MISSING

by

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

Author of "Robert Elsmere, " "Lady Rose's Daughter, ""The Mating of Lydia, " etc. 

Frontispiece in Colour by C. Allan Gilbert

[Illustration: _Deeply regret to inform you your husband reportedwounded and missing_]

PART I

MISSING

CHAPTER I

'Shall I set the tea, Miss?'

Miss Cookson turned from the window. 

'Yes--bring it up--except the tea of course--they ought to be here atany time. '

'And Mrs. Weston wants to know what time supper's to be?'

The fair-haired girl speaking was clearly north-country. She pronouncedthe 'u' in 'supper, ' as though it were the German 'u' in _Suppe_. 

Miss Cookson shrugged her shoulders. 

'Well, they'll settle that. '

The tone was sharp and off-hand. And the maid-servant, as she wentdownstairs, decided for the twentieth time that afternoon, that shedidn't like Miss Cookson, and she hoped her sister, Mrs. Sarratt, wouldbe nicer. Miss Cookson had been poking her nose into everything thatafternoon, fiddling with the rooms and furniture, and interfering withMrs. Weston. As if Mrs. Weston didn't know what to order for lodgers, and how to make them comfortable! As if she hadn't had dozens of bridesand bridegrooms to look after before this!--and if she hadn't giventhem all satisfaction, would they ever have sent her all thempicture-postcards which decorated her little parlour downstairs?

All the same, the house-parlourmaid, Milly by name, was a good dealexcited about this particular couple who were now expected. For Mrs. Weston had told her it had been a 'war wedding, ' and the bridegroom wasgoing off to the front in a week. Milly's own private affairs--inconnection with a good-looking fellow, formerly a gardener at Bowness, now recently enlisted in one of the Border regiments--had caused her totake a special interest in the information, and had perhaps led her toput a bunch of monthly roses on Mrs. Sarratt's dressing-table. MissCookson hadn't bothered herself about flowers. That she might havedone!--instead of fussing over things that didn't concern her--just forthe sake of ordering people about. 

When the little red-haired maid had left the room, the lady she dislikedreturned to the window, and stood there absorbed in reflections thatwere not gay, to judge from the furrowed brow and pinched lips thataccompanied them. Bridget Cookson was about thirty; not preciselyhandsome, but at the same time, not ill-looking. Her eyes were large andstriking, and she had masses of dark hair, tightly coiled about her headas though its owner felt it troublesome and in the way. She was thin, but rather largely built, and her movements were quick and decided. Hertweed dress was fashionably cut, but severely without small ornament ofany kind. 

She looked out upon a beautiful corner of English Lakeland. The house inwhich she stood was built on the side of a little river, which, as shesaw it, came flashing and sparkling out of a lake beyond, lying in broadstrips of light and shade amid green surrounding fells. The sun wasslipping low, and would soon have kindled all the lake into a whitefire, in which its islands would have almost disappeared. But, for themoment, everything was plain:--the sky, full of light, and filmy greycloud, the fells with their mingling of wood and purple crag, theshallow reach of the river beyond the garden, with a little family ofwild duck floating upon it, and just below her a vivid splash of colour, a mass of rhododendron in bloom, setting its rose-pink challenge againstthe cool greys and greens of the fell. 

But Bridget Cookson was not admiring the view. It was not new to her, and moreover she was not in love with Westmorland at all; and why Nellyshould have chosen this particular spot, to live in, while George was atthe war, she did not understand. She believed there was some sentimentalreason. They had first seen him in the Lakes--just before the war--whenthey two girls and their father were staying actually in this verylodging-house. But sentimental reasons are nothing. 

Well, the thing was done. Nelly was married, and in another week, Georgewould be at the front. Perhaps in a fortnight's time she would be awidow. Such things have happened often. 'And then what shall I do withher?' thought the sister, irritably, --recoiling from a sudden vision ofNelly in sorrow, which seemed to threaten her own life with even greaterdislocation than had happened to it already. 'I must have my time tomyself!--freedom for what I want'--she thought to herself, impatiently, 'I can't be always looking after her. '

Yet of course the fact remained that there was no one else to look afterNelly. They had been left alone in the world for a good while now. Theirfather, a Manchester cotton-broker in a small way, had died some sixmonths before this date, leaving more debts than fortune. The two girlshad found themselves left with very small means, and had lived, of late, mainly in lodgings--unfurnished rooms--with some of their old furnitureand household things round them. Their father, though unsuccessful inbusiness, had been ambitious in an old-fashioned way for his children, and they had been brought up 'as gentlefolks'--that is to say withoutany trade or profession. 

But their poverty had pinched them disagreeably--especially Bridget, inwhom it had produced a kind of angry resentment. Their education had notbeen serious enough, in these days of competition, to enable them tomake anything of teaching after their Father's death. Nelly'swater-colour drawing, for instance, though it was a passion with her, was quite untrained, and its results unmarketable. Bridget had taken upone subject after another, and generally in a spirit of antagonism toher surroundings, who, according to her, were always 'interfering' withwhat she wanted to do, --with her serious and important occupations. Butthese occupations always ended by coming to nothing; so that, as Bridgetwas irritably aware, even Nelly had ceased to be as much in awe of themas she had once been. 

But the elder sister had more solid cause than this for dissatisfactionwith the younger. Nelly had really behaved like a little fool! The onefamily asset of which a great deal might have been made--should havebeen made--was Nelly's prettiness. She was _very_ pretty--absurdlypretty--and had been a great deal run after in Manchester already. Therehad been actually two proposals from elderly men with money, who wereunaware of the child's engagement, during the past three months; andthough these particular suitors were perhaps unattractive, yet a littletime and patience, and the right man would have come along, bothacceptable in himself, and sufficiently supplied with money to makeeverything easy for everybody. 

But Nelly had just wilfully and stubbornly fallen in love with thisyoung man--and wilfully and stubbornly married him. It was unlike her tobe stubborn about anything. But in this there had been no moving her. And now there was nothing before either of them but the same shabbinessand penury as before. What if George had two hundred and fifty a yearof his own, besides his pay?--a fact that Nelly was always triumphantlybrandishing in her sister's eyes. 

No doubt it was more than most young subalterns had--much more. But whatwas two hundred and fifty a year? Nelly would want every penny of it forherself--and her child--or children. For of course there would be achild--Bridget Cookson fell into profound depths of thought, emergingfrom them, now as often before, with the sore realisation of how muchNelly might have done with her 'one talent, ' both for herself and hersister, and had not done. 

The sun dropped lower; one side of the lake was now in shadow, and fromthe green shore beneath the woods and rocks, the reflections of tree andcrag and grassy slope were dropping down and down, unearthly clear andfar, to that inverted heaven in the 'steady bosom' of the water. Alittle breeze came wandering, bringing delicious scents of grass andmoss, and in the lake the fish were rising. 

Miss Cookson moved away from the window. How late they were! She wouldhardly get home in time for her own supper. They would probably ask herto stay and sup with them. But she did not intend to stay. Honeymoonerswere much better left to themselves. Nelly would be a dreadfullysentimental bride; and then dreadfully upset when George went away. Shehad asked her sister to join them in the Lakes, and it was taken forgranted that they would resume living together after George's departure. But Bridget had fixed her own lodgings, for the present, a mile away, and did not mean to see much of her sister till the bridegroom had gone. 

There was the sound of a motor-car on the road, which ran along one sideof the garden, divided from it by a high wall. It could hardly be they;for they were coming frugally by the coach. But Miss Cookson went acrossto a side window looking on the road to investigate. 

At the foot of the hill opposite stood a luxurious car, waitingevidently for the party which was now descending the hill towards it. Bridget had a clear view of them, herself unseen behind Mrs. Weston'smuslin blinds. A girl was in front, with a young man in khaki, aconvalescent officer, to judge from his frail look and hollow eyes. Thegirl was exactly like the fashion-plate in the morning's paper. She worea very short skirt and Zouave jacket in grey cloth, high-heeled greyboots, with black tips and gaiters, a preposterous little hat perched onone side of a broad white forehead, across which the hair was partedlike a boy's, and an ostrich plume on the top of the hat, which noddedand fluttered so extravagantly that the face beneath almost escaped thespectator's notice. Yet it was on the whole a handsome face, audacious, like its owner's costume, and with evident signs--for Bridget Cookson'ssharp eyes--of slight make-up. 

Miss Cookson knew who she was. She had seen her in the neighbouringtown that morning, and had heard much gossip about her. She was MissFarrell, of Carton Hall, and that gentleman coming down the hill moreslowly behind her was no doubt her brother Sir William. 

Lame? That of course was the reason why he was not in the army. It wasnot very conspicuous, but still quite definite. A stiff knee, MissCookson supposed--an accident perhaps--some time ago. Lucky for him!--onany reasonable view. Bridget Cookson thought the war 'odious, ' and gaveno more attention to it than she could help. It had lasted now nearly ayear, and she was heartily sick of it. It filled the papers withmonotonous news which tired her attention--which she did not really tryto understand. Now she supposed she would have to understand it. ForGeorge, her new brother-in-law, was sure to talk a terrible amount ofshop. 

Sir William was very tall certainly, and good-looking. He had a shortpointed beard, a ruddy, sunburnt complexion, blue eyes and broadshoulders--the common points of the well-born and landowningEnglishman. Bridget looked at him with a mixture of respect andhostility. To be rich was to be so far interesting; still all suchpersons, belonging to a world of which she knew nothing, were in hereyes 'swells, ' and gave themselves airs; a procedure on their part, which would be stopped when the middle and lower classes were powerfulenough to put them in their place. It was said, however, that thisparticular man was rather a remarkable specimen of his kind--didn'thunt--didn't preserve--had trained as an artist, and even exhibited. Theshopwoman in B---- from whom Miss Cookson derived her information aboutthe Farrells, had described Sir William as 'queer'--said everybody knewhe was 'queer. ' Nobody could get him to do any county work. He hatedCommittees, and never went near them. It was said he had been in loveand the lady had died. 'But if we all turned lazy for that kind ofthing!'--said the little shopwoman, shrugging her shoulders. Still theFarrells were not unpopular. Sir William had a pleasant slow way oftalking, especially to the small folk; and he had just done somethingvery generous in giving up his house--the whole of his house--somewhereCockermouth way, to the War Office, as a hospital. As for his sister, she seemed to like driving convalescent officers about, and throwingaway money on her clothes. There was no sign of 'war economy' about MissFarrell. 

Here, however, the shopwoman's stream of gossip was arrested by thearrival of a new customer. Bridget was not sorry. She had not been atall interested in the Farrells' idiosyncrasies; and she only watchedtheir preparations for departure now, for lack of something to do. Thechauffeur was waiting beside the car, and Miss Farrell got in first, taking the front seat. Then Sir William, who had been loitering on thehill, hurried down to give a helping hand to the young officer, who wasevidently only in the early stages of convalescence. After settling hisguest comfortably, he turned to speak to his chauffeur, apparently abouttheir road home, as he took a map out of his pocket. 

At this moment, a clatter of horses' hoofs and the rattle of a coachwere heard. Round the corner, swung the Windermere evening coach in finestyle, and drew up at the door of Mrs. Weston's lodgings, a little aheadof the car. 

'There they are!' said Miss Cookson, excited in spite of herself. 'Well, I needn't go down. George will bring in the luggage. '

A young man and a young lady got up from their seats. A ladder wasbrought for the lady to descend. But just as she was about to step onit, a fidgeting horse in front made a movement, the ladder slipped, andthe lady was only just in time to withdraw her foot and save herself. 

Sir William Farrell, who had seen the little incident, ran forward, while the man who had been placing the ladder went to the horse, whichwas capering and trying to rear in his eagerness to be off. 

Sir William raised the ladder, and set it firmly against the coach. 

'I think you might risk it now, ' he said, raising his eyes pleasantly tothe young person above him. 

'Thank you, ' said a shy voice. Mrs. Sarratt turned round and descended. Meanwhile the man holding the ladder saw an officer in khaki standingon the top of the coach, and heard him address a word of laughingencouragement to the lady. And no sooner had her feet touched the groundthan he was at her side in a trice. 

'Thank you, Sir!' he said, saluting. 'My wife was very nearly thrownoff. That horse has been giving trouble all the way. '

'Must be content with what you can get, in war-time!' said the othersmiling, as he raised his hat to the young woman he had befriended, whomhe now saw plainly. 'And there are so few visitors at present in theseparts that what horses there are don't get enough to do. '

The face turned upon him was so exquisite in line and colour that SirWilliam, suddenly struck, instead of retreating to his car, lingeredwhile the soldier husband--a lieutenant, to judge from the stripes onhis cuff, --collected a rather large amount of luggage from the top ofthe coach. 

'You must have had a lovely drive along Windermere, ' said Sir Williampolitely. 'Let me carry that bag for you. You're stopping here?'

'Yes--' said Mrs. Sarratt, distractedly, watching to see that theluggage was all right. 'Oh, George, _do_ take care of that parcel!'

'All right. '

But she had spoken too late. As her husband, having handed over two suitcases to Mrs. Weston's fourteen-year old boy, came towards her with alarge brown paper parcel, the string of it slipped, Mrs. Sarratt gave alittle cry, and but for her prompt rush to his assistance, its contentswould have descended into the road. But through a gap in the papervarious tin and china objects were disclosed. 

'That's your "cooker, " Nelly, ' said her husband laughing. 'I told you itwould bust the show!'

But her tiny, deft fingers rapidly repaired the damage, and re-tied thestring while he assisted her. The coach drove off, and Sir Williampatiently held the bag. Then she insisted on carrying the parcelherself, and the lieutenant relieved Sir William. 

'Awfully obliged to you!' he said gratefully. 'Good evening! We'restopping here for a bit' He pointed to the open door of thelodging-house, where Mrs. Weston and the boy were grappling with theluggage. 

'May I ask--' Sir William's smile as he looked from one to the otherexpressed that loosening of conventions in which we have all lived sincethe war--'Are you home on leave, or--'

'I came home to be married, ' said the young soldier, flushing slightly, while his eyes crossed those of the young girl beside him. 'I've got aweek more. '

'You've been out some time?'

'Since last November. I got a scratch in the Ypres fight in April--oh, nothing--a small flesh wound--but they gave me a month's leave, and mymedical board has only just passed me. '

'Lanchesters?' said Sir William, looking at his cap. The other noddedpleasantly. 

'Well, I am sure I hope you'll have good weather here, ' said SirWilliam, stepping back, and once more raising his hat to the bride. 'And--if there was Anything I could do to help your stay--'

'Oh, thank you, Sir, but--'

The pair smiled again at each other. Sir William understood, and smiledtoo. A more engaging couple he thought he had never seen. The young manwas not exactly handsome, but he had a pair of charming hazel eyes, agood-tempered mouth, and a really fine brow. He was tall too, and wellproportioned, and looked the pick of physical fitness. 'Just the kind ofsplendid stuff we are sending out by the ship-load, ' thought the elderman, with a pang of envy--'And the girl's lovely!'

She was at that moment bowing to him, as she followed her husband acrossthe road. A thought occurred to Sir William, and he pursued her. 

'I wonder--' he said diffidently--'if you care for boating--if you wouldlike to boat on the lake--'

'Oh, but it isn't allowed!' She turned on him a pair of astonished eyes. 

'Not in general. Ah, I see you know these parts already. But I happen toknow the owner of the boathouse. Shall I get you leave?'

'Oh, that _would_ be delightful!' she said, her face kindling with achild's joyousness. 'That _is_ kind of you! Our name is Sarratt--myhusband is Lieutenant Sarratt. '

--'Of the 21st Lanchesters? All right--I'll see to it!'

And he ran back to his car, while the young people disappeared into thelittle entrance hall of the lodging-house, and the door shut upon them. 

Miss Farrell received her brother with gibes. Trust William for findingout a beauty! Who were they?

Farrell handed on his information as the car sped along the Keswickroad. 

'Going back in a week, is he?' said the convalescent officer beside him. Then, bitterly--'lucky dog!'

Farrell looked at the speaker kindly. 

'What--with a wife to leave?'

The boy, for he was little more, shrugged his shoulders. At that momenthe knew no passion but the passion for the regiment and his men, to whomhe couldn't get back, because his 'beastly constitution' wouldn't lethim recover as quickly as other men did. What did women matter?--whenthe 'push' might be on, any day. 

Cicely Farrell continued to chaff her brother, who took itplacidly--fortified by a big cigar. 

'And if she'd been plain, Willy, you'd never have so much as known shewas there! Did you tell her you haunted these parts?'

He shook his head. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile the bride and bridegroom had been met on the lodging-housestairs by the bride's sister, who allowed herself to be kissed by thebridegroom, and hugged by the bride. Her lack of effusion, however, madelittle impression on the newcomers. They were in that state of happinesswhich transfigures everything round it; they were delighted with thesmallest things; with the little lodging-house sitting room, its windowsopen to the lake and river; with its muslin curtains, very clean andwhite, its duster-rose too, just outside the window; with Mrs. Weston, who in her friendly flurry had greeted the bride as 'Miss Nelly, ' andwas bustling to get the tea; even, indeed, with Bridget Cookson's fewcasual attentions to them. Mrs. Sarratt thought it 'dear' of Bridget tohave come to meet them, and ordered tea for them, and put thosedelicious roses in her room--

'I didn't!' said Bridget, drily. 'That was Milly. It didn't occur tome. '

The bride looked a little checked. But then the tea came in, a realWestmorland meal, with its toasted bun, its jam, and its 'twist' of newbread; and Nelly Sarratt forgot everything but the pleasure of makingher husband eat, of filling his cup for him, of looking sometimesthrough the window at that shining lake, beside which she and Georgewould soon be roaming--for six long days. Yes, and nights too. For therewas a moon rising, which would be at the full in two or three days. Imagination flew forward, as she leant dreamily back in her chair whenthe meal was over, her eyes on the landscape. They two alone--on thatwarm summer lake--drifting in the moonlight--heart against heart, cheekagainst cheek. A shiver ran through her, which was partly passion, partly a dull fear. But she banished fear. Nothing--_nothing_ shouldspoil their week together. 

'Darling!' said her husband, who had been watching her--'You're not verytired?' He slipped his hand round hers, and her fingers rested in hisclasp, delighted to feel themselves so small, and his so strong. He hadspoken to her in the low voice that was hers alone. She was jealous lestBridget should have overheard it. But Bridget was at the other end ofthe room. How foolish it had been of her--just because she was so happy, and wanted to be nice to everybody!--to have asked Bridget to stay withthem! She was always doing silly things like that--impulsive things. Butnow she was married. She must think more. It was really very considerateof Bridget to have got them all out of a difficulty and to have settledherself a mile away from them; though at first it had seemed ratherunkind. Now they could see her always sometime in the day, but not so asto interfere. She was afraid Bridget and George would never really geton, though she--Nelly--wanted to forget all the unpleasantness there hadbeen, --to forget everything--everything but George. The fortnight'shoneymoon lay like a haze of sunlight between her and the past. 

But Bridget had noticed the voice and the clasped hands, --withirritation. Really, after a fortnight, they might have done with thatkind of demonstrativeness. All the same, Nelly was quite extraordinarilypretty--prettier than ever. While the sister was slowly putting on herhat before the only mirror the sitting-room possessed, she was keenlyconscious of the two figures near the window, of the man in khakisitting on the arm of Nelly's chair, holding her hand, and looking downupon her, of Nelly's flushed cheek and bending head. What a baby shelooked!--scarcely seventeen. Yet she was really twenty-one--old enough, by a long way, to have done better for herself than this! Oh, George, inhimself, was well enough. If he came back from the war, his new-madesister-in-law supposed she would get used to him in time. Bridgethowever did not find it easy to get on with men, especially young men, of whom she knew very few. For eight or ten years now, she had lookedupon them chiefly as awkward and inconvenient facts in women's lives. Before that time, she could remember a few silly feelings on her ownpart, especially with regard to a young clerk of her father's, who hadmade love to her up to the very day when he shamefacedly told her thathe was already engaged, and would soon be married. That event had been ashock to her, and had made her cautious and suspicious towards men eversince. Her life was now full of quite other interests--incoherent andchangeable, but strong while they lasted. Nelly's state of bliss awokeno answering sympathy in her. 

'Well, good-bye, Nelly, ' she said, when she had put on herthings--advancing towards them, while the lieutenant rose to his feet. 'I expect Mrs. Weston will make you comfortable. I ordered in all thethings for to-morrow. '

'Everything's _charming_!' said Nelly, as she put her arms round hersister. 'It was awfully good of you to see to it all. Will you come overto lunch to-morrow? We might take you somewhere. '

'Oh, don't bother about me! You won't want me. I'll look in some time. I've got a lot of work to do. '

Nelly withdrew her arms. George Sarratt surveyed his sister-in-law withcuriosity. 

'Work?' he repeated, with his pleasant, rather puzzled smile. 

'What are you doing now, Bridget?' said Nelly, softly, stroking thesleeve of her sister's jacket, but really conscious only of the manbeside her. 

'Reading some proof-sheets for a friend, ' was the rather short reply, asBridget released herself. 

'Something dreadfully difficult?' laughed Nelly. 

'I don't know what you mean by difficult, ' said Bridget ungraciously, looking for her gloves. 'It's psychology--that's all. Lucy Fenn'sbringing out another volume of essays. '

'It sounds awful!' said George Sarratt, laughing. 'I wish I knew whatpsychology was about. But can't you take a holiday?--just this week?'

He looked at her rather gravely. But Bridget shook her head, and againsaid good-bye. George Sarratt took her downstairs, and saw her off onher bicycle. Then he returned smiling, to his wife. 

'I say, Bridget makes me feel a dunce! Is she really such a learnedparty?'

Nelly's dark eyes danced a little. 'I suppose she is--but she doesn'tstick to anything. It's always something different. A few months ago, itwas geology; and we used to go out for walks with a hammer and a bag. Last year it was _the_-ology! Our poor clergyman, Mr. Richardson, was nomatch for Bridget at all. She could always bowl him over. '

'Somehow all the "ologies" seem very far away--don't they?' murmuredSarratt, after they had laughed together. They were standing at thewindow again, his arm close round her, her small dark head pressedagainst him. There was ecstasy in their nearness to each other--in thesilver beauty of the lake--in the soft coming of the June evening; andin that stern fact itself that in one short week, he would have lefther, would be facing death or mutilation, day after day, in the trencheson the Ypres salient. While he held her, all sorts of images flittedthrough his mind--of which he would not have told her for theworld--horrible facts of bloody war. In eight months he had seen plentyof them. The signs of them were graven on his young face, on his eyes, round which a slight permanent frown, as of perplexity, seemed to havesettled, and on his mouth which was no longer naif and boyish, but wouldalways drop with repose into a hard compressed line. 

Nelly looked up. 

'Everything's far away'--she whispered--'but this--and you!' He kissedher upturned lips--and there was silence. 

Then a robin singing outside in the evening hush, sent a message tothem. Nelly with an effort drew herself away. 

'Shan't we go out? We'll tell Mrs. Weston to put supper on the table, and we can come in when we like. But I'll just unpack a little first--inour room. '

She disappeared through a door at the end of the sitting-room. Her lastwords--softly spoken--produced a kind of shock of joy in Sarratt. He satmotionless, hearing the echo of them, till she reappeared. When she cameback, she had taken off her serge travelling dress and was wearing alittle gown of some white cotton stuff, with a blue cloak, the eveninghaving turned chilly, and a hat with a blue ribbon. In this garb she wasa vision of innocent beauty; wherein refinement and a touch ofstrangeness combined with the dark brilliance of eyes and hair, with thepale, slightly sunburnt skin, the small features and tiny throat, torivet the spectator. And she probably knew it, for she flushed slightlyunder her husband's eyes. 

'Oh, what a paradise!' she said, under her breath, pointing to the scenebeyond the window. Then--lifting appealing hands to him--'Take methere!'

CHAPTER II

The newly-married pair crossed a wooden bridge over the stream from theLake, and found themselves on its further shore, a shore as untouchedand unspoilt now as when Wordsworth knew it, a hundred years ago. Thesun had only just vanished out of sight behind the Grasmere fells, andthe long Westmorland after-glow would linger for nearly a couple ofhours yet. After much rain the skies were clear, and all the omens fair. But the rain had left its laughing message behind; in the full river, inthe streams leaping down the fells, in the freshness of every livingthing--the new-leafed trees, the grass with its flowers, the rushesspreading their light armies through the flooded margins of the lake, and bending to the light wind, which had just, as though in mischief, blotted out the dream-world in the water, and set it rippling eastwardsin one sheet of living silver, broken only by a cloud-shadow at itsfurther end. Fragrance was everywhere--from the trees, the young fern, the grass; and from the shining west, the shadowed fells, the brilliantwater, there breathed a voice of triumphant beauty, of unconqueredpeace, which presently affected George Sarratt strangely. 

They had just passed through a little wood; and in its friendly gloom, he had put his arm round his wife so that they had lingered a little, loth to leave its shelter. But now they had emerged again upon theradiance of the fell-side, and he had found a stone for Nelly to reston. 

'That those places in France, and that sky--should be in the sameworld!' he said, under his breath, pointing to the glow on the easternfells, as he threw himself down on the turf beside her. 

Her face flushed with exercise and happiness suddenly darkened. 

'Don't--don't talk of them to-night!'--she said passionately--'notto-night--just to-night, George!'

And she stooped impetuously to lay her hand on his lips. He kissed thehand, held it, and remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the lake. Onthat day week he would probably just have rejoined his regiment. It wassomewhere in the neighbourhood of Bailleul. Hot work, he heard, wasexpected. There was still a scandalous shortage of ammunition--and ifthere was really to be a 'push, ' the losses would be appalling. Manafter man that he knew had been killed within a week--two or threedays--twenty-four hours even!--of rejoining. Supposing that within afortnight Nelly sat here, looking at this lake, with the War Officetelegram in her hand--'Deeply regret to inform you, etc. ' This was not asubject on which he had ever allowed himself to dwell, more than in hischanged circumstances he was bound to dwell. Every soldier, normally, expects to get through. But of course he had done everything that wasnecessary for Nelly. His will was in the proper hands; and the nightbefore their wedding he had written a letter to her, to be given her ifhe fell. Otherwise he had taken little account of possible death; norhad it cost him any trouble to banish the thought of it. 

But the beauty of the evening--of this old earth, which takes no accountof the perishing of men--and Nelly's warm life beside him, hanging uponhis, perhaps already containing within it the mysterious promise ofanother life, had suddenly brought upon him a tremor of soul--an inwardshudder. Did he really believe in existence after death--in a meetingagain, in some dim other scene, if they were violently parted now? Hehad been confirmed while at school. His parents were Church people of arather languid type, and it seemed the natural thing to do. Since thenhe had occasionally taken the Communion, largely to please an elderschool-friend, who was ardently devout, and was now a Chaplain on theWestern front. But what did it really mean to him?--what would it meanto _her_--if she were left alone? Images passed through his mind--thesights of the trenches--shattered and dying bodies. What was the_soul_?--had it really an independent life? _Something_ there was inmen--quite rough and common men--something revealed by war and thesufferings of war--so splendid, so infinitely beyond anything he hadever dreamed of in ordinary life, that to think of it roused in him apassion of hidden feeling--perhaps adoration--but vague andspeechless--adoration of he knew not what. He did not speak easily ofhis feeling, even to his young wife, to whom marriage had so closely, soineffably bound him. But as he lay on the grass looking up ather--smiling--obeying her command of silence, his thoughts rangedirrepressibly. Supposing he fell, and she lived on--years and years--tobe an old woman? Old! Nelly? Impossible! He put his hand gently on theslender foot, and felt the pulsing life in it. 'Dearest!' she murmuredat his touch, and their eyes met tenderly. 

'I should be content--' he thought--'if we could just live _this_ lifeout! I don't believe I should want another life. But to go--and leaveher; to go--just at the beginning--before one knows anything--before onehas finished anything--'

And again his eyes wandered from her to the suffusion of light andcolour on the lake. 'How could anyone ever want anything better thanthis earth--this life--at its best--if only one were allowed a full andnormal share of it!' And he thought again, almost with a leap ofexasperation, of those dead and mangled men--out there--in France. Whowas responsible--God?--or man? But man's will is--must be--somethingdependent--something included in God's will. If God really existed, andif He willed war, and sudden death--then there must be another life. Orelse the power that devised the world was not a good, but an evil--atbest, a blind one. 

But while his young brain was racing through the old puzzles in the oldways, Nelly was thinking of something quite different. Her delicatesmall face kept breaking into little smiles with pensive intervals--tillat last she broke out--

'Do you remember how I caught you--turning back to look after us--justhere--just about here? You had passed that thorn tree--'

He came back to love-making with delight. 

'"Caught me!" I like that! As if you weren't looking back too! How elsedid you know anything about me?'

He had taken his seat beside her on the rock, and her curly black headwas nestling against his shoulder. There was no one on the mountainpath, no one on the lake. Occasionally from the main road on theopposite shore there was a passing sound of wheels. Otherwise the worldwas theirs--its abysses of shadow, its 'majesties of light. '

She laughed joyously, not attempting to contradict him. It was on thisvery path, just two months before the war, that they had first seen eachother. She with her father and Bridget were staying at Mrs. Weston'slodgings, because she, Nelly, had had influenza, and the doctor had senther away for a change. They knew the Lakes well already, as is the wayof Manchester folk. Their father, a hard-worked, and often melancholyman, had delighted in them, summer and winter, and his two girls hadtrudged about the fells with him year after year, and wanted nothingdifferent or better. At least, Nelly had always been content. Bridgethad grumbled often, and proposed Blackpool, or Llandudno, or Eastbournefor a change. But their father did not like 'crowds. ' They came to theLakes always before or after the regular season. Mr. Cookson hated theconcourse of motorists in August, and never would use one himself. Noteven when they went from Ambleside to Keswick. They must always walk, orgo by the horse-coach. 

Nelly presently looked up, and gave a little pull to the corner of herhusband's moustache. 

'Of course you know you behaved abominably that next day at Wythburn!You kept that whole party waiting while you ran after us. And I hadn'tdropped that bag. You knew very well I hadn't dropped it!'

He chuckled. 

'It did as well as anything else. I got five minutes' talk with you. Ifound out where you lodged. '

'Poor papa!'--said Nelly reflectively--'he was so puzzled. "There's thatfellow we saw at Wythburn again! Why on earth does he come here to fish?I never saw anybody catch a thing in this bit of the river. " Poor papa!'

They were both silent a little. Mr. Cookson had not lived long enough tosee Nelly and George Sarratt engaged. The war had killed him. Financialembarrassment was already closing on him when it broke out, and hecould not stand the shock and the general dislocation of the firstweeks, as sounder men could. The terror of ruin broke him down--and hewas dead before Christmas, nominally of bronchitis and heart failure. Nelly had worn mourning for him up to her wedding day. She had been verysorry for 'poor papa'--and very fond of him; whereas Bridget had beenrather hard on him always. For really he had done his best. After all hehad left them just enough to live upon. Nelly's conscience, growntenderer than of old under the touch of joy, pricked her as she thoughtof her father. She knew he had loved her best of his two daughters. Shewould always remember his last lingering hand-clasp, always be thankfulfor his last few words--'God bless you, dear. ' But had she cared for himenough in return?--had she really tried to understand him? Somevague sense of the pathos of age--of its isolation--its dumbrenouncements--gripped her. If he had only lived longer! He would havebeen so proud of George. 

She roused herself. 

'You did really make up your mind--_then_?' she asked him, just for thepleasure of hearing him confess it again. 

'Of course I did! But what was the good?'

She knew that he meant it had been impossible to speak while his motherwas still alive, and he, her only child, was partly dependent upon her. But his mother had died not long after Nelly's father, and her littleincome had come to her son. So now what with Nelly's small portion, andhis mother's two hundred and fifty a year in addition to his pay, theyoung subaltern thought himself almost rich--in comparison with so manyothers. His father, who had died while he was still at school, had beena master at Harrow, and he had been brought up in a refined home, withhigh standards and ideals. A scholarship at Oxford at one of the smallercolleges, a creditable degree, then an opening in the office of awell-known firm of solicitors, friends of his father, and a temporarycommission, as soon as war broke out, on his record as a keen anddiligent member of the Harrow and Oxford O. T. C. 's:--these had been thechief facts of his life up to August 1914;--that August which coveredthe roads leading to the Aldershot headquarters, day by day, with theever-renewed columns of the army to be, with masses of marching men, whose eager eyes said one thing only--'_Training_!--_training_!'

The war, and the causes of the war, had moved his nature, which wassincere and upright, profoundly; all the more perhaps because of acertain kindling and awakening of the whole man, which had come from hisfirst sight of Nelly Cookson in the previous June, and from his growingfriendship with her--which he must not yet call love. He had decidedhowever after three meetings with her that he would never marry anyoneelse. Her softness, her yieldingness, her delicate beauty intoxicatedhim. He rejoiced that she was no 'new woman, ' but only a very girlishand undeveloped creature, who would naturally want his protection aswell as his love. For it was his character to protect and serve. He hadprotected and served his mother--faithfully and well. And as she wasdying, he had told her about Nelly--not before; only to find that sheknew it all, and that the only soreness he had ever caused her came fromthe secrecy which he had tenderly thought her due. 

But for all his sanity and sweet temper there was a hard tough strain inhim, which had made war so far, even through the horrors of it, a greatabsorbing game to him, for which he knew himself fitted, in which hemeant to excel. Several times during the fighting that led up to NeuveChapelle he had drawn the attention of his superiors, both for braveryand judgment; and after Neuve Chapelle, he had been mentioned indespatches. He had never yet known fear in the field--never even such ashudder at the unknown--which was yet the possible!--as he had just beenconscious of. His nerves had always been strong, his nature was in themain simple. Yet for him, as well as for so many other 'fellows' heknew, the war had meant a great deal of this new and puzzledthinking--on problems of right and wrong, of 'whence' and 'whither, ' ofthe personal value of men--this man, or that man. By George, war broughtthem out!--these personal values. And the general result for him, up tonow, --had he been specially lucky?--had been a vast increase of faith inhis fellow men, yes, and faith in himself, modest as he was. He wasproud to be an English soldier--proud to the roots of his being. Hisquiet patriotism had become a passion; he knew now in what he hadbelieved. 

Yes--England for ever! An English home after the war--and Englishchildren. Oh, he hoped Nelly would have children! As he held her pressedagainst him, he seemed to see her in the future--with the small thingsround her. But he did not speak of it. 

She meanwhile was thinking of quite other things, and presently she saidin a quick, troubled voice--

'George!--while you are away--you don't want me to do munitions?'

He laughed out. 

'Munitions! I see you at a lathe! Dear--I don't think you'd earn yourkeep!' And he lifted her delicate arm and tiny hand, and looked at themwith scientific curiosity. Her frail build was a constant wonder andpleasure to him. But small as she was, there was something unusual, someprophecy, perhaps, of developments to come, in the carriage of her head, and in some of her looks. Her education had been extremely slight, manyof her ideas were still childish, and the circle from which she came hadbeen inferior in birth and breeding to his own. But he had soon realisedon their honeymoon, in spite of her simple talk, that she was veryquick--very intelligent. 

'Because--' she went on, doubtfully--'there are so many other things Icould do--quite useful things. There's sphagnum moss! Everybody up hereis gathering sphagnum moss--you know--for bandages--upon the fells. Idaresay Bridget might help in that. She won't do any other sort ofwar-work. '

'Why, I thought all women were doing some kind of war-work!'

'Bridget won't. She doesn't want to hear about the war at all. She'sbored with it. '

'Bored with it! Good heavens!' Sarratt's countenance clouded. 'Darling--that'll be rather hard on you, if you and she are going tolive together. '

Nelly lifted her head from his shoulder, and looked at him rathergravely. 

'I'm afraid you don't know much about Bridget, George. She's, --well, she's--one of the--oddest women you ever met. '

'So it seems! But why is she bored with the war?'

'Well--you see--it doesn't matter to _her_ in any way--and she doesn'twant it to matter to her. There's nobody in it she cares about. '

'Thanks!' laughed Sarratt. But Nelly still grave, shook her head. 'Oh, she's not the least like other people. She won't care about you, George, just because you've married me. And--'

'And what? Is she still angry with me for not being rich?'

And his thoughts went back to his first interview with BridgetCookson--on the day when their engagement was announced. He could seethe tall sharp-featured woman now, standing with her back to the lightin the little sitting-room of the Manchester lodgings. She had not beenfierce or abusive at all. She had accepted it quietly--with only a fewbitter sentences. 

'All right, Mr. Sarratt. I have nothing to say. Nelly must pleaseherself. But you've done her an injury! There are plenty of rich menthat would have married her. You're very poor--and so are we. '

When the words were spoken, Nelly had just accepted him; she was her ownmistress; he had not therefore taken her sister's disapproval much toheart. Still the words had rankled. 

'Darling!--when I made you marry me--_did_ I do you an injury?' he saidsuddenly, as they were walking again hand in hand along the high greenpath with the lake at their feet, and a vision of blue and rose beforethem, in the shadowed western mountains, the lower grounds steeped infiery light, and the red reflections in the still water. 

'What _do_ you mean?' said Nelly, turning upon him a face of wonder. 

'Well, that was what Bridget said to me, when I told her that you hadaccepted me. But I was a great fool to tell you, darling! I'm sorry Idid. It was only--'

'"Injury, "' repeated Nelly, not listening to him. 'Oh, yes, of coursethat was money. Bridget says it's all nonsense talking about honour, orlove, or that kind of thing. Everything is really money. It was moneythat began this war. The Germans wanted our trade and our money--and wewere determined they shouldn't have them--and that's all there is in it. With money you can have everything you want and a jolly life--andwithout money you can have nothing, --and are just nobody. When that richold horror wanted to marry me last year in Manchester, Bridget thoughtme perfectly mad to refuse him. She didn't speak to me for a week. Ofcourse he would have provided for her too. '

Sarratt had flushed hotly; but he spoke good-naturedly. 

'Well, that was a miss for her--I quite see that. But after all we canhelp her a bit. We shall always feel that we must look after her. Andwhy shouldn't she herself marry?'

Nelly laughed. 

'Never! She hates men. '

There was a silence a moment. And then Sarratt said, rather gravely--'Isay, darling, if she's going to make you miserable while I am away, hadn't we better make some other arrangement? I thought of course shewould be good to you, and look after you! Naturally any sister would, that was worth her salt!'

And he looked down indignantly on the little figure beside him. But itroused Nelly's mirth that he should put it in that way. 

'George, --you _are_ such a darling!--and--and, such a goose!' She rubbedher cheek against his arm as though to take the edge off the epithet. 'The idea of Bridget's wanting to "look after" me! She'll want to_manage_ me of course--and I'd much better let her do it. I don't mind!'And the speaker gave a long, sudden sigh. 

'But I won't have you troubled and worried, when I'm not there toprotect you!' cried Sarratt, fiercely. 'You could easily find a friend. '

But Nelly shook her head. 

'Oh, no. That wouldn't do. Bridget and I always get on, George. We neverquarrelled--except when I stuck to marrying you. Generally--I alwaysgive in. It doesn't matter. It answers perfectly. '

She spoke with a kind of languid softness which puzzled him. 

'But now you can't always give in, dearest! You belong to me!' And hisgrasp tightened on the hand he held. 

'I can give in enough--to keep the peace, ' said Nelly slowly. 'And ifyou weren't here, it wouldn't be natural that I shouldn't live withBridget. I'm used to her. Only I want to make you understand her, darling. She's not a bit like--well, like the people you admire, and itsno good expecting her to be. '

'I shall talk to her before I go!' he said, half laughing, halfresolved. 

Nelly looked alarmed. 

'No--please don't! She always gets the better of people who scold her. Or if you were to get the better, then she'd visit it on me. And nowdon't let's talk of her any more! What were we saying? Oh, I know--whatI was to do. Let's sit down again, --there's a rock, made for us. '

And on a natural seat under a sheltering rock canopied and hung withfern, the two rested once more, wrapped in one cloak, close beside thewater, which was quiet again, and crossed by the magical lights andsplendid shadows of the dying sunset. Nelly had been full of plans whenthey sat down, but the nearness of the man she loved, his arm round her, his life beating as it were in one pulse with hers, intoxicated, and fora time silenced her. She had taken off her hat, and she lay quietlyagainst him in the warm shelter of the cloak. He thought presently shewas asleep. How small and dear she was! He bent over her, watching asclosely as the now dim light allowed, the dark eyelashes lying on hercheek, her closed mouth, and soft breathing. His very own!--the thoughtwas ecstasy--he forgot the war, and the few days left him. 

But this very intensity of brooding love in which he held her, made herrestless after a little. She sat up, and smiled at him--

'We must go home!--Yes, we must. But look!--there is a boat!'

And only a few yards from them, emerging from the shadows, they saw aboat rocking gently at anchor beside a tiny landing-stage. Nelly sprangto her feet. 

'George!--suppose you were just to row us out--there--into the light!'

But when they came to the boat they found it pad-locked to a post in thelittle pier. 

'Ah, well, never mind, ' said Nelly--'I'm sure that man won't forget?'

'That man who spoke to us? Who was he?'

'Oh, I found out from Bridget, and Mrs. Weston. He's Sir WilliamFarrell, a great swell, tremendously rich. He has a big place somewhere, out beyond Keswick, beyond Bassenthwaite. You saw he had a stiff knee?'

'Yes. Can't fight, I suppose--poor beggar! He was very much struck by_you_, Mrs. George Sarratt!--that was plain. '

Nelly laughed--a happy childish laugh. 

'Well, if he does get us leave to boat, you needn't mind, need you? Whatelse, I wonder, could he do for us?'

'Nothing!' The tone was decided. 'I don't like being beholden to greatfolk. But that, I suppose, is the kind of man whom Bridget would haveliked you to marry, darling?'

'As if he would ever have looked at me!' said Nelly tranquilly. 'A manlike that may be as rich as rich, but he would never marry a poor wife. '

'Thank God, I don't believe money will matter nearly as much to people, after the war!' said Sarratt, with energy. 'It's astonishing how now, inthe army--of course it wasn't the same before the war--you forget itentirely. Who cares whether a man's rich, or who's son he is? In mybatch when I went up to Aldershot there were men of all sorts, stock-brokers, landowners, city men, manufacturers, solicitors, some ofthem awfully rich, and then clerks, and schoolmasters, and lots of poordevils, like myself. We didn't care a rap, except whether a man took tohis drill, or didn't; whether he was going to keep the Company back orhelp it on. And it's just the same in the field. Nothing counts but whatyou _are_--it doesn't matter a brass hap'orth what you have. And as thenew armies come along that'll be so more and more. It's "Duke's son andCook's son, " everywhere, and all the time. If it was that in the SouthAfrican war, it's twenty times that now. This war is bringing the nationtogether as nothing ever has done, or could do. War is hellish!--butthere's a deal to be said for it!'

He spoke with ardour, as they strolled homeward, along the darkeningshore, she hanging on his arm. Nelly said nothing. Her little faceshowed very white in the gathering shadows. He went on. 

'There was a Second Lieutenant in our battalion, an awfully handsomeboy--heir to a peerage I think. But he couldn't get a commission quickenough to please him when the war broke out, so he just enlisted--oh! ofcourse they've given him a commission long ago. But his great friend wasa young miner, who spoke broad Northumberland, a jolly chap. And thesetwo stuck together--we used to call them the Heavenly Twins. And in thefighting round Hill 60, the miner got wounded, and lay out between thelines, with the Boche shells making hell round him. And the other fellownever rested till he'd crawled out to him, and taken him water, and tiedhim up, and made a kind of shelter for him. The miner was a big fellow, and the other was just a slip of a boy. So he couldn't drag in hisfriend, but he got another man to go out with him, and between them theydid it right enough. And when I was in the clearing station next day, Isaw the two--the miner in bed, awfully smashed up, and the other sittingby him. It made one feel choky. The boy could have put down a coolhundred thousand, I suppose, if it could have done any good. But itwouldn't. I can tell you, darling, this war knocks the nonsense out of aman!'

'But Bridget is a woman!' said a dreamy voice beside him. 

Sarratt laughed; but he was launched on recollections and could not stophimself. Apparently everybody in his company was a hero, and haddeserved the Military Cross ten times over, except himself. He describedsome incidents he had personally seen, and through the repressed firewith which he spoke, the personality and ideals of the man revealedthemselves--normal, strong, self-forgetting. Had he even forgotten thelittle creature beside him? Hardly, for instinctively he softened awaysome of the terrible details of blood and pain. But he had forgottenNelly's prohibition. And when again they had entered the dark wood whichlay between them and the cottage on the river-bank, suddenly he heard atrembling breath, and a sob. 

He caught her in his arms. 

'Nelly, darling! Oh, I was a brute to talk to you like this. '

'No, ' she said, struggling with herself--'No! Wait a moment. ' She layagainst him trembling through every limb, while he kissed and comfortedher. 

'I'm--I'm not a coward, George!' she said at last, gasping, --'I'm notindeed. Only--well, this morning I had about a hundred and seventy hoursleft--I counted them. And now there are fifteen less. And all the time, while we talk, they are slipping away, so quick--so quick--'

But she was regaining self-control, and soon released herself. 

'I won't do it again!' she said piteously, in the tone of a penitentchild. 'I won't indeed. Let's go home. I'm all right. '

And home they sped, hand in hand, silently. The little room when theyre-entered it was bright with firelight, because kind Mrs. Weston hadthought the flight chilly, and the white table laid out for them--itspretty china and simple fare--tempted and cheered them with its look ofhome. But Nelly lay on the sofa afterwards very pale, though smiling andtalking as usual. And through the night she was haunted, sleeping andwaking, by the image of the solitary boat rocking gently on the moonlitlake, the water lapping its sides. She saw herself and George adrift init--sailing into--disappearing in--that radiance of silver light. Sleepily she hoped that Sir William Farrell would not forget hispromise. 

CHAPTER III

May I come in?'

Nelly Sarratt, who was standing beside the table in the sitting-room, packing a small luncheon-basket with sandwiches and cake, looked up inastonishment. Then she went to the door which was slightly ajar, andopened it. 

She beheld a very tall man standing smiling on the threshold. 

'I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mrs. Sarratt--but I was on my way for aday's sketching, and as my car passed your house, I thought I would liketo bring you, myself, the permission which I spoke of on Saturday. Iwrote yesterday, my friend was away from home but I got a telegram thismorning. '

The visitor held out a telegram, which Nelly took in some bewilderment. It fluttered her to be so much thought for by a stranger--and a strangermoreover who seemed but to wave his wand and things were done. But shethanked him heartily. 

'Won't you come in, Sir William?' she asked him, shyly. 'My husband willbe here directly. '

It pleased him that she had found out who he was. He protested that hemustn't stay a moment, but all the same he came in, and stood with hishands in his pockets looking at the view. He seemed to Nelly to fill thelittle sitting-room. Not that he was stout. There was not an ounce ofsuperfluous flesh on him anywhere. But he stood at least six foot fourin his boots; his shoulders were broad in proportion; and his head, withits strong curly hair of a light golden brown, which was repeated in hisshort beard, carried itself with the unconscious ease of one who hasnever known anything but the upper seats of life. His features werehandsome, except for a broad irregular mouth, and his blue eyes werekind and lazily humorous. 

'There's nothing better than that lake, ' he said, motioning towards it, with his hand, as though he followed the outlines of the hills. 'But Inever try to draw it. I leave that to the fellows who think they can!I'm afraid your permit's only for a week, Mrs. Sarratt. The boat, Ifind, will be wanted after that. '

'Oh, but my husband will be gone in a week--less than a week. I couldn'trow myself!' said Nelly, smiling. 

But Sir William thought the smile trembled a little, and he felt verysorry for the small, pretty creature. 

'You will be staying on here after your husband goes?'

'Oh yes. My sister will be with me. We know the Lakes very well. '

'Staying through the summer, I suppose?' 'I shan't want to move--if thewar goes on. We haven't any home of our own--yet. '

She had seated herself, and spoke with the self-possession which belongsto those who know themselves fair to look upon. But there seemed to beno coquetry about her--no consciousness of a male to be attracted. Allher ways were very gentle and childish, and in her white dress she madethe same impression on Farrell as she had on Bridget, ofextreme--absurd--youthfulness. He guessed her age about nineteen, perhaps younger. 

'I'm afraid the war will go on, ' he said, kindly. 'We are only now justfinding out our deficiencies. '

Nelly sighed. 

'I know--it's _awful_ how we want guns and shells! My husband says itmakes him savage to see how we lose men for want of them. _Why_ are weso short? Whose fault is it?'

A spot of angry colour had risen in her cheek. It was the dove defendingher mate. The change was lovely, and Farrell, with his artist's eye, watched it eagerly. But he shook his head. 

'It's nobody's fault. It's all on such a scale--unheard of! Nobody couldhave guessed before-hand--unless like Germany, we had been preparing foryears to rob and murder our neighbours. Well, Mrs. Sarratt, I must begoing on. But I wanted to say, that if we could do anything foryou--please command us. We live about twenty miles from here. My sisterhopes she may come and see you. And we have a big library at Carton. Ifthere are any books you want--'

'Oh, how _very_ kind of you!' said Nelly gratefully. She had risen andwas standing beside him, looking at him with her dark, frank eyes. 'Butindeed I shall get on very well. There's a war workroom in Manchester, which will send me work. And I shall try and help with the sphagnummoss. There's a notice up near here, asking people to help. 'Andperhaps'--she laughed and colored--'I shall try to sketch a little. Ican't do it a bit--but it amuses me. '

'Oh, you _draw_?' said Farrell, with a smile. Then, looking round him, he noticed a portfolio on the table, with a paint box beside it. 'May Ilook?'

With rather red cheeks, Nelly showed her performances. She knew verywell, being accustomed to follow such things in the newspapers, that SirWilliam Farrell had exhibited both in London and Manchester, and wasmuch admired by some of the critics. 

Farrell twisted his mouth over them a good deal, considering themcarefully. 

'Yes, I see--I see exactly where you are. Not bad at all, some of them. I could lend you some things which would help you I think. Ah, here isyour husband. '

George Sarratt entered, looking in some surprise at their very promptvisitor, and a little inclined to stand on his guard against a patronagethat might be troublesome. But Farrell explained himself soapologetically that the young man could only add his very hearty thanksto his wife's. 

'Well, I really _must_ be off, ' said Farrell again, looking for his hat. 'And I see you are going out for the day. ' He glanced at the lunchpreparations. 'Do you know Loughrigg Tarn?' He turned to Nelly. 

'Oh, yes!' Her face glowed. 'Isn't it beautiful? But I don't thinkGeorge knows it. ' She looked up at him. He smiled and shook his head. 

'I have a cottage there, ' said Farrell, addressing Sarratt. 'Wordsworthsaid it was like Nemi. It isn't:--but it's beautiful all the same. Iwish you would bring your wife there to tea with me one day before yougo? There is an old woman who looks after me. This view is fine'--hepointed to the window--'but I think mine is finer. '

'Thank you, ' said Sarratt, rather formally--'but I am afraid our daysare getting pretty full. '

'Of course, of course!' said Sir William, smiling. 'I only meant, if youhappened to be walking in that direction and want a rest. I have anumber of drawings there--my own and other people's, which Mrs. Sarrattmight care to see--sometime. You go on Saturday?'

'Yes. I'm due to rejoin by Monday. '

Farrell's expression darkened. 

'You see what keeps me?' he said, sharply, striking his left knee withthe flat of his hand. 'I had a bad fall, shooting in Scotland, yearsago--when I was quite a lad. Something went wrong in the knee-cap. Thedoctors muffed it, and I have had a stiff knee ever since. I daresaythey'd give me work at the War Office--or the Admiralty. Lots of fellowsI know who can't serve are doing war-work of that kind. But I can'tstand office work--never could. It makes me ill, and in a week of it Iam fit to hang myself. I live out of doors. I've done somerecruiting--speaking for the Lord Lieutenant. But I can't speak worth acent--and I do no good. No fellow ever joined up because of myeloquence!--couldn't if he tried. No--I've given up my house--it was thebest thing I could do. It's a jolly house, and I've got lots of jollythings in it. But the War Office and I between us have turned it into acapital hospital. We take men from the Border regiments mostly. I wonderif I shall ever be able to live in it again! My sister and I are now inthe agent's house. I work at the hospital three or four days a week--andthen I come here and sketch. I don't see why I shouldn't. '

He straightened his shoulder as though defying somebody. Yet there wassomething appealing, and, as it were, boyish, in the defiance. The man'spatriotic conscience could be felt struggling with his dilettantism. Sarratt suddenly liked him. 

'No, indeed, ' he said heartily. 'Why shouldn't you?' 'It's when onethinks of _your_ job, one feels a brute to be doing anything one likes. '

'Well, you'd be doing the same job if you could. That's all right!' saidSarratt smiling. 

It was curious how in a few minutes the young officer had come to seemthe older and more responsible of the two men. Yet Farrell was clearlyhis senior by some ten or fifteen years. Instinctively Nelly movednearer to George. She liked to feel how easily he could hold his ownwith great people, who made _her_ feel nervous. For she understood fromMrs. Weston that the Farrells were very great people indeed, as to moneyand county position, and that kind of thing. 

Sarratt took his visitor downstairs, and returned, laughing to himself. 

'Well, darling, I've promised we'll go to his cottage one day this week. You've to let him know. He's an odd fellow! Reminds me of that story ofthe young Don at Cambridge who spent all the time he could spare fromneglecting his duties in adorning his person. And yet that doesn't hitit quite either. For I don't suppose he does spend much time in adorninghis person. He doesn't want it. He's such a splendid looking chap tobegin with. But I'm sure his duties have a poor time! Why, he toldme--me, an utter stranger!--as we went downstairs--that being alandowner was the most boring trade in the world. He hated his tenants, and turned all the bother of them over to his agents. "But they don'thate me"--he said--"because I don't put the screw on. I'm rich enoughwithout. " By Jove, he's a queer specimen!'

And Sarratt laughed out, remembering some further items of theconversation on the stairs. 

'Whom are you discussing?' said a cold voice in the background. 

It was Bridget Cookson's voice, and the husband and wife turned to greether. The day was balmy--June at its best. But Bridget as she came in hadthe look of someone rasped with east wind. Nelly noticed too that sinceher marriage, Bridget had developed an odd habit of not looking her--orGeorge--straight in the face. She looked sideways, as though determinedto avoid the mere sight of their youth and happiness. 'Is she going tomake a quarrel of it all our lives?' thought Nelly impatiently. 'Andwhen George is so nice to her! How can she be so silly!'

'We were talking about our visitor who has just left, ' said Sarratt, clearing a chair for his sister-in-law. 'Ah, you came from the otherdirection, you just missed him. '

'The man'--said Nelly--'who was so awfully polite to me on Saturday--SirWilliam Farrell. '

Bridget's countenance lost its stiffness at once--became eager andalert. 

'What did he come for?'

'To bring us permission to use the boat for a week, ' said Nelly. 'Wasn't it decent of him?--and to do it so quick!'

