This will seem a silly letter to you, but I want to feel that

I’ve got someone behind me. Millie’s a dear, but she isn’t old

enough to understand. Don’t be frightened by this. If anything

happens I’ll write at once.

Your loving

K.

Meanwhile the family life proceeded, outwardly, on its normal way.

August was always a month of incident—picnics to Rafiel and St. Lowe

and Damen Head, sometimes long expeditions to Borhaze or Pelynt,

sometimes afternoons in Pendennis or Rothin Woods. There were

expeditions in which relations from Polchester or Clinton, or friends

from Liskane and Polewint shared, and, in the cover of them, the family

supported quite successfully the Trenchard tradition of good manners,

unruffled composure, and abundant leisure. As members of a clan so

ancient and self-reliant that no enemy, however strong, however

confident, could touch them, they sat about their luncheon baskets on

the burning sand, whilst the fat pony cropped in the dark hedges above

the beach and the gulls wheeled and hovered close at hand.

This was well enough, but the long summer evenings betrayed them. In

earlier days, when relationships were so sure and so pleasant that the

world swept by in a happy silence, those summer evenings had been lazy,

intimate prologues to long nights of undisturbed sleep. They would sit

in the drawing-room, the windows open to the garden scents and the salt

twang of the sea, moths would flutter round the lamps, Millie would play

and sing a little at a piano that was never quite in tune. Aunt Betty

would struggle happily with her “Demon Patience,” George Trenchard would

laugh at them for half-an-hour, and then slip away to his study. Mrs.

Trenchard and Aunt Aggie would knit and discuss the village, Henry would

lie back in an arm-chair, his nose deep in a book, Katherine would be at

anybody’s service—the minutes would fly, then would come Rebekah with

hot milk for some and toast-and-water for others, there would be

prayers, and then “good-night, ma’am”. “Good-night, sir”, from the three

maids, the cook and Rebekah, then candles lighted in the hall, then

climbing slowly up the stairs, with clumsy jokes from Henry and last

words from Mrs. Trenchard, such as “Don’t forget the Williams’ coming

over to-morrow, Katie dear,” or “Some of that quinine for your cold,

Aggie, _I_ suggest,” or “I’ve put the new collars on your bed, Henry,”

then the closing of doors, then a happy silence, utterly secure. That

had been the old way.

Outwardly the August nights of this year resembled the old ones—but the

heart of them beat with panic and dismay. Philip had thought at first

that it was perhaps his presence that caused the uneasiness, and one

evening he complained of a headache and went up to his room after

dinner. But he learnt from Katherine that his absence had merely

emphasised everything. They must be all there—it would never do to show

that there was anything the matter. Millie played the piano, Aunt Betty

attempted her “Patience” with her usual little “Tut-tut’s” and “Dear

me’s.” Mrs. Trenchard and Aunt Aggie sewed or knitted, but now the

minutes dragged in endless procession across the floor, suddenly someone

would raise a head and listen, Henry, pretending to read a book, would

stare desperately in front of him, then noticing that Aunt Aggie watched

him, would blush and hold his book before his face; with relief, as

though they had escaped some threatening danger, they would greet the

milk, the ‘toast-and-water’, the maids and the family prayers.

There was now no lingering on the staircase.

There are many families, of course, to whom the rebellion or disgrace of

one of its members would mean but little, so slightly had been felt

before the dependence of one soul upon another. But with the Trenchards

that dependence had been _everything_, the outside world had been a

fantastic show, unreal and unneeded: as the pieces of a pictured puzzle

fit one into another, so had the Trenchards been interwoven and

dependent ... only in England, perhaps, had such a blind and superior

insularity been possible ... and it may be that this was to be, in all

the records of history, the last of such a kind—“_Nil nisi bonum_”....

To Philip these summer days were darkened by his consciousness of Mrs.

Trenchard. When he looked back over the months since he had known her,

he could remember no very dramatic conversation that he had had with

her, nothing tangible anywhere. She had been always pleasant and

agreeable to him, and, at times, he had tried to tell himself that,

after all, he might ultimately be happy ‘eaten up by her,’ as Jonah was

by the whale. Then, with a little shiver, he knew the truth—that

increasingly, as the days passed, he both hated and feared her. She had

caught his will in her strong hands and was crushing it into pulp.

He made one last effort to assert himself, even as he had tried his

strength against Katherine, against Henry, against Aunt Aggie, against

old Mr. Trenchard. This little conversation that he had in the Garth

garden with Mrs. Trenchard upon one of those lovely summer evenings was

of the simplest and most undramatic fashion. Nevertheless it marked the

end of his struggle; he always afterwards looked back upon those ten

minutes as the most frightening experience of his life. Mrs. Trenchard,

in a large loose hat and gauntleted gardening gloves, made a fine

cheerful, reposeful figure as she walked slowly up and down the long

lawn; she asked Philip to walk with her; the sun flung her broad flat

shadow like a stain upon the bright grass.

They had talked a little, and then he had suddenly, with a tug of alarm

at his heart, determined that he would break his chains. He looked up at

her placid eyes.

“I think,” he said—his voice was not quite steady—“that Katherine and

I will live somewhere in the North after our marriage. Quite frankly I

don’t think Glebeshire suits me.”

“And Katie,” said Mrs. Trenchard, smiling.

“Katie ... she—she’ll like the North when she’s tried it for a little.”

“You’ll rob us of her?”

“Not altogether, of course.”

“She’ll be very miserable away from Glebeshire ... very miserable. I’ve

seen such a nice little house—Colve Hall—only two miles from here—on

the Rafiel road. I don’t think you must take Katie from Glebeshire,

Philip.”

That was a challenge. Their eyes met. His dropped.

“I think it will be better for her to be away after we are married.”

“Why? Do you hate us all?”

He coloured. “I’m not myself with you. I don’t know what to do with your

kind of life. I’ve tried—I have indeed—I’m not happy here.”

“Aren’t you selfish? If you rob Katie of everything—will you be happy

then?”

Yes, that was it. He could see their future life, Katherine, longing,

longing to return, excited, homesick!

Although he did not look up, he knew that she was smiling at him.

“You are very young, Philip,” she said. “You want life to be perfect. It

can’t be that. You must adapt yourself. I think that you will both be

happier here in Glebeshire—near us.”

He would have broken out, crying that Katherine was his, not theirs,

that he wanted her for himself, that they must be free.... Of what use?

That impassivity took his courage and flattened it all out as though he

were a child of ten, still ruled by his mother.

“Shall we go in?” said Mrs. Trenchard. “It’s a little cold.”

It was after this conversation that he began to place his hope upon the

day when his Moscow misdeeds would be declared—that seemed now his only

road to freedom.

* * * * *

Upon one lovely summer evening they sat there and had, some of them, the

same thought.

Millie, slim and white, standing before the long open window, stared

into the purple night, splashed with stars and mysterious with tier-like

clouds. She was thinking of Anna, of all that life that Philip had, of

what a world it must be where there are no laws, no conventions, no

restraints. That woman now had some other lover, she thought no more,

perhaps, of Philip—and no one held her the worse. She could do what she

would—how full her life must be, how adventurous, packed with colour,

excitement, battle and victory. And, after all, it might be, to that

woman, that this adventure meant so little that she did not realise it

_as_ an adventure. Millie’s heart rose and fell; her heart hurt her so

that she pressed her hand against her frock. She wanted her own life to

begin—at once, at once. Other girls had found the beginning of it

during those days in Paris, but some English restraint and pride—she

was intensely proud—had held her back. But now she was on fire with

impatience, with longing, with, courage.... As she stared into the night

she seemed to see the whole world open, like a shining silver plate,

held by some dark figure for her acceptance. She stretched out her

hands.

“Take care you don’t catch cold by that open window, Millie dear,” said

her mother.

Henry also was thinking of Anna. From where he sat he could, behind his

book, raising his eyes a little, see Philip. Philip was sitting, very

straight and solid, with his short thick legs crossed in front of him,

reading a book. He never moved. He made no sound. Henry had, since the

day when he had broken the mirror, avoided Philip entirely. He did not

want to consider the man at all; of course he hated the man because it

was he who had made them all miserable, and yet, had the fellow never

loved Katherine, had he remained outside the family, Henry knew now that

he could have loved him.

This discovery he had made exactly at the moment when that book had

fallen crashing into the mirror—it had been so silly, so humiliating a

discovery that he had banished it from his mind, had refused to look

into it at all.

But that did not mean that he did not contemplate Philip’s amazing life.

He contemplated it more intensely every day. The woman had all the

mystery of invisibility, and yet Henry thought that he would know her if

he saw her. He coloured her according to his fancy, a laughing, tender

figure who would recognize him, did she meet him, as the one man in the

world for whom she had been searching.

He imagined to himself ridiculous conversations that he should have with

her. He would propose to marry her, would declare, with a splendid

nobility, that he knew of her earlier life, but that “that meant nothing

to him.” He would even give up his country for her, would live in

Russia, would ... Then he caught Philip’s eye, blushed, bent to pull up

his sock, said, in a husky, unconcerned voice:

“Do play something, Millie. Something of Mendelssohn.”

Philip also was thinking of Anna. Through the pages of his stupid novel,

as though they had been of glass, he saw her as she had last appeared to

him on the platform of the Moscow station. She had been wearing a little

round black fur hat and a long black fur coat, her cheeks were pale, her

eyes mocking, but somewhere, as though in spite of herself, there had

been tenderness. She had laughed at him, but she had, for only a moment

perhaps, wished that he were not going. It was that tenderness that held

him now. The evening, through which he was now passing, had been

terrible—one of the worst that he had ever spent—and he had wondered

whether he really would be able to discipline himself to that course on

which he had determined, to marry Katherine under the Trenchard shadow,

to deliver himself to Mrs. Trenchard, even as the lobster is delivered

to the cook. And so, with this desperation, had come, with increasing

force, that memory of Anna’s tenderness.

He did not want to live with her again, to renew that old life—his love

for Katherine had, most truly, blotted out all the fire and colour of

that earlier passion, but he wanted—yes, he wanted most passionately,

to save his own soul.

Might it not, after all, be true, as that ghostly figure had urged to

him, that it would be better for him to escape and so carry Katherine

after him—but what if she did not come?

He heard Mrs. Trenchard’s voice as she spoke to Millie, and, at that

sound, he resigned himself ... but the figure still smiled at him behind

that glassy barrier.

Katherine also thought of Anna. She was sitting just behind Aunt Betty

watching, over the old lady’s shoulder, the ‘Patience’.

“There,” said Aunt Betty, “there’s the ten, the nine, the eight. Oh! if

I only had the seven!”

“You can get it,” said Katherine, “if you move that six and five.”

“How stupid I am!” said Aunt Betty, “thank you, my dear, I didn’t see.”

Katherine saw dancing in and out between the little cards a tiny figure

that was yet tall and strong, moving there a teasing, taunting puppet,

standing also, a motionless figure, away there, by the wall, watching,

with a cynical smile, the room. Beneath the thin hands of the old lady

the cards fluttered, shifted, lay with their painted colours on the

shining table, and, in accompaniment with their movement, Katherine’s

thoughts also danced, in and out, round and round, chasing the same old

hopeless riddle. Sometimes she glanced across at her mother. Perhaps

already Aunt Aggie had told her.... No, she had not. Her mother’s calm

showed that she, as yet, knew nothing. Katherine, like the others, did

not doubt what her mother would do. She would demand that the engagement

should be broken off; they would all, ranged behind her broad back,

present their ultimatum—And then what would Katherine do?... Simply,

sitting there, with her fingers fiercely interlaced, her hands pressed

against her knee, she did not know. She was exhausted with the struggle

that had continued now for so many weeks, and behind her exhaustion,

waiting there, triumphant in the expectation of her success, was her

rival.

Then, suddenly, as they waited there came to them all the idea that the

hall door had been opened and gently closed. They all, Mrs. Trenchard,

Aunt Aggie, Millie, Henry, Katherine, started, looked up.

“Did someone come in?” said Mrs. Trenchard, in her mild voice. “I

thought I heard the hall door—Just go and see, Henry.”

“I’ll go,” said Katherine quickly.

They all waited, their heads raised. Katherine crossed the room, went

into the hall that glimmered faintly under a dim lamp, paused a moment,

then turned back the heavy handle of the door. The door swung back, and

the lovely summer night swept into the house. The stars were a pattern

of quivering light between the branches of the heavy trees that trembled

ever so gently with the thrilling sense of their happiness. The roses,

the rich soil soaked with dew, and the distant murmur of the stream that

ran below the garden wall entered the house.

Katherine waited, in the open door, looking forward. Then she came in,

shutting the door softly behind her.

Had someone entered? Was someone there with her, in the half-light,

whispering to her: “I’m in the house now—and I shall stay, so long as I

please—unless you can turn me out.”

She went back into the drawing-room.

