Rose looked uneasy——

“Well, everyone knows she used to run after you and now she’s running

after Gervase.”

“She didn’t run after me and she isn’t running after Gervase,” said

Peter; then he added heavily—“I ran after her, and Gervase is running

after her now.”

“Oh!” Rose tossed her head—“I own I once thought ... but then when you

married Vera ... well, anyhow I think she ought to discourage Gervase

more than she does, and I insist that it’s in extremely bad taste for

her to take him to church at Vinehall.”

“Perhaps he likes the service better,” said Mary, who during this

discussion had been trying to write a letter and now gave up the effort

in despair.

“Oh, I daresay he does—he’s young and excitable.”

“There’s nothing very exciting at Vinehall,” said George—“I don’t think

Luce has even a surpliced choir these days.”

“Well, there’s incense and chasubles and all that—Gervase always did

like things that are different.”

“I must say,” said Mary, who was perhaps a little irritated at having

nowhere to write her letter (the Raw Girl being in devastating

possession of her bedroom)—“I must say that if I had any religion

myself, I’d like a religion which at least was religion and not soup.”

“What do you mean?”

Both George and Rose sat up stiffly, and even Peter looked shocked.

“Well, your religion here seems chiefly to consist in giving people

soup-tickets and coal-tickets, and having rummage sales. Stella Mount’s

religion at least means an attempt at worship, and at least.... Oh,

well—” she broke down rather lamely—“anyhow it makes you want something

you haven’t got.”

“We can most of us do that without religion,” said Peter, getting up.

Rose looked meaningly after him as he went out of the room, then she

looked still more meaningly at her husband—it was as if her eyes and

eyebrows were trying to tell him her conviction that Peter was finding

life unsatisfactory in spite of Vera and Starvecrow, indeed that he

regretted Stella—had he not championed her almost grotesquely just

now? ... and he had talked of wanting something he had not got....

George refused to meet her eyes and read their language. He too rose and

went out, but he did not follow Peter. He felt hurt and affronted by

what Mary had said—“soup” ... that was what she had called the religion

of her parish church, of her country, indeed, since George was convinced

that Leasan represented the best in Anglicanism. Just because he didn’t

have vestments and incense and foreign devotions, but plain, hearty,

British services—because he looked after people’s bodies as well as

their souls—he was to be laughed at by a woman like Mary, who—but he

must not be uncharitable, he was quite convinced of Mary’s innocence,

and only wished that her prudence had equalled it.

He walked out through the French windows of his study, and across the

well-kept Vicarage lawn. Before him, beyond the lilacs Leasan’s squat

towers stood against a misty blue sky. With its wide brown roof

spreading low over its aisles almost to the ground the church was

curiously like a sitting hen. It squatted like a hen over her brood, and

gave a tender impression of watchfulness and warmth.... The door stood

open, showing a green light that filtered in through creeper and stained

glass. George went in, and the impression of motherly warmth was changed

to one of cool emptiness. Rows of shining pews stretched from the west

door to the chancel with its shining choir-stalls, and beyond in the

sanctuary stood the shining altar with two shining brass candlesticks

upon it.

George went to his desk and knelt down. But there was something

curiously unprayerful in the atmosphere—he would have felt more at ease

praying in his study or at his bedside. The emptiness of the church was

something more than an emptiness of people—it was an emptiness of

prayer. Now he came to think of it, he had never seen anyone at prayer

in the church except at the set services—a good collection of the

neighbouring gentlefolk at Matins, a hearty assembly of the villagers at

Evensong, a few “good” people at the early celebration, and one or two

old ladies for the Litany on Fridays—but never any prayer between, no

farm lad ever on his knees before his village shrine, or busy mother

coming in for a few minutes’ rest in the presence of God....

But that was what they did at Vinehall. He had looked into the church

several times and had never seen it empty—there was always someone at

prayer ... the single white lamp ... that was the Reserved Sacrament of

course, theologically indefensible, though no doubt devotionally

inspiring ... devotion—was it that which made the difference between

religion and soup?

George felt a sudden qualm come over him as he knelt in his stall—it was

physical rather than mental, though the memory of Mary’s impious word

had once again stirred up his sleeping wrath. He lifted himself into a

sitting position—that was better. For some weeks past he had been

feeling ill—he ought to see a doctor ... but he daren’t, in case the

doctor ordered him to rest. It was all very well for Mary to gibe at his

work and call it soup, but it was work that must be done. She probably

had no idea how hard he worked—visiting, teaching, sitting on

committees, organising guilds, working parties, boy scouts, Church of

England Men’s Society ... and two sermons on Sunday as well.... He was

sure he did more than Luce, who had once told him that he looked upon

his daily Mass as the chief work of his parish.... Luce wouldn’t wear

himself out in his prime as George Alard was doing.... Soup!

§ 10

Mary went back to Conster for the uneasy days of the Summer. Her heart

sickened at the dragging law—her marriage took much longer to unmake

that it had taken to make. She thought of how her marriage was

made—Leasan church ... the smell of lilies ... the smell of old lace ...

lace hanging over her eyes, a white veil over the wedding-guests, over

her father as he gave her away, over her brother as he towered above her

in surplice and stole, over her bridegroom, kneeling at her side,

holding her hand as he parted her shaking fingers ... “with this ring I

thee wed” ... “from this day forward, till death do us part.”... How her

heart was beating—fluttering in her throat like a dove ... now she was

holding one fringed end of George’s stole, while Julian held the

other—“that which God hath joined together let not man put asunder.”

And now the unmaking—such a fuss—such a business this putting asunder!

Telegrams, letters, interviews ... over and over again the story of her

disillusion, of her running away, of her folly ... oh, it was all

abominable, but it was her own fault—she should not have given in. Why

could she never endure things quite to the end? When she had found out

that Julian the husband was not the same as Julian the lover, but an

altogether more difficult being, why had her love failed and died? And

now that love was dead and she had run away from the corpse, why had she

allowed her family to persuade her into this undignified battle over the

grave? Why had she not gone quietly out of her husband’s life into the

desolate freedom of her own, while he turned to another woman and parted

her fingers to wear the pledge of his eternal love.

If only she had been a little better or a little worse!... A little

better, and she could have steadied her marriage when it rocked, a

little worse and she could have stepped out of it all, cast her memories

from her, and started the whole damn thing over again as she had seen so

many women do. But she wasn’t quite good enough for the one or bad

enough for the other, so she must suffer as neither the good nor the bad

have to suffer. She must pay the price for being fine, but not fine

enough.

In Autumn the price was paid. For three days counsel argued on the

possibility or impossibility of a woman leaving one man except for

another—on the possibility or impossibility of a woman being chaste when

in the constant society of a male friend—on the minimum time which must

be allowed for misconduct to take place. Waiters, chambermaids,

chauffeurs gave confused evidence—there was “laughter in court”—the

learned judge asked questions that brought shame into the soft, secret

places of Mary’s heart—Julian stood before her to tell her and all the

world that she had loved him once.... She found herself in the

witness-box, receiving from her counsel the wounds of a friend.... Of

course Julian must be blackened to account for her leaving him—was she

able to paint him black enough? Probably not, since the verdict was

given in his favour.

Most of the next day’s papers contained photographs of Mrs. Pembroke

leaving the divorce court after a decree nisi had been obtained against

her by her husband, Mr. Julian Pembroke (inset).