'Oh, that's the Farrell way--always was, ' said Bridget complacently, asthough she had the family in her pocket. 'When they think of a thingit's done. It's hit or miss. They never stop to think. '

Sarratt looked at his sister-in-law with a covert amusement. It was aleft-handed remark. But she went on--while Nelly finished the packing ofthe luncheon-basket--pouring out a flood of gossip about theFarrells's place near Cockermouth, their great relations, their wealth, their pictures, and their china, while Sarratt walked up and down, fidgeting with his mouth, and inwardly thanking his stars that his Nellywas not the least like her sister, that she was as refined andwell-bred, as Bridget was beginning to seem to him vulgar and tiresome. But he realised that there was a personality in the tall harsh woman;that she might be formidable; and once or twice he found himselfwatching the curious side-long action of her head and neck, and the playof her eyes and mouth, with a mingling of close attention and strongdislike. He kept his own counsel however; and presently he heardBridget, who had so far refused all their invitations to join theirwalks or excursions, rather eagerly accepting Nelly's invitation to gowith them to Sir William's Loughrigg cottage. She knew all about itapparently, and said it was 'a gem of a place!' Sir William kept an oldbutler and his wife there--pensioned off--who looked after him when hecame. 'Everything's tiny, ' said Bridget with emphasis--'but _perfect_!Sir William has the most exquisite taste. But he never asks anybody togo there. None of the neighbours know him. So of course they say its"side, " and he gives himself airs. Anyway, Nelly, you may thinkyourselves highly honoured--'

'Darling, isn't that basket ready?' said Sarratt, coming to his wife'said. 'We're losing the best of the day--and if Bridget really won't gowith us--'

Bridget frowned and rose. 

'How are the proofs getting on?' said Sarratt, smiling, as she bade hima careless good-bye. 

Bridget drew herself up. 

'I never talk about my work. '

'I suppose that's a good rule, ' he said doubtfully, 'especially now thatthere's so much else to talk about. The Russian news to-day is prettybad!'

A dark look of anxiety crossed the young man's face. For it was the daysof the great Russian retreat in Galicia and Poland, and every soldierlooking on, knew with gnashing of teeth that the happenings in the Eastmeant a long postponement of our own advance. 

'Oh, I never trouble about the war!' said Bridget, with ahalf-contemptuous note in her voice that fairly set George Sarratt onfire. He flushed violently, and Nelly looked at him in alarm. But hesaid nothing. Nelly however with a merry side-glance at him, unseen byBridget, interposed to prevent him from escorting Bridget downstairs. She went herself. Most sisters would have dispensed with or omitted thissmall attention; but Nelly always treated Bridget with a certainceremony. When she returned, she threw her arms round George's neck, half laughing, and half inclined to cry. 

'Oh, George, I do wish I had a nicer sister to give you!' But George hadentirely recovered himself. 

'We shall get on perfectly!' he declared, kissing the soft head thatleant against him. 'Give me a little time, darling. She's new tome!--I'm new to her. '

Nelly sighed, and went to put on her hat. In her opinion it was no moreeasy to like Bridget after three years than three hours. It was certainthat she and George would never suit each other. At the same time Nellywas quite conscious that she owed Bridget a good deal. But for the factthat Bridget did the housekeeping, that Bridget saw to the investment oftheir small moneys, and had generally managed the business of theirjoint life, Nelly would not have been able to dream, and sketch, andread, as it was her delight to do. It might be, as she had said toSarratt, that Bridget managed because she liked managing. All the sameNelly knew, not without some prickings of conscience as to her owndependence, that when George was gone, she would never be able to get onwithout Bridget. 

Into what a world of delight the two plunged when they set forth! Themore it rains in the Westmorland country, the more heavenly are the dayswhen the clouds forget to rain! There were white flocks of them in theJune sky as the new-married pair crossed the wooden bridge beyond thegarden, leading to the further side of the lake, but they were sailingserene and sunlit in the blue, as though their whole business were todapple the hills with blue and violet shadows, or sometimes to throw adazzling reflection down into the quiet water. There had been rain, torrential rain, just before the Sarratts arrived, so that the river wasfull and noisy, and all the little becks clattering down the fell, intheir haste to reach the lake, were boasting to the summer air, asthough in forty-eight hours of rainlessness they would not be as dry anddumb as ever again. The air was fresh, in spite of the Midsummer sun, and youth and health danced in the veins of the lovers. And yet notwithout a touch of something feverish, something abnormal, because ofthat day--that shrouded day--standing sentinel at the end of the week. They never spoke of it, but they never forgot it. It entered into eachclinging grasp he gave her hand as he helped her up or down some steepor rugged bit of path--into the lingering look of her brown eyes, whichthanked him, smiling--into the moments of silence, when they rested amidthe springing bracken, and the whole scene of mountain, cloud and waterspoke with that sudden tragic note of all supreme beauty, in a world of'brittleness. ' But they were not often silent. There was so much tosay. They were still exploring each other, after the hurry of theirmarriage, and short engagement. For a time she chattered to him abouther own early life--their old red-brick house in a Manchester suburb, with its good-sized rooms, its mahogany doors, its garden, in which herfather used to work--his only pleasure, after his wife's death, besides'the concerts'--'You know we've awfully good music in Manchester!' Asfor her own scattered and scanty education, she had begun to speak of italmost with bitterness. George's talk and recollections betrayed quiteunconsciously the standards of the academic or highly-trainedprofessional class to which all his father's kindred belonged; and hisonly sister, a remarkably gifted girl, who had died of pneumonia ateighteen, just as she was going to Girton, seemed to Nelly, when heoccasionally described or referred to her, a miracle--a terrifyingmiracle--of learning and accomplishment. 

Once indeed, she broke out in distress:--'Oh, George, I don't knowanything! Why wasn't I sent to school! We had a wretched littlegoverness who taught us nothing. And then I'm lazy--I never wasambitious--like Bridget. Do you mind that I'm so stupid--do you mind?'

And she laid her hands on his knee, as they sat together among the fern, while her eyes searched his face in a real anxiety. 

What joy it was to laugh at her--to tease her!

'_How_ stupid are you, darling? Tell me, exactly. It is of course aterrible business. If I'd only known--'

But she would be serious. 

'I don't know _any_ languages, George! Just a little French--but you'dbe ashamed if you heard me talking it. As to history--don't ask!' Sheshrugged her shoulders despairingly. Then her face brightened. 'Butthere's something! I do love poetry--I've read a lot of poetry. '

'That's all right--so have I, ' he said, promptly. 

'Isn't it strange--' her tone was thoughtful--'how people care for poetrynowadays! A few years ago, one never heard of people--ordinarypeople--_buying_ poetry, new poetry--or reading it. But I know a shop inManchester that's just full of poetry--new books and old books--and theshop-man told me that people buy it almost more than anything. Isn't itfunny? What makes them do it? Is it the war?'

Sarratt considered it, while making a smooth path for a gorgeous greenbeetle through the bit of turf beside him. 

'I suppose it's the war, ' he said at last. 'It does change fellows. It'seasy enough to go along bluffing and fooling in ordinary times. Most mendon't know what they think--or what they feel--or whether they feelanything. But somehow--out there--when you see the things other fellowsare doing--when you know the things you may have to do yourself--well----'

'Yes, yes--go on!' she said eagerly, and he went on, but reluctantly, for he had seen her shiver, and the white lids fall a moment over hereyes. 

'--It doesn't seem unnatural--or hypocritical--or canting--to talk andfeel--sometimes--as you couldn't talk or feel at home, with life goingon just as usual. I've had to censor letters, you see, darling--and theletters some of the roughest and stupidest fellows write, you'd neverbelieve. And there's no pretence in it either. What would be the good ofpretending out there? No--it's just the pace life goes--and thefire--and the strain of it. It's awful--and _horrible_--and yet youwouldn't not be there for the world. '

His voice dropped a little; he looked out with veiled eyes upon the lakechequered with the blue and white of its inverted sky. Nellyguessed--trembling--at the procession of images that was passing throughthem; and felt for a moment strangely separated from him--separated anddesolate. 

'George, it's dreadful now--to be a woman!'

She spoke in a low appealing voice, pressing up against him, as thoughshe begged the soul in him that had been momentarily unconscious of her, to come back to her. 

He laughed, and the vision before his eyes broke up. 

'Darling, it's adorable now--to be a woman! How I shall think of you, when I'm out there!--away from all the grime and the horror--sitting bythis lake, and looking--as you do now. '

He drew a little further away from her, and lying on his elbows on thegrass, he began to read her, as it were, from top to toe, that he mightfix every detail in his mind. 

'I like that little hat so much, Nelly!--and that blue cloak is justripping! And what's that you've got at your waist--a silverbuckle?--yes! I gave it you. Mind you wear it, when I'm away, and tellme you're wearing it--then I can fancy it. '

'Will you ever have time--to think of me--George?'

She bent towards him. 

He laughed. 

'Well, not when I'm going over the parapet to attack the Boches. Honestly, one thinks of nothing then but how one can get one's menacross. But you won't come off badly, my little Nell--forthoughts--night or day. And you mustn't think of us too sentimentally. It's quite true that men write wonderful letters--and wonderful versetoo--men of all ranks--things you'd never dream they could write. I'vegot a little pocket-book full that I've collected. I've left it inLondon, but I'll show you some day. But bless you, nobody _talks_ abouttheir feelings at the front. We're a pretty slangy lot in the trenches, and when we're in billets, we read novels and rag each other--and_sleep_--my word, we do sleep!'

He rolled on his back, and drew his hat over his eyes a moment, foreven in the fresh mountain air the June sun was fierce. Nelly sat still, watching him, as he had watched her--all the young strength andcomeliness of the man to whom she had given herself. 

And as she did so there came swooping down upon her, like the blindingwings of a Fury, the remembrance of a battle picture she had seen thatmorning: a bursting shell--limp figures on the ground. Oh notGeorge--not _George_--never! The agony ran through her, and her fingersgripped the turf beside her. Then it passed, and she was silently proudthat she had been able to hide it. But it had left her pale andrestless. She sprang up, and they went along the high path leading toGrasmere and Langdale. 

Presently at the top of the little neck which separates Rydal fromGrasmere they came upon an odd cavalcade. In front walked an elderlylady, with a huge open bag slung round her, in which she carried anamazing load of the sphagnum moss that English and Scotch women weregathering at that moment all over the English and Scotch mountains forthe surgical purposes of the war. Behind her came a pony, with a boy. The pony was laden with the same moss, so was the boy. The lady's facewas purple with exertion, and in her best days she could never have beenother than plain; her figure was shapeless. She stopped the pony as sheneared the Sarratts, and addressed them--panting. 

'I beg your pardon!--but have you by chance seen another lady carryinga bag like mine? I brought a friend with me to help gather thisstuff--but we seem to have missed each other on the top of SilverHow--and I can't imagine what's happened to her. '

The voice was exceedingly musical and refined--but there was a touch ofpower in it--a curious note of authority. She stood, recovering breathand looking at the young people with clear and penetrating eyes, suddenly observant. 

The Sarratts could only say that they had not come across any othermoss-gatherer on the road. 

The strange lady sighed--but with a half humorous, half philosophicallifting of the eyebrows. 

'It was very stupid of me to miss her--but you really can't come togrief on these fells in broad daylight. However, if you do meet her--alady with a sailor hat, and a blue jersey--will you tell her that I'vegone on to Ambleside?'

Sarratt politely assured her that they would look out for her companion. He had never yet seen a grey-haired Englishwoman, of that age, carry soheavy a load, and he liked both her pluck and her voice. She remindedhim of the French peasant women in whose farms he often lodged behindthe lines. She meanwhile was scrutinising him--the badge on his cap, andthe two buttons on his khaki sleeve. 

'I think I know who you are, ' she said, with a sudden smile. 'Aren'tyou Mr. And Mrs. Sarratt? Sir William Farrell told me about you. ' Thenshe turned to the boy--'Go on, Jim. I'll come soon. '

A conversation followed on the mountain path, in which their newacquaintance gave her name as Miss Hester Martin, living in a cottage onthe outskirts of Ambleside, a cousin and old friend of Sir WilliamFarrell; an old friend indeed, it seemed, of all the local residents;absorbed in war-work of different kinds, and somewhere near sixty yearsof age; but evidently neither too old nor too busy to have lost thenatural interest of a kindly spinster in a bride and bridegroom, especially when the bridegroom was in khaki, and under orders for thefront. She promised, at once, to come and see Mrs. Sarratt, and George, beholding in her a possible motherly friend for Nelly when he should befar away, insisted that she should fix a day for her call before hisdeparture. Nelly added her smiles to his. Then, with a pleasant nod, Miss Martin left them, refusing all their offers to help her with herload. '"My strength is as the strength of ten, "' she said with a flashof fun in her eyes--'But I won't go on with the quotation. Good-bye. '

George and Nelly went on towards a spot above a wood in front of them towhich she had directed them, as a good point to rest and lunch. She, meanwhile, pursued her way towards Ambleside, her thoughts much moreoccupied with the young couple than with her lost companion. The littlething was a beauty, certainly. Easy to see what had attracted WilliamFarrell! An uncommon type--and a very artistic type; none of yourmilk-maids. She supposed before long William would be proposing to drawher--hm!--with the husband away? It was to be hoped some watch-dog wouldbe left. William was a good fellow--no real malice in him--had never_meant_ to injure anybody, that she knew of--but--

Miss Martin's cogitations however went no farther in exploring that'but. ' She was really very fond of her cousin William, who bore anamount of discipline from her that no one else dared to apply to theowner of Carton. Tragic, that he couldn't fight! That would have broughtout all there was in him. 

CHAPTER IV

'Glorious!'

Nelly Sarratt stood lost in the beauty of the spectacle commanded by SirWilliam Farrell's cottage. It was placed in a by-road on the westernside of Loughrigg, that smallest of real mountains, beloved of poets andwanderers. The ground dropped sharply below it to a small lake or tarn, its green banks fringed with wood, while on the further side the purplecrag and noble head of Wetherlam rose out of sunlit mist, --therebyindefinitely heightened--into a pearl and azure sky. To the north also, a splendid wilderness of fells, near and far; with the Pikes and Bowfellleading the host. White mists--radiant mists--perpetually changing, madea magic interweaving of fell with fell, of mountain with sky. Every tintof blue and purple, of amethyst and sapphire lay melted in the chalicecarved out by the lake and its guardian mountains. Every line of thatchalice was harmonious as though each mountain and valley filled itsplace consciously, in a living order; and in the grandeur of the wholethere was no terror, no hint of a world hostile and inaccessible to man, as in the Alps and the Rockies. 

'These mountains are one's friends, ' said Farrell, smiling as he stoodbeside Nelly, pointing out the various peaks by name. 'If you know themonly a little, you can trust yourself to them, at any hour of the day ornight. Whereas, in the Alps, I always feel myself "a worm and no man"!'

'I have never been abroad, ' said Nelly shyly. 

For once he found an _ing�nue_ attractive. 

'Then you have it to come--when the world is sane again. But some thingsyou will have missed for ever. For instance, you will never seeRheims--as it was. I have spent months at Rheims in old days, drawingand photographing. I must show you my things. They have a tragic valuenow. '

And taking out a portfolio from a rack near him, he opened it and put iton a stand before her. 

Nelly, who had in her the real instincts of the artist, turned over somevery masterly drawings, in mingled delight and despair. 

'If I could only do something like that!' she said, pointing to a studyof some of the famous windows at Rheims, with vague forms of saint andking emerging from a conflagration of colour, kindled by the afternoonsun, and dyeing the pavement below. 

'Ah, that took me some time. It was difficult. But here are somefragments you'll like--just bits from the fa�ade and the monuments. '

The strength of the handling excited her. She looked at them in silence;remembering with disgust all the pretty sentimental work she had beenused to copy. She began to envisage what this commonly practised artmay be; what a master can do with it. Standards leaped up. Alp on Alpappeared. When George was gone she would _work_, yes, she would workhard--to surprise him when he came back. 

Sir William meanwhile was increasingly taken with his guest. She wasshy, very diffident, very young; but in the few things she said, hediscerned--or fancied--the stirrings of a real taste--real intelligence. And she was prettier and more fetching than ever--with her small darkhead, and her lovely mouth. He would like to draw the free sensuous lineof it, the beautiful moulding of the chin. What a prize for the youngman! Was he aware of his own good fortune? Was he adequate?

'I say, how jolly!' said Sarratt, coming up to look. 'My wife, SirWilliam--I think she told you--has got a turn for this kind of thing. These will give her ideas. '

And while he looked at the drawings, he slipped a hand into his wife'sarm, smiling down upon her, and commenting on the sketches. There wasnothing in what he said. He only 'knew what he liked, ' and an unfriendlybystander would have been amused by his constant assumption that Nelly'ssketches were as good as anybody's. Entirely modest for himself, he wasinclined to be conceited for her, she checking him, with rather flushedcheeks. But Farrell liked him all the better, both for the ignorance andthe pride. The two young people standing there together, so evidentlyabsorbed in each other, yet on the brink of no ordinary parting, touchedthe romantic note in him. He was very sorry for them--especially for thebride--and eagerly, impulsively wished to befriend them. 

In the background, the stout lady whom the Sarratts had met on LoughriggTerrace, Miss Hester Martin, was talking to Miss Farrell, while BridgetCookson was carrying on conversation with a tall officer who carried hisarm in a sling, and was apparently yet another convalescent officer fromthe Carton hospital, whom Cicely Farrell had brought over in her motorto tea at her brother's cottage. His name seemed to be CaptainMarsworth, and he was doing his best with Bridget; but there were greatgaps in their conversation, and Bridget resentfully thought him dull. Also she perceived--for she had extremely quick eyes in suchmatters--that Captain Marsworth, while talking to her, seemed to bereally watching Miss Farrell, and she at once jumped to the conclusionthat there was something 'up' between him and Miss Farrell. 

Cicely Farrell certainly took no notice of him. She was sitting perchedon the high end of a sofa smoking a cigarette and dangling her feet, which were encased, as before, in high-heeled shoes and immaculategaiters. She was dressed in white serge with a cap and jersey of thebrightest possible green. Her very open bodice showed a string of finepearls and she wore pearl ear-rings. Seen in the same room with NellySarratt she could hardly be guessed at less than twenty-eight. She wasthe mature woman in full possession of every feminine weapon, experienced, subtle, conscious, a little hard, a little malicious. NellySarratt beside her looked a child. Miss Farrell had glanced at her withcuriosity, but had not addressed many words to her. She had concluded atonce that it was a type that did not interest her. It interested Williamof course, because he was professionally on the look out for beauty. Butthat was his affair. Miss Farrell had no use for anything so unfledgedand immature. And as for the sister, Miss Cookson, she had no points ofattraction whatever. The young man, the husband, was wellenough--apparently a gentleman; but Miss Farrell felt that she wouldhave forgotten his existence when the tea-party was over. So she hadfallen back on conversation with her cousin. That Cousin Hester--dear, shapeless, Puritanical thing!--disapproved of her, her dress, hersmoking, her ways, and her opinions, Cicely well knew--but that onlygave zest to their meetings, which were not very frequent. 

Meanwhile Bridget, in lieu of conversation and while tea was stillpreparing, was making mental notes of the cottage. It consistedapparently of two sitting-rooms, and a studio--in which they were tohave tea--with two or three bedrooms above. It had been developed out ofa Westmorland farm, but developed beyond recognition. The spacious roomspanelled in plain oak, were furnished sparely, with few things, butthose of the most beautiful and costly kind. Old Persian rugs andcarpets, a few Renaissance mirrors, a few priceless 'pots, ' a picture ortwo, hangings and coverings of a dim purple--the whole, made by thesevarious items and objects, expressed a taste perhaps originally florid, but tamed by long and fastidious practice of the arts of decoration. 

In the study where tea had been laid, Nelly could not restrain herwonder and delight. On one wall hung ten of the most miraculousTurners--drawings from his best period, each of them irreplaceablyfamous. Another wall showed a group of Boningtons--a third a similargathering of Whistlers. Sir William, charmed with the bride's pleasure, took down drawing after drawing, carried them to the light for her, anddiscoursed upon them. 

'Would you like that to copy?'--he said, putting a Turner into herlap--a marvel of blue mountain peaks, and winding river, and aerialdistance. 

'Oh, I shouldn't dare--I should be afraid!' said Nelly, hardly liking totake the treasure in her own hands. 'Aren't they--aren't they worthimmense sums?'

Sir William laughed. 

'Well, of course, they're valuable--everybody wants them. But if youwould ever like that one to copy, you shall have it, and any other thatwould help you. I know you wouldn't let it be hurt, if you could helpit--because you'd love it--as I do. You wouldn't let a Turner drawinglike that fade and blister in the sun--as I've seen happen again andagain in houses he painted them for. Brutes! Hanging's too good forpeople who maltreat Turners. Let me relieve you of it now. I must getyou some tea. But the drawing will come to you next week. You won't beable to think of it till then. '

He looked at her with the ardent sympathy which sprang easily from hisquick, emotional temperament, and made it possible for him to force hisway rapidly into intimacy, where he desired to be intimate. But Nellyshrank into herself. She put the drawing away, and did not seem to careto look at any more. Farrell wished he had left his remark unspoken, andfinding that he had somehow extinguished her smiles and her talk, herelieved her of his company, and went away to talk to Sarratt andCaptain Marsworth. As soon as tea was over, Nelly beckoned to herhusband. 

'Are you going so soon?' said Hester Martin, who had been unobtrusivelymothering her, since Farrell left her--'When may I come and see you?'

'To-morrow?' said Nelly vaguely, looking up. 'George hoped you wouldcome, before he goes. There are--there are only three days. '

'I will come to-morrow, ' said Miss Martin, touching Nelly's hand softly. The cold, small fingers moved, as though instinctively, towards her, andtook refuge in her warm capacious hand. Then Nelly whispered toBridget--appealingly--

'I want to go, Bridget. '

Bridget frowned with annoyance. Why should Nelly want to go so soon? Thebeauty and luxury of the cottage--the mere tea-table with all itsperfect appointments of fine silver and china, the multitude of cakes, the hot-house fruit, the well-trained butler--all the signs of wealththat to Nelly were rather intimidating, and to Sarratt--inwar-time--incongruous and repellent, were to Bridget the satisfaction ofso many starved desires. This ease and lavishness; the best ofeverything and no trouble to get it; the 'cottage' as perfect as thepalace;--it was so, she felt, that life should be lived, to be reallyworth living. She envied the Farrells with an intensity of envy. Whyshould some people have so much and others so little? And as she watchedSir William's attentions to Nelly, she said to herself, for thehundredth time, that but for Nelly's folly, she could easily havecaptured wealth like this. Why not Sir William himself? It would nothave been at all unlikely that they should come across him on one oftheir Westmorland holidays. The thought of their dingy Manchester rooms, of the ceaseless care and economy that would be necessary for theirjoint m�nage when Sarratt was gone, filled her with disgust. Theirpoverty was wholly unnecessary--it was Nelly's silly fault. She felt attimes as though she hated her brother-in-law, who had so selfishlycrossed their path, and ruined the hopes and dreams which had beenstrengthening steadily in her mind during the last two yearsespecially, since Nelly's beauty had become more pronounced. 

'It's not at all late!' she said, angrily, in her sister's ear. 

'Oh, but George wants to take me to Easedale, ' said Nelly under herbreath. 'It will be our last long walk. '

Bridget had to submit to be torn away. A little motor was waitingoutside. It had brought the Sarratts and Bridget from Rydal, and was totake Bridget home, dropping the Sarratts at Grasmere for an eveningwalk. Sir William tried indeed to persuade them to stay longer, till asignal from his cousin Hester stopped him; 'Well, if you must go, youmust, ' he said, regretfully. 'Cicely, you must arrange with Mrs. Sarratt, when she will pay us a visit--and'--he looked uncertainly roundhim, as though he had only just remembered Bridget's existence--'ofcourse your sister must come too. '

Cicely came forward, and with a little lisp, repeated her brother'sinvitation--rather perfunctorily. 

Sir William took his guests to their car, and bade a cordial farewell toSarratt. 

'Good-bye--and good luck. What shall I wish you? The D. S. O. , and arespectable leave before the summer's over? You will be in for greatthings. '

Sarratt shook his head. 

'Not till we get more guns, and tons more shell!'

'Oh, the country's waking up!'

'It's about time!' said Sarratt, gravely, as he climbed into the car. Sir William bent towards him. 

'Anything that we can do to help your wife and her sister, during theirstay here, you may be sure we shall do. '

'It's very kind of you, ' said the young officer gratefully, as hegrasped Farrell's hand. And Nelly sent a shy glance of thanks towardsthe speaker, while Bridget sat erect and impassive. 

Sir William watched them disappear, and then returned to the tea-room. He was received with a burst of laughter from his sister. 

'Well, Willy, so you're caught--fairly caught! What am I to do? When amI to ask her? And the sister too?'

And lighting another cigarette, Cicely looked at her brother withmocking eyes. 

Farrell reddened a little, but kept his temper. 

'In a week or two I should think, you might ask her, when she's got overher husband's going away. '

'They get over it very soon--in general, ' said Cicely coolly. 

'Not that sort. '

The voice was Captain Marsworth's. 

Cicely appeared to take no notice. But her eyelids flickered. HesterMartin interposed. 

'A dear, little, appealing thing, ' she said, warmly--'and her husbandevidently a capital fellow. I didn't take to the sister--but who knows?She may be an excellent creature, all the same. I'm glad I shall be sonear them. It will be a help to that poor child to find her something todo. '

Cicely laughed. 

'You think she'll hunt sphagnum--and make bandages? I don't. '

'Why this "thusness?"' said Miss Martin raising her eyebrows. 'What hasmade you take a dislike to the poor little soul, Cicely? There never wasanyone more plainly in love--'

'Or more to be pitied, ' said the low voice in the background--low butemphatic. 

It was now Cicely's turn to flush. 

'Of course I know I'm a beast, ' she said defiantly, --'but the fact is Ididn't like either of them!--the sisters, I mean. '

'What oh earth is there to dislike in Mrs. Sarratt!' cried Farrell. 'You're quite mad, Cicely. '

'She's too pretty, ' said Miss Farrell obstinately--and too--too simple. And nobody as pretty as that can be really simple. It's only pretence. '

As she spoke Cicely rose to her feet, and began to put on her veil infront of one of the old mirrors. 'But of course, Will, I shall behavenicely to your friends. Don't I always behave nicely to them?'

She turned lightly to her brother, who looked at her only half appeased. 

'I shan't give you a testimonial to-day, Cicely. '

'Then I must do without it. Well, this day three weeks, a party atCarton, for Mrs. Sarratt. Will that give her time to settle down?'

'Unless her husband is killed by then, ' said Captain Marsworth, quietly. 'His regiment is close to Loos. He'll be in the thick of it directly. '

'Oh no, ' said Cicely, twisting the ends of her veil lightly between afinger and thumb. 'Just a "cushy" wound, that'll bring him home on athree months' leave, and give her the bore of nursing him. '

'Cicely, you are a hard-hearted wretch!' said her brother, angrily. 'Ithink Marsworth and I will go and stroll till the motor is ready. '

The two men disappeared, and Cicely let herself drop into an arm-chair. Her eyes, as far as could be seen through her veil, were blazing; theredness in her cheeks had improved upon the rouge with which they werealready touched; and the gesture with which she pulled on her gloves wasone of excitement. 

'Cicely dear--what is the matter with you?' said Miss Martin indistress. She was fond of Cicely, in spite of that young lady'sextravagances of dress and manner, and she divined something gone wrong. 

'Nothing is the matter--nothing at all. It is only necessary, sometimes, to shock people, ' said Cicely, calming down. She threw her head backagainst the chair and closed her eyes, while her lips still smiledtriumphantly. 

'Were you trying to shock Captain Marsworth?'

'It's so easy--it's hardly worth doing, ' said Cicely, sleepily. Thenafter a pause--'Ah, isn't that the motor?'

 * * * * *

Meanwhile the little hired motor from Ambleside had dropped the Sarrattson the Easedale road, and carried Bridget away in an opposite direction, to the silent but great relief of the newly-married pair. And soon thehusband and wife had passed the last farm in the valley, and werewalking up a rough climbing path towards Sour Milk Ghyll, and EasedaleTarn. The stream was full, and its many channels ran white and foamingdown the steep rock face, where it makes its chief leap to the valley. The summer weather held, and every tree and fell-side stood bathed in awarm haze, suffused with the declining light. All round, encirclingfells in a purple shadow; to the north and east, great slopesappearing--Helvellyn, Grisedale, Fairfield. They walked hand in handwhere the path admitted--almost silent--passionately conscious of eachother--and of the beauty round them. Sometimes they stopped to gather aflower, or notice a bird; and then there would be a few words, with ameaning only for themselves. And when they reached the tarn, --a magicalshadowed mirror of brown and purple water, --they sat for long beside it, while the evening faded, and a breathless quiet came across the hills, stilling all their voices, even, one might have fancied, the voice ofthe hurrying stream itself. At the back of Nelly's mind there was alwaysthe same inexorable counting of the hours; and in his a profound andsometimes remorseful pity for this gentle creature who had given herselfto him, together with an immense gratitude. 

The stars came out, and a light easterly wind sprang up, sending ripplesacross the tarn, and stirring last year's leaves among the new grass. Ithad grown chilly, and Sarratt took Nelly's blue cloak from his arm andwrapped her in it--then in his arms, as she rested against him. Presently he felt her hand drop languidly from his, and he knewthat--not the walk, but the rush of those half-spoken thoughts whichheld them both, had brought exhaustion. 

'Darling--we must go home!' He bent over her. 

She rose feebly. 

'Why am I so tired? It's absurd. '

'Let me carry you a little. '

'You couldn't!' She smiled at him. 

But he lifted her with ease--she was so small and slight, while in him afresh wave of youth and strength had risen, with happiness, and thereaction of convalescence. She made no resistance, and he carried herdown some way, through the broad mingled light. Her face was hidden onhis breast, and felt the beating of his life. She said to herself morethan once that to die so would be bliss. The marvel of love bewilderedher. 'What was I like before it?--what shall I be, when he is gone?'

When she made him set her down, she said gaily that she was all right, and gave him a kiss of thanks, simply, like a child. The valley laybefore them with its scattered lights, and they pressed on through thetwilight--two dim and spectral figures--spirits it seemed, who had beenon the heights sharing ambrosial feasts with the Immortals, and had butjust descended to the common earth again. 

 * * * * *

Nelly spent the next three days, outside their walks and boatings on thelake, in whatever wifely offices to her man still remained toher--marking his new socks and khaki shirts, furnishing a small medicinechest, and packing a tin of special delicacies, meat lozenges, chocolate, various much advertised food tabloids, and his favouritebiscuits. Sarratt laughed over them, but had not the heart to dissuadeher. She grew paler every day, but was always gay and smiling so long ashis eyes were on her; and his sound young sleep knew nothing of herquiet stifled weeping at those moments of the night, when the bodily andnervous forces are at their lowest, and all the future blackens. MissMartin paid them several visits, bringing them books and flowers. Booksand flowers too arrived from Carton--with a lavish supply of cigarettesfor the departing soldier. Nelly had the piteous sense that everyone wassorry for her--Mrs. Weston, the kind landlady, Milly, the littlehousemaid. It seemed to her sometimes that the mere strangers she met inthe road knew that George was going, and looked at her compassionately. 

The last day came, showery in the morning, and clearing to a gloriousevening, with all the new leaf and growing hayfields freshened by rain, and all the streams brimming. Bridget came over in the afternoon, and asshe watched her sister's face, became almost kind, almost sympathetic. George proposed to walk back part of the way to Ambleside with hissister-in-law, and Nelly with a little frown of alarm watched them go. 

But the t�te-�-t�te was not disagreeable to either. Bridget was takenaback, to begin with, by some very liberal proposals of Sarratt's on thesubject of her and Nelly's joint expenses during his absence. She was tobe Nelly's guest--they both wished it--and he said kindly that hequite understood Nelly's marriage had made a difference to her, and hehoped she would let them make it up to her, as far and as soon as theycould. Bridget was surprised into amiability, --and Sarratt found achance of saying--

'And you'll let Nelly talk about the war--though it does bore you? Shewon't be able to help it--poor child!'

Bridget supposed that now she too would have to talk about the war. Heneedn't be afraid, she added drily. She would look after Nelly. And shelooked so masterful and vigorous as she said it, that Sarratt could onlybelieve her. 

They shook hands in the road, better friends to all seeming than theyhad been yet. And Nelly received George's account of the conversationwith a sigh of relief. 

 * * * * *

That night the midsummer moon would be at the full, and as the cloudsvanished from the sky, and the soft purple night came down, Nelly andSarratt leaving every piece of luggage behind them, packed, labelled, locked, and piled in the hall, ready for the cart that was to call forit in the early hours--took their way to the lake and the boathouse. They had been out at night once before, but this was to be the crowninglast thing--the last joint memory. 

It was eleven o'clock before the oars dipped into the water, and as theyneared the larger island, the moon, rearing its bright head over theeastern fells, shot a silver pathway through the lake; and on eitherside of the pathway, the mirrored woods and crags, more dim and ghostlythan by day, seemed to lead downward to that very threshold and entranceof the underworld, through which the blinded Theban king vanished fromthe eyes of men. Silver-bright the woods and fell-side, on the west;while on the east the woods in shadow, lay sleeping, 'moon-charmed. ' Theair was balmy; and one seemed to hear through it the steady soft beat ofthe summer life, rising through the leaves and grass and flowers. Everysound was enchantment--the drip of water from the oars, the hooting ofan owl on the island, even the occasional distant voices, and tapping ofhorses' feet on the main road bordering the lake. 

Sarratt let the oars drift, and the boat glided, as though of its ownwill, past the island, and into the shadow beyond it. Now it was SilverHow, and all the Grasmere mountains, that caught the 'hallowing' light. 

Nelly sat bare-headed, her elbows on her knees, and her face propped inher hands. She was in white, with a white shawl round her, and the graceof the slight form and dark head stirred anew in Sarratt that astonishedand exquisite sense of possession which had been one of the mainelements of consciousness, during their honeymoon. Of late indeed it hadbeen increasingly met and wrestled with by something harsher andsterner; by the instinct of the soldier, of the fighting man, foreseeinga danger to his own will, a weakening of the fibre on which his effortand his power depend. There were moments when passionately as he lovedher, he was glad to be going; secretly glad that the days which were intruth a greater test of endurance than the trenches were coming to anend. He must be able to trust himself and his own nerve to the utmost. Away from her, love would be only a strengthening power; here besideher, soul and sense contended. 

A low voice came out of the shadow. 

'George--I'm not going with you to the station. '

'Best not, dearest--much best. '

A silence. Then the voice spoke again. 

'How long will it take you, George, getting to the front?'

'About twenty-four hours from the base, perhaps more. It's a wearybusiness. '

'Will you be in action at once?'

'I think so. That part of the line's very short of men. '

'When shall I hear?'

He laughed. 

'By every possible post, I should think, darling. You've given mepost-cards enough. '

And he tapped his breast-pocket, where lay the little writing-case shehad furnished for every imaginable need. 

'George!'

'Yes, darling. '

'When you're tired, you're--you're not to write. '

He put out his long arms, and took her hands in his. 

'I shan't be tired--and I shall write. '

She looked down upon the hands holding hers. In each of the littlefingers there was a small amusing deformity--a slight crook ortwist--which, as is the way of lovers, was especially dear to her. Sheremembered once, before they were engaged, flaming out at Bridget, whohad made mock of it. She stooped now, and kissed the fingers. Then shebowed her forehead upon them. 

'George!'--he could only just hear her--'I know Miss Martin will bekind to me--and I shall find plenty to do. You're never to worry aboutme. '

'I won't--so long as you write to me--every day. '

There was again a silence. Then she lifted her head, and as the boatswung out of the shadow, the moonlight caught her face. 

'You'll take that Wordsworth I gave you, won't you, George? It'll remindyou--of this. ' Her gesture showed the lake and the mountains. 

'Of course, I shall take it. I shall read it whenever I can--perhapsmore for your sake--than Wordsworth's. '

'It'll make us remember the same things, ' she murmured. 

'As if we wanted anything to make us remember!'

'George!' her voice was almost a sob--'It's been almost too perfect. Sometimes--just for that--I'm afraid. '

'Don't be, darling. The God we believe in _isn't_ a jealous God! That'sone of the notions one grows out of--over there. '

'Do you think He's our friend, George--that He really cares?'

The sweet appealing voice touched him unbearably. 

'Yes, I do think it--' he said, firmly, after a pause. 'I do believeit--with all my heart. '

'Then I'll believe it!' she said, with a long breath; and there wassilence again, till suddenly over the water came the sound of the RydalChapel bell, striking midnight. Nelly withdrew her hands and sat up. 

'George, we must go home. You must have a good night. '

He obeyed her, took up the oars, and pulled swiftly to the boathouse. She sat in a kind of dream. It was all over, the heavenly time--alldone. She had had the very best of life--could it ever come again? Inher pain and her longing she was strangely conscious of growth andchange. The Nelly of three weeks back seemed to have nothing to do withher present self, to be another human being altogether. 

He made her go to bed, and remained in the sitting-room himself, underpretence of some papers he must put in order. When the sounds in thenext room ceased, and he knew that she must be lying still, waiting forhim, he sat down, took pen and paper, and began to write to her--aletter to be given to her if he fell. He had already written a letter ofbusiness directions, which was at his lawyer's. This was of anotherkind. 

'My Darling, --this will be very short. It is only to tell you that if Ifall--if we never meet again, after to-morrow, you are to think first ofall--and always--that you have made a man so happy that if no more joycan come to him on earth, he could die now--as far as he himself isconcerned--blessing God for his life. I never imagined that love couldbe so perfect. You have taught me. God reward you--God watch over you. If I die, you will be very sad--that will be the bitterness to me, if Ihave time to know it. But this is my last prayer to you--to be comfortedby this remembrance--of what you have done for me--what you have been tome. And in time, my precious one, comfort will come. There may be achild--if so, you will love it for us both. But if not, you must stilltake comfort. You must be willing, for my sake, to be comforted. Andremember:--don't be angry with me, darling--if in years to come, anothertrue love, and another home should be offered you, don't refusethem--Nelly! You were born to be loved. And if my spirit lives, andunderstands; what could it feel but joy that your sorrow was healed--mybest beloved!

'This will be given to you only if I die. With the deepest gratitude andthe tenderest love that a man can feel, I bid you good-bye--my preciouswife--good-bye!'

He put it up with a steady hand, and addressed it first to Nelly, enclosing it in a larger envelope addressed to his oldest friend, aschool-fellow, who had been his best man at their marriage. Then hestole downstairs, unlocked the front door, and crossing the road in themoonlight, he put the letter into the wall post-box on the further side. And before re-entering the house, he stood a minute or two in the road, letting the fresh wind from the fells beat upon his face, and tryingthe while to stamp on memory the little white house where Nelly lay, thetrees overhanging it, the mountain tops beyond the garden wall. 

CHAPTER V

'Is Mrs. Sarratt in?' asked Miss Martin of Mrs. Weston's little maid, Milly. 

Milly wore a look of animation, as of one who has been finding the worldinteresting. 

'She's gone a walk--over the bridge, Miss. '

'Has she had news of Mr. Sarratt?'

'Yes, Miss, ' said the girl eagerly. 'He's all right. Mrs. Sarratt got atelegram just a couple of hours ago. '

'And you think I shall find her by the lake?'

Milly thought so. Then advancing a step, she said confidentially--

'She's been dreadfully upset this two days, Miss. Not that she'd sayanything. But she's looked------'

'I know. I saw her yesterday. '

'And it's been a job to get her to eat anything. Mrs. Weston's beenafter her with lots of things--tasty you know, Miss--to try and tempther. But she wouldn't hardly look at them. '

'Thank you, Milly'--said Miss Martin, after a pause. 'Well, I'll findher. Is Miss Cookson here?'

Milly's candid countenance changed at once. She frowned--it might havebeen said she scowled. 

'She came the day Mr. Sarratt went away, Miss. Well of course it's notmy place to speak, Miss--but _she_ don't do Mrs. Sarratt no good!' MissMartin couldn't help a smile--but she shook her head reprovingly all thesame, as she hastened away. Milly had been in her Sunday-school class, and they were excellent friends. 

Across the Rotha, she pursued a little footpath leading to the lakeside. It was a cold day, with flying clouds and gleams on hill and water. Thebosom of Silver How held depths of purple shadow, but there were lightslike elves at play, chasing each other along the Easedale fells, and thestony side of Nab Scar. 

Beside the water, on a rock, sat Nelly Sarratt. An open telegram and abundle of letters lay on her lap, her hands loosely folded over them. She was staring at the water and the hills, with absent eyes, and hersmall face wore an expression--relaxed and sweet--like that of acomforted child, which touched Miss Martin profoundly. 

'So you've heard?--you poor thing!' said the elder woman smiling, as shelaid a friendly hand on the girl's shoulder. 

Nelly looked up--and drew a long deep breath. 

'He's all right, and the battalion's going to have three weeks'rest--behind the lines. '

Her dark eyes shone. Hester Martin sat down on the turf beside her. 

'Capital! When did you hear last?'

'Just the day before the "push. " Of course he couldn't tell meanything--but somehow I knew. And then the papers since--they're prettyghastly, ' said Nelly, with a faint laugh and a shiver. 'The farm underthe hill there'--she pointed--'you know about them?'

'Yes. I saw them after the telegram, ' said Miss Martin, sadly. 'Ofcourse it was the only son. These small families are too awful. Everymarried woman ought to have six sons!'

Nelly dropped her face out of sight, shading it with her hands. Presently she said, in a dreamy voice of content--

'I shall get a letter to-morrow. '

'How do you know?'

Nelly held out the telegram, which said--

'All safe. Posted letter last night. Love. '

'It _can't_ take more than forty-eight hours to come--can it?' Then shelifted her eyes again to the distant farm, with its white front and itsdark patch of yews. 

'I keep thinking of _their_ telegram--' she said, slowly--'and then ofmine. Oh, this war is too _horrible!'_ She threw up her hands with asudden wild gesture, and then let one of them drop into Hester Martin'sgrasp. 'In George's last letter he told me he had to go with a messageacross a bit of ground that was being shelled. He went with atelephonist. He crossed first. The other man was to wait and follow himafter an interval. George got across, then the man with the telephonewire started, and was shot--just as he reached George. He fell intoGeorge's arms--and died. And it might have been George--it might havebeen George just as well! It might be George any day!'

Miss Martin looked at her in perplexity. She had no ready-madeconsolations--she never had. Perhaps it was that which made her kindwrinkled face such a welcome sight to those in trouble. But at last shesaid--'It is all we women can do--to be patient--and hope--not to letour courage go down. '

Nelly shook her head. 

'I am always saying that to myself--but! when the news comes--_if_ itcomes--what good will that be to me! Oh, I haven't been idle--indeed Ihaven't, ' she added piteously--'I've worked myself tired every day--justnot to think!'

'I know you have, ' Miss Martin pressed the hand in hers. 'Well, now, he'll be all safe for a fortnight------'

'Perhaps three weeks, ' Nelly corrected her, eagerly. Then she lookedround at her new friend, a shy smile lighting up her face, andbringing back its bloom. 

'You know he writes to me nearly every day?'

'It's the way people have--war or no war--when they're in love, ' saidHester Martin drily. 'And you--how often?'

'_Every_ day. I haven't missed once. How could I?--when he wants me towrite--when I hear so often!' And her free hand closed possessively, greedily, over the letters in her lap. 

Hester Martin surveyed her thoughtfully. 

'I wouldn't do war-work all day, if I were you, ' she said at last. 'Whydon't you go on with your sketching?'

'I was going to try this very afternoon. Sir William said he would giveme a lesson, ' was the listless reply. 

'He's coming here?'

'He said he would be walking this way, if it was fine, ' said Nelly, indifferently. 

Both relapsed into silence. Then Miss Martin enquired after Bridget. Theface beside her darkened a little. 

'She's very well. She knows about the telegram. She thought I was agreat goose to be so anxious. She's making an index now--for the book!'

'The psychology book?'

'Yes!' A pause--then Nelly looked round, flushing. 

'I can't talk to Bridget you see--about George--or the war. She justthinks the world's mad--that it's six to one and half a dozen to theother--that it doesn't matter at all who wins--so long of course as theGermans don't come here. And as for me, if I was so foolish as to marrya soldier in the middle of the war, why I must just take theconsequences--grin and bear it!'

Her tone and look showed that in her clinging way she had begun toclaim the woman beside her as a special friend, while Hester Martin'smanner towards her bore witness that the claim excited a warmresponse--that intimacy and affection had advanced rapidly since GeorgeSarratt's departure. 

'Why do you put up with it?' said Miss Martin, sharply. 'Couldn't youget some cousin--some friend to stay with you?'

Nelly shook her head. 'George wanted me to. But I told him I couldn't. It would mean a quarrel. I could never quarrel with Bridget. '

Miss Martin laughed indignantly. 'Why not--if she makes you miserable?'

'I don't know. I suppose I'm afraid of her. And besides'--the wordscame reluctantly--: 'she does a lot for me. I _ought_ to be verygrateful!'

Yes, Hester Martin did know that, in a sense, Bridget did 'a lot' forher younger sisters. It was not many weeks since she had made theiracquaintance, but there had been time for her to see how curiouslydependent young Mrs. Sarratt was on Miss Cookson. There was no realsympathy between them; nor could Miss Martin believe that there was evermuch sense of kinship. But whenever there was anything to be doneinvolving any friction with the outside world, Bridget was ready to doit, while Nelly invariably shrank from it. 

For instance, some rather troublesome legal business connected withNelly's marriage, and the reinvestment of a small sum of money, haddescended on the young wife almost immediately after George'sdeparture. She could hardly bring herself to look at the letter. Whatdid it matter? Let their trustee settle it. To be worrying about itseemed to be somehow taking her mind from George--to be breaking in onthat imaginative vision of him, and his life in the trenches, whichwhile it tortured her, yet filled the blank of his absence. So Bridgetdid it all--corresponded peremptorily with their rather old andincompetent trustee, got all the signatures necessary out of Nelly, andcarried the thing through. Again, on another and smaller occasion, MissMartin had seen the two sisters confronted with a scandalous overchargefor the carriage of some heavy luggage from Manchester. Nelly wasaghast; but she would have paid the sum demanded like a lamb, if Bridgethad not stepped in--grappled with carter and railway company, whileNelly looked on, helpless but relieved. 

It was clear that Nelly's inborn wish to be liked, her quiveringresponsiveness, together with a strong dose of natural indolence, madeher hate disagreement or friction of any kind. She was alwaysyielding--always ready to give in. But when Bridget in her harshaggravating way fought things out and won, Nelly was indeed often mademiserable, by the _ricochet_ of the wrath roused by Bridget's methodsupon herself; but she generally ended, all the same, by realising thatBridget had done her a service which she could not have done forherself. 

Hester Martin frankly thought the sister odious, and pitied the bridefor having to live with her. All the same she often found herselfwondering how Nelly would ever manage the practical business of lifealone, supposing loneliness fell to her at any time. But why should itfall to her?--unless indeed Sarratt were killed in action. If hesurvived the war he would make her the best of guides and husbands; shewould have children; and her sweetness, her sensitiveness would stiffenunder the impact of life to a serviceable toughness. But meanwhile whatcould she do--poor little Ariadne!--but 'live and be lovely'--sew andknit, and gather sphagnum moss--dreaming half her time, and no doubtcrying half the night. What dark circles already round the beautifuleyes! And how transparent were the girl's delicate hands! Miss Martinfelt that she was watching a creature on whom love had been acting witha concentrated and stimulating energy, bringing the whole being suddenlyand rapidly into flower. And now, what had been only stimulus and warmthhad become strain, and, sometimes, anguish, or fear. The poor droopingplant could with difficulty maintain itself. 

For the moment however, Nelly, in her vast relief, was ready to talk andthink of quite ordinary matters. 

'Bridget is in a good temper with me to-day!' she said presently, looking with a smile at her companion--'because--since the telegramcame--I told her I would accept Miss Farrell's invitation to go andspend a Sunday with them. '

'Well, it might distract you. But you needn't expect to get much out ofCicely!'

The old face lit up with its tolerant, half-sarcastic smile. 

'I shall be dreadfully afraid of her!' said Nelly. 

'No need to be. William will keep her in order. She is a foolish woman, Cicely, and her own worst enemy, but--somehow'--The speaker paused. Shewas about to say--'somehow I am fond of her'--when she suddenly wonderedwhether the remark would be true, and stopped herself. 

'I think she's very--very good-looking'--said Nelly, heartily. 'Only, why'--she hesitated, but her half-laughing look continued the sentence. 

'Why does she blacken her eyebrows, and paint her lips, and powder hercheeks? Is that what you mean?'

Nelly's look was apologetic. 'She doesn't really want it, does she?' shesaid shyly, as though remembering that she was speaking to a kinswomanof the person discussed. 'She could do so well without it. '

'No--to be quite candid, I don't think she _would_ look so well withoutit. That's the worst of it. It seems to suit her to be made up!--thougheverybody knows it _is_ make-up. '

'Of course, if George wanted me to "make up, " I should do it at once, 'said Nelly, thoughtfully, propping her chin on her hands, and staring atthe lake. 'But he hates it. Is--is Miss Farrell--' she lookedround--'in love with anybody?'

Miss Martin laughed. 

'I'll leave you to find out--when you go there. So if your husband likedyou to paint and powder, you would do it?'

The older woman looked curiously at her companion. As she sat there, ona rock above the lake, in a grey nurse's dress with a nurse's bonnettied under her chin, Hester Martin conveyed an impression of rugged andunconscious strength which seemed to fuse her with the crag behind her. She had been gathering sphagnum moss on the fells almost from sunrisethat morning; and by tea-time she was expecting a dozen munition-workersfrom Barrow, whom she was to house, feed and 'do for, ' in her littlecottage over the week-end. In the interval, she had climbed the steeppath to that white farm where death had just entered, and having mournedwith them that mourn, she had come now, as naturally, to rejoice withNelly Sarratt. 

Nelly considered her question, but not in any doubtfulness of mind. 

'Indeed, I would, ' she said, decidedly. 'Isn't it my duty to make Georgehappy?'

'What "George"? If Mr. Sarratt wanted you to paint and powder----'

'He wouldn't be the "George" I married? There's something in that!'laughed Nelly. Then she lifted her hand to shade her eyes against thewestering sun--'Isn't that Sir William coming?'

She pointed doubtfully to a distant figure walking along the path thatskirts the western edge of the lake. Miss Martin put up her glasses. 

'Certainly. Coming no doubt to give you a lesson. But where are yoursketching things?'

Nelly rose in a hurry. 

'I forgot about them when I came out. The telegram--' She pressed herhands to her eyes, with a long breath. 

'I'll run back for them. Will you tell him?'

She departed, and Hester awaited her cousin. He came slowly along thelake, his slight lameness just visible in his gait--otherwise a splendidfigure of a man, with a bare head, bearded and curled, like a Viking ina drawing by William Morris. He carried various artist's gear slungabout him, and an alpenstock. His thoughts were apparently busy, for hecame within a few yards of Hester Martin, before he saw her. 

'Hullo! Hester--you here? I came to get some news of Mrs. Sarratt andher husband. Is he all right?'

Hester repeated the telegram, and added the information that seeing himcoming, Mrs. Sarratt had gone in search of her sketching things. 

'Ah!--I thought if she'd got good news she might like to begin, ' saidFarrell. 'Poor thing--she's lucky! Our casualties these last few dayshave been awful, and the gain very small. Men or guns--that's ourchoice just now. And it will be months before we get the guns. Sopractically, there's no choice. Somebody ought to be hung!'

He sat down frowning. But his face soon cleared, and he began to studythe point of view. 

'Nothing to be made of it but a picture post-card, ' he declared. 'However I daresay she'll want to try it. They always do--the beginners. The more ambitious and impossible the thing, the better. '

'Why don't you _teach_ her?' said Hester, severely. 

Farrell laughed. 

'Why I only want to amuse her, poor little soul!' he said, as he put hiseasel together. 'Why should she take it seriously?'

'She's more intelligence than you think. '

'Has she? What a pity! There are so many intelligent people in theworld, and so few pretty ones, '

He spoke with a flippant self-confidence that annoyed his cousin. Butshe knew very well that she was poorly off in the gifts that wererequired to scourge him. And there already was the light form of Nelly, on the footbridge over the river. Farrell looked up and saw her coming. 

'Extraordinary--the grace of the little thing!' he said, half tohimself, half to Hester. 'And she knows nothing about it--or seems to. '

'Do you imagine that her husband hasn't told her?' Hester's tone wasmocking. 

Farrell looked up in wonder. 'Sarratt? of course he has--so far as hehas eyes to see it. But he has no idea how remarkable it is. '

'What? His wife's beauty? Nonsense!'

'How could he? It wants a trained eye, ' said Farrell, quite serious. 'Hush!--here she comes. '

Nelly came up breathlessly, laden with her own paraphernalia. Farrell atonce perceived that she was pale and hollow-eyed. But her expression wasradiant. 

'How kind of you to come!' she said, looking up at him. 'You know I'vehad good news--splendid news?'

'I do indeed. I came to ask, ' he said gravely. 'He's out of it for abit?'

'Yes, for three weeks!'

'So you can take a rest from worrying?'

She nodded brightly, but she was not yet quite mistress of her nerves, and her face quivered. He turned away, and began to set his palette, while she seated herself. 

Hester watched the lesson for half an hour, till it was time to go andmake ready for her munition-workers. And she watched it with increasingpleasure, and increasing scorn of a certain recurrent uneasiness she hadnot been able to get rid of. Nothing could have been better thanFarrell's manner to Ariadne. It was friendly, chivalrous, respectful--all it should be--with a note of protection, of unspokensympathy, which, coming from a man nearly twenty years older than thelittle lady herself, was both natural and attractive. He made anexcellent teacher besides, handling her efforts with a mixture ofcriticism and praise, which presently roused Nelly's ambition, andkindled her cheeks and eyes. Time flew and when Hester Martin rose toleave them, Nelly cried out in protest--'It can't be five o'clock!'

'A quarter to--just time to get home before my girls arrive!'

'Oh, and I must go too, ' said Nelly regretfully. 'I promised Bridget Iwould be in for tea. But I _was_ getting on--wasn't I?' She turned toFarrell. 

'Swimmingly. But you've only just begun. Next time the sitting must belonger. '

'Will you--will you come in to tea?'--she asked him shyly. 'My sisterwould be very glad. '

'Many thanks--but I am afraid I can't. I shall be motoring back toCarton to-night. To-morrow is one of my hospital days. I told you how Idivided my week, and salved my conscience. '

He smiled down upon her from his great height, his reddish gold hair andbeard blown by the wind, and she seemed to realise him as a great, manly, favouring presence, who made her feel at ease. 

Hester Martin had already vanished over the bridge, and Farrell andNelly strolled back more leisurely towards the lodgings, he carrying hercanvas sketching bag. 

On the way she conveyed to him her own and Bridget's acceptance of theCarton invitation. 

'If Miss Farrell won't mind our clothes--or rather our lack of them! Idid mean to have my wedding dress altered into an eveningdress--but!----'

She lifted her hand and let it fall, in a sad significant gesture whichpleased his fastidious eye. 

'You hadn't even the time of the heart for it? I should think not!' hesaid warmly. 'Who cares about dress nowadays?'

'Your sister!' thought Nelly--but aloud she said--

'Well then we'll come--we'll be delighted to come. May I see thehospital?'

'Of course. It's like any other hospital. '

'Is it very full now?' she asked him uneasily, her bright look clouding. 

'Yes--but it ebbs and flows. Sometimes for a day or two all our mendepart. Then there is a great rush. '

'Are they bad cases?'