“There was no one,” she said. “Perhaps it was Rebekah.”

“There’s rather a draught, dear,” said Aunt Aggie, “my neuralgia ...

thank you, my dear.”

“I’ve done it!” cried Aunt Betty, flushed with pleasure. “It’s come out!

If you hadn’t shown me that seven, Katie, it never would have come!”

* * * * *

Upon the very next afternoon Aunt Aggie made up her mind. After luncheon

she went, alone, for a walk; she climbed the fields above the house,

threaded little lanes sunk between high hedges, crossed an open common,

dropped into another lane, was lost for awhile, finally emerged on the

hill above that tiny Cove known as Smuggler’s Button. Smuggler’s Button

is the tiniest cove in Glebeshire, the sand of it is the whitest, and it

has in the very middle a high jagged rock known as the Pin. Aunt Aggie,

holding an umbrella, a black bonnet on her head and an old shabby

rain-coat flapping behind her, sat on the Pin. It was a long way for her

to have come—five miles from Garth—and the day was windy, with high

white clouds that raced above her head like angry birds ready to devour

her. Aunt Aggie sat there and looked at the sea, which approached her in

little bowing and beckoning white waves, as though she were a shrivelled

and pouting Queen Victoria holding a drawing-room. Once and again her

head trembled, as though it were fastened insecurely to her body, and

her little fat, swollen cheeks shook like jelly. Sometimes she raised a

finger, encased in a black glove, and waved it in the air, as though she

were admonishing the universe.

She clutched vigorously in one hand her umbrella.

She gazed at the sea with passion. This love for the sea had been a

dominant power in her ever since she could remember, and had come she

knew not whence. It had been, in earlier days, one of the deep, unspoken

bonds between herself and Katherine, and it had been one of her most

active criticisms of Millie that ‘the girl cared nothing about the sea

whatever’. But she, Aunt Aggie, could not say why she loved it. She was

no poet, and she knew not the meaning of the word ‘Enthusiasm’. She was

ashamed a little of her passion, and, when she had walked five miles to

Smuggler’s Button or seven miles to Lingard Sand ‘just to look at it’,

she would walk stiffly home again, would give no answer to those who

asked questions, and, if driven into a corner would say she had been

‘just for a walk.’ But she loved it in all its moods, grave, gay and

terrible, loved it even when it was like a grey cotton garment designed

for the poor or when it slipped into empty space under a blind and

soaking mist. She loved the rhythm of it, the indifference of it, above

all, the strength of it. Here at last, thank God, was something that she

could admire more than herself.

She had, nevertheless, always at the back of her mind the thought that

it would be bad for it if it knew how much she thought of it; she was

always ready to be disappointed in it, although she knew that it would

never disappoint her—she was grim and unbending in her attitude to it

lest, in a moment of ecstasy, she should make cheap of her one devotion.

To-day she did not actively consider it. She sat on the rock and made up

her mind that she would take steps ‘that very day.’ Harriet, her

sister-in-law, had, during these last months, often surprised her, but

there would be no question of her action in this climax of the whole

unfortunate business.

“The young man,” as she always called Philip, would never show his face

in Trenchard circles again. Harriet might forgive, because of her love

for Katherine, his impertinence, his conceit, his irreligion, his

leading Henry into profligacy and drunkenness, she _would_ not—_could_

not—forgive his flagrant and open immorality, an immorality that had

extended over many years. As she thought of this vicious life she gave a

little shiver—a shiver of indignation, of resolution, of superiority,

and of loneliness. The world—the gay, vital, alluring world, had left

her high and dry upon that rock on which she was sitting, and, rebuke

and disapprove of it as she might, it cared little for her words.

It was, perhaps, for this reason that she felt strangely little pleasure

in her approaching triumph. She had hated “the young man” since her

first meeting with him, and at last, after many months of patient

waiting, the means had been placed in her hands for his destruction....

Well, she did not know that she cared to-day very greatly about it. She

was old, she was tired, she had neuralgia in one side of her face, there

was a coming headache in the air. Why was it that she, who had always

held so steadily for right, whose life had been one long struggle after

unselfishness, who had served others from early morning until late at

night, should now find no reward, but only emptiness and old age and

frustration? She had not now even the pleasure of her bitternesses. They

were dust and ashes in her mouth.

She resolved that at once, upon that very afternoon, she would tell

Harriet about Philip—and then suddenly, for no reason, with a strange

surprise to herself, she did a thing that was quite foreign to her; she

began to cry, a desolate trickling of tears that tasted salt in her

mouth, that were shed, apparently, by some quite other person.

It seemed to her as she turned slowly and went home that that same Woman

who had encountered life, had taken it all and tasted every danger, now,

watching her, laughed at her for her wasted, barren days....

By the time, however, that she reached Garth she had recovered her

spirits; it was the sea that had made her melancholy. She walked into

the house with the firm step of anticipated triumph. She went up to her

bedroom, took off her bonnet, washed her face and hands, peeped out on

to the drive as though she expected to see someone watching there, then

came down into the drawing-room.

She had intended to speak to her sister-in-law in private. It happened,

however, that, on going to the tea-table, she discovered that the tea

had been standing for a considerable period, and nobody apparently

intended to order any more—at the same time a twinge in her left jaw

told her that it had been foolish of her to sit on that rock so long.

Then Philip, who had the unfortunate habit of trying to be friendly at

the precisely wrong moment, said, cheerfully:

“Been for a walk all alone, Aunt Aggie?”

She always hated that he should call her Aunt Aggie. To-day it seemed a

most aggravated insult.

“Yes,” she said. “You’ve had tea very early.”

“George wanted it,” said Mrs. Trenchard, who was writing at a little

table near a window that opened into the sunlit garden. “One never can

tell with you, Aggie, what time you’ll like it—never can tell, surely.”

There! as though that weren’t directly charging her with being a trouble

to the household. Because _they’d_ happened to have it early!

“I call it very unfair—” she began nibbling a piece of bread and

butter.

But the unfortunate Philip gaily continued: “When we are married, Aunt

Aggie, and you come to stay with us, you shall have tea just when you

like.”

He was laughing at her, he patronised her! He dared—! She trembled with

anger.

“I shall never come and stay with you,” she said.

“Aunt Aggie!” cried Katherine, who was sitting near her mother by the

window.

“No, never!” Aunt Aggie answered, her little eyes flashing and her

cheeks shaking. “And if I had my way you should never be married!”

They all knew then that at last the moment had come. Henry started to

his feet as though he would escape, Katherine turned towards her mother,

Philip fixed his eyes gravely upon his enemy—only Mrs. Trenchard did

not pause in her writing. Aunt Aggie knew then that she was committed.

She did not care, she was glad if only she could hurt Philip, that

hateful and intolerable young man.

Her hands trembled, her rings making a tiny clatter against the china;

she saw only her sister-in-law and Philip.

Philip quietly said:

“Why do you hope that Katherine and I will never marry, Aunt Aggie?”

“Because I love Katherine—because I—we want her to make a happy

marriage. Because if she—knew what I know she would not marry you.”

“My dear Aggie!” said Mrs. Trenchard, softly, from the

writing-table—but she stayed her pen and waited, with her head turned a

little, as though she would watch Katherine’s face without appearing to

do so.

“And what do you know,” pursued Philip quietly, “that would prevent

Katherine from marrying me?”

“I know,” she answered fiercely, the little gold cross that hung round

her throat jumping against the agitation of her breast, “that you—that

you are not the man to marry my niece. You have concealed things from

her father which, if he had known, would have caused him to forbid you

the house.”

“Oh! I say!” cried Henry, suddenly jumping to his feet.

“Well,” pursued Philip, “what are these things?”

She paused for a moment, wondering whether Henry had had sufficient

authority for his statements. Philip of course would deny

everything—but she had now proceeded too far to withdraw.

“I understand,” she said, “that you lived in Russia with a woman to whom

you were not married—lived for some years, and had a child. This is, I

am ashamed to say, common talk. I need scarcely add that I had not

intended to bring this disgraceful matter up in this public fashion. But

perhaps after all it is better. You have only yourself to blame, Mr.

Mark,” she continued, “for your policy of secrecy. To allow us all to

remain in ignorance of these things, to allow Katherine—but perhaps,”

she asked, “you intend to deny everything? In that case—”

“I deny nothing,” he answered. “This seems to me a very silly manner of

discussing such a business.” He addressed his words then to Mrs.

Trenchard. “I said nothing about these things,” he continued, “because,

quite honestly, I could not see that it was anyone’s affair but my own

and Katherine’s. I told Katherine everything directly after we were

engaged.”

At that Aunt Aggie turned upon her niece.

“You knew, Katherine? You knew—all these disgraceful—these—” Her

voice broke. “You knew and you continued your engagement?”

“Certainly,” answered Katherine quietly. “Whatever life Philip led

before he knew me, was no business of mine. It was good of him to tell

me as he did, but it was not my affair. And really, Aunt Aggie,” she

continued, “that you could think it right to speak like this before us

all—to interfere—”

Her voice was cold with anger. They had none of them ever before known

this Katherine.

Aunt Aggie appealed to her sister-in-law.

“Harriet, if I’ve been wrong in mentioning this now, I’m sorry.

Katherine seems to have lost her senses. I would not wish to condemn

anyone, but to sit still and watch whilst my niece, whom I have loved,

is given to a profligate—”

Katherine stood, with the sunlight behind her; she looked at her aunt,

then moved across the room to Philip and put her hand on his shoulder.

They all waited then for Mrs. Trenchard; they did not doubt what she

would say. Katherine, strangely, at that moment felt that she loved her

mother as she had never loved her before. In the very fury of the

indignation that would be directed against Philip would be the force of

her love for her daughter.

This pause, as they all waited for Mrs. Trenchard to speak, was weighted

with the indignation that they expected from her.

But Mrs. Trenchard laughed: “My dear Aggie: what a scene! really too

stupid. As you have mentioned this, I may say that I have known—these

things—about Philip for a long time. But I said nothing because—well,

because it is really not my business what life Philip led before he met

us. Perhaps I know more about young men and their lives, Aggie, than you

do.”

“You knew!” Henry gasped.

“You’ve known!” Aggie cried.

Katherine had, at the sound of her mother’s voice, given her one flash

of amazement: then she had turned to Philip, while she felt a cold

shudder at her heart as though she were some prisoner suddenly clapt

into a cage and the doors bolted.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “Mr. Seymour came a long time ago and told

me things that he thought I ought to know. I said to Mr. Seymour that he

must not do such things, and that if I ever spoke of it to Philip I

should give him his name. I disapprove of such things. Yes, it was Mr.

Seymour—I think he never liked you, Philip, because you contradicted

him about Russia. He’s a nice, clever boy, but I daresay he’s wrong in

his facts....” Then, as they still waited in silence, “I really think

that’s all, Aggie. You must forgive me, dear, but I don’t think it was

quite your business. Katherine is over age, you know, and in any case it

isn’t quite nice in the drawing-room—and really only because your tea

was cold, Aggie dear.”

“You’ve known ... you’ll do nothing, Harriet?” Aggie gasped.

Mrs. Trenchard looked at them before she turned back to her

writing-table.

“You can ring for some fresh tea if you like,” she said.

But for a moment her eyes had caught Philip’s eyes. They exchanged the

strangest look. Hers of triumph, sarcastic, ironic, amazingly

triumphant, his of a dull, hopeless abandonment and submission.

Her attack at last, after long months of struggle, had succeeded. He was

beaten. She continued her letter.

CHAPTER IV

THE WILD NIGHT

Ten minutes later Katherine and Philip were alone in the garden. There

were signs that the gorgeous summer afternoon was to be caught into

thunder. Beyond the garden-wall a black cloud crept toward the trees,

and the sunlight that flooded the lawn seemed garish now, as though it

had been painted in shrill colours on to the green; the air was

intensely hot; the walls of the house glittered like metal.

They stood under the great oak bobbing in front of them.

“Well,” said Philip at last, “that’s the end, Katie dear—your mother’s

a wonderful woman.”

Katherine was silent. He went on:

“That was my last hope. I suppose I’d been counting on it more than I

ought. You’d have come with me, I know, if they’d turned me out? Not a

bit of it. Your mother’s a wonderful woman, I repeat.” He paused, looked

into her eyes, seemed to be startled by the pain in them. “My dear,

don’t mind. She only wants to keep you because she can’t get on without

you—and I shall settle down all right in a bit. What a fuss, after all,

we’ve been making.”

Katherine said: “Tell me, Phil, have there been times, lately, in the

last week, when you’ve thought of running away, going back to Russia?

Tell me honestly.”

“Yes,” he answered, “there have—many times. But I always waited to see

how things turned out. And then to-day when the moment _did_ come at

last, I saw quite clearly that I couldn’t leave you _ever_—that

anything was better than being without you—_anything_—So that’s

settled.”