§ 11

In spite of the non-committal attitude of his solicitors, Sir John Alard

had been sure that to defend the suit would be to vindicate Mary and her

family against the outrageous Julian. He would not believe that judgment

could go against his daughter except by default, and now that this

incredible thing had happened, and Mary had been publicly and

argumentatively stripped of her own and Alard’s good name, while Julian,

with innocence and virtue proclaimed by law, was set free to marry his

new choice, he felt uncertain whether to blame most his daughter’s

counsel or his daughter herself.

Counsel had failed to make what he might out of Julian’s

cross-examination ... what a fruitful field was there! If only Sir John

could have cross-examined Julian himself! There would have been an end

of that mirage of the Deceived and Deserted Husband which had so

impressed the court.... But Mary was to blame as well as counsel. She

really had been appallingly indiscreet ... her cross-examination—Lord!

what an affair! What a damn fool she had made of herself!—Hang it all,

he’d really have thought better of her if she’d gone the whole hog ...

the fellow wasn’t much good in the witness-box either ... but he’d

behaved like a gentleman afterwards. He had made Mary a formal proposal

of marriage the morning after the decree was given. The only thing to do

now was for her to marry him.

Lady Alard marked her daughter’s disgrace by sending for Dr. Mount in

the middle of the night, and “nearly dying on his hands” as she

reproachfully told Mary when she returned to Conster the next afternoon.

Mary looked a great deal more ill than her mother—dazed and blank she

sat by Lady Alard’s sofa, listening to the tale of her sorrows and

symptoms, only a slow occasional trembling of her lip showing that her

heart was alive and in torment under the dead weight of her body’s

stupefaction. All her mind and being was withdrawn into herself, and

during the afternoon was in retreat, seeking strength for the last

desperate stand that she must make.

After tea, Peter arrived, looking awkward and unhappy—then George,

looking scared and pompous. Mary knew that a family conclave had been

summoned, and her heart sank. What a farce and a sham these parliaments

were, seeing that Alard was ruled by the absolute monarchy of Sir John.

No one would take her part, unless perhaps it was Gervase—Uranus in the

Alard system—but he would not be there today; she must stand alone. She

gripped her hands together under the little bag on her lap, and in her

dry heart there was a prayer at last—“Oh, God, I have never been able to

be quite true to myself—now don’t let me be quite untrue.”

As soon as the servants had cleared away the last of the tea

things—there had been a pretence of offering tea to Peter and George, as

if they had casually dropped in—Sir John cast aside all convention of

accident, and opened the attack.

“Well,” he said to his assembled family—“it’s been a dreadful

business—unexpectedly dreadful. Shows what the Divorce Court is under

all this talk about justice. There’s been only one saving clause to the

whole business, and that’s Smith’s behaviour. He might have done better

in the witness-box, but he’s stuck by Mary all through, and made her a

formal offer of marriage directly the decree was given.”

“That was the least he could do,” said Peter.

“Of course; you needn’t tell me that. But I’ve seen such shocking

examples of bad faith during the last three days.... It’s a comfort to

find one man behaving decently. I’m convinced that the only thing Mary

can do is to marry him as soon as the decree is made absolute.”

George gave a choking sound, and his father’s eye turned fiercely upon

him.

“Well, sir—what have _you_ to say?”

“I—I—er—only that Mary can’t marry again now—er—under these new

circumstances ... only the innocent partner....”

“You dare, Sir! Damn it all—I’ll believe in my own daughter’s innocence

in spite of all the courts in the country.”

“I don’t mean that she isn’t innocent—er—in fact—but the decree has been

given against her.”

“What difference does that make?—if she was innocent before the decree

she’s innocent after it, no matter which way it goes. Damn you and your

humbug, Sir. But it doesn’t matter in the least—she can marry again,

whatever you say; the law allows it, so you can’t stop it. She shall be

married in Leasan church.”

“She shall not, Sir.”

A deep bluish flush was on George’s cheek-bones as he rose to his feet.

Sir John was for a moment taken aback by defiance from such an

unexpected quarter, but he soon recovered himself.

“I tell you she shall. Leasan belongs to me.”

“The living is in your gift, Sir, but at present I hold it, and as

priest of this parish, I refuse to lend my church for the marriage of

the guil—er—in fact, for—the marriage.”

“Bunkum! ‘Priest of this parish’—you’ll be calling yourself Pope next.

If you can’t talk sense you can clear out.”

George was already at the door, and the hand he laid upon it trembled

violently.

“Don’t go!”—it was Mary who cried after him—“there’s no need for you to

upset yourself about my marriage. I haven’t the slightest thought of

getting married.”

But George had gone out.

§ 12

There was an uneasy shuffle of relief throughout the room. The

situation, though still painful, had been cleared of an exasperating

side-issue. But at the same time Mary was uncomfortably aware that she

had changed the focus of her father’s anger from her brother to herself.

“What do you mean?” he rapped out, when the sound of George’s protesting

retreat had died away.

“I mean that you and George have been arguing for nothing. As I told you

some time ago, I haven’t the slightest intention of marrying Charles.”

“And why not, may I ask?”

“Because I’ve had enough of marriage.”

“But Mary, think of us—think of your family,” wailed Lady Alard—“what

are we going to do if you don’t marry?”

“I can’t see what difference it will make.”

“It will make all the difference in the world. If you marry Charles and

go abroad for a bit, you’ll find that after a time people will receive

you—I don’t say here, but in London. If you don’t marry, you will always

be looked upon with suspicion.”

“Why?”

“Married women without husbands always are.”

“Then in spite of all the judges and juries and courts and decrees, I’m

still a married woman?”

“I don’t see what else you’re to call yourself, dear. You’re certainly

not a spinster, and you can’t say you’re a widow.”

“Then if I marry again I shall have two husbands, and in six months

Julian will have two wives.”

Lady Alard began to weep.

“For God’s sake! let’s stop talking this nonsense,” cried Sir John.

“Mary’s marriage has been dissolved, and her one chance of reinstating

herself—and us—is by marrying this man who’s been the cause of all the

trouble. I say it’s her duty—she’s brought us all into disgrace, so I

don’t think it’s asking too much of her to take the only possible way of

getting us out, even at the sacrifice of her personal inclinations.”

“Father—I never asked you to defend the case. I begged you not to—all

this horror we have been through is due to your defence.”

“If you’d behaved properly there would have been no case at all, and if

you had behaved with only ordinary discretion the defence could have

been proved. When I decided that we must, for the honour of the family,

defend the case, I had no idea what an utter fool you had been. Your

cross-examination was a revelation to me as well as to the court. You’ve

simply played Old Harry with your reputation, and now the only decent

thing for you to do is to marry this man and get out.”

“I can get out without marrying this man.”

“And where will you go?”

“I shall go abroad. I have enough money of my own to live on quietly,

and I needn’t be a disgrace to anyone. If I marry Charles I shall only

bring unhappiness to both of us.”

“Oh, Mary, do be reasonable!” cried Lady Alard—“do think of the

girls”—with a wave that included both twenty-two and thirty-eight—“and

do think how all this is your own fault. When you first left Julian, you

should have come here and lived at home, then no one would ever have

imagined anything. But you would go off and live by yourself, and think

you could do just the same as if you weren’t married—though I’m sure I’d

be sorry to see Jenny going about with anyone as you went about with

Charles Smith. When I was engaged to your father, we were hardly ever so

much as left alone in a room together——”

“Your reminiscences are interesting, my dear,” said Sir John, “but cast

no light on the situation. The point is that Mary refuses to pay the

price of her folly, even though by doing so she could buy out her family

as well as herself.”

“I fail to see how.”

“Then you must be blind.”

“It seems to me it would be much better if I went right away. I’ve made

a hideous mess of my life, and brought trouble upon you all—I

acknowledge that; but at least there’s one thing I will not do—and that

is walk with my eyes open into the trap I walked into ten years ago with

my eyes shut.”