There was an unwilling insistence in her voice, as though her mind dealtwith images it would gladly have put away, but could not. 

'A good many of them. They send them us as straight as they can from thefront. But the surgeons are wonderfully skilful. It's simply marvelouswhat they can do. '

He seemed to see a shiver pass through her slight shoulders, and hechanged the subject at once. The Carton motor should come for her andher sister, he said, whenever they liked, the following Saturdayafternoon. The run would take about an hour. Meanwhile--

'Do you want any more books or magazines?' he asked her smiling, withthe look of one only eager to be told how to serve her. They had pausedin the road outside the lodgings. 

'Oh I how could we! You sent us such a bundle!' cried Nelly gratefully. 'We are always finding something new in it. It makes the evenings sodifferent. We will bring them back when we come. '

'Don't hurry. And go on with the drawing. I shall expect to see it agreat deal further on next time. It's all right so far. '

He went his way back, speedily, taking a short cut over Loughrigg to hiscottage. His thoughts, as he climbed, were very full of Mrs. Sarratt. But they were the thoughts of an artist--of a man who had studiedbeauty, and the European tradition of beauty, whether in form orlandscape, for many years; who had worked--_� contre coeur_--in a Parisstudio, and had copied Tintoret--fervently--in Venice; who had been acollector of most things, from Tanagra figures to Delia Robbias. Shemade an impression upon him in her lightness and grace, her smallproportions, her lissomness of outline, very like that of a Tanagrafigure. How had she come to spring from Manchester? What kindred had shewith the smoke and grime of a great business city? He fell into amusedspeculation. Manchester has always possessed colonies of Greekmerchants. Somewhere in the past was there some strain of southern bloodwhich might account for her? He remembered a beautiful Greek girl at anOxford Commemoration, when he had last attended that function; thedaughter of a Greek financier settled in London, whose still lovelymother had been drawn and painted interminably by the Burne Jones andWilliam Morris group of artists. _She_ was on a larger scale than Mrs. Sarratt, but the colour of the flesh was the same--as though light shonethrough alabaster--and the sweetness of the deep-set eyes. Moreover shehad produced much the same effect on the bystander, as of a child ofnature, a creature of impulse and passion--passion, clinging andself-devoted, not fierce and possessive--through all the moresuperficial suggestions of reticence and self-control. 'This littlecreature is only at the beginning of her life'--he thought, with a kindof pity for her very softness and exquisiteness. 'What the deuce willshe have made of it, by the end? Why should such beings grow old?'

His interest in her led him gradually to other thoughts--partlydisagreeable, partly philosophical. He had once--and only once--foundhimself involved in a serious love-affair, which, as it had left him abachelor, had clearly come to no good. It was with a woman much olderthan himself--gifted--more or less famous--a kind of modern Corinne whomhe had met for a month in Rome in his first youth. Corinne had laidsiege to him, and he had eagerly, whole-heartedly succumbed. He sawhimself, looking back, as the typically befooled and bamboozled mortal;for Corinne, in the end, had thrown him over for a German professor, whoadmired her books and had a villa on the Janiculum. During the eighteenyears which had elapsed since their adventure, he had quite made it upwith her, and had often called at the Janiculan villa, with itsantiques, its window to the view, and the great Judas tree between itand Rome. His sense of escape--which grew upon him--was always temperedby a keen respect for the lady's disinterestedness, and those highideals which must have led her--for what else could?--to prefer theGerman professor, who had so soon become decrepit, to himself. But theresult of it all had been that the period of highest susceptibility andeffervescence had passed by, leaving him still unmarried. Since then hehad had many women-friends, following harmlessly a score of 'chancedesires'! But he had never wanted to marry anybody; and the idea ofsurrendering the solitude and independence of his pleasant existence hadnow become distasteful to him. Renan in some late book speaks of hislife as 'cette charmante promenade � travers la realit�. ' Farrell couldhave adopted much the same words about his own--until the war. The warhad made him think a good deal, like Sarratt; though the thoughts of amuch travelled, epicurean man of the world were naturally verydifferent from those of the young soldier. At least 'the surge andthunder' of the struggle had developed in Farrell a new sensitiveness, anew unrest, as though youth had returned upon him. The easy, driftingdays of life before the catastrophe were gone. The 'promenade' was nolonger charming. But the jagged and broken landscape through which itwas now taking him, held him often--like so many others--breathless withstrange awes, strange questionings. And all the more, because, owing tohis physical infirmity, he must be perforce a watcher, a discontentedwatcher, rather than an actor, in the great scene. 

 * * * * *

That night Nelly, sitting at her open window, with starlight on thelake, and the cluster rose sending its heavy scent into the room--wroteto her husband. 

'My darling--it is just a little more than eight hours since I got yourtelegram. Sometimes it seems like nothing--and then like _days_--days ofhappiness. I was _very_ anxious. But I know I oughtn't to write aboutthat. You say it helps you if I keep cheerful, and always expect thebest and not the worst. Indeed, George, I do keep cheerful. Ask MissMartin--ask Bridget--'

At this point two splashes fell, luckily not on the letter, but on theblotting paper beside it, and Nelly hastily lifted her handkerchief todry a pair of swimming eyes. 

'But he can't see--he won't know!' she thought, apologising to herself;yet wrestling at the same time with the sharp temptation to tell himexactly how she had suffered, that he might comfort her. But sherepelled it. Her moral sense told her that she ought to be sustainingand strengthening him--rather than be hanging upon him the burden of herown fears and agonies. 

She went on bravely--

'Of course, after the news in the paper this morning, --and yesterday--Iwas worried till I heard. I knew--at any rate I guessed--you must havebeen in it all. And now you are safe, my own own!--for three wholeblessed weeks. Oh, how well I shall sleep all that time--and how muchwork I shall do! But it won't be all war-work. Sir William Farrell cameover to-day, and showed me how to begin a drawing of the lake. I shallfinish it for your birthday, darling. Of course you won't want to bebothered with it out there. I shall keep it till you come. The lake isso beautiful to-night, George. It is warmer again, and the stars are allout. The mountains are so blue and quiet--the water so still. But forthe owls, everything seems asleep. But they call and call--and the echogoes round the lake. I can just see the island, and the rocks roundwhich the boat drifted--that last night. How good you were to me--how Iloved to sit and look at you, with the light on your dear face--and theoars hanging--and the shining water--

'And then I think of where you are--and what you have been seeing inthat awful fighting. But not for long. I try to put it away. 

'George, darling!--you know what you said when you went away--what youhoped might come--to make us both happy--and take my thoughts off thewar? But, dear, it isn't so--you mustn't hope it. I shall be dreadfullysorry if you are disappointed. But you'll only find _me_--your ownNelly--not changed a bit--when you come back. 

'I want to hear everything when you write--how your men did--whether youtook any prisoners, whether there was ammunition enough, or whether youwere short again? I feel every day that I ought to go and makemunitions--but somehow--I can't. We are going to Carton on Saturday. Bridget is extremely pleased. I rather dread it. But I shall be able towrite you a long letter about it on Sunday morning, instead of going tochurch. There is Rydal chapel striking twelve! My darling--mydarling!--good-night. '

CHAPTER VI

The following Saturday afternoon, at three o'clock, the Carton motorduly arrived at the Rydal cottage door. It was a hot summer day, themountains colourless and small under their haze of heat, the woodsdarkening already towards the August monotony, the streams low andshrunken. Lakeland was at the moment when the artists who haunt herwould rather not paint her, remembering the subtleties of spring, andlooking forward to the pageantry of autumn. But for the eye that lovesher she has beauties enough at any time, and no blanching heat and dustcan spoil the lovely or delicate things that lie waiting in the shade ofher climbing oak-woods or on her bare fells, or beside her still lakes. 

Nelly took her seat in the landaulette, with Bridget beside her. Millyand Mrs. Weston admiringly watched their departure from the doorway ofthe lodgings, and they were soon speeding towards Grasmere and DunmailRaise. Nelly's fresh white dress, aided by the blue coat and shady hatwhich George had thought so ravishing, became her well; and she wasgirlishly and happily aware of it. Her spirits were high, for there inthe little handbag on her wrist lay George's last letter, received thatmorning, short and hurried, written just to catch the post, on hisarrival at the rest camp, thirty miles behind the line. Heart-ache andfear, if every now and then their black wings brushed her, and farwithin, a nerve quivered, were mostly quite forgotten. Youth, the joy ofbeing loved, the joy of mere living, reclaimed her. 

Bridget beside her, in a dark blue cotton, with a very fashionable hat, looked more than her thirty years, and might almost have been taken forNelly's mother. She sat erect, her thin straight shoulders carrying herpowerful head and determined face; and she noticed many things thatquite escaped her sister: the luxury of the motor for instance; thedetails of the Farrell livery worn by the two discharged soldiers whosat in front as chauffeur and footman; and the evident fact that whilesmall folk must go without servants, the rich seemed to have nodifficulty in getting as many as they wanted. 

'I wonder what this motor cost?' she said presently in a speculativetone, as they sped past the turn to Grasmere church and began to ascendthe pass leading to Keswick. 

'Well, we know--about--don't we?' said Nelly vaguely. And she guessed asum, at which Bridget looked contemptuous. 

'More than _that_, my dear! However of course it doesn't matter tothem. '

'Don't you think people look at us sometimes, as though we were doingsomething wrong?' said Nelly uneasily. They had just passed two oldlabourers--fine patriarchal fellows who had paused a moment to gaze atthe motor and the two ladies. 'I suppose it's because--because we lookso smart. '

'Well, why shouldn't we?'

'Because it's war-time I suppose, ' said Nelly slowly--'and perhapstheir sons are fighting--'

'We're not fighting!'

'No--but--. ' With a slight frown, Nelly tried to express herself. 'Itlooks as if we were just living as usual, while--Oh, you know, Bridget, what people think!--how _everybody's_ trying not to spend money onthemselves. '

'Are they?' Bridget laughed aloud. 'Look at all the dress advertisementsin the papers. Why, yesterday, when I was having tea with those peopleat Windermere, there was a man there telling lots of interesting things. He said he knew some great merchants in the city, who had spentthousands and thousands on furs--expensive furs--the summer before thewar. And they thought they'd all have been left on their hands, thatthey'd have lost heavily. And instead of that they sold them all, andmade a real big profit!'

Bridget turned an almost triumphant look on her sister, as though the_coup_ described had been her own. 

'Well, it isn't right!' said Nelly, passionately. 'It isn't--it_isn't_--Bridget! When the war's costing so much--and people aresuffering and dying--'

'Oh, I know!' said Bridget hastily. 'You needn't preach to me my dearchild. I only wanted you to look at _facts_. You're always so incurablysentimental!'

'I'm not!' Nelly protested, helplessly. 'We _make_ the facts. If nobodybought the furs, the facts would be different. George says it's wickedto squander money, and live as if everything were just the same as itused to be. And I agree with him!'

'Of course you do!' laughed Bridget. '_You_ don't squander money, mydear!'

'Only because I haven't got it to spend, you mean?' said Nelly, flushing. 

'No--but you should look at things sensibly. The people who are makingmoney are spending it--oceans of it! And the people who have money, likethe Farrells, are spending it too. Wait till you see how they live!'

'But there's the hospital!' cried Nelly. 

Bridget shrugged her shoulders. 

'That's because they can afford to give the hospital, and have themotor-cars too. If they had to choose between hospitals and motor-cars!'

'Lots of people do!'

'You think Sir William Farrell looks like doing without things?' saidBridget, provokingly. Then she checked herself. 'Of course I like SirWilliam very much. But then _I_ don't see why he shouldn't havemotor-cars or any other nice thing he wants. '

'That's because--you don't think enough--you never think enough--aboutthe war!' said Nelly, insistently. 

Bridget's look darkened. 

'I would stop the war to-morrow--I would make peace to-morrow--if Icould--you know I would. It will destroy us all--ruin us all. It'ssheer, stark lunacy. There, you know what I think!'

'I don't see what it's ever cost you, Bridget!' said Nelly, breathingfast. 

'Oh, well, it's very easy to say that--but it isn't argument. '

Bridget's deep-set penetrating eyes glittered as she turned them on hersister. 'However, for goodness' sake, don't let's quarrel about it. It'sa lovely day, and we don't often have a motor like this to drive in!'

The speaker leant back, giving herself up to the sensuous pleasure ofthe perfectly hung car, and the rapid movement through the summer air. Wythburn and Thirlmere were soon passed; leaving them just time tonotice the wrack and ruin which Manchester has made of the once lovelyshore of Thirlmere, where hideous stretches of brown mud, and the ruinsof long submerged walls and dwellings, reappear with every dry summer tofling reproach in the face of the destroyer. 

Now they were on the high ground above Keswick; and to the west andnorth rose a superb confusion of mountain-forms, peaked and rounded andcragged, with water shining among them, and the silver cloud wreathslooped and threaded through the valleys, leaving the blue or purpletops suspended, high in air, unearthly and alone, to parley with thesetting sun. Not yet setting indeed--but already flooding the west witha glory in which the further peaks had disappeared--burnt away; ashining holocaust to the Gods of Light and Fire. 

Then a sharp descent, a run through Keswick, another and a tamer lake, asinking of the mountain-forms, and they were nearing the woods ofCarton. Both sisters had been silent for some time. Nelly was wrapt inthoughts of George. Would he get leave before Christmas? Suppose he werewounded slightly--just a wound that would send him home, and let hernurse him?--a wound from which he would be sure to get well--not tooquickly! She could not make up her mind to wish it--to pray for it--itseemed like tempting Providence. But how she had envied a young couplewhom she sometimes met walking on the Ambleside road!--a young privateof one of the Border regiments, with a bandaged arm, and his sweetheart. Once--with that new free-masonry which the war has brought about, shehad stopped to speak to them. The boy had been quite ready to talk abouthis wound. It had seemed nothing at first--just a fragment ofshrapnel--he had scarcely known he was hit. But abscess after abscesshad formed--a leading nerve had been injured--it might be months beforehe could use it again. And meanwhile the plain but bright-faced girlbeside him was watching over him; he lodged with her parents as his ownwere dead; and they were to be married soon. No chance of his going outagain! The girl's father would give him work in his garage. They had theair of persons escaped from shipwreck and ashamed almost of their ownsecret happiness, while others were still battling with and sinking inthe waves. 

 * * * * *

A flowery lodge, a long drive through green stretches of park, with aheather fell for background--and then the motor, leaving to one side ahuge domed pile with the Union Jack floating above it, ran through awood, and drew up in front of Carton Cottage, a low building on thesteps of which stood Sir William Farrell. 

'Delighted to see you! Come in, and let Cicely give you some tea. They'll see to your luggage!'

He led in Nelly, and Bridget followed, glancing from side to side, withan eye shrewdly eager, an eye that took in and appraised all it saw. Acottage indeed! It had been built by Sir William's father, for his onlysister, a maiden lady, to whom he was much attached. 'Aunt Sophy' hadinsisted on a house to herself, being a person of some ruggedness andeccentricity of character and averse to any sort of dependence on otherpeople's ways and habits. But she had allowed her brother to build andfurnish the cottage for her as lavishly as he pleased, and during hislong widowhood she had been of much help to him in the management ofthe huge household at Carton Hall, and in the bringing up of his twochildren. After her death, the house had remained empty for some time, till, six months after the outbreak of war, Farrell had handed over theHall to the War Office, and he and his sister had migrated to thesmaller house. 

Bridget was aware, as she followed her sister, of rooms small butnumerous opening out on many sides, of long corridors with glisteningteak floors, of windows open to a garden ablaze with roses. Sir Williamled them to what seemed a buzz of voices, and opened a door. 

Cicely Farrell rose languidly from a table surrounded by laughing youngmen, and advanced to meet the newcomers. Nelly found herself shakinghands with the Captain Marsworth she had seen at Loughrigg Tarn, andbeing introduced by Sir William to various young officers, some inkhaki, visitants from a neighbouring camp, and some from the Hall, invarious forms of convalescent undress, grey flannel suits, khaki tunicswith flannel 'slacks, ' or full khaki, as the wearers pleased. The littlelady in white had drawn all the male eyes upon her as she came in, andthose who rapidly resumed their talk with Miss Farrell or each other, interrupted by the entrance of the newcomers, were no less aware of herthan those who, with Farrell, devoted themselves to supply the twosisters with tea. 

Nelly herself, extremely shy, but sustained somehow by the thought thatshe must hold her own in this new world, was soon deep in conversationwith a charming youth, who owned a long, slightly lantern-jawed face andfair hair, moved on crutches with a slung knee, and took everythingincluding his wound as 'funny. '

'Where is your husband?' he asked her. 'Sir William thinks he issomewhere near Festubert? My hat, the Lanchesters have been having a hottime there!--funny, isn't it? But they'll be moved to an easier jobsoon. They're always in luck--the Lanchesters--funny, I call it?--what?I wouldn't worry if I were you. Your husband's got through this allright--mightn't have another such show for ages. These things are awfulchancey--funny, isn't it? Oh, my wound?--well, it was just when I wasgetting over the parados to move back to billets--that the brute got me. Funny, wasn't it? Hullo!--here's a swell! My hat!--it's General Torr!'

Nelly looked up bewildered to see a group of officers enter the room, headed by a magnificent soldier, with light brown hair, handsomefeatures, and a broad be-ribboned chest. Miss Farrell greeted him andhis comrades with her best smiles; and Nelly observed her closely, asshe stood laughing and talking among them. Sir William's sister was inuniform, if it could be called a uniform. She wore a nurse's cap andapron over a pale blue dress of some soft crapey material. The cap was asquare of fine lawn, two corners of which were fastened under the chinwith a brooch consisting of one large pearl. The open throat showed asingle string of fine pearls, and diamonds sparkled in the small ears. Edging the cap on the temples and cheeks were little curls--a laHenrietta Maria--and the apron, also of the finest possible lawn, had adelicately embroidered edge. The lips of the wearer had beenartificially reddened, her eyebrows and eyelids had been skilfullypencilled, her cheeks rouged. A more extraordinary specimen of thenursing sisterhood it would have been impossible to find. Neverthelessthe result was, beyond gainsaying, both amusing and picturesque. The ladbeside Nelly watched Miss Farrell with a broad grin. On the other hand, a lady in a thin black dress and widow's veil, who was sitting nearBridget, turned away after a few minutes' observation of the hostess, and with a curling lip began to turn over a book lying on a table nearher. But whether the onlookers admired or disapproved, there could be noquestion that Miss Farrell held the field. 

'I am very glad to hear that Mrs. Sarratt has good news of her husband!'said Captain Marsworth courteously to Bridget, hardly able to makehimself heard however amid the din and laughter of the central group. Hetoo had been watching Cicely Farrell--but with a wholly impassivecountenance. Bridget made some indifferent answer, and then eagerlyasked who the visitors were. She was told that they were officers from aneighbouring camp, including the general commanding the camp. SirWilliam, said Captain Marsworth, had built the whole camp at his ownexpense, and on his own land, without waiting for any governmentcontractor. 

'I suppose he is so enormously rich--he can do anything he wants!' saidBridget, her face kindling. 'It must be grand never to think what youspend. '

Captain Marsworth was a trifle taken aback by the remark, as Sir Williamwas barely a couple of yards away. 

'Yes, I daresay it's convenient, ' he said, lightly. 'And what do youfind to do with yourself at Rydal?'

Bridget informed him briefly that she was correcting some proof-sheetsfor a friend, and would then have an index to make. 

Captain Marsworth looked at her curiously. 

'May one ask what the book is?'

'It's something new about psychology, ' said Bridget, calmly. 'It's goingto be a great deal talked about. My friend's awfully clever. '

'Ah! Doesn't she find it a little difficult to think about psychologyjust now?'

'Why should she? Somebody's got to think about psychology, ' was thesharp reply. 'You can't let everything go, because there's a war. '

'I see! You remind me of a man I know, who's translating Dante. He'sjust over military age, and there he sits in a Devonshire valley, with apile of books. I happen to know a particular department in a publicoffice that's a bit hustled for want of men, and I suggested that heshould lend a hand. He said it was his business to keep culture going!'

'Well?' said Bridget. 

The challenging obstinacy of her look daunted him. He laughed. 

'You think it natural--and right--to take the war like that?'

'Well, I don't see who's got a right to interfere with you if you do, 'she said, stiffly. Then, however, it occurred even to her obtuse andself-centred perception, that she was saying something unexpected anddistasteful to a man who was clearly a great friend of the Farrells, andtherefore a member of the world she envied. So she changed the subject. 

'Does Miss Farrell ever do any real nursing?' she asked abruptly. 

Captain Marsworth's look became, in a moment, reserved and cold. 'She'salways ready to do anything for any of us!'

Then the speaker rose. 'I see Sir William's preparing to take yoursister into the gardens. You certainly ought to see them. They're veryfamous. '

 * * * * *

The party streamed out into the paths leading through a wood, and past aseries of water-lily pools to the walled gardens. Sir William walked infront with Nelly. 

'My brother's new craze!' said Cicely in the ear of the General besideher, who being of heroic proportions had to stoop some way to hear theremark. He followed the direction of her eyes. 

'What, that little woman? A vision! Is it only looks, or is theresomething besides?'

Cicely shrugged her shoulders. 

'I don't know. I haven't found out. The sister's plain, disagreeable, stupid. '

'She looks rather clever. '

'Doesn't that show she's stupid? Nobody ought to look clever. Do youadmire Mrs. Sarratt?'

'Can one help it? Or are you going also to maintain, ' laughed thegeneral, 'that no one can be beautiful who looks it?'

'One _could_ maintain it--easily. The best kind of beauty has always tobe discovered. What do you think, Captain Marsworth?'

She turned--provokingly--to the soldier on her left hand. 

'About beauty?' He looked up listlessly. 'I've no idea. The day's toohot. '

Cicely eyed him. 

'You're tired!' she said peremptorily. 'You've been doing too much. Youought to go and rest. '

He smiled, and standing back he let them pass him. Turning into a sidepath he disappeared towards the hospital. 

'Poor old fellow!--he still looks very delicate, ' said the General. 'Howis he really getting on?'

'The arm's improving. He's having massage and electricity. Sometimes heseems perfectly well, ' said Cicely. An oddly defiant note had crept intothe last sentence. 

'He looks down--out of spirits. Didn't he lose nearly all his friends atNeuve Chapelle?'

'Yes, some of his best friends. '

'And half the battalion! He always cared enormously about his men. Heand I, you know, fought in South Africa together. Of course then he wasjust a young subaltern. He's a splendid chap! I'm afraid he won't get tothe front again. But of course they'll find him something at home. Heought to marry--get a wife to look after him. By the way, somebody toldme there was some talk about him and the daughter of the rector here. Anice little girl. Do you know her?'

'Miss Stewart? Yes. '

'What do you think of her?'

'A little nincompoop. Quite harmless!'

The handsome hero smiled--unseen by his companion. 

Meanwhile Farrell was walking with Nelly through the stately series ofwalled gardens, which his grandfather had planned and carried out, mainly it seemed for the boredom of the grandson. 

'What do we want with all these things now?' he said, waving animpatient hand, as he and Nelly stood at the top flight of steps lookingdown upon the three gardens sloping to the south, with their fragmentsof statuary, and old leaden statuettes, ranged along the central walks. 'They're all out of date. They were before the war; and the war hasgiven them the _coup de gr�ce_. No more big estates--no more hugecountry houses! My grandfather built and built, for the sake ofbuilding, and I pay for his folly. After the war!--what sort of a worldshall we tumble into!'

'I don't want these gardens destroyed!' said Nelly, looking up at him. 'No one ought to spoil them. They're far too beautiful!'

She was beginning to speak with more freedom, to be less afraid of him. The gap between her small provincial experience and modes of thought, and his, was narrowing. Each was beginning to discover the innerpersonality of the other. And the more Farrell explored her the morecharmed he was. She was curiously ignorant, whether of books or life. Even the busy commercial life amid which she had been brought up, as itseemed to him, she had observed but little. When he asked her questionsabout Manchester, she was generally vague or puzzled. He saw that shewas naturally romantic; and her passion for the absent Sarratt, togetherwith her gnawing anxiety about him which could not be concealed, madeher, again, very touching in the eyes of a man of imagination whosefeelings were quick and soft. He walked about with her for more than anhour, discoursing ironically on the Grecian temples, the rustic bridgesand pools and fountains, now in imitation of the older Versailles andnow of the Trianon, with which his grandfather had burdened hisdescendants; so that the glorious evening, as it descended, presentlybecame a merry duel between him and her, she defending and admiring hisown possessions, and he attacking them. Her eyes sparkled, and a brightred--a natural red--came back into her pale cheeks. She spoke and movedwith an evident exhilaration, as though she realised her own developingpowers, and was astonished by her own readiness of speech, and the sheerpleasure of talk. And something, no doubt, entered in of the new scene;its scale and magnificence, so different from anything she had yetknown; its suggestion of a tradition reaching back through manygenerations, and of a series of lives relieved from all vulgarnecessities, playing as they pleased with art and money, with water andwood. 

At the same time she was never merely dazzled; and never, for onemoment, covetous or envious. He was struck with her simple dignity andindependence; and he perfectly understood that a being so profoundly inlove, and so overshadowed by a great fear, could only lend, so to speak, her outer mind to Carton or the persons in it. He gathered roses forher, and did his utmost to please her. But she seemed to him all thetime like a little hovering elf--smiling and gay--but quite intangible. 

 * * * * *

Dinner in the 'cottage' was short, but in Bridget's eyes perfect. Personally, she was not enjoying herself very much, for she had made upher mind that she did not get on with military men, and that it wastheir fault, not hers; so that she sat often silent, a fact howeverunnoticed in the general clatter of the table. She took it quite calmly, and was more than compensated for the lack of conversation by the wholespectacle of the Farrell wealth; the flowers, the silver, the costlyaccessories of all kinds, which even in war-time, and in a 'cottage, 'seemed to be indispensable. It would have been more amusing, no doubt, if it had been the big house and not the cottage. Sometimes through theopen windows and the trees, she caught sight of the great lighted pile alittle way off, and found herself dreaming of what it would be to livethere, and to command all that these people commanded. She saw herselfsweeping through the magnificent rooms, giving orders, inviting guests, entertaining royalty, driving about the country in splendid motors. Itwas a waking dream, and though she never uttered a word, the animationof her thoughts infused a similar animation into her aspect, and madeher almost unconscious of her neighbours. Captain Marsworth made severalattempts to win her attention before she heard him. 

'Yes. '

She turned at last an absent glance upon him. 

'Miss Farrell talks of our all going over to the hospital after dinner. She and Sir William often spend the evening there, ' said CaptainMarsworth, quite aware from Miss Farrell's frequent glances in hisdirection that he was not in her opinion doing his duty with MissCookson. 

'Will it take us long?' said Bridget, the vivacity of her look dyingout. 

'As long as you please to stay!' laughed the Captain, drily. 

 * * * * *

That passage after dinner through the convalescent wards of the finelyequipped hospital was to Nelly Sarratt an almost intolerable experience. She went bravely through it, leaving, wherever she talked to aconvalescent, an impression of shy sweetness behind her, which made agood many eyes follow her as Farrell led her through the rooms. But shewas thankful when it was over; and when, at last, she was alone in herroom for the night, she flew--for consolation--to the drawer in whichshe had locked her writing-desk, and the letters she had received thatmorning. The post had just arrived as they were leaving Rydal, and shehad hastily torn open a letter from George, and thrust the others into alarge empty envelope. And now she discovered among them to her delight asecond letter from George, unopened. What unexpected joy!

It too was dated--'Somewhere in France'--and had been written two daysafter the letter she had opened in the morning. 

'My darling--we're having a real jolly time here--in an old village, far behind the line, and it is said we shall be here for three wholeweeks. Well, some of us really wanted it, for the battalion has been insome very hot fighting lately, and has had a nasty bit of the line tolook after for a long time--with nothing very much to show for it. Myplatoon has lost some of its best men, and I've been pretty badly hit, as some of them were real chums of mine--the bravest and dearestfellows. And I don't know why, but for the first time, I've been feelingrather jumpy and run down. So I went to a doctor, and he told me I'dbetter go off duty for a fortnight. But just then, luckily, the wholebattalion was ordered, as I told you a week ago, into what's called"divisional rest, " so here we are--for three weeks! Quite goodbillets--an old French farm--with two good barns and lots of straw forthe men, and an actual bedroom for me--and a real bed--_with sheets!_Think of that! I am as comfortable as possible. Just at first I'm goingto stay in bed for a couple of days to please the doctor--but then Ishall be all right, and shall probably take a course of gymnasticsthey're starting here--odd, isn't it?--like putting us to schoolagain!--so that I may be quite fit before going back to the front. 

'One might almost forget the war here, if it weren't for the rumble ofthe guns which hardly ever ceases. They are about thirty-five milesaway. The whole country is quite peaceful, and the crops coming onsplendidly. The farm produces delicious brown eggs--and you shouldsee--and _taste_--the omelets the farmer's wife makes! Coffeetoo--first-rate! How these French women work! Our men are alwayshelping them, and the children hang round our Tommies like flies. 

'These two days in bed are a godsend, for I can read all your lettersthrough again. There they are--spread out on my sheet! By Jove, littlewoman, you've treated me jolly well! And now I can pay you back alittle. But perhaps you won't mind, dearest, if I don't write anythingvery long, for I expect I ought to take it easy--for a bit--I can'tthink why I should have felt so slack. I never knew anything aboutnerves before. But the doctor has been very nice and understanding--areal, decent fellow. He declares I shall be as fit as a fiddle, longbefore the three weeks are done. 

'My bedroom door is open, and some jolly yellow chickens are wanderingin and out. And sometimes the farmer's youngest--a nice little chap ofeight--comes to look at me. I teach him English--or I try--but when Isay the English words, he just doubles up with laughing and runs away. Nelly, my precious--if I shut my eyes--I can fancy your little headthere--just inside the door--and your eyes looking at me!... May the Lordgive us good luck--and may we all be home by Christmas!--Mind you finishthat sketch!'

She put the letter down with a rather tremulous hand. It had depressedher, and made her anxious. She read in it that George had been throughhorrible things--and had suffered. 

Then all that she had seen in the hospital came back upon her, andrising restlessly she threw herself, without undressing, face downwardson her bed. That officer, blanched to the colour of white wax, who hadlost a leg after frightful haemorrhage; that other, the merest boy, whose right eye had been excised--she could not get them out of hermind, nor the stories they had told her of the actions in which they hadbeen wounded. 

'George--George!' It was a moan of misery, stifled in the darkness. 

Then, suddenly, she remembered she had not said good-night to Bridget. She had forgotten Bridget. She had been unkind. She got up, and spedalong the passage to Bridget's room. 

'Bridget!' She just opened the door. 'May I come in?'

'Come in. '

Bridget was already in bed. In her hands was a cup of steaming chocolatewhich a maid had just brought her, and she was lingering over it with aface of content. 

Nelly opened her eyes in astonishment. 

'Did you ask for it, Bridget?'

'I did--or rather the housemaid asked what I would have. Shesaid--"ladies have just what they like in their rooms. " So I asked forchocolate. '

Nelly sat down on the bed. 

'Is it good?'

'Excellent, ' said Bridget calmly. 'Whatever did you expect?'

'We seem to have been eating ever since we came!' said Nellyfrowning, --'and they call it economising!'

Bridget threw back her head with a quiet laugh. 

'Didn't I tell you so?'

'I wondered how you got on at dinner?' said Nelly hesitating. 'CaptainMarsworth didn't seem to be taking much trouble?'

'It didn't matter to me, ' said Bridget. 'That kind of man always behaveslike that, '

Nelly flushed. 

'You mean soldiers behave like that?'

'Well, I don't like soldiers--brothers-in-law excepted, of course. ' AndBridget gave her short, rather harsh laugh. 

Nelly got up. 

'Well, I shall be ready to go as early as you like on Monday, Bridget. It was awfully good of you to pack all my things so nicely!'

'Don't I always?' Bridget laughed. 

'You do--you do indeed. Good-night. '

She touched Bridget's cheek with her lips and stole away. 

Bridget was left to think. There was a dim light in the room showing thefine inlaid furniture, the flowery paper, the chintz-covered arm-chairsand sofa, and, through an open door, part of the tiled wall of thebathroom. 

Miss Cookson had never slept in such a room before, and every item init pleased a starved sense in her. Poverty was _hateful_! Could onenever escape it?

Then she closed her eyes, and seemed to be watching Sir William andNelly in the gardens, his protecting eager air--her face looking up. Of_course_ she might have married him--with the greatest ease!--if onlyGeorge Sarratt had not been in the way. 

But supposing--

All the talk that evening had been of a new 'push'--a new and steadyoffensive, as soon as the shell supply was better. George would be inthat 'push. ' Nobody expected it for another month. By that time he wouldbe back at the front. She lay and thought, her eyes closed, her harshface growing a little white and pinched under the electric lamp besideher. Potentially, her thoughts were murderous. The _wish_ that Georgemight not return formed itself clearly, for the first time, in her mind. Dreams followed, as to consequences both for Nelly and herself, supposing he did not return. And in the midst of them she fell asleep. 

CHAPTER VII

August came, the second August of the war. The heart of England was sadand sick, torn by the losses at Gallipoli, by the great disaster of theRussian retreat, by the shortage of munitions, by the endless smallfighting on the British front, which eat away the young life of ourrace, week by week, and brought us no further. But the spirit of thenation was rising--and its grim task was becoming nakedly visible atlast. _Guns--men!_ Nothing else to say--nothing else to do. 

George Sarratt's battalion returned to the fighting line somewhere aboutthe middle of August. 'But we are only marking time, ' he wrote to hiswife. 'Nothing doing here, though the casualties go on every day. However we all know in our bones there will be plenty to do soon. As forme I am--more or less--all right again. '

Indeed, as September wore on, expectation quickened on both sides of theChannel. Nelly went in fear of she knew not what. The newspapers saidlittle, but through Carton and the Farrells, she heard a great deal ofmilitary gossip. The shell supply was improving--the new Ministry ofMunitions beginning to tell--a great blow was impending. 

Weeks of rain and storm died down into an autumnal gentleness. Thebracken was turning on the hills, the woods beginning to dress for thepageant of October. The sketching lessons which the usual August delugehad interrupted were to begin again, as soon as Farrell came home. Hehad been in France for a fortnight, at Etaples, and in Paris, studyingnew methods and appliances for the benefit of the hospital. But whetherhe was at home or no, the benefactions of Carton never ceased. Almostevery other day a motor from the Hall drove up laden with fruit andflowers, with books and magazines. 

The fourth week of September opened. The rumours of coming events creptmore heavily and insistently than ever through a sudden spell of heatthat hung over the Lakes. Nelly Sarratt slept little, and wrote everyday to her George, letters of which long sections were often destroyedwhen written, condemned for lack of cheerfulness. 

She was much touched by Farrell's constant kindness, and grateful forit; especially because it seemed to keep Bridget in a good temper. Shewas grateful too for the visitors whom a hint from him would send onfine afternoons to call on the ladies at Rydal--convalescent officers, to whom the drive from Carton, and tea with 'the pretty Mrs. Sarratt'were an attraction, while Nelly would hang breathless on their gossip ofthe war, until suddenly, perhaps, she would turn white and silent, lyingback in her garden chair with the look which the men talking toher--brave, kind-hearted fellows--soon learnt to understand. Marsworthcame occasionally, and Nelly grew to like him sincerely, and to bevaguely sorry for him, she hardly knew why. Cicely Farrell apparentlyforgot them entirely. And in August and the first part of September shetoo, according to Captain Marsworth's information, had been away, payingvisits. 

On the morning of September 26th, the Manchester papers which reachedthe cottage with the post contained columns of telegrams describing theBritish attack at Loos, and the French 'push' in Champagne. Among theletters was a short word from Sarratt, dated the 24th. 'We shallprobably be in action to-morrow, dearest. I will wire as soon as I can, but you must not be anxious if there is delay. As far as I can judge itwill be a big thing. You may be sure I shall take all the precautionspossible. God bless you, darling. Your letters are _everything_. '

Nelly read the letter and the newspaper, her hands trembling as she heldit. At breakfast, Bridget eyed her uncomfortably. 

'He'll be all right!' she said with harsh decision. 'Don't fret. '

The day passed, with heavy heat mists over the Lake, the fells and thewoods blotted out. On pretence of sketching, Nelly spent the hours onthe side of Loughrigg, trying sometimes to draw or sew, but for the mostpart, lying with shut eyes, hidden among the bracken. Her faculty fordreaming awake--for a kind of visualisation sharper than most peoplepossess--had been much developed since George's departure. It partlytormented, partly soothed her. 

Night came without news. 'I _can't_ hear till to-morrow night, ' shethought, and lay still all night patient and sleepless, her little handscrossed on her breast. The window was wide open and she could see thestars peering over Loughrigg. 

Next morning, fresh columns in the newspaper. The action was still goingon. She must wait. And somehow it was easier to wait this second day;she felt more cheerful. Was there some secret voice telling her that ifhe were dead, she would have heard?

After lunch she set out to take some of the Carton flowers to thefarmer's wife living in a fold of the fell, who had lost her only son inthe July fighting. Hester Martin had guided her there one day, and somefellow-feeling had established itself rapidly between Nelly, and thesad, dignified woman, whose duties went on as usual while all that gavethem zest had departed. 

The distance was short, and she left exact word where she could befound. As she climbed the narrow lane leading to the farm, she presentlyheard a motor approaching. The walls enclosing the lane left barely roomto pass. She could only scramble hurriedly up a rock which had beenbuilt into the wall, and hold on to a young tree growing from it. Themotor which was large and luxurious passed slowly, and in the car shesaw two young men, one pale and sickly-looking, wrapped in a great-coatthough the day was stuffily warm: the other, the driver, a tall andstalwart fellow, who threw Nelly a cold, unfriendly look as they wentby. Who could they be? The road only led to the farm, and when Nelly hadlast visited Mrs. Grayson, a week before, she and her old husband and agranddaughter of fourteen had been its only inmates. 

Mrs. Grayson received her with a smile. 

'Aye, aye, Mrs. Sarratt, coom in. Yo're welcome. '

But as Nelly entered the flagged kitchen, with its joints of bacon andits bunches of dried herbs, hanging from the low beamed ceiling, itswide hob grate, its dresser, table and chairs of old Westmorland oak, every article in it shining with elbow-grease, --she saw that Mrs. Grayson looked particularly tired and pale. 

'Yo mun ha' passed them in t' lane?' said the farmer's wife wearily, when the flowers had been admired and put in water, and Nelly had beenestablished in the farmer's own chair by the fire, while his wifeinsisted on getting an early cup of tea. 

'Who were they, Mrs. Grayson?'

'Well, they're nobbut a queer soart, Mrs. Sarratt--and I'd be glad tosee t' back on 'em. They're "conscientious objectors"--that's what theyare--an my husband coom across them in Kendal toother day. He'dfinished wi t' market, and he strolled into the room at the Town Hall, where the men were coomin' in--yo know--to sign on for the war. An' hegot talkin' wi' these two lads, who were lookin' on as he was. And theysaid they was "conscientious objectors"--and wouldn't fight not fornothing nor nobody. But they wouldn't mind doing their bit in otherways, they said. So John he upped and said--would they coom and help himwith his second crop o' hay--you know we've lost nearly all our men, Mrs. Sarratt--and they said they would--and that very evening he brought'em along. And who do you think they are?'

Nelly could not guess; and Mrs. Grayson explained that the two young menwere the wealthy sons of a wealthy Liverpool tradesman and were startinga branch of their father's business in Kendal. They had each of them amotor, and apparently unlimited money. They had just begun to be usefulin the hay-making--'But they wouldn't _touch_ the stock--they wouldn'tkill anything--not a rat! They wouldn't even shoo the birds from theoats! And last night one of them was took ill--and I must go and sit upwith him, while his brother fetched the big car from Kendal to take himhome. And there was he, groaning, --nobbut a bit of _colic_, Mrs. Sarratt, that anybody might have!--and there I sat--thinking of our ladsin the trenches--thinking of _my boy_--that never grumbled atanything--and would ha' been just ashamed to make such a fuss for such alittle. And this afternoon the brother's taken him away to bemolly-coddled at home. And, of course, they've left us, just when theymight ha' been o' soom real service. There's three fields still ligginoot in t' wet--and nobody to lend a hand wi' them. But I doan't wantthem back! I doan't hold wi' foak like that. I doan't want to see a monlike that settin' where my boy used to set, when he came home. It goesagin me. I can't soomhow put up wi' it. '

And as she sat there opposite Nelly, her gnarled and work-stained handsresting on her knees, the tears suddenly ran over her cheeks. But shequickly apologised for herself. 'The truth is I am run doon, Mrs. Sarratt. I've done nothing but _cook_ and _cook_--since these young mencoom along. They wouldn't eat noa flesh--soa I must always be cookin'summat--vegetables--or fish--or sweet things. I'm fair tired oot!'

Nelly exclaimed indignantly. 

'Was it their _religion_ made them behave like that?'

'Religion!' Mrs. Grayson laughed. 'Well, they was only the yan Sundayhere--but they took no account o't, whativer. They went motorin' allday; an niver set foot in church or chapel. They belong to soom Societyor other--I couldna tell what. But we'll not talk o' them ony more, Mrs. Sarratt, if yo please. I'm just thankful they're gone ... An have yeheard this day of Mr. Sarratt?'

The gentle ageing face bent forward tenderly. Nelly lifted her owndark-rimmed eyes to it Her mouth quivered. 

'No, not yet, Mrs. Grayson. But I shall soon. You'll have seen aboutthis fighting in the newspapers? There's been a great battle--I thinkhe'll have been in it. I shall hear to-night. I shall be sure to hearto-night. '

'The Lord protect him!' said Mrs. Grayson softly. They both sat silent, looking into the fire. Through the open door, the hens could be heardpecking and clucking in the yard, and the rushing of a beck swollen bythe rain, on the fell-side. Presently the farmer's wife looked up--

'It's devil's work, is war!' she said, her eyes blazing. Nelly held outher hand and Mrs. Grayson put hers into it. The two women looked at eachother, --the one who had lost, and the other who feared to lose. 

'Yes, it's awful, ' said Nelly, in a low voice. 'They want us to bebrave--but--'

Mrs. Grayson shook her head again. 

'We can do it when they're settin' there--afore us, ' she said, 'but notwhen we're by our lone. '

Nelly nodded. 

'It's the nights that are worst--' she murmured, under herbreath--'because it's then they're fighting--when we're inbed--sleeping. '

'My boy was killed between one and two in the morning '--whispered Mrs. Grayson. 'I heard from one of his friends this morning. He says it wasa lovely night, and the daylight just comin' up. I think of it when I'mlayin' awake and hearing the birds beginning. '

There was silence again, till Mrs. Grayson said, suddenly, with astrange passion:--

'But I'd rather be Jim's mother, and be settin' here without him, thanI'd be the mother o'yan of them young fellows as is just gone!'

'Yes, ' said Nelly slowly--'yes. If we think too much about keeping themsafe--just for ourselves--If; they despise--they _would_ despise us. And if anyone hangs back, we despise them. It' a horrible puzzle. '

'We can pray for them, ' said Mrs. Grayson simply. 'God can keep themsafe if it's His will. '

'Yes '--said Nelly again. But her tone was flat and hesitating. Herever-present fear was very little comforted by prayer. But she foundcomfort in Mrs. Grayson. She liked to stay on in the old kitchen, watching Mrs. Grayson's household ways, making friends with the stolidtabby cat, or listening to stories of Jim as a child. Sometimes shewould read parts of George's letters to this new friend. Bridget nevercared to hear them; and she was more completely at ease with thefarmer's wife even than with Hester Martin. 

But she could not linger this afternoon. Her news might come any time. And Sir William had telephoned that morning to say that he and hissister would call on their way from Windermere, and would ask for a cupof tea. Marsworth would probably meet them at Rydal. 

As she descended the lane, she scolded herself for ingratitude. She wasglad the Farrells were coming, because they would bring newspapers, andperhaps information besides, of the kind that does not get intonewspapers. But otherwise--why had she so little pleasure now in theprospect of a visit from Sir William Farrell? He had never forcedhimself upon them. Neither his visits nor his lessons had beenoppressively frequent, while the kindnesses which he had showered uponthem, from a distance, had been unceasing. She could hardly haveexplained her disinclination. Was it that his company had grown sostimulating and interesting to her, that it made her think too much ofother things than the war?--and so it seemed to separate her fromGeorge? Her own quiet occupations--the needlework and knitting that shedid for a neighbouring war workroom, the gathering and drying of thesphagnum moss, the visiting of a few convalescent soldiers, a dailyportion of Wordsworth, and some books about him--these things werewithin her compass George knew all about them, for she chronicled themin her letters day by day. She had a happy peaceful sense of communionwith him while she was busy with them. But Farrell's restless mind andwide culture at once tired and fascinated her. He would often bring avolume of Shelley, or Pater, or Hardy, or some quite modern poet, in hispocket, and propose to read to her and Bridget, when the sketching wasdone. And as he read, he would digress into talk, the careless audacityof which would sometimes distress or repel, and sometimes absorb her;till suddenly, perhaps, she realised how far she was wandering from thatcommon ground where she and George had moved together, and would try andfind her way back to it. She was always learning some new thing; and shehated to learn, unless George changed and learnt with her. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Captain Marsworth was walking along the road from Grasmere toRydal with a rather listless step. As a soldier he was by no meanssatisfied with the news of the week. We ought to have been in Lille andweren't. It seemed to him that was about what the Loos action came to;and his spirits were low. In addition he was in one of those fits ofdepression which attack an able man who has temporarily come to astand-still in life, when his physical state is not buoyant enough toenable him to fight them off. He was beginning plainly to see that hisown part in the war was done. His shattered arm, together with theneuralgic condition which had followed on the wound, were not going tomend sufficiently within any reasonable time to let him return to thefighting line, where, at the moment of his wound, he was doingdivisional staff work, and was in the way of early promotion. He was aman of clear and vigorous mind, inclined always to take a pessimisticview of himself and his surroundings, and very critical also of personsin authority; a scientific soldier, besides, indulging a strong naturalcontempt for the politicians and all their crew, only surpassed by asimilar scorn of newspapers and the press. He had never been popular asa subaltern, but since he had conquered his place among the 'brains' ofthe army, his fame had spread, and it was freely prophesied that hisrise would be rapid. So that his growing conviction that his activemilitary career was over had been the recent cause in him of muchbitterness of soul. It was a bitter realisation, and a recent one. Hehad been wounded at Neuve Chapelle in March, and up to July he had beenconfident of complete and rapid recovery. 

Well, there was of course some compensation. A post in the WarOffice--in the Intelligence Department--would, he understood, be offeredhim; and by October he meant to be at work. Meanwhile an old school andcollege friendship between himself and 'Bill Farrell, ' together with thespecial facilities at Carton for the treatment of neuralgia afterwounds, had made him an inmate for several months of the special wingdevoted to such cases in the splendid hospital; though lately by way ofa change of surroundings, he had been lodging with the old Rector of thevillage of Carton, whose house was kept--and well kept--by asweet-looking and practical granddaughter, herself an orphan. 

Marsworth had connections in high quarters, and possessed someconsiderable means. He had been a frequenter of the Farrells since thedays when the old aunt was still in command, and Cicely was a youngthing going to her first dances. He and she had sparred and quarrelledas boy and girl. Now that, after a long interval, they had again beenthrown into close contact, they sparred and quarrelled still. He was aman of high and rather stern ideals, which had perhaps beenintensified--made a little grimmer and fiercer than before--by thestrain of the war; and the selfish frivolity of certain persons andclasses in face of the national ordeal was not the least atoned for inhis eyes by the heroism of others. The endless dress advertisements inthe daily papers affected him as they might have affected the prophetEzekiel, had the daughters of Judah added the purchase of fur coats, priced from twenty guineas to two hundred to their other enormities. Hehad always in his mind the agonies of the war, the sights of thetrenches, the holocaust of young life, the drain on the nationalresources, the burden on the national future. So that the Farrellmotor-cars and men servants, the costly simplicity of the 'cottage, 'Cicely's extravagance in dress, her absurd and expensive uniform, hermake-up and her jewels, were so many daily provocations to a man thussombrely possessed. 

And yet--he had not been able so far to tear himself away from Carton!And he knew many things about Cicely Farrell that Nelly Sarratt had notdiscovered; things that alternately softened and enraged him; thingsthat kept him now, as for some years past, provokingly, irrationallyinterested in her. He had once proposed to her, and she had refused him. That was known to a good many people. But what their relations were nowwas a mystery to the friends on both sides. 

Whatever they were, however, on this September afternoon Marsworth wascoming rapidly to the conclusion that he had better put an end to them. His latent feelings of resentment and irritation had been much sharpenedof late by certain passages of arms between himself and Cicely--sinceshe returned from her visits--with regard to that perfectly gentle andinoffensive little maiden, Miss Daisy Stewart, the Rector'sgranddaughter. Miss Farrell had several times been unpardonably rude tothe poor child in his presence, and, as it seemed to him, with theexpress object of showing him how little she cared to keep on friendlyterms with him. 

Nevertheless--he found himself puzzling over certain other incidents inhis recent ken, of a different character. The hospital at Carton wasmainly for privates, with a certain amount of accommodation forofficers. He had done his best during the summer to be useful to somepoor fellows, especially of his own regiment, on the Tommies' side. Andhe had lately come across some perplexing signs of a specialthoughtfulness on Miss Farrell's part for these particular men. He haddiscovered also that she had taken pains to keep these small kindnessesof hers from his knowledge. 

'I wasn't to tell you, sir, '--said the boy who had lost an eye--'notwhatever. But when you come along with them things'--a set of draughtsand a book--'why it do seem as though I be gettin' more than my share!'

Well, she had always been incomprehensible--and he was weary of theattempt to read her. But he wanted a home--he wanted to marry. He beganto think again--in leisurely fashion--of the Rector's granddaughter. 

Was that Mrs. Sarratt descending the side-lane? The sight of herrecalled his thoughts instantly to the war, and to a letter he hadreceived that morning from a brother officer just arrived in London onmedical leave--the letter of a 'grouser' if ever there was one. 

'They say that this week is to see another big push--the French probablyin Champagne, and we south of Bethune. I know nothing first-hand, but Ido know that it can only end in a few kilometres of ground, hugecasualties, --and, as you were! _We are not ready_--we can't be ready formonths. On the other hand we must keep moving--if only to kill a fewGermans, and keep our own people at home in heart. I passed some of theLanchesters on my way down--going up, as fresh as paint after threeweeks' rest--what's left of them. They're sure to be in it. '

The little figure in the mauve cotton had paused at the entrance to thelane, perceiving him. 

What about Sarratt? Had she heard? He hurried on to meet her, and puthis question. 

'There can't be any telegram yet, ' she said, her pale cheeks flushing. 'But it will come to-night. Shall we go back quickly?'

They walked on rapidly. He soon found she did not want to talk of thenews, and he was driven back on the weather. 

'What a blessing to see the sun again I this west country dampdemoralises me. '

'I think I like it!'

He laughed. 

'Do you only "say that to annoy "?'

'No, I _do_ like it! I like to see the rain shutting out everything, sothat one can't make any plans--or go anywhere. ' She smiled, but he waswell aware of the fever in her look. He had not seen it there since theweeks immediately following Sarratt's departure. His heart warmed to thefrail creature, tremulous as a leaf in the wind, yet making a show ofcourage. He had often asked himself whether he would wish to be loved asMrs. Sarratt evidently loved her husband; whether he could possibly meetsuch a claim upon his own sensibility. But to-day he thought he couldmeet it; to-day he thought it would be agreeable. 

Nelly had not told Marsworth however that one reason for which sheliked the rain was that it had temporarily put an end to the sketchinglessons. Nor could she have added that this new distaste in her, ascompared with the happy stir of fresh or quickened perception, which hadbeen the result of his early teaching, was connected, not only with SirWilliam--but with Bridget--her sister Bridget. 

But the truth was that something in Bridget's manner, very soon afterthe Carton visit, had begun to perplex and worry the younger sister. Whywas Bridget always insisting on the lessons?--always ready to scoldNelly if one was missed--and always practising airs and graces with SirWilliam that she wasted on no one else? Why was she so frequently awayon the days when Sir William was expected? Nelly had only just begun tonotice it, and to fall back instinctively on Miss Martin's companywhenever it could be had. She hated her own vague annoyance withBridget's behaviour, just because she could not pour herself out toGeorge about it. It was really too silly and stupid to talk about. Shesupposed--she dreaded--that Bridget might be going to ask Sir Williamsome favour; that she meant to make use of his kindness to her sister inorder to work upon him. How horrible that would be!--how it would spoileverything! Nelly began sometimes to dream of moving, of going toBorrowdale, or to the coast at Scascale. And then, partly her naturalindolence, and partly her clinging to every rock and field in thisbeautiful place where she had been so happy, intervened; and she letthings slide. 

Yet when Sir William and Cicely arrived, to find Bridget making tea, andNelly listening with a little frown of effort, while Marsworth, pencilin hand, was drawing diagrams _� la Belloc_, to explain to her theRussian retreat from Galicia, how impossible not to feel cheered byFarrell's talk and company! The great _bon enfant_, towering in thelittle room, and positively lighting it up by the red-gold of his-hairand beard, so easily entertained, so overflowing with kind intentions, so fastidious intellectually, and so indulgent morally:--as soon as heappeared he filled the scene. 

'No fresh news, dear Mrs. Sarratt, nothing whatever, ' he said at once, meeting her hungry eyes. 'And you?'

She shook her head. 

'Don't worry. You'll get it soon. I've sent the motor back to Windermerefor the evening papers. '

Meanwhile Marsworth found himself reduced to watching Cicely, andpresently he found himself more angry and disgusted than he had ever yetbeen. How could she? How dared she? On this day of all days, to besnobbishly playing the great lady in Mrs. Sarratt's small sitting-room!Whenever that was Cicely's mood she lisped; and as often as Marsworth, who was sitting far away from her, talking to Bridget Cookson, caughther voice, it seemed to him that she was lisping--affectedly--monstrously. She was describing for instance a certain ducal household in which shehad just been spending the week-end, and Marsworth heard her say--

'Well at last, poor Evelyn' ('poor Evelyn' seemed to be a youthfulDuchess, conducting a war economy campaign through the villages of herhusband's estate), 'began to get threatening letters. She found outafterwards they came from a nurse-maid she had sent away. "Madam, don'tyou talk to us, but look at 'ome! examine your own nursewy, Madam, andhold your tongue!" She did examine, and I found her cwying. "Oh, Cicely, isn't it awful, I've just discovered that Nurse has beenspending _seven pounds a week_ on Baby's wibbons!" So she's given up wareconomy!'

'Why not the "wibbons?"' said Hester Martin, who had just come in andheard the tale. 

'Because nobody gives up what they weally want to have, ' said Cicelypromptly, with a more affected voice and accent than before. 

Bridget pricked up her ears and nodded triumphantly towards Nelly. 

'Don't talk nonsense, Cicely, ' said Farrell. 'Why, the Duchess hasplanted the whole rose-garden with potatoes, and sold all her Pekinese. '

'Only because she was tired of the Pekinese, and has so many flowers shedoesn't know what to do with them! On the other hand the _Duke_ wantsparlour-maids; and whenever he says so, Evelyn draws all the blindsdown and goes to bed. And that annoys him so much that he gives in!Don't you talk, Willy. The Duchess always gets wound you!'