“And you’ve thought,” Katherine pursued steadily, “of what it will be

after we’re married. Mother always wanting me. Your having to be in a

place that you hate. And even if we went to live somewhere else, of

Mother always keeping her hand on us, never letting go, never allowing

you to be free, knowing about Anna—their _all_ knowing—you’ve faced it

all?”

“I’ve faced it all,” he answered, trying to laugh. “I can’t leave you,

Katie, and that’s the truth. And if I’ve got to have your mother and the

family as well, why, then, I’ve got to have them.... But, oh! my dear,

how your mother despises me! Well, I suppose I _am_ a weak young man!

And I shall forget Russia in time.... _I’ve got to!_” he ended, almost

under his breath.

She looked at him queerly.

“All right,” she said, “I know now what we’ve got to do.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Wait. I must go and speak to Uncle Tim. I shall be an hour. Be ready

for me out here under this tree in an hour’s time. It will be seven

o’clock.”

“What do you mean?” he asked her again, but she had gone.

She had picked up an old garden hat in the hall, and now very swiftly

hurried up the village road. She walked, the dust rising about her and

the black cloud gaining in size and strength behind her. Uncle Tim’s

house stood by itself at the farther end of the village. She looked

neither to right nor left, did not answer the greeting of the villagers,

passed quickly through the little garden, over the public path and rang

the rusty, creaking bell. An old woman, who had been Uncle Tim’s

housekeeper for an infinite number of years, opened the door.

“Ah, Miss Kathie,” she said, smiling. “Do ee come in. ’E’s gardenin’,

poor soul. All of a sweat. Terrible ’ot ’tis, tu. Makin’ up thunder I’m

thinkin’.”

Katherine went into the untidy, dusty hall, then into her uncle’s study.

This had, ever since her childhood, been the same, a litter of bats,

fishing-rods, specimens of plants and flowers drying on blotting paper,

books lying in piles on the floor, and a pair of trousers hanging by a

nail on to the back of the door.

She waited, seeing none of these familiar things. She did not, at first,

see her uncle when he came in from the garden, perspiration dripping

down his face, his old cricket shirt open at the neck, his grey flannel

trousers grimed with dust.

“Hullo, Katie!” he cried, “what do _you_ want? And if it’s an invitation

to dinner tell ’em I can’t come.” Then, taking another look at her, he

said gravely, “What’s up, my dear?”

She sat down in an old arm-chair which boasted a large hole and only

three legs; he drew up a chair close to her, then suddenly, as though he

saw that she needed comfort, put his arms round her.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” he repeated.

“Uncle Tim,” she said, speaking rapidly but quietly and firmly, “you’ve

got to help me. You’ve always said that you would if I wanted you.”

“Why, of course,” he answered simply. “What’s happened?”

“Everything. Things, as you know, have been getting worse and worse at

home ever since—well, ever since Phil and I were engaged.”

“Yes, I know,” he said.

“It hasn’t been Phil’s fault,” she broke out with sudden fierceness.

“He’s done everything. It’s been my fault. I’ve been blind and stupid

from the beginning. I don’t want to be long, Uncle Tim, because there’s

not much time, but I must explain everything so that you shall

understand me and not think it wrong. We’ve got nearly two hours.”

“Two hours?” he repeated, bewildered.

“From the beginning Mother hated Phil. I always saw it of course, but I

used to think that it would pass when she knew Phil better—that no one

could help knowing him without loving him—and that was silly, of

course. But I waited, and always hoped that things would be better. Then

in the spring down here there was one awful Sunday, when Aunt Aggie at

supper made a scene and accused Philip of leading Henry astray or

something equally ridiculous. After that Philip wanted me to run away

with him, and I—I don’t know—but I felt that he ought to insist on it,

to make me go. He didn’t insist, and then I saw suddenly that he wasn’t

strong enough to insist on anything, and that instead of being the great

character that I’d once thought him, he was really weak and under

anyone’s influence. Well, that made me love him in a different way, but

more—much more—than I ever had before. I saw that he wanted looking

after and protecting. I suppose you’ll think that foolish of me,” she

said fiercely.

“Not at all, my dear,” said Uncle Tim, “go on.”

“Well, there was something else,” Katherine went on. “One day some time

before, when we first came to Garth, he told me that when he was in

Russia he had loved another woman. They had a child, a boy, who died. He

was afraid to tell me, because he thought that I’d think terribly of

him.

“But what did it matter, when he’d given her up and left her? Only this

mattered—that I couldn’t forget her. I wasn’t jealous, but I was

curious—terribly. I asked him questions, I wanted to see her as she

was—it was so strange to me that there should be that woman, still

living somewhere, who knew more, much more, about Phil than I did. Then

the more questions I asked him about her the more he thought of her and

of Russia, so that at last he asked me not to speak of her. But then she

seemed to come between us, because we both thought of her, and I used to

wonder whether he wanted to go back to her, and _he_ wondered whether,

after all, I was jealous about her. Then things got worse with everyone.

I felt as though everyone was against us. After the Faunder wedding

Henry and Phil had a quarrel, and Henry behaved like a baby.

“I’ve had a dreadful time lately. I’ve imagined _anything_. I’ve been

expecting Phil to run away. Millie said he would—Mother’s been so

strange. She hated Phil, but she asked him to Garth, and seemed to want

to have him with her. She’s grown so different that I simply haven’t

_known_ her lately. And Phil too—it’s had a dreadful effect on him. He

seems to have lost all his happiness—he hates Garth and everything in

it, but he’s wanted to be near me, and so he’s come. So there we’ve all

been.” She paused for a moment, then went on quickly. “Just now—this

afternoon—it all came to a climax. Aunt Aggie had found out from Henry

about the Russian woman. She lost her temper at tea, and told Mother

before us all. Phil has been expecting this to happen for weeks, and had

been almost hoping for it, because then he thought that Mother and

Father would say that he must give me up, and that then I would refuse

to leave him. In that way he’d escape.

“But it seemed”—here Katherine, dropping her voice, spoke more

slowly—“that Mother had known all the time. That horrid Mr. Seymour in

London had told her. She’d known for _months_, and had never said

anything—Mother, who would have been _horrified_ a year ago. But

no—She said _nothing_. She only told Aunt Aggie that she oughtn’t to

make scenes in the drawing-room, and that it wasn’t her business.

“Philip saw then that his last chance was gone, that she meant _never_

to let me go, and that if she must have him as well she’d _have_ him.

He’s sure now that I’ll never give Mother up unless she makes me choose

between him and her—and so he’s just resigned himself.”

Uncle Tim would have spoken, but she stopped him.

“And there’s more than that. Perhaps it’s foolish of me, but I’ve felt

as though that woman—that Russian woman—had been coming nearer and

nearer and nearer. There was an evening the other night when I felt that

she’d come right inside the house. I went into the hall and listened.

That must seem ridiculous to anyone outside the family, but it may be

that thinking of anyone continually _does_ bring them—_does_ do

something.... At least for me now she’s here, and she’s going to try and

take Phil back again. Mother wants her, it’s Mother, perhaps, who has

made her come. Mother can make Phil miserable in a thousand ways by

reminding him of her, by suggesting, by ...” With a great cry Katherine

broke off: “Oh, Mother, Mother, I did love you so!” and bursting into a

passion of tears, clung to her uncle as though she were still a little

child.

Then how he soothed her! stroking her hair, telling her that he loved

her, that he would help her, that he would do anything for her. He held

her in his arms, murmuring to her as he had done so many years ago:

“There, Katie, Katie ... it’s all right, it’s all right. Nobody will

touch you. It’s all right, it’s all right.”

At last, with a sudden movement, as though she had realised that there

was little time to waste, she broke from him and stood up, wiping her

eyes with her handkerchief; then, with that strange note of fierceness,

so foreign to the old mild Katherine, she said:

“But now I see—I see everything. What Millie said is true—I can’t have

it both ways, I’ve got to choose. Mother doesn’t care for anything so

much as for beating Philip, for humiliating him, for making him do

everything that she says. That other woman too—she’d like to see him

humiliated, laughed at—I _know_ that she’s like that, cruel and hard.

“And he’s only got me in all the world. I can beat that other woman only

by showing her that I’m stronger than she is. I thought once that it was

Phil who would take me and look after me, but now it is _I_ that must

look after him.

“If we stay, if we do as Mother wishes, we shall never escape. I love

everything here, I love them all, I can’t leave them unless I do it now,

_now_! Even to-morrow I shall be weak again. Mother’s stronger than we

are. She’s stronger, I do believe, than anyone. Uncle Tim, we must go

to-night!”

“To-night!” he repeated, staring at her.

“Now, at once, in an hour’s time. We can drive to Rasselas. There’s the

London Express at eight o’clock. It’s in London by midnight. I can wire

to Rachel. She’ll have me. We can be married, by special licence,

to-morrow!”

He did not seem astonished by her impetuosity. He got up slowly from his

chair, knocked over with his elbow the blotting-paper upon which were

the dried flowers, swore, bent down and picked them up slowly one by

one, rose at last and, very red in the face with his exertions, looked

at her. Then he smiled gently, stroking his fingers through his beard.

“My dear, how you’ve changed!” he said.

“You understand, Uncle Tim,” she urged. “I couldn’t tell Millie. They’d

make it bad for her afterwards, and it would hurt Mother too. I don’t

want Mother to be left alone. It’s the only thing to do. I saw it all in

a flash this evening when Mother was speaking. Even to-morrow may be too

late, when I see the garden again and the village and when they’re all

kind to me. And perhaps after all it will be all right. Only I must show

them that Phil comes first, that if I must choose, I choose Phil.”

She paused, breathlessly. He was grave again when he spoke:

“You know, my dear, what you are doing, don’t you? I won’t say whether I

think you right or wrong. It’s for you to decide, and only you. But just

think. It’s a tremendous thing. It’s more than just marrying Philip.

It’s giving up, perhaps, everything here—giving up Garth and Glebeshire

and the house. Giving up your Mother may be for ever. I know your

Mother. It is possible that she will never forgive you.”

Katherine’s under lip quivered. She nodded her head.

“And it’s hurting her,” he went on, “hurting her more than ever anything

has done. It’s her own fault in a way. I warned her long ago. But never

mind that. You must realise what you’re doing.”

“I do realise it,” Katherine answered firmly. “It needn’t hurt her

really, if her love for me is stronger than her hatred of Philip. I’ve

thought it all out. If she loves me she’ll see that my love for her

isn’t changed at all,—that it’s there just as it always was; that it’s

only that she has _made_ me choose, either Phil’s happiness or

unhappiness. I can only choose one way. He’s ready to give up

everything, surrender all the splendid things he was going to do, give

up half of me, perhaps more, to the family—perhaps more. He hates the

life here, but he’ll live it, under Mother and grandfather and the rest,

for my sake. It isn’t fair that he should. Mother, if she loves me, will

see that. But I don’t believe,” here Katherine’s voice trembled again,

“that she cares for _anything_ so much as beating Philip. He’s the first

person in the world who ever opposed her.... She knows that I’ll love

her always, always, but Phil’s life shan’t be spoilt. Nothing matters

beside that.”

She stopped, her breast heaving, her eyes flashing; he looked at her and

was amazed, as in his queer, isolated life he had never been before, at

what love can do to the soul.

“Life’s for the young,” he said, “you’re right, Katherine. Your Mother

will never forgive me, but I’ll help you.”

“No,” Katherine said, “_you’re_ not to be involved, Uncle Tim. Mother

mustn’t lose _anyone_ afterwards. You’re to know nothing about it. I

shall leave a note with someone to be taken up to the house at half-past

nine. I’ve told you because I wanted you to know, but you’re not to have

anything to do with it. But you’ll love me just the same, won’t you?

_You_ won’t be any different, will you? I had to know that. With you and

Millie and Aunt Betty and Father caring for me afterwards, it won’t be

quite like breaking with the family. Only, Uncle Tim, I want you to do

for me what you can with Mother. I’ve explained everything to you, so

that you can tell her—show her.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. Then he caught her and hugged her.

“Good luck,” he said—and she was gone.

Although she had been less than her hour with her uncle, she knew that

she had no time to spare. She was haunted, as she hurried back again

down the village road by alarms, regrets, agonising reproaches that she

refused to admit. She fortified her consciousness against everything

save the immediate business to which she had bound herself, but every

tree upon the road, every hideous cottage, every stone and flower

besieged her with memories. “You are leaving us for ever. Why? For

Panic?... For Panic?” ... She could hear the voices that would follow

the retreat. “But why did she run away like that? It wasn’t even as

though their engagement had been forbidden. To be married all in a hurry

and in secret—I don’t like the look of it.... She was always such a

quiet, sensible girl.”

And she knew—it had not needed Uncle Tim’s words to show her—that this

act of hers was uprooting her for ever from everything that had made

life for her. She would never go back. More deeply than that, she would

never belong again, she, who only six months ago had been the bond that

had held them all together....