“Then you need expect nothing more from your family.”

“I won’t.”

“Father,” said Peter—“if she isn’t fond of the chap....”

Mary interrupted him.

“Don’t—it isn’t quite that. I am fond of him. I’m not in love with him

or anything romantic, but I’m fond of him, and for that very reason I

won’t take this way out. He’s twenty years older than I am, and set in

his bachelor ways—and I firmly believe that only chivalry has made him

stand by me as he has done. He doesn’t in his heart want to marry a

woman who’s ruined and spoiled ... and I won’t let him throw himself

away. If I leave him alone, he can live things down—men always can; but

if I marry him, he’ll sink with me. And I’ve nothing to give him that

will make up to him for what he will suffer. I won’t let him pay such a

price for ... for being ... kind to me.”

Nobody spoke a word. Perhaps the introduction of Charles Smith’s future

as a motive for refusing to use him to patch up the situation struck the

Alards as slightly indecent. And Mary suddenly knew that if the argument

were resumed she would yield—that she was at the end of her resources

and could stand out no longer. Her only chance of saving Charles’s

happiness and her own soul now lay in the humiliation of flight. There

is only one salvation for the weak and that is to realise their

weakness. She rose unsteadily to her feet. A dozen miles seemed to yawn

between her and the door....

“Where are you going, Mary?” asked Sir John—“we haven’t nearly finished

talking yet.”

Would anybody help her?—yes—here was Jenny unexpectedly opening the door

for her and pushing her out. And in the hall was Gervase, his Ford lorry

throbbing outside in the drive.

“Gervase!” cried Mary faintly—“if I pack in ten minutes, will you take

me to the station?”

§ 13

It was a very different packing from that before Mary’s departure

eighteen months ago. There was no soft-treading Gisèle, and her clothes,

though she had been at Leasan six months, were fewer than when she had

come for a Christmas visit. They were still beautiful, however, and Mary

still loved them—it hurt her to see Jenny tumbling and squeezing them

into the trunk. But she must not be critical, it was as well perhaps

that she had someone to pack for her who did not really care for clothes

and did not waste time in smoothing and folding ... because she must get

out of the house quickly, before the rest of the family had time to find

out what she was about. It was undignified, she knew, but her many

defeats had brought her a bitter carelessness.

The sisters did not talk much during the packing. But Mary knew that

Jenny approved of what she was doing. Perhaps Jenny herself would like

to be starting out on a flight from Alard. She wondered a little how

Jenny’s own affair was going—that unacknowledged yet obsessing affair.

She realised rather sadly that she had lost her sister’s confidence—or

perhaps had never quite had it. Her own detachment, her own passion for

aloofness and independence had grown up like a mist between them. And

now when her aloofness was destroyed, when some million citizens of

England were acquainted with her heart, when all the golden web she had

spun round herself was torn, soiled and scattered, her sister was gone.

She stood alone—no longer set apart, no longer veiled from her fellows

by delicate self-spun webs—but just alone.

“Shall I ring for Pollock?” said Jenny.

“No, I’d much rather you didn’t.”

“Then how shall we manage about your trunk?—it’s too heavy for us to

carry down ourselves.”

“Can’t Gervase carry it?”

“Yes—I expect he could.”

She called her brother up from the hall, and he easily swung up the

trunk on his shoulder. As he did so, and Mary saw his hands with their

broken nails and the grime of the shop worked into the skin, she

realised that they symbolised a freedom which was more actual than any

she had made. Gervase was the only one of the family who was really

free, though he worked ten hours a day for ten shillings a week. Doris

was not free, for she had accepted the position of idle daughter, and

was bound by all the ropes of a convention which had no substance in

fact. Peter was not free because he had, Mary knew, married away from

his real choice, and was now bound to justify his new choice to his

heart—George was not free, he was least free of all, because individual

members of the family had power over him as well as the collective

fetish. Jenny was not free, because she must love according to

opportunity. Slaves ... all the Alards were slaves ... to Alard—to the

convention of the old county family with its prosperity of income and

acres, its house, its servants, its ancient name and reputation—a

convention the foundations of which were rotten right through, which was

bound to topple sooner or later, crushing all those who tried to shelter

under it. So far only two had broken away, herself and Gervase—herself

so feebly, so painfully, in such haste and humiliation, he so calmly and

carelessly and sufficiently. He would be happy and prosperous in his

freedom, but she ... she dared not think.

However, Jenny was thinking for her.

“What will you do, Mary?” she asked, as they crossed the hall—“where are

you going?”

“I’m going back to London. I don’t know yet what I’ll do.”

“Have you enough money? I can easily lend you something—I cashed a

cheque yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m quite all right, thanks.”

“Do you think you’ll go abroad?”

“I’ll try to. Meg is going again next month. I expect I could go with

her.”

They were outside. Mary’s box was on the back of the lorry, and Gervase

already on the driver’s seat. It was rather a lowly way of leaving the

house of one’s fathers. Mary had never been on the lorry before, and had

some difficulty in climbing over the wheel.

Jenny steadied her, and for a moment kept her hand after she was seated.

“Of course you know I think you’re doing the only possible thing.”

“Yes ... thank you, Jenny; but I wish I’d done it earlier.”

“How could you?”

“Refused to defend the case—spared myself and everybody all this muck.”

“It’s very difficult, standing up to the family. But you’ve done it now.

I wish I could.... Goodbye, Mary dear, and I expect we’ll meet in town

before very long.”

“Goodbye.”

The Ford gargled, and they ran round the flower-bed in the middle of

Conster’s gravel sweep. Jenny waved farewell from the doorstep and went

indoors. Gervase began to whistle; he seemed happy—“I wonder,” thought

Mary, “if it’s true that he’s in love.”

§ 14

During the upheaval which followed Mary’s departure, George Alard kept

away from Conster. He wouldn’t go any more, he said, where he wasn’t

wanted. What was the good of asking his advice if he was to be

insulted—publicly insulted when he gave it? He brooded tenaciously over

the scene between him and his father. Sir John had insulted him not only

as a man but as a priest, and he had a right to be offended.

Rose supported him at first—she was glad to find that there were

occasions on which he would stand up to his father. George had been

abominably treated, she told Doris—really one was nearly driven to say

that Sir John had no sense of decency.

“He speaks to him exactly as if he were a child.”

“He speaks to us all like that.”

“Then it’s high time somebody stood up to him, and I’m very glad George

did so.”

“My dear Rose—if you think George stood up....”

After a time Rose grew a little weary of her husband’s attitude, also

though she was always willing to take up arms against the family at

Conster, she had too practical an idea of her own and her children’s

interests to remain in a state of war. George had made his protest—let

him now be content.

But George was nursing his injury with inconceivable perseverance.

Hitherto she had often had to reproach him for his subservience to his

father, for the meekness with which he accepted his direction and

swallowed his affronts.

“If you can put up with his swearing in church, you can put up with what

he said to you about Mary.”

“He has insulted me as a priest.”

“He probably doesn’t realise you are one.”

“That’s just it.”

She seemed to have given him fresh cause for brooding. He sulked and

grieved, and lost interest in his parish organisations—his Sunday School

and Mothers’ Union, his Sewing Club and Coal Club, his Parochial Church

Council—now established in all its glory, though without Peter’s name

upon the roll, his branches of the S.P.G., the C.E.M.S., all those

activities which used to fill his days, which had thrilled him with such

pride when he enumerated them in his advertisements for a locum in the

_Guardian_.

