XI

Arthur hoped that he might meet Eleanor at the breakfast-table again

the next morning, but although he put in an appearance before Miss

Kenyon and Hubert had finished, and waited until after his aunt had

come down, he saw nothing of Eleanor. He consoled himself with the

reflection that she was probably busy with some preparation for her

grandfather's visit to town.

He was awake now to the effect that the visit was having on the

household. They were all uneasy, even Miss Kenyon, all as it seemed to

him, unnecessarily nervous about their future. He inferred something of

this attitude from the preoccupation of the three members of the family

he met at the breakfast-table; and later, his inference was fully

confirmed.

They were momentarily shaken out of the belief into which they

habitually lulled themselves, the belief that eventually they must

all be decently provided for. The security of Hartling itself was

threatened. Who knew what the old man might do in some fit of

eccentricity? He might devise the estate to be used as a convalescent

home or as a country house for the Chancellor of the Exchequer, if

he chose. No one had the power to stop him or dispute his testament

afterwards. For all legal purposes he was sane enough.

Joe Kenyon, Turner, and Hubert were all in the library at ten o'clock,

but it was certainly not their interest in the morning papers that

kept them there. Yet, although they were manifestly unable to keep

their attention on what they were reading, they appeared disinclined to

talk.

Arthur was not less fidgety than the other three. He could not decide

whether it would be better to wait for Eleanor after the old man had

gone, or to go and find her. She might have a certain amount of work

still to do that morning, and if so, might prefer to remain undisturbed

until she had done it. On the other hand, she might expect him to come

and fetch her.

"What time is Mr Kenyon going?" he asked at last, addressing his

question vaguely to the company at large.

Neither Turner nor Hubert took any notice, but after a slight

hesitation Joe Kenyon pulled out his watch, stared at it

absent-mindedly, and then said, "Oh, I don't know! About half-past ten

or eleven probably. He generally does."

Arthur put down his paper and walked over to the window. From there he

could see the car already drawn up at the front door, but the attitude

of Scurr, comfortably reclining in the driver's seat, seemed to imply

that he was well accustomed to waiting. Waiting was an art in which one

acquired proficiency at Hartling. Those who could not acquire it, like

Ken Turner, had no place there. Eleanor was the single exception to all

rules. She worked.... So did Miss Kenyon, for that matter. She ran the

house amazingly well. But she waited, just as much as the others. She

had been disturbed by the "rumblings of the earthquake"--was doubtful

of her security. Eleanor did not care. She would be glad to go.

The front door opened soon after eleven o'clock, and Arthur saw the

head of the house come out with Eleanor in attendance.

"He's just going," Arthur announced to the other occupants of the

library, and they dropped their papers at once and came over to the

window.

The old man was just getting into the car. He needed no help. Eleanor

stood by with a despatch case, which she gave to him after he was

seated, but she did not offer to assist him in any other way. He was

quite capable of looking after himself. He stepped into the car like a

man of sixty. Then Scurr closed the door, and touched his cap, and in

another minute they were slipping down the drive. None of the family

had gone to the door to see him off. Not once, since he had been at

Hartling, had Arthur seen any sign of filial affection displayed by

the family. The old man patronised them with his gentle smile, but

apparently he never looked for any return other than obedience and

respect. He did not expect gratitude.

Joe Kenyon stretched himself in a prodigious yawn as the car vanished

over the bridge. "Reminds me of the day poor old Jim went," he said.

Little Turner had begun to pace the width of the room under the

windows. He had his hands on his hips, slowly smoothing them as he

walked. He looked even neater and sleeker than usual this morning, but

he was manifestly agitated. That odd, mechanical rubbing of his hands

up and down his hips was the action of a man unconsciously seeking some

relief.

"Well, it didn't so far as we know, make any difference to us, then,"

he commented, in reply to his brother-in-law's remark.

"So far as we know," Joe Kenyon repeated, awkwardly settling himself

down in the window-seat.