And behind these thoughts were two figures so strangely, so impossibly

like one another—the first that woman, suddenly old, leaning back on to

Katherine’s breast, fast asleep, tired out, her mother—the second that

woman who, only that afternoon, had turned and given both Katherine and

Philip that look of triumph.... “I’ve got you both—You see that I shall

never let you go. You cannot, cannot, cannot, escape.” That also was her

mother.

She stopped at the village inn, ‘The Three Pilchards’, saw Dick

Penhaligan, the landlord, and an old friend of hers.

“Dick, in half-an-hour I want a jingle. I’ve got to go to Rasselas to

meet the eight train. I’ll drive myself.”

“All right, Miss Katherine,” he said, looking at her with affection.

“’Twill be a wild night, I’m thinkin’. Workin’ up wild.”

“Twenty minutes, Dick,” she nodded to him, and was off again. She

crossed the road, opened the little wicket gate that broke into the

shrubbery, found her way on to the lawn, and there, under the oak, was

Philip, waiting for her. As she came up to him she felt the first spurt

of rain upon her cheek. The long lighted windows of the house were

watching them; she drew under the shadow of the tree.

“Phil,” she whispered, her hand on his arm, “there isn’t a moment to

lose. I’ve arranged everything. We must catch the eight o’clock train at

Rasselas. We shall be in London by twelve. I shall go to Rachel

Seddon’s. We can be married by Special Licence to-morrow.”

She had thought of it so resolutely that she did not realise that it was

new to him. He gasped, stepping back from her.

“My _dear_ Katie! What _are_ you talking about?”

“Oh, there isn’t any _time_,” she went on impatiently. “If you don’t

come I go alone. It will be the same thing in the end. I saw it all this

afternoon. Things _can’t_ go on. I understood Mother. I know what she’s

determined to do. We must escape or it will be too late. Even to-morrow

it may be. I won’t trust myself if I stay; I’m afraid even to see Mother

again, but I _know_ I’m right. We have only a quarter of an hour. That

suit will do, and of course you mustn’t have a bag or anything. There’s

that cousin of yours in the Adelphi somewhere. You can go to him. We

must be at the ‘Three Pilchards’ in a quarter of an hour, and go

separately, of course, or someone may stop us....”

But he drew back. “No, no, no,” he said. “Katie, you’re mad! Do you

think I’m going to let you do a thing like this? What do you suppose I’m

made of? Why, if we were to go off now they’d never forgive you, they’d

throw you off—”

“Why, of course,” she broke in impatiently, “that’s exactly why we’ve

got to do it. You proposed it to me yourself once, and I refused because

I didn’t understand what our staying here meant. But I do now—it’s all

_settled_, I tell you, Phil, and there’s only ten minutes. It’s the last

chance. If we miss that train we shall never escape from Mother, from

Anna, from anyone. Oh! I know it! I know it!”

She scarcely realised her words; she was tugging at his sleeve, trying

to drag him with her.

But he shook her off. “No, Katie, I tell you I’m not such a cad. I know

what all this means to you, the place, the people, everything. It’s true

that I asked you once to go off, but I didn’t love you then as I do now.

I was thinking more of myself then—but now I’m ready for anything here.

You know that I am. I don’t care if only they let me stay with you.”

“But they won’t,” Katherine urged. “You know what they’ll do. They’ll

marry us, they’ll make you take a house near at hand, and if you refuse

they’ll persuade you that you’re making me miserable. Oh! Phil! don’t

you see—if I were sure of myself I’d never run off like this, but it’s

from myself that I’m running. That’s the whole point of everything. I

can’t trust myself with Mother. She has as much influence over me as

ever she had. I felt it to-day more than I’ve ever felt it. There she is

over both of us. You know that you’re weaker with her than I am. It

isn’t that she does anything much except sit quiet, but I love her, and

it’s through that she gets at both of us. No, Phil, we’ve got to go—and

_now_. If not now, then never. I shan’t be strong enough to-morrow.

Don’t you _see_ what she can do in the future, now that she knows about

Anna....” Then, almost in a whisper, she brought out: “Don’t you see

what _Anna_ can do?”

“No,” he said, “I won’t go. It’s not fair. It’s not—”

“Well,” she answered him, “it doesn’t matter what you do, whether you go

or not. I shall go. And what are you to do then?”

She had vanished across the lawn, leaving him standing there. Behind all

his perplexity and a certain shame at his inaction, a fire of exultation

inflamed him, making him heedless of the rain or the low muttering

thunder far away. She loved him! She was freeing him! His glory in her

strength, her courage, flew like a burning arrow to his heart, killing

the old man in him, striking him to the ground, that old lumbering body

giving way before a new creature to whom the whole world was a plain of

victory. He stood there trembling with his love for her....

Then he realised that, whatever he did, there was no time to be lost.

And after all what was he to do? Did he enter and alarm the family, tell

them that Katherine was flying to London, what would he gain but her

scorn? How much would he lose to save nothing? Even as he argued with

himself some stronger power was dragging him to the house. He was in his

room; he had his coat and hat from the hall; he saw no one; he was in

the dark garden again, stepping softly through the wicket-gate on to the

high road—Then the wind of the approaching storm met him with a scurry

of rain that slashed his face. He did not know that now, for the first

moment since his leaving Russia, Anna was less to him than nothing. He

did not know that he was leaving behind him in that dark rain-swept

garden an indignant, a defeated ghost....

* * * * *

Meanwhile Katherine had gone, rapidly, without pause, to her bedroom.

She was conscious of nothing until she reached it, and then she stood in

the middle of the floor, struck by a sudden, poignant agony of reproach

that took, for the moment, all life from her. Her knees were trembling,

her heart pounding in her breast, her eyes veiled by some mist that yet

allowed her to see with a fiery clarity every detail of the room. They

rose and besieged her, the chairs, the photographs, the carpet, the bed,

the wash-hand-stand, the pictures, the window with the old, old view of

the wall, the church-tower, the crooked apple-tree clustered in a

corner, the bed of roses, the flash of the nook beyond the lawn. She

covered her eyes with her hand. Everything was still there, crying to

her “Don’t leave us! Is our old devotion nothing, our faithful service?

Are you, whom we have trusted, false like the rest?”

She swayed then; tears that would never fall burnt her eyes. The first

rain lashed her window, and from the trees around the church some flurry

of rooks rose, protesting against the coming storm. She drove it all

down with a strong hand. She _would_ not listen....

Then, as she found her coat and hat, a figure rose before her, the one

figure that, just then, could most easily defeat her. Her Mother she

_would_ not see, Millie, Henry, the Aunts could not then touch her. It

was her Father.

They were breaking their word to him, they who were standing now upon

their honour. His laughing, friendly spirit, that had never touched her

very closely, now seemed to cling to her more nearly than them all. He

had kept outside all their family trouble, as he had kept outside all

trouble since his birth. He had laughed at them, patted them on the

shoulder, determined that if he did not look too closely at things they

must be well, refused to see the rifts and divisions and unhappiness.

Nevertheless he must have seen something; he had sent Henry to

Cambridge, had looked at Millie and Katherine sometimes with a gravity

that was not his old manner.

Seeing him suddenly now, it was as though he knew what she was about to

do, and was appealing to her with a new gravity: “Katie, my dear, I may

have seemed not to have cared, to have noticed nothing, but now—don’t

give us up. Wait. Things will be happier. Wait. Trust us.”

She beat him down; stayed for another moment beside the window, her

hands pressed close against her eyes.

Then she went to her little writing-table, and scribbled very rapidly

this note:

DARLING MOTHER,

I have gone with Philip by the eight train to London. We shall

be married as soon as possible. I shall stay with Rachel until

then. You know that things could not go on as they were.

Will you understand, dear Mother, that if I did not love you so

deeply I would not have done this? But because you would not let

Phil go I have had to choose. If only you will understand that I

do not love you less for this, but that it is for Phil’s sake

that I do it, you will love me as before. And you know that I

will love you always.

Your devoted daughter,

KATHERINE.

She laid this against the looking-glass on her dressing-table, glanced

once more at the room, then went.

Upon the stairs she met Henry.

“Hullo!” he cried, “going out? There’s a lot of rain coming.”

“I know,” she answered quietly. “I have to see Penhaligan. It’s

important.”

He looked at her little black hat; her black coat. These were not the

things that one put on for a hurried excursion into the village.

“You’ll be late for dinner,” he said.

“No, I shan’t,” she answered, “I must hurry.” She brushed past him; she

had an impulse to put her arms round his neck and kiss him, but she did

not look back.

She went through the hall; he turned on the stairs and watched her, then

went slowly to his room.

When she came out on to the high road the wind had fallen and the rain

was coming in slow heavy drops. The sky was all black, except that at

its very heart there burnt a brilliant star; just above the horizon

there was a bar of sharp-edged gold. When she came to the ‘Three

Pilchards’ the world was lit with a strange half-light so that, although

one could see all things distinctly, there was yet the suggestion that

nothing was what it seemed. The ‘jingle’ was there, and Philip standing

in conversation with Dick Penhaligan.

“Nasty night ’twill be, Miss Katherine. Whisht sort o’ weather.

Shouldn’t like for ’ee to get properly wet. Open jingle tu.”

“That’s all right, Dick,” she answered. “We’ve got to meet the train.

I’ve been wet before now, you know.”

She jumped into the trap and took the reins. Philip followed her. If Mr.

Penhaligan thought there was anything strange in the proceeding he did

not say so. He watched them out of the yard, gave a look at the sky,

then went whistling into the house.

They did not speak until they had left the village behind them, then, as

they came up to Pelynt Cross, the whole beauty of the sweep of stormy

sky burst upon them. The storm seemed to be gathering itself together

before it made its spring, bunched up heavy and black on the horizon,

whilst the bar of gold seemed to waver and hesitate beneath the weight

of it. Above their heads the van of the storm, twisted and furious,

leaned forward, as though with avaricious fingers, to take the whole

world into its grasp.

At its heart still shone that strange glittering star. Beneath the sky

the grey expanse of the moon quivered with anticipation like a quaking

bog; some high grass, bright against the sky, gave little windy tugs, as

though it would release itself and escape before the fury beat it down.

Once and again, very far away, the rumble of the thunder rose and fell,

the heavy raindrops were still slow and measured, as though they told

the seconds left to the world before it was devastated.

Up there, on the moor, Philip put his arm round Katherine. His heart was

beating with tumultuous love for her, so that he choked and his face was

on fire; his hand trembled against her dress. This was surely the most

wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. He had seemed so utterly

lost, and, although he had known that she loved him, he had resigned

himself to the belief that her love stayed short of sacrifice. He had

said to himself that he was not enough of a fellow for it to be

otherwise. And now he did not care for any of them! No one, he realised,

had ever, in all his life, made any great sacrifice for him—even Anna

had let him go when he made life tiresome for her.

Surging up in him now was the fine vigour of reassurance that

Katherine’s love gave to him. It was during that drive to Rasselas

station that he began, for the first time, to believe in himself. He did

not speak, but held Katherine with his arm close to him, and once, for a

moment, he put his cheek against hers.

But she was not, then, thinking of Philip, she was scarcely aware that

he was with her. Her whole will and purpose was concentrated on reaching

the station in time. She thought: “If we missed that train we’re

finished. We’ll have to come back. They’ll have found my note. Mother

won’t be angry outwardly, but she’ll hate Phil twice as much as ever,

and she’ll never loose her hold again. She’ll show him how ashamed he

should be, and she’ll show me how deeply I’ve hurt her. We shall neither

of us have the courage to try a ‘second time’.”

How was it that she saw all this so clearly? Never before these last

months had she thought of anything save what was straight in front of

her.... The world was suddenly unrolled before her like a map of a

strange country.

Meanwhile, although she did not know it, she was wildly excited. Her

imagination, liberated after those long years of captivity, flamed now

before her eyes. She felt the storm behind her, and she thought that at

the head of it, urging it forward, was that figure who had pursued her,

so remorselessly, ever since that day at Rafiel when Philip had

confessed to her.

Anna would keep them if she could, she would drag them back, miserable

fugitives, to face the family—and then how she would punish Philip!

“Oh, go on! Go on!” Katherine cried, whipping the pony; they began to

climb a long hill. Suddenly the thunder broke overhead, crashing amongst

the trees of a dark little wood on their right. Then the rain came down

in slanting, stinging sheets. With that clap of thunder the storm caught

them, whirled up to them, beat them in the face, buffeted in their eyes

and ears, shot lightning across their path, and then plunged them on

into yet more impenetrable darkness. The world was abysmal, was on fire,

was rocking, was springing with a thousand gestures to stop them on

their way. Katherine fancied that in front of her path figures rose and

fell, the very hedges riding in a circle round about her.