He developed disquieting eccentricities, such as going into the church

to pray. Rose would not have minded this if he had not fretted and upset

himself because he never found anyone else praying there.

“Why should they?” she asked, a little exasperated—“They can say their

prayers just as well at home.”

“I’ve never been into Vinehall church and found it empty.”

“Oh, you’re still worrying about Gervase going to Vinehall?”

“I’m not talking about Gervase. I’m talking about people in general.

Vinehall church is used for prayer—mine is always empty except on

Sundays.”

“Indeed it’s not—I’ve often seen people in it, looking at the old glass,

and the carving in the South Aisle.”

“But they don’t pray.”

“Of course not. We English don’t do that sort of thing in public. They

may at Vinehall; but you know what I think of Vinehall—it’s un-English.”

“I expect it’s what the whole of England was like before the

Reformation.”

“George!” cried Rose—“you must be _ill_.”

Only a physical cause could account for such mental disintegration. She

decided to send for Dr. Mount, who confirmed her diagnosis rather

disconcertingly. George’s heart was diseased—had been diseased for some

time. His case was the exact contrast of Lady Alard’s—those qualms and

stabs and suffocations which for so long both he and his wife had

insisted were indigestion, were in reality symptoms of the dread angina.

He must be very careful not to overstrain himself in any way. No, Dr.

Mount did not think a parish like Leasan too heavy a burden—but of

course a complete rest and holiday would do him good.

This, however, George refused to take—his new obstinacy persisted, and

though the treatment prescribed by Dr. Mount did much to improve his

general condition, mental as well as physical, he evidently still

brooded over his grievances. There were moments when he tried to

emphasise his sacerdotal dignity by a new solemnity of manner which the

family at Conster found humorous, and the family at Leasan found

irritating. At other times he was extraordinarily severe, threatening

such discipline as the deprivation of blankets and petticoats to old

women who would not come to church—the most irreproachable Innocent

Partner could not have cajoled the marriage service out of him then. He

also started reading his office in church every day, though Rose pointed

out to him that it was sheer waste of time, since nobody came to hear

it.

§ 15

Social engagements of various kinds had always filled a good deal of

George Alard’s life—he and Rose received invitations to most of the

tea-parties, tennis-parties and garden-parties of the neighbourhood. He

had always considered it part of his duty as a clergyman to attend these

functions, just as he had considered it his duty to sit on every

committee formed within ten miles and to introduce a branch of every

episcopally-blessed Society into his own parish. Now with the decline of

his interest in clubs and committees came a decline of his enthusiasm

for tennis and tea. Rose deplored it all equally——

“If you won’t go to people’s parties you can’t expect them to come to

your church.”

“I can and I do.”

“But they won’t.”

“Then let them stop away. The Church’s services aren’t a social return

for hospitality received.”

“George, I wish you wouldn’t twist everything I say into some ridiculous

meaning which I never intended—and I do think you might come with me to

the Parishes this afternoon. You know they’re a sort of connection—at

least everyone hopes Jim won’t marry Jenny.”

“I don’t feel well enough,” said George, taking a coward’s refuge—“not

even to visit such close relations,” he added with one of those stray

gleams of humour which were lost on Rose.

“Well, this is the second time I’ve been out by myself this week, and I

must say.... However, if you don’t feel well enough.... But I think

you’re making a great mistake—apart from my feelings....”

She went out, and George was left to the solitude and peace of his

study. It was a comfortable room, looking out across the green, cedared

lawn to the little church like a sitting hen. The walls were lined with

books, the armchairs were engulfing wells of ease—there was a big

writing-table by the window, and a rich, softly-coloured carpet on the

floor. Rose’s work-bag on a side-table gave one rather agreeable

feminine touch to the otherwise masculine scene. The room was typical of

hundreds in the more prosperous parsonages of England, and George had up

till quite recently felt an extraordinarily calm and soothing glow in

its contemplation. It was ridiculous to think that a few words from his

father—his father who was always speaking sharp, disparaging words—could

have smashed all his self-satisfaction, all his pride of himself as

Vicar of Leasan, all his comfortable possession of Leasan Vicarage and

Leasan Church.... But now he seemed to remember that the dawn of that

dissatisfaction had been in Leasan Church itself, before his father had

spoken—while he was kneeling there alone among all those empty, shining

pews....

He would go out for a walk. If he stopped at home he would only brood—it

would be worse than going to the Parishes. He would go over and see Dr.

Mount—it would save the doctor coming to the Vicarage, perhaps—there

must be a visit about due—and they could have a chat and some tea. He

liked Dr. Mount—a pleasant, happy, kind-hearted man.

The day was good for walking. The last of Autumn lay in ruddy veils over

the woods of Leasan and Brede Eye. The smell of hops and apples was not

all gone from the lanes. George walked through his parish with a

professional eye on the cottages he passed. Most of the doors were shut

in the afternoon stillness, but here and there a child swinging on a

gate would smile at him shyly as he waved a Vicarial hand, or a woman

would say “Good afternoon, Sir.” The cottages nearly all looked

dilapidated and in want of paint and repair. George had done his duty

and encouraged thrift among his parishioners, and the interiors of the

cottages were many of them furnished with some degree of comfort, but

the exterior structures were in bad condition owing to the poverty of

the Manor. He cleared his throat distressfully once or twice—had one the

right to own property when one could not afford to keep it in repair?...

His philanthropic soul, bred in the corporal works of mercy, was in

conflict with his racial instinct, bred in the tradition of the Squires.

When he came to Vinehall, he found to his disappointment that Dr. Mount

was out, and not expected to be home till late that evening. George felt

disheartened, for he had walked three miles in very poor condition. He

would have enjoyed a cup of tea.... However, there was nothing to be

done for it, unless indeed he went and called on Luce. But the idea did

not appeal to him—he and the Rector of Vinehall were little more than

acquaintances, and Luce was a shy, dull fellow who made conversation

difficult. He had better start off home at once—he would be home in time

for a late tea.

Then he remembered that the carrier’s cart would probably soon be

passing through Vinehall and Leasan on its way from Robertsbridge

station to Rye. If he went into the village he might be able to pick it

up at the Eight Bells. Unfortunately he had walked the extra half-mile

to the inn before he remembered that the cart went only on Tuesdays,

Thursdays and Saturdays, and today was Wednesday. He would have to walk

home, more tired than ever. However, as he passed through the village,

he thought of the church, partly because he was tired and wanted to

rest, partly because Vinehall church always had a perverse fascination

for him—he never could pass it without wanting to look in ... perhaps he

had a secret, shameful hope that he would find it empty.

He crossed the farmyard, wondering why Luce did not at all costs provide

a more decent approach, a wonder which was increased when, on entering

the church, he found he had admitted not only himself but a large

turkey, which in the chase that followed managed somehow to achieve more

dignity than his pursuer. After three laps round the font it finally

disappeared through the open door, and George collapsed on a chair,

breathing hard, and not in the least devout.

The church had none of the swept, shiny look of Leasan, nor had it

Leasan’s perfume of scrubbing and brass-polish; instead it smelt of

stale incense, lamp-oil and old stones—partly a good smell and partly an

exceedingly bad one. It was seated with rather dilapidated chairs, and

at the east end was a huge white altar like a Christmas cake. There were

two more altars at the end of the two side aisles and one of them was

furnished with what looked suspiciously like two pairs of kitchen

candlesticks. But what upset George most of all were the images, of

which, counting crucifixes, there must have been about a dozen. His

objections were not religious but aesthetic—it revolted his artistic

taste to see the Christ pointing to His Sacred Heart, which He carried

externally under His chin, to see St. Anthony of Padua looking like a

girl in a monk’s dress, to see the Blessed Virgin with her rosary

painted on her blue skirt—and his sense of reverence and decency to see

the grubby daisy-chain with which some village child had adorned her.