'I don't care twopence about her, ' said Farrell, rather savagely. 'Whatdoes she matter?' Then he moved towards Nelly, whose absent look anddrooping attitude he had been observing for some minutes. 

'Shan't we go down to the Lake, Mrs. Sarratt? It seems really a fineevening at last, and there won't be so many more. Let me carry someshawls. Marsworth, lend a hand. '

Soon they were all scattered along the edge of the Lake. Hester Martinhad relieved Marsworth of Bridget; Farrell had found a dry rock, andspread a shawl upon it for Nelly's benefit. Marsworth and Cicely had nochoice but to pair; and she, with a grey hat and plume half a yard high, preposterously short skirts, and high-heeled boots buttoned to the knee, condescended to stroll beside him, watching his grave embarrassed lookwith an air of detachment as dramatically complete as she could make it. 

 * * * * *

'You look awfully tired!' said Farrell to his companion, eyeing her withmost sincere concern. 'I wonder what you've been doing to yourself. '

'I'm all right, ' she said with emphasis. 'Indeed I'm all right. You saidyou'd sent for the papers?'

'The motor will wait for them at Windermere. But I don't think there'llbe much more to hear. I'm afraid we've shot our bolt. '

She clasped her hands listlessly on her knee, and said nothing. 

'Are you quite sure Sarratt has been in it?' he asked her. 

'Oh, yes, I'm sure. '

There was a dull conviction in her voice. She began to pluck at thegrass beside her, while her dark contracted eyes swept the Lake in frontof her--seeing nothing. 

'Good God!'--thought Farrell--'Are they all--all the women--sufferinglike this?'

'You'll get a telegram from him to-morrow, I'm certain you will!' hesaid, with eager kindness. 'Try and look forward to it. You know thegood chances are five to one. '

'Not for a lieutenant, ' she said, under her breath. 'They have to leadtheir men. They can't think of their own lives. '

There was silence a little. Then Farrell said--floundering, 'He'd wantyou to bear up!'

'I am bearing up!' she said quickly, a little resentfully. 

'Yes, indeed you are!' He touched her arm a moment caressingly, asthough in apology. It was natural to his emotional temperament toexpress itself so--through physical gesture. But Nelly disliked thetouch. 

'I only meant'--Farrell continued, anxiously--'that he would beg younot to anticipate trouble--not to go to meet it. '

She summoned smiles, altering her position a little, and drawing a wrapround her. The delicate arm was no longer within his reach. 

And restlessly she began to talk of other things--the conscientiousobjectors of the morning--Zeppelins--a recruiting meeting at Ambleside. Farrell had the impression of a wounded creature that could not bear tobe touched; and it was something new to his prevailing sense of power inlife, to be made to realise that he could do nothing. His sympathyseemed to alienate her; and he felt much distressed and rebuffed. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile as the clouds cleared away from the September afternoon, Marsworth and Cicely were strolling along the Lake, and sparring asusual. 

He had communicated to her his intention of leaving Carton within a weekor so, and trying some fresh treatment in London. 

'You're tired of us?' she enquired, her head very much in air. 

'Not at all. But I think I might do a bit of work. '

'The doctors don't think so. '

'Ah, well--when a man's got to my stage, he must make experiments on hisown. It won't be France--I know that. But there's lots else. '

'You'll break down in a week!' she said with energy. 'I had a talkabout you with Seaton yesterday. '

He looked at her with amusement. For the moment, she was no longerCicely Farrell, extravagantly dressed, but the shrewd hospital worker, who although she would accept no responsibility that fettered her goingsand comings beyond a certain point, was yet, as he well knew, invaluable, as a force in the background, to both the nursing andmedical staff of Carton. 

'Well, what did Seaton say?'

'That you would have another bad relapse, if you attempted yet to go towork. '

'I shall risk it. '

'That's so like you. You never take anyone's advice. '

'On the contrary, I am the meekest and most docile of men. ' She shruggedher shoulders. 

'You were docile, I suppose, when Seaton begged you not to go off to theRectory, and give yourself all that extra walking backwards and forwardsto the hospital every day?'

'I wanted a change of scene. I like the old Rector--I even like familyprayers. '

'I am sure everything--and _everybody_--is perfect at the Rectory!'

'No--not perfect--but peaceable. '

He looked at her smiling. His grey eyes, under their strong black brows, challenged her. She perceived in them a whole swarm of unspokencharges. Her own colour rose. 

'So peace is what you want?'

'Peace--and a little sympathy. '

'And we give you neither?'

He hesitated. 

'Willy never fails one. '

'So it's my crimes that are driving you away? It's all to be laid on myshoulders?'

He laughed--uncertainly. 

'Don't you believe me when I say I want to do some work?'

'Not much. So I have offended you?'

His look changed, became grave--touched with compunction. 

'Miss Farrell, I oughtn't to have been talking like this. You and Willyhave been awfully good to me. '

'And then you call me "Miss Farrell"!' she cried, passionately--'whenyou know very well that you've called me Cicely for years. '

'Hush!' said Marsworth suddenly, 'what was that?'

He turned back towards Rydal. On the shore path, midway between them andthe little bay at the eastern end of the lake, where Farrell and NellySarratt had been sitting, were Hester Martin and Bridget. They too hadturned round, arrested in their walk. Beyond them, at the edge of thewater, Farrell could be seen beckoning. And a little way behind him onthe slope stood a boy with a bicycle. 

'He is calling us, ' said Marsworth, and began to run. 

Hester Martin was already running--Bridget too. 

But Hester and Marsworth outstripped the rest. Farrell came to meetthem. 

'Hester, for God's sake, get her sister!'

'What is it?' gasped Hester. 'Is he killed?'

'No--"Wounded and missing!" Poor, poor child!'

'Where is she?'

'She's sitting there--dazed--with the telegram. She's hardly saidanything since it came. '

Hester ran on. There on a green edge of the bank sat Nelly staring at afluttering piece of paper. 

Hester sank beside her, and put her arms round her. 

'Dear Mrs. Sarratt!'

'What does it mean?' said Nelly turning her white face. 'Read it. '

'"Deeply regret to inform you your husband reported wounded andmissing!"'

'_Missing?_ That means--a prisoner. George is a prisoner--and wounded!Can't I go to him?'

She looked piteously at Hester. Bridget had come up and was standingnear. 

'If he's a prisoner, he's in a German hospital. Dear Mrs. Sarratt, you'll soon hear of him!'

Nelly stood up. Her young beauty of an hour before seemed to havedropped from her like the petals of a rose. She put her hand to herforehead. 

'But I shan't see him--again'--she said slowly--'till the end of thewar--_the end of the war_'--she repeated, pressing her hands on hereyes. The note of utter desolation brought the tears to Hester's cheeks. But before she could say anything, Nelly had turned sharply to hersister. 

'Bridget, I must go up to-night!'

'Must you?' said Bridget reluctantly. 'I don't see what you can do. '

'I can go to the War Office--and to that place where they make enquiriesfor you. Of _course_, I must go to London!--and I must stay there. Theremight be news of him any time. '

Bridget and Hester looked at each other. The same thought was in theirminds. But Nelly, restored to momentary calmness by her own suggestion, went quickly to Farrell, who with his sister and Marsworth was standinga little way off. 

'I must go to London to-night, Sir William. Could you order somethingfor me?'

'I'll take you to Windermere, Mrs. Sarratt, ' said Cicely before herbrother could reply. 'The motor's there now. '

'No, no, Cicely, I'll take Mrs. Sarratt, ' said Farrell impatiently. 'I'll send back a car from Ambleside, for you and Marsworth. '

'You forget Sir George Whitehead, ' said Cicely quietly. 'I'll doeverything. '

Sir George Whitehead of the A. M. S. C. Was expected at Carton thatevening on a visit of inspection to the hospital. Farrell, asCommandant, could not possibly be absent. He acknowledged the fact by agesture of annoyance. Cicely immediately took things in charge. 

A whirl of packing and departure followed. By the time she and hercharges left for Windermere, Cicely's hat and high heels had beenentirely blotted out by a quite extraordinary display on her part ofboth thoughtfulness and efficiency. Marsworth had seen the sametransformation before, but never so markedly. He tried several times tomake his peace with her; but she held aloof, giving him once or twice anodd look out of her long almond-shaped eyes. 

'Good-bye, and good luck!' said Farrell to Nelly, through the carwindow; and as she held out her hand, he stooped and kissed it with agulp in his throat. Her deathly pallor and a grey veil thrown back andtied under her small chin gave her a ghostly loveliness which stampeditself on his recollection. 

'I am going up to town myself to-morrow. I shall come and see if I cando anything for you. '

'Thank you, ' said Nelly mechanically. 'Oh yes, I shall have thought ofmany things by then. Good-bye. '

Marsworth and Farrell were left to watch the disappearance of the caralong the moonlit road. 

'Poor little soul!' said Farrell--'poor little soul!' He walked onalong the road, his eyes on the ground. Marsworth offered him a cigar, and they smoked in silence. 

'What'll the next message be?' said Farrell, after a little while. '"Reported wounded and missing--now reported killed"? Most probable!'

Marsworth assented sadly. 

CHAPTER VIII

It was a pale September day. In the country, among English woods andheaths the sun was still strong, and trees and bracken, withered heath, and reddening berries, burned and sparkled beneath it. But in the dingybedroom of a dingy Bloomsbury hotel, with a film of fog over everythingoutside, there was no sun to be seen; the plane trees beyond the windowswere nearly leafless; and the dead leaves scudding and whirling alongthe dusty, airless streets, under a light wind, gave the last drearytouch to the scene that Nelly Sarratt was looking at. She was standingat a window, listlessly staring at some houses opposite, and theunlovely strip of garden which lay between her and the houses. BridgetCookson was sitting at a table a little way behind her, mending somegloves. 

The sisters had been four days in London. For Nelly, life was justbearable up to five or six o'clock in the evening because of her morningand afternoon visits to the Enquiry Office in D---- Street, whereeverything that brains and pity could suggest was being done to tracethe 'missing'; where sat also that kind, tired woman, at the table whichNelly by now knew so well, with her pitying eyes, and her soft voice, which never grew perfunctory or careless. 'I'm _so_ sorry!--but there'sno fresh news. ' That had been the evening message; and now the day'shope was over, and the long night had to be got through. 

That morning, however, there had been news--a letter from Sarratt'sColonel, enclosing letters from two privates, who had seen Sarratt goover the parapet in the great rush, and one of whom had passedhim--wounded--on the ground and tried to stay by him. But 'LieutenantSarratt wouldn't allow it. ' 'Never mind me, old chap'--one witnessreported him as saying. 'Get on. They'll pick me up presently. ' Andthere they had left him, and knew no more. 

Several other men were named, who had also seen him fall, but they hadnot yet been traced. They might be in hospital badly wounded, or ifSarratt had been made prisoner, they had probably shared his fate. 'Andif your husband has been taken prisoner, as we all hope, ' said thegentle woman at the office--'it will be at least a fortnight before wecan trace him. Meanwhile we are going on with all other possibleenquiries. '

Nelly had those phrases by heart. The phrases too of that shortletter--those few lines--the last she had ever received from George, written two days before the battle, which had reached her in Westmorlandbefore her departure. 

That letter lay now on her bosom, just inside the folds of her blouse, where her hand could rest upon it at any moment. How passionately shehad hoped for another, a fragment perhaps torn from his notebook in thetrenches, and sent back by some messenger at the last moment! She hadheard of that happening to so many others. Why not to her!--oh, why notto her?

Her heart was dry with longing and grief; her eyes were red for want ofsleep. There were strange numb moments when she felt nothing, and couldhardly remember why she was in London. And then would come the suddensmart of reviving consciousness--the terrible returns of an anguish, under which her whole being trembled. And always, at the back ofeverything, the dull thought--'I always knew it--I knew he woulddie!'--recurring again and again; only to be dashed away by a protest noless persistent--'No, no! He is _not dead!--not dead!_ In afortnight--she said so--there'll be news--they'll have found him. Thenhe'll be recovering--and prisoners are allowed to write. Oh, myGeorge!--my George!'

It was with a leap of ecstasy that yet was pain, that she imagined toherself the coming of the first word from him. Prisoners' letters cameregularly--no doubt of that. Why, the landlady at the hotel had a sonwho was at Ruhleben, and she heard once a month. Nelly pictured themoment when the letter would be in her hand, and she would be looking atit. Oh, no doubt it wouldn't be addressed by him! By the nurseperhaps--a German nurse--or another patient. He mightn't be wellenough. All the same, the dream filled her eyes with tears, that for amoment eased the burning within. 

Her life was now made up of such moments and dreams. On the whole, whatheld her most was the fierce refusal to think of him as dead. Thatmorning, in dressing, among the clothes they had hurriedly brought withthem from Westmorland, she saw a thin black dress--a useful stand-by inthe grime of London--and lifted her hands to take it from the peg onwhich it hung. Only to recoil from it with horror. _That_--never! Andshe had dressed herself with care in a coat and skirt of rough bluetweed that George had always liked; scrupulously putting on her littleornaments, and taking pains with her hair. And at every step of theprocess, she seemed to be repelling some attacking force; holding a doorwith all her feeble strength against some horror that threatened to comein. 

The room in which she stood was small and cheerless; but it was all theycould afford. Bridget frankly hated the ugliness and bareness of it;hated the dingy hotel, and the slatternly servants, hated the boredom ofthe long waiting for news to which apparently she was to be committed, if she stayed on with Nelly. She clearly saw that public opinion wouldexpect her to stay on. And indeed she was not without some natural pityfor her younger sister. There were moments when Nelly's state caused herextreme discomfort--even something more. But when they occurred, shebanished them as soon as possible, and with a firm will, which grew thefirmer with exercise. It was everybody's duty to keep up their spiritsand not to be beaten down by this abominable war. And it was a specialduty for those who hated the war, and would stop it at once if theycould. Yet Bridget had entirely declined to join any 'Stop the War, ' orpacifist societies. She had no sympathy with 'that sort of people. ' Herreal opinion about the war was that no cause could be worth suchwretched inconvenience as the war caused to everyone. She hated to feeland know that probably the majority of decent people would say, ifasked, --as Captain Marsworth had practically said--that she, BridgetCookson, ought to be doing V. A. D. Work, or relieving munition-workers atweek-ends, instead of fiddling with an index to a text-book on 'The NewPsychology. ' The mere consciousness of that was already an attack on herpersonal freedom to do what she liked, which she hotly resented. And asto that conscription of women for war-work which was vaguely talked of, Bridget passionately felt that she would go to prison rather than submitto such a thing. For the war said nothing whatever to her heart orconscience. All the great tragic side of it--the side of death andwounds and tears--of high justice and ideal aims--she put away from her, as she always had put away such things, in peace. They did not concernher personally. Why _make_ trouble for oneself?

And yet here was a sister whose husband was 'wounded andmissing'--probably, as Bridget firmly believed, already dead. And themeaning of that fact--that possibility--was writ so large on Nelly'sphysical aspect, on Nelly's ways and plans, that there was really nogetting away from it. Also--there were other people to be considered. Bridget did not at all want to offend or alienate Sir WilliamFarrell--now less than ever. And she was quite aware that he would thinkbadly of her, if he suspected she was not doing her best for Nelly. 

The September light waned. The room grew so dark that Bridget turned onan electric light beside her, and by the help of it stole a long look atNelly, who was still standing by the window. Would grieving--would theloss of George--take Nelly's prettiness away? She had certainly lostflesh during the preceding weeks and days. Her little chin was verysharp, as Bridget saw it against the window, and her hair seemed to haveparted with its waves and curls, and to be hanging limp about her ears. Bridget felt a pang of annoyance that anything should spoil Nelly's goodlooks. It was altogether unnecessary and absurd. 

Presently Nelly moved back towards her sister. 

'I don't know how I shall get through the next fortnight, ' she said in alow voice. 'I wonder what we had better do?'

'Well, we can't stay here, ' said Bridget sharply. 'It's too expensive, though it is such a poky hole. We can find a lodging, I suppose, andfeed ourselves. Unless of course we went back to Westmorland. Why can'tyou? They can always telegraph. '

Nelly flushed. Her hand lying on the back of Bridget's chair shook. 

'And if George sent for me, ' she said, in the same low, strained voice, 'it would take eight hours longer to get to him than it would fromhere. '

Bridget said nothing. In her heart of hearts she felt perfectly certainthat George never would send. She rose and put down her needlework. 

'I must go and post a letter downstairs. I'll ask the woman in theoffice if she knows anything about lodgings. '

Nelly went back to her post by the window. Her mind was bruised betweentwo conflicting feelings--a dumb longing for someone to caress andcomfort her, someone who would meet her pain with a bearing less hardand wooden than Bridget's--and at the same time, a passionate shrinkingfrom the bare idea of comfort and sympathy, as something not to beendured. She had had a kind letter from Sir William Farrell thatmorning. He had spoken of being soon in London. But she did not knowthat she could bear to see him--unless he could help--get something_done!_

Bridget descended to the ground floor, and had a conversation with theyoung lady in the office, which threw no light at all on the question oflodgings. The young lady in question seemed to be patting and pinning upher back hair all the time, besides carrying on another conversationwith a second young lady in the background. Bridget was disgusted withher and was just going upstairs again, when the very shabby and partlydeformed hall porter informed her that someone--a gentleman--was waitingto see her in the drawing-room. 

A gentleman? Bridget hastened to the small and stuffy drawing-room, where the hall porter had just turned on the light, and there beheld atall bearded man pacing up and down, who turned abruptly as she entered. 

'How is she? Is there any news?'

Sir William Farrell hurriedly shook her offered hand, frowning a littleat the sister who always seemed to him inadequate and ill-mannered. 

'Thank you, Sir William; she is quite well. There is a little news--butnothing of any consequence. '

She repeated the contents of the hospital letter, with the comments onit of the lady they had seen at the office. 

'We shan't hear anything more for a fortnight. They have written toGeneva. '

'Then they think he's a prisoner?'

Bridget supposed so. 

'At any rate they hope he is. Well, I'm thankful there's no worse news. Poor thing--poor little thing! Is she bearing up--eating?--sleeping?'

He asked the questions peremptorily, yet with a real anxiety. Bridgetvaguely resented the peremptoriness, but she answered the questions. Itwas very difficult to get Nelly to eat anything, and Bridget did notbelieve she slept much. 

Farrell shook his head impatiently, with various protesting noises, while she spoke. Then drawing up suddenly, with his hands in hispockets, he looked round the room in which they stood. 

'But why are you staying here? It's a dreadful hole! That porter gave methe creeps. And it's so far from everywhere. '

'There is a tube station close by. We stay here because it's cheap, 'said Bridget, grimly. 

Sir William walked up the room again, poking his nose into the moribundgeranium that stood, flanked by some old railway guides, on the middletable, surveyed the dirty and ill-kept writing-table, the uncomfortablechairs, and finally went to look out of the window; after which hesuddenly and unaccountably brightened up and turned with a smile toBridget. 

'Do you think you could persuade your sister to do something that wouldplease me very much?'

'I'm sure I don't know, Sir William. '

'Well, it's this. Cicely and I have a flat in St. James' Square. I'mthere very little just now, and she less. You know we're both awfullybusy at Carton. We've had a rush of wounded the last few weeks. I mustbe up sometimes on business for the hospital, but I can always sleep atmy club. So what I want to persuade you to do, Miss Cookson, is to getMrs. Sarratt to accept the loan of our flat, for a few weeks while she'skept in town. It would be a real pleasure to us. We're awfully sorry forher!'

He beamed upon her, all his handsome face suffused with kindness andconcern. 

Bridget was amazed, but cautious. 

'It's awfully good of you--but--shouldn't we have to get a servant? Icouldn't do everything. '

Sir William laughed. 

'Gracious--I should think not! There are always servants there--it'skept ready for us. I put in a discharged soldier--an army cook and hiswife--a few months ago. They're capital people. I'm sure they'd lookafter you. Well now, will you suggest that to Mrs. Sarratt? Could I seeher?'

Bridget hesitated. Some instinct told her that Nelly would not wish toaccept this proposal. She said slowly--

'I'm afraid she's very tired to-night. '

'Oh, don't bother her then! But just try and persuade her--won'tyou--quietly? And send me a word to-night. '

He gave the address. 

'If I hear that you'll come, I'll make all the arrangements to-morrowmorning before I leave for Westmorland. You can just take her round in ataxi any time you like, and the servants will be quite ready for you. You'll be close to D---- Street--close to everything. Now do!'

He stood with his hands on his side looking down eagerly and a littlesharply on the hard-featured woman before him. 

'It's awfully good of you, ' said Bridget again--'most awfully good. Ofcourse I'll tell Nelly what you say. '

'And drop me a line to-night?'

'Yes, I'll write. '

Sir William took up his stick. 

'Well, I shall put everything in train. Tell her, please, what apleasure she'd give us. And she won't keep Cicely away. Cicely will beup next week. But there's plenty of room. She and her maid wouldn't makeany difference to you. And please tell Mrs. Sarratt too, that if there'sanything I can do--_anything_--she has only to let me know. '

 * * * * *

Bridget went back to the room upstairs. As she opened the door she sawNelly standing under the electric light--motionless. Something in herattitude startled Bridget. 

She called--

'Nelly!'

Nelly turned slowly, and Bridget saw that she had a letter in her hand. Bridget ran up to her. 

'Have you heard anything?'

'He _did_ write to me!--he did!--just the last minute--in the trench. Iknew he must. He gave it to an engineer officer who was going back toHeadquarters, to post. The officer was badly wounded as he went back. They've sent it me from France. The waiter brought me the letter justafter you'd gone down. '

The words came in little panting gasps. 

Then, suddenly, she slipped down beside the table at which Bridget hadbeen working, and hid her face. She was crying. But it was verydifficult weeping--with few tears. The slight frame shook from top totoe. 

Bridget stood by her, not knowing what to do. But she was conscious of acertain annoyance that she couldn't begin at once on the subject of theflat. She put her hand awkwardly on her sister's shoulder. 

'Don't cry so. What does he say?'

Nelly did not answer for a little. At last she said, her face stillburied--

'It was only--to tell me--that he loved me--'

There was silence again. Then Nelly rose to her feet. She pressed herhair back from her white face. 

'I don't want any supper, Bridget. I think--I should like to go to bed. '

Bridget helped her to undress. It was now nearly dark and she drew downthe blinds. When she looked again at Nelly, she saw her lying white andstill, her wide eyes fixed on vacancy. 

'I found a visitor downstairs, ' she said, abruptly. 'It was Sir WilliamFarrell. '

Nelly shewed no surprise, or interest. But she seemed to find some wordsmechanically. 

'Why did he come?'

Bridget came to the bedside. 

'He wants us to go and stay at his flat--their flat. He and his sisterhave it together--in St. James' Square. He wants us to go to-morrow. He's going back to Carton. There are two servants there. We shouldn'thave any trouble. And you'd be close to D---- Street. Any news they gotthey could send round directly. '

Nelly closed her eyes. 

'I don't care where we go, ' she said, under her breath. 

'He wanted a line to-night, ' said Bridget--'I can't hear of anylodgings. And the boarding-houses are all getting frightfullyexpensive--because food's going up so. '

'Not a boarding-house!' murmured Nelly. A shiver of repulsion ranthrough her. She was thinking of a boarding-house in one of theBloomsbury streets where she and Bridget had once stayed before hermarriage--the long tables full of strange faces--the drawing-roomcrowded with middle-aged women, who stared so. 

'Well, I can write to him to-night then, and say we'll go to-morrow? Wecertainly can't stay here. The charges are abominable. If we go to theirflat, for a few days, we can look round us and find something cheap. '

'Where is it?' said Nelly faintly. 

'In St. James' Square. '

The address conveyed very little to Nelly. She knew hardly anything ofLondon. Two visits--one to some cousins in West Kensington, another toa friend at Hampstead--together with the fortnight three years ago inthe Bloomsbury boarding-house, when Bridget had had some grand schemewith a publisher which never came off, and Nelly had mostly stayedindoors with bad toothache:--her acquaintance with the great city hadgone no further. Of its fashionable quarters both she and Bridget wereentirely ignorant, though Bridget would not have admitted it. 

Bridget got her writing-case out of her trunk and began to write to SirWilliam. Nelly watched her. At last she said slowly, as though she werebecoming a little more conscious of the world around her:--

'It's awfully kind of them. But we needn't stay long. '

'Oh no, we needn't stay long. '

Bridget wrote the letter, and disappeared to post it. Nelly was leftalone in darkness. The air about her seemed to be ringing with the wordsof her letter. 

 'MY OWN DARLING, --We are just going over. I have found a man going back to D. H. Q. Who will post this--and I just want you to know that, whatever happens, you are my beloved, and our love can't die. God bless you, my dear, dear wife.... We are all in good spirits--everything ought to go well--and I will write the first moment possible. 

 'GEORGE. '

She seemed to see him, tearing the leaf from the little block she hadgiven him, and standing in the trench, so slim and straight in hiskhaki. And then, what happened after? when the rush came? Would shenever know? If he never came back to her, what was she going to do withher life? Waves of lonely terror went through her--terror of the longsorrow before her--terror of her own weakness. 

And then again--reaction. She sat up in bed, angrily wrestling with herown lapse from hope. Of course it was all coming right! She turned onthe light, with a small trembling hand, and tried to read a newspaperBridget had brought in. But the words swam before her; the paper droppedfrom her grasp; and when Bridget came back, her face was hidden, sheseemed to be asleep. 

 * * * * *

'Is this it?' said Nelly, looking in alarm at the new and splendid housebefore which the taxi had drawn up. 

'Well, it's the right number!' And Bridget, rather flurried, looked atthe piece of paper on which Farrell had written the address for her, thenight before. 

She jumped out of the taxi and ran up some marble steps towards a glassdoor covered with a lattice metal-work, beyond which a hall, a marblestaircase and a lift shewed dimly. Inside, a porter in livery, at thefirst sight of the taxi, put down the newspaper he was reading, andhurried to the door. 

'Is this Sir William Farrell's flat?' asked Bridget. 

'It's all right, Miss. They're expecting you. Sir William went off thismorning. I was to tell you he had to go down to Aldershot to-day onbusiness, but he hoped to look in this evening, on his way to Euston, tosee that you had everything comfortable. '

Reluctantly, and with a feeble step, Nelly descended, helped by theporter. 

'Oh, Bridget, I wish we hadn't come!' She breathed it into her sister'sear, as they stood together in the hall, waiting for the lift which hadbeen called. Bridget shut her lips tightly, and said nothing. 

The lift carried them up to the third floor, and there at the top theex-army cook and his wife were waiting, a pair of stout and comfortablepeople, all smiles and complaisance. The two small trunks wereshouldered by the man, and the woman led the way. 

'Lunch will be ready directly, Ma'am, ' she said to Nelly, who followedher in bewilderment across a hall panelled in marble and carpeted withsomething red and soft. 

'Sir William thought you would like it about one o'clock. And this isyour room, please, Ma'am--unless you would like anything different. It'sMiss Farrell's room. She always likes the quiet side. And I've put MissCookson next door. I thought you'd wish to be together?'

Nelly entered a room furnished in white and pale green, luxurious inevery detail, and hung with engravings after Watteau framed in whitewood. Through an open door shewed another room a little smaller, butequally dainty and fresh in all its appointments. Bridget trippedbriskly through the open door, looked around her and deposited her bagupon the bed. Nelly meanwhile was being shewn the green-tiled andmarble-floored bathroom attached to her room, Mrs. Simpson chattering onthe various improvements and subtleties, which 'Miss Cicely' had latelycommanded there. 

'But I'm sure you'll be wanting your lunch, Ma'am, ' said the woman atlast, venturing a compassionate glance at the pale young creature besideher. 'It'll be ready in five minutes. I'll tell Simpson he can serveit. '

She disappeared, and Nelly sank into a chair. Why had they come to thisplace? Her whole nature was in revolt. The gaiety and luxury of the flatseemed to rise up and reproach her. What was she doing in suchsurroundings?--when George--Oh, it was hateful--hateful! She thoughtwith longing of the little bare room in the Rydal lodgings, where theyhad been happy together. 

'Well, are you ready?' said Bridget, bustling in. 'Do take off yourthings. You look absolutely done up!'

Nelly rose slowly, but her face had flushed. 

'I can't stay here, Bridget!' she said with energy--'I can't! I don'tknow why we came. '

'Because we were asked, ' said Bridget calmly. 'We can stay, I think, for a couple of days, can't we, till we find something else? Where areyour brushes?'

And she began vigorously unpacking for her sister, helplessly watched byNelly. They had just come from D---- Street, where Nelly had been shewnvarious letters and telegrams; but nothing which promised any realfurther clue to George Sarratt's fate. He had been seen advancing--seenwounded--by at least a dozen men of the regiment, and a couple ofofficers, all of whom had now been communicated with. But the wave ofthe counter-attack--temporarily successful--had rushed over the sameground before the British gains had been finally consolidated, and fromthat fierce and confused fighting there came no further word of GeorgeSarratt. It was supposed that in the final German retreat he had beenswept up as a German prisoner. He was not among the dead found andburied by an English search party on the following day--so much had beendefinitely ascertained. 

The friendly volunteer in D---- Street--whose name appeared to be MissEustace--had tried to insist with Nelly that on the whole, and so far, the news collected was not discouraging. At least there was noverification of death. And for the rest, there were always the lettersfrom Geneva to wait for. 'One must be patient, ' Miss Eustace had saidfinally. 'These things take so long! But everybody's doing their best. 'And she had grasped Nelly's cold hands in hers, long and pityingly. Herown fine aquiline face seemed to have grown thinner and more strainedeven since Nelly had known it. She often worked in the office, she said, up to midnight. 

All these recollections and passing visualisations of words and faces, drawn from those busy rooms a few streets off, in which not only GeorgeSarratt's fate, but her own, as it often seemed to Nelly, were beingslowly and inexorably decided, passed endlessly through her brain, asshe mechanically took off her things, and brushed her hair. 

Presently she was following Bridget across the hall to the drawing-room. Bridget seemed already to know all about the flat. 'The dining-roomopens out of the drawing-room. It's all Japanese, ' she saidcomplaisantly, turning back to her sister. 'Isn't it jolly? Miss Farrellfurnished it. Sir William let her have it all her own way. '

Nelly looked vaguely round the drawing-room, which had a blue Persiancarpet, pale purple walls, hung with Japanese colour prints, a fewchairs, one comfortable sofa, a couple of Japanese cabinets, and pots ofJapanese lilies in the corners. It was a room not meant for living in. There was not a book in it anywhere. It looked exactly what it was--aperching-place for rich people, who liked their own ways, and could notbe bored with hotels. 

The dining-room was equally bare, costly, and effective. Its onlyornament was a Chinese Buddha, a great terra-cotta, marvellously alive, which had been looted from some Royal tomb, and now sat serenely out ofplace, looking over the dainty luncheon-table to the square outside, andwrapt in dreams older than Christianity. 

The flat was nominally lent to 'Mrs. Sarratt, ' but Bridget was managingeverything, and had never felt so much in her element in her life. Shesat at the head of the table, helped Nelly, gave all the orders, and wasextraordinarily brisk and cheerful. 

Nelly scarcely touched anything, and Mrs. Simpson who waited was muchconcerned. 

'Perhaps you'd tell Simpson anything you could fancy, Madam, ' she saidanxiously in Nelly's ear, as she handed the fruit. Nelly must needssmile when anyone spoke kindly to her. She smiled now, though verywearily. 

'Why, it's all beautiful, thank you. But I'm not hungry. '

'We'll have coffee in the drawing-room, please, Mrs. Simpson, ' saidBridget rising--a tall masterful figure, in a black silk dress, whichshe kept for best occasions. 'Now Nelly, you must rest. '

Nelly let herself be put on the sofa in the drawing-room, andBridget--after praising the coffee, the softness of the chairs, thebeauty of the Japanese lilies, and much speculation on the valueof the Persian carpet which, she finally decided, was old andpriceless--announced that she was going for a walk. 

'Why don't you come too, Nelly? Come and look at the shops. Youshouldn't mope all day long. If they do send for you to nurse George, you won't have the strength of a cat. '

But Nelly had shrunk into herself. She said she would stay in and writea letter to Hester Martin. Presently she was left alone. Mrs. Simpsonhad cleared away, and shut all the doors between the sitting-rooms andthe kitchen. Inside the flat nothing was to be heard but the clockticking on the drawing-room mantelpiece. Outside, there wereintermittent noises and rattles from the traffic in the square, andbeyond that again the muffled insistent murmur which seemed to Nellythis afternoon--in her utter loneliness--the most desolate sound she hadever heard. The day had turned to rain and darkness, and the rapidclosing of the October afternoon prophesied winter. Nelly could notrouse herself to write the letter to Miss Martin. She lay prone in acorner of the sofa, dreaming, as she had done all her life; save thatthe faculty--of setting in motion at will a stream of vivid andconnected images--which had always been one of her chief pleasures, wasnow an obsession and a torment. How often, in her wakeful nights atRydal, had she lived over again every moment in the walk to Blea Tarn, till at last, gathered once more on George's knees, and nestling to hisbreast, she had fallen asleep--comforted. 

She went through it all, once more, in this strange room, as thedarkness closed; only the vision ended now, not in a tender thrill--halfconscious, fading into sleep--of remembered joy, but in an anguish ofsobbing, the misery of the frail tormented creature, unable to bear itslife. 

Nevertheless sleep came. For nights she had scarcely slept, and in thesilence immediately round her the distant sounds gradually lost theirdreary note, and became a rhythmical and soothing influence. She fellinto a deep unconsciousness. 

 * * * * *

An hour later, a tall man rang at the outer door of the flat. Mrs. Simpson obeyed the summons, and found Sir William Farrell on thethreshold. 

'Well, have they come?'

'Oh, yes, sir. ' And Mrs. Simpson gave a rapid, _sotto voce_ account ofthe visitors' arrival, their lunch, Mrs. Sarratt's sad looks--'poorlittle lady!'--and much else. 

Sir William stepped in. 

'Are they at home?'

Mrs. Simpson shook her head. 

'They went out after lunch, Sir William, and I have not heard them comein. '

Which, of course, was a mistake on the part of Mrs. Simpson, who, hearing the front door close half an hour after luncheon and nosubsequent movement in the flat, had supposed that the sisters had goneout together. 

'All right. I'll wait for them. I want to see Mrs. Sarratt before Istart. You may get me a cup of tea, if you like. '

Mrs. Simpson disappeared with alacrity, and Farrell crossed the hall tothe drawing-room. He turned on the light as he opened the door, and wasat once aware of Nelly's slight form on the sofa. She did not move, andsomething in her attitude--some rigidity that he fancied--alarmed him. He took a few steps, and then saw that there was no cause for alarm. Shewas only asleep, poor child, profoundly, pathetically asleep. Her utterunconsciousness, the delicate hand and arm lying over the edge of thesofa, and the gleam of her white forehead under its muffling cloud ofhair, moved him strangely. He retreated as quietly as he could, andalmost ran into Mrs. Simpson bringing a tray. He beckoned her into asmall room which he used as his own den. But he had hardly explained thesituation, before there were sounds in the drawing-room, and Nellyopened the door, which he had closed behind him. He had forgotten toturn out the light, and its glare had awakened her. 

'Oh, Sir William--' she said, in bewilderment--'Did you come in justnow?'

He explained his proceedings, retaining the hand she gave him, andlooking down upon her with an impulsive and affectionate pity. 

'You were asleep. I disturbed you, ' he said, remorsefully. 

'Oh no, do come in. '

She led the way into the drawing-room. 

'I wanted--specially--to tell you some things I heard at Aldershotto-day, which I thought might cheer you, ' said Farrell. 

And sitting beside her, while Mrs. Simpson lit a fire and spread a whitetea-table, he repeated various stories of the safe return of 'missing'men which he had collected for her that morning, including the narrativeof an escaped prisoner, who, although badly wounded, had managed to findhis way back, at night, from the neighbourhood of Brussels, throughvarious hairbreadth adventures and disguises, and after many weeks tothe British lines. He brought the tale to her, as an omen of hope, together with his other gleanings; and under the influence of hischeerful voice and manner, Nelly's aspect changed; the light came backinto her eyes, which hung upon him, as Farrell talked on, persuadinghimself, as he persuaded her. So that presently, when tea came in, andthe kettle boiled, she was quite ready to pour out for him, to ask himquestions about his night journey, and thank him timidly for all hiskindness. 

'But this--this is too grand for us!'--she said, looking round her. 'Wemust find a lodging soon. '

He begged her earnestly to let the flat be of use to her, and she, embarrassed and unwilling, but dreading to hurt his feelings, wascompelled at last to submit to a week's stay. 

Then he got up to go; and she was very sorry to say good-bye to him. Asfor him, in her wistful and gracious charm, she had never seemed to himmore lovely. How she became grief!--in her measure reserve!

He ran down the stairs of the mansion just as Bridget Cookson arrivedwith the lift at the third floor. She recognised the disappearingfigure, and stood a moment at the door of the flat, looking after it, agleam of satisfaction in her eyes. 

PART II

CHAPTER IX

'Is she out?'

The questioner was William Farrell, and the question was addressed tohis cousin Hester, whom he had found sitting in the little upstairsdrawing-room of the Rydal lodgings, partly knitting, but mostlythinking, to judge from her slowly moving needles, and her absent eyesfixed upon the garden outside the open window. 

'She has gone down to the lake--it is good for her to be alone a bit. '

'You brought her up from Torquay?'

'I did. We slept in London, and arrived yesterday. Miss Cookson comesthis evening. '

'Why doesn't she keep away?' said Farrell, impatiently. 

He took a seat opposite his cousin. He was in riding-dress, and lookedin splendid case. From his boyhood he had always been coupled inHester's mind with the Biblical words--'ruddy and of a cheerfulcountenance'; and as he sat there flushed with air and exercise, theyfitted him even better than usual. Yet there was modern subtlety too inhis restless eyes, and mouth alternately sensitive and ironic. 

Hester's needles began to ply a little faster. A spring wind camethrough the window, and stirred her grey hair. 

'How did she get over it yesterday?' Farrell presently asked. 

'Well, of course it was hard, ' said Hester, quietly. 'I let her alone, poor child, and I told Mrs. Weston not to bother her. She came up tothese rooms and shut herself up a little. I went over to my own cottage, and came back for supper. Then she had got it over--and I just kissedher and said nothing. It was much best. '

'Do you think she gives up hope?'

Hester shook her head. 

'Not the least. You can see that. '

'What do you mean?'

'When she gives up hope, she will put on a black dress. '

Farrell gave an impatient sigh. 

'You know there can't be the smallest doubt that Sarratt is dead! Hedied in some German hospital, and the news has never come through. '

'The Red Cross people at Geneva declare that if he had died in hospitalthey would know. The identification disks are returned to them--so theysay--with remarkable care. '

'Well then, he died on the field, and the Germans buried him. '

'In which case the poor soul will know nothing--ever, ' said Hestersadly. 'But, of course, she believes he is a prisoner. '

'My dear Hester, if he were, we should certainly have heard! Enquiriesare now much more thorough, and the results much more accurate, thanthey were a year ago. '

'Loss of memory?--shell-shock?' said Hester vaguely. 

'They don't do away with your disk, and your regimental marks, etc. Whatever may happen to a private, an officer doesn't slip through andvanish like this, if he is still alive. The thing is perfectly clear. '

Hester shook her head without speaking. She was just as thoroughlyconvinced as Farrell that Nelly was a widow; but she did not see howanybody could proclaim it before Nelly did. 

'I wonder how long it will take to convince her, ' said Farrell, after apause. 

'Well, I suppose when peace comes, if there's no news then, she willhave to give it up. By the way, when may one--legally--presume thatone's husband is dead?' asked Hester, suddenly lifting her shrewd greyeyes to the face of her visitor. 

'It used to be seven years. But I believe now you can go to theCourts--'

'If a woman wants to re-marry? Well that, of course, Nelly Sarratt willnever do!'

'My dear Hester, what nonsense!' said Farrell, vehemently. 'Of courseshe'll marry again. What is she?--twenty-one? It would be a sin and ashame. '

'I only meant she would never take any steps of her own will to separateherself from Sarratt. '

'Women look at things far too sentimentally!' exclaimed Farrell, 'andthey just spoil their lives. However, neither you nor I can prophesyanything. Time works wonders; and if he didn't, we should all be wrecksand lunatics!'

Hester said nothing. She was conscious of suppressed excitement in theman before her. Farrell watched her knitting fingers for a little, andthen remarked:--

'But of course at present what has to be done, is to improve her health, and distract her thoughts. '

Hester's eyes lifted again. 

'And _you_ want to take it in hand?'

Her emphasis on the pronoun was rather sharp. Farrell's fair thoughsunburnt skin shewed a sudden redness. 

'Yes, I do. Why shouldn't I?' His look met hers full. 

'She's very lonely--very unprotected, ' said Hester, slowly. 

'You mean, you can't trust me?' he said, flushing deeper. 

'No, Willy--no!' Hester's earnest, perplexed look appeased his risinganger. 'But it's a very difficult position, you must see for yourself. Ever since George Sarratt disappeared, you've been--what shall Isay?--the poor child's earthly Providence. Her illness--herconvalescence--you've done everything--you've provided everything--'

'With her sister's consent, remember!--and I promised Sarratt to lookafter them!'

Farrell's blue eyes were now bright and stubborn. Hester realised him asready for an argument which both he and she had long foreseen. She andFarrell had always been rather intimate friends, and he had come to herfor advice in some very critical moments of his life. 

'Her sister!' repeated Hester, contemptuously. 'Yes, indeed, BridgetCookson--in my opinion--is a great deal too ready to accept everythingyou do! But Nelly has fought it again and again. Only, in her weakness, with you on one side--and Bridget on the other--what could she do?'

She had taken the plunge now. Her own colour had risen--her hand shook alittle on her needles. And she had clearly roused some strong emotion inFarrell. After a few moments' silence, he fell upon her, speaking ratherhuskily. 

'You mean I have taken advantage of her?'

'I don't mean anything of the kind!' Hester's tone shewed her distress. 'I know that all you have done has been out of pure friendship andgoodness--

He stopped her. 

'Don't go on!' he said roughly. 'Whatever I am, I'm not a hypocrite. Iworship the ground she treads on!'

There was silence. Hester bent again over her work. The thoughts of bothflew back over the preceding six months. Nelly's utter collapse afterfive or six weeks in London, when the closest enquiries, backed byFarrell's intelligence, influence and money--he had himself sent out aspecial agent to Geneva--had failed to reveal the slightest trace ofGeorge Sarratt; her illness, pneumonia, the result of a slight chillaffecting a general physical state depressed by grief and sleeplessness;her long and tedious convalescence; and that pitiful dumbness andinertia from which she had only just begun to emerge. Hester wasthinking too of the nurses, the doctors, the lodgings at Torquay, themotor, the endless flowers and books!--all provided, practically, byFarrell, aided and abetted by Bridget's readiness--a discreditablereadiness, in the eyes of a person of such Spartan standards as HesterMartin--to avail herself to any extent of other people's money. Thepatient was not to blame. Even in the worst times of her illness, Nellyhad shewn signs of distress and revolt. But Bridget, instructed byFarrell, had talked vaguely of 'a loan from a friend'; and Nelly hadbeen too ill, too physically weak, to urge enquiry further. 

Seeing that he was to blame, Farrell broke in upon Hester'srecollections. 

'You know very well'--he said vehemently--'that if anything less hadbeen done for her, she would have died!'

Would she? It was the lavishness and costliness of Farrell's givingwhich had shocked Hester's sense of delicacy, and had given rise--shewas certain--to gossip among the Farrell friends and kindred that couldeasily have been avoided. She looked at her companion steadily. 

'Suppose we grant it, Willy. But now she's convalescent, she's going toget strong. Let her live her own life. You can't marry her--and'--sheadded it deliberately--'she is as much in love with her poor George asshe ever was!'

Farrell moved restlessly in his chair. She saw him wince--and she hadintended the blow. 

'I can't marry her--yet--perhaps for years. But why can't I be herfriend? Why can't I share with her the things that give mepleasure--books--art--and all the rest? Why should you condemn me to seeher living on a pittance, with nobody but a sister who is as hard asnails to look after her?--lonely, and unhappy, and dull--when I knowthat I could help her, turn her mind away from her trouble--make hertake some pleasure in life again? You talk, Hester, as though we had adozen lives to play with, instead of this one rickety business!'

His resentment grew with the expression of it. But Hester met himunflinchingly. 

'I'm anxious--because human nature is human nature--and risk is risk, 'she said slowly. 

He bent forward, his hands on his knees. 

'I swear to you I will be honestly her friend! What do you take me for, Hester? You know very well that--I have had my adventures, and they'reover. I'm not a boy. I can answer for myself. '

'All very well!--but suppose--_suppose_--before she felt herselffree--and against her conscience--_she_ were to fall in love with_you_?'

Farrell could not conceal the flash that the mere words, reluctantly asthey were spoken, sent through his blue eyes. He laughed. 

'Well--you're there! Act watch-dog as much as you please. Besides--weall know--you have just said so--that she does not believe in Sarratt'sdeath, that she feels herself still his wife, and not his widow. Thatfact establishes the relation between her and me. And if the outlookchanges--'

His voice dropped to a note of pleading--

'Let me, Hester!--let me!'

'As if I could prevent you!' said Hester, rather bitterly, bending againover her work. 

'Yes, you could. You have such influence with her now, that you couldbanish me entirely if you pleased. A word from you would do it. But itwould be hideously cruel of you--and abominally unjust! However, I knowyour power--over her--and so over me. And so I made up my mind it was nogood trying to conceal anything from you. I've told you straight out. Ilove her--and because I love her--you may be perfectly certain I shallprotect her!'

Silence again. Farrell had turned towards the open window. When Hesterturned her eyes she saw his handsome profile, his Nibelung's head andbeard against the stony side of the fell. A man with unfair advantages, it seemed to her, if he chose to put out his strength;--the looks of aking, a warm heart, a sympathetic charm, felt quite as much by men as bywomen, and ability which would have distinguished him in any career, ifhis wealth had not put the drag on industry. But at the moment he wasnot idle. He was more creditably and fully employed then she had everknown him. His hospital and his pride in it were in fact Nelly Sarratt'sbest safeguard. Whatever he wished, he could not possibly spend all histime at her feet. 

Hester tried one more argument--the conventional. 

'Have you ever really asked yourself, Willy, how it will look to theoutside world--what people will think? It is all very well to scoff atMrs. Grundy, but the poor child has no natural guardian. We both agreeher sister is no use to her. '

'Let them think!'--he turned to her again with energy--'so long as youand I _know_. Besides--I shan't compromise her in any way. I shall bemost careful not to do so. '

'Look at this room!' said Hester drily. She herself surveyed it. Farrell's laugh had a touch of embarrassment. 

'Well?--mayn't anyone give things to a sick child? Hush!--here she is!'

He drew further back into the room, and they both watched a littlefigure in a serge dress crossing the footbridge beyond the garden. Thenshe came into the garden, and up the sloping lawn, her hat dangling inher hand, and the spring sunshine upon her. Hester thought of thepreceding June; of the little bride, with her springing step, andradiant eyes. Nelly, as she was now, seemed to her the typicalfigure--or rather, one of the two typical figures of the war--the man inaction, the woman in bereavement. Sorrow had marked her; bitten into heryouth, and blurred it. Yet it had also dignified and refined her. Shewas no less lovely. 

As she approached, she saw them and waved to them. Farrell went to thesitting-room door to meet her, and it seemed both to him and Hester thatin spite of her emaciation and her pallor, she brought the spring inwith her. She had a bunch of willow catkins and primroses in her hand, and her face, for all its hollow cheeks and temples, shewed just asparkle of returning health. 

It was clear that she was pleased to see Farrell. But her manner ofgreeting him now was very different from what it had been in the daysbefore her loss. It was much quieter and more assured. Hisseniority--there were nineteen years between them--his conspicuousplace in the world, his knowledge and accomplishment, had evidentlyceased to intimidate her. Something had equalised them. 

But his kindness could still make her shy. 

Half-way across the room, she caught sight of a picture, on an easel, both of which Farrell had brought with him. 

'Oh!---' she said, and stopped short, looking from it to him. 

He enjoyed her surprise. 

'Well? Do you remember admiring it at the cottage? I'm up to the neck inwork. I never go there. I thought you and Hester might as well take careof it for a bit. '

Nelly approached it. It was one of the Turner water-colours whichglorified the cottage; the most adorable, she thought, of all of them. It shewed a sea of downs, their grassy backs flowing away wave afterwave, down to the real sea in the gleaming distance. Between the downsran a long valley floor--cottages on it, woods and houses, farms andchurches, strung on a silver river; under the mingled cloud and sunshineof an April day. It breathed the very soul of England, --of this sacredlong-descended land of ours. Sarratt, who had stood beside her when shehad first looked at it, had understood it so at once. 

'Jolly well worth fighting for--this country! isn't it?' he had said toFarrell over her head, and once or twice afterwards he had spoken to herof the drawing with delight. 'I shall think of it--over there. It'll doone good. '

As she paused before it now, a sob rose in her throat. But shecontrolled herself quickly. Then something beyond the easel caught hereye--a mass of flowers, freesias, narcissus, tulips, tumbled on a table;then a pile of new books; and finally, a surprising piece of furniture. 

'What have you been doing now?' she asked him, wondering, and, as Hesterthought, shrinking back a little. 

'It's from Cicely'--he said apologetically. 'She made me bring it. Shedeclared she'd sampled the sofa here, --' he pointed to an ancient one ina corner--'and it would disgrace a dug-out. It's her affair--don't blameme!'

Nelly looked bewildered. 

'But I'm not ill now. I'm getting well. '

'If you only knew what a ghost you look still, ' he said vehemently, 'you'd let Cicely have her little plot. This used to stand in mymother's sitting-room. It was bought for her. Cicely had it put torights. '

As he spoke, he made a hasty mental note that Cicely would have to becoached in her part. 

Nelly examined the object. It was a luxurious adjustable couch, coveredin flowery chintz, with a reading-desk, and well supplied with thesoftest cushions. 

She laughed, but there was rather a flutter in her laugh. 

'It's awfully kind of Cicely. But you know--'

Her eyes turned on Farrell with a sudden insistence. Hester had justleft the room, and her distant voice--with other voices--could be heardin the garden. 

'--You know you mustn't--all of you--spoil me so, any more. I've got mylife to face. You mean it so kindly--but--'

She sank into a chair by the window that Farrell had placed for her, andher aspect struck him painfully. There was so much weakness in it; andyet a touch of fierceness. 

'I've got my life to face, ' she repeated--'and you mustn't, SirWilliam--you _mustn't_ let me get too dependent on you--and Cicely--andHester. Be my friend--my true friend--and help me--'

She bent forward, and her pale lips just breathed the rest--

'Help me--_to endure hardness_! That's what I want--for George'ssake--and my own. I must find some work to do. In a few months perhaps Imight be able to teach--but there are plenty of things I could do now. Iwant to be just--neglected a little--treated as a normal person!'

She smiled faintly at him as he stood beside her. He felt himselfrebuked--abashed--as though he had been in some sort an intruder on herspiritual freedom; had tried to purchase her dependence by a kindnessshe did not want. That was not in her mind, he knew. But it was inHester's. And there was not wanting a certain guilty consciousness inhis own. 

But he threw it off. Absurdity! She _did_ need his friendship; and hehad done what he had done without the shadow of a corrupt motive--_entout bien, tout honneur_. 

It was intolerable to him to think of her as poor and resourceless--leftto that disagreeable sister and her own melancholy thoughts. Still thefirst need of all was that she should trust him--as a good friend, whohad slipped by force of circumstances into a kind of guardian'sposition. Accordingly he applied himself to the kind of persuasion thatbefits seniority and experience. She had asked to be treated as a normalperson. He proved to her, gently laughing at her, that the claim waspreposterous. Ask her doctor!--ask Hester! As for teaching, time enoughto talk about that when she had a little flesh on her bones, a littlestrength in her limbs. She might read, of course; that was what thecouch was for. Lying there by the window she might become as learned asshe liked, and get strong at the same time. He would keep her stockedwith books. The library at Carton was going mouldy for lack of use. Andas for her drawing, he had hoped--perhaps--she might some time take alesson--

Then he saw a little shiver run through her. 

'Could I?' she said in a low voice, turning her face away. And heperceived that the bare idea of resuming old pleasures--the pleasures ofher happy, her unwidowed time--was still a shock to her. 

'I'm sure it would help'--he said, persevering. 'You have a real turnfor water-colour. You should cultivate it--you should really. In mybelief you might do a great deal better with it than with teaching. '

That roused her. She sat up, her eyes brightening. 

'If I _worked_--you really think? And then, ' her voice dropped--'ifGeorge came back--'

'Exactly, ' he said gravely--'it might be of great use. Didn't you wishfor something normal to do? Well, here's the chance. I can supply youwith endless subjects to copy. There are more in the cottage than youwould get through in six months. And I could send you over portfolios ofmy own studies and _acad�mies_, done at Paris, and in the Slade, whichwould help you--and sometimes we could take some work out of doors. '

She said nothing, but her sad puzzled eyes, as they wandered over thegarden and the lake, shewed that she was considering it. 

Then suddenly her expression changed. 

'Isn't that Cicely's voice?' She motioned towards the garden. 

'I daresay. I sent on the motor to meet her at Windermere. She's been intown for two or three weeks, selling at Red Cross Bazaars and things. And by George!--isn't that Marsworth?'

He sprang up to look, and verified his guess. The tall figure on thelawn with Cicely and Hester was certainly Marsworth. He and Nelly lookedat each other, and Nelly smiled. 

'You know Cicely and I have become great friends?' she said shyly. 'It'sso odd that I should call her Cicely--but she makes me. '

'She treats you nicely?--at last?'

'She's awfully good to me, ' said Nelly, with emphasis. 'I used to be soafraid of her. '

'What wrought the miracle?'

But Nelly shook her head, and would not tell. 

'I had a letter from Marsworth a week ago, ' said Farrellreflecting--'asking how and where we all were. I told him I was tied andbound to Carton--no chance of getting away for ages--but that Cicely hadkicked over the traces and gone up to London for a month. Then he sent apost-card to say that he was coming up for a fortnight's treatment, andwould go to his old quarters at the Rectory. Ah!--'

He paused, grinning. The same thought occurred to both of them. Marsworth was still suffering very much at times from his neuralgia inthe arm, and had a great belief in one of the Carton surgeons, who, withFarrell's aid, had now installed one of the most complete electrical andgymnastic apparatus in the kingdom, at the Carton hospital. Once, duringan earlier absence of Cicely's before Christmas, he had suddenlyappeared at the Rectory, for ten days' treatment; and now--again!Farrell laughed. 

'As for Cicely, you can never count on her for a week together. She gothome-sick, and wired to me that she was coming to-night. I forgot allabout Marsworth. I expect they met at the station; and quarrelled allthe way here. What on earth is Cicely after in that direction! You sayyou've made friends with her. Do you know?'

Nelly looked conscious. 

'I--I guess something, ' she said. 

'But you mustn't tell?'

She nodded, smiling. Farrell shrugged his shoulders. 

'Well, am I to encourage Marsworth--supposing he comes to me foradvice--to go and propose to the Rector's granddaughter?'