“Oh! go on! Go on!” she whispered, swaying in her seat, then feeling

Philip’s arm about her. They rose, as though borne on a wave of wild

weather, to the top of the hill. They had now only the straight road;

they could see the station lights. Then the thunder, as though enraged

at their persistence, broke into a shattering clatter—the soil, the

hedges, the fields, the sky crumbled into rain; a great lash of storm

whipped them in the face, and the pony, frightened by the thunder, broke

from Katherine’s hand, ran wildly through the dark, crashed with a

shuddering jar into the hedge. Their lamps fell; the ‘jingle’, after a

moment’s hesitation, slipped over and gently dropped them on to the

rain-soaked ground.

Katherine was on her feet in an instant. She saw that by a happy miracle

one of the lamps still burned. She went to the pony, and found that,

although he was trembling, he was unhurt. Philip was trying to turn the

‘jingle’ upright again.

“Quick!” she cried. “Hang the lamp on the cart. We must run for it—the

shaft’s broken or something. There’s no time at all if we’re to catch

that train. Run! Run! Phil! There’s sure to be someone coming in by the

train who’ll see the ‘jingle’.”

They ran; they were lifted by the wind, beaten by the rain, deafened by

the thunder, and Katherine as she ran knew that by her side was her

enemy:

“You shan’t go! You shan’t go! I’ve got you still!”

She could hear, through the storm, some voice crying, “Phil! Phil! Come

back! Come back!”

Her heart was breaking, her eyes saw flame, her knees trembled, she

stumbled, staggered, slipped. They had reached the white gates, had

passed the level crossing, were up the station steps.

“It’s in! It’s in!” gasped Philip. “Only a second!”

She was aware of astonished eyes, of the stout station-master, of

someone who shouted, of a last and strangely distant peal of thunder, of

an open door, of tumbling forward, of a whistle and a jerk, and then a

slow Glebeshire voice:

“Kind o’ near shave that was, Miss, I’m thinkin’.”

And through it all her voice was crying exultantly: “I’ve beaten

you—you’ve done your worst, but I’ve beaten you. He’s mine now for

ever”—and her eyes were fastened on a baffled, stormy figure left on

the dark road, abandoned, and, at last, at last, defeated....

CHAPTER V

THE TRENCHARDS

Henry waited, for a moment, on the stairs. He heard the door close

behind Katherine, heard the approaching storm invade the house, heard

the cuckoo-clock in the passage above him proclaim seven o’clock, then

went slowly up to his room. Why had Katherine gone out to see Penhaligan

in those clothes, in such weather, at such an hour?... Very strange....

And her face too. She was excited, she had almost kissed him.... Her

eyes....

He entered his familiar room, looked with disgust at his dinner-jacket

and trousers lying upon the bed (he hated dressing for dinner), and then

wandered up and down, dragging a book from the book-case and pushing it

impatiently back again, stumbling over his evening slippers, pulling his

coat off and allowing it to fall, unregarded, on to the floor.

Katherine!... Katherine?... What was ‘up’ with Katherine?

He had, in any case, been greatly upset by the events of the day. The

crisis for which he had so long been waiting had at length arrived, and,

behold, it had been no crisis at all. Superficially it had been nothing

... in its reality it had shaken, finally, destructively, the

foundations of everything upon which his life had been built. He

remembered, very clearly, the family’s comments upon the case of a young

man known to them all, who, engaged to a girl in Polchester, had

confessed, just before the marriage, that he had had a mistress for

several years in London, who was however now happily married to a

gentleman of means and had no further claim on him. The engagement had

been broken off, with the approval of all the best families in

Glebeshire. Henry remembered that his mother had said that it was not

only the immorality of the young man but also his continued secrecy

concerning the affair that was so abominable, that, of course, “young

men must be young men, but you couldn’t expect a nice girl”—and so on.

He remembered all this very clearly, and he had decided at the time that

if he ever had a mistress he would take very good care that no one knew

about her. That had been a year ago ... and now! He was bewildered,

almost breathless with a kind of dismayed terror as to what the world

might possibly be coming to. His mother! of whom at least one thing had

surely been unalterable—that she, herself, would never change. And now

she had taken this thing without horror, without anger, almost with

complacency.

She had known of it for months!

It was as though he had cherished a pet with the happy conviction that

it was a kitten and had suddenly discovered it to be a cub. And out of

this confusion of a wrecked and devastated world there emerged the

conviction “that there was something more behind all this”, that “his

mother had some plan.” He did not see at all what her plan could

possibly be, but she appeared before him now as a sinister and menacing

figure, someone who had been close to him for so many years, but whose

true immensity he had never even remotely perceived.

He, Henry, had, from other points of view, risen out of the affair with

considerable good fortune. He had not, as far as he could perceive,

earned Katherine’s undying hatred; he had not even made a fool of

himself, as might naturally be expected. It was plain enough now that

Philip was to be with them for ever and ever, and that therefore Henry

must make the best of him. Now indeed that it had come to this, Henry

was not at all sure that he might not like Philip very much indeed. That

night at the ‘Empire’ had been the beginning of life for Henry, and the

indifference of his mother to Philip’s past and the knowledge that

Katherine had long been aware of it made him not a little ashamed of his

indignation and tempers. Nevertheless Philip _had_ that effect upon him,

and would have it many times again no doubt. For a clear and steady

moment Henry, looking at himself in his looking-glass, wondered whether

he were not truly the most terrible of asses.

However, all this was of the past. It was with a sense of advancing to

meet a new world that he went down to dinner.

In the drawing-room he found his mother alone. She was wearing an

evening dress of black silk, and Henry, whose suspicion of the world

made him observant, noticed that she was wearing a brooch of old silver

set with pearls. This was a family brooch, and Henry knew that his

mother wore it only ‘on occasions’; his mother’s idea of what made an

‘occasion’ was not always that of the outside world. He wondered what

the occasion might be to-night.

He had, for long, been unconsciously in the habit of dividing his mother

into two persons, the figure of domination and power who kept the

household in awe and was mysterious in her dignity and aloof reserve,

and the figure of maternal homeliness who spoke to one about

underclothes, was subject to human agitations and pleasures; of the

first he was afraid, and would be afraid until he died. The second he

loved. His mother to-night was the first of these. She looked, in his

eyes, amazingly young. Her fair grey hair, her broad shoulders, her

straight back, these things showed Henry’s mother to be younger than

ever Henry would be. The pearl brooch gleamed against the black silk

that covered her strong bosom; her head was carried high; her eyes

feared no man nor woman alive.

Therefore Henry, as was his manner on such an occasion, did his best to

slip quietly into a chair and hide his diminished personality in a book.

This, however, was not permitted him.

“Henry,” his mother said softly, “why did you not tell me earlier the

things that you had heard about Philip?”

Henry blushed so intensely that there was a thin white line just below

the roots of his hair.

“I didn’t want to make Katie unhappy,” he muttered.

“I should have thought your duty to your parents came before your duty

to Katherine,” his mother replied.

“It wasn’t you who was going to marry Philip,” he answered, not looking

at his mother.

“Nevertheless it’s possible that older heads—yes, older heads—”

“Oh! well! it’s all right,” he burst out, “I’m sick of the thing, and

you and father don’t seem to mind anything about it—”

“I haven’t told your father,” she interrupted.

“Haven’t told Father?” Henry repeated.

“No. Father doesn’t think of such things. If everything goes well, as I

am sure that everything will, Father will want to know nothing further.

I have every confidence in Philip.”

“Why!” Henry burst out, “I always thought you hated Philip, Mother. I

simply don’t understand.”

“There are quite a number of things you don’t understand, Henry dear,”

his mother answered. “Yes, quite a number. Philip was perhaps not at

home with us at first—but I’m sure that in time he will become quite

one of the family—almost as though he had been born a Trenchard. I have

great hopes.... Your tie is as usual, Henry, dear, above your collar.

Let me put it down for you.”

Henry waited whilst his mother’s cool, solid fingers rubbed against his

neck and sent a little shiver down his spine as though they would remind

him that he was a Trenchard too and had better not try to forget it. But

the great, overwhelming impression that now dominated him was of his

mother’s happiness. He knew very well when his mother was happy. There

was a note in her voice as sure and melodious as the rhythm of a stream

that runs, somewhere hidden, between the rocks. He had known, on many

days, that deep joy of his mother’s—often it had been for no reason

that he could discover.

To-night she was triumphant; her triumph sang through every note of her

voice.

* * * * *

The others come in. George Trenchard entered, rubbing his hands and

laughing. He seemed, every week, redder in the face and stouter all

over; in physical reality he added but little to his girth. It was the

stoutness of moral self-satisfaction and cheerful complaisance. His

doctrine of pleasant aloofness from contact with other human beings had

acted so admirably; he would like to have recommended it to everyone had

not such recommendation been too great a trouble.

He was never, after this evening, to be aloof again, but he did not know

that.

“Well, well,” he cried. “Punctual for once, Henry. Very nice, indeed.

Dear me, Mother, why this gaudiness? People coming to dinner?”

She looked down at her brooch.

“No, dear.... No one. I just thought I’d put it on. I haven’t worn it

for quite a time. Not for a year at least.”

“Very pretty, very pretty,” he cried. “Dear me, what a day I’ve had! So

busy, scarcely able to breathe!”

“What have you been doing, Father?” asked Henry.

“One thing and another. One thing and another,” said George airily. “Day

simply flown.”

He stood there in front of the fire, his legs spread, his huge chest

flung out, his face flaming like the sun.

“Yes, it’s been a very pleasant day,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “very

pleasant.”

“Where’s Katie?” asked her father. “She’s generally down before anyone.”

Henry, who, in the contemplation of his mother, had forgotten, for the

moment, his sister’s strange behaviour, said:

“Oh! she’ll be late, I expect. I saw her go out about seven. Had to see

Penhaligan about something important, she told me. Went out into all

that storm.”

As he spoke eight o’clock struck.

Mrs. Trenchard looked up.

“Went out to see Penhaligan?” she asked.

“Yes, Mother. She didn’t tell me why.”

Aunt Betty came in. Her little body, her cheerful smile, her air as of

one who was ready to be pleased with anything, might lead a careless

observer into the error of supposing that she was a quite ordinary old

maid with a fancy for knitting, the Church of England, and hot water

with her meals. He would be wrong in his judgment; her sharp little

eyes, the corners of her mouth betrayed a sense of humour that, although

it had never been encouraged by the family, provided much wise

penetration and knowledge. Any casual acquaintance in half an hour’s

talk would have discovered in Aunt Betty wisdom and judgment to which

her own family would, until the day of its decent and honourable death,

be entirely blind.

Just now she had lost her spectacles.

“My spectacles,” she said. “Hum-hum—Very odd. I had them just before

tea. I was working over in that corner—I never moved from there except

once when—when—Oh! there they are! No, they are not. And I played

‘Patience’ there, too, in the same corner. Very odd.”

“Perhaps, dear,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “you left them in your bedroom.”

“No, Harriet, I looked there. Hum-hum-hum. Very odd it is, because—”

Millie came in and then Aunt Aggie.

“Is Father coming down to-night?” said George.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “He said that he felt better. Thought it

would be nice to come down. Yes, that it would be rather nice.... Aggie,

dear, that’s your sewing, isn’t it? You left it here this morning.

Rocket put it between the pages of my novel to mark the place. I knew it

was yours—”

“Yes, it’s mine,” said Aunt Aggie, shortly.

Meanwhile Henry, looking at the door, waited for Katherine. A strange

premonition was growing in him that all was not well. Katherine and

Philip, they had not appeared—Katherine and Philip.... As he thought of

it, it occurred to him that he had not heard Philip moving as he

dressed. Philip’s room was next to Henry’s, and the division was thin;

you could always hear coughs, steps, the pouring of water, the opening

and shutting of drawers.

There had been no sounds to-night. Henry’s heart began to beat very

fast. He listened to the wind that, now that the storm had swung away,

was creeping around the house, trying the doors and windows, rattling

something here, tugging at something there, all the pipes gurgled and

spluttered with the waters of the storm.

“Ah! there they are!” cried Aunt Betty.

Henry started, thinking that she must herald the entry of Katherine and

Philip; but no, it was only the gold-rimmed spectacles lying

miraculously beneath the sofa.

“Now, _how_,” cried Aunt Betty, “did they get there? Very odd, because I

remember distinctly that I never moved from my corner.”

“Well,” said George Trenchard, who, now that his back was warmed by the

fire, wanted his front warmed too, “how much longer are we to wait for

dinner? Katie and Philip. Playing about upstairs, I suppose.”

Quarter-past eight struck, and Rocket, opening the door, announced that

dinner was ready.

“Suppose you just go up and see what Katie’s doing, Millie dear,” said

Mrs. Trenchard.

Millie left them and ran quickly upstairs. She pushed back Katie’s door,

then, stepping inside, the darkness and silence and a strange murmurous

chill caught her, as though someone had leapt, out of the dusk, at her

throat. She knew then instantly what had occurred. She only said once,

very softly, “Katie!” then gently closed the door behind her, as though

she did not want anyone else to see the room.