Luce must have bought his church furniture wholesale at a third-rate

image shop....

George wished he could have stopped here, but he was bound to look

further, towards the white star which hung in the east Yes ... it was

just as usual ... a young man in working clothes was kneeling there ...

and an immensely stout old woman in an apron was sitting not far off.

Certainly the spectacle need not have inspired great devotional envy,

but George knew that in his own parish the young man would probably have

been lounging against the wall opposite the Four Oaks, while the old

woman would have been having a nap before her kitchen fire. Certainly

neither would have been found inside the church.

There was a murmur of voices at the back of the south aisle, and looking

round George saw one or two children squirming in the pews, while behind

a rather frivolous blue curtain showed the top of a biretta. Luce was

hearing confessions—the confessions of children.... George stiffened—he

felt scandalised at the idea of anyone under twelve having any religious

needs beyond instruction. This squandering of the sacraments on the

young ... as if they were capable of understanding them....

He turned to go out, feeling that after all the scales had dropped on

the debit side of Vinehall’s godliness, when he heard behind him a heavy

tread and the flutter of a cassock. Luce had come out of his

confessional.

“Why—Mr. Alard.”

George was a little shocked to hear him speak out loud, and not in the

solemn whisper he considered appropriate for church. The Rector seemed

surprised to see him—did he want to speak to him about anything?

“Oh, no—I only looked in as I was passing.”

“Seen our new picture?” asked Luce.

“Which one?” The church must have contained at least a dozen pictures

besides the Stations of the Cross.

“In the Sacrament Chapel.”

They went down to the east end, where Luce genuflected, and George,

wavering between politeness and the Bishop of Exeter’s definition of the

Real Presence, made a sort of curtsey. There was a very dark oil

painting behind the Altar—doubtful as to subject, but the only thing in

the church, George told himself, which had any pretence to artistic

value.

“Mrs. Hurst gave us that,” said Luce—“it used to hang in her

dining-room, but considering the subject she thought it better for it to

be here.”

He had dropped his voice to a whisper—George thought it must be out of

respect to the Tabernacle, but the next minute was enlightened.

“She’s asleep,” he said, pointing to the stout old woman.

“Oh,” said George.

“Poor old soul,” said Luce—“I hope the chair won’t give way—they

sometimes do.”

He genuflected again, and this time the decision went in favour of the

Bishop of Exeter, and George bowed as to an empty throne. On their way

out his stick caught in the daisy-chain which the Mother of God was

wearing, and pulled it off.

§ 16

He and Luce walked out of the church together and through the farmyard

without speaking a word. The silence oppressed George and he made a

remark about the weather.

“Oh, yes, I expect it will,” said Luce vaguely.

He was a tall, white-faced, red-headed young man, who spoke with a

slight stutter, and altogether, in his seedy cassock which the unkind

sun showed less black than green, seemed to George an uninspiring

figure, whose power it was difficult to account for. How was it that

Luce could make his church a house of prayer and George could not? How

was it that people thought and talked of Luce as a priest, consulted him

in the affairs of their souls and resorted to him for the

sacraments—whereas they thought of George only as a parson, paid him

subscriptions and asked him to tea?

He was still wondering when they came to the cottage where the Rector

lived—instead of in the twenty-five-roomed Rectory which the Parish

provided, with an endowment of a hundred and fifty pounds a year. They

paused awkwardly at the door, and the awkwardness was increased rather

than diminished by Luce inviting him to come in. George’s first impulse

was to decline—he felt he would rather not have any more of the other’s

constraining company—but the next minute he realised that he now had the

chance of a rest and tea without the preliminary endurance of a long and

dusty walk. So he followed him in at the door, which opened

disconcertingly into the kitchen, and through the kitchen into the

little study-living-room beyond it.

It was not at all like George’s study at Leasan—the floor had many more

books on it than the wall, the little leaded window looked out into a

kitchen garden, and the two armchairs both appeared so doubtful as

possible supports for George’s substantial figure that he preferred, in

spite of his fatigue, to sit down on the kitchen chair that stood by the

writing-table. He realised for the first time what he had always

known—that Luce was desperately poor, having nothing but what he could

get out of the living. Probably the whole did not amount to two hundred

pounds ... and with post-war prices ... George decided to double his

subscription to the Diocesan Fund.

Meantime he accepted a cigarette which was only just not a Woodbine, and

tried to look as if he saw nothing extraordinary in the poverty-stricken

room. He thought it would be only charitable to put the other at his

ease.

“Convenient little place you’ve got here,” he remarked—“better for a

single man than that barrack of a Rectory.”

“Oh, I could never have lived in the Rectory. I wonder you manage to

live in yours.”

George muttered something indistinct about private means.

“It’s difficult enough to live here,” continued Luce—“I couldn’t do it

if it wasn’t for what people give me.”

“Are your parishioners generous?”

“I think they are, considering they’re mostly poor people. The Pannells

across the road often send me over some of their Sunday dinner in a

covered dish.”

George was speechless.

“And I once found a hamper in the road outside the gate. But after I’d

thanked God and eaten half a fowl and drunk a bottle of claret, I found

it had dropped off the carrier’s cart and there was no end of a fuss.”

“Er—er—hum.”

There was a knock at the outer door, and before Luce could say “Come

in,” the door of the study opened and a small boy stuck his head in.

“Please, Father, could you lend us your ink?—Mother wants to write a

letter.”

“Oh, certainly, Tom—take it—there it is; but don’t forget to bring it

back.”

The small boy said nothing, but snatched his booty and went out.

“Are your people—er—responsive?” asked George.

“Responsive to what?”

“Well—er—to you.”

“Oh, not at all.”

“Then how do you get them to come to church?”

“I don’t—Our Lord does.”

George coughed.

“They come to church because they know they’ll always find Him there—in

spite of me.”

George could not keep back the remark that Reservation was theologically

indefensible.

“Is it?” Luce did not seem much interested. “But I don’t keep the

Blessed Sacrament in my church for purposes of theology, but for

practical use. Suppose you were to die tonight—where would you get your

last Communion from if not from my tabernacle?”

George winced.

“This is the only church in the rural deanery where the Blessed

Sacrament is reserved and the holy oils are kept. The number of people

who die without the sacraments must be appalling.”

George had never been appalled by it.

“But why do you reserve publicly?” he asked—“that’s not primitive or

catholic—to reserve for purposes of worship.”

“I don’t reserve for purposes of worship—I reserve for Communion. But I

can’t prevent people from worshipping Our Lord. Nobody could—not all the

Deans of all the cathedrals in England. Oh, I know you think my church

dreadful—everybody does. Those statues ... well, I own they’re hideous.

But so are all the best parlours in Vinehall. And I want the people to

feel that the church is their Best Parlour—which they’ll never do if I

decorate it in Anglican good taste, supposing always I could afford to

do so. I want them to feel at home.”

“Do you find all this helps to make them regular communicants?”

“Not as I’d like, of course; but we’re only beginning. Most of them come

once a month—though a few come every week. I’ve only one daily

communicant—a boy who works on Ellenwhorne Farm and comes here every

evening to cook my supper and have it with me.”

George was beginning to feel uncomfortable in this strange

atmosphere—also he was most horribly wanting his tea. Possibly, as Luce

had supper instead of dinner, he took tea later than usual.

“Of course,” continued the Rector, “some people in this place don’t like

our ways, and don’t come to church here at all. Some of my parishioners

go to you, just as some of yours come to me.”