'Certainly not!' said Nelly, opening a pair of astonished eyes. 

'Aha, I've caught you! You've given the show away. But you know'--histone grew serious--'it's not at all impossible that he may. She tormentshim too much. '

'He must do nothing of the kind, ' said Nelly, with decision. 

'Well, you tell him so. I wash my hands of them. I can't fathom eitherof them. Here they are!'

Voices ascending the stairs announced the party. Cicely came in first;tired and travel-stained, and apparently in the worst of tempers. Butshe seemed glad to see Nelly Sarratt, whom she kissed, to theastonishment of her Cousin Hester, who was not as yet aware of the newrelations between the two. And then, flinging herself into a chairbeside Nelly, she declared that she was dead-beat, that the train hadbeen intolerably full of khaki, and that soldiers ought to have trainsto themselves. 

'Thank your stars, Cicely, that you are allowed to travel at all, ' saidFarrell. 'No civilian nowadays matters a hap'orth. '

'And then we talk about Prussian Militarism!' cried Cicely. And she wentoff at score describing the invasion of her compartment at Rugby by acrowd of young officers, whose manners were 'atrocious. '

'What was their crime?' asked Marsworth, quietly. He sat in thebackground, cigarette in hand, a strong figure, rather harshly drawn, black hair slightly grizzled, a black moustache, civilian clothes. Hehad filled out since the preceding summer and looked much better inhealth. But his left arm was still generally in its sling. 

'They had every crime!' said Cicely impatiently. 'It isn't worthdiscriminating. '

Marsworth raised his eyebrows. 

'Poor boys!'

Cicely flushed. 

'You think, of course, I have no right to criticise anything in khaki!'

'Not at all. Criticism is the salt of life. ' His eyes twinkled. 

'That I entirely deny!' said Cicely, firmly. She made a fantastic butagreeable figure as she sat near the window in the full golden light ofthe March evening. Above her black toque there soared a feather whichalmost touched the ceiling of the low room--a _panache_, noddingdefiance; while her short grey skirts shewed her shapely ankles andfeet, clothed in grey gaiters and high boots of the very latestperfection. 

'What do you deny, Cicely?' asked her brother, absently, consciousalways, through all the swaying of talk, of the slight childish form ofNelly Sarratt beneath him, in her deep chair; and of the eyes and mouth, which after the few passing smiles he had struck from them, were veiledagain in their habitual sadness. '_Here I and sorrow sit_. ' The wordsran through his mind, only to be passionately rejected. She wasyoung!--and life was long. Forget she would, and must. 

At her brother's question, Cicely merely shrugged her shoulders. 

'Your sister was critical, ' said Marsworth, laughing, --'and then deniesthe uses of criticism. '

'As some people employ it!' said Cicely, pointedly. 

Marsworth's mouth twitched--but he said nothing. 

Then Hester, perceiving that the atmosphere was stormy, started some ofthe usual subjects that relieve tension; the weather--the possibility ofa rush of Easter tourists to the Lakes--the daffodils that werebeginning to make beauty in some sheltered places. Marsworth assistedher; while Cicely took a chair beside Nelly, and talked exclusively toher, in a low voice. Presently Hester saw their hands sliptogether--Cicely's long and vigorous fingers enfolding Nelly's thinones. How had two such opposites ever come to make friends? The kindlyold maid was very conscious of cross currents in the spiritual air, asshe chatted to Marsworth. She was keenly aware of Farrell, and could notkeep the remembrance of what he had said to her out of her mind. Nelly'sface and form, also, as the twilight veiled them, were charged forHester with pitiful meaning. While at the back of her thoughts there wasan expectation, a constant and agitating expectation, of anotherarrival. Bridget Cookson might be upon them at any moment. To HesterMartin she was rapidly becoming a disquieting and sinister element inthis group of people. Yet why, Hester could not really have explained. 

The afternoon was rapidly drawing in, and Farrell was just beginning totake out his watch, and talk of starting home, when the usual clatter ofwheels and hoofs announced the arrival of the evening coach. Nelly satup, looking very white and weary. 

'I am expecting my sister, ' she said to Farrell. 'She has no doubt comeby this coach. '

And in a few more minutes, Bridget was in the room, distributing toeverybody there the careless staccato greetings which were her way ofprotecting herself against the world. Her entrance and her manner hadalways a disintegrating effect upon other human beings; and Bridget hadno sooner shaken hands with the Farrells than everybody--save Nelly--wasupon their feet and ready to move. One of Bridget's most curious andmarked characteristics was an unerring instinct for whatever news mightbe disagreeable to the company in which she found herself; and on thisoccasion she brought some bad war news--a German advance at Verdun, withcorresponding French losses--and delivered it with the emphasis of oneto whom it was not really unwelcome. Cicely, to whom, flourishing herevening paper, she had mainly addressed herself, listened with thehaughty and casual air she generally put on for Bridget Cookson. She hadsuccumbed for her own reasons to the charm of Nelly. She was only themore inclined to be rude to Bridget. Accordingly she professed completeincredulity on the subject of the news. 'Invented, '--she supposed--'tosell some halfpenny rag or other. It would all be contradictedto-morrow. ' Then when Bridget, smarting under so much scepticism, attempted to support her tale by the testimony of various stale morselsof military gossip, current in a certain pessimist and pacifisthousehold she had been visiting in Manchester, as to the unfavourablesituation in France, and the dead certainty of the loss of Verdun;passing glibly on to the 'bad staff work' on the British side, and the'poor quality of the new officers compared to the old, ' etc. --Cicelyvisibly turned up her nose, and with a few deft, cat-like strokes put araw provincial in her place. She, Cicely, of course--she made it plain, by a casual hint or two--had just come from the very centre of things;from living on a social diet of nothing less choice than CabinetMinisters and leading Generals--Bonar Law, Asquith, Curzon, Briand, Lloyd George, Thomas, the great Joffre himself. Bridget began to scowl alittle, and had it been anyone else than Cicely Farrell who was thuschastising her, would soon have turned her back upon them. For she wasno indiscriminate respecter of persons, and cared nothing at all aboutrank or social prestige. But from a Farrell she took all thingspatiently; till Cicely, suddenly discovering that her victim was givingher no sport, called peremptorily to 'Willy' to help her put on hercloak. But Farrell was having some last words with Nelly, and Marsworthcame forward--

'Let me--'

'Oh thank you!' said Cicely carelessly, 'I can manage it myself. ' Andshe did not allow him to touch it. 

Marsworth retreated, and Hester, who had seen the little incident, whispered indignantly in her cousin's ear--

'Cicely!--you are a wicked little wretch!'

But Cicely only laughed, and her feather made defiant nods andflourishes all the way downstairs. 

'Come along Marsworth, my boy, ' said Farrell when the good-byes weresaid, and Hester stood watching their departure, while Cicely chatteredfrom the motor, where she sat wrapped in furs against a rising eastwind. 'Outside--or inside?' He pointed to the car. 

'Outside, thank you, ' said Marsworth, with decision. He promptly tookhis place beside the chauffeur, and Farrell and his sister were left toeach other's company. Farrell had seldom known his companion more crossand provoking than she was during the long motor ride home; and on theirarrival at Carton she jumped out of the car, and with barely a nod toMarsworth, vanished into the house. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile Nelly had let Hester install her on the Carton couch, and laythere well shawled, beside the window, her delicate face turned to thelake and the mountains. Bridget was unpacking, and Hester was justdeparting to her own house. Nelly could hardly let her go. For a monthnow, Hester had been with her at Torquay, while Bridget was pursuingsome fresh 'work' in London. And Nelly's desolate heart had found bothcalm and bracing in Hester's tenderness. For the plain shapelessspinster was one of those rare beings who in the Lampadephoria of life, hand on the Lamp of Love, pure and undefiled, as they received it frommen and women, like themselves, now dead. 

But Hester went at last, and Nelly was alone. The lake lay steeped in arich twilight, into which the stars were rising. The purple breast ofSilver How across the water breathed of shelter, of rest, of thingsineffable. Nelly's eyes were full of tears, and her hands clasped on herbreast scarcely kept down the sobbing. There, under the hands, was theletter which George had written to her, the night before he left her. She had been told of its existence within a few days of hisdisappearance; and though she longed for it, a stubborn instinct hadbade her refuse to have it, refuse to open it. 'No!--I was only to openit, if George was dead. And he is not dead!' And as time went on, it hadseemed to her for months, as if to open it, would be in some mysteriousway to seal his fate. But at last she had sent for it--at last she hadread it--with bitter tears. 

She would wear no black for him--her lost lover. She told herself tohope still. But she was, in truth, beginning to despair. And into herveins, all unconsciously, as into those of the old brown earth, thetides of youth, the will to live, were slowly, slowly, surging back. 

CHAPTER X

'You have gone far enough, ' said Cicely imperiously. 'I am going to takeyou home. '

'Let me sit a little first. It's all so lovely. Nelly dropped into thesoft springy turf, dried by a mild east wind, and lay curled up under arock, every tremulous nerve in her still frail body played on by theconcert of earth and sky before her. It was May; the sky was china-blue, and the clouds sailed white upon it. The hawthorns too were white uponthe fell-side, beside the ageing gold of the gorse, while below, thelake lay like roughened silver in its mountain cup, and on the sides ofNab Scar, below the screes, the bronze of the oaks ran in and out amongthe feathery green of the larch plantations, or the flowering grass ofthe hay-meadows dropping to the lake. The most spiritual moment of themountain spring was over. This was earth in her moment of ferment, rushing towards the fruition of summer. 

Nelly's youth was keenly, automatically conscious of the physicalpleasure of the day; except indeed for recurrent moments, when that verypleasure revived the sharpness of grief. Soon it would be theanniversary of her wedding day. Every hour of that day, and of thehoneymoon bliss which followed it, seemed to be still so close to her. Surely she had only to put out her hand to find his, and all the horrorand the anguish swept away. Directly she shut her eyes on this springscene, she was in that other life, which had been, and therefore muststill be. 

But she had not been talking of him with Cicely. She very seldom talkedof him now, or of the past. She kept up correspondence with half a dozenmen of his company--the brother officer to whom Sarratt had given hislast letter--a sergeant, and three or four privates, who had written toher about him. She had made friends with them all, especially with theyoung lieutenant. They seemed to like hearing from her; and she followedall their migrations and promotions with a constant sympathy. One ofthem had just written to her from a hospital at Boulogne. He had beenseriously wounded in a small affair near Festubert early in May. He wasgetting better he said, but he hardly cared whether he recovered or not. Everybody he cared for in the regiment had 'gone west' in the fightingof the preceding month. No big push either, --just many little affairsthat came to nothing--it was 'damned luck!' There was one of hisofficers that he couldn't get over--he couldn't get over 'Mr. Edward'being killed. He--the writer--had been Mr. Edward's servant for a monthor two--having known his people at home--and a nicer young fellownever stepped. 'When I go back, I'm going to look for Mr. Edward--theysay he was buried close to the trenches where he fell, and I'm going toput him in some quiet place; and then when the war's over we can bringhim back to Baston Magna, and lay him with his own people in Bastonchurchyard. '

'I wonder who Mr. Edward was, ' said Nelly to herself, with half shuteyes. She had entirely forgotten Cicely's neighbourhood. But Cicelyturned round, and asked her what she was thinking of. Nelly repeated theletter, and Cicely suddenly shewed agitation--'Edward!--BastonMagna!--he means Edward Longmore!'

Cicely rarely cried. When she was moved, she had a way of turning agrey-white, and speaking with particular deliberation, as though everyword were an effort. Of late, for some mysterious reason, she onlyindulged occasionally in 'make-up'; there was no rouge, at any rate, onthis afternoon, to disguise her change of colour. She looked oddly atNelly. 

'I danced with him at Christmas, ' she said. 'There was a very smartparty at a house in Grosvenor Square. The Prince was there, home onshort leave, and about twenty young men in khaki, and twenty girls. Edward Longmore was there--he wrote to me afterwards. Oh, he was muchyounger than I. He was the dearest, handsomest, bravest little fellow. When I saw his name in the list--I just'--she ground her small whiteteeth--'I just _cursed_ the war! Do you know'--she rolled over on thegrass beside Nelly, her chin in her hands--'the July before the war, Iused to play tennis in a garden near London. There were always five orsix boys hanging about there--jolly handsome boys, with everything thatanybody could want--family, and money, and lots of friends--all theworld before them. And there's not one of them left. They're all_dead_--_dead_! Think of that! Boys of twenty and twenty-one. What'llthe girls do they used to play and dance with? All their playfellows aregone. They can't marry--they'll never marry. It hadn't anything to dowith me, of course. I'm twenty-eight. I felt like a mother to them! ButI shan't marry either!'

Nelly didn't answer for a moment. Then she put out a hand and turnedCicely's face towards her. 

'Where is he?--and what is he doing?' she said, half laughing, butalways with that something behind her smile which seemed to set herapart. 

Cicely sat up. 

'He? Oh, that gentleman! Well, _he_ has got some fresh work--just thework he wanted, he says, in the Intelligence Department, and he writesto Willy that life is "extraordinarily interesting, " and he's "glad tohave lived to see this thing, horrible as it is. "'

'Well, you wouldn't wish him to be miserable?'

'I should have no objection at all to his being miserable, ' said Cicelycalmly, 'but I am not such a fool as to suppose that I should ever knowit, if he were. '

'Cicely!'

Cicely took up a stalk of grass, and began to bite it. Her eyes seemedon fire. Nelly was suddenly aware of the flaming up of fierce elementalthings in this fashionably dressed young woman whose time was oddlydivided between an important share in the running of her brother'shospital, and a hungry search after such gaieties as a world at warmight still provide her with. She could spend one night absorbed in somecritical case, and eagerly rendering the humblest V. A. D. Service to thetrained nurses whom her brother paid; and the next morning she wouldtravel to London in order to spend the second night in one of thosesmall dances at great houses of which she had spoken to Nelly, where thepresence of men just come from, or just departing to, the firing linelent a zest to the talk and the flirting, the jealousies and triumphs ofthe evening that the dances of peace must do without. Then after amorning of wild spending in the shops she would take a midday train backto Cumberland and duty. 

Nelly, looking at her, wondered afresh how they had ever come to befriends. Yet they were friends, and her interest in Cicely's affairs wasone of the slender threads drawing her back to life. 

It had all happened when she was ill at the flat; after that letter fromthe Geneva Red Cross which reported that in spite of exhaustiveenquiries among German hospitals, and in the prisoners' camps no traceof Lieutenant Sarratt could be found. On the top of the letter, and theintolerable despair into which it had plunged her, had come influenza. There was no doubt--Nelly's recollection faced it candidly--that shewould have come off badly but for Cicely. Bridget had treated theillness on the hardening plan, being at the moment slightly touched withChristian Science. Nelly should 'think it away. ' To stay in bed and givein was folly. She meanwhile had found plenty to do in London, and wasaway for long hours. In one of these absences, Cicely--having beenseized with a sudden hunger for the flesh-pots of 'town'--appeared atthe flat with her maid. She discovered Nelly Sarratt in bed, and so weakas to be hardly capable of answering any question. Mrs. Simpson wasdoing her best; but she gave an indignant account of Bridget'sbehaviour, and Cicely at once took a strong line, both as a professionalnurse--of sorts--and as mistress of the flat. Bridget, grimly defensive, was peremptorily put on one side, and Cicely devoted the night she wasto have spent in dancing to tending her half-conscious guest. In thedays that followed she fell, quite against her will, under the touchingcharm of Nelly's refinement, humility and sweetness. Her own trenchantand masterful temper was utterly melted, for the time, by Nelly'shelpless state, by the grief which threatened to kill her, and by agratefulness for any kindness shewn her, which seemed to Cicely almostabsurd. 

She fell in love--impetuously--with the little creature thus thrown uponher pity. She sent for a trained nurse and their own doctor. She wiredfor Hester Martin, and in forty-eight hours Bridget had been entirelyousted, and Nelly's state had begun to shew signs of improvement. Bridget took the matter stoically. 'I know nothing about nursing, ' shesaid, with composure. 'If you wish to look after my sister, by all meanslook after her. Many thanks. I propose to go and stay near the BritishMuseum, and will look in here when I can. '

So she departed, and Cicely stayed in London for three weeks until Nellywas strong enough to go to Torquay. Then, reluctantly, she gave up hercharge to Bridget, she being urgently wanted at Carton, and Hester atRydal. Bridget reappeared on the scene with the same sangfroid as shehad left it. She had no intention of quarrelling with the Farrellswhatever they might do; and in an eminently satisfactory interview withSir William--quite unknown to Nelly--she allowed him to give her acheque which covered all their expenses at Torquay. 

Meanwhile Nelly had discovered Cicely's secret--which indeed was notvery secret. Captain Marsworth had appeared in London for the purpose ofattending his Medical Board, and called at the flat. Nelly was by thattime on the sofa, with Cicely keeping guard, and Nelly could sometimesdeaden her own consciousness for a little in watching the two. Whatwere they after? Marsworth's ethical enthusiasms and resentments, theprophetic temper that was growing upon him in relation to the war, hisimpatience of idleness and frivolity and 'slackness, ' of all modes oflife that were not pitched in a key worthy of that continuous sacrificeof England's youngest and noblest that was going on perpetually acrossthe Channel:--these traits in him made it very easy to understand why, after years of philandering with Cicely Farrell, he was now, apparently, alienated from her, and provoked by her. But then, why did he stillpursue her?--why did he still lay claim to the privileges of their oldintimacy, and why did Cicely allow him to do so?

At last one evening, after a visit from Marsworth which had been one jarfrom beginning to end, Cicely had suddenly dropped on a stool, besideNelly on the sofa. 

'What an intolerable man!' she said with crimson cheeks. 'Shall I tellSimpson not to let him in again?'

Nelly looked her surprise, for as yet there had been no confidence onthis subject between them. And then had come a torrent--Cicely walkingstormily up and down the room, and pouring out her soul. 

The result of which outpouring was that through all the anger anddenunciation, Nelly very plainly perceived that Cicely was a capturedcreature, endeavouring to persuade herself that she was still free. Sheloved Marsworth--and hated him. She could not make up her mind to giveup for his sake the 'lust of the eye and the pride of life, ' as heclearly would endeavour to make her give them up, the wild bursts ofgaiety and flirting for which she periodically rushed up to town, thepassion for dress, the reckless extravagance with which it pleased herto shock him whenever they met. And he also--so it seemed to Nelly--wastorn by contradictory feelings. As soon as Cicely was within reach, hecould not keep away from her; and yet when confronted with her, and somenew vagary, invented probably to annoy him, though he might refrain'even from good words, ' his critical mouth and eye betrayed him, and setthe offender in a fury. 

However, it was the quarrels between these two strange lovers, if theywere lovers, that had made a friendship, warm and real--on Cicely's sideeven impassioned--between Nelly and Cicely. For Cicely had at last foundsomeone--not of her own world--to whom she could talk in safety. Yet shehad treated the Sarratts cavalierly to begin with, just because theywere outsiders, and because 'Willy' was making such a fuss with them;for she was almost as easily jealous in her brother's case as inMarsworth's. But now Nelly's sad remoteness from ordinary life, her verysocial insignificance, and the lack of any links between her and thegreat Farrell kinship of relations and friends, made her company, andher soft, listening ways specially welcome and soothing to Cicely'sexcited mood. 

During the latter half of the winter they had corresponded, thoughCicely was the worst of letter-writers; and since Nelly and her sisterhad been in Rydal again there had been constant meetings. Nelly'sconfidences in return for Cicely's were not many nor frequent. Theeffects of grief were to be seen in her aspect and movements, in hermost pathetic smile, in her increased dreaminess, and the inertiaagainst which she struggled in vain. Since May began, she had for thefirst time put on black. Nobody had dared to speak to her about it, sosharply did the black veil thrown back from the childish brow intensifythe impression that she made, as of something that a touch might break. But the appearance of the widow's dress seemed to redouble thetenderness with which every member of the little group of people amongwhom she lived treated her--always excepting her sister. Nelly had invain protested to Farrell against the 'spoiling' of which she was theobject. 'Spoiled' she was, and it was clear both to Hester and Cicely, after a time, that though she had the will, she had not the strength toresist. 

Unless on one point. She had long since stopped all subsidies of moneyfrom Farrell through Bridget, having at last discovered the plain factsabout them. Her letter of thanks to him for all he had done for her wasat once so touching and so determined, that he had not dared since tocross her will. All that he now found it possible to urge was that thesisters would allow him to lend them a vacant farmhouse of his, not farfrom the Loughrigg Tarn cottage. Nelly had been so far unwilling; it wasclear that her heart clung to the Rydal lodgings. But Hester and Cicelywere both on Farrell's side. The situation of the farm was higher andmore bracing than Rydal; and both Cicely and Farrell cherished thenotion of making it a home for Nelly, until indeed--

At this point Farrell generally succeeded in putting a strong rein uponhis thoughts, as part of the promise he had made to Hester. But Cicely, who was much cooler and more matter of fact than her brother, had longsince looked further ahead. Willy was in love, irrevocably in love withNelly Sarratt. That had been plain to her for some time. Before thosedays in the flat, when she herself had fallen in love with Nelly, andbefore the disappearance of George Sarratt, she had resented Willy'sabsurd devotion to a little creature who, for all her beauty, seemed toCicely merely an insignificant member of the middle classes, with aparticularly impossible sister. And as to the notion that Mrs. Sarrattmight become at some distant period her brother's wife, Lady Farrell ofCarton, Cicely would have received it with scorn, and fought therealisation of it tooth and nail. Yet now all the 'Farrell feeling, ' theFarrell pride, in this one instance, at any rate, was gone. Why? Cicelydidn't know. She supposed first because Nelly was such a dear creature, and next because the war had made such a curious difference in things. The old lines were being rubbed out. And Cicely, who had been in her dayas exclusively snobbish as any other well-born damsel, felt now that itwould not matter in the least if they remained rubbed out. Persons who'did things' by land or sea; persons who invented things; persons withideas; persons who had the art of making others follow them into thejaws of death;--these were going to be the aristocracy of the future. Though the much abused aristocracy of the present hadn't done badlyeither!

So she was only concerned with the emotional aspects of her brother'sstate. Was Nelly now convinced of her husband's death?--was that whather black meant? And if she were convinced, and it were legally possiblefor her to marry again and all that--what chance would there be forWilly? Cicely was much puzzled by Nelly's relation to him. She had seenmany signs, pathetic signs, of a struggle on Nelly's side againstFarrell's influence; especially in the time immediately following herfirst return to the north in March. She had done her best then, itseemed to Cicely, to do without him and to turn to other interests andoccupations than those he set her, and she had failed; partly no doubtowing to her physical weakness, which had put an end to manyprojects, --that of doing week-end munition work for instance--but stillmore, surely, to Farrell's own qualities. 'He is such a charmer withwomen, ' thought Cicely, half smiling; 'that's what it is. '

By which she meant that he had the very rare gift of tenderness; ofbeing able to make a woman feel, that as a human being, quite apart fromany question of passion, she interested and touched him. It was justsympathy, she supposed, the artistic magnetic quality in him, which madehim so attractive to women, and women so attractive to him. He was nolonger a young man in the strict sense; he was a man of forty, with theprestige of great accomplishment, and a wide knowledge of life. It wasgenerally supposed that he had done with love-affairs, and womeninstinctively felt it safe to allow him a personal freedom towards them, which from other men would have offended them. He might pat a girl'sshoulder, or lay a playful grasp on a woman's arm, and nobody minded; itwas a sign of his liking, and most people wished to be liked by him. However he never allowed himself any half-caress of the kind towardsNelly Sarratt now; and once or twice, in the old days, before Sarratt'sdisappearance, Cicely had fancied that she had seen Nelly check rathersharply one of these demonstrations of Willy's which were so natural tohim, and in general so unconscious and innocent. 

And now he never attempted them. What did that mean? Simply--so Cicelythought--that he was in love, and dared venture such things no longer. But all the same there were plenty of devices open to him by which weekafter week he surrounded Nelly with a network of care, which impliedthat he was always thinking of her; which were in fact a caress, breathing a subtle and restrained devotion, more appealing than anythingmore open. And Cicely seemed to see Nelly yielding--unconsciously;unconsciously 'spoilt, ' and learning to depend on the 'spoiler. ' Why didHester seem so anxious always about Farrell's influence with Nelly--soready to ward him off, if she could? For after all, thought Cicely, easily, however long it might take for Nelly to recover her hold onlife, and to clear up the legal situation, there could be but one end ofit. Willy meant to marry this little woman; and in the long run no womanwould be able to resist him. 

 * * * * *

The friends set out to stroll homewards through the long May evening, talking of the hideous Irish news--how incredible amid the youngsplendour of the Westmorland May!--or of the progress of the war. 

Meanwhile Bridget Cookson was walking to meet them from the Rydal end ofthe Lake. She was accompanied by a Manchester friend, a young doctor, Howson by name, who had known the sisters before Nelly's marriage. Hehad come to Ambleside in charge of a patient that morning, and was goingback on the morrow, and then to France. Bridget had stumbled on him inAmbleside, and finding he had a free evening had invited him to comeand sup with them. And a vivid recollection of Nelly Cookson as a girlhad induced him to accept. He had been present indeed at the Sarrattwedding, and could never forget Nelly as a bride, the jessamine wreathabove her dark eyes, and all the exquisite shapeliness of her slightform, in the white childish dress of fine Indian muslin, which seemed tohim the prettiest bridal garment he had ever seen. And now--poor littlesoul!

'You think she still hopes?'

Bridget shrugged her shoulders. 

'She says so. But she has put on mourning at last--a few weeks ago. '

'People do turn up, you know, ' said the doctor musing. 'There have beensome wonderful stories. '

'They don't turn up now, ' said Bridget positively--'now that theenquiries are done properly. '

'Oh, the Germans are pretty casual--and the hospital returns are farfrom complete, I hear. However the probabilities, no doubt, are all onthe side of death. '

'The War Office are certain of it, ' said Bridget with emphasis. 'Butit's no good trying to persuade her. I don't try. '

'No, why should you? Poor thing! Well, I'm off to X---- next week, ' saidthe young man. 'I shall keep my eyes open there, in case anything abouthim should turn up. '

Bridget frowned slightly, and her face flushed. 

'Should you know him again, if you saw him?' she asked, abruptly. 

'I think so, ' said the doctor with slight hesitation, 'I remember himvery well at the wedding. Tall and slight?--not handsome exactly, but agood-looking gentlemanly chap? Oh yes, I remember him. But of course, tobe alive now, if by some miraculous chance he were alive, andnot to have let you know--why he must have had some brainmischief--paralysis--or----'

'He isn't alive!' said Bridget impatiently. 'The War Office have nodoubts whatever. '

Howson was rather surprised at the sudden acerbity of her tone. But hismomentary impression was immediately lost in the interest roused in himby the emergence from the wood, in front, of Nelly and Cicely. He was awarm-hearted fellow, himself just married, and the approach of theblack-veiled figure, which he had last seen in bridal white, touched himlike an incident in a play. 

Nelly recognised him from a short distance, and went a little pale. 

'Who is that with your sister?' asked Cicely. 

'It is a man we knew in Manchester, --Doctor Howson. '

'Did you expect him?'

'Oh no. ' After a minute she added--'He was at our wedding. I haven'tseen him since. '

Cicely was sorry for her. But when the walkers met, Nelly greeted theyoung man very quietly. He himself was evidently moved. He held herhand a little, and gave her a quick, scrutinising look. Then he moved onbeside her, and Cicely, in order to give Nelly the opportunity oftalking to him for which she evidently wished, was forced to carry offBridget, and endure her company patiently all the way home. 

When Nelly and the doctor arrived, following close on the two in front, Cicely cried out that Nelly must go and lie down at once till supper. She looked indeed a deplorable little wraith; and the doctor, casting, again, a professional eye on her, backed up Cicely. 

Nelly smiled, resisted, and finally disappeared. 

'You'll have to take care of her, ' said Howson to Bridget. 'She looks tome as if she couldn't stand any strain. '

'Well, she's not going to have any. This place is quiet enough! She'sbeen talking of munition-work, but of course we didn't let her. '

Cicely took the young man aside and expounded her brother's plan of thefarm on the western side of Loughrigg. Howson asked questions about itsaspect, and general comfort, giving his approval in the end. 

'Oh, she'll pull through, ' he said kindly, 'but she must go slow. Thiskind of loss is harder to bear--physically--than death straight out. I've promised her'--he turned to Bridget--'to make all the enquiries Ican. She asked me that at once. '

After supper, just as Howson was departing, Farrell appeared, havingdriven himself over through the long May evening, ostensibly to takeCicely home, but really for the joy of an hour in Nelly's company. 

He sat beside her in the garden, after Howson's departure, reading toher, by the lingering light, the poems of a great friend of his who hadbeen killed at Gallipoli. Nelly was knitting, but her needles were oftenlaid upon her knee, while she listened with all her mind, and sometimeswith tears in her eyes, that were hidden by the softly dropping dusk. She said little, but what she did say came now from a greatlyintensified inner life, and a sharpened intelligence; while all thetime, the charm that belonged to her physical self, her voice, hermovements, was at work on Farrell, so that he felt his hour with her adelight after his hard day's work. And she too rested in his presence, and his friendship. It was not possible now for her to rebuff him, torefuse his care. She had tried, tried honestly, as Cicely saw, to liveindependently--to 'endure hardness. ' And the attempt had broken down. The strange, protesting feeling, too, that she was doing some wrong toGeorge by accepting it was passing away. She was George's, she wouldalways be his, to her dying day; but to live without being loved, totear herself from those who wished to love her--for that she had provedtoo weak. She knew it, and was not unconscious of a certain moraldefeat; as she looked out upon all the strenuous and splendid thingsthat women were doing in the war. 

 * * * * *

Farrell and Cicely sped homeward through a night that was all but day. Cicely scarcely spoke; she was thinking of Marsworth. Farrell had stillin his veins the sweetness of Nelly's presence. But there were otherthoughts too in his mind, the natural thoughts of an Englishman at war. Once, over their heads, through the luminous northern sky, there passedan aeroplane flying south-west high above the fells. Was it coming fromthe North Sea, from the neighbourhood of that invincible Fleet, on whichall hung, by which all was sustained? He thought of the great ships, andthe men commanding them, as greyhounds straining in the leash. Whattouch of fate would let them loose at last?

The Carton hospital was now full of men fresh from the front. Thecasualties were endless. A thousand a night often along the Frenchfront--and yet no real advance. The far-flung battle was practically ata stand-still. And beyond, the chaos in the Balkans, the Serbiand�bacle! No--the world was full of lamentation, mourning and woe; andwho could tell how Armageddon would turn? His quick mind travelledthrough all the alternative possibilities ahead, on fire for hiscountry. But always, after each digression through the problems of thewar, thought came back to the cottage at Rydal, and Nelly on the lawn, her white throat emerging from the thin black dress, her hands claspedon her lap, her eyes turned to him as he read. 

And all the time it was _just_ conceivable that Sarratt might still bediscovered. At that thought, the summer night darkened. 

CHAPTER XI

In the summer of 1916, a dark and miserable June, all chilly showers andlowering clouds, followed on the short-lived joys of May. But allthrough it, still more through the early weeks of July, the spiritualheaven for English hearts was brightening. In June, two months beforeshe was expected to move, Russia flung herself on the Eastern front ofthe enemy. Brussiloff's victorious advance drove great wedges into theGerman line, and the effect on that marvellous six months' battle, whichwe foolishly call the Siege of Verdun, was soon to be seen. Hard pressedthey were, those heroes of Verdun!--how hard pressed no one in Englandknew outside the War Office and the Cabinet, till the worst was over, and the Crown Prince, 'with his dead and his shame, ' had recoiled insullen defeat from the prey that need fear him no more. 

Then on the first of July, the British army, after a bombardment thelike of which had never yet been seen in war, leapt from its trenches onthe Somme front, and England held her breath while her new Armies provedof what stuff they were made. In those great days 'there were nostragglers--none!' said an eye-witness in amazement. The incrediblebecame everywhere the common and the achieved. Life was laid down as ata festival. 'From your happy son'--wrote a boy, as a heading to his lastletter on this earth. 

And by the end of July the sun was ablaze again on the English fieldsand harvests. Days of amazing beauty followed each other amid theWestmorland fells; with nights of moonlight on sleeping lakes, andmurmuring becks; or nights of starlit dark, with that mysterious glow inthe north-west which in the northern valleys so often links the eveningwith the dawn. 

How often through these nights Nelly Sarratt lay awake, in her new whiteroom in Mountain Ash Farm!--the broad low window beside her open to thenight, to that 'Venus's Looking Glass' of Loughrigg Tarn below her, andto the great heights beyond, now dissolving under the moon-magic, nowrosy with dawn, and now wreathed in the floating cloud which crept inlight and silver along the purple of the crags. To have been lifted tothis height above valley and stream, had raised and strengthened her, soul and body, as Farrell and Hester had hoped. Her soul, perhaps, rather than her body; for she was still the frailest of creatures, without visible ill, and yet awakening in every quick-eyed spectator thesame misgiving as in the Manchester doctor. But she was calmer, lessapparently absorbed in her own grief; though only, perhaps, the moreaccessible to the world misery of the war. In these restless nights, her remarkable visualising power, which had only thriven, it seemed, upon the flagging of youth and health, carried her through a series ofwaking dreams, almost always concerned with the war. Under the stimulusof Farrell's intelligence, she had become a close student of the war. She read much, and what she read, his living contact with men andaffairs--with that endless stream of wounded in particular, which passedthrough the Carton hospital--and his graphic talk illumined for her. Then in the night arose the train of visions; the trenches--always thetrenches; those hideous broken woods of the Somme front, where theblasted soil has sucked the best life-blood of England; thoselabyrinthine diggings and delvings in a tortured earth, made for theHuntings of Death--'Death that lays man at his length'--for pantingpursuit, and breathless flight, and the last crashing horror of thebomb, in some hell-darkness at the end of all:--these haunted her. Orshe saw visions of men swinging from peak to peak above fathomlessdepths of ice and snow on the Italian front; climbing precipices wherethe foot holds by miracle, and where not only men but guns must go; orvanishing, whole lines of them, awfully forgotten in the winter snows, to reappear a frozen and ghastly host, with the melting of the spring. 

And always, mingled with everything, in the tense night hours--thatslender khaki figure, tearing the leaf from his sketch-book, leapingover the parados, --falling--in the No Man's Land. But, by day, theobsession of it now often left her. 

It was impossible not to enjoy her new home. Farrell had taken an oldWestmorland farm, with its white-washed porch, its small-paned windowsoutlined in white on the grey walls, its low raftered rooms, and with afew washes of colour--pure blue, white, daffodil yellow--had made allbright within, to match the bright spaces of air and light without. There was some Westmorland oak, some low chairs, a sofa and a piano fromthe old Manchester house, some etchings and drawings, hung on the plainwalls by Farrell himself, with the most fastidious care; and a few--avery few things--from his own best stores, which Hester allowed him to'house' with Nelly from time to time--picture, or pot, or tapestry. Sheplayed watch-dog steadily, not resented by Farrell, and unsuspected byNelly. Her one aim was that the stream of Nelly's frail life should notbe muddied by any vile gossip; and she achieved it. The few neighbourswho had made acquaintance with 'little Mrs. Sarratt' had, all of thembeen tacitly, nay eagerly willing, to take their cue from Hester. To bevouched for by Hester Martin, the 'wise woman' and saint of acountry-side, was enough. It was understood that the poor little widowhad been commended to the care of William Farrell and his sister, by theyoung husband whose gallant death was officially presumed by the WarOffice. Of course, Mrs. Sarratt, poor child, believed that he was stillalive--that was so natural! But that hope would die down in time. Andthen--anything might happen!

Meanwhile, elderly husbands--the sole male inhabitants left in thegentry houses of the district--who possessed any legal knowledge, informed their wives that no one could legally presume the death of avanished husband, under seven years, unless indeed they happen to have aScotch domicile, in which case two years was enough. _Sevenyears_!--preposterous!--in time of war, said the wives. To which thehusbands would easily reply that, in such cases as Mrs. Sarratt's, thelaw indeed might be 'an ass, ' but there were ways round it. Mrs. Sarrattmight re-marry, and no one could object, or would object. Only--ifSarratt did rise from the dead, the second marriage would be _ipsofacto_ null and void. But as Sarratt was clearly dead, what did thatmatter?

So that the situation, though an observed one--for how could the Farrellcomings and goings, the Farrell courtesies and benefactions, possibly behid?--was watched only by friendly and discreet eyes, thanks always toHester. Most people liked William Farrell; even that stricter sect, whobefore the war had regarded him as a pleasure loving dilettante, and hadbeen often scandalised by his careless levity in the matter of hisduties as a landlord and county magnate. 'Bill Farrell' had never indeedevicted or dealt hardly with any mortal tenant. He had merely neglectedand ignored them; had cared not a brass farthing about the rates whichhe or they, paid--why should he indeed, when he was so abominably richfrom other sources than land?--nothing about improving their cows, orsheep or pigs; nothing about 'intensive culture, ' or jam or poultry, orany of the other fads with which the persons who don't farm plague thepersons who do; while the very mention of a public meeting, or any sortof public duty, put him to instant flight. Yet even the faddists met himwith pleasure, and parted from him with regret. He took himself 'sojolly lightly'; you couldn't expect him to take other people seriously. Meanwhile, his genial cheery manner made him a general favourite, andhis splendid presence, combined with his possessions and his descent, was universally accepted as a kind of Cumberland asset, to which othercounties could hardly lay claim. If he wanted the little widow, whycertainly, let him have her! It was magnificent what he had done for hishospital; when nobody before the war had thought him capable of a strokeof practical work. Real good fellow, Farrell! Let him go in and win. Hisdevotion, and poor Nelly's beauty, only infused a welcome local elementof romance into the ever-darkening scene of war. 

 * * * * *

The first anniversary of Sarratt's disappearance was over. Nelly hadgone through it quite alone. Bridget was in London, and Nelly had saidto Cicely--'Don't come for a few days--nor Sir William--please! Ishall be all right. '

They obeyed her, and she spent her few days partly on the fells, andpartly in endless knitting and sewing for a war-workroom recentlystarted in her immediate neighbourhood. The emotion to which shesurrendered herself would soon reduce her to a dull vacancy; and thenshe would sit passive, not forcing herself to think, alone in the oldraftered room, or in the bit of garden outside, with its phloxes andgolden rods; her small fingers working endlessly--till the wave offeeling and memory returned upon her. Those few days were a kind of'retreat, ' during which she lived absorbed in the recollections of hershort, married life, and, above all, in which she tried piteously andbravely to make clear to herself what she believed; what sort of faithwas in her for the present and the future. It often seemed to her thatduring the year since George's death, her mind had been wrenched andhammered into another shape. It had grown so much older, she scarcelyknew it herself. Doubts she had never known before had come to her; butalso, intermittently, a much keener faith. Oh, yes, she believed in God. She must; not only because George had believed in Him, but also becauseshe, her very self, had been conscious, again and again, in the nighthours, or on the mountains, of ineffable upliftings and communings, offlashes through the veil of things. And so there must be another world;because the God she guessed at thus, with sudden adoring insight, couldnot have made her George, only to destroy him; only to give her to himfor a month, and then strike him from her for ever. The books she learntto know through Farrell, belonging to that central modern literature, which is so wholly sceptical that the 'great argument' itself has almostlost interest for those who are producing it, often bewildered her, butdid not really affect her. Religion--a vague, but deeply-feltreligion--soothed and sheltered her. But she did not want to talk aboutit. 

After these days were over, she emerged conscious of some radicalchange. She seemed to have been walking with George 'on the other side, 'and to have left him there--for a while. She now really believed himdead, and that she had got to live her life without him. This first fulland sincere admission of her loss tranquillised her. All the more reasonnow that she should turn to the dear friendships that life still held, should live in and for them, and follow where they led, through theyears before her. Farrell, Cicely, Hester--they stood between herweakness--oh how conscious, how scornfully conscious, she was ofit!--and sheer desolation. Cicely, 'Willy, '--for somehow she and he hadslipped almost without knowing it into Christian names--had become toher as brother and sister. And Hester too--so strong!--so kind!--waspart of her life; severe sometimes, but bracing. Nelly was conscious, indeed, occasionally, that something in Hester disapproved something inher. 'But it would be all right, ' she thought, wearily, 'if only I werestronger. ' Did she mean physically or morally? The girl's thought didnot distinguish. 

'I believe you want me "hatched over again and hatched different"!' shesaid one evening to Hester, as she laid her volume of 'Adam Bede' aside. 

'Do I ever say so?'

'No--but--if you were me--you wouldn't stop here moping!' said Nelly, with sudden passion. 'You'd strike out--do something!'

'With these hands?' said Hester, raising one of them, and looking at itpitifully. 'My dear--does Bridget feed you properly?'

'I don't know. I never think about it. She settles it. '

'Why do you let her settle it?'

'She will!' cried Nelly, sitting upright in her chair, her eyes brightand cheeks flushing, as though something in Hester's words accused her. 'I couldn't stop her!'

'Well, but when she's away?'

'Then Mrs. Rowe settles it, ' said Nelly, half laughing. 'I neverenquire. What does it matter?'

She put down her knitting, and her wide, sad eyes followed the clouds asthey covered the purple breast of the Langdales, which rose inthreatening, thunder light, beyond the steely tarn in front. Hesterwatched her anxiously. How lovely was the brown head, with its shortcurls enclosing the delicate oval of the face! But Nelly's lack of gripon life, of any personal demand, of any healthy natural egotism, whethertowards Bridget, or anybody else, was very disquieting to Hester. Inview of the situation which the older woman saw steadily approaching, how welcome would have been some signs of a greater fighting strength inthe girl's nature!

 * * * * *

But Nelly had made two friends since the migration to the farm with whomat any rate she laughed; and that, as Hester admitted, was something. 

One was a neighbouring farmer, an old man, with splendid eyes, underdark bushy brows, fine ascetic features, grizzled hair, and a habit ofcarrying a scythe over his shoulder which gave him the look of 'OldFather Time, ' out for the mowing of men. The other was the little son ofa neighbouring parson, an urchin of eight, who had succumbed to aninnocent passion for the pretty lady at the farm. 

One radiant October afternoon, Nelly carried out a chair and somesketching things into the garden. But the scheme Farrell had suggestedto her, of making a profession of her drawing, had not come to much. Whether it was the dying down of hope, and therewith of physical energy, or whether she had been brought up sharp against the limits of her smalland graceful talent, and comparing herself with Farrell, thought it nouse to go on--in any case, she had lately given it up, except as anamusement. But there are days when the humblest artist feels thecreative stir; and on this particular afternoon there were colours andlights abroad on the fells, now dyed red with withering fern, andovertopped by sunny cloud, that could not be resisted. She put away thesplints she was covering, and spread out her easel. 

And presently, through every bruised and tired sense, as she worked andworked, the 'Eternal Fountain of that Heavenly Beauty' distilled Hisconstant balm. She worked on, soothed and happy. 

In a few minutes there was a sound at the gate. A child looked in--blacktumbled hair, dark eyes, a plain but most engaging countenance. 

'I'm tomin in, ' he announced, and without any more ado, came in. Nellyheld out a hand and kissed him. 

'You must be very good. '

'I is good, ' said the child, radiantly. 

Nelly spread a rug for him to lie on, and provided him with a piece ofpaper, some coloured chalks and a piece of mill board. He turned over onhis front and plunged into drawing--

Silence--till Nelly asked--

'What are you drawing, Tommy?'

'Haggans and Hoons, ' said a dreamy voice, the voice of one absorbed. 

'I forget'--said Nelly gravely--'which are the good ones?'

'The Hoons are good. The Haggans are awfully wicked!' said the child, slashing away at his drawing with bold vindictive strokes. 

'Are you drawing a Haggan, Tommy?'

'Yes. '

He held up a monster, half griffin, half crocodile, for her to see, andshe heartily admired it. 

'Where do the Haggans live, Tommy?'

'In Jupe, ' said the child, again drawing busily. 

'You mean Jupiter?'

'I _don't_!' said Tommy reproachfully, 'I said Jupe, and I mean Jupe. Perhaps'--he conceded, courteously--'I may have got the idea from thatother place. But it's quite different. You do believe it's quitedifferent--don't you?'

'Certainly, ' said Nelly. 

'I'm glad of that--because--well, because I can't be friends with peoplethat say it isn't different. You do see that, don't you?'

Nelly assured him she perfectly understood, and then Tommy rolled overon his back, and staring at the sky, began to talk in mysterious tonesof 'Jupe, ' and the beings that lived in it, Haggans, and Hoons, lionsand bears, and white mice. His voice grew dreamier and dreamier. Nellythought he was asleep, and she suddenly found herself looking at thelittle figure on the grass with a passionate hunger. If such a livingcreature belonged to her--to call her its very own--to cling to her withits dear chubby hands!

She bent forward, her eyes wet, above the unconscious Tommy. But a stepon the road startled her, and raising her head she saw 'Old FatherTime, ' with scythe on shoulder, leaning on the little gate which ledfrom the strip of garden to the road, and looking at her with theexpression which implied a sarcastic view of things in general, andespecially of 'gentlefolk. ' But he was favourably inclined to Mrs. Sarratt, and when Nelly invited him in, he obeyed her, and grounding hisscythe, as though it had been a gun, he stood leaning upon it, indulgently listening while she congratulated him on a strange incidentwhich, as she knew from Hester, had lately occurred to him. 

A fortnight before, the old man had received a letter from the captainof his son's company in France sympathetically announcing to him thedeath in hospital of his eldest son, from severe wounds received in araid, and assuring him he might feel complete confidence 'thateverything that could be done for your poor boy has been done. '

The news had brought woe to the cottage where the old man and his wifelived alone, since the fledging of their sturdy brood, under a spur ofLoughrigg. The wife, being now a feeble body, had taken to her bed underthe shock of grief; the old man had gone to his work as usual, 'nobbut abit queerer in his wits, ' according to the farmer who employed him. Thenafter three days came a hurried letter of apology from the captain, anda letter from the chaplain, to say there had been a most deplorablemistake, and 'your son, I am glad to say, was only slightly wounded, and is doing well!'

Under so much contradictory emotion, old Backhouse's balance had wavereda good deal. He received Nelly's remarks with a furtive smile, as thoughhe were only waiting for her to have done, and when they ceased, he drewa letter slowly from his pocket. 

'D'ye see that, Mum?'

Nelly nodded. 

'I'se juist gotten it from t' Post Office. They woant gie ye noothin'till it's forced oot on 'em. But I goa regular, an to-day owdJacob--'at's him as keps t' Post Office--handed it ower. It's fromDonald, sure enoof. '

He held it up triumphantly. Nelly's heart leapt--and sank. How often inthe first months of her grief had she seen--in visions--that blessedsymbolic letter held up by some ministering hand!--only to fall from theecstasy of the dream into blacker depths of pain. 

'Oh, Mr. Backhouse, I'm so glad!' was all she could find to say. But hersweet trembling face spoke for her. After a pause, she added--'Does hewrite with his own hand?'

'You mun see for yorsel'. ' He held it out to her. She looked at itmystified. 

'But it's not opened!'

'I hadna juist me spectacles, ' said Father Time, cautiously. 'Mebbeeyo'll read it to me. '

'But it's to his mother!' cried Nelly. 'I can't open your wife'sletter!'

'You needn't trooble aboot that. You read it, Mum. There'll be noothin'in it. '

He made her read it. There was nothing in it. It was just a nice letterfrom a good boy, saying that he had been knocked over in 'a bit of ascrap, ' but was nearly all right, and hoped his father and mother werewell, 'as it leaves me at present. ' But when it was done, Father Timetook off his hat, bent his grey head, and solemnly thanked his God, inbroad Westmorland. Nelly's eyes swam, as she too bowed the head, thinking of another who would never come back; and Tommy, thumb inmouth, leant against her, listening attentively. 

At the end of the thanksgiving however, Backhouse raised his headbriskly. 

'Not that I iver believed that foolish yoong mon as wrote me that Dickwor dead, ' he said, contemptuously. 'Bit it's as weel to git thingsclear. '

Nelly heartily agreed, adding--

'I may be going to London next week, Mr. Backhouse. You say your sonwill be in the London Hospital. Shall I go and see him?'

Backhouse looked at her cautiously. 

'I doan't know, Mum. His moother will be goin', likely. '

'Oh, I don't want to intrude, Mr. Backhouse. But if she doesn't go?'

'Well, Mum; I will say you've a pleasant coontenance, though yo're notjuist sich a thrivin' body as a'd like to see yer. But theer's monypeople as du more harm nor good by goin' to sit wi' sick foak. '

Nelly meekly admitted it; and then she suggested that she might be thebearer of anything Mrs. Backhouse would like to send her son--clothes, for instance? The old man thawed rapidly, and the three, Nelly, Tommy, and Father Time, were soon sincerely enjoying each other's society, whena woman in a grey tweed costume, and black sailor hat, arrived at thetop of a little hill in the road outside the garden, from which the farmand its surroundings could be seen. 

At the sight of the group in front of the farm, she came to an abruptpause, and hidden from them by a projecting corner of wall she surveyedthe scene--Nelly, with Tommy on her knee, and the old labourer who hadjust shouldered his scythe again, and was about to go on his way. 

It was Bridget Cookson, who had been to Kendal for the day, and hadwalked over from Grasmere, where the char-�-banc, alias the 'YellowPeril, ' had deposited her. She had passed the Post Office on her way, and had brought thence a letter which she held in her hand. Her face waspale and excited. She stood thinking; her eyes on Nelly, her lips movingas though she were rehearsing some speech or argument. 

Then when she had watched old Backkhouse make his farewell, and turntowards the gate, she hastily opened a black silk bag hanging from herwrist, and thrust the letter into it. 

After which she walked on, meeting the old man in the lane, and run intoby Tommy, who, head foremost, was rushing home to shew his gloriousHaggan to his 'mummy. '

Nelly's face at sight of her sister stiffened insensibly. 

'Aren't you very tired, Bridget? Have you walked all the way? Yes, you_do_ look tired! Have you had tea?'

'Yes, at Windermere. '

Bridget cleared the chair on which Nelly had placed her paint-box, andsat down. She was silent a little and then said abruptly--

'It's a horrid bore, I shall have to go to London again. '

'Again?' Nelly's look of surprise was natural. Bridget had returned fromanother long stay in the Bloomsbury boarding-house early in October, andit was now only the middle of the month. But Bridget's doings werealways a great mystery to Nelly. She was translating something from theSpanish--that was all Nelly knew--and also, that when an offer had beenmade to her through a friend, of some translating work for the ForeignOffice, she had angrily refused it. She would not, she said, be a slaveto any public office. 

'Won't it be awfully expensive?' said Nelly after a pause, as Bridgetdid not answer. The younger sister was putting her painting thingsaway, and making ready to go in. For though the day had been wonderfullywarm for October, the sun had just set over Bowfell, and the air hadgrown suddenly chilly. 

'Well, I can't help it, ' said Bridget, rather roughly. 'I shall have togo. '

Something in her voice made Nelly look at her. 

'I say you _are_ tired! Come in and lie down a little. That walk fromGrasmere's too much for you!'

Bridget submitted with most unusual docility. 

The sisters entered the house together. 

'I'll go upstairs for a little, ' said Bridget. 'I shall be all right bysupper. ' Then, as she slowly mounted the stairs, a rather gaunt anddragged figure in her dress of grey alpaca, she turned to say--

'I met Sir William on the road just now. He passed me in the car, andwaved his hand. He called out something--I couldn't hear it. '

'Perhaps to say he would come to supper, ' said Nelly, her facebrightening. 'I'll go and see what there is. '

Bridget went upstairs. Her small raftered room was invaded by the laststormy light of the autumn evening. The open casement window admitted acold wind. Bridget shut it, with a shiver. But instead of lying down, she took a chair by the window, absently removed her hat, and sat therethinking. The coppery light from the west illumined her face with itsstrong discontented lines, and her hands, which were large, but whiteand shapely--a source indeed of personal pride to their owner. 

Presently, in the midst of her reverie, she heard a step outside, andsaw Sir William Farrell approaching the gate. Nelly, wrapped in a whiteshawl, was still strolling about the garden, and Bridget watched theirmeeting--Nelly's soft and smiling welcome, and Farrell's eagerness, hisevident joy in finding her alone. 

'And she just wilfully blinds herself!' thought Bridgetcontemptuously--'talks about his being a brother to her, and that sortof nonsense. He's in love with her!--of course he's in love with her. And as for Nelly--she's not in love with him. But she's getting used tohim; she depends on him. When he's not there she misses him. She'sawfully glad to see him when he comes. Perhaps, it'll take a month ortwo. I give it a month or two--perhaps six months--perhaps a year. Andthen she'll marry him--and--'

Here her thoughts became rather more vague and confused. They werecompounded of a fierce impatience with the war, and of certain urgentwishes and ambitions, which had taken possession of a strong andunscrupulous character. She wanted to travel. She wanted to see theworld, and not to be bothered by having to think of money. Contact withvery rich people, like the Farrells, and the constant spectacle of whatan added range and power is given to the human will by money, hadturned the dull discontent of her youth into an active fever of desire. She had no illusions about herself at all. She was already a plain andunattractive old maid. Nobody would want to marry her; and she did notwant to marry anybody. But she wanted to _do_ things and to _see_things, when the hateful war was over. She was full of curiosities aboutlife and the world, that were rather masculine than feminine. Hereducation, though it was still patchy and shallow, had been advancingsince Nelly's marriage, and her intelligence was hungry. Thesatisfaction of it seemed too to promise her the only real pleasures towhich she could look forward in life. On the wall of her bedroom werehanging photographs of Rome, Athens, the East. She dreamt of a wanderingexistence; she felt that she would be insatiable of movement, ofexperience, if the chance were given her. 

But how could one travel, or buy books, or make new acquaintances, without money?--something more at any rate than the pittance on whichshe and Nelly subsisted. 

What was it Sir William was supposed to have, by way of income?--thirtythousand a year? Well, he wouldn't always be spending it on hishospital, and War income tax, and all the other horrible burdens of thetime. If Nelly married him, she would have an ample margin to play with;and to do Nelly justice, she was always open-handed, always ready togive away. She would hand over her own small portion to her sister, andadd something to it. With six or seven hundred a year, Bridget would bemistress of her own fate, and of the future. Often, lately, in wakingmoments of the night, she had felt a sudden glow of exultation, thinkingwhat she could do with such a sum. The world seemed to open out on allsides--offering her new excitements, new paths to tread in. She wantedno companion, to hamper her with differing tastes and wishes. She wouldbe quite sufficient to herself. 

The garden outside grew dark. She heard Farrell say 'It's too cold foryou--you must come in, ' and she watched Nelly enter the house in frontof him--turning her head back to answer something he said to her. Eventhrough the dusk Bridget was conscious of her sister's beauty. She didnot envy it in the least. It was Nelly's capital--Nelly's opportunity. Let her use it for them both. Bridget would be well satisfied to gatherup the crumbs from her rich sister's table. 

Then from the dream, she came back with chill and desperation--toreality. The letter in her pocket--the journey before her--she ponderedalternatives. What was she to do in this case--or in that? Everythingmight be at stake--everything was at stake--her life and Nelly's--

The voices from the parlour below came up to her. She heard thecrackling of a newly lighted fire--Farrell reading aloud--and Nelly'sgentle laughter. She pictured the scene; the two on either side of thefire, with Nelly's mourning, her plain widow's dress, as the symbol--inNelly's eyes--of what divided her from Farrell, or any other suitor, andmade it possible to be his friend without fear. Bridget knew that Nellyso regarded it. But that of course was just Nelly's foolish way oflooking at things. It was only a question of time. 