"All U.P. with Ken, of course," Turner went on. "I hope to God he'll

make some sort of a do of it in South Africa. He might--one never

knows. I wish I could have done more to help him."

"Absolutely impossible to do anything," Joe Kenyon said, looking out of

the window. "Fact was he didn't really want Ken. Got a strong streak of

Jim in him. I've noticed it before. He'll do all right, I expect. Jim

would have, in time. He had bad luck, that was all. Damned sorry for

you and Catherine all the same."

"Wish to God I could go with him," Turner said. His brother-in-law

thrust out his under-lip and shook his head. "Too soft for that kind of

life," he murmured, still staring out of the window.

Turner chose to overlook that remark. "It's this cursed lack of ready

money that beats you every time," he grumbled, as he paced up and down.

"No getting round that anyway. We couldn't raise five hundred pounds

between us to save our eternal souls."

Hubert, leaning against the end of the massive oak table that stood in

the centre of the room, solemnly nodded his head. "Not three hundred,"

he said judicially.

Turner looked at him for an instant, but made no reply.

"Nothing whatever to be done," he went on. "We know that by this time.

No need for him to show his fangs again to teach us that."

"Glad to have the opportunity all the same," Joe Kenyon put in.

Arthur, despite his immense preoccupation with the thought of Eleanor,

could not help listening. They had never hitherto spoken as frankly

as this before him. "Do you mean," he put in, "that he is sort of

intimidating you by going up to town?" He did not realise until he

had spoken that by saying "you" instead of "us" he had implied the

separateness of his own interest in the affair.

Turner stopped his walk and the nervous movement of his hands and

stared at Arthur with a look that was not quite free from suspicion.

"What else?" he jerked out, frowned impatiently, and then resumed his

pacing, but this time with more deliberation.

Joe Kenyon, huddled into an ungainly heap in the window seat, was more

honest or less discreet. "We're all in the same boat, my boy," he said,

a remark that might have been addressed either to his brother-in-law

or his nephew, and continued: "Of course it's done to intimidate us.

We've seen that trick played too often to doubt it. Any excuse'll do.

It hasn't been one of the family since Jim went, so this is a very

special occasion; but even if it's only been one of the servants going

to leave, he has never missed the chance of underlining the fact that

he can alter his will whenever he feels like it."

Turner had come to rest in front of Arthur while this explanation was

being made, and now prodded him gently in the chest with an elegant

forefinger. "All the same, my lad," he said on a note of warning,

"you'd better keep quiet about what you know or think you know. We've

been a trifle upset this morning; it isn't altogether pleasant for a

father to see his son turned adrift without a penny in his pocket, but

getting excited won't make matters better for any of us."

"Well, as a matter of fact," Arthur began, and stopped abruptly. He

had been on the verge of telling them that they need have no more

doubts about him, since this was almost certainly his last day at

Hartling, but as he began to speak a doubt of his prudence in making

that announcement overtook him. Once they knew he was going, they would

again look upon him as an outsider and cease to have the least regard

for him. Turner or Miss Kenyon--he trusted the others--might use him as

a pawn in their own interests and anticipate him in conveying the news

to old Kenyon--an eventuality that he wished to avoid, for despite all

the evidence that was being presented to him, he still believed that

they did the old man less than justice, and it was his disappointment

rather than his anger that Arthur feared at the coming interview.

"As a matter of fact?" Turner repeated, with raised eyebrows, after a

decent pause.

"Well, I've no personal interest to serve, have I?" Arthur said. "I

made it quite clear to you, I hope, that I have no--no expectations,

and shouldn't accept any legacy if it were left to me."

"You wouldn't accept _anything_, not even a thousand pounds, for

instance?" Turner asked.

"Not a red cent," Arthur returned with decision. He could say that now,

he reflected, with perfect safety.

"Then why stay?" Turner said.

Arthur blushed vividly, the blush of a naturally honest man caught in

an equivocation, but Turner misread its origin.