She stayed there; there, beside the door, for quite a long time. The

room was very dark, but the looking-glass glimmered like a white,

flickering shadow blown by the wet wind that came in through the open

window. Something flapped monotonously.

Millie, standing quite motionless by the door, thought to herself

“Katherine and Philip! They’ve done it!... at last, they’ve done it!” At

first, because she was very young and still believed in freedom and

adventure as the things best worth having in life, she felt nothing but

a glad, triumphant excitement; an excitement springing not only from her

pleasure in any brave movement, but also from her reassurance in her

beloved sister, her knowledge that after all Katherine _did_ believe in

Love beyond every other power, was ready to venture all for it. Her own

impulse was to run after them, as fast as she could, and declare her

fidelity to them.

At last she moved away from the door to the dressing-table and lit a

candle. Its soft white flame for a moment blinded her. She had an

instant of hesitation; perhaps after all she had flown too rapidly to

her desired conclusions, the two of them were waiting now in the

drawing-room for her.... Then she saw Katherine’s note propped against

the looking-glass.

She took it up, saw that it was addressed to her mother, and realised,

for the first time, what this would mean to them all. She saw then—THE

OLD ONES—Grandfather, Mother, Father, Aunt Sarah, Aunt Aggie, Aunt

Betty. She was sorry for them, but she knew, as she stood there, that

she did not care, really, whether they were hurt or no. She felt her own

freedom descend upon her, there in Katie’s room, like a golden, flaming

cloud. This was the moment for which, all her life, she had been

waiting. The Old Ones had tried to keep them and tie them down, but the

day of the Old Ones was past, their power was broken. It was the New

Generation that mattered—Katherine and Philip, Millie and Henry, and

all their kind; it was _their_ world and _their_ dominion—

She suddenly, alone there, with the note in her hand, danced a little

dance, the candle-flame flickering in the breeze and Katherine’s white,

neat bed so cold and tidy.

She was not hard, she was not cruel—her own time would come when she

would cry for sympathy and would not find it, and must set her teeth

because her day was past ... now was her day—She seized it fiercely.

Very quietly she went downstairs....

She opened the drawing-room door: as she entered all their eyes met her

and she knew at once, as she saw Henry’s, that he was expecting her

announcement.

She looked across at her mother.

“Katherine’s room’s empty,” she said. “There’s no one there at all.” She

hesitated a moment, then added: “There was this note for you, Mother, on

her dressing-table.”

She went across the room and gave it to her mother. Her mother took it;

no one spoke.

Mrs. Trenchard read it; for a dreadful moment she thought that she was

going to give way before them all, was going to cry out, to scream, to

rush wildly into the road to stop the fugitives, or slap Aunt Aggie’s

face. For a dreadful moment the battle of her whole life to obtain the

mastery of herself was almost defeated—then, blindly, obeying some

impulse with which she could not reason, of which she was scarcely

conscious, some strong call from a far country, she won a triumphant

victory.

“It’s from Katherine!” she said. “The child’s mad. She’s gone up to

London.”

“London!” George Trenchard cried.

“London!” cried Aunt Aggie.

“Yes. With Philip. They have caught the eight train. They are to be

married to-morrow. ‘Because I would not let Philip go,’ she says. But

she’s mad—”

For an instant she gripped the mantelpiece behind her. She could hear

them, only from a distance, as though their voices were muffled by the

roar of sea or wind, their exclamations.

Her husband was, of course, useless. She despised him. He cried:

“They must be stopped! They must be stopped. This is impossible! That

fellow Mark—one might have guessed! They must be stopped. At once! At

once!”

“They can’t be.” She heard her voice far away with the others. “They

can’t be stopped. The train left at eight o’clock, nearly half an hour

ago. There’s nothing to be done.”

“But, of course,” cried George, “there’s _something_ to be done. They

must be stopped at once. I’ll go up by the next train.”

“There’s no train until six to-morrow morning—and what good would you

do? They’re engaged. You gave your permission. Katherine’s of age. It is

her own affair.”

They all cried out together. Their voices sounded to Mrs. Trenchard like

the screams of children.

Through the confusion there came the sound of an opening door. They all

turned, and saw that it was old Mr. Trenchard, assisted by Rocket.

“Why don’t you come in to dinner?” he said, in his clear, thin voice. “I

went straight into the dining-room because I was late, and here you all

are, and it’s nearly half-past eight.”

The same thought instantly struck them all. Grandfather must know

nothing about it; a very slight shock, they were all aware, would _kill_

Grandfather, and there could not possibly be any shock to him like this

amazing revolt of Katherine’s. Therefore he must know nothing. Like

bathers asserting themselves after the first quiver of an icy plunge,

they fought their way to the surface.

Until Grandfather was safely once more alone in his room the situation

must be suspended. After all, there was _nothing_ to be done! He,

because he was feeling well that evening, was intent upon his dinner.

“What! Waiting for Katherine?” he said.

“Katherine isn’t coming down to dinner, Father,” Mrs. Trenchard said.

“What, my dear?”

“Katherine isn’t coming down to dinner.”

“Not ill, I hope.”

“No—a little tired.”

George Trenchard was the only one who did not support his part. When the

old man had passed through the door, George caught his wife’s arm.

“But, I say,” he whispered, “something—”

She turned for an instant, looking at him with scorn.

“Nothing!” she said. “It’s too late.”

They went in to dinner.

It was fortunate that Grandfather was hungry; he did not, it seems,

notice Philip’s absence.

“Very nice to see you down, Father,” Mrs. Trenchard said pleasantly.

“Very nice for us all.”

“Thank ye, my dear. Very agreeable—very agreeable. Quite myself this

evening. That rheumatism passed away, so I said to Rocket, ‘Well, ’pon

my word, Rocket, I think I’ll come down to-night’ Livelier for us all to

be together. Hope Katie isn’t ill, though?”

“No—no—nothing at all.”

“I saw her this morning. She seemed quite well.”

“A little headache, Father dear. She thought she was better by herself.”

“Dear Katie—never do to have her ill. Well, George. What’s the matter

with ’ee? Looking quite hipped. Dig your father in the ribs, Millie, my

dear, and cheer him up a bit.”

So seldom was old Mr. Trenchard in his merry mood, and so difficult of

him to be in it now. So often he was consumed with his own thoughts, his

death, perhaps, the present degradation of the world, the tyranny of

aches and pains, impatience with the monotonous unvariety of relations,

past Trenchard glories, old scenes and days and hours ... he, thus

caught up into his own life, would be blind to them all. But to-night,

pleased with his food because he was hungry, and because his body was

not paining him anywhere just now, he was interested in them. His bright

little eyes darted all about the table.

There came at last the question that they dreaded:

“Why, where’s the young man? Katie’s young man?”

A moment’s silence, and then Mrs. Trenchard said quietly, and with her

eyes upon the new ‘girl,’ introduced into the house only last week and

fresh to the mysteries of a dinner-table:

“He’s dining with Timothy to-night, Father.”

Rocket could be heard whispering to Lucy, the ‘girl’:

“Potatoes first—then the sauce.”

Of them all, it was George Trenchard who covered with least success the

yawning chasm, even Aunt Betty, although her hands shook as she crumbled

her bread, had not surrendered her control.

But for George this was the first blow, in all his life, to reach his

heart. Nothing really had ever touched him before. And he could not

understand it—he simply could not understand it. It had been as sudden

as an earthquake, and then, after all, there had been nothing to be

done. That was the awful thing. There had been nothing to be done.... It

was also so mysterious. Nothing had ever been mysterious to him before.

He had been dimly aware that during these last months all had not been

well, but he had pursued his old safe plan, namely, that if you didn’t

mention things and just smiled upon life without inviting it to approach

you closely, all would, in the end, be well.

But now he could no longer hold aloof—he was in the middle of

something, as surely as though he had been plunged into a deep tab of

tossing, foaming water. Katherine ... Katie ... dear, devoted Katie ...

who had always loved him and done as he wished; Katie, nearest of all

human beings to his heart, and nearest because he had always known that

she cared for him more than for any other human being. And now it was

obvious that that was not so, it was obvious that she cared more for

that young man, that abominable young man.... O, damn it! damn it! _damn

it!_ Katherine was gone, and for no reason, for nothing at all except

pride and impatience. Already, as he sat there, he was wondering how

soon, by any means whatever, he could establish pleasant relations with

her, and so make his life comfortable once more. But, beyond Katherine,

there was his wife. What was he to do about Harriet? For so many years

now he had decided that the only way to deal comfortably with Harriet

was not to deal with her, and this had seemed to work so well ... but

now ... now ... he _must_ deal with her. He saw that she was in terrible

distress; he knew her well enough to be sure of that. He would have

liked to have helped and comforted her; it really distressed him to see

anyone in pain, but he discovered now, with a sharp surprise, that she

was a complete stranger, that he did not know any more about the real

Harriet Trenchard than he did about Lucy, the maid-servant. There was

approaching him that awful moment when he would be compelled to draw

close to her ... he was truly terrified of this.

It was a terrible dinner for all of them; once Lucy dropped a knife, and

they started, all of them, as though a bomb had screamed through the

ceiling. And perhaps, to the older ones, there was nothing in it more

alarming than the eyes, the startled, absorbed and challenging eyes, of

Millie and Henry....

Slowly, as the dinner progressed, old Mr. Trenchard discovered that

something was the matter. He discovered it as surely by the nervous

laughter and chatter of Aunt Betty as by the disconcerted discomfort of

his son George. His merriment fell away from him; he loved ‘Angels on

Horseback’—to-night there were ‘Angels on Horseback’, and he ate them

with a peevish irritation. Whatever was the matter now? He felt lost

without Sarah; _she_ knew when and why things were the matter more

quickly than anyone, aware of her deafness, would consider possible. But

before he was assisted from the table he was sure that the ‘something’

was connected with his dear Katherine.... The men did not stay behind

to-night. In the hall they were grouped together, on the way to the

drawing-room, waiting for the old man’s slow progress.

He paused suddenly beside the staircase.

“George,” he said, “George, just run up and see how Katie is. Give her

my love, will ’ee?”

George turned, his face white. Mrs. Trenchard said:

“She’s probably asleep, Father. With her headache—it would be a pity to

wake her.”

At that moment the hall door pushed slowly open, and there, the wind

eddying behind him, his ulster up over his neck, his hair and beard wet

with the rain, stood Uncle Timothy.

“Hullo!” he cried, seeing them all grouped together. But old Mr.

Trenchard called to him in a voice that trembled now with some troubled

anticipation:

“Why, your dinner’s soon done? Where’s the young man?”

Uncle Timothy stared at them; he looked round at them, then, at a loss

for the first time in his life, stammered: “Why, don’t you know...?”

The old man turned, his stick shaking in his hand: “Where’s Katherine?

Katie.... What’s happened to Katie? What’s this mean?”

Mrs. Trenchard looked at him, then said:

“It’s all right, Father—really. It’s quite all right.”

“It’s not all right.” Fright like the terror of a child alone in the

dark was in his eyes. “What have you done with her?”

Her voice cold, without moving, she answered:

“Katherine went up by the eight o’clock train to London with Philip. She

has gone to Rachel Seddon.”

“With Philip?... What do you say? I can’t hear you.”

“Yes. She is to stay with Rachel Seddon.”

“But why? What have you done? Why did you tell me lies?”

“We have done nothing. We did not know that she was going.”

“You didn’t know?... then she’s left us?”

Mrs. Trenchard said nothing.

He cried: “I told him—what it would be—if he took her ... Katie!”

Then, his stick dropping with a rattle on to the stone floor, he fell

back. Rocket caught him.

There was a movement forward, but Mrs. Trenchard, saying swiftly,

“George ... Rocket,” had swept them all outside the figure—the figure

of an old, broken, tumbled-to-pieces man, held now by his son and

Rocket, huddled, with his white, waxen hand trailing across George

Trenchard’s strong arm.

Harriet Trenchard said to her brother:

“You knew!” then turned up the stairs.

In the drawing-room Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, Millie and Henry faced Uncle

Timothy.

“Well!” said Aunt Aggie, “so you know all about it.... You’ve killed

Father!” she ended with a grim, malignant triumph.

He answered fiercely: “Yes, I knew. That’s why I came. She said that she

would send up a note from the village. I thought that you wouldn’t have

heard it yet. I came up to explain.”

They all burst upon him then with questions:

“What?” “Did you see her?” “What did she say?” “Where was she?”

“Of course I saw her. She came to me before she went off.”

“She came and you didn’t stop her!” This from Aunt Aggie. He turned then

and addressed himself solely to her.

“No. I didn’t stop her. I gave her my blessing.”