“You mean my brother Gervase?”

“I wasn’t thinking of him particularly, but he certainly does come.”

“The Mounts brought him.”

“In the first instance, I believe. I hope you don’t feel hurt at his

coming here—but he told me he hadn’t been to church for over a year, so

I thought....”

Not a sign of triumph, not a sign of shame—and not a sign of tea. It

suddenly struck George as a hitherto undreamed-of possibility that Luce

did not take tea. His whole life seemed so different from anything

George had known that it was quite conceivable that he did not. Anyhow

the Vicar of Leasan must be going—the long shadows of some poplars lay

over the garden and were darkening the little room into an early

twilight. He rose to depart.

“Well, I must be off, I suppose. Glad to have had a chat. Come and

preach for me one day,” he added rashly.

“With pleasure—but I warn you, I’m simply hopeless as a preacher.”

“Oh, never mind, never mind,” said George—“all the better—I mean my

people will enjoy the change—at least I mean——”

He grabbed desperately at his hat, and followed his host through the

kitchen to the cottage door.

“Here’s Noakes coming up the street to cook supper,” said Luce—“I didn’t

know it was so late.”

George stared rather hard at the Daily Communicant—having never to his

knowledge seen such a thing. He was surprised and a little disappointed

to find only a heavy, fair-haired young lout, whose face was the face of

the district—like a freckled moon.

“I’m a bit early tonight, Father; but Maaster sent me over to Dixter wud

their roots, and he said it wun’t worth me coming back and I’d better go

straight on here. I thought maybe I could paint up the shed while the

stuff’s boiling.”

“That’s a good idea—thanks, Noaky.”

“Father, there’s a couple of thrushes nesting again by the Mocksteeple.

It’s the first time I’ve seen them nest in the fall.”

“It’s the warm weather we’ve been having.”

“Surelye, but I’m sorry for them when it turns cold.... Father, have you

heard?—the Rangers beat the Hastings United by four goals to one....”

§ 17

When George had walked out of the village he felt better—he no longer

breathed that choking atmosphere of a different world, in which lived

daily communicants, devout children, and clergymen who hadn’t always

enough to eat. It was not, of course, the first time that he had seen

poverty among the clergy, but it was the first time he had not seen it

decently covered up. Luce seemed totally unashamed of his ... had not

made the slightest effort to conceal it ... his cottage was, except for

the books, just the cottage of a working-man; indeed it was not so

comfortable as the homes of many working men.

George began to wonder exactly how much difference it would have made if

he had been poor instead of well-to-do—if he had been too poor to live

in his comfortable vicarage, too poor to decorate his church in

“Anglican good taste” ... not that he wouldn’t rather have left it bare

than decorate it like Vinehall ... what nonsense Luce had talked to

justify himself! The church wasn’t the village’s Best Parlour ... or was

it?...

He felt quite tired when he reached Leasan, and Rose scolded him—“You’d

much better have come with me to the Parishes.”... However, it was good

to sit at his dinner-table and eat good food off good china, and drink

his water out of eighteenth-century glass that he had picked up in

Ashford.... Luce was not a total abstainer, judging by that story of the

claret.... It is true that the creaking tread of the Raw Girl and the

way she breathed down his neck when she handed the vegetables made him

think less disparagingly of the domestic offices of the Daily

Communicant; but somehow the Raw Girl fitted into the scheme of

things—it was only fitting that local aspirants for “service” should be

trained at the Vicarage—whereas farm-boys who came in to cook your

supper and then sat down and ate it with you ... the idea was only a

little less disturbing than the idea of farm-boys coming daily to the

altar.... He wondered if Rose would say it was un-English.

“Oh, by the way, George”—Rose really was saying—“a message came down

from Conster while you were out, asking you to go up there after dinner

tonight.”

George’s illness had brought about a kind of artificial peace between

the Manor and the Vicarage.

“What is it now? Have you been invited too?”

“No—I think Sir John wants to speak to you about something.”

“Whatever can it be?—Mary’s in Switzerland. It can’t be anything to do

with her again.”

“No—I believe it’s something to do with Gervase. I saw Doris this

evening and she tells me Sir John has found out that Gervase goes to

confession.”

“Does he?—I didn’t know he’d got as far as that.”

“Yes—he goes to Mr. Luce. Mrs. Wade saw him waiting his turn last

Saturday when she was in Vinehall church taking rubbings of the

Oxenbridge brass. I suppose she must have mentioned it when she went to

tea at Conster yesterday.”

“And my father wants me to interfere?”

“Of course—you’re a clergyman.”

“Well, I’m not going to.”

“George, don’t talk such nonsense. Why, you’ve been complaining about

your father’s disrespect for your priesthood, and now when he’s showing

you that he does respect it——”

“He’s showing it no respect if he thinks I’d interfere in a case like

this.”

“But surely you’ve a right—Gervase is your brother and he doesn’t ever

come to your church.”

“I think it would be unwise for me to be my brother’s confessor.”

“It would be ridiculous. Whoever thought of such a thing?”

“Then why shouldn’t he go to Luce?—and as for my church, he hasn’t been

to any church for a year, so if Luce can get him to go to his ... or

rather if Our Lord can get him to go to Luce’s church....”

“I do hope it won’t rain tomorrow, as I’d thought of going into Hastings

by the ’bus.”

Rose had abrupt ways of changing the conversation when she thought it

was becoming indelicate.

§ 18

George went up to Conster after all. Rose finally persuaded him, and

pushed him into his overcoat. She was anxious that he should not give

fresh offence at the Manor; also she was in her own way jealous for his

priestly honour and eager that he should vindicate it by exercising its

functions when they were wanted instead of when they were not.

There was no family council assembled over Gervase as there had been

over Mary. Only his father and mother were in the drawing-room when

George arrived. Gervase was a minor in the Alard household, and religion

a minor matter in the Alard world—no questions of money or marriage,

those two arch-concerns of human life, were involved. It was merely a

case of stopping a silly boy making a fool of himself and his family by

going ways which were not the ways of squires. Not that Sir John did not

think himself quite capable of stopping Gervase without any help from

George, but neither had he doubted his capacity to deal with Mary

without summoning a family council. It was merely the Alard tradition

that the head should act through the members, that his despotism should

be as it were mediated, showing thus his double power both over the

rebel and the forces he employed for his subjection.

“Here you are, George—I was beginning to wonder if Rose had forgotten to

give you my message. I want you to talk to that ass Gervase. It appears

that he’s gone and taken to religion, on the top of a dirty trade and my

eldest son’s ex-fiancée.”

“And you want me to talk him out of it?” George was occasionally

sarcastic when tired.

“Not out of religion, of course. Could hardly mean that. But there’s

religion and religion. There’s yours and there’s that fellow Luce’s.”

“Yes,” said George, “there’s mine and there’s Luce’s.”

“Well, yours is all right—go to church on Sundays—very right and proper

in your own parish—set a good example and all that. But when it comes to

letting religion interfere with your private life, then I say it’s time

it was stopped. I’ve nothing against Luce personally——”

“Oh, I think he’s a perfectly dreadful man,” broke in Lady Alard—“he

came to tea once, and talked about God—in the drawing-room!”

“My dear, I think this is a subject which would be all the better

without your interference.”

“Well, if a mother hasn’t a right to interfere in the question of her

child’s religion....”

“You did your bit when you taught him to say his prayers—I daresay that

was what started all the mischief.”

“John, if you’re going to talk to me like this I shall leave the room.”

“I believe I’ve already suggested such a course once or twice this

evening.”

Lady Alard rose with dignity and trailed to the door.