"No need to be embarrassed," he went on. "We guessed it would be like

that, and the old man seems favourable. But doesn't it strike you as

probable that if the affair comes off you may change your mind about

those possible expectations? I'm not talking without something to go

on, my boy. I've been through precisely the same experience myself."

He sighed and looked out of the window as he concluded. "And a damned

dirty mess I've made of it."

Arthur's blush had been restimulated by Turner's misconception as to

its cause, and still burnt his face as he replied, "There's no earthly

chance of that, if you mean ... what I presume you do. And in any case,

I'm not _going_ to stay. I've made up my mind about that. I shall be

leaving here, for good, fairly soon."

Joe Kenyon looked up hopefully. "Wise man," he commented, and Hubert

nodded a melancholy agreement.

"Fairly soon?" Turner rolled the words over with a rather impish

enjoyment. "Ah, well! we can re-discuss the precise intention of

'fairly soon' in a month's time."

Ever since Mr Kenyon had gone Arthur had been fretting intermittently

over the problem of whether he should take the initiative or leave

it to Eleanor, and this indirect talk of her was increasing his

impatience. It was nearly a quarter to twelve now, and the morning was

slipping away. He had hoped that she might either come to look for

him or send him a message but every minute that possibility grew less

probable. Yet he did not care to leave the library at this point in the

conversation. It would look as if he were trying to shirk the issue.

"I certainly shan't be here a month," he said, addressing little

Turner; "almost certainly not another week."

"Does the old man know that?" Turner asked.

"Not yet," Arthur said. "But I'm going to tell him at once. To-morrow

morning at latest."

Turner was reflectively twisting the ends of his neat moustache.

"Oh, well! my boy," he remarked, "we'll wait to settle that point of

_when_ you'll go until after you've seen him. He may have a card or two

to play that you haven't guessed at so far. Eh, Joe?"

Joe Kenyon pursed his mouth. His expression was not hopeful.

"I've quite made up my mind," Arthur said, with what he hoped was an

effect of complete finality. He had settled his problem now. He would

go and find Eleanor. All the day, his last day, might be lost if he

waited for her. She might be angry with him, but he would risk that. He

could not endure this suspense any longer. He could hear the hall clock

striking twelve.

Little Turner with a knowing, half-whimsical look of doubt on his face,

still stood in front of him.

"Well, it's no good arguing that, is it?" Arthur continued irritably.

"You'll know for certain to-morrow."

Turner turned away with a shrug of his neat shoulders. "Wonderful house

for to-morrows, this," he said. "Always has been."

Arthur, inspired to pretend that he considered himself insulted,

walked out of the room. By that little piece of chicane he escaped

from all his dilemmas at a stroke. He had been horribly afraid that if

he attempted some excuse to get away, Hubert might offer to accompany

him. The suggestion of golf had hung in the air as a way of passing

the afternoon, and some sort of untruthful evasion would have been

necessary to avoid it.

He went first to the drawing-room on the off-chance that Eleanor might

have come as far as that in search of him, but no one was there except

his aunt and Mrs Turner; the latter, sitting with her hands in her

lap staring fixedly out of the window. She had obviously been crying.

His aunt did not look up from her fancy-work as he passed through with

an air of having accidentally intruded upon a private ceremony. Poor

old Mrs Turner; it had not occurred to him that she would be so upset

by her son's departure for South Africa. He was, as a matter of fact,

lucky to have broken away; but to the Kenyons, no doubt, the evils

of the outer world appeared altogether monstrous compared with the

securities of Hartling.

He had no hesitation now as to where he should seek Eleanor. Unless

she had gone out without him--a ghastly alternative that he refused

to believe--she must be upstairs somewhere in old Mr Kenyon's private

suite. But when he knocked at the door of the little room whose chief

use appeared to be that of a lobby, no one answered. He had never

before entered the suite unannounced, and he opened the door and went

in with a faint sense of trepidation. The room was empty and the door

to the next room closed, but this time he entered without knocking.