Aunt Aggie would have spoken, but he went on: “Yes, and it’s you—you

and Harriet and the others—who are responsible. I warned Harriet months

ago, but she wouldn’t listen. What did you expect? Do you think the

world’s always going on made for you and you alone? The more life’s

behind you the more important you think you are, whereas it doesn’t

matter a damn to anybody what you’ve done compared with what others are

going to do. You thought you could tie Katherine and Philip down, take

away their freedom? Well, you couldn’t, that’s all.”

“Yes,” cried Aunt Aggie, who was shaking with anger, “it’s such

doctrines as yours, Timothy, that lead to Katherine and others doing the

dreadful things they do. It’s all freedom now and such words, and young

men like Mr. Mark, who don’t fear God and have no morals and make

reprobates of themselves and all around them, can do what they please, I

suppose. You talk about common-sense, but what about God? What about the

Commandments and duty to your parents? They may think what they like

abroad, but, Heaven be praised, there are some of us still in England

who know our duty.”

He had recovered his control before she ended her speech. He smiled at

her.

“The time will come,” he answered, “and I daresay it isn’t so distant as

you think, when you and you fellow-patriots, Aggie, will learn that

England isn’t all alone, on her fine moral pedestal, any longer. There

won’t be any pedestal, and you and your friends will have to wake up and

realise that the world’s pushed a bit closer together now-a-days, that

you’ve got to use your eyes a bit, or you’ll get jostled out of

existence. The world’s going to be for the young and the independent and

the unprejudiced, not the old and narrow-minded.

“Philip Mark’s woken you all up, and thank God he has!”

“Heaven forgive you,” Aunt Aggie answered, “for taking His name. You’ve

got terrible things to answer to Him for, Timothy, when the time comes.”

“I’m not afraid, Aggie,” he said.

But it was Millie who spoke the final word.

“Oh, _what_ are you all talking about!” she broke in. “What does it

matter _who’s_ good or bad or right or wrong. It’s Katie’s _happiness_

that matters, nothing else. Of _course_, she’s gone. She ought to have

gone months ago. You all wanted to make her and Phil live _your_ life

just as you wished it, and Phil, because he loved Katie so much, was

ready to, but _why_ should they? You say you all loved her, but I think

it was just selfishness. I’ve been as bad as the rest of you. I’ve been

thinking of myself more than Katie, but at heart now I’m glad, and I

hope they’ll be happy, happy for ever.”

“And your Mother?” said Aunt Aggie. “Did Katherine owe her nothing?”

“Yes,” answered Millie, stoutly, “but she didn’t owe her all her life.

Mother’s still got her if she wants her. Katie will never change—she

isn’t that kind. It’s mother’s pride that’s hurt, not her love.”

Aunt Betty, who had been quite silent, said:

“I do indeed hope that she will be very happy ... but life will never be

the same again. We mustn’t be selfish, of course, but we shall miss

her—terribly.”

At a later hour George Trenchard, in pyjamas and a dressing gown,

knocked on his wife’s door. She opened it, and he found her fully

clothed; she had, it seemed to him, been reading.

He looked at her; he felt very wretched and uncomfortable.

“Father’s asleep,” he said.

“I’m glad of that,” she answered.

“I think he’ll be none the worse in the morning.”

“I hope not. Dr. Pierson seemed reassured.”

There was a pause; in spite of his bedroom slippers, his feet were cold.

“Harriet.”

“Yes, George.”

“I only wanted to say—well, I don’t know—only that—I’m sorry if

this—this business of Katherine’s—has been a great blow to you.”

Her mind returned to that day, now so long ago, when, after her visit to

the Stores, she had gone to his study. Their position now was reversed.

But she was tired; she did not care. George did not exist for her.

“It has surprised me, of course,” she answered, in her even, level

voice. “I thought Katherine cared more for us all than she has shown

that she does. I certainly thought so. Perhaps my pride is hurt.”

By making this statement—not especially to George, but to the world in

general—she could say to herself: “You see how honest you are. You are

hiding nothing.”

He meanwhile hated his position, but was driven on by a vague sense that

she needed comfort, and that he ought to give it her.

“See here, Harriet,” he said, awkwardly, “perhaps it needn’t be so bad.

Nothing very terrible’s happened, I mean. After all, they were going to

marry anyway. They’ve only done it a bit sooner. They might have told

us, it’s true—they ought to have told us—but, after all, young people

will be young people, won’t they? We can’t be very angry with them. And

young Mark isn’t quite an Englishman, you know. Been abroad so long.”

As he spoke he dwindled and dwindled before her until his huge, healthy

body seemed like a little speck, a fly, crawling upon the distant wall.

“Nothing very terrible’s happened” ... “_Nothing very terrible’s

happened_” ... “NOTHING VERY TERRIBLE’S HAPPENED.”

George, who, during these many years had been very little in her life,

disappeared, as he made that speech, utterly and entirely out of it. He

was never to figure in it again, but he did not know that.

He suddenly sat down beside her on the old sofa and put his arm round

her. She did not move.

They sat there in utter silence. At last desperately, as though he were

committing the crime of his life, he kissed her. She patted his hand.

“You look tired,” he said, feeling an immense relief, now that he had

done his duty. “You go to bed.”

“Good night, George dear,” she said.

He raised his big body from the sofa, smiled at her and padded away....

* * * * *

When he had gone and she was alone, for a terrible time she fought her

defeat. She knew now quite clearly that her ruling passion during all

these months had not been, as she had supposed, her love of Katherine,

but her hatred of Philip.

From the first moment of seeing him she had known him for her enemy. He

had been, although at the time she had not realised it, the very figure

whose appearance, all her life, she had dreaded; that figure, from

outside, of whose coming Timothy had long ago prophesied. How she had

hated him! From the very first she had made her plans, influencing the

others against him, watching how she might herself most securely

influence him against himself, breaking in his will, using Katherine

against him; finally, when Seymour had told her the scandal, how she had

treasured it up for the moment when he, because of his love for

Katherine, should be completely delivered over to her!

And the moment had come. She had had her triumph! She had seen his

despair in his eyes! She had got him, she thought, securely for ever and

ever.

Then how she had known what she would do in the future, the slave that

she would make of him, the ways that she would trouble him with

Katherine, with that Russian woman, with Aggie, with all of them!

Ah! it had been so perfect! and—at the very moment of her triumph—he

had escaped!

That love for Katherine that had been a true motive in her earlier life,

a true motive even until six months ago, was now converted into a cold,

implacable resentment, because it was Katherine who had opened the door

of Philip’s cage. Strange the complexities of the human heart! That very

day, as she won her triumph she had loved her daughter. She had thought:

“Now that I have beaten him I can take you back to my heart. We can be,

my dear, as we used to be”—but now, had Katherine entered the room, she

would have been spurned, dismissed for ever.

In the lust of love there is embedded, as the pearl is embedded in its

shell, a lust of hate. Very closely they are pressed together. Mrs.

Trenchard was beaten—beaten by her daughter, by a new generation, by a

new world, by a new age—beaten in the very moment of her victory.

She would never forgive.

What was left to her?

Her heart was suddenly empty of love, of hatred, of triumph, of defeat.

She was tired and lonely. Somewhere, dimly, from the passage, the

cuckoo-clock proclaimed the hour.

The house! That at least was left to her. These rooms, these roofs, the

garden, the village, the fields, the hedges the roads to the sea. The

Place had not deceived her, had not shared in the victory over her; it

had, rather, shared in her defeat.

It seemed, as she stood there, to come up to her, to welcome her, to

console her.

She put a shawl over her shoulders, went softly through the dark

passages, down into the drawing-room.

There, feeling her way, she found candles and lit them. She went to her

cabinet, opened drawers, produced papers, plans, rows of figures. Here

was a plan of a new barn behind the house, here the addition of a

conservatory to the drawing-room. Before her was a map of South

Glebeshire, with the roads, the fields, the farms. She began to work,

adding figures, following the plans, writing....

The light of the summer morning found her working there in the thin

candle-light.

CHAPTER VI

THE CEREMONY

At about half-past four upon the afternoon of November 8th, 1903, the

drawing-room of No. 5 Rundle Square Westminster, was empty. November 8th

was, of course, Grandfather Trenchard’s birthday; a year ago on that day

Philip Mark had made his first entrance into the Trenchard fastnesses.

This Eighth of November, 1903, did not, in the manner of weather, repeat

the Eighth of November, 1902. There had been, a year ago, the thickest

of fogs, now there was a clear, mildly blue November evening, with the

lamps like faint blurs of light against a sky in which tiny stars

sparkled on a background that was almost white. It was cold enough to be

jolly, and there was a thin wafer-like frost over the pools and gutters.

A large fire roared in the fireplace; the room seemed strangely altered

since that day when Henry had read his novel and thought of his forests.

In what lay the alteration? The old green carpet was still there; in

front of the fireplace was a deep red Turkey rug—but it was not the rug

that changed the room. The deep glass-fronted book-cases were still

there, with the chilly and stately classics inside them; on the round

table there were two novels with gaudy red and blue covers. One novel

was entitled “The Lovely Mrs. Tempest”, the other “The Mystery of

Dovecote Mill”—but it was not the novels that changed the room. The

portraits of deceased Trenchards, weighted with heavy gold, still hung

upon the walls; there was also, near the fireplace, a gay water-colour

of some place on the Riviera, with a bright parasol in the foreground

and the bluest of all blue seas in the background—but it was not the

water-colour that changed the room.

No, the change lay here—the Mirror was gone.

After Henry had broken it, there was much discussion as to whether it

should be mended. Of course it would be mended—but when?—Well, soon.

Meanwhile it had better be out of the way somewhere ... it had remained

out of the way. Until it should be restored, Sir George Trenchard,

K.C.B., 1834-1896, a stout gentleman with side whiskers, hung in its

place.

Meanwhile it would never be restored. People would forget it; people

wanted to forget it ... the Mirror’s day was over.

It was, of course, impossible for Sir George Trenchard to reflect the

room in his countenance or in his splendid suit of clothes, and the

result of this was that the old room that had gathered itself so

comfortably, with its faded and mossy green, into the shining embrace of

the Mirror, had now nowhere for its repose; it seemed now an ordinary

room, and the spots of colour—the Turkey rug, the novels, the

water-colour, broke up the walls and the carpet, flung light here and

light there, shattered that earlier composed remoteness, proclaimed the

room a comfortable place that had lost its tradition.

The Room was broken up—the Mirror was in the cellar.

Henry came in. He had had permission to abandon—for one night—his

labours at Cambridge to assist in the celebration of his grandfather’s

birthday, the last, perhaps, that there would be, because the old man

now was very broken and ill. He had never recovered from the blow of

Katherine’s desertion.

The first thing that Henry had done on his arrival in London had been to

pay a visit to Mrs. Philip Mark. Katherine and Philip lived in a little

flat in Knightsbridge—Park Place—and a delightful little flat it was.

This was not the first visit that Henry had paid there; George

Trenchard, Millie, Aunt Betty had also been there—there had been

several merry tea-parties.

The marriage had been a great success; the only thing that marred it for

Katherine was her division from her mother. Mrs. Trenchard was

relentless. She would not see Katherine, she would not read her letters,

she would not allow her name to be mentioned in her presence. Secretly,

one by one, the others had crept off to the Knightsbridge flat.... They

gave no sign of their desertion. Did she know? She also gave no sign.

But Katherine would not abandon hope. The time must come when her mother

needed her. She did not ask questions of the others, but she saw her

mother lonely, aged, miserable; she saw this from no conceit of herself,

but simply because she knew that she had, for so many years, been the

centre of her mother’s life. Her heart ached; she lay awake, crying, at

night, and Philip would strive to console her but could not.

Nevertheless, through all her tears, she did not regret what she had

done. She would do it again did the problem again arise. Philip was a

new man, strong, happy, reliant, wise ... she had laid the ghosts for

him. He was hers, as though he had been her child.

Henry, upon this afternoon, was clearly under the influence of great

excitement. He entered the drawing-room as though he were eager to

deliver important news, and then, seeing that no one was there, he

uttered a little exclamation and flung himself into a chair. Anyone

might see that a few weeks of Cambridge life had worked a very happy

change in Henry; much of his crudity was gone. One need not now be

afraid of what he would do next, and because he was himself aware of

this development much of his awkwardness had left him.

His clothes were neat; his hair was brushed. He might still yield at any

moment to his old impetuosities, his despairs and his unjustified

triumphs, but there would now be some further purpose beyond them; he

would know now that there were more important things in life than his

moods.

He looked at the place where the Mirror had been and blushed; then he

frowned. Yes, he had lost his temper badly that day, but Philip had had

such an abominable way of showing him how young he was, how little of

life he knew. All the same, Philip wasn’t a bad sort,—and he _did_ love

Katie—‘like anything!’

Henry himself thrilled with the consciousness of the things that he

intended to do in life. He had attended a debate at the Cambridge Union,

and himself, driven by what desperate impulse he did not know, had

spoken a few words. From that moment he had realised what life held in

store for him. He had discovered other eager spirits; they met at night

and drank cocoa together. They intended nothing less than the redemption

of the world; their Utopian City shone upon no distant hill. They called

themselves the Crusaders, and some time before the end of the term the

first number of a periodical written by them was to startle the world.