And meanwhile the widow's dress had quite other meanings for Bridget. She pondered long in the dark, till the supper bell rang. 

At supper, her silence embarrassed and infected her companions, andFarrell, finding it impossible to get another t�te-�-t�te with Nelly, took his leave early. He must be up almost with the dawn so as to get toCarton by nine o'clock. 

 * * * * *

Out of a stormy heaven the moon was breaking as he walked back to hiscottage. The solitude of the mountain ways, the freshness of therain-washed air, and the sweetness of his hour with Nelly, after thebustle of the week, the arrivals and departures, the endless business, of a great hospital:--he was conscious of them all, intensely conscious, as parts of a single, delightful whole to which he had looked forwardfor days. And yet he was restless and far from happy. He wandered aboutthe mountain roads for a long time--watching the moon as it rose abovethe sharp steep of Loughrigg and sent long streamers of light down theElterwater valley, and up the great knees of the Pikes. The owls hootedin the oak-woods, and the sound of water--the Brathay rushing over theSkelwith rocks, and all the little becks in fell and field, near andfar--murmured through the night air, and made earth-music to the fells. Farrell had much of the poet in him; and the mountains and their lifewere dear to him. But he was rapidly passing into the stage when a manover-mastered by his personal desires is no longer open to the soothingof nature. He had recently had a long and confidential talk with hislawyer at Carlisle, who was also his friend, and had informed himselfminutely about the state of the law. Seven years!--unless, of her ownfree will, she took the infinitesimal risk of marriage before the periodwas up. 

But he despaired of her doing any such thing. He recognised fully thatthe intimacy she allowed him, her sweet openness and confidingness, wereall conditioned by what she regarded as the fixed points in her life; byher widowhood, legal and spiritual, and by her tacit reliance on hisrecognition of the fact that she was set apart, bound as other widowswere not bound, protected by the very mystery of Sarratt's fate, fromany thought of re-marriage. 

And he!--all the time the strength of a man's maturest passion wasmounting in his veins. And with it a foreboding--coming he knew notwhence--like the sudden shadow that, as he looked, blotted out themoonlight on the shining bends and loops of the Brathay, where itwandered through the Elterwater fields. 

CHAPTER XII

Bridget Cookson slowly signed her name to the letter she had beenwriting in the drawing-room of the boarding-house where she wasaccustomed to stay during her visits to town. Then she read the letterthrough--

'I can't get back till the middle or end of next week at least. There'sbeen a great deal to do, of one kind or another. And I'm going down toWoking to-morrow to spend the week-end with a girl I met here who'sknocked up in munition-work. Don't expect me till you see me. But Idaresay I shan't be later than Friday. '

Bridget Cookson had never yet arrived at telling falsehoods for the merepleasure of it. On the whole she preferred not to tell them. But she waswell aware that her letter to Nelly contained a good many, bothexpressed and implied. 

Well, that couldn't be helped. She put up her letter, and then proceededto look carefully through the contents of her handbag. Yes, her passportwas all right, and her purse with its supply of notes. Also the letterthat she was to present to the Base Commandant, or the Red Crossrepresentative at the port of landing. The latter had been left open forher to read. It was signed 'Ernest Howson, M. D. , ' and asked that MissBridget Cookson might be sent forward to No. 102, General Hospital, XCamp, France, as quickly as possible. 

There was also another letter addressed to herself in the samehandwriting. She opened it and glanced through it--

'DEAR MISS COOKSON, --I think I have made everything as easy for you as Ican on this side. You won't have any difficulty. I'm awfully glad you'recoming. I myself am much puzzled, and don't know what to think. Anyway Iam quite clear that my right course was to communicate withyou--_first. _ Everything will depend on what you say. '

The following afternoon, Bridget found herself, with a large party ofV. A. D. 's, and other persons connected with the Red Cross, on board aChannel steamer. The day was grey and cold, and Bridget having tied onher life-belt, and wrapped herself in her thickest cloak, found a seatin the shelter of the deck cabins whence the choppy sea, the destroyerhovering round them, and presently the coast of France were visible. Asecret excitement filled her. What was she going to see? and what wasshe going to do? All round her too were the suggestions of war, commonplace and familiar by now to half the nation, but not to Bridgetwho had done her best to forget the war. The steamer deck was crowdedwith officers returning from leave who were walking up and down, all ofthem in life-belts, chatting and smoking. All eyes were watchful of thesea, and the destroyer; and the latest submarine gossip passed frommouth to mouth. The V. A. D. 's with a few army nurses, kept each othercompany on the stern deck. The mild sea gave no one any excuse fordiscomfort, and the pleasant-faced rosy girls in their becominguniforms, laughed and gossiped with each other, though not without agood many side glances towards the khaki figures pacing the deck, manyof them specimens of English youth at its best. 

Bridget however took little notice of them. She was becoming more andmore absorbed in her own problem. She had not in truth made up her mindhow to deal with it, and she admitted reluctantly that she would have tobe guided by circumstance. Midway across, when the French coast and itslighthouses were well in view, she took out the same letter which shehad received two days before at the Grasmere post-office, and again readit through. 

'X Camp, 102, General Hospital. 

'DEAR MISS COOKSON, --I am writing to _you_, in the first instanceinstead of to Mrs. Sarratt, because I have a vivid remembrance of whatseemed to me your sister's frail physical state, when I saw you last Mayat Rydal. I hope she is much stronger, but I don't want to risk what, ifit ended in disappointment, might only be a terrible strain upon her tono purpose--so I am preparing the way by writing to you. 

'The fact is I want you to come over to France--at once. Can you getaway, without alarming your sister, or letting her, really, knowanything about it? It is the merest, barest chance, but I think there isjust a chance, that a man who is now in hospital here _may_ be poorGeorge Sarratt--only don't build upon it yet, _please_. The case wassent on here from one of the hospitals near the Belgian frontier about amonth ago, in order that a famous nerve-specialist, who has joined ushere for a time, might give his opinion on it. It is a mostextraordinary story. I understand from the surgeon who wrote to ourCommandant, that one night, about three months ago, two men, in Germanuniforms, were observed from the British front-line trench, creepingover the No Man's Land lying between the lines at a point somewhere eastof Dixmude. One man, who threw up his hands, was dragging the other, whoseemed wounded. It was thought that they were deserters, and a couple ofmen were sent out to bring them in. Just as they were being helped intoour trench, however, one of them was hit by an enemy sniper and mortallywounded. Then it was discovered that they were not Germans at all. Theman who had been hit said a few incoherent things about his wife andchildren in the Walloon patois as he lay in the trench, and trying topoint to his companion, uttered the one word "Anglais"--that, everyoneswears to--and died. No papers were found on either of them, and whenthe other man was questioned, he merely shook his head, with a vacantlook. Various tests were applied to him, but it was soon clear, boththat he was dumb--and deaf--from nerve shock, probably--and that he wasin a terrible physical state. He had been severely wounded--apparentlymany months before--in the shoulder and thigh. The wounds had evidentlybeen shockingly neglected, and were still septic. The surgeon whoexamined him thought that what with exposure, lack of food, and hisinjuries, it was hardly probable he would live more than a few weeks. However, he has lingered till now, and the specialist I spoke of hasjust seen him. 

'As to identification marks there were none. But you'll hear all aboutthat when you come. All I can say is that, as soon as they got the maninto hospital, the nurses and surgeons became convinced that he _was_English, and that in addition to his wounds, it was a case of severeshell-shock--acute and long-continued neurasthenia properlyspeaking, --loss of memory, and all the rest of it. 

'Of course the chances of this poor fellow being George Sarratt areinfinitesimal--I must warn you as to that. How account for the intervalbetween September 1915 and June 1916--for his dress, his companion--fortheir getting through the German lines?

'However, directly I set eyes on this man, which was the week after Iarrived here, I began to feel puzzled about him. He reminded me ofsomeone--but of whom I couldn't remember. Then one afternoon it suddenlyflashed upon me--and for the moment I felt almost sure that I waslooking at George Sarratt. Then, of course, I began to doubt again. Ihave tried--under the advice of the specialist I spoke of--all kinds ofdevices for getting into some kind of communication with him. Sometimesthe veil between him and those about him seems to thin a little, and onemakes attempts--hypnotism, suggestion, and so forth. But so far, quitein vain. He has, however, one peculiarity which I may mention. His handsare long and rather powerful. But the little fingers are bothcrooked--markedly so. I wonder if you ever noticed Sarratt's hands?However, I won't write more now. You will understand, I am sure, that Ishouldn't urge you to come, unless I thought it seriously worth yourwhile. On the other hand, I cannot bear to excite hopes which may--whichprobably will--come to nothing. All I can feel certain of is that it ismy duty to write, and I expect that you will feel that it is your dutyto come. 

'I send you the address of a man at the War Office--high up in theR. A. M. C. --to whom I have already written. He will, I am sure, do all hecan to help you get out quickly. Whoever he is, the poor fellow here isvery ill. '

 * * * * *

The steamer glided up the dock of the French harbour. The dusk hadfallen, but Bridget was conscious of a misty town dimly sprinkled withlights, and crowned with a domed church; of chalk downs, white andghostly, to right and left; and close by, of quays crowded withsoldiers, motors, and officials. Carrying her small suit-case, sheemerged upon the quay, and almost immediately was accosted by theofficial of the Red Cross who had been told off to look after her. 

'Let me carry your suit-case. There is a motor here, which will take youto X----. There will be two nurses going with you. '

Up the long hill leading southwards out of the town, sped the motor, stopping once to show its pass to the sentries--khaki and grey, oneither side of the road, and so on into the open country, where anautumn mist lay over the uplands, beneath a faintly starlit sky. Soon itwas quite dark. Bridget listened vaguely to the half-whispered talk ofthe nurses opposite, who were young probationers going back to workafter a holiday, full of spirits and merry gossip about 'Matron' and'Sister, ' and their favourite surgeons. Bridget was quite silent. Everything was strange and dreamlike. Yet she was sharply conscious thatshe was nearing--perhaps--some great experience, some act--somedecision--which she would have to make for herself, with no one toadvise her. Well, she had never been a great hand at asking advice. People must decide things for themselves. 

She wondered whether they would let her see 'the man' that same night. Hardly--unless he were worse--in danger. Otherwise, they would be sureto think it better for her to see him first in daylight. She too wouldbe glad to have a night's rest before the interview. She had a curiouslybruised and battered feeling, as of someone who had been going throughan evil experience. 

Pale stretches of what seemed like water to the right, and across it alighthouse. And now to the left, a sudden spectacle of lines of light ina great semicircle radiating up the side of a hill. 

The nurses exclaimed--

'There's the Camp! Isn't it pretty at night?'

The officer sitting in front beside the driver turned to ask--

'Where shall I put you down?'

'Number----' said both the maidens in concert. The elderly major inkhaki--who in peace-time was the leading doctor of a Shropshire countrytown--could not help smiling at the two lassies, and their bright looks. 

'You don't seem particularly sorry to come back!' he said. 

'Oh, we're tired of holidays, ' said the taller of the two, with a laugh. 'People at home think they're _so_ busy, and---'

'You think they're doing nothing?'

'Well, it don't seem much, when you've been out here!' said the girlmore gravely--'and when you know what there is to do!'

'Aye, aye, ' said the man in front. 'We could do with hundreds more ofyour sort. Hope you preached to your friends. '

'We did!' said both, each with the same young steady voice. 

'Here we are--Stop, please. '

For the motor had turned aside to climb the hill into the semicircle. Onall sides now were rows of low buildings--hospital huts--hospitalmarquees--stores--canteens. Close to the motor, as it came to astand-still, the door of a great marquee stood open, and Bridget couldsee within, a lighted hospital ward, with rows of beds, men in scarletbed-jackets, sitting or lying on them--flowers--nurses moving about. Thescene was like some bright and delicate illumination on the dark. 

'I shall have to take you a bit further on, ' said the major to Bridget, as the two young nurses waved farewell. 'We've got a room in the hotelfor you. And Dr. Howson will come for you in the morning. He thoughtthat would be more satisfactory both for you and the patient than thatyou should go to the hospital to-night. '

Bridget acquiesced, with a strong sense of relief. And presently thecamp and its lights were all left behind again, and the motor wasrushing on, first through a dark town, and then through woods--pinewoods--as far as the faint remaining light enabled her to see, till dimshapes of houses, and scattered lamps began again to appear, and themotor drew up. 

'Well, you'll find a bed here, and some food, ' said the major as hehanded her out. 'Can't promise much. It's a funny little place, butthey don't look after you badly. '

They entered one of the small seaside hotels of the cheaper sort whichabound in French watering-places, where the walls of the tiny rooms seemto be made of brown paper, and everyone is living in their neighbour'spocket. But a pleasant young woman came forward to take Bridget's bag. 

'Mademoiselle Cook--Cookson?' she said interrogatively. 'I have a letterfor Mademoiselle. Du m�decin, ' she added, addressing the major. 

'Ah?' That gentleman put down Bridget's bag in the little hall, andstood attentive. Bridget opened the letter--a very few words--and readit with an exclamation. 

 'DEAR MISS COOKSON, --I am awfully sorry not to meet you to-night, and at the hospital to-morrow. But I am sent for to Bailleul. My only brother has been terribly wounded--they think fatally--in a bombing attack last night. I am going up at once--there is no help for it. One of my colleagues, Dr. Vincent, will take you to the hospital and will tell me your opinion. In haste. --Yours sincerely, 'ERNEST HOWSON. '

'H'm, a great pity!' said the major, as she handed the note to him. 'Howson has taken a tremendous interest in the case. But Vincent is nextbest. Not the same thing perhaps--but still--Of course the wholemedical staff here has been interested in it. It has some extraordinaryfeatures. You I think have had a brother-in-law "missing" for sometime?'

He had piloted her into the bare _salle � manger_, where two youngofficers, with a party of newly-arrived V. A. D. 's were having dinner, andwhere through an open window came in the dull sound of waves breaking ona sandy shore. 

'My brother-in-law has been missing since the battle of Loos, ' saidBridget--'more than a year. We none of us believe that he can be alive. But of course when Dr. Howson wrote to me, I came at once. '

'Has he a wife?'

'Yes, but she is very delicate. That is why Dr. Howson wrote to me. Ifthere were any chance--of course we must send for her. But I shallknow--I shall know at once. '

'I suppose you will--yes, I suppose you will, ' mused the major. 'Thoughof course a man is terribly aged by such an experience. He'sEnglish--that we're certain of. He often seems to understand--halfunderstand--a written phrase or word in English. And he is certainly aman of refinement. All his personal ways--all that is instinctive andautomatic--the subliminal consciousness, so to speak--seems to be thatof a gentleman. But it is impossible to get any response out of him, foranything connected with the war. And yet we doubt whether there is anyactual brain lesion. So far it seems to be severe functionaldisturbance--which is neurasthenia--aggravated by his wounds and generalstate. But the condition is getting worse steadily. It is very sad, andvery touching. However, you will get it all out of Vincent. You musthave some dinner first. I wish you a good-night. '

And the good man, so stout and broad-shouldered that he seemed to bebursting out of his khaki, hurried away. The lady seemed to himcuriously hard and silent--'a forbidding sort of party. ' But then hehimself was a person of sentiment, expressing all the expected feelingsin the right places, and with perfect sincerity. 

Bridget took her modest dinner, and then sat by the window, looking outover a lonely expanse of sand, towards a moonlit sea. To right and leftwere patches of pine wood, and odd little seaside villas, with fantasticturrets and balconies. A few figures passed--nurses in white headdresses, and men in khaki. Bridget understood after talking to thelittle _patronne_, that the name of the place was Paris � la Mer, thatthere was a famous golf course near, and that large building, with apainted front to the right, was once the Casino, and now a hospital forofficers. 

It was all like a stage scene, the sea, the queer little houses, themoonlight, the passing figures. Only the lights were so few and dim, andthere was no music. 

'Miss Cookson?'

Bridget turned, to see a tall young surgeon in khaki, tired, pale anddusty, who looked at her with a frown of worry, a man evidentlyover-driven, and with hardly any mind to give to this extra task thathad been put upon him. 

'I'm sorry to be late--but we've had an awful rush to-day, ' he said, ashe perfunctorily shook hands. 'There was some big fighting on the Somme, the night before last, and the casualty trains have been coming in allday. I'm only able to get away for five minutes. 

'Well now, Miss Cookson'--he sat down opposite her, and tried to get histhoughts into business shape--'first let me tell you it's a greatmisfortune for you that Howson's had to go off. I know something aboutthe case--but not nearly as much as he knows. First of all--how old wasyour brother-in-law?'

'About twenty-seven--I don't know precisely. '

'H'm. Well of course this man looks much older than that--but thequestion is what's he been through? Was Lieutenant Sarratt fair ordark?'

'Rather dark. He had brown hair. '

'Eyes?'

'I can't remember precisely, ' said Bridget, after a moment. 'I don'tnotice the colour of people's eyes. But I'm sure they were some kind ofbrown. '

'This man's are a greenish grey. Can you recollect anything peculiarabout Lieutenant Sarratt's hands?'

Again Bridget paused for a second or two, and then said--'I can'tremember anything at all peculiar about them. '

The surgeon looked at her closely, and was struck with the woodenirresponsiveness of the face, which was however rather handsome, hethought, than otherwise. No doubt, she was anxious to speakdeliberately, when so much might depend on her evidence and her opinion. But he had never seen any countenance more difficult to read. 

'Perhaps you're not a close observer of such things?'

'No, I don't think I am. '

'H'm--that's rather a pity. A great deal may turn on them, in thiscase. '

Then the face before him woke up a little. 

'But I am quite sure I should know my brother-in-law again, under anycircumstances, ' said Bridget, with emphasis. 

'Ah, don't be so sure! Privation and illness change people terribly. Andthis poor fellow has _suffered_!'--he shrugged his shouldersexpressively. 'Well, you will see him to-morrow. There is of course noexternal evidence to help us whatever. The unlucky accident that theEnglishman's companion--who was clearly a Belgian peasant, disguised--ofthat there is no doubt--was shot through the lungs at the very momentthat the two men reached the British line, has wiped out all possiblemeans of identification--unless, of course, the man himself can berecognised by someone who knew him. We have had at least a dozenparties--relations of "missing" men--much more recent cases--over herealready--to no purpose. There is really no clue, unless'--the speakerrose with a tired smile--'unless you can supply one, when you see him. But I am sorry about the fingers. That has always seemed to me apossible clue. To-morrow then, at eleven?'

Bridget interrupted. 

'It is surely most unlikely that my brother-in-law could have survivedall this time? If he had been a prisoner, we should have heard of him, long ago. Where could he have been?'

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 

'There have been a few cases, you know--of escaped prisoners--evadingcapture for a long time--and finally crossing the line. But of course it_is_ very unlikely--most unlikely. Well, to-morrow?' He bowed anddeparted. 

Bridget made her way to her small carpetless room, and sat for long witha shawl round her at the open window. She could imagine the farm in thismoonlight. It was Saturday. Very likely both Cicely and Sir William wereat the cottage. She seemed to see Nelly, with the white shawl over herdark head, saying good-night to them at the farm-gate. That meant thatit was all going forward. Some day, --and soon, --Nelly would discoverthat Farrell was necessary to her--that she couldn't do withouthim--just as she had never been able in practical ways to do without hersister. No, there was nothing in the way of Nelly's great future, andthe free development of her--Bridget's--own life, but this sudden andmost unwelcome stroke of fate. If she had to send for Nelly--supposingit really were Sarratt--and then if he died--Nelly might never get overit. 

It might simply kill her--why not? All the world knew that she was aweakling. And if it didn't kill her, it would make it infinitely lesslikely that she would marry Farrell--in any reasonable time. Nelly wasnot like other people. She was all feelings. Actually to see Georgedie--and in the state that these doctors described--would rack andtorture her. She would never be the same again. The first shock was badenough; this might be far worse. Bridget's selfishness, in truth, counted on the same fact as Farrell's tenderness. 'After all, whatpeople don't see, they can't feel'--to quite the same degree. But ifNelly, being Nelly, had seen the piteous thing, she would turn againstFarrell, and think it loyalty to George to send her rich suitor abouthis business. Bridget felt that she could exactly foretell the course ofthings. A squalid and melancholy veil dropped over the future. Poverty, struggle, ill-health for Nelly--poverty, and the starving of all naturaldesires and ambitions for herself--that was all there was to lookforward to, if the Farrells were alienated, and the marriage thwarted. 

A fierce revolt shook the woman by the window. She sat on there till themoon dropped into the sea, and everything was still in the littleechoing hotel. And then though she went to bed she could not sleep. 

 * * * * *

After her coffee and roll in the little _salle � manger_, which with itsbare boards and little rags of curtains was only meant for summerguests, and was now, on this first of November, nippingly cold, Bridgetwandered a little on the shore watching the white dust of the foam as achill west wind skimmed it from the incoming waves, then packed her bag, and waited restlessly for Dr. Vincent. She understood she was to beallowed, if she wished, two visits in the hospital, so as to give her anopportunity of watching the patient she was going to see, without unduehurry, and would then be motored back to D---- in time for the nightboat. She was bracing herself therefore to an experience the details ofwhich she only dimly foresaw, but which must in any case be excessivelydisagreeable. What exactly she was going to do or say, she didn't know. How could she, till the new fact was before her?

Punctually on the stroke of eleven, a motor arrived in charge of an armydriver, and Bridget set out. They were to pick up Vincent in the town ofX---- itself and run on to the Camp. The sun was out by this time, andall the seaside village, with its gimcrack hotels and villas flungpell-mell upon the sand, and among the pines, was sparkling under it. Sowere the withered woods, where the dead leaves were flying before thewind, the old town where Napoleon gathered his legions for the attack onEngland, and the wide sandy slopes beyond it, where the pine woods hadperished to make room for the Camp. The car stopped presently on theedge of the town. To the left spread a river estuary, with a spit ofland beyond, and lighthouses upon it, sharp against a pale blue sky. Every shade of pale yellow, of lilac and pearl, sparkled in thedistance, in the scudding water, the fast flying westerly clouds, andthe sandy inlets among the still surviving pines. 

'You're punctuality itself, ' said a man emerging from a building beforewhich a sentry was pacing--'Now we shall be there directly. '

The building, so Bridget was informed, housed the Headquarters of theBase, and from it the business of the great Camp, whether on itsmilitary or its hospital side, was mainly carried on. And as they drovetowards the Camp her companion, with the natural pride of the Englishmanin his job, told the marvellous tale of the two preceding years--how thevast hospital city had been reared, and organised--the military camptoo--the convalescent camp--the transports--and the feeding. 

'The Boche thought they were the only organisers in the world!--We'vetaught them better!' he said, with a laugh in his pleasant eyes, thewhole man of him, so weary the night before, now fresh and alert in themorning sunshine. 

Bridget listened with an unwilling attention. This bit of the war seenclose at hand was beginning to suggest to her some new vast world, ofwhich she was wholly ignorant, where she was the merest cypher onsufferance. The thought was disagreeable to her irritable pride, and shethrust it aside. She had other things to consider. 

They drew up outside one of the general hospitals lined along the Camproad. 

'You'll find him in a special ward, ' said Vincent, as he handed her out. 'But I'll take you first to Sister. '

They entered the first hut, and made their way past various small rooms, amid busy people going to and fro. Bridget was aware of the usualhospital smell of mingled anesthetic and antiseptic, and presently, hercompanion laid a hasty hand on her arm and drew her to one side. Asurgeon passed with a nurse. They entered a room on the right, and leftthe door of it a little ajar. 

'The operating theatre, ' said Vincent, with a gesture that shewed herwhere to look; and through the open door Bridget saw a white roombeyond, an operating table and a man, a splendid boy of nineteen ortwenty lying on it, with doctors and nurses standing round. The youth'sfeatures shewed waxen against the white walls, and white overalls of thenurses. 

'This way, ' said Vincent. 'Sister, this is Miss Cookson. Youremember--Dr. Howson sent for her. '

A shrewd-faced woman of forty in nurse's dress looked closely atBridget. 

'We shall be very glad indeed, Miss Cookson, if you can throw any lighton this case. It is one of the saddest we have here. Will you follow me, please?'

Bridget found herself passing through the main ward of the hut, rows ofbeds on either hand. She seemed to be morbidly conscious of scores ofeyes upon her, and was glad when she found herself in the passage beyondthe ward. 

The Sister opened a door into a tiny sitting-room, and offered Bridget achair. 

'They have warned you that this poor fellow is deaf and dumb?'

'Yes--I had heard that. '

'And his brain is very clouded. He tries to do all we tell him--it istouching to see him. But his real intelligence seems to be far away. Then there are the wounds. Did Dr. Howson tell you about them?'

'He said there were bad wounds. '

The Sister threw up her hands. 

'How he ever managed to do the walking he must have done to get throughthe lines is a mystery to us all. What he must have endured! The woundsmust have been dressed to begin with in a German field-hospital. Then onhis way to Germany, before the wounds had properly healed--that at leastis our theory--somewhere near the Belgian frontier he must have made hisescape. What happened then, of course, during the winter and springnobody knows; but when he reached our lines, the wounds were both in aseptic state. There have been two operations for gangrene since he hasbeen here. I don't think he'll stand another. '

Bridget lifted her eyes and looked intently at the speaker--

'You think he's very ill?'

'Very ill, ' said the Sister emphatically. 'If you can identify him, youmust send for his wife at once--_at once_! Lieutenant Sarratt was, Ithink, married?'

'Yes, ' said Bridget. 'Now may I see him?'

The Sister looked at her visitor curiously. She was both puzzled andrepelled by Bridget's manner, by its lack of spring and cordiality, itsdull suggestion of something reserved and held back. But perhaps thewoman was only shy; and oppressed by the responsibility of what she hadcome to do. The Sister was a very human person, and took tolerant viewsof everything that was not German. She rose, saying gently--

'If I may advise you, take time to watch him, before you form or expressany opinion. We won't hurry you. '

Bridget followed her guide a few steps along the corridor. The Sisteropened a door, and stood aside to let Bridget pass in. Then she came inherself, and beckoned to a young probationer who was rolling bandages onthe further side of the only bed the room contained. The girl quietlyput down her work and went out. 

There was a man lying in the bed, and Bridget looked at him. Her heartbeat so fast, that she felt for a moment sick and suffocated. The Sisterbent over him tenderly, and put back the hair, the grey hair which hadfallen over his forehead. At the touch, his eyes opened, and as he sawthe Sister's face he very faintly smiled. Bridget suddenly put out ahand and steadied herself by a chair standing beside the bed. The Sisterhowever saw nothing but the face on the pillow, and the smile. The smilewas so rare!--it was the one sufficient reward for all his nurses didfor him. 

'Now I'll leave you, ' said the Sister, forbearing to ask any furtherquestions. 'Won't you sit down there? If you want anyone, you have onlyto touch that bell. '

She disappeared. And Bridget sat down, her eyes on the figure in thebed, and on the hand outside the sheet. Her own hands were trembling, asthey lay crossed upon her lap. 

How grey and thin the hair was--how ghostly the face--what suffering inevery line!

Bridget drew closer. 

'George!' she whispered. 

No answer. The man's eyes were closed again. He seemed to be asleep. Bridget looked at his hand--intently. Then she touched it. 

The heavy blue-veined eyelids rose again, as though at the only summonsthe brain understood. Bridget bent forward. What colour there had beenin it before ebbed from her sallow face; her lips grew white. The eyesof the man in the bed met hers--first mechanically--without any sign ofconsciousness; then--was it imagination?--or was there a sudden changeof expression--a quick trouble--a flickering of the lids? Bridget shookthrough every limb. If he recognised her, if the sight of her broughtmemory back--even a gleam of it--there was an end of everything, ofcourse. She had only to go to the nearest telegraph office and send forNelly. 

But the momentary stimulus passed as she looked--the eyes grew vacantagain--the lids fell. Bridget drew a long breath. She raised herself andmoved her chair farther away. 

Time passed. The window behind her was open, and the sun came in, andstole over the bed. The sick man scarcely moved at all. There wascomplete silence, except for the tread of persons in the corridoroutside, and certain distant sounds of musketry and bomb practice fromthe military camp half a mile away. 

He was dying--the man in the bed. That was plain. Bridget knew the lookof mortal illness. It couldn't be long. 

She sat there nearly an hour--thinking. At the end of that time she rangthe hand-bell near her. 

Sister Agnes appeared at once. Bridget had risen and confronted her. 

'Well, ' said the Sister eagerly. But the visitor's irresponsive lookquenched her hopes at once. 

'I see nothing at all that reminds me of my brother-in-law, ' saidBridget with emphasis. 'I am very sorry--but I cannot identify thisperson as George Sarratt. '

The Sister's face fell. 

'You don't even see the general likeness Dr. Howson thought he saw?'

Bridget turned back with her towards the bed. 

'I see what Dr. Howson meant, ' she said, slowly. 'But there is no reallikeness. My brother-in-law's face was much longer. His mouth was quitedifferent. And his eyes were brown. '

'Did you see the eyes again? Did he look at you?'

'Yes. '

'And there was no sign of recognition?'

'No. '

'Poor dear fellow!' said the Sister, stooping over him again. There wasa profound and yearning pity in the gesture. 'I wish we could have kepthim more alive--more awake--for you, to see. But there had to be morphiathis morning. He had a dreadful night. Are you _quite_ sure? Wouldn'tyou like to come back this afternoon, and watch him again? Sometimes asecond time--Oh, and what of the hands?--did you notice them?' Andsuddenly remembering Dr. Howson's words, the Sister pointed to thelong, bloodless fingers lying on the sheet, and to the marked deformityin each little finger. 

'Yet--but George's hands were not peculiar in any way. ' Bridget's voice, as she spoke, seemed to herself to come from far away; as though it werethat of another person speaking under compulsion. 

'I'm sorry--I'm sorry!'--the Sister repeated. 'It's so sad for him to bedying here--all alone--nobody knowing even who he is--when one thinkshow somebody must be grieving and longing for him. '

'Have you no other enquiries?' said Bridget, abruptly, turning to pickup some gloves she had laid down. 

'Oh yes--we have had other visitors--and I believe there is a gentlemancoming to-morrow. But nothing that sounded so promising as your visit. You won't come again?'

'It would be no use, ' said the even, determined voice. 'I will write toDr. Howson from London. And I do hope'--for the first time, the kindlynurse perceived some agitation in this impressive stranger--'I do hopethat nobody will write to my sister--to Mrs. Sarratt. She is verydelicate. Excitement and disappointment might just kill her. That's whyI came. '

'And that of course is why Dr. Howson wrote to you first. Oh I am surehe will take every care. He'll be very, very sorry! You'll write to him?And of course so shall I. '

The news that the lady from England had failed to identify the namelesspatient to whom doctor and nurses had been for weeks giving their mostdevoted care spread rapidly, and Bridget before she left the hospitalhad to run the gauntlet of a good many enquiries, at the hands of thevarious hospital chiefs. She produced on all those who questioned herthe impression of an unattractive, hard, intelligent woman whosejudgment could probably be trusted. 

'Glad she isn't my sister-in-law!' thought Vincent as he turned backfrom handing her into the motor which was to take her to the port. Buthe did not doubt her verdict, and was only sorry for 'old Howson, ' whohad been so sure that something would come of her visit. 

The motor took Bridget rapidly back to D----, where she would be in goodtime for an afternoon boat. She got some food, automatically, at a hotelnear the quay, and automatically made her way to the boat when the timecame. A dull sense of something irrevocable, --somethinghorrible, --overshadowed her. But the 'will to conquer' in her was asiron; and, as in the Prussian conscience, left no room for pity orremorse. 

CHAPTER XIII

A psychologist would have found much to interest him in BridgetCookson's mental state during the days which followed on her journey toFrance. The immediate result of that journey was an acute sharpening ofintelligence, accompanied by a steady, automatic repression of all thoseelements of character or mind which might have interfered with its freeworking. Bridget understood perfectly that she had committed a crime, and at first she had not been able to protect herself against the normalreaction of horror or fear. But the reaction passed very quickly. Conscience gave up the ghost. Selfish will, and keen wits held thefield; and Bridget ceased to be more than occasionally uncomfortable, though a certain amount of anxiety was of course inevitable. 

She did not certainly want to be found out, either by Nelly or theFarrells; and she took elaborate steps to prevent it. She wrote first along letter to Howson giving her reasons for refusing to believe in histentative identification of the man at X---- as George Sarratt, andbegging him not to write to her sister. 'That would be indeed _cruel_. She can just get along now, and every month she gets a little stronger. But her heart, which was weakened by the influenza last year, wouldnever stand the shock of a fearful disappointment. Please let her be. Itake all the responsibility. That man is not George Sarratt. I hope youmay soon discover who he is. '

Step No. 2 was to go, on the very morning after she arrived in London, to the Enquiry Office in A---- Street. Particulars of the case in Francehad that morning reached the office, and Bridget was but just in time tostop a letter from Miss Eustace to Nelly. When she pointed out that shehad been over to France on purpose to see for herself, that there was nodoubt at all in her own mind, and that it would only torment a frailinvalid to no purpose to open up the question, the letter was of coursecountermanded. Who could possibly dispute a sister's advice in such acase? And who could attribute the advice to anything else than sisterlyaffection!

Meanwhile among the mountains an unusually early winter was beginning toset in. The weather grew bitterly cold, and already a powdering of snowwas on the fell-tops. For all that, Nelly could never drink deep enoughof the November beauty, as it shone upon the fells through some brightfrosty days. The oaks were still laden with leaf; the fern was stillscarlet on the slopes; and the ghylls and waterfalls leapt foaming whitedown their ancestral courses. And in this austerer world, Nelly'sdelicate personality, as though braced by the touch of winter, seemed tomove more lightly and buoyantly. She was more vividly interested inthings and persons--in her drawing, her books, her endless knitting andsewing for the wounded. She was puzzled that Bridget stayed so long intown, but alack! she could do very well without Bridget. Some portion ofthe savour of life, of that infinity of small pleasures which each daymay bring for the simple and the pure in heart, was again hers. Insensibly the great wound was healing. The dragging anguish of thefirst year assailed her now but rarely. 

One morning she opened the windows in the little sitting-room, to let inthe sunshine, and the great spectacle of the Pikes wrapped in majesticshadow, purple-black, with the higher peaks ranged in a hierarchy oflight behind them. 

She leant far out of the window, breathing in the tonic smell of the oakleaves on the grass beneath her, and the freshness of the mountain air. Then, as she turned back to the white-walled raftered room with itsbright fire, she was seized with the pleasantness of this place whichwas now her home. Insensibly it had captured her heart, and her senses. And who was it--what contriving brain--had designed and built it up, outof the rough and primitive dwelling it had once been?

Of course, William Farrell had done it all! There was scarcely a pieceof furniture, a picture, a book, that was not of his choosing andplacing. Little by little, they had been gathered round her. His handhad touched and chosen them, every one. He took far more pleasure andinterest in the details of these few rooms than in any of his ownhouses and costly possessions. 

Suddenly--as she sat there on the window-ledge, considering the room, her back to the mountains--one of those explosions of consciousnessrushed upon Nelly, which, however surprising the crash, are really longprepared and inevitable. 

What did that room really _mean_--the artistic and subtle simplicity ofit?--the books, the flowers, and the few priceless things, drawings orterra-cottas, brought from the cottage, and changed every few weeks byFarrell himself, who would arrive with them under his arm, or in hispockets, and take them back in like manner. 

The colour flooded into Nelly's face. She dropped it in her hands with alow cry. An agony seized her. She loathed herself. 

Then springing up passionately she began to pace the narrow floor, herslender arms and hands locked behind her. 

Sir William was coming that very evening. So was Cicely, who was to beher own guest at the farm, while Marsworth, so she heard, was to havethe spare room at the cottage. 

She had not seen William Farrell for some time--for what counted, atleast, as some time in their relation; not since that evening beforeBridget went away--more than a fortnight. But it was borne in upon herthat she had heard from him practically every day. There, in the drawerof her writing-table, lay the packet of his letters. She looked forthem now morning after morning, and if they failed her, the day seemedblank. Anybody might have read them--or her replies. None the lessFarrell's letters were the outpouring of a man's heart and mind to theone person with whom he felt himself entirely at ease. The endlessproblems and happenings of the great hospital to which he was devotingmore and more energy, and more and more wealth; the incidents andpersons that struck him; his loves and hates among the staff or thepatients; the humour or the pity of the daily spectacle;--it was allthere in his letters, told in a rich careless English that stuck to thememory. Nelly was accustomed to read and re-read them. 

Yes, and she was proud to receive them!--proud that he thought so muchof her opinion and cared so much for her sympathy. But _why_ did hewrite to her, so constantly, so intimately?--what was the real motive ofit all?

At last, Nelly asked herself the question. It was fatal of course. Solong as no question is asked of Lohengrin--who, what, and whence heis--the spell holds, the story moves. But examine it, as we all know, and the vision fades, the gleam is gone. 

She passed rapidly, and almost with terror, into a misery of remorse. What had she been doing with this kindest and best of men? Allowing himto suppose that after a little while she would be quite ready to forgetGeorge and be his wife? That threw her into a fit of helpless crying. The tears ran down her cheeks as she moved to and fro. HerGeorge!--falling out there, in that ghastly No Man's Land, dying outthere, alone, with no one to help, and quiet now in his unknown grave. And after little more than a year she was to forget him, and be rich andhappy with a new lover--a new husband?

She seemed to herself the basest of women. Base towards George--andtowards Farrell--both! What could she do?--what must she do? Oh, shemust go away--she must break it all off! And looking despairingly roundthe room, which only an hour before had seemed to her so dear andfamiliar, she tried to imagine herself in exile from all it represented, cut off from Farrell and from Cicely, left only to her own weak self. 

But she must--she _must_! That very evening she must speak to Willy--shemust have it out. Of course he would urge her to stay there--he wouldpromise to go away--and leave her alone. But that would be too mean, tooungrateful. She couldn't banish him from this spot that he loved, wherehe snatched his few hours--always now growing fewer--of rest andpleasure. No, she must just depart. Without telling him? Withoutwarning? Her will failed her. 

She got out her table, with its knitting, and its bundles of preparedwork which had arrived that morning from the workroom, and began uponone of them mechanically. But she was more and more weighed down by asense of catastrophe--which was also a sense of passionate shame. Why, she was George's wife, still!--his _wife_--for who could _know_, forcertain, that he was dead? That was what the law meant. _Seven years_!

 * * * * *

She spent the day in a wretched confusion of thoughts and plans. Atelegram from Cicely arrived about midday--'Can't get to you tillto-morrow. Willy and Marsworth coming to-day--Marsworth not till late. '

So any hour might bring Farrell. She sat desperately waiting for him. Meanwhile there was a post-card from Bridget saying that she too wouldprobably arrive that evening. 

That seemed the last straw. Bridget would merely think her a fool;Bridget would certainly quarrel with her. Why, it had been Bridget'sconstant object to promote the intimacy with the Farrells, to throw herand Sir William together. Nelly remembered her own revolts and refusals. They seemed now so long ago! In those days it was jealousy for Georgethat filled her, the fierce resolve to let no one so much as dream thatshe could ever forget him, and to allow no one to give money to George'swife, for whom George himself had provided, and should still provide. And at an earlier stage--after George left her, and before he died--shecould see herself, as she looked back, keeping Sir William firmly at adistance, resenting those friendly caressing ways, which othersaccepted--which she too now accepted, so meekly, so abominably! Shethought of his weekly comings and goings, as they were now; how, ingreeting and good-bye, he would hold her hands, both of them, in his;how once or twice he had raised them to his lips. And it had begun toseem quite natural to her, wretch that she was; because he pitied her, because he was so good to her--and so much older, nearly twenty years. He was her brother and dear friend, and she the little sister whom hecherished, who sympathised with all he did, and would listen as long ashe pleased, while he talked of everything that filled his mind--the warnews, his work, his books, his companions; or would sit by, watchingbreathlessly while his skilful hand put down some broad 'note' of colouror light, generally on a page of her own sketch-book. 

Ah, but it must end--it must end! And she must tell him to-night. 

Then she fell to thinking of how it was she had been so blind for solong; and was now in this tumult of change. One moment, and she wasstill the Nelly of yesterday, cheerful, patient, comforted by the loveof her friends; and the next, she had become this poor, helpless thing, struggling with her conscience, her guilty conscience, and her sorrow. How had it happened? There was something uncanny, miraculous in it. Butanyway, there, in a flash it stood revealed--her treason to George--herunkindness to Willy. 

For she would never marry him--never! She simply felt herself anunfaithful wife--a disloyal friend. 

 * * * * *

The November day passed on, cloudless, to its red setting over theConiston fells. Wetherlam stood black against the barred scarlet of thewest, and all the valleys lay veiled in a blue and purple mist, traversed by rays of light, wherever a break in the mountain wall letthe sunset through. The beautiful winter twilight had just begun, whenNelly heard the step she waited for outside. 

She did not run to the window to greet him as she generally did. She satstill, by the fire, her knitting on her knee. Her black dress was veryblack, with the plainest white ruffle at her throat. She looked verysmall and pitiful. Perhaps she meant to look it! The weak in dealingwith the strong have always that instinctive resource. 

'How jolly to find you alone!' said Farrell joyously, as he entered theroom. 'I thought Miss Bridget was due. ' He put down the books with whichhe had come laden and approached her with outstretched hands. 'Isay!--you don't look well!' His look, suddenly sobered, examined her. 

'Oh yes, I am quite well. Bridget comes to-night. '

She hurriedly withdrew herself, and he sat down opposite her, holdingsome chilly fingers to the blaze, surveying her all the time. 

'Why doesn't Bridget stop here and look after you?'

Nelly laughed. 'Because she has much more interesting things to do!'

'That's most unlikely! Have you been alone all the week?'

'Yes, but quite busy, thank you--and quite well. ' 'You don't look it, 'he repeated gravely, after a moment. 

'So busy, and so well, ' she insisted, 'that even I can't find excusesfor idling here much longer. '

He gave a perceptible start. 'What does that mean? What are you going todo?'

'I don't know. But I think'--she eyed him uneasily--'hospital work ofsome kind. '

He shook his head. 

'I wouldn't take you in my hospital! You'd knock up in a week. '

'You're quite, quite mistaken, ' she said, eagerly. 'I can wash dishesand plates now as well as anyone. Hester told me the other day of asmall hospital managed by a friend of hers--where they want aparlour-maid. I could do that capitally. '

'Where is it?' he asked, after a moment. 

She hesitated, and at last said evasively--

'In Surrey somewhere--I think. '

He took up the tongs, and deliberately put the fire together, insilence. At last he said--

'I thought you promised Cicely and me that you wouldn't attemptanything of the kind?'

'Not till I was fit. ' Her voice trembled a little. 'But now I am--quitefit. '

'You should let your friends judge that for you, ' he said gently. 

'No, no, I can't. I must judge for myself. ' She spoke with growingagitation. 'You have been so awfully, awfully good to me!--and now'--shebent forward and laid a pleading hand on his arm--'now you must be goodto me in another way I you must let me go. I brood here too much. I wantnot to think--I am so tired of myself. Let me go and think about otherpeople--drudge a little--and slave a little! Let me--it will do megood!'

His face altered perceptibly during this appeal. When he first came in, fresh from the frosty air, his fair hair and beard flaming in thefirelight, his eyes all pleasure, he had seemed the embodiment ofwhatever is lusty and vigorous in life--an overwhelming presence in thelittle cottage room. But he had many subtler aspects. And as he listenedto her, the Viking, the demi-god, disappeared. 

'And what about those--to whom it will do harm?'

'Oh no, it won't do harm--to anybody, ' she faltered. 

'It will do the greatest harm!'--he laid a sharp emphasis on the words. 'Isn't it worth while to be just the joy and inspiration of those whocan work hard--so that they go away from you, renewed like eagles?Cicely and I come--we tell you our troubles--our worries--our failures, and our successes. We couldn't tell them to anyone else. But you sithere; and you're so gentle and so wise--you see things so clearly, justbecause you're not in the crowd, not in the rough and tumble--that we goaway--bucked up!--and run our shows the better for our hours with you. Why must women be always bustling and hurrying, and all of them doingthe same things? If you only knew the blessing it is to find someonewith a little leisure just to feel, and think!--just to listen to whatone has to say. You know I am always bursting with things to say!'

He looked at her with a laugh. His colour had risen. 

'I arrive here--often--full of grievances and wrath againsteverybody--hating the Government--hating the War Office--hating our ownstaff, or somebody on it--entirely and absolutely persuaded that thecountry is going to the dogs, and that we shall be at Germany's mercy insix months. Well, there you sit--I don't know how you manage it!--butsomehow it all clears away. I don't want to hang anybody any more--Ithink we are going to win--I think our staff are splendid fellows, andthe nurses, angels--(they ain't, though, all the same!)--and it's all_you_!--just by being you--just by giving me rope enough--letting mehave it all out. And I go away with twice the work in me I had when Icame. And Cicely's the same--and Hester. You play upon us all--justbecause'--he hesitated--'because you're so sweet to us all. You raise usto a higher power; you work through us. Who else will do it if youdesert us?'

Her lips trembled. 

'I don't want to desert you, but--what right have I to suchcomfort--such luxury--when other people are suffering and toiling?'

He raised his eyebrows. 

'Luxury? This little room? And there you sit sewing and knitting allday! And I'll be bound you don't eat enough to keep a sparrow!'

There was silence. She was saying to herself--'Shall I ever be able togo?--to break with them all?' The thought, the image, of George flashedagain through her mind. But why was it so much fainter, so much lessdistinct than it had been an hour ago? Yet she seemed to turn to him, tobeg him piteously to protect her from something vague and undefined. 

Suddenly a low voice spoke--

'Nelly!--don't go!'

She looked up--startled--her childish eyes full of tears. 

He held out his hand, and she could not help it, she yielded her own. 

Farrell's look was full of energy, of determination. He drew nearer toher, still holding her hand. But he spoke with perfect self-control. 

'Nelly, I won't deceive you! I love you! You are everything to me. Itseems as if I had never been happy--never known what happiness couldpossibly mean till I knew you. To come here every week--to see you likethis for these few hours--it changes everything--it sweetenseverything--because you are in my heart--because I have the hope--thatsome day----'

She withdrew her hand and covered her face. 

'Oh, it's my fault--my fault!' she said, incoherently--'how couldI?--how _could_ I?'

There was silence again. He opened his lips to speak once or twice, butno words came. One expression succeeded another on his face; his eyessparkled. At last he said--'How could you help it? You could not preventmy loving you. '

'Yes, I could--I ought----, ' she said, vehemently. 'Only I was a fool--Inever realised. That's so like me. I won't face things. And yet'--shelooked at him miserably--'I did beg you to let me live my ownlife--didn't I?--not to spoil me--not--not to be so kind to me. '

He smiled. 

'Yes. But then you see--you were you!'

She sprang up, looking down upon him, as he sat by the fire. 'That'sjust it. If I were another person! But no!--no! I can't be your friend. I'm not old enough--or clever enough. And I can't ever be anythingelse. '

'Why?' He asked it very quietly, his eyes raised to hers. He could seethe quick beat of her breath under her black dress. 

'Because I'm not my own. I'm not free--you know I'm not. I'm not freelegally--and I'm not free in heart. Oh, if George were to come in atthat door!'--she threw back her head with a passionate gesture--'therewould be nobody else in the world for me--nobody--nobody!'

He stooped over the fire, fidgeting with it, so that his face was hiddenfrom her. 

'You know, I think, that if I believed there was the faintest hope ofthat, I should never have said a word--of my own feelings. But as itis--why must you feel bound to break up this--this friendship, whichmeans so much to us all? What harm is there in it? Time will clear up agreat deal. I'll hold my tongue--I promise you. I won't bother you. Iwon't speak of it again--for a year--or more--if you wish. But--don'tforsake us!'

He looked up with that smile which in Cicely's unbiased opinion gave himsuch an unfair advantage over womankind. 

With a little sob, Nelly walked away towards the window, which was stilluncurtained though the night had fallen. Outside there was a starry deepof sky, above Wetherlam and the northern fells. The great shapes heldthe valley in guard; the river windings far below seemed still to keepthe sunset; while here and there shone scattered lights in farms andcottages, sheltering the old, old life of the dales. 

Insensibly Nelly's passionate agitation began to subside. Had she beenfilling her own path with imaginary perils and phantoms? Yet thereechoed in her mind the low-spoken words--'I won't deceive you! I loveyou!' And the recollection both frightened and touched her. 

Presently Farrell spoke again, quite in his usual voice. 

'I shall be in despair if you leave me to tackle Cicely alone. She'sbeen perfectly mad lately. But you can put it all right if you choose. '

Nelly was startled into turning back towards him. 

'Oh!--how can I?'

'Tell her she has been behaving abominably, and making a good fellow'slife a burden to him. Scold her! Laugh at her!'

'What has she been doing?' said Nelly, still standing by the window. 

Farrell launched into a racy and elaborate account--the effort of onedetermined, _co�te que co�te_, to bring the conversation back to anordinary key--of Cicely's proceedings, during the ten days since Nellyhad seen her. 

It appeared that Marsworth, after many weeks during which they had heardnothing of him, had been driven north again to his Carton doctor, by areturn of neuralgic trouble in his wounded arm; and as usual had put upat the Rectory, where as usual Miss Daisy, the Rector's granddaughter, had ministered to him like the kind little brick she was. 

'You see, she's altogether too good to be true!' said Farrell. 'And yetit is true. She looks after her grandfather and the parish. She runs theSunday school, and all the big boys are in love with her. She doesV. A. D. Work at the hospital. She spends nothing on her dress. She'sprobably up at six every morning. And all the time, instead of beingplain, which of course virtue ought to be, she's as pretty aspossible--like a little bird. And Cicely can't abide her. I don't knowwhether she's in love with Marsworth. Probably she is. Why not? At anyrate, whenever Marsworth and Cicely fall out, which they do everyday--Cicely has the vile habit--of course you know!--of visitingMarsworth's sins upon little Daisy Stewart. I understood she was guiltyof some enormity at the Red Cross sale in the village last week. Marsworth was shocked, and had it out with her. Consequently theyhaven't been on speaking terms for days. '

'What shall we do with them to-morrow?' cried Nelly in alarm, coming tosit down again by the fire and taking up her knitting. How strange itwas--after that moment of tempestuous emotion--to have fallen backwithin a few minutes into this familiar, intimate chat! Her pulse wasstill rushing. She knew that something irrevocable had happened, andthat when she was alone, she must face it. And meanwhile here she satknitting!--and trying to help him with Cicely as usual!

'Oh, and to-morrow!'--said Farrell with amusement, 'the fat will indeedbe in the fire. '

And he revealed the fact that on his way through Grasmere he had fallenin with the Stewarts. The old man had been suffering from bronchitis, and the two had come for a few days' change to some cousins at Grasmere. 

'And the old man's a bit of a collector and wants to see the Turners. Heknows Carton by heart. So I had to ask them to come up to-morrow--andthere it is!--Cicely will find them in possession, with Marsworth inattendance!'

'Why does she come at all?' said Nelly, wondering. 'She knows CaptainMarsworth will be here. She said so, in her telegram. '

Farrell shrugged his shoulders. 

'"It taks aw soarts to mak a worrld, " as they say up here. But Marsworthand Cis are queer specimens! I am privately certain he can't do for longwithout seeing her. And as for her, I had no sooner arranged that heshould join me here to-night, than she telegraphed to you! Just likeher! I had no idea she thought of coming. Well, I suppose to quarrelyourself into matrimony is one of the recognised openings!'

The talk dropped. The joint consciousness behind it was too much forit. It fell like a withered leaf. 

Farrell got up to go. Nelly too rose, trembling, to her feet. He tookher hand. 

'Don't leave us, ' he repeated, softly. 'You are our little saint--youhelp us by just living. Don't attempt things too hard for you. You'llkill yourself, and then----'

She looked at him mutely, held by the spell of his eyes. 

'Well then, ' he finished, abruptly, 'there won't be much left for oneman to live for. Good-night. '

He was gone, and she was left standing in the firelight, a small, bewildered creature. 

'What shall I do?' she was saying to herself, 'Oh, what ought I to do?'

She sank down on the floor, and hid her face against a chair. Helplessly, she wished that Hester would come!--someone wise and strongwho would tell her what was right. The thought of supplanting George, oflearning to forget him, of letting somebody else take his place in herheart, was horrible--even monstrous--to her. Yet she did not know howshe would ever find the strength to make Farrell suffer. His devotionappealed--not to any answering passion in her--there was none--but to aninnate lovingness, that made it a torment to her to refuse to love andbe loved. Her power of dream, of visualisation, shewed him to her aloneand unhappy; when, perhaps, she might still--without harm--have been ahelp to him--have shewn him her gratitude. She felt herself wavering andretreating; seeking, as usual, the easiest path out of her greatdilemma. Must she either be disloyal to her George?--her dead, herheroic George!--or unkind to this living man, whose unselfish devotionhad stood between her and despair? After all, might it not still go on?She could protect herself. She was not afraid. 

But she _was_ afraid! She was in truth held by the terror of her ownweakness, and Farrell's strength, as she lay crouching by the fire. 

Outside the wind was rising. Great clouds were coming up from thesouth-west. The rain had begun. Soon it was lashing the windows, andpouring from the eaves of the old farmhouse. 

Nelly went back to her work; and the wind and rain grew wilder as thehours passed. Just as she was thinking wearily of going to bed, therewere sounds of wheels outside. 

Bridget? so late! Nelly had long since given her up. What a night onwhich to face the drive from Windermere! Poor horse!--poor man!

Yes, it was certainly Bridget! As Nelly half rose, she heard the harsh, deep voice upon the stairs. A tall figure, heavily cloaked, entered. 

'My dear Bridget--I'd quite given you up!'

'No need, ' said Bridget coolly, as she allowed Nelly to kiss her cheek. 'The afternoon train from Euston was a little late. You can't help thatwith all these soldiers about. '

'Come and sit down by the fire. Have you done all you wanted to do?'

'Yes. '

Bridget sat down, after taking off her wet water-proof, and held adraggled hat to the blaze. Nelly looking at her was struck by the factthat Bridget's hair had grown very grey, and the lines in her face verydeep. What an extraordinary person Bridget was! What had she been doingall this time?

But nothing could be got out of the traveller. She sat by the fire for awhile, and let Nelly get her a tray of food. But she said very little, except to complain of the weather, and, once, to ask if the Farrellswere at the cottage. 

'Sir William is there, with Captain Marsworth, ' said Nelly. 'Cicelycomes here to-morrow. '

'Does she expect me to give her my room?' said Bridget sharply. 

'Not at all. She likes the little spare-room. '

'Or pretends to! Has Sir William been here to-day?'

'Yes, he came round. '

A few more questions and answers led to silence broken only by thecrackling of the fire. The firelight played on Nelly's cheek and throat, and on her white languid hands. Presently it caught her wedding-ring, and Bridget's eye was drawn to the sparkle of the gold. She sat lookingabsently at her sister. She was thinking of a tiny room in a huthospital--of the bed--and of those eyes that had opened on her. Andthere sat Nelly--knowing nothing!