He was now in the apartment in which he had always been received

when he paid his morning visit, and farther than this he had never

penetrated. Obviously, however, there were other rooms beyond. He

remembered that he had seen Eleanor go through that way sometimes when

he had been engaged with the old man, and as he stood hesitating he

thought he heard very remotely the clicking of a typewriter. He went

over to the farther door and knocked, and was answered faintly from

within. He discovered then that there were double doors, four feet

apart, between him and the next room. When he had opened the second he

found himself in what appeared to be a perfectly appointed office.

The walls were nearly hidden by white-lettered deed-boxes, pedestals

of standard letter-files, a tremendous nest of card-index drawers,

and a bookcase containing four or five hundreds works of reference:

law-books, encyclopædias, directories, gazetteers, registers and

official reports. Flush with the face of the wall that divided this

office from the room through which he had just passed was the door

of what was, no doubt, an enormous safe. The centre of the room was

occupied by an extensive solid oak table, at which, seated with her

back to him, Eleanor was engaged with a typewriter.

She did not turn round as he came in, and said, without stopping her

work or looking up, "Shut both doors behind you, and sit down over

there. I shan't be very long."

So she was expecting him, was his thought as he followed her

instructions, and she was not presumably altogether displeased with

him for coming. He sat down on the seat of one of those oriel windows

that were the most pleasing feature of Hartling's south elevation. He

did not, however, turn his attention to the panorama of the gardens

that stretched out below him, nor to the glimpses of the rolling Sussex

country visible as an effect of blue mysterious freedoms beyond the

wardenship of that stiff, enclosing wall. He had no eyes, no thought

for anything but Eleanor.

From here, he could watch her earnest, intent profile, bent a little

forward over the typewriter. She looked, he thought a trifle flushed,

and something in her intense concentration on her work gave her the

air of being faintly embarrassed, an air that was not less marked when

she whirled the letter off the roller and having glanced at it said in

a formal voice, "This is our office, the heart of the house. Don't you

think it looks very orderly and business-like?"

He agreed without enthusiasm. His mind was still obsessed with the idea

that they were again going out together to the hill that had the view

of the South Downs. He felt no inclination just then to discuss the

business affairs of old Kenyon.

"This is the mainspring of the whole machine," Eleanor went on, looking

at the range of deed boxes in front of her; "and I don't think there

is the least fear of the machine breaking down. We are very methodical

and very safe. We never gamble. We don't pretend to be far-sighted or

ingenious, we're just plodders, adding a few thousands to our capital

every year. Do you know that there are securities in this room worth

well over half a million? I can't give you exact figures because

there are one or two secrets into which the private secretary is

not admitted. But I do know that even after we've paid the enormous

sums demanded from us in taxes, our income considerably exceeds our

disbursements." She looked round at him as she added, "Aren't you

dazzled? Don't you feel exalted by being in the presence of all this

wealth?"

He was puzzled, uncertain of her mood. Her speech had had a strong

flavour of irony, but there was no trace of it in her manner. "Oh!

confound the beastly money," he said, "I came up to see if we were

going for another walk."

"Not to-day," she said. "I have far too much to do. Perhaps this letter

I've just written will explain why."

She held it out towards him, and he jumped up and took it from her and

then read it, leaning against the edge of the table.

It was addressed to Mrs Payne, and after a few opening phrases,

continued: "I want to come and stay with you for a week or two if you

could possibly manage to have me. I can't tell you why till I see you,

but I should like to come on Friday, the day after to-morrow. I know it

is dreadfully short notice...."

He broke off there and looked at her in bewilderment. His mind had

leapt back to their talk on the hill. Was she doing this, he wondered,

in order that he might stay on?

"But I don't in the least understand why you have written this," he

said frowning. "Why are you going? Do you mean that you're leaving here

for good?"

She nodded gravely.

"But why?" he persisted. "I thought that we agreed...."

"Don't you want me to go?" she asked.

"No. I don't," he said emphatically.

"Would you stay on if I went?" she returned.

"No, I wouldn't. Nothing on earth should induce me to," he declared

vehemently, still regarding her departure as an alternative to his own.

"Then what's your objection?" she said.