“I’m sure I hope you’ll be able to manage him,” she said bitterly to

George as she went out, “but as far as I’m concerned I’d much rather you

argued him out of his infatuation for Stella Mount.”

“There is always someone in my family in love with Stella Mount,” said

Sir John, “and it’s better that it should be Gervase than Peter or

George, who are closer to the title, and, of course, let me hasten to

add, married men. But this is the first case of religious mania we’ve

ever had in the house—therefore I’d rather George concentrated on that.

Will you ask Mr. Gervase to come here?”—to the servant who answered his

ring.

“Mr. Gervase is in the garage, sir.”

“Send him along.”

Gervase had been cleaning the Ford lorry, having been given to

understand that his self-will and eccentricity with regard to Ashford

were to devolve no extra duties on the chauffeur. His appearance,

therefore, when he entered the drawing-room, was deplorable. He wore a

dirty suit of overalls, his hands were black with oil and grime, and his

hair was hanging into his eyes.

“How dare you come in like that, sir?” shouted Sir John.

“I’m sorry, sir—I thought you wanted me in a hurry.”

“So I do—but I didn’t know you were looking like a sweep. Why can’t you

behave like other people after dinner?”

“I had to clean the car, sir. But I’ll go and wash.”

“No, stay where you are—George wants to speak to you.”

George did not look as if he did.

“It’s about this new folly of yours,” continued Sir John. “George was

quite horrified when I told him you’d been to confession.”

“Oh, come, not ‘horrified’,” said George uneasily—“it was only the

circumstances.... Thought you might have stuck to your parish church.”

“And _you_’d have heard his confession!” sneered Sir John.

“Well, sir, the Prayer Book is pretty outspoken in its commission to the

priest to absolve——”

“But you’ve never heard a confession in your life.”

This was true, and for the first time George was stung by it. He

suddenly felt his anger rising against Luce, who had enjoyed to the full

those sacerdotal privileges which George now saw he had missed. His

anger gave him enough heat to take up the argument.

“I’m not concerned to find out how Luce could bring himself to influence

you when you have a brother in orders, but I’m surprised you shouldn’t

have seen the disloyalty of your conduct. Here you are forsaking your

parish church, which I may say is also your family church, and traipsing

across the country to a place where they have services exciting enough

to suit you.”

“I’m sorry, George. I know that if I’d behaved properly I’d have asked

your advice about all this. But you see I was the heathen in his

blindness, and if it hadn’t been for Father Luce I’d be that still.”

“You’re telling me I’ve neglected you?”

“Not at all—no one could have gone for me harder than you did. But,

frankly, if I’d seen nothing more of religion than what I saw at your

church I don’t think I’d ever have bothered about it much.”

“Not spectacular enough for you, eh?”

“I knew you’d say something like that.”

“Well, isn’t it true?”

“No.”

“Then may I ask in what way the religion of Vinehall is so superior to

the religion of Leasan?”

“Just because it isn’t the religion of Vinehall—it’s the religion of the

whole world. It’s a religion for everybody, not just for Englishmen.

When I was at school I thought religion was simply a kind of gentlemanly

aid to a decent life. After a time you find out that sort of life can be

lived just as easily without religion—that good form and good manners

and good nature will pull the thing through without any help from

prayers and sermons. But when I saw Catholic Christianity I saw that it

pointed to a life which simply couldn’t be lived without its help—that

it wasn’t just an aid to good behaviour but something which demanded

your whole life, not only in the teeth of what one calls evil, but in

the teeth of that very decency and good form and good nature which are

the religion of most Englishmen.”

“In other words and more briefly,” said Sir John, “you fell in love with

a pretty girl.”

Gervase’s face darkened with a painful flush, and George felt sorry for

him.

“I don’t deny,” he said rather haltingly, “that, if it hadn’t been for

Stella I should never have gone to Vinehall church. But I assure you the

thing isn’t resting on that now. I’ve nothing to gain from Stella by

pleasing her. We’re not on that footing at all. She never tried to

persuade me, either. It’s simply that after I’d seen only a little of

the Catholic faith I realised that it was what I’d always unconsciously

believed ... in my heart.... It was my childhood’s faith—all the things

I’d ‘loved long since and lost awhile.’”

“But don’t you see,” said George, suddenly finding his feet in the

argument, “that you’ve just put your finger on the weak spot of the

whole thing? This ‘Catholic faith’ as you call it was unconsciously your

faith as a child—well, now you ought to go on and leave all that behind

you. ‘When I became a man I put away childish things.’”

“And ‘whosoever will not receive the kingdom of heaven as a little child

shall in no wise enter therein.’ It’s no good quoting texts at me,

George—we might go on for ever like that. What I mean is that I’ve found

what I’ve always been looking for, and it’s made Our Lord real to me, as

He’s never been since I was a child—and now the whole of life seems real

in a way it didn’t before—I don’t know how to explain, but it does. And

it wasn’t only the romantic side of things which attracted me—it was the

hard side too. In fact the hardness impressed me almost before I saw all

the beauty and joy and romance. It was when we were having all that

argument about Mary’s divorce.... I saw then that the Catholic Church

wasn’t afraid of a Hard Saying. I thought, ‘Here’s a religion which

wouldn’t be afraid to ask anything of me—whether it was to shut myself

up for life in a monastery or simply to make a fool of myself.’”

“Well, on the whole, I’m glad you contented yourself with the latter,”

said Sir John.

George said—“I think it’s a pity Gervase didn’t go to Oxford.”

“Whether he’s been to Oxford or not, he’s at least supposed to be a

gentleman. He may try to delude himself by driving off every morning in

a motor lorry, but he does in fact belong to an old and honourable

house, and as head of that house I object to his abandoning his family’s

religion.”

“I never had my family’s religion, Sir—I turned to Catholicism from no

religion at all. I daresay it’s more respectable to have no religion

than the Catholic religion, but I don’t mind about being respectable—in

fact, I’d rather not.”

“You’re absorbing your new principles pretty fast—already you seem to

have forgotten all family ties and obligations.”

“I can’t see that my family has any right to settle my religion for

me—at least I’m Protestant enough to believe I must find my own

salvation, and not expect my family to pass it on to me. I think this

family wants to do too much.”

“What d’you mean, Sir?”

“It wants to settle all the private affairs of its members. There’s

Peter—you wouldn’t let him marry Stella. There’s Mary, you wouldn’t let

her walk out by the clean gate——”

“Hold your tongue! Who are you to discuss Peter’s affairs with me? And

as for Mary—considering your disgraceful share in the business....”

“All right, Sir. I’m only trying to point out that the family is much

more autocratic than the Church.”

“I thought you said that what first attracted you to the Church was the

demands it made on you. George!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Am I conducting this argument or are you?”

“You seem better able to do it than I, Sir.”

“Well, what did I send you to Oxford for, and to a theological college

for, and put you into this living for, if you can’t argue a schoolboy

out of the Catholic faith?”

“I’ve pointed out to Gervase, Sir, that the so-called Catholic movement

is not the soundest intellectually, and that I don’t see why he should

walk three miles to Vinehall on Sundays when he has everything necessary

to salvation at his parish church. I can’t go any further than that.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I can’t reason him out of his faith—why should I? On the contrary, I’m

very glad he’s found it. I don’t agree with all he believes—I think some

of it is extravagant—but I see at least he’s got a religion which will

make him happy and keep him straight, and really there’s no cause for me

to interfere with it.”

George was purple.