It was all a horrible anxiety. But it couldn't last long. 

CHAPTER XIV

'So you are not at church?'

The voice was Marsworth's as he stepped inside the flagged passage ofthe farm, Nelly having just opened the door to him. 

'It's so far!--in winter, ' said Nelly a little guiltily. 'I go toGrasmere in summer. '

'Oh! don't apologise--to a heathen like me! I'm only too thankful tofind you alone. Is your sister here?'

'Yes. But we've made a room for her in one of the outhouses. She worksthere. '

'What at? Is she still learning Spanish?' asked Marsworth, smiling, ashe followed Nelly into the little white drawing-room. 

'I don't know, ' said Nelly, after a moment, in a tone of depression. 'Bridget doesn't tell me. '

The corners of Marsworth's strong mouth shewed amusement. He was notwell acquainted with Bridget Cookson, but as far as his observationwent, she seemed to him a curious specimen of the half-educatedpretentious woman so plentiful in our modern life. In place of'psychology' and 'old Spanish, ' the subjects in which Miss Cookson wassaid to be engaged, he would have liked to prescribe for her--and allher kin--courses of an elementary kind in English history and vulgarfractions. 

But, for Nelly Sarratt, Marsworth felt the tender and chivalrous respectthat natures like hers exact easily from strong men. To him, as toFarrell, she was the 'little saint' and peacemaker, with her lovingness, her sympathy, her lack of all the normal vanities and alloys that besetthe pretty woman. That she was not a strong character, that she waseasily influenced and guided by those who touched her affections, hesaw. But that kind of weakness in a woman--when that woman alsopossesses the mysterious something, half physical, half spiritual, whichgives delight--is never unpleasing to such men as Marsworth, nor indeedto other women. It was Marsworth's odd misfortune that he should havehappened to fall in love with a young woman who had practically none ofthe qualities that he naturally and spontaneously admired in the sex. 

It was, however, about that young woman that he had come to talk. For hewas well aware of Nelly's growing intimacy with Cicely, and had latelybegun to look upon that as his last hope. 

Yet he was no sooner alone with Nelly than he felt a dim compunction. This timid creature, with her dark haunting eyes, had problems enough ofher own to face. He perceived clearly that Farrell's passion for her wasmounting fast, and he had little or no idea what kind of response shewas likely to make to it. But all the same his own need drove him on. And Nelly, who had scarcely slept all night, caught eagerly at sometemporary escape from her own perplexities. 

'Dear Mrs. Sarratt!--have you _any_ idea, whether Cicely cares one brassfarthing for me, or not?'

To such broad and piteous appeal was a gallant officer reduced. Nellywas sorry for him, but could not hide the smile in her eyes, as shesurveyed him. 

'Have you really asked her?'

'Asked her? Many times!--in the dark ages. It is months, however, sinceshe gave me the smallest chance of doing it again. Everything I do orsay appears to annoy her, and of course, naturally, I have relieved herof my presence as much as possible. '

Nelly had taken up her knitting. 

'If you never come--perhaps--Cicely thinks you are tired of her. '

Marsworth groaned. 

'Is that her line now? And yet you know--you are witness!--of how shebehaves when I do come. '

Nelly looked up boldly. 

'You mustn't be angry, but--why can't you accept her--as she is--withoutalways wanting her different?'

Marsworth flushed slightly. The impressive effect of his fine iron-greyhead, and marked features, his scrupulously perfect dress, and generallook of competence and ability, was deplorably undone by the signs inhim of bewilderment and distress. 

'You mean--you think I bully her?--she thinks so?'

'She--she feels--you so dreadfully disapprove of her!' said Nelly, sticking to it, but smiling. 

'She regards me as a first-class prig in fact?'

'No--but she thinks you don't always understand. '

'That I don't know what a splendid creature she is, really?' saidMarsworth with increasing agitation. 'But I do know it! I know it up anddown. Why everybody--except those she dislikes!--at that hospital, adores her. She's wearing herself out at the work. None of us are fit toblack her boots. But if one ever tries to tell her so--my hat!'

'Perhaps she doesn't like being praised either, ' said Nelly softly. 'Perhaps she thinks--an old friend--should take it all for granted. '

'Good Lord!' said Marsworth holding his head in desperation--'whatever Ido is wrong! Dear Mrs. Sarratt!--look here--I must speak up for myself. You know how Cicely has taken of late to being intolerably rude toanybody she thinks is my friend. She castigates me through them. Thatpoor little girl, Daisy Stewart--why she's ready at any moment toworship Cicely! But Cicely tramples on her--_you_ know how she doesit--and if I interfere, I'm made to wish I had never been born! At thepresent moment, Cicely won't speak to me. There was some silly shindy ata parish tea last week--by the way, she's coming to you to-day?'

'She arrives for lunch, ' said Nelly, looking at the clock. 

'And the Stewarts are coming to the cottage in the afternoon!' saidMarsworth in despair. 'Can you keep her away?'

'I'll try--but you know it's not much good trying to manage Cicely. '

'Don't I know it! I return to my first question--does she care ahapo'rth?'

Nelly was looking dreamily into the fire. 

'You mean--does she care enough to give up her ways and take to yours?'

'Yes, I suppose I do mean that, ' he said, with sudden seriousness. 

Nelly shook her head, smiling. 

'I don't know! But--Cicely's worth a deal of trouble. '

He assented with a mixture of fervour and depression. 

'We've known each other since we were boy and girl. That's what makesthe difficulty, perhaps. We know each other too well. When she was achild of fourteen, I was already in the Guards, and I used to try andtackle her--because no one else would. Her father was dead. Her motherhad no influence with her; and Willy was too lazy. So I tried my hand. And I find myself doing the same thing now. But of course it'sfatal--it's fatal!'

Nelly tried to cheer him up, but she was not herself very hopeful. She, perceived too clearly the martinet in him and the rebel in Cicely. Ifsomething were suddenly to throw them together, some common interest oremotion, each might find the other's heart in a way past undoing. On theother hand the jarring habit, once set up, has a way of growing worse, and reducing everything else to dust and ashes. Finally she wound upwith a timid but emphatic counsel. 

'Please--please--don't be sarcastic. '

He looked injured. 

'I never am!'

Nelly laughed. 

'You don't know when you are. And be very nice to her this afternoon. '

'How can I, if she shews me at once that I'm unwelcome? You haven'tanswered my question. '

He was standing ready for departure. Nelly's face changed--became allsad and tender pity. 

'You must ask it yourself!' she said eagerly, 'Go on asking it. It wouldbe too--too dreadful, wouldn't it?--to miss everything--by being proud, or offended, for nothing----'

'What do you mean by everything?'

'You know, ' she said, after a moment, shielding her eyes as they lookedinto the fire; 'I'm sure you know. It _is_ everything. '

As he walked back to the cottage, he found himself speculating not somuch about his own case as about his friend's. Willy was certainly inlove. And Nelly Sarratt was as softly feminine as Cicely was mannishand strong. But he somehow did not feel that Willy's chances were anysafer than his own. 

A car arrived at one o'clock bringing Cicely, much wrapped up in furcoat and motor-veils. She came impetuously into the sitting-room, andseemed to fill it. It took some time to peel her and reduce her to thesize of an ordinary mortal. She then appeared in a navy-blue coat andskirt, with navy-blue boots buttoned almost to the knees. The skirt wasimmensely full and immensely short. When the strange erection to whichthe motor-veil was attached was removed, Cicely showed a dark head withhair cut almost short, and parted on the left side. Her eyebrows wereunmistakably blackened, her lips unmistakably--strengthened; and Nellysaw at once that her guest was in a very feverish and irritatedcondition. 

'Are you alone?' said Cicely, glancing imperiously round her, when thedisrobing was done. 

'Bridget is here. '

'What are you going to do this afternoon?'

'Can't we have a walk, you and I, together?'

'Of course we can. Why should we be bothered with anyone else?'

'I suppose, ' said Nelly timidly--'they will come in to tea?'

'"They"? Oh! you mean Willy and Captain Marsworth? It is such a pityWilly can't find somebody more agreeable for these Sundays. '

Cicely threw herself back in her chair, and lifted a navy-blue boot tothe fire. 

'More agreeable than Captain Marsworth?'

'Exactly. Willy can't do anything without him, when he's in these parts;and it spoils everything!'

Nelly dropped a kiss on Cicely's hair, as she stood beside her. 

'Why didn't you put off coming till next week?'

'Why should I allow my plans to be interfered with by CaptainMarsworth?' said Cicely, haughtily. 'I came to see _you_!'

'Well, we needn't see much of him, ' said Nelly, soothingly, as shedropped on a stool beside her friend. 

'I'm not going to be kept out of the cottage, by Captain Marsworth, allthe same!' said Cicely hastily. 'There are several books there I want. '

'Oh, Cicely, what have you been doing?' said Nelly, laying her head onher guest's knees. 

'Doing? Nothing that I hadn't a perfect right to do. But I suppose--thatvery particular gentleman--has been complaining?'

Nelly looked up, and met an eye, fiercely interrogative, yet trying hardnot to be interrogative. 

'I've been doing my best to pick up the pieces. '

'Then he has been complaining?'

'A little narrative of facts, ' said Nelly mildly. 

'Facts--_facts_!' said Cicely, with the air of a disturbed lioness. 'Asif a man whose ideas of manners and morals date from about--a millionyears before the Flood. '

'Dear!--there weren't any manners or morals a million years before theFlood. '

Cicely drew a breath of exasperation. 

'It's all very well to laugh, but if you only knew how _impossible_ thatman is!'

'Then why not get a Sunday free from him?'

Cicely flushed against her will, and said nothing. Nelly's black eyesobserved her with as much sarcasm in their sweetness as she dared tothrow into them. She changed her tone. 

'Don't go to the cottage this afternoon, Cicely. '

'Why?' The voice was peremptory. 

'Well, because----' Nelly described Farrell's chance meeting with theStewarts and the inevitable invitation. Cicely's flush deepened. But shetried to speak carelessly. 

'Of course, the merest device on that girl's part! She arranged it all. '

'I really don't think she did. '

'Ah, well, _you_ haven't seen what's been going on. A more shamelesspursuit----'

Cicely stopped abruptly. There was a sudden sparkle in Nelly's look, which seemed to shew that the choice of the word 'pursuit' had beenunlucky. 

Miss Farrell quieted down. 

'Of course, ' she said, with a very evident attempt to recapture whateverdignity might be left on the field, 'neither Willy nor I like to see anold friend throwing himself away on a little pink and white nonentitylike Daisy Stewart. We can't be expected to smile upon it. '

'But I understand, from one of the parties principally concerned, thatthere is really nothing in it!' said Nelly, smiling. 

'One of the perjuries I suppose at which Jove laughs!' said Cicelygetting up, and hastily rearranging her short curls with the help ofvarious combs, before the only diminutive looking-glass the farmsitting-room provided. 'However, we shall see what happens. I have nodoubt Miss Daisy has arranged the proposal scene for this veryafternoon. We shall be in for the last act of the play. '

'Then you _are_ going to the cottage?'

'Certainly!' said Cicely, with a clearing brow. 'Don't let's talk anymore about it. Do give me some lunch. I'm ravenous. Ah, here's yoursister!'

For through a back window looking on what had once been a farm-yard, andwas now a small garden, Cicely saw Bridget emerge from the rebuiltouthouse where an impromptu study had been devised for her, and walktowards the farm. 

'I say, what's happened to your sister?'

'Happened to her? What do you mean?'

'She looks so much older. '

'I suppose she's been working too hard, ' said Nelly, remorsefully. 'Iwish I knew what it was all about. '

'Well, I can tell you'--said Cicely laughing and whispering--'thatWilly doesn't think it's about anything in particular!'

'Hush!' said Nelly, with a pained look. 'Perhaps we shall all turn outto be quite wrong. We shall discover that it was something--'

'Desperately interesting and important? Not it! But I'm going to be asgood as good. You'll see. '

And when Bridget appeared, Cicely did indeed behave herself withremarkable decorum. Her opinion was that Nelly's strange sister hadgrown more unlike other people than ever since she had last seen her. She seemed to be in a perpetual brown study, which was compatible, however, with a curious watchfulness which struck Cicely particularly. She was always aware of any undercurrent in the room--of anyone going inor out--of persons passing in the road. At lunch she scarcely opened herlips, but Cicely was all the time conscious of being observed. Afterluncheon Bridget got up abruptly, and said she was going down toGrasmere to post a letter. 

'Oh, then, ' said Nelly--'you can ask if there are any for me. '

For there was no delivery at the farm on Sunday morning. Bridget nodded, and they soon saw her emerge from the farm gate and take the Grasmereroad. 

'I must say your sister seems greatly to prefer her own company toours, ' said Cicely, lighting her cigarette. 

Again Nelly looked distressed. 

'She was always like that, ' she said at last. 'It doesn't really meananything. '

'Do I know you well enough to ask whether you get on with her?'

Nelly coloured. 'I try my best'--she said, rather despairingly. Then sheadded--'she does all sorts of things for me that I'm too lazy to do formyself!'

'I believe she likes Willy better than most people!' laughed Cicely. 'I'm not suggesting, please, that she has designs upon him. But she iscertainly more forthcoming to him than to anybody else, isn't she?'

Nelly did not reply. The remark only clouded her look still more. Forher inner mind was perfectly aware of Bridget's attitude towards WilliamFarrell, and understood it only too well. She knew by this time, pastany doubt, that Bridget was hungry for the Farrell wealth, and wasimpatient with herself as a little fool who had not yet made certain ofit. If she stuck to her purpose--if she went away and cut off allcommunication with Carton--Bridget would probably quarrel with her forgood. 

Would she stick to her purpose? Her mind was miserably swaying to andfro. She felt morally as she had once felt--physically--on a summerafternoon long before, when she, who could not swim, had goneimperceptibly out of her depth, while bathing, and had become suddenlyaware of a seaward current, carrying her away. No help was near. Forfive minutes, which had seemed five years, she had wrestled against thedeadly force, which if her girlish strength had been a fraction less, would have swept her out, a lifeless plaything to the open sea. Spiritually, it was the same now. Farrell's will, and--infinitely lessimportant, but still, to be reckoned with--Bridget's will, were pressingher hard. She did not know if she could keep her footing. 

Meanwhile Cicely, in complete ignorance of the new and agonised tensionin Nelly's mind, was thinking only of her own affairs. As soon as herafter-luncheon cigarette was done, she sprang up and began to put on herhat. 

'So you _are_ going to the cottage?' said Nelly. 

'Certainly. How do you like my boots?'

She held up one for inspection. 

'I don't like them!'

'Fast, you think? Ah, wait till you see my next costume! High Russianboots, delicious things, up to there!' Cicely indicated a point abovethe knee, not generally reached by the female boot--'hand-painted andembroidered--with tassels--you know!--corduroy trousers!'

'Cicely!--you won't!'

'Shan't I--and a pink jersey, the new shade? I saw a friend of mine inthis get-up, last week. Ripping! Only she had red hair, which completedit. Perhaps I might dye mine!'

They sallied forth into a mild winter afternoon. Nelly would haveavoided the cottage and Farrell if she could, but Cicely had her own wayas usual. Presently they turned into a side lane skirting the tarn, fromwhich the cottage and its approaches could be seen, at a distance. Fromthe white-pillared porch, various figures were emerging, four in all. 

Cicely came to a stop. 

'There, you see!' she said, in her sharpest voice--'Look there!' For twoof the figures, whom it was easy to identify as Captain Marsworth andMiss Stewart, diverging from the other pair, went off by themselves inthe direction of Skelwith, with a gay wave of the hand to the old Rectorand Farrell left behind. 

Cicely's sudden scarlet ebbed in a moment, leaving her quite white. Shewalked on with difficulty, her eyes on the ground. Nelly dared notaddress her, or slip a sympathising hand into hers. And it was too lateto retreat. Farrell had perceived them, and he and his companion cametowards them. Cicely pulled herself rapidly together. 

Nelly too had need of a minute or two's recollection before Farrelljoined them. He and she were still to meet as usual, while meeting waspossible--wasn't that how it stood? After all, her new plans could notbe made in a moment. She had promised nothing; but he hadpromised--would she be able to hold him to it? Her heart trembled as hecame nearer. 

But he met her in a sunny mood, introducing her to the white-haired oldclergyman, and watching Cicely with eyes that shewed a hidden amusement. 

'The other two seemed to have some private business to discuss, ' he saidcarelessly. 'So they've got rid of us for a while. They're walking roundthe other side of the tarn and will join us at the top of Red Bank. Atleast if you're up to a walk?'

He addressed Nelly, who could do nothing but assent, though it meant at�te-�-t�te with him, while Cicely and the old Rector followed. 

Mr. Stewart found Miss Farrell anything but an agreeable companion. Hewas not a shrewd observer, and the love-affairs especially of hisfellow-creatures were always a surprise and a mystery to him. But hevaguely understood that his little granddaughter was afraid of MissFarrell and did not get on with her. He, too, was afraid of Cicely andher sharp tongue, while her fantastic dress and her rouge put him inmind of passages in the prophet Ezekiel, the sacred author of whom hewas at that moment making a special study with a view to a CambridgeUniversity sermon. It would be terrible if Daisy were ever to take toimitating Miss Farrell. He was a little disturbed about Daisy lately. She had been so absent-minded, and sometimes--even--a little flighty. She had forgotten the day before, to look out some passages for him; andthere was a rent in his old overcoat she had not mended. He wasdisagreeably conscious of it. And what could she have to say to CaptainMarsworth? It was all rather odd--and annoying. He walked in apreoccupied silence. 

Farrell and Nelly meanwhile were, it seemed, in no lack of conversation. He told her that he might possibly be going to France, in a week or two, for a few days. The Allied offensive on the Somme was apparentlyshutting down for the winter. 'The weather in October just brokeeverybody's heart, vile luck! Nothing to be done but to make the winteras disagreeable to the Boche as we can, and to go on piling up guns andshells for the spring. I'm going to look at hospitals at X---' he nameda great base camp--'and I daresay they'll let me have a run along somebit of the front, if there's a motor to be had. '

Nelly stopped abruptly. He could see the colour fluctuating in herdelicate face. 

'You're going to X---? You--you might see Dr. Howson?'

'Howson?' he said, surprised. 'Do you know him? Yes, I shall certainlysee Howson. He's now the principal surgeon at one of the GeneralHospitals there, where I specially want to look at some new splintsthey've been trying. '

Nelly moved on without speaking for a little. At last she said, almostinaudibly--

'He promised me--to make enquiries. '

'Did he?' Farrell spoke in the grave, deep voice he seemed to keep forher alone, which was always sweet to her ear. 'And he has neverwritten?' She shook her head. 'But he would have written--instantly--youmay be quite sure, if there had been the slightest clue. '

'Oh yes, I know, I know, ' she said hastily. 

'Give me any message for him you like--or any questions you'd like me toask. '

'Yes'--she said, vaguely. 

It seemed to him she was walking languidly, and he was struck by herweary look. The afternoon had turned windy and cold with gusts of rain. But when he suggested an immediate return to the cottage, Nelly wouldhave none of it. 

'We were to meet Captain Marsworth and Miss Stewart. Where are they?'

They emerged at the moment from the cottage grounds, upon the high road;Farrell pointed ahead, and Nelly saw Marsworth and Miss Stewart walkingfast up the hill before them, and evidently in close conversation. 

'What can they have to talk about?' said Nelly, wondering. 

'Wouldn't you like to know!'

'You're not going to tell me?'

'Not a word. '

His eyes laughed at her. They walked on beside each other, strangelycontent. And yet, with what undercurrents of sensitive and woundedconsciousness on her side, of anxiety on his!

At the top of Red Bank they came up with Marsworth and Miss Stewart. Nelly's curiosity was more piqued than ever. If all that Marsworth hadsaid to her was true, why this evident though suppressed agitation onthe girl's part, and these shades of mystery in the air? Daisy Stewartwas what anybody would have called 'a pretty little thing. ' She wassmall, round-cheeked, round-eyed, round-limbed; light upon her feet;shewing a mass of brown hair brushed with gold under her hat, and thefresh complexion of a mountain maid. Nelly guessed her age about threeand twenty, and could not help keenly watching the meeting between herand Cicely. She saw Cicely hold out a limp hand, and the girl's timid, almost entreating eyes. 

But, the next moment, her attention was diverted to a figure slowlymounting the steep hill from Grasmere, on the top of which the cottageparty were now standing, uncertain whether to push on for their walk, orto retreat homewards before the increasing rain. The person approachingwas Bridget. As she perceived her, Nelly was startled into quickrecollection of Cicely's remark of the morning--'Your sister seems tohave grown much older. ' But not only older--_different!_ Nelly could nothave analysed her own impression, but it was so painful that she randown to meet her. 

'Bridget, it's too far for you to Grasmere!--and coming back up thisawful hill! You look quite done. Do go home and lie down, or will youcome to the cottage for tea first? It's nearer. '

Bridget looked at her coldly. 

'Why do you make such a fuss? I'm all right. But I'm not coming to thecottage, thank you. I've got things to do. '

The implication was that everyone else was idle. Nelly drew back, rebuffed. And as Bridget reached the group at the top of the hill it wasas though the rain and darkness suddenly deepened. All talk dropped. Farrell, indeed, greeted her courteously, introduced her to theStewarts, and asked her to come back to the cottage for tea. But he wasrefused as Nelly had been. Bridget went on her way alone towards thefarm. But after parting from the others she turned back suddenly tosay--'There were no letters for you, Nelly. '

'What a mercy!' said Farrell, as Bridget disappeared. 'Don't you thinkso? I never have any forwarded here. '

'Ah, but you get so many, ' said Nelly wistfully. 'But still, lettersdon't matter to me--now. '

He said nothing, but it roused in him a kind of fierce soreness that shewould always keep the past so clearly before herself and him. 

Violent rain came on, and they hurried back to the cottage for shelter. Cicely was talking extravagantly all the time. She was tired to death, she said, of everything patriotic. The people who prattled aboutnursing, and the people who prattled about the war--especially thepeople who talked about women's work--were all equally intolerable. Shemeant to give up everything very soon. Somebody must amuse themselves, or the world would go mad. Farrell threw at her some brotherly jibes;the old Rector looked scared; and Marsworth said nothing. 

 * * * * *

There were bright fires in the cottage, and the dripping walkers wereglad to crowd round them; all except Cicely and Marsworth, who seemed toNelly's watching sense to be oddly like two wrestlers pacing round eachother, and watching the opportunity to close. Each would take out a bookfrom the shelves and put it back, or take up a newspaper from thetables--crossing repeatedly, but never speaking. And meanwhile Nellyalso noticed that Daisy Stewart, now that Cicely's close contact wasremoved, was looking extraordinarily pretty. Radiance, not to beconcealed, shone from her charming childish face. 

Suddenly Marsworth paused in front of Cicely, intercepting her as shewas making for the door. 

'Would you be an angel, Miss Farrell, and help me to find a particularTurner drawing I want to see? Willy says it's in the studio somewhere. '

Cicely paused, half haughty, half irresolute. 

'Willy knows his way about the portfolios much better than I do. '

Marsworth came nearer, and leaning one hand on the table between them, bent over to her. He was smiling, but there was emotion in his look. 

'Willy is looking after these people. Won't you?'

Cicely considered. 

'All right!' she said carelessly, at last, and led the way. 

CHAPTER XV

The studio was empty. A wood fire burnt on the wide hearth, making apleasant glow in the wintry twilight. Cicely seated herself on the endof a sofa, crossed her feet, and took out a cigarette. But toMarsworth's intense relief she had taken off the helmet-like erectionshe called a hat, and her black curly hair strayed as it pleased abouther brow and eyes. 

'Well?' she said, at last, looking at him coolly. Marsworth could nothelp laughing. He brought a chair, and placed it where he could see herfrom below, as he lay back in it, his hands behind his head. 

'Of course, you don't want to look at the portfolio, ' she resumed, 'thatwas your excuse. You want to tell me of your engagement to MissStewart. '

Marsworth laughed again. Her ear caught what seemed to be a note oftriumph. 

'Make haste, please!' she said, breathing quickly. 'There isn't verymuch time. '

His face changed. He sat up, and held out his hand to her. 

'Dear Cicely, I want you to do something for me. '

But she put her own behind her back. 

'Have you been quarrelling already? Because if you want me to make itup, that really isn't my vocation. '

He was silent a moment surveying her. Then he said quietly--'I want youto help me. I want you to be kind to that little girl. '

'Daisy Stewart? Thank you. But I've no gift at all for mothering babes!Besides--she'll now have all the advice, and all the kindness shewants. '

Marsworth's lips twitched. 

'Yes, that's true--if you and I can help her out. Cicely!--aren't you agreat friend of Sir John Raine?'

He named one of the chiefs of the Army Medical Department, a man whosegood word was the making of any aspirant in the field he ruled. 

Cicely looked rather darkly at her questioner. 

'What do you mean?'

'I want you to help me get an appointment for somebody. '

'For whom?'

'For the man Daisy Stewart wants to marry. '

Cicely could not conceal her start. 

'I don't like being mystified, ' she said coldly. 

Marsworth allowed his smile to shew itself. 

'I'm not trying to mystify you in the least. Daisy Stewart has beenengaged for nearly a year to one of the house-surgeons in yourhospital--young Fellows. Nobody knows it--not Willy even. It has beenkept a dead secret, because that wicked old man the Rector won't haveit. Daisy makes him comfortable, and he won't give her up, if he canhelp it. And as young Fellows has nothing but his present pay--a yearwith board and lodging--it seemed hopeless. But now he has got his eyeon something. '

And in a quiet business-like voice Marsworth put the case of thepenniless one--his qualifications, his ambitions, and the particularpost under the Army Medical Board on which he had set his hopes. If onlysomebody with influence would give him a leg up!

Cicely interrupted. 

'Does Willy know?'

'No. You see, I have come to you first. '

'How long have you known?'

'Since my stay with them last autumn. I suspected something then, justas I was leaving; and Miss Daisy confessed--when I was there in May. Since then she seems to have elected me her chief adviser. But, ofcourse, I had no right to tell anybody anything. '

'That is what you like--to advise people?'

Marsworth considered it. 

'There was a time'--he said, at last, in a different voice, 'when myadvice used to be asked by someone else--and sometimes taken. '

Cicely pretended to light another cigarette, but her slim fingers shooka little. 

'And now--you never give it?'

'Oh yes, I do, ' he said, with sudden bitterness--'even unasked. I'malways the same old bore. '

There was silence. His right hand stole towards her left that was lyinglimply over her knee. Cicely's eyes looking down were occupied with hisdisabled arm, which, although much improved, was still glad to slip intoits sling whenever it was not actively wanted. 

But just as he was capturing her, Cicely sprang up. 

'I must go and see about Sir John Raine. '

'Cicely--I don't care a brass farthing about Sir John Raine!'

'But having once brought him in, I recommend you to stick to him, ' saidCicely, with teasing eyes. 'And don't go advising young women. It's notgood for the military. _I'm_ going to take this business in hand. '

And she made for departure, but Marsworth got to the door first, and puthis back against it. 

'Find me the Turner, Cicely. '

'A man who asks for a thing on false pretences shouldn't have it. '

A silence. Then a meek voice said--

'Captain Marsworth, my brother, Sir William Farrell, will be requiringmy services at tea!'

Marsworth moved aside and she forward. But as she neared him, he caughther passionately in his arms and kissed her. She released herself, crimson. 

'Do I like being kissed?' she said in a low voice--'do I? Anywaydon't do it again!--and if you dare to say a word yet--to anyone--'

Her eyes threatened; but he saw in them revelations her pride could notcheck, and would have disobeyed her at once; but she was too quick forhim. In a second she had opened the door and was gone. 

During the rest of the afternoon, her brother and Nelly watched Cicely'sproceedings with stupefaction; only equalled by the bewilderment of MissDaisy Stewart. For that young lady was promoted to the good graces ofSir William's formidable sister with a rapidity and completeness whichonly natural good manners and good sense could have enabled her to dealwith; considering the icy exclusion to which she had been so longcondemned. But as she possessed both, she took it very simply; alwayswith the same serene light in her grey eyes. 

Marsworth said to himself presently that young Fellows' chances weregood. But in truth he hardly remembered anything about them, except thatby the help of them he had kissed Cicely! And he had yet to find outwhat that remarkable fact was to mean, either to himself or to her. Sherefused to let him take her back to the farm, and she only gave him afinger in farewell. Nor did she say a word of what had happened, even toNelly. 

Nelly spent again a very wakeful night. Farrell had walked home withthem, and she understood from him that, although he was going over earlyto Carton the following morning, he would be at the cottage againbefore many days were over. It seemed to her that in telling her so hehad looked at her with eyes that seemed to implore her to trust him. Andshe, on hearing it, had been merely dumb and irresponsive, notforbidding or repellent, as she ought to have been. The courage to woundhim to the quick--to leave him bereft, to go out into the desertherself, seemed to be more and more oozing away from her. 

Yet there beside her bed, on the table which held her Testament, and thefew books--almost all given her by W. F. --to which she was wont to turnin her wakeful hours, was George's photograph in uniform. About threeo'clock in the morning she lit her candle, and lay looking at it, tillsuddenly she stretched out her hand for it, kissed it repeatedly, andputting it on her breast, clasped her hands over it, and so fell asleep. 

But before she fell asleep, she was puzzled by the sounds in Bridget'sroom next door. Bridget seemed to be walking about--pacing up and downincessantly. Sometimes the steps would cease; only to begin again aftera while with the same monotony. What could be the matter with Bridget?This vague worry about her sister entered into and heightened allNelly's other troubles. Yet all the same, in the end, she fell asleep;and the westerly wind blowing over Wetherlam, and chasing wild flocks ofgrey rain-clouds before him, found no one awake in the cottage or thefarm to listen to the concert he was making with the fells, butBridget--and Cicely. 

 * * * * *

Bridget Cookson had indeed some cause for wakefulness. Locked away inthe old workbox, where she kept the papers to which she attachedimportance, was a letter bearing the imprint 'O. A. S. , ' which had beendelivered to her on Sunday afternoon by the Grasmere post-mistress. Itran as follows:

'DEAR MISS COOKSON, --I know of course that you are fully convinced thepoor fellow we have here in charge has nothing to do with yourbrother-in-law. But as you saw him, and as the case may throw light onother cases of a similar nature, I thought I would just let you knowthat owing apparently to the treatment we have been carrying out, thereare some very interesting signs of returning consciousness since yourvisit, though nothing very definite as yet. He is terribly ill, andphysically I see no chance for him. But I think he _may_ be able to tellus who he is before the end, in which case I will inform you, lest youshould now or at any future time feel the smallest misgiving as to yourown verdict in the matter. This is very unlikely, I know, for Iunderstand you were very decided; but still as soon as we have definiteinformation--if we get it--you may wish to inform poor Mrs. Sarratt ofyour journey here. I hope she is getting stronger. She did indeed lookvery frail when I saw her last. 

'Yours very truly, 'ROBERT HOWSON. '

Since the receipt of that letter Bridget's reflections had been moredisagreeable than any she had yet grappled with. In Nelly's company theawfulness of what she had done did sometimes smite home to her. Well, she had staked everything upon it, and the only possible course was tobrazen it out. That George should die, and die _quickly_--without anyreturn of memory or speech, was what she terribly and passionatelydesired. In all probability he would die quickly; he might even now bedead. She saw the thing perpetually as a race between his returningmind--if he still lived, and it was returning--and his ebbing strength. If she had lived in old Sicilian days, she would have made a waxen imagelike the Theocritean sorceress, and put it by the fire, that as itwasted, so George might waste. As it was, she passed her time during theforty-eight hours after reading Howson's letter in a silent andmurderous concentration on one thought and wish--George Sarratt'sspeedy death. 

What a release indeed for everybody!--if people would only tell thetruth, and not dress up their real feelings and interests in stalesentimentalisms. Farrell made happy at no very distant date; Nellysettled for life with a rich man who adored her; her own futuresecured--with the very modest freedom and opportunity she craved:--allthis on the one side--futile tragedy and suffering on the other. Nonethe less, there were moments when, with a start, she realised what otherpeople might think of her conduct. But after all she could always pleadit was a mistake--an honest mistake. Are there not constantly cases inthe law courts, which shew how easy it is to fail in identifying theright person, or to persist in identifying the wrong one?

During the days before Farrell returned, the two sisters were alonetogether. Bridget would gladly have gone away out of sight and hearingof Nelly. But she did not dare to leave the situation--above all, thepostman--unwatched. Meanwhile Nelly made repeated efforts to break downthe new and inexplicable barrier which seemed to have arisen betweenherself and Bridget. Why would Bridget always sit alone in that chillyoutside room, which even with a large fire seemed to Nellyuninhabitable? She tried to woo her sister, by all the small devices inher power. 

'Why won't you come and sit with me a bit, Bridget? I'm so dull allalone!'--she would say when, after luncheon or high tea, Bridget showedsigns of immediately shutting herself up again. 

'I can't. I must do some work. '

'Do tell me what you're doing, Bridget?'

'Oh, you wouldn't understand. '

'Well, other people don't always think me a born idiot!'--Nelly wouldsay, not without resentment. 'I really could understand, Bridget, ifyou'd try. '

'I haven't the time. '

'And you're killing yourself with so many hours of it. Why should youslave so? If you only would come and help me sometimes with the RedCross work, I'd do any needlework for you, that you wanted. '

'You know I hate needlework. '

'You're not doing anything--not _anything_--for the war, Bridget!' Nellywould venture, wistfully, at last. 

'There are plenty of people to do things for the war. I didn't want thewar! Nobody asked my opinion. '

And presently the door would shut, and Nelly would be left to watch thetorrents of rain outside, and to endeavour by reading and drawing, byneedlework and the society of her small friend Tommy, whenever she couldcapture him, to get through the day. She pined for Hester, but Hesterwas doing Welfare work in a munition factory at Leeds, and could not begot at. 

So there she sat alone, brooding and planning, too timid to talk toBridget of her own schemes, and, in her piteous indecision, longingguiltily for Farrell's return. Meanwhile she had written to severalacquaintances who were doing V. A. D. Work in various voluntary hospitals, to ask for information. 

Suddenly, after the rain came frost and north wind--finally snow; thebeginning in the north of the fiercest winter Western Europe has knownfor many years. Over heights and dales alike spread the white Leveller, melting by day in the valley bottoms, and filling up his wastage byrenewed falls at night. Nelly ventured out sometimes to look at the highglories of Wetherlam and the Pikes, under occasional gleams of sun. Bridget never put a foot out of doors, except when she went to thegarden gate to look for the postman in the road, and take the lettersfrom him. 

At last, one evening, when after a milder morning a bitter blast fromthe north springing up at dusk had, once more, sent gusts of snowscudding over the fells, Nelly's listening ear heard the well-known stepat the gate. She sprang up with a start of joy. She had been so lonely, so imprisoned with her own sad thoughts. The coming of this kind, strongman, so faithful to his small friend through all the stress of his busyand important life, made a sudden impression upon her, which brought thetears to her eyes. She thought of Carton, of its splendid buildings, andthe great hospital which now absorbed them; she seemed to see Farrell asthe king of it all, the fame of his doings spreading every month overthe north, and wiping out all that earlier conception of him as adilettante and an idler of which she had heard from Hester. And yet, escaping from all that activity, that power, that constant interest andexcitement, here he was, making use of his first spare hour to comethrough the snow and the dark, just to spend an hour with Nelly Sarratt, just to cheer her lonely little life. 

Nelly ran to the window and opened it. 

'Is that really you?' she called, joyously, while the snow driftedagainst her face. 

Farrell, carrying a lantern, was nearing the porch. The light upon hisface as he turned shewed her his look of delight. 

'I'm later than I meant, but the roads are awful. May I walk in?'

She ran down to meet him; then hung back rather shyly in the passage, while he took off his overcoat and shook the snow from his beard. 

'Have you any visitors?' he asked, still dusting away the snow. 

'Only Bridget. I asked Hester, but she couldn't come. '

He came towards her along the narrow passage, to the spot where shestood tremulous on the lowest step of the stairs. A lamp burning on atable revealed her slight figure in black, the warm white of her throatand face, the grace of the bending head, and the brown hair wreathedabout it. He saw her as an exquisite vision in a dim light and shade. But it was not that which broke down his self-control so much as thepathetic look in her dark eyes, the look of one who is glad, and yetshrinks from her own gladness--tragically conscious of her own weakness, and yet happy in it. It touched his heart so profoundly that whetherthe effect was pain or pleasure he could not have told. But as hereached the step, moved by an irresistible impulse, he held out hisarms, and she melted into them. For one entrancing instant, he held herclose and warm upon his breast, while the world went by. 

But the next moment she had slipped away, and was sitting on the step, her face in her hands. 

He did not plead or excuse himself. He just stood by her endeavouring tostill and control his pulses--till at last she looked up. The lampshewed her his face, and the passion in it terrified her. For there hadbeen no passion in her soft and sudden yielding. Only the instinct ofthe child that is forsaken and wants comforting, that feels love closeto it, and cannot refuse it. 

'There, you see!' she said, desperately--'You see--I must go!'

'No! It's I who must go. Unless '--his voice sank almost to awhisper--'Nelly!--couldn't you--marry me? You should never, never regretit. '

She shook her head, and as she dropped her face again in her hands hesaw a shudder run through her. At the sight his natural impulse was tolet passion have its way, to raise her in his arms again, and whisper toher there in the dark, as love inspired him, his cheek on hers. But hedid not venture. He was well aware of something intangible andincalculable in Nelly that could not be driven. His fear of it held himin check. He knew that she was infinitely sorry for him and tendertowards him. But he knew too that she was not in love with him. Only--hewould take his chance of that, if only she would marry him. 

'Dear!' he said, stooping to her, and touching her dark curls with hishand. 'Let's call in Hester! She's dreadfully wise! If you were with herI should feel happy--I could wait. But it is when I see you so lonelyhere--and so sad--nobody to care for you!--that I can't bear it!'

Through the rush of the wind, a sound of someone crossing the yardbehind the farm came to their ears. Nelly sprang to her feet and led theway upstairs. Farrell followed her, and as they moved, they heardBridget open the back door and come in. 

The little sitting-room was bright with lamp and fire, and Farrell, perceiving that they were no longer to be alone, and momentarilyexpecting Bridget's entrance, put impatience aside and began to talk ofhis drive from Carton. 

'The wind on Dunmail Raise was appalling, and the lamps got sobe-snowed, we had to be constantly clearing them. But directly we gotdown into the valley it mended, and I managed to stop at thepost-office, and ask if there were any letters for you. There weretwo--and a telegram. What have I done with them?' He began to search inhis pockets, his wits meanwhile in such a whirl that it was difficultfor him to realise what he was doing. 

At that point Bridget opened the door. He turned to shake hands withher, and then resumed his fumbling. 

'I'm sure they did give them to me'--he said, in some concern, --'twoletters and a telegram. '

'A telegram!' said Bridget, suddenly, hurrying forward, --'it must be forme. '

She peremptorily held out her hand, and as she did so, Nelly caughtsight of her sister. Startled out of all other thoughts she too made astep forward. What _was_ wrong with Bridget? The tall, gaunt woman stoodthere livid, her eyes staring at Farrell, her hand unsteady as shethrust it towards him. 

'Give me the telegram, please! I was expecting one, ' she said, trying tospeak as usual. 

Farrell turned to her in surprise. 

'But it wasn't for you, Miss Cookson. It was for Mrs. Sarratt. I saw theaddress quite plainly. Ah, here they are. How stupid of me! What onearth made me put them in that pocket. '

He drew out the letters and the telegram. Bridget said again--'Give itme, please! I know it's for me!' And she tried to snatch it. Farrell'sface changed. He disliked Bridget Cookson heartily, mainly on Nelly'saccount, and her rude persistence nettled a temper accustomed tocommand. He quietly put her aside. 

'When your sister has read it, Miss Cookson, she will no doubt let yousee it. As it happens, the post-mistress made me promise to give it toMrs. Sarratt myself. She seemed interested--I don't know why. '

Nelly took it. Farrell--who began to have some strange misgiving--stoodbetween her and Bridget. Bridget made no further movement. Her eyes werefixed on Nelly. 

Nelly, bewildered by the little scene and by Bridget's extraordinarybehaviour, tore open the brown envelope, and read slowly--'Please comeat once. Have some news for you. Your sister will explain. Howson, BaseHeadquarters, X------, France. '

'Howson?' said Nelly. Then the colour began to ebb from her face. 'Dr. Howson?' she repeated. 'What news? What does he mean? _Oh_!'--the cryrang through the room--'_it's George_!--it's George! he'sfound!--he's found!'

She thrust the telegram piteously into Farrell's hands. He read it, andturned to Bridget. 

'What does Dr. Howson mean, Miss Cookson, and why does he refer Mrs. Sarratt to you?'

For some seconds she could not make her pale lips reply. Finally, shesaid--'That's entirely my own affair, Sir William. I shall tell mysister, of course. But Nelly had better go at once, as Dr. Howsonadvises. I'll go and see to things. '

She turned slowly away. Nelly ran forward and caught her. 

'Oh, Bridget--don't go--you mustn't go! What news is it? Bridget, tellme!--you couldn't--you _couldn't_ be so cruel--not to tell me--if youknew anything about George!'

Bridget stood silent. 

'Oh, what can I do--what can I do?' cried Nelly. 

Then her eyes fell on the letters still in her hand. She tore oneopen--and read it--with mingled cries of anguish and joy. Farrell darednot go near her. There seemed already a gulf between her and him. 

'It's from Miss Eustace'--she said, panting, as she looked up at last, and handed the letter to him--it's George--he's alive--they've heardfrom France--he asks for me--but--but--he's dying. '

Her head dropped forward a little. She caught at the back of a chair, nearly fainting. But when Farrell approached her, she put up a hand inprotest. 

'No, no, --I'm all right. But, Bridget, Miss Eustace says--you'veactually _seen_ him--you've been to France. When did you go?'

'About three weeks ago, ' said Bridget, after a moment's pause. 'Oh, ofcourse I know'--she threw back her head defiantly--'you'll all set onme--you'll all blame me. But I suppose I may be mistaken like anybodyelse--mayn't I? I didn't think the man I saw was George--I didn't! Andwhat was the good of disturbing your mind?'

But as she told the lie, she told it so lamely and unconvincingly thatneither of the other two believed it for a moment. Nelly stoodup--tottering--but mistress of herself. She looked at Farrell. 

'Sir William--can you take me to Windermere, for the night-train? I knowwhen it goes--10. 20. I'll be ready--by nine. ' She glanced at the clock, which was just nearing seven. 

'Of course, ' said Farrell, taking up his hat. 'I'll go and see to themotor. But'--he looked at her with entreaty--'you can't go this longjourney alone!'

The words implied a bitter consciousness that his own escort wasimpossible. Nelly did not notice it. She only said impatiently--

'But, of course, I must go alone. '

She stood silent--mastering the agony within--forcing herself to thinkand will. When the pause was over, she said quietly--'I will be quiteready at nine. ' And then mechanically--'It's very good of you. '

He went away, passing Bridget, who stood with one foot on the fender, staring down into the fire. 

When the outer door had closed upon him, Nelly looked at her sister. Shewas trembling all over. 

'Bridget--_why_ did you do it?' The voice was low and full of horror. 

'What do you mean? I made a mistake--that's all!'

'Bridget--you _knew_ it was George! You couldn't be mistaken. MissEustace says--in the letter'--she pointed to it--'they asked you abouthis hands. Do you remember how you used to mock at them?'

'As if one could remember after a year and a half!'

'No, you couldn't forget, Bridget--a thing like that--I know youcouldn't. And what made you do it! Did you think I had forgottenGeorge?'

At that the tears streamed down her face, unheeded. She approached hersister piteously. 

'Bridget, tell me what he looked like! Did you speak to him--did you seehis eyes open? Oh my poor George!--and I here--never thinking ofhim'--she broke off incoherently, twisting her hands. 'Miss Eustace sayshe was wounded in two places--severely--that she's afraid there's nohope. Did they say that to you, Bridget--tell me!--for Heaven's saketell me!'

'You'll make yourself ill, ' said Bridget harshly. 'You'd better liedown, and let me pack for you. '

Nelly laughed out. 

'As if I'd ever let you do anything for me any more! No, that's donewith. You've been so accustomed to manage me all these years. Youthought you could manage me now--you thought you could let Georgedie--and I should never know--and you'd make me marry--William Farrell. Bridget--_I hate you!'_

She broke off, shivering, but resumed almost at once--'I see it all--Ithink I see it all. And now it's all done for between you and me. IfGeorge dies, I shall never come back to live with you again. You'dbetter make plans, Bridget. It's over for ever. '

'You don't know what you're saying, now, ' said Bridget, coldly. 

Nelly did not hear her, she was lost in a whirl of images and thoughts. And governed by them she went up to Bridget again, thrusting her smallwhite face under her sister's eyes. 

'What sort of a room was he in, Bridget? Who was nursing him? Are yousure he didn't know you? Did you call him by his name? Did you make himunderstand?'

'He knew nobody, ' said Bridget, drawing back, against her will, beforethe fire in Nelly's wild eyes. 'He was in a very good room. There was anurse sitting with him. '

'Was he--was he very changed?'

'Of course he was. If not, I should have known him. '

Nelly half smiled. Bridget could never have thought that soft mouthcapable of so much scorn. But no words came. Then Nelly walked away to adrawer where she kept her accounts, her cheque-book, and any loose moneyshe might be in possession of. She took out her cheque-book and some twoor three pounds that lay there. 

'If you want money, I can lend you some, ' said Bridget, catching at theold note of guardianship. 

'Thank you. But I shall not want it. '

'Nelly, don't be a fool!' said Bridget, stung at last into speech. 'Suppose all you think is true--I don't admit it, mind--but suppose it'strue. How was I doing such a terrible wrong to you?--in the eyes, Imean, of sensible people--in not disturbing your mind. Nobodyexpected--that man I saw--to know anybody again--or to live more than afew days. Even if I had been certain--and how could I becertain?--wasn't it _reasonable_ to weigh one thing against another? Youknow very well--it's childish to ignore it--what's been going onhere----'

But she paused. Nelly, writing a letter, was not apparently concernedwith anything Bridget had been saying. It did not seem to have reachedher ears. A queer terror shot through Bridget. But she dismissed it. Asif Nelly could ever really get on without her. Little, feckless, sentimental thing!

Nelly finished her letter and put it up. 

'I have written to Sir William's agent, Bridget'--she said turningtowards her sister--'to say that I give up the farm. I shall pay theservant. Hester will look after my things, and send them--when I wantthem. '

'Why Hester?' said Bridget, with something of a sneer. 

Nelly did not answer. She put up her letter, took the money and thecheque-book and went out of the room. Bridget heard her call their oneservant, Mrs. Dowson, and presently steps ascended the stairs andNelly's door shut. The sound of the shutting door roused in her againthat avenging terror. Her first impulse was to go and force herselfinto Nelly's room, so as to manage and pack for her as usual. Butsomething stopped her. She consoled herself by going down to the kitchento look after the supper. Nelly, of course, must have some food beforeher night journey. 

Behind that shut door, Nelly was looking into the kind weather-beatenface of Mrs. Dowson. 

'Mrs. Dowson, I'm going away to-night--and I'm not coming back. SirWilliam knows. '

Then she caught the woman's gnarled hands, and her own features began towork. 

'Mrs. Dowson, they've found my husband! Did Sir William tell you? He'snot dead--he's alive--But he's very, very ill. '

'Oh, you poor lamb!' cried Mrs. Dowson. 'No--Sir William tellt me nowt. The Lord be gracious to you!' Bathed in sudden tears, she kissed one ofthe hands that held hers, pouring out incoherent words of hope. ButNelly did not cry, and presently she said firmly--

'Now, please, you must help me to pack. Sir William will be here atnine. '

Presently all was ready. Nelly had hunted out an old grey travellingdress in which George had often seen her, and a grey hat with a veil. She hastily put all her black clothes aside. 

'Miss Martin will send me anything I want. I have asked her to come andfetch my things. '

'But Miss Cookson will be seein' to that!' said Mrs. Dowson wondering. Nelly made no reply. She locked her little box, and then stood upright, looking round the small room. She seemed to be saying 'Good-bye' forever to the Nelly who had lived, and dreamed, and prayed there. She wasgoing to George--that was all she knew. 

Downstairs, Bridget was standing at the door of the little dining-room. 'I have put out some cold meat for you, ' she said, stiffly. 'You won'tget anything for a long time. '

Nelly acquiesced. She drank some tea, and ate as much as she could. Neither she nor Bridget spoke, till Bridget, who was at the windowlooking out into the snow, turned round to say--'Here's the motor. '

Nelly rose, and tied her veil on closely. Mrs. Dowson brought her athick coat, which had been part of her trousseau, and wrapped her in it. 

'You had better take your grey shawl, ' said Bridget. 

'I have it here, Miss, ' said Mrs. Dowson, producing it. 'I'll put itover her in the motor. '

She disappeared to open the door to Sir William's knock. 

Nelly turned to her sister. 

'Good-bye, Bridget. '

Bridget flamed out. 

'And you don't mean to write to me? You mean to carry out this absurdplan of separation!'

'I don't know what I shall do--till I have seen George, ' said Nellysteadily. 'He'll settle for me. Only you and I are not sisters anymore. '

Bridget shrugged her shoulders, with some angry remark about 'theatricalnonsense. ' Nelly went out into the passage, threw her arms about Mrs. Dowson's neck, for a moment, and then hurried out towards the car. Itstood there in the falling snow, its bright lights blazing on the bit ofWestmorland wall opposite, and the overhanging oaks, still heavy withdead leaf. Farrell was standing at the door, holding a fur rug. He andMrs. Dowson tucked it in round Nelly's small cloaked figure. 

Then without a word, Farrell shut the door of the car, and took the seatbeside the driver. In another minute Bridget was watching the lights ofthe lamps rushing along the sides of the lane, till at a sharp bend ofthe road it disappeared. 

There was a break presently in the snow-fall, and as they reached theshores of Windermere, Nelly was aware of struggling gleams of moonlighton steely water. The anguish in her soul almost resented the break inthe darkness. She was going to George; but George was dying, and whilehe had been lying there in his lonely suffering, she had been forgettinghim, and betraying him. The recollection of Farrell's embraceoverwhelmed her with a crushing sense of guilt. George indeed shouldnever know. But that made no difference to her own misery. 

The miles flew by. She began to think of her journey, to realise herhelplessness and inexperience in the practical things of life. She mustget her passport, and some money. Who would advise her, and tell her howto get to France under war conditions? Would she be allowed to go by theshort sea passage? For that she knew a special permit was necessary. Could she get it at once, or would she be kept waiting in town? Thenotion of having to wait one unnecessary hour tortured her. Then herthoughts fastened on Miss Eustace of the Enquiry Office, who had writtenher the letter which had arrived simultaneously with Dr. Howson'stelegram. 'Let me know if I can be of any use to you, for your journey. If there is anything you want to know that we can help you in, you hadbetter come straight to this office. '

Yes, that she would do. But the train arrived in London at 7 A. M. Andshe could not possibly see Miss Eustace before ten or eleven. She mustjust sit in the waiting-room till it was time. And she must get somemoney. She had her cheque-book and would ask Sir William to tell her howto get a cheque cashed in London. She was ashamed of her own ignorancein these small practical matters. 

The motor stopped. Sir William jumped down, but before he came to openthe door for her, she saw him turn round and wave his hand to twopersons standing outside the station. They hurried towards the motor, and as Nelly stepped down from it, she felt herself grasped by eagerhands. 

'You poor darling! I thought we couldn't be in time. But we flew. Don'ttrouble about anything. We've done it all. '

Cicely!--and behind her Marsworth. 

Nelly drew back. 

'Dear Cicely!' she said faintly--'but I can manage--I can manage quitewell. '

Resistance, however, was useless. Marsworth and Cicely, it seemed, weregoing to London with her--Cicely probably to France; and Marsworth hadalready telegraphed about her passport. She would have gladly gone byherself, but she finally surrendered--for George's sake, that she mightget to him the quicker. 

Then everything was done for her. Amid the bustle of the departingtrain, she was piteously aware of Farrell, and just before they started, she leant out to give him her hand. 

'I will tell George all you have done for me, ' she said, gulping down asob. 

He pressed her hand before releasing it, but said nothing. What wasthere to say? Meanwhile, Cicely, to ease the situation, was chatteringhard, describing how Farrell had sent his chauffeur to Ambleside on amotor bicycle, immediately after leaving Nelly, and so had got atelephone message through to Cicely. 

'We had the small car out and ready in ten minutes, and, by good luck, there was a motor-transport man on leave, who had come to see a brotherin the hospital. We laid hands on him, and he drove us here. But it's amercy we're not sitting on the Raise! You remember that heap of stoneson the top of the Raise, that thing they say is a barrow--the grave ofsome old British party before the Flood?--well, the motor gave outthere! Herbert and the chauffeur sat under it in the snow and worked atit. I thought the river was coming over the road, and that the windwould blow us all away. But it'll be all right for your crossingto-morrow--the storm will have quite gone down. Herbert thinks you'llstart about twelve o'clock, --and you'll be at the camp that same night. Oh, isn't it wonderful!--isn't it _ripping_?' cried Cicely under herbreath, stooping down to kiss Nelly, while the two men talked at thecarriage window. --'You're going to get him home! We'll have the best menin London to look after him. He'll pull through, you'll see--he'll pullthrough!'

Nelly sank into a seat and closed her eyes. Cicely's talk--why did shecall Marsworth 'Herbert'?--was almost unbearable to her. _She_ knewthrough every vein that she was going across the Channel--to see Georgedie. If only she were in time!--if only she might hold him in her armsonce more! Would the train never go?

Farrell, in spite of snow and storm, pushed his way back to Carton thatnight. In that long motor drive a man took counsel with himself on whomthe war had laid a chastening and refining hand. The human personalitycannot spend itself on tasks of pity and service without taking thecolour of them, without rising insensibly to the height of them. Theymay have been carelessly adopted, or imposed from without. But the meredoing of them exalts. As the dyer's hand is 'subdued to what it worksin, ' so the man that is always about some generous business for hisfellow-men suffers thereby, insensibly, a change, which is part of the'heavenly alchemy' for ever alive in the world. It was so at any ratewith William Farrell. The two years of his hospital work--hard, honestgrappling with the problems of human pain and its relief--had made a farnobler man of him. So now, in this solitary hour, he looked histrouble--courageously, chivalrously--in the face. The crash of all hisimmediate hopes was bitter indeed. What matter! Let him think only ofthose two poor things about to meet in France. 

As to the future, he was well aware of the emotional depths in Nelly'snature. George Sarratt's claim upon her life and memory would now bedoubly strong. For, with that long and intimate observation of the warwhich his hospital experience had brought him, Farrell was keenly awareof the merciful fact that the mere distance which, generally speaking, the war imposes between the man dying on the battle-field and those wholove him at home, inevitably breaks the blow. The nerves of the womanwho loses her husband or her son are, at least, not tortured by theactual sight of his wounds and death. The suffering is spiritual, andthe tender benumbing touch of religion or patriotism, or the remainingaffections of life, has less to fight with than when the physical sensesthemselves are racked with acute memories of bodily wounds and bodilydeath. It is not that sorrow is less deep, or memory less tenacious; butboth are less ruinous to the person sorrowing. So, at least, Farrell hadoften seen it, among even the most loving and passionate of women. Nelly's renascence in the quiet Westmorland life had been a freshinstance of it; and he had good reason for thinking that, but for thetragic reappearance of George Sarratt, it would not have taken verylong, --a few months more, perhaps--before she would have been persuadedto let herself love, and be loved again. 