His eyes were suddenly opened then to a new prospect. He would not lose

sight of her if they both left Hartling. He hated the thought of her

working in a London office, but she would be within his reach there. He

could, in a sense, look after her. They could meet quite often--if she

were willing.

"You mean," he said, "that we might both go?"

"I know of no reason why your going should affect me one way or the

other." Her tone was cold, even a trifle disdainful.

He was slightly taken aback. "No, no, of course not. It has nothing to

do with me," he agreed. "But what has made you change your mind? Or

don't you want to tell me that?"

She got up from her chair and walked over to the window. "There's one

thing I want you to tell me first," she said. "Will my going have the

least effect on your own plans?"

He considered that for a moment before he replied with perfect

sincerity. "Absolutely none. Whatever happens, I'm going back to Somers

to-morrow afternoon."

She had turned her back on him and was looking out over the prospect

that had so recently failed to interest him.

"It isn't altogether that," she said over her shoulder, making a

gesture with her hand that may have indicated the distant weald of

Sussex. "I shouldn't go if it were only that I wanted to be free and

independent."

She paused so long after this statement that he was emboldened to

prompt her by saying, "You seem to have made up your mind so suddenly."

"The truth is that I can't stand it any longer," she said in a low

voice. "I simply can't stand it."

He waited patiently this time for her to continue. He saw that she had

something to say which she found difficult to put into words. The pose

of her upright figure suggested a certain tensity of motion and when

after another silent interval she turned and faced him, her hands were

clenched.

"And I'm haunted by the fear that I may be wrong after all," she said,

looking at him as if for help. "And you are the last person in the

world, I suppose, who can tell me whether I am wrong or not."

"I don't quite understand yet. Is it about him--Mr Kenyon?" he asked.

She did not deign to answer his question directly. "You're supposed to

know something about psychology, aren't you?" she went on. "Well, is it

possible for a man to lose all decent, human feeling even for his own

family?"

"Lord, yes," Arthur replied. "Speaking generally, of course, misers,

for instance. Some of them seem to lose all human feeling."

"He isn't the least a miser," she put in. "He's often extraordinarily

generous outside his own family."

"I only instanced that as a well-known type," he said. "But drink or

drugs will do the same thing."

"Yes, but in all those cases there is always a definite _vice_ of some

sort," she complained. "Something that you can take hold of, understand

more or less, as a cause for it all. But he hasn't any vices, unless

you can call it a vice to be deliberately cruel to your own children

and grandchildren without any apparent reason."

"But is he actually cruel?" Arthur remonstrated. "Doesn't he perhaps

really mean it all for their own good. He may be deluded--he almost

said as much to me--into thinking that they are weaker and less capable

than they actually are; but that would be a natural delusion enough in

a man of his age."

Eleanor threw out her hands with a gesture of confutation. "And you!"

she exclaimed. "Does he believe that you aren't capable of looking

after your own interests too?"

"Why me?" Arthur objected.

"Because he has been trying to _get_ you. Oh! manifestly trying to--to

add you to his collection," she exclaimed passionately. "It was that

that opened my eyes. Until you came, I had hardly a doubt of _him_. I

didn't like the life we lead here. It bored me. I believe I've always

hated money--it must have been born in me, if that's possible. But I

believed more or less what you do now, that he--looked after them, that

his only fault, if anything, was that he looked after them too much.

"And then there was the suggestion of your coming here for a week-end

visit. That was something rather exceptional. We'd had old Mr

Beddington not long before--it was he who told my grandfather about

you--and I remember wondering whether he was beginning to pine for

more company or something. And I--I was rather interested in what I

heard of you; we talked a little about you once or twice, and one day,

after you had accepted the invitation, he threw out a kind of hint that

he'd like to keep you here. That bothered me somehow. I'd made some

sort of picture of you in my mind, and I--it's difficult to explain

exactly--but I didn't like the idea of your--getting like the others.

Some silly, romantic school-girl notion or other. I don't know quite

why."