Henry was the Editor. His first Editorial was entitled: “Freedom: What

it is”.

And only a year ago he had sat in this very room reading that novel and

wondering whether life would ever open before him. It had opened—it was

opening before them all. He did not know that it had been opening thus

for many thousands of years. He knew nothing of the past; he knew

nothing of the future; but he saw his City rising, so pure and of

marvellous promise, before his eyes....

As he looked back over the past year and surveyed the family, it was to

him as though an earthquake had blown them all sky-high. A year ago they

had been united, as though no power could ever divide them. Well, the

division had come. There was now not one member of the family who had

not his, or her, secret ambitions and desires. Aunt Aggie intended to

live in a little flat by herself. She found “the younger ones

impossible.” George Trenchard bought land at Garth. Mrs. Trenchard

intended to pull down some of the Garth house and build a new wing.

She was immersed all day in plans and maps and figures; even her

father-in-law’s illness had not interfered with her determination.

Millie had made friends with a number of independent London ladies, who

thought Women’s Suffrage far beyond either cleanliness or Godliness. She

talked to Henry about her companions, who hoped for a new City in no

very distant future, very much as Henry’s friends at Cambridge did.

Only, the two Cities were very different. Even Katherine and Philip were

concerned in some Society for teaching poor women how to manage their

children, and Philip was also interested in a new Art, in which young

painters produced medical charts showing the internal arrangements of

the stomach, and called them “Spring on the Heath” or “Rome—Midday.”

And through all the middle-class families in England these things were

occurring. “Something is coming....” “Something is coming....” “Look

out....” “Look out....”

This was in 1903. Henry, Millie, Katherine had still eleven years to

wait for their revolution, but in at least one corner of happy England

the work of preparation had been begun.

The door opened, and Henry’s reveries were interrupted by the entrance

of Millie. He started, and then jumped up on seeing her; for a moment,

under the power of his thoughts, he had forgotten his news; now he

stammered with the importance of it.

“Millie!” he cried.

“Hullo, Henry,” she said, smiling. “We expected you hours ago.”

He dropped his voice. “I’ve been round to see Katie. Look here, Millie,

it’s most important. She’s coming here to see Mother.”

Millie glanced behind. They carried on then the rest of their

conversation in whispers.

“To see Mother?”

“Yes. She can’t bear waiting any longer. She felt that she _must_ be

here on Grandfather’s birthday.”

“But—but—”

“Yes, I know. But she thinks that if she sees Mother alone and she can

show her that nothing’s changed—”

“But _everything’s_ changed. She doesn’t _know_ how different Mother

is.”

“No, but she thinks if they both _see_ one another—at any rate she’s

going to try.”

“Now?”

“Yes. In a few minutes. I’ll go up and just tell Mother that there’s a

caller in the drawing-room. Then leave them alone together—”

Millie sighed. “It would be too lovely for anything if it really

happened. But it won’t—it can’t. Mother’s extraordinary. I don’t

believe she ever loved Katie at all, at least only as an idea. She’ll

_never_ forgive her—_never_—and she’ll always hate Philip.”

“How’s Grandfather?”

“Very bad. He says he _will_ come down to-night, although it’ll probably

kill him. However, now they’ve arranged that his presents shall be in

the little drawing-room upstairs. Then he won’t have so far to go. He’s

awfully bad, really, and he’s as hard about Katie as Mother is. He won’t

have her name mentioned. It’s simply, _I_ believe, that it’s terrible to

him to think that she could love Philip better than him!”

“And how’s everyone else?”

“Oh, well, it’s all right, I suppose. But it isn’t very nice. I’m going

off to live with Miss Emberley as soon as they’ll let me. Aunt Aggie’s

been _awful_. And then one day she went suddenly to see Katie, and

Mother found out somehow. Mother never said anything, but Aunt Aggie’s

going to take a flat by herself somewhere. And since that she’s been

nicer than I’ve ever known her. Quite soft and good-tempered.”

“Does Mother know that we all go to see Katie?”

“Sometimes I think she does—sometimes that she doesn’t. She never says

a word. She seems to think of nothing but improving the place now. She

must be very lonely, but she doesn’t show anyone anything. All the same

it’s impossible without Katie—I—”

At that moment the bell of the hall-door rang. They stood silently there

listening.

For a moment they stared at one another, like conspirators caught in the

act of their conspiracy. The colour flooded their cheeks; their hearts

beat furiously. Here and now was Drama.

They heard Rocket’s footstep, the opening door, Katherine’s voice. They

fled from the room before they could be seen.

Katherine, when she stood alone in the room in whose life and intimacy

she had shared for so many years, stared about her as though she had

been a stranger. There was a change; in the first place there was now

her own room, made for her and for Philip, that absorbed her mind; in

comparison with it this room, that had always appeared to her

comfortable, consoling, protective, was now old-fashioned and a little

shabby. There were too many things scattered about, old things, neither

beautiful nor useful. Then the place itself did not seem to care for her

as it had once done. She was a visitor now, and the house knew it. Their

mutual intimacy had ceased.

But she could not waste many thoughts upon the room. This approaching

interview with her mother seemed to her the supreme moment of her life.

There had been other supreme moments during the past year, and she did

not realise that she was now better able to deal with them than she had

once been. Nevertheless her mother _must_ forgive her. She would not

leave the house until she had been forgiven. She was hopeful. The

success of her marriage had given her much self-confidence. The way that

the family had, one after another, come to see her (yes, even Aunt

Aggie) had immensely reassured her. Her mother was proud; she needed

that submission should be made to her.

Katherine was here to make it. Her heart beat thickly with love and the

anticipated reconciliation.

She went, as she had done so many, many times, to the Mirror over the

fireplace to tidy herself. Why! the Mirror was not there! Of course

not—that was why the room seemed so changed. She looked around her,

smiled a little. A fine girl, anyone seeing her there would have thought

her. Marriage had given her an assurance, a self-reliance. She had

shrunk back before because she had been afraid of what life would be.

Now, when it seemed to her that she had penetrated into the very darkest

fastnesses of its secrets, when she felt that nothing in the future

could surprise her ever again, she shrank back no longer.

Her clothes were better than in the old days, but even now they did not

fit her very perfectly. She was still, in her heart, exactly the same

rather grave, rather slow, very loving Katherine. She would be stout in

later years; there were already little dimples in her cheeks. Her eyes

were soft and mild, as they had ever been.

The door opened, and Mrs. Trenchard entered.

She had expected some caller, and she came forward a few steps with the

smile of the hostess upon her lips. Then she saw her daughter, and

stopped.

Katherine had risen, and stood facing her mother. With a swift

consternation, as though someone had shouted some terrifying news into

her ear, she realised that her mother was a stranger to her. She had

imagined many, many times what this interview would be. She had often

considered the things that she would say and the very words in which she

would arrange her sentences. But always in her thoughts she had had a

certain picture of her mother before her. She had seen an old woman, old

as she had been on that night when she had slept in Katherine’s arms,

old as she had been at that moment when Katherine had first told her of

her engagement to Philip. And now she thought this old woman would face

her, maintaining her pride but nevertheless ready, after the separation

of these weeks, to break down before the vision of Katherine’s own

submission.

Katherine had always thought: “Dear Mother. We _must_ have one another.

She’ll feel that now. She’ll see that I’m exactly the same....”

How different from her dreams was this figure. Her mother seemed to-day

younger than Katherine had ever known her. She stood there, tall, stern,

straight, the solidity of her body impenetrable, inaccessible to all

tenderness, scornful of all embraces. She was young, yes, and stronger.

At the first sight of Katherine she had moved back as though she would

leave the room. Then she stayed by the door. She was perfectly composed.

“Why have you come?” she said.

At the cold indifference of that voice Katherine felt a little pulse of

anger beat, far away, in the very heart of her tenderness.

She moved forward with a little gesture.

“Mother, I had to come. It’s Grandfather’s birthday. I couldn’t believe

that after all these weeks you wouldn’t be willing to see me.”

She stopped. Her mother said nothing.

Katherine came nearer. “I’m sorry—terribly sorry—if I did what hurt

you. I felt at the time that it was the only thing to do. Phil was so

miserable, and I know that it was all for my sake. It wasn’t fair to let

him go on like that when I could prevent it. You didn’t understand him.

He didn’t understand you. But never, for a single instant, did my love

for you change. It never has. It never will. Mother dear, you believe

that—you _must_ believe that.”

Did Mrs. Trenchard have then for a moment a vision of the things that

she might still do with life? With her eyes, during these weeks, she had

seen not Katherine but her own determination to vindicate her stability,

the stability of all her standards, against every attack. They said that

the world was changing. She at least could show them that she would not

change. Even though, in her own house, that revolution had occurred

about which she had been warned, she would show them that she remained,

through it all, stable, unconquered.

Katherine had gone over to the enemy. Well, she would fasten her life to

some other anchor then. It should be as though Katherine and Katherine’s

love had never existed. There was offered her now her last chance. One

word and she would be part of the new world. One word....

She may for an instant have had her vision. The moment passed. She saw

only her own determined invincibility.

“You had your choice, Katherine,” she said. “You made it. You broke your

word to us. You left us without justification. You have killed your

Grandfather. You have shown that our love and care for you during all

these years has gone for nothing at all.”

Katherine flushed. “I have not shown that—I....” She looked as though

she would cry. Her lips trembled. She struggled to compose her

voice—then at last went on firmly:

“Mother—perhaps I was wrong. I didn’t know what I did. It wasn’t for

myself—it was for Philip. It isn’t true that I didn’t think of you all.

Mother, let me see Grandfather—only for a moment. He will forgive me. I

know—I know.”

“He has forbidden us to mention your name to him.”

“But if he sees me—”

“He is resolved never to see you again.”

“But what did I do? If I speak to him, if I kiss him—I must go to him.

It’s his birthday. I’ve got a present—”

“He is too ill to see you.” This perhaps had moved her, because she went

on swiftly: “Katherine, what is the use of this? It hurts both of us. It

can do no good. You acted as you thought right. It seemed to show me

that you had no care for me after all these years. It shook all my

confidence. That can never be between us again, and I could not, I

think, in any way follow your new life. I could never forget, and you

have now friends and interests that must exclude me. If we meet what can

we have now in common? If I had loved you less, perhaps it would be

possible, but as it is—no.”

Katherine had dried her tears.

They looked at one another. Katherine bowed her head. She had still to

bite her lips that she might not cry, but she looked very proud.

“Perhaps,” she said, very softly, “that one day you will want—you will

feel—At least I shall not change. I will come whenever you want me. I

will always care the same. One day I will come back, Mother dear.”

Her mother said only:

“It is better that we should not meet.”

Katherine walked to the door. As she passed her mother she looked at

her. Her eyes made one last prayer—then they were veiled.

She left the house.

* * * * *

A quarter of an hour later Henry came into the room, and found his

Mother seated at her desk, plans and papers in front of her. He could

hear her saying to herself:

“Fifteen—by fourteen.... The rockery _there_—Five steps, then the

door.... Fifteen pounds four shillings and sixpence....”

Katherine was not there. He knew that she had been rejected. His mother

showed no signs of discomposure. Their interview must have been very

short.

He went to the window and stood there, looking out. In a moment Rocket

would come and draw the blinds. Rundle Square swam in the last golden

light.

Tiny flakes of colour spun across the pale blue that was almost white.

They seemed to whirl before Henry’s eyes.

He was sorry, terribly sorry, that Katherine had failed, but he was

filled to-day with a triumphant sense of the glory and promise of life.

He had been liberated, and Katherine had been liberated. Freedom, with

its assurances for all the world, flamed across the darkening skies.

Life seemed endless: its beckoning drama called to him. The anticipation

of the glory of life caught him by the throat so that he could scarcely

breathe....

At that moment in the upstairs room old Mr. Trenchard, suddenly

struggling for breath, tried to call out, failed, fell back, on to his

pillow, dead.

THE END

=_Books by_ HUGH WALPOLE=

_NOVELS_

THE WOODEN HORSE

THE GODS AND MR. PERRIN

THE DARK FOREST

THE SECRET CITY

THE CATHEDRAL

* * * * *

_The London Novels_

FORTITUDE

THE DUCHESS OF WREXE

THE GREEK MIRROR

THE CAPTIVES

THE YOUNG ENCHANTED

* * * * *

_Phantasies_

MARADICK AT FORTY

THE PRELUDE TO ADVENTURE

* * * * *

_BOOKS ABOUT CHILDREN_

THE GOLDEN SCARECROW

JEREMY

JEREMY AND HAMLET

* * * * *

_BELLES-LETTRES_

JOSEPH CONRAD: A CRITICAL STUDY