“You’re a fool!” cried Sir John—“you’re a much bigger fool than Gervase,

because at least he goes the whole hog, while you as usual are sitting

on the fence. It’s just the same now as when I asked you to speak to

Mary. If you’d go all the way I’d respect you, or if you’d go none of

the way I’d respect you, but you go half way.... Gervase can go all the

way to the Pope or to the devil, whichever he pleases—I don’t care

now—he can’t be as big a fool as you.”

He turned and walked out of the room, banging the door furiously behind

him. The brothers were left alone together. Gervase heaved a sigh of

relief.

“Come along with me to the garage,” he said to George, “and help me take

the Ford’s carburetor down.”

“No, thanks,” said George dully—“I’m going home.”

§ 19

He had failed again. As he walked through the thick yellow light of the

Hunter’s Moon to Leasan, he saw himself as a curiously feeble and

ineffective thing. It was not only that he had failed to persuade his

brother by convincing arguments, or that he had failed once more to

inspire his father with any sort of respect for his office, but he had

somehow failed in regard to his own soul, and all his other failures

were merely branches of that most bitter root.

He had been unable to convince Gervase because he was not convinced

himself—he had been unable to inspire his father because he was not

inspired himself. All his life he had stood for moderation, toleration,

broad-mindedness ... and here he was, so moderate that no one would

believe him, so tolerant that no one would respect him, so broad-minded

that the water of life lay as it were stagnant in a wide and shallow

pond instead of rushing powerfully between the rocky, narrow banks of a

single heart....

He found Rose waiting for him in the hall.

“How late you are! I’ve shut up. They must have kept you an awful time.”

“I’ve been rather slow coming home.”

“Tired?”

“I am a bit.”

“How did you get on? I expect Gervase was cheeky.”

“Only a little.”

“Have you talked him round?”

“I can’t say that I have. And I don’t know that I want to.”

“George!”

Rose had put out the hall lamp, and her voice sounded hoarse and ghostly

in the darkness.

“Well, the boy’s got some sort of religion at last after being a heathen

for years.”

“I’m not sure that he wouldn’t be better as a heathen than believing the

silly, extravagant things he does. I don’t suppose for a minute it’s

gone really deep.”

“Why not?”

“The sort of thing couldn’t. What he wants is a sober, sensible,

practical religion——”

“Soup?”

“George!”

“Well, that’s what Mary called it. And when I see that the boy has found

adventure, discipline and joy in faith, am I to take it away and offer

him soup?”

“George, I’m really shocked to hear you talk like that. Please turn down

the landing light—I can’t reach it.”

“Religion is romance,” said George’s voice in the thick darkness of the

house—“and I’ve been twelve years trying to turn it into soup....”

§ 20

Rose made up her mind that her husband must be ill, therefore she

forebore further scolding or argument, and hurried him into bed with a

cup of malted milk.

“You’ve done too much,” she said severely—“you said you didn’t feel well

enough to come with me to the Parishes, and then you went tramping off

to Vinehall. What can you expect when you’re so silly? Now drink this

and go to sleep.”

George went to sleep. But in the middle of the night he awoke. All the

separate things of life, all the differences of time and space, seemed

to have run together in one sharp moment. He was not in the bed, he was

not in the room ... the room seemed to be in him, for he saw every

detail of its trim mediocrity ... and there lay George Alard on the bed

beside a sleeping Rose ... but he was George Alard right enough, for

George Alard’s pain was his, that queer constricting pain which was part

of the functions of his body, of every breath he drew and every beat of

his heart ... he was lying in bed ... gasping, suffering, dying ... this

was what it meant to die.... Rose! Rose!

* * * * *

Rose bent over her husband; her big plaits swung in his face.

“What’s the matter, George?—are you ill?”

“Are you ill?” she repeated.

Then she groped for a match, and as soon as she saw his face, jumped out

of bed.

No amount of bell-ringing would wake the Raw Girls, so Rose leaped

upstairs to their attic, and beat on the door.

“Annie! Mabel! Get up and dress quickly, and go to Conster Manor and

telephone for Dr. Mount. Your master’s ill.”

Sundry stampings announced the beginning of Annie’s and Mabel’s toilet,

and Rose ran downstairs to her husband. She lit the lamp and propped him

up in bed so that he could breathe more easily, thrusting her own

pillows under his neck.

“Poor old man!—Are you better?” Her voice had a new tender quality—she

drew her hand caressingly under his chin—“Poor old man!—I’ve sent for

Dr. Mount.”

“Send for Luce.”

It was the first time he had spoken, and the words jerked out of him

drily, without expression.

“All right, all right—but we want the doctor first. There, the girls are

ready—hurry up, both of you, as fast as you can, and ask the butler, or

whoever lets you in, to ’phone. It’s Vinehall 21—but they’re sure to

know.”

She went back into the room and sat down again beside George, taking his

hand. He looked dreadfully ill, his face was blue and he struggled for

breath. Rose was not the sort of woman who could sit still for long—in a

moment or two she sprang to her feet, and went to the medicine cupboard.

“I believe some brandy would do you good—it’s allowed in case of

illness, you know.”

George did not seem to care whether it was allowed or not. Rose gave him

a few drops, and he seemed better. She smoothed his pillows and wiped

the sweat off his face.

She had hardly sat down again when the hall door opened and there was

the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It must be the girls coming

back—Rose suddenly knew that she was desperately glad even of their

company. She went to the door, and looked out on the landing. The light

that streamed over her shoulder from the bedroom showed her the scared,

tousled faces of Gervase and Jenny.

“What’s up, Rose?—Is he very bad?”

“I’m afraid so. Have you ’phoned Dr. Mount?”

“Yes—he’s coming along at once. We thought perhaps we could do

something?”

“I don’t know what there is to do. I’ve given him some brandy. Come in.”

They followed her into the room and stood at the foot of the bed. Jenny,

who had learned First Aid during the war, suggested propping him higher

with a chair behind the pillows. She and Gervase looked dishevelled and

half asleep in their pyjamas and great-coats. Rose suddenly realised

that she was not wearing a dressing-gown—she tore it off the foot of the

bed and wrapped it round her. For the first time in her life she felt

scared, cold and helpless. She bent over George and laid her hand on

his, which were clutched together on his breast.

His eyes were wide open, staring over her shoulder at Gervase.

“Luce ...” he said with difficulty—“Luce....”

“All right,” said Gervase—“I’ll fetch him.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have Canon Potter, dear?—He could come in his car.”

“No—Luce ... the only church.... Sacrament....”

“Don’t you worry—I’ll get him. I’ll go in the Ford.”

Gervase was out of the room, leaving Jenny in uneasy attendance. A few

minutes later Doris arrived. She had wanted to come with the others, but

had felt unable to leave her room without a toilet. She alone of the

party was dressed—even to her boots.

“How is he, Rose?”

“He’s better now, but I wish Dr. Mount would come.”

“Do you think he’ll die?” asked Doris in a penetrating whisper—“ought I

to have woken up Father and Mother?”

“No—of course not. Don’t talk nonsense.”

“I met Gervase on his way to fetch Mr. Luce.”

“That’s only because George wanted to see him—very natural to want to

see a brother clergyman when you’re ill. But it’s only a slight

attack—he’s much better already.”

She made expressive faces at Doris while she spoke.

“There’s Dr. Mount!” cried Jenny.

A car sounded in the Vicarage drive and a few moments later the doctor

was in the room. His examination of George was brief. He took out some

capsules.

“What are you going to do?” asked Rose.

“Give him a whiff of amyl nitrate.”

“It’s not serious? ... he’s not going to....”

“Ought we to fetch Father and Mother?” choked Doris.

“I don’t suppose Lady Alard would be able to come at this hour—but I

think you might fetch Sir