But now, every fibre in her delicate being--physical andspiritual--would be racked by the sight of Sarratt's suffering anddeath. And no doubt--pure, scrupulous little soul!--she would betormented by the thought of what had just passed between herself andhim, before the news from France arrived. He might as well look that inthe face. 

Well!--patience and time--there was nothing else to look to. He bracedhimself to both, as he sped homeward through the high snowy roads, anddropped through sleeping Keswick to Bassenthwaite and Carton. Then withthe sight of the hospital, the Red Cross flag drooping above itsdoorway, as he drove up to it, the burden and interest of his greatresponsibilities returned upon him. He jumped out to say a few cheerywords of thanks to his chauffeur, and went on with a rapid step to hisoffice on the ground floor, where he found important letters andtelegrams awaiting him. He dealt with them till far into the night. Butthe thought of Nelly never really left him; nor that haunting physicalmemory of her soft head upon his shoulder. 

CHAPTER XVI

Of the weary hours which intervened between her meeting with Cicely andMarsworth at Windermere station and her sight of Dr. Howson on therain-beaten quay at Bolougne, Nelly Sarratt could afterwards have givenno clear account. Of all the strings that were pulled, and the exaltedpersons invoked, in order to place her as quickly as possible by theside of her dying husband, she knew practically nothing. Cicely andMarsworth, with Farrell to help them at the other end of a telegraphwire, did everything. Passports and special permits were available in aminimum of time. In the winter dawn at Euston Station, there was thegrey-headed Miss Eustace waiting; and two famous Army doctors journeyedto Charing Cross a few hours later, on purpose to warn the wife of thecondition in which she was likely to find her husband, and to give herkindly advice as to how she could help him most. The case had alreadymade a sensation at the Army Medical Headquarters; the reports on itfrom France were being eagerly followed; and when the young wifeappeared from the north, her pathetic beauty quickened the generalsympathy. Nelly's path to France was smoothed in every possible way. NoRoyalty could have been more anxiously thought for. 

But she herself realised scarcely anything about it. It was her natureto be grateful, sweet, responsive; but her gratitude and her sweetnessduring these hours were automatic, unconscious. She was the spectator, so to speak, of a moving picture which carried her on with it, in whichshe was merely passive. The crowded boat, the grey misty sea, thedestroyers to right and left, she was aware of them in one connectiononly--as part of the process by which she and George were to meet again. 

But at last the boat was alongside the quays of the French port, andthrough sheets of rain she saw the lights of a climbing town, and thegleaming roadways of the docks. Crowds of men in khaki; a park of bigguns, their wet nozzles glittering under the electric lamps overhead;hundreds of tethered horses; a long line of motor lorries;--the scene toher was all a vague confusion, as Cicely, efficient and masterful asusual, made a way for them both along the deck of the steamer throughclose ranks of soldiers--a draft waiting their orders to disembark. Thenas they stepped on land, perception sharpened in a moment. A tall man inkhaki--whom she recognised as Dr. Howson--came eagerly forward. 

'Mrs. Sarratt!--I hope you're not too tired. Would you rather get somefood here, in the town, or push on at once?'

'At once, please. How is he?'

A pair of kind grey eyes looked down upon her sadly. 

'Very ill, _-very_ ill!--_but_ quite sensible. I know you will bebrave. '

He carried her along the quay--while Cicely was taken possession of by anurse in uniform, who talked rapidly in an undertone. 

'I have two cars, ' said Howson to Nelly--'You and I will go first. Ourhead Sister, Miss Parrish, who has been in charge of the case for solong, will bring Miss Farrell. '

And as they reached the two waiting motors, Nelly found her hand graspedby a comely elderly woman, in a uniform of grey and red. 

'He was quite comfortable when we left him, Mrs. Sarratt. There's awonderful difference, even since yesterday, in his _mind_. He'sbeginning to remember everything. He knows you're coming. He said--"Giveher my dear love, and tell her I'm not going to have my supper till shecomes. She shall give it me. " Think of that! It's like a miracle. Threeweeks ago, he never spoke, he knew nobody. '

Nelly's white face trembled, but she said nothing. Howson put her intothe foremost car, and they were soon off, threading their way throughthe busy streets of the base, while the Sister followed with Cicely. 

'Oh, it was _cruel_ not to let Mrs. Sarratt know earlier!' said theSister indignantly, in answer to a hurried question from Cicely as soonas they were alone. 'She might have had three weeks with him, and nowthere can only be a day or two. What was Miss Cookson about? Even if shewere just mistaken, she might at least have brought her sister over tosee for herself--instead of preventing it by every means in her power. Amost extraordinary woman!'

Cicely felt her way in reply. She really knew nothing except whatFarrell had been able hurriedly to say to Marsworth at Windermerestation--which had been afterwards handed on to her. Farrell himself wasentirely mystified. 'The only motive I can suggest'--he had said toMarsworth--'is that Miss Cookson had an insane dislike of herbrother-in-law. But, even so, why did she do it?'

Why, indeed? Cicely now heard the whole story from her companion; andher shrewd mind very soon began to guess at reasons. She had alwaysobserved Bridget's complaisance towards her brother, and even towardsherself--a clumsy complaisance which had never appealed at all either toher or him. And she had noticed many small traits and incidents thatseemed to shew that Bridget had resented her sister's marriage, and feltbitterly that Nelly might have done far better for herself. Also thatthere was a strong taste for personal luxury in Bridget, which seemedentirely lacking in Nelly. 

'She wanted Willy's money!'--thought Cicely--'and couldn't get it forherself. So when poor Sarratt disappeared, she saw a way of getting itthrough Nelly. Not a bad idea!--if you are to have ideas of that kind. But then, why behave like an idiot when Providence had done the thingfor you?'

That was really the puzzle. George Sarratt was dying. Why not let poorNelly have her last weeks with him in peace, and then--in time--marryher safely and lawfully to Willy?

But Cicely had again some inkling of Bridget's probable reply. She hadnot been intimate with Nelly for more than a year without realising thatshe was one of those creatures--so rare in our modern world--who do intruth live and die by their affections. The disappearance of her husbandhad very nearly killed her. In the first winter after he was finallyreported as 'Missing--believed killed, ' and when she had reallyabandoned hope, the slightest accident--a bad chill--an attack ofchildish illness--any further shock--might have slit the thin-spun lifein a few days or weeks. The Torquay doctor had told Hester that she wason the brink of tuberculosis, and if she were exposed to infection wouldcertainly develop it. Since then she had gained greatly in vitality andstrength. If only Fate had left her alone! 'With happiness and Willy, she'd have been all right!' thought Cicely, who was daily accustomed towatch the effect of mind on body in her brother's hospital. But now, with this fresh and deeper tragedy before her--tearing at the poorlittle heart--crushing the life again out of the frail being--why, theprospects of a happy ending were decidedly less. The odious Bridgetmight after all have acted intelligibly, though abominably. 

As to the history of Sarratt's long disappearance, Cicely found thatvery little was known. 

'We don't question him, ' said the Sister. 'It only exhausts him; and itwouldn't be any good. He may tell his wife something more, of his ownaccord, but we doubt whether he knows much more than he told Dr. Howson. He remembers being wounded at Loos--lying out undiscovered, he thinksfor two days--then a German hospital--and a long, long journey. Andthat's practically all. But just lately--this week, actually!--Dr. Howson has got some information, through a family of peasants livingnear Cassel, behind the British lines. They have relations across theBelgian border, and gradually they have discovered who the man was whocame over the frontier with Mr. Sarratt. He came from a farm, somewherebetween Brussels and Courtrai, and now they've managed to get a letterthrough from his brother. You know the man himself was shot just as theyreached the British lines. But this letter really tells a good deal. Thebrother says that they found Mr. Sarratt almost dead, --and, as theythought, insane--in a wood near their house. He was then wearing theuniform of a British officer. They guessed he was an escaped prisoner, and they took him in and hid him. Then news filtered through to them oftwo English officers who had made their escape from a hospital trainsomewhere south-west of Brussels; one slightly wounded, and oneseverely; the severely wounded man suffering also from shell-shock. Andthe slightly wounded man was shot, while the other escaped. The train, it was said, was lying in a siding at the time--at the further edge ofthe forest bordering their farm. So, of course, they identified the mandiscovered by them as the severely wounded officer. Mr. Sarratt musthave somehow just struggled through to their side of the forest, wherethey found him. 

'What happened then, we can't exactly trace. He must have been there allthe winter. He was deaf and dumb, from nerve-shock, and could give noaccount of himself at all. The men of the farm, two unmarried sons, weregood to him, but their old mother, whose family was German, always hatedhis being there. She was in terror of the German military police whoused to ride over the farm, and one day, when her sons were away, shetook Mr. Sarratt's uniform, his identification disk, and all thepersonal belongings she could find, and either burned or buried them. The sons, who were patriotic Belgians, were however determined toprotect him, and no doubt there may have been some idea of a reward, ifthey could find his friends. But they were afraid of their tyrannicalold mother, and of what she might do. So at last they made up theirminds to try somehow and get him over the French frontier, which wasnot far off, and through the German lines. One of the brothers, whosename was Benoit Desalles, to whom they say poor Mr. Sarratt was muchattached, went with him. They must have had an awful time, walking bynight, and hiding by day. Mr. Sarratt's wounds must have been in a badstate, for they were only half healed when he escaped, and they had beenneglected all the winter. So how he dragged himself the distance he did, the doctors can't imagine. And the peasants near the frontier from whomwe have got what information we have, have no knowledge at all of how heand his Belgian guide finally got through the German lines. But whenthey reached our lines, they were both, as Dr. Howson wrote to MissCookson, in German uniforms. His people suppose that Benoit had strippedsome German dead, and that in the confusion caused in the Germanline--at a point where it ran through a Belgian village--by a Britishraid, at night, they got across the enemy trenches. And no doubt Benoithad local knowledge which helped. 

'Then in the No Man's Land, between the lines, they were under bothshell and rifle-fire, till it was seen by our men that Benoit had hishands up, and that the other was wounded. The poor Belgian was draggingMr. Sarratt who was unconscious, and at last--wasn't it ill-luck?--justas our men were pulling them into the trench, Benoit was shot throughthe head by a German sniper. That, at least, is how we now reconstructthe story. As far as Mr. Sarratt is concerned, we let it alone. We haveno heart to worry him. Poor fellow--poor, gallant, patient fellow!'

And the Sister's strong face softened, as Bridget had seen it soften atSarratt's bedside. 

'And there is really no hope for him?' asked Cicely after a time. TheSister shook her head. 

'The wounds have never healed--and they drain his life away. The heartcan't last out much longer. But he's not in pain now--thank God! It'sjust weakness. I assure you, everybody--almost--in this huge camp, asksfor him and many--pray for him. ' The Sister's eyes filled with tears. 'And now that the poor wife's come in time, there'll be an excitement! Iheard two men in one of our wards discussing it this morning. "They dosay as Mrs. Sarratt will be here to-day, " said one of them. "Well, that's a bit of all right, ain't it?" said the other, and they bothsmoked away, looking as pleased as Punch. You see Miss Cookson'sbehaviour has made the whole thing so extraordinary. '

Cicely agreed. 

'I suppose she thought it would be all over in a day or two, ' she said, half-absently. 

The Sister looked puzzled. 

'And that it would be better not to risk the effect on his wife? Ofcourse Mrs. Sarratt does look dreadfully delicate. So you _don't_ thinkit was a mistake? It's very difficult to see how it could be! The handsalone--one would think that anybody who really knew him must haverecognised them. '

Cicely said no more. But she wondered how poor Nelly and her sisterwould ever find it possible to meet again. 

Meanwhile, in the car ahead, Howson was gently and tenderly preparingthe mind of Nelly for her husband's state. He described to her also, thefirst signs of Sarratt's returning consciousness--the excitement amonghis doctors and nurses--the anxious waiting for the first words--thefirst clear evidence of restored hearing. And then, at last, the dazedquestion--'Where am I?'--and the perplexed effort to answerHowson's--'Can you tell us your name and regiment?'

Howson described the breathless waiting of himself and another doctor, and then the slow coming of the words: 'My name is George Sarratt, Lieutenant, 21st Lanchesters. But why----?'

A look of bewilderment at nurses and doctors, and then again--sleep. 

'The next time he spoke, it was quite distinctly and of his own accord. The nurse heard him saying softly--it was in the early morning--"I wantmy wife--send for her. " She told him you had been already sent for, andhe turned his head round at once and went to sleep. '

Howson could hardly go on, so keenly did he realise the presence of thewoman beside him. The soft fluttering breath unmanned him. But bydegrees Nelly heard all there was to know; especially the details ofthe rapid revival of hearing, speech, and memory, which had gone onthrough the preceding three days. 

'And what is such a blessing, ' said Howson, with the cheerfulness of thegood doctor--'is that he seems to be quite peaceful--quite at rest. He'snot unhappy. He's just waiting for you. They'll have given him aninjection of strychnine this evening to help him through. '

'How long?' The words were just breathed into the darkness. 

'A day or two certainly--perhaps a week, ' he said reluctantly. 'It's aquestion of strength. Sometimes it lasts much longer than we expect. '

He said nothing to her of her sister's visit. Instinctively he suspectedsome ugly meaning in that story. And Nelly asked no questions. 

Suddenly, she was aware of lights in the darkness, and then of a greatcamp marked out in a pattern of electric lamps, stretching up and awayover what seemed a wide and sloping hillside. Nelly put down the windowto see. 

'Is it here?' 'No. A little further on. '

It seemed to her interminably further. The car rattled over the roughpavement of a town, then through the darkness of woods--threading itsway through a confusion of pale roads--until, with a violent bump, itcame to a stop. 

In the blackness of the November night, the chauffeur, mistaking theentrance to a house, had run up a back lane and into a sand-bank. 

'Do you hear the sea?' said Howson, as he helped Nelly to alight. 'There'll be wind to-night. But here we are. '

She looked round her as they walked through a thin wood. To her rightbeyond the bare trees was a great building with a glass front. She couldsee lights within--the passing figures of nurses--rows of beds--and menin bed jackets--high rooms frescoed in bright colours. 

'That used to be the Casino. Now it's a Red Cross Hospital. There arealways doctors there. So when we moved him away from the camp, we tookthis little house close to the Hospital. The senior surgeon there can beoften in and out. He's looking after him splendidly. '

A small room in a small house, built for summer lodgings by the sea;bare wooden walls and floor; a stove; open windows through which camethe slow boom of waves breaking on a sandy shore; a bed, and in it anemaciated figure, propped up. 

Nelly, as the door closed behind her, broke into a run like the softflight of a bird, and fell on her knees beside the bed. She had takenoff her hat and cloak. Excitement had kindled two spots of red in herpale cheeks. The man in the bed turned his eyes towards her, and smiled. 

'Nelly!'

Howson and the Sister went on tiptoe through a side door into anotherroom. 

'Kiss me, Nelly!'

Nelly, trembling, put her soft lips to his. But as she did so, a chillanguish struck her--the first bitterness of the naked truth. As yet shehad only seen it through a veil, darkly. Was this her George--thisghost, grey-haired, worn out, on the brink of the unknown? The oldpassionate pressure of the mouth gone--for ever! Her young husband--heryoung lover--she saw him far back in the past, on Rydal lake, thedripping oars in his hand. This was a spirit which touched her--aspiritual love which shone upon her. And she had never yet known sosharp an agony. 

So sharp it was that it dried all tears. She knelt there with his handsin hers, kissing them, and gazing at him. 

'Nelly, it's hard luck! Darling, I'd better have been patient. In time, perhaps, I should have come back to you. How I got away--who plannedit--I don't remember. I remember nothing--of all that time. But Howsonhas heard something, through some people near Cassel--has he told you?'

'Yes--but don't try to remember. '

He smiled at her. How strange the old sweetness on these grey lips!

'Have you missed me--dreadfully? Poor little Nelly! You're very pale--alittle shadow! Darling!--I _would_ like to live!'

And at that--at last--the eyes of both, as they gazed at each other, filled with tears. Tears for the eternal helplessness of man, --the'tears of things. '

But he roused himself, snatching still at a little love, a littlebrightness--before the dark. The strychnine injected had given himstrength. 

'Give me that jelly--and the champagne. Feed me, Nelly! But have you hadany food?'

The stress laid on the '_you_' the tone of his voice, were so like hisold self that Nelly caught her breath. A ray of mad hope stole in. Shebegan to feed him, and as she did so, the Sister, as though she hadheard Sarratt's question, came quietly in with a tray on which was somefood for Nelly, and put it down beside her. Then she disappeared again. 

With difficulty, Sarratt swallowed a few mouthfuls of jelly andchampagne. Then his left hand--the right was helpless--made a faint butperemptory sign, and Nelly obediently took some food under his dimlysmiling eyes. 

'I have thought of this so often, ' he murmured--I knew you'd come. It'sbeen like someone walking through a dark passage that was gettinglighter. Only once--I had a curious dream. I thought I saw Bridget'

Nelly, trembling, took away his tray and her own, and then knelt downagain beside him. She kissed his forehead, and tried to divert histhoughts by asking him if he was warm enough. His hands were very cold. Should she make up the fire?

'Oh, no, --it's all right. But wasn't it strange? Suddenly, I seemed tobe looking at her--quite close--and she at me. And I was worried becauseI had seen her more distinctly than I could remember you. Comenearer--put your dear head against me. Oh, if I could only hold you, asI used to!'

There was silence a little. But the wine had flushed him, and when thebloodless lids lifted again, there was more life in the eyes. 

'Nelly, poor darling, have you been very lonely?--Were the Farrells kindto you?'

'Yes, George, very kind. They did everything--everything they could. '

'Sir William promised me'--he said, gratefully. 'And where have you beenall the time? At Rydal?'

'No. I was ill--after the news came----'

'Poor Nelly!'

'And Sir William lent us one of his farms--near his cottage--do youremember?'

'A little. That was kind of him--very kind. Nelly--I want to send him amessage----'

'Yes. '

'Give him my grateful thanks, darling, --and--and--my blessing. '

Nelly hid her face against him, and he felt the convulsion of tearlesssobbing that passed through her. 

'Poor Nelly!'--he said again, touching her hand tenderly. Then afteranother pause--'Sit there, darling, where I can see you--your dear head, and your eyes, and your pretty neck. You must go to bed soon, youknow--but just a little while! Now tell me what you have been doing. Talk to me. I won't talk. I'll rest--but I shall hear. That's sowonderful--that I _can_ hear you. I've been living in such a queerworld--no tongue--no ears--no mind, hardly--only my eyes. '

She obeyed him by a great effort. She talked to him--of what, she hardlyknew!--about her months in London and Torquay--: about her illness--thefarm--Hester Martin--and Cicely. 

When she came to speak of her friendship with Cicely, he smiled insurprise, his eyes still shut. 

'That's jolly, dearest. You remember, I didn't like her. She wasn't atall nice to you--once. But thank her for me--please. '

'She's here now, George, she brought me here. She wouldn't let me comealone. '

'God bless her!' he said, under his breath. 'I'll see her--to-morrow. Now go on talking. You won't mind if I go to sleep? They won't let youstop here, dear. You'll be upstairs. But you'll come early--won't you?'

They gave him morphia, and he went to sleep under her eyes. Then thenight nurse came in, and the surgeon from the hospital opposite, withHowson. And Cicely took Nelly away. 

Cicely had made everything ready in the little bare room upstairs. Butwhen she had helped Nelly to undress, she did not linger. 

'Knock on the wall, if you want me. It is only wood, I shall heardirectly. '

Nelly kissed her and she went. For nothing in her tender service thatday was Nelly more grateful to her. 

Then Nelly put out her light, and drawing up the blind, she sat for longstaring into the moonlight night. The rain had stopped, but the wind washigh over the sea, which lay before her a tumbled mass of waves, not ahundred yards away. To her right was the Casino, a subdued light shiningthrough the blinds of its glass verandahs, behind which she sometimessaw figures passing--nurses and doctors on their various errands. Werethere men dying there to-night--like her George?

The anguish that held her, poor child, was no simple sorrow. Never--sheknew it doubly now--had she ceased to love her husband. She had toldFarrell the truth--'If George now were to come in at that door, therewould be no other man in the world for me!' And yet, while George wasdying, and at the very moment that he was asking for her, she had beenin Farrell's arms, and yielding to his kisses. George would never know;but that only made her remorse the more torturing. She could neverconfess to him--that indeed was her misery. He would die, and herunfaith would stand between them for ever. 

A cleverer, a more experienced, a more practical woman, in such a case, would have found a hundred excuses and justifications for herself thatnever occurred to Nelly Sarratt, to this young immature creature, inwhom the passionate love of her marriage had roused feelings andemotions, which, when the man on whom they were spent was taken fromher, were still the master-light of all her seeing--still so strong andabsorbing, that, in her widowed state, they were like blind forcessearching unconsciously for some new support, some new thing to love. She had nearly died for love--and then when her young strength revivedit had become plain that she could only live for love. Her hands had metthe hands seeking hers, inevitably, instinctively. To refuse, to standaloof, to cause pain--that had been the torment, the impossibility, forone who had learnt so well how to give and to make happy. There was init no sensual element--only Augustine's 'love of loving. ' Yet herstricken conscience told her that, in her moral indecision, if thesituation had lasted much longer, she had not been able to make up hermind to marry Farrell quickly, she might easily have become hismistress, through sheer weakness, sheer dread of his suffering, sheerlonging to be loved. 

Explanations and excuses, for any more seasoned student of human nature, emerged on every hand. Nelly in her despair allowed herself none ofthem. It merely seemed to her, in this night vigil, that she wasunworthy to touch her George, to nurse him, to uphold him; utterlyunworthy of all this reverent pity and affection that was being lavishedupon her for his sake. 

She sat up most of the night, wrapped in her fur cloak, alive to anysound from the room below. And about four in the morning, she stole downthe stairs to listen at his door. There one of the nurses found her, andmoved with pity, brought her in. They settled her in an arm-chair nearhim; and then with the tardy coming of the November day, she watched thesad waking that was so many hours nearer death, at that moment whenman's life is at its wretchedest, and all the forces of the underworldseem to be let loose upon it. 

And there, for five days and nights, with the briefest possibleintervals for food, and the sleep of exhaustion, she sat beside him. Shewas dimly conscious of the people about her, of the boundless tendernessand skill that was poured out upon the poor sufferer at her side; shedid everything for George that the nurses could shew her how to do--; itwas the one grain of personal desire left in her, and doctors and nursesdeveloped the most ingenious pity in devising things for her to do, andin letting every remedy that soothed his pain, or cleared his mind, go, as far as possible, through her hands. And there were moments when shewould walk blindly along the sea beach with Cicely, finding a stimulusto endure in the sharpness of the winter wind, or looking in vaguewonder at the great distant camp, with its streets of hospitals, itslong lines of huts, its training-grounds, and the bodies of men at workupon them. Here, the war came home to her, as a vast machine by whichGeorge, like millions of others, had been caught and crushed. Sheshuddered to think of it. 

At intervals Sarratt still spoke a good deal, though rarely after theirthird day together. He asked her once--'Dear, did you ever send for myletter?' She paused a moment to think. 'You mean the letter you left forme--in case?' He made a sign of assent, and then smiled into the facebending over him. 'Read it again, darling. I mean it all now, as I didthen. ' She could only kiss him softly--without tears. After the firstday she never cried. 

On the last night of his life, when she thought that all speech wasover, and that she would never hear his voice, or see a conscious look, again, he opened his eyes suddenly, and she heard--'I love you, sweetheart! I love you, sweetheart!' twice over. That was the lastsound. Towards midnight he died. 

Next morning Cicely wrote to Farrell:--

'We are coming home to-morrow after they bury him in the cemetery here. Please get Hester--_whatever she may be doing_--to throw it up, and comeand meet us. She is the only person who can help Nelly now for a bitNelly pines for Rydal--where they were together. She would go toHester's cottage. Tell Hester. 

'Why, old boy, do such things happen? That's what I keep asking--notbeing a saint, like these dear nurses here, who really have beenangelic. I am the only one who rebels. George Sarratt was so patient--soterribly patient! And Nelly is just crushed--for the moment, though Isometimes expect to see a strange energy in her before long. But I keepknocking my head all day, and part of the night--the very small partthat I'm not asleep--against the questions that everybody seems to haveasked since the world began--and I know that I am a fool, and go ondoing it. 

'George Sarratt, I think, was a simple Christian, and died like one. Heseemed to like the Chaplain, which was a comfort. How much any of thatmeans to Nelly I don't know. '

She also wrote to Marsworth:--

'Meet us, please, at Charing Cross. I have no spirit to answer your lastletters as they deserve. But I give you notice that I don't thrive ontoo sweet a diet--and praise is positively bad for me. It wrinkles me upthe wrong way. 

'What can be done about that incredible sister? She ought to know thatNelly is determined not to see her. Just think!--they might have hadnearly a month together, and she cut it down to five days!

('Dear Herbert, say anything you like, and the sweeter the better!)

'Yours, 'CICELY. '

CHAPTER XVII

'Well--what news?' said Farrell abruptly. For Cicely had come into hislibrary with a letter in her hand. The library was a fineeighteenth-century room still preserved intact amid the generalappropriation of the big house by the hospital, and when he was not busyin his office, it was his place of refuge. 

Cicely perched herself on the edge of his writing-table. 

'Hester has brought her to Rydal all right, ' she said cheerfully. 

'How is she?'

'As you might expect. But Hester says she talks of nothing but going towork. She has absolutely set her heart upon it, and there is no movingher. '

'It is, of course, an absurdity, ' said Farrell, frowning. 

'Absurdity or not, she means to do it, and Hester begs that nobody willtry to persuade her against it. She has promised Hester to stay with herfor three weeks, and then she has already made her arrangements. '

'What is she going to do?'

'She is going to a hospital near Manchester. They want a V. A. D. Housemaid. '

Farrell rose impatiently, and stretching out his hand for his pipe, began to pace the room, steeped evidently in disagreeable reflection. 

'You know as well as I do'--he said at last--that she hasn't thephysical strength for it. '

'Well then she'll break down, and we can put her to bed. But try shewill, and I entirely approve of it, ' said Cicely firmly. 'Hard physicalwork--till you drop--till you're so tired, you must go to sleep--that'sthe only thing when you're as miserable as poor Nelly. You know it is, Will. Don't you remember that poor Mrs. Henessy whose son died here? Herletters to me afterwards used to be all about scrubbing. If she couldscrub from morning till night, she could just get along. She scrubbedherself sane again. The bigger the floor, the better she liked it. Whenbedtime came, she just slept like a log. And at last she got all right. But it was touch-and-go when she left here. '

'She was a powerfully-built woman, ' said Farrell gloomily. 

'Oh, well, it isn't always the strapping ones that come through. Anyway, old boy, I'm afraid you can't do anything to alter it. '

She looked at him a little askance. It was perfectly understood betweenthem that Cicely was more or less acquainted with her brother's plight, and since her engagement to Marsworth had been announced it wasastonishing how much more ready Farrell had been to confide in her, andshe to be confided in. 

But for her few days in France, however, with Nelly Sarratt, Marsworthmight still have had some wrestles to go through with Cicely. At thevery moment when Farrell's telephone message arrived, imploring her totake charge of Nelly on her journey, Cicely was engaged in freshquarrelling with her long-suffering lover. But the spectacle ofSarratt's death, and Nelly's agony, together with her own quickdivination of Nelly's inner mind, had worked profoundly on Cicely, andMarsworth had never shewn himself a better fellow than in his completesympathy with her, and his eager pity for the Sarratts. 'I haven't theheart to tease him'--Cicely had said candidly after her return toEngland. 'He's been so horribly nice to me!' And the Petruchio havingonce got the upper hand, the Katherine was--like her prototype--almostoverdoing it. The corduroy trousers, Russian boots, the flame-colouredjersey actually arrived. Cicely looked at them wistfully and locked themup. As to the extravagances that still remained, in hats, or skirts, orhead-dressing, were they to be any further reduced, Marsworth wouldprobably himself implore her not to be too suddenly reasonable. For, without them, Cicely would be only half Cicely. 

But his sister's engagement, perhaps, had only made Farrell feel moresharply than ever the collapse of his own hopes. Three days afterSarratt's death Nelly had written to him to give him George's dyingmessage, and to thank him on her own account for all that he had doneto help her journey. The letter was phrased as Nelly could not helpphrasing anything she wrote. Cicely, to whom Nelly dumbly shewed it, thought it 'sweet. ' But on Farrel's morbid state, it struck like ice, and he had the greatest difficulty in writing a letter of sympathy, suchas any common friend must send her, in return. Every word seemed to himeither too strong or too weak. The poor Viking, indeed, had begun tolook almost middle-aged, and Cicely with a pang had discovered orfancied some streaks of grey in the splendid red beard and curly hair. At the same time her half-sarcastic sense perceived that he was farbetter provided than Nelly, with the means of self-protection againsthis trouble. 'Men always are, ' thought Cicely--'they have so much moreinteresting things to do. ' And she compared the now famous hospital, with its constant scientific developments, the ever-changing andabsorbing spectacle of the life within it, and Farrell's remarkableposition amid its strenuous world--with poor Nelly's 'housemaiding. '

But Nelly was choosing the path that suited her own need, and in thespiritual world, the humblest means may be the best. It was when she wascooking for her nuns that some of St. Teresa's divinest ecstasies cameupon her! Not that there was any prospect of ecstasy for Nelly Sarratt. She seemed to herself to be engaged in a kind of surgery--the cutting orburning away of elements in herself that she had come to scorn. Hester, who was something of a saint herself, came near to understanding her. Cicely could only wonder. But Hester perceived, with awe, a _fierceness_in Nelly--a kind of cruelty--towards herself, with which she knew well, from a long experience of human beings, that it was no use to argue. Thelittle, loving, easy-going thing had discovered in her own gentlenessand weakness, the source of something despicable--that is, of her ownfailure to love George as steadfastly and truly as he had loved her. Thewhole memory of her marriage was poisoned for her by this bitter sensethat in little more than a year after she had lost him, while he wasactually still alive, and when the law even, let alone the higheststandards of love, had not released her, she had begun to yield to thewooing of another man. Perhaps only chance, under all the difficultcircumstances of her intimacy with Farrell, had saved her from ashameful yielding--from dishonour, as well as a broken faith. 

'What had brought it about?'--she asked herself. And she asked it with adesperate will, determined to probe her own sin to the utmost. 'Softliving!'--was her own reply--moral and physical indolence. The pleasureof being petted and spoiled, the readiness to let others work for her, and think for her, what people called her 'sweetness!' She turned uponit with a burning hatred and contempt. She would scourge it out ofherself. And then perhaps some day she would be able to think ofGeorge's last faint words with something else than remorsefulanguish--_ love you, sweetheart!--I love you, sweetheart!'_

During the three weeks, however, that she was with Hester, she was verysilent. She clung to Hester without words, and with much less than herusual caressingness. She found--it was evident--a certain comfort insolitary walks, in the simple talk of Mrs. Tyson, and 'Father Time, ' whocame to see her, and scolded her for her pale cheeks with adisrespectful vigour which brought actually a smile to her eyes. Tommywas brought over to see her; and she sat beside him, while he lay on thefloor drawing Hoons and Haggans, at a great rate, and brimful of freshadventures in 'Jupe. ' But he was soon conscious that his old playfellowwas not the listener she had been; and he presently stole away with awistful look at her. 

One evening early in December, Hester coming in from marketing inAmbleside, found Nelly, sitting by the fire, a book open on her knee, soabsorbed in thought that she had not heard her friend's entrance. Yether lips seemed to be moving. Hester came softly, and knelt down besideher. 

'Darling, I have been such a long time away!'

Nelly drew a deep breath. 

'Oh, no I--I--I've been thinking, '

Hester looked at the open book, and saw that it was 'The Letters of St. Ignatius'--a cheap copy, belonging to a popular theological 'Library, 'she herself had lately bought. 

'Did that interest you, Nelly?' she asked, wondering. 

'Some of it'--said Nelly, flushing a little. And after a moment'shesitation, she pointed to a passage under her hand:--'For I fear yourlove, lest it injure me, for it is easy to do what you will; but it isdifficult for me to attain unto God, if ye insist on sparing me. '

And suddenly Hester remembered that before going out she had entreatedNelly to give herself another fortnight's rest before going toManchester. It would then be only six weeks since her husband's death. 'And if you break down, dear, '--she had ventured--'it won't only betrouble to you--but to them '--meaning the hospital authorities. Whereupon for the first time since her return, Nelly's eyes had filledwith tears. But she made no reply, and Hester had gone away uneasy. 

'Why will you be so hard on yourself?' she murmured, taking the lovelychildish face in her two hands and kissing it. 

Nelly gently released herself, and pointed again, mutely, to a passagefurther on--the famous passage in which the saint, already in theecstasy of martyrdom, appeals again to the Christian church in Rome, whether he is bound, not to save him from the wild beasts of the arena. 'I entreat you, shew not unto me an unseasonable love! Suffer me to bethe food of wild beasts, through whom it is allowed me to attain untoGod. I am the corn of God; let me be ground by the teeth of the wildbeasts, that I may be found the pure bread of Christ.... Pardon me inthis. I know what is expedient for me. I am but now beginning to be adisciple. '

'Nelly dear--what do you mean?'

A faint little smile crossed Nelly's face. 

'Oh, nothing--only;--' she sighed again--'It's so _splendid_! Such awill!--such a faith! No one thinks like that now. No one is willing tobe "the corn of God. "'

'Oh, yes they are!' said Hester, passionately. 'There are thousands ofmen--and women--in this war, who are willing to do everything--suffereverything--for others--their country--their people at home. '

'Well, then they're happy!--and why hold anyone back?' said Nelly, withsoft reproach. And letting her head drop on Hester's shoulder, she said, slowly--

'Let me go, dear Hester--let me go! It's drudgery I want--_drudgery_'she repeated with intensity. 'Something that I don't want todo--something that's against the grain--all day long. ' Then she laughedand roused herself. 'Not much likeness between me and St. Ignatius, isthere?'

Hester considered her gravely. 

'When people like you are wrestling all day and every day with somethingtoo hard for them, their strength gives way. They think they can do it, but they can't. '

'My strength won't give way, ' said Nelly, with quiet conviction. Then, after pausing a moment, she said with a strange ardour--'I once heard astory--a true story--of a man, who burnt his own hand off, because ithad struck his friend. He held it in a flame till there was only theburnt stump, and after that he forgave himself and could bear to liveagain. '

'But whom have you struck, you poor child!' cried Hester. 

'_George_!' said Nelly, looking at her with bitterly shining eyes. 

Hester's arms enfolded her, and they talked far into the night. Beforethey separated, Hester had agreed that the date of Nelly's departureshould be not postponed, but quickened. 

And during the few remaining days they were together, Hester could onlynotice with growing amazement the change in all the small ways andhabits that had once characterised Nelly Sarratt--especially since herTorquay illness; the small invalidisms and self-indulgences, thedependence on a servant or on Bridget. Now the ascetic, penitentialpassion had come upon her; as it comes in different forms, upon many aman or woman in the _s�lva osc�ra_ of their life; and Hester knew thatthere was no resisting it. 

Hester went back to her 'Welfare' work. Cicely travelled between Cartonand London, collecting her trousseau and declaring that she _would_ bemarried in Lent, whatever people might say. Farrell was deeply engagedin introducing a new antiseptic treatment of an extremely costly kindthroughout his hospital, in watching the results of it, and in givingfacilities for the study of it, to the authorities and officials of allkinds who applied to him. A sorrowful man--but a very busy one. Marsworth was making his mark in the Intelligence Department of the WarOffice, and was being freely named as the head of an important MilitaryMission to one of the Allied Headquarters. What would become of Cicelyand the wedding, if the post were given him, and--as was probable--at aday's warning--was not quite clear. Cicely, however, took it calmly. 'They can't give us less than three hours' notice--and if it's after twoo'clock, we can always get married somehow by five. You scurry round, pay fifty pounds, and somebody at Lambeth does it. Then--I should seehim safely off in the evening!'

Meanwhile Bridget Cookson was living in her usual Bloomsburyboarding-house, holding herself quite aloof from the idle ways of itsinmates, who, in the midst of the world-war, were still shopping asusual in the mornings and spending the afternoons in tea and gossip. Bridget, however, was scarcely employing her own time to any greaterprofit for a burdened country. She was learning various languages, andattending a number of miscellaneous lectures. Her time was fairly full, and she lived in an illusion of multifarious knowledge which flatteredher vanity. She was certainly far cleverer; and better-educated thanthe other women of her boarding-house; and she was one of those personswho throughout life prefer to live with their inferiors. 'The onlyremedy against a superiority, '--says some French writer--'is to loveit. ' But Bridget was so made that she could not love it; she could onlypull it down and belittle it. 

But all the same, Bridget Cookson was no monster, though she wasprobably without feelings and instincts that most people possess. Shemissed Nelly a good deal, more than Nelly herself would have believed. And she thought now, that she had behaved like a fool in not recognisingSarratt at once, and so preserving her influence with her sister. Morally, however, she saw no great harm in what she had done. It wasarguable, at any rate. Everything was arguable. As to the effect onNelly of the outward and visible facts of Sarratt's death, it seemed tohave been exactly what she, Bridget, had foreseen. Through someManchester acquaintance she succeeded in getting occasional news ofNelly, who was, it appeared, killing herself with hard and disagreeablework. She heard also from the woman left in charge of the Loughrigg farmthat all Mrs. Sarratt's personal possessions had been sent to the careof Miss Martin, and that Sir William had shut up the cottage and nevercame there. Sometimes Bridget would grimly contrast this state of thingswith what might have happened, had her stroke succeeded, and had Georgedied unrecognised. In that event how many people would have been madehappy, who were now made miserable!

The winter passed away, the long and bitter winter which seemed tosharpen for English hearts and nerves all the suffering of the war. Onthe Somme the Germans were secretly preparing the retreat which beganwith the spring, while the British armies were growing to their fullstature, month by month, and England was becoming slowly accustomed tothe new and amazing consciousness of herself as a great military power. And meanwhile death in the trenches still took its steady toll of ourbest and dearest; and at sea, while British sea-power pressed home itsstifling grasp on the life of Germany, the submarine made Englandanxious, but not afraid. 

March shewed some pale gleams of spring, but April was one of thecoldest and dreariest in the memory of living man. The old earth insympathy with the great struggle that was devastating and searing her, seemed to be withholding leaf and flower, and forbidding the sun to wooher. 

Till the very first days of May! Then, with a great return upon herself, Nature flew to work. The trees rushed into leaf, and never had therebeen such a glorious leafage. Everything was late, but everything wasperfection. And nowhere was the spring loveliness more lovely than inWestmorland. The gentle valleys of the Lakes had been muffled in snowand scourged with hail. The winter furies had made their lairs in thehigher fells, and rushed shrieking week after week through delicate andquiet scenes not made for them. The six months from November to May hadbeen for the dale-dwellers one long endurance. But in one May week allwas forgotten, and atoned for. Beauty, 'an hourly presence, ' reignedwithout a rival. From the purple heights that stand about Langdale andDerwentwater, to the little ferns and mountain plants that crept onevery wall, or dipped in every brook, the mountain land was all aliveand joyful. The streams alone made a chorus for the gods. 

Hester, who was now a woman of sixty, had reluctantly admitted, by themiddle of the month, that, after a long winter spent in a munitionfactory and a Lancashire town, employed on the most strenuous work thatshe, an honest worker all her life, had ever known, a fortnight'sholiday was reasonable. And she wrote to Nelly Sarratt, just as she wasdeparting northwards, to say--cunningly--that she was very tired and rundown, and would Nelly come and look after her for a little? It was thefirst kindness she had ever asked of Nelly, to whom she had done somany. Nelly telegraphed in reply that in two days she would be at Rydal. 

Hester spent the two days in an expectation half-eager, half-anxious. Ithad been agreed between them that in their correspondence the subject ofNelly's health was to be tabooed. In case of a serious breakdown, theCommandant of Nelly's hospital would write. Otherwise there were to beno enquiries and no sympathy. Cicely Marsworth before her marriage inearly March had seen Nelly twice and had reported--against thegrain--that although 'most unbecomingly thin, ' the obstinate littlecreature said she was well, and apparently was well. Everybody in thehospital, said Cicely, was at Nelly's feet. 'It is of course nonsensefor her to lay down, that she won't be petted, Nature has settled thatfor her. However, I am bound to say it is the one thing that makes herangry, and the nurses are all amazed at what she has been able to stand. There is a half-blind boy, suffering from "shock" in one of the wards, to whom they say she has devoted herself for months. She has taught himto speak again, and to walk, and the nerve-specialist who has beenlooking after the poor fellow told her he would trust her with his worstcases, if only she would come and nurse for him. That did seem to pleaseher. She flushed up a little when she told me. Otherwise she has become_horribly impersonal_! Her wings are growing rapidly. But oh, Hester, Idid and do prefer the old Nelly to any angel I've ever known. If Ihadn't married Herbert, I should like to spend all my time in _temptingher_--the poor darling!--as the devil--who was such a fool!--tempted St. Anthony. I know plenty of saints; but I know only one little, softkissable Nelly. She shan't be taken from us!'

_So horribly impersonal_! What did Cicely mean?

Well, Cicely--with the object described in full view--would soon beable to tell her. For the Marsworths were coming to Carton for a week, before starting for Rome, and would certainly come over to her to saygood-bye. As to William--would it really be necessary to leave himbehind? Nelly must before long brace herself to see him again, as anordinary friend. He had meant no harm--and done no harm--poor William!Hester was beginning secretly to be his warm partisan. 

Twenty-four hours later, Nelly arrived. As Hester received her from thecoach, and walked with her arm round the tiny waist to the cottage bythe bend of the river, where tea beside the sun-flecked stream was setfor the traveller, the older friend was at once startled and reassured. Reassured--because, after these six months, Nelly could laugh once more, and her step was once more firm and normal; and startled, by the new andlonely independence she perceived in her frail visitor. Nelly was inblack again, with a small black hat from which her widow's veil fellback over her shoulders. The veil, the lawn collar and cuffs, togetherwith her childish slightness, and the curls on her temples and brow thatshe had tried in vain to straighten, made her look like a little girlmasquerading. And yet, in truth, what struck her hostess was the sadmaturity for which she seemed to have exchanged her old clinging ways. She spoke, for the first time, as one who was mistress of her own lifeand its issues; with a perfectly clear notion of what there was for herto do. She had made up her mind, she told Hester, to take work offeredher in one of the new special hospitals for nervous cases which were theproduct of the war. 'They think I have a turn for it, and they are goingto train me. Isn't it kind and dear of them?'

'But I am told it is the most exhausting form of nursing there is, ' saidHester wondering. 'Are you quite sure you can stand it?'

'Try me!' said Nelly, with a strange brightness of look. Then reachingout a hand she slipped it contentedly into her friend's. 'Hester!--isn'tit strange what we imagine about ourselves--and what is really true? Ithought the first weeks that I was in hospital, I _must_ break down. Inever dreamt that anyone could feel so tired--so deadly ill--and yet goon. And then one began, little by little, to get hardened, --of courseI'm only now beginning to feel that!--and it seems like being bornagain, with a quite new body, that one can make--yes, _make_--do as onelikes. That's what the soldiers tell me--about _their_ training. Andthey wonder at it, as I do. '

'My dear, you're horribly thin, ' interrupted Hester. 

'Oh, not too thin!' said Nelly, complacently. 

Then she lifted up her eyes suddenly, and saw the lake in a dazzle oflight, and Silver How, all purple, as of old; yet another family of wildduck swimming where the river issued from the lake; and just beyond, thewhite corner of the house where she and George had spent their few daysof bliss. Slowly, the eyes filled with brimming tears. She threw offher hat and veil, and slipping to the grass, she laid her head againsther friend's knee, and there was a long silence. 

Hester broke it at last. 

'I want you to come a little way up the fell, and look at a daffodilfield. We'll leave a message, and Cicely can follow us there. ' And thenshe added, not without trepidation--'and I asked her to bring William, if he had time. '

Nelly was silent a moment, and then said quietly---'Thank you. I'm gladyou did. '

They left the garden and wandered through some rocky fields on the sideof the fell, till they came to one where Linnaeus or any other pioussoul might well have gone upon his knees for joy. Some loving hand hadplanted it with daffodils--the wild Lent lily of the district, thoughnot now very plentiful about the actual lakes. And the daffodils hadcome back rejoicing to their kingdom, and made it their own again. Theyran in lines and floods, in troops and skirmishers, all through thesilky grass, and round the trunks of the old knotted oaks, that hung asthough by one foot from the emerging rocks and screes. Above, the bloomof the wild cherries made a wavering screen of silver between thedaffodils and the May sky; amid the blossom the golden-green of the oaksstruck a strong riotous note; and far below, at their feet, the lake layblue, with all the sky within it, and the softness of the larch-woods onits banks. 

Nelly dropped into the grass among the daffodils. One could not havecalled her the spirit of the spring--the gleeful, earthly spring--as itwould have been natural to do, in her honeymoon days. And yet, as Hesterwatched her, she seemed in her pale, changed beauty to be in somestrange harmony with that grave, renewing, fruitful heart of all things, whereof the daffodils and the cherry-blossom were but symbols. 

Presently there were voices beneath them--climbing voices that camenearer--of a man and a woman. Nelly's hand begun to pluck restlessly atthe grass beside her. 

Cicely emerged first, Cicely in white, very bridal, and very happy. Veryconscious too, though she did not betray it by a movement or a look, ofthe significance of this first meeting, since Sarratt's death, betweenher brother and Nelly. But they met very simply. Nelly went a little waydown the steep to meet them. She kissed Cicely, and gave Farrell herhand. 

'It was very good of you to come. '

But then it seemed to Hester, who could not help watching it, thatNelly's face, as she stood there looking gravely at Farrell, shewed asudden trouble and agitation. It was gone very quickly, however, and sheand he walked on together along a green path skirting the fells, andwinding through the daffodils and the hawthorns. 

Cicely and Hester followed, soon perceiving that the two ahead hadslipped into animated conversation. 

'What can it be about?' said Cicely, in Hester's ear. 

'I heard the word "Charcot, "' said Hester. 

The bride listened deliberately. 

'And William's talking about an article in the _Lancet_ he's been boringHerbert and me with, by that very specialist that Nelly's so keenabout, --the man that is going to have her trained to nurse his cases. Something about the new treatment of "shock. " I say, Hester, what an oddsort of fresh beginning!'

Cicely turned a look half grave, half laughing on her companion--addinghastily--

'The specialist's married!'

Hester frowned a little. 

'Beginning of what?'

'Oh, I don't know, ' said Cicely, with a shrug, 'But life is long, Mademoiselle Hester, and now they've got a common interest--outsidethemselves. They can talk about _things_--not feelings. Goodness!--didyou hear that? William is head over ears in his new antiseptic--and lookat Nelly--she's quite pink! That's what I meant by her being _horriblyimpersonal_. She used the word "scientific" to me, three times, when Iwent to see her--_Nelly_!'

'If she's impersonal, I should doubt whether William is, ' said Hesterdrily. 

'Ah, no--poor Willy!' was Cicely's musing reply. 'It's a hard time forhim. I don't believe she's ever out of his mind. Or at least, shewouldn't be, if it weren't for his work. That's the blessed part--forboth of them. And now you see--it gives them such a deal to talkabout'--her gesture indicated the couple in front. 'It's like two soresurfaces, isn't it, that mustn't touch--you want something between. '

'All the same, William mustn't set his heart--'

'And Hester--dear old thing!--mustn't preach!' said Cicely laughing, andpinching her cousin's arm. 'What's the good of saying that, about a manlike William, who knows what he wants? Of course he's set his heart, andwill go on setting it. But he'll _wait_--as long as she likes. '

'It'll be a long time. '

'All right! They're neither of them Methuselahs yet. Heavens!--What arethey at now? _Ambrine_!--_she's_ talking to _him_'

But some deep mingled instinct, at once of sympathy with Nelly and pityfor Farrell, made Hester unwilling to discuss the subject any more. George's death was too recent; peace and a happy future too remote. Soshe turned on Cicely. 

'And please, what have you done with Herbert? I was promised abridegroom. '

'Business!' said Cicely, sighing. 'We had hardly arrived for our week'sleave, when the wretched War Office wired him to come back. He went thismorning, and I wanted to go too, but--I'm not to racket just now. '

Cicely blushed, and Hester, smiling, pressed her hand. 

'Then you're not going to Rome?'

'Certainly I am! But one has to give occasional sops to the domestictyrant. '

They sauntered back to tea in Hester's garden by the river, and therethe talk of her three guests was more equal and unfettered, more of areal interchange, than Hester ever remembered it. Of old, Farrell hadbeen the guardian and teacher, indoctrinating Nelly with his own viewson art, reading to her from his favourite poets, or surrounding her in ahundred small matters with a playful and devoted homage. But now in thelong wrestle with her grief and remorse, she had thought, as well asfelt. She was as humble and simple as ever, but her companions realisedthat she was standing on her own feet. And this something new inher--which was nothing but a strengthened play of intelligence andwill--had a curious effect on Farrell. It seemed to bring him out, also;so that the nobler aspects of his life, and the nobler proportions ofhis character shewed themselves, unconsciously. Hester, with anxiousjoy, guessed at the beginnings of a new moral relation, a truecomradeship, between himself and Nelly, such as there had never yetbeen--which might go far. It masked the depths in both of them; orrather it was a first bridge thrown over the chasm between them. Whatwould come of it?

Again she rebuked herself even for the question. But when the time fordeparture came, and Nelly took Cicely into the house to fetch the wrapswhich had been left there, Farrell drew his chair close to Hester's. Sheread agitation in his look. 

'So she's actually going to take up this new nursing? She says she is tohave six months' training. '

'Yes--don't grudge it her!'

Farrell was silent a moment, then broke out--'Did you ever see anythingso small and transparent as her hands are? I was watching them as shesat there. '

'But they're capable!' laughed Hester. 'You should hear what her matronsays of her. '

Farrell sighed. 

'How much weight has she lost?'

'Not more--as yet--than she can stand. There's an intense life in her--aspiritual life--that seems to keep her going. '

'Hester--dear Hester--watch over her!'

He put out a hand and grasped his cousin's. 

'Yes, you may trust me. '

'Hester!--do you believe there'll ever be any hope for me?'

'It's unkind even to think of it yet, ' she said gravely. 

He drew himself up, recovering self-control. 

'I know--I know. I hope I'm not quite a fool! And indeed it's betterthan I thought. She's not going to banish me altogether. When this newhospital's open--in another month or so--and she's settled there--sheasks me to call upon her. She wants me to go into this man's treatment. 'There was a touch of comedy in the words; but the emotion in his facewas painful to see. 

'Good!' said Hester, smiling. 

When the guests were gone, Nelly came slowly back to Hester from thegarden gate. Her hands were loosely clasped before her, her eyes on theground. When she reached Hester she looked up and Hester saw that hereyes were full of tears. 

'He'll miss her very much, ' she said, sadly. 

'Cicely?'

'Yes--she's been a great deal more to him lately than she used to be. '

Nelly stood silently looking out over the lake for a while. In her mindand Hester's there were thoughts which neither could express. Suddenly, Nelly turned to Hester. Her voice sounded strained and quick. 'I nevertold you--on my way here, I went to see Bridget. '

Hester was taken by surprise. After a moment's silence she said--

'Has she ever repented--ever asked your forgiveness?

Nelly shook her head. 

'But I think--she would be sorry--if she could. I shall go and see hersometimes. But she doesn't want me. She seems quite busy--andsatisfied. '

'Satisfied!' said Hester, indignantly. 

'I mean with what she is doing--with her way of living. '

There was silence. But presently there was a stifled sob in thedarkness; and Hester knew that Nelly was thinking of those irrecoverableweeks of which Bridget's cruelty had robbed her. 

Then presently bedtime came, and Hester saw her guest to her room. But alittle while after, as she was standing by her own window she heard thegarden door open and perceived a small figure slipping down over thelawn--a shadow among shadows--towards the path along the lake. And sheguessed of course that Nelly had gone out to take a last look at thescene of her lost happiness, before her departure on the morrow. 

Only twenty-two--with all her life before her--if she lived!

Of course, the probability was that she would live--and graduallyforget--and in process of time marry William Farrell. But Hester couldnot be at all sure that the story would so work out. Supposing that thepassion of philanthropy, or the passion of religion, fastened uponher--on the girlish nature that had proved itself with time to be of somuch finer and rarer temper than those about her had ever suspected?Both passions are absorbing; both tend to blunt in many women thenatural instinct of the woman towards the man. Nelly had been anold-fashioned, simple girl, brought up in a backwater of life. Now shewas being drawn into that world of the new woman--where are womenpolicemen, and women chauffeurs, and militant suffragists, and women inoveralls and breeches, and many other strange types. The war has shownus--suddenly and marvellously--the adaptability of women. Would littleNelly, too, prove as plastic as the rest, and in the excitement ofmeeting new demands, and reaching out to new powers, forget the oldneeds and sweetnesses?

It might be so; but in her heart of hearts, Hester did not believe itwould be so. 

Meanwhile Nelly was wandering through the May dusk along the lake. Shewalked through flowers. The scents of a rich earth were in the air;daylight lingered, but a full and golden moon hung over Loughrigg in thewest; and the tranced water of the lake was marvellously giving back thebeauty amid which it lay--form, and colour, and distance--and all themagic of the hour between day and night. There was no boat, alack, totake her to the island; but there it lay, dreaming on the silver water, with a great hawthorn in full flower shewing white upon its rocky side. She made her way to the point nearest to the island, and there sat downon a stone at the water's edge. 

Opposite to her was the spot where she and George had drifted with thewater on their last night together. If she shut her eyes she could seehis sunburnt face, blanched by the moonlight, his strong shoulders, hishands--which she had kissed--lying on the oars. And mingling with thevision was that other--of a grey, dying face, a torn and broken body. 

Her heart was full of intensest love and yearning; but the love was nolonger a torment. She knew now that if she had been able to tell Georgeeverything, he would never have condemned her; he would only have openedhis arms and comforted her. 

She was wrapped in a mystical sense of communion with him, as she satdreaming there. But in such a calm and exaltation of spirit, that therewas ample room besides in her mind for the thought of WilliamFarrell--her friend. Her most faithful and chivalrous friend! Shethought of Farrell's altered aspect, of the signs of a great task laidupon him, straining even his broad back. And then, of his loneliness. Cicely was gone--his 'little friend' was gone. 

What could she still do for him? It seemed to her that even while Georgestood spiritually beside her, in this scene of their love, he wasbidding her think kindly and gratefully of the man whom he had blessedin dying--the man who, in loving her, had meant him no harm. 

Her mind formed no precise image of the future. She was incapable, indeed, as yet, of forming any that would have disturbed that intimatelife with George which was the present fruit in her of remorseful loveand pity. The spring shores of Rydal, the meadows steeping theirflowery grasses in the water, the new leaf, the up-curling fern, breathed in her unconscious ear their message of re-birth. But she knewonly that she was uplifted, strengthened--to endure and serve.