She paused and turned back to the window. Her colour had risen again,

and Arthur believed that she was embarrassed by her thought of him as

the hero of her old dream. How bitterly disappointed she must have been

when she had found that her imagined hero had been a mere idler, like

the others, willing to slack about and play games, in the hope of a

place in the old man's will! Good God, what a poor thing she must have

thought him! He looked down and began aimlessly to smooth the carpet

with his foot. He felt utterly humiliated and miserable. Without a word

of reproach she had exposed the weakness and unworthiness of him; and

he could only acknowledge that she was right.

He did not look up at once when she turned back to him and went on.

"It was the first time that I had seen the thing happening, if you

know what I mean. I could follow all the stages of it. I saw how he

let you enjoy the easiness of the life here before he made any sort of

offer, and then just dangled it in front of you and tried to make it

look as if you would be doing him a favour. Well, that was true enough

in a way--you were. But the horrible thing, to me, was that he never

paid you any salary. That really opened my eyes more than anything.

He believed that you had given up your work at Peckham; that what

would mostly likely tempt you away from here was the idea of going to

Canada, and he wanted to make that impossible. I know that was it. I'm

perfectly certain of it. And on the top of it there came that affair

about Hubert's engagement and this fuss over Ken. That finished it

for me. Ken isn't really bad. Most young men in his place would have

got into debt, and I don't believe that he was the least angry about

that. Of course the money to put the debts straight was nothing at all

to him. He wouldn't have thought twice about that, but he has just

turned Ken out without the least thought for poor Aunt Catherine, who

is simply heartbroken about it. I believe Uncle Charles is really more

upset, too, than he cares to admit."

"I know. I was talking to him this morning," Arthur put in.

"Well, will you tell me why he does these things if he is not an

inhuman, heartless brute?" Eleanor concluded.

Arthur could find no answer to that.

"But you still believe in him?" she asked.

"It's so--so incredible," he said.

"Oh! and this morning!" Eleanor broke out, with a passion of resentment

in her voice. "All this petty, silly, detestable business of his going

up to town to alter his will. Why? I don't believe for a moment that

he ever left Ken anything. He never liked him. Ken was too independent

to please him. No; I believe that he has gone to see Mr Fleet to-day,

just to make them feel his power over them. He was glad of the

opportunity...."

"That's exactly what they were saying downstairs just now," Arthur

admitted. "That he was glad of the opportunity to shake them up a bit.

But I suppose I'm prejudiced; I'm so new to it all; only it doesn't

seem to me, somehow, as if he were that kind of a man."

"He has been nice to you, of course," Eleanor commented. "He would be,

just yet. And you've only seen one side of him. But doesn't it strike

you that this is a queer household? I don't remember any other; but

I've read novels, and if they're anything like life, it must be very

unusual for a man to live with his family and never receive any sign of

affection from them. Doesn't it seem to you as if he were their master

rather than their father?"

"Yes. I was thinking something of the kind this morning," Arthur

agreed. "But I wondered if there weren't faults on both sides in a way."

Eleanor looked at him doubtfully. "I don't know; it's beyond me," she

said. "But now you know why I'm going, don't you? It isn't as if I

could help any of them by staying. No one has the least influence with

him, not the very least. It may have looked as if you had helped Hubert

about that engagement. You did in one way, but it was all because he

was trying to get a tighter hold of you. Oh, well!" she sighed, and

half turned away from him, before adding unexpectedly, "I'm glad you're

going."

"You despised me for wanting to stay, didn't you?" he said.

"I was sorry," she admitted.

"More than that, you despised me," he insisted. "You were right, too,

absolutely right. I really only saw it properly when you said just now

that you were interested in me, in a way, before I came. And then, of

course, you were bitterly disappointed. I can see all that now."

She was looking out of the window again, and the fact that he could not

see her face gave him courage. He came a little nearer to her, as he

went on, "I haven't any excuse to offer. None at all. I was a silly,

weak fool, and I should have gone on being a fool if it hadn't been for

you. But now I _have_ come to my senses, and I'm going back to work,

and it would help me frightfully if--when I'm in Peckham--if you're

ever up in town--if I could see you now and again. You've only seen me

here and I've been a different person since I've been here. Would it

be possible for me to see you ever, after you go to stay with those

people?"

She was kneeling up on the window seat now, leaning her forehead

against the glass, and she did not move her position as she said, in

the tone of one who quietly weighs a proposition, "Oh, yes. Why not?"

"It would help me tremendously," he submitted.

She was silent for a few seconds before she suddenly said in a light

conversational tone, "It was all bosh, of course, what you said just

now."

"What was?" he asked in surprise.

"All that about your being a weak fool and my despising you for it,"

she said, still with her forehead pressed against the glass of the

window.

"Do you mean that you didn't despise me?" he asked eagerly, and then as

an afterthought, "But in that case why were you so fearfully down on

me?"

"I didn't want you to waste your life here," she murmured, "I know it

wasn't any business of mine, but I simply couldn't stand the thought of

your becoming one of--them."

He could not mistake the implication of those last two sentences. She

had confessed to an interest in his welfare that deeply stirred and

aroused him. Something of his humility began to fall from him, his

recent passion of self-condemnation assuaged by her belief in the

promise of his life. And with that reaction all those phases of his

admiration which had for so long been secretly merging into love, were

suddenly tinged by an ecstasy of gratitude. She appeared infinitely

more to him at the moment than either friend or possible lover. She

was the supreme miracle of creation embodied in that graceful form,

outlined against the window. The benefactor, the giver, the maker of

himself. By her simple expression of belief in him, she had given him a

soul. He wanted to kneel before her in adoration....

Intrigued and a little embarrassed by his prolonged silence, she

slipped off the window seat and turned to him with the beginning of a

conversational commonplace that was checked by the adoring intensity of

his gaze.

"It must be nearly ..." she had begun, and then stopped and put her

hands to her face to hide the flood of colour that leapt to her cheeks.

And still he could not speak. All the love and poetry that surged

within him could find no expression in his modern phrase. At the

mere thought of any gesture, movement, or word, he was frozen by his

self-consciousness; all too aware of himself as a product of his own

time, of the little conventional self that he had always presented as a

representative of the authentic Arthur Woodroffe.

And yet he knew that this was his moment, that if he let it slip he

might never again find an opportunity to say what he knew, now, was

within him, and so he grasped at an opening, however conventional, in

order to anticipate some slipping back into the everyday manner, on her

part or his own, that might release the fatuities of the manikin.

"There is something I must say to you," he broke out. "Please don't

interrupt me. It's--oh! necessary. I...." He found that he could not

lose himself, standing there in stark inaction with her before him, and

began to pace up and down the room, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"To begin with, I must thank you," he went on, trying not to think of

himself in any future relation to her. "I want to go on thanking you. I

can't possibly tell you what you've done for me. Everything, all life,

is different now that I've got just the hope that you believe in me.

It has given me a hope of--myself. If you can believe in me, nothing

can ever be the same again. Oh! I wish I could tell you all that it has

done for me, just knowing you. But I can't. I can't say it, but I can

live it, and you know that I will. I'm sure you know that. I can feel

it. If...."

He paused and looked up. She was sitting in the window-seat, her

head bent and her hands in her lap. And with that he forgot his

self-consciousness, plunged across the room, and went down on his knees

before her.

"Eleanor," he said. "Do you know how I worship you?"

She did not answer him in words, but it seemed as if by a series of

infinitely delicate movements they came slowly together, until her

hands, with his own clasping them, were on his breast and they were

looking into each other's eyes. There was no need then for them to say

that they had loved from their first meeting, but now that the pressure

of that first overpowering urgency had weakened, words came more easily.

It was not, however, until some time later that he found one essential

explanation.

"But the first time that I really _knew_ how much I loved you," he

said, "was when I saw you in imagination, as a solemn little chit

of seven standing by the elephant's pad in the hall. You seemed so

precious then."