful because of Anne's soul; and Maisie knew that if shetoo was to be beautiful she must keep safe the beauty of their passionas she had kept safe the beauty of their friendship. It was clear andhard, unbreakable as crystal. _She_ had been the one flaw in it, thething that had damaged its perfection. Now that she had let Jerrold goit would be perfect. 

Anne stood in the doorway of the library, looking at her and notspeaking. She was the same that she had been yesterday, and before that, and before that; dressed in the farm clothes that were the queer roughsetting of her charm. The same, except that she was still more broken, still more beaten, and still more beautiful in her defeat. 

"Anne--"

Maisie got up and waited, as Anne shut the door and stood there with herback to it. 

"Maisie--I don't know why I've come. There were things I wanted to sayto you, but I can't say them. "

"You want to say you're sorry you took Jerrold from me. "

"I'm bitterly sorry. "

She came forward with a slender, awkward grace. Her eyes were fixed onMaisie, thrown open, expecting pain; but she didn't shrink or cower. 

Maisie's voice came with its old sweetness. 

"You didn't take him from me. You couldn't take what I haven't got. "

"I gave him up, Maisie. I couldn't bear it. "

"And I've given him up. _I_ couldn't bear it, either. But, " she said, "it was harder for you. You had him. I'm only giving up what I've neverreally had. Don't be too unhappy about it. "

"I shall always be unhappy when I think of you. You've been such anangel to me. If we could only have told you. "

"Yes. If only you'd told me. That was where you went wrong, Anne. "

"I couldn't tell you. You were so ill. I thought it would kill you. "

"Well, what if it had? You shouldn't have thought of me, you should havethought of Jerrold. "

"I did think of him. I didn't want him to have agonies of remorse. It'sbeen bad enough as it is. "

"I know what it's been, Anne. "

"That's what I really came for now. To see if you'd had that painagain. "

"You needn't be afraid. I shall never have that pain again. Eliot toldme all about it last night. "

"What did he say?"

"He showed me how it all happened. I was ill because I couldn't face thetruth. The truth was that Jerrold didn't care for me. It seems my mindknew it all the time when I didn't. I did know it once, and part of mewent on feeling the shock of it, while the other part was living like afool in an illusion, thinking he cared. And now I've been dragged out ofit into reality. I'm facing it. _This_ is real. And whatever I may be Ishan't be ill again, not with that illness. I couldn't help it, but in away it was as false as if I'd made it up on purpose to hide the truth. And the truth's cured me. "

"Eliot told me it might. And I wouldn't believe him. "

"You can believe him now. He said you and Jerrold were all right becauseyou'd faced the truth about yourselves and each other. You held on toreality. "

"Eliot said that?"

"Yes. He said it was the test of everybody, how they took reality, andthat Jerrold had had to learn how, but that you had always known. Youwere so true that your worst punishment was not being able to tell methe truth. I was to think of you like that. "

"How can you bear to think of me at all?"

"How can I bear to live? But I shall live. "

Maisie's voice dropped, note by note, like clear, rounded tears, pressedout and shaped by pain. 

Anne's voice came thick and quivering out of her dark secret anguish, like a voice from behind shut doors. 

"Jerrold said you'd forgiven me. Have you?"

"It would be easier for you if I didn't. But I can't help forgiving youwhen you're so unhappy. I wouldn't have forgiven you if you hadn't toldme the truth, if I'd had to find it out that time when you were happy. Then I'd have hated you. "

"You don't now?"

"No. I don't want to see you again, or Jerrold, either, for a long time. But that's because I love you. "

"_Me_?"

"Yes, you too, Anne. "

"How _can_ you love me?"

"Because I'm like you, Anne; I'm faithful. "

"I wasn't faithful to you, Maisie. "

"You were to Jerrold. "

Anne still stood there, silent, taking in silence the pain of Maisie'sgoodness, Maisie's love. 

Then Maisie ended it. 

"He's waiting for you, " she said, "to take you home. "

Anne went to him where he stood by the terrace steps, illuminated by thelight from the windows. In there she could hear Colin playing, a loud, tempestuous music. Jerrold waited. 

She went past him down the steps without a word, and he followed herthrough the garden. 

"Anne--" he said. 

Under the blackness of the yew hedge she turned to him, and their handsmet. 

"Don't be afraid, " he said. "Next week I'll take you away somewhere tillit's over. "

"Where?"

"Oh, somewhere a long way off, where you'll be happy. "

Somewhere a long way off, beyond this pain, beyond this day and thisnight, their joy waited. 

"And Maisie?" she said. 

"Maisie wants you to be happy. "

He held her by the hand as he used to hold her when they were children, to keep her safe. And hand in hand, like children, they went downthrough the twilight of the fields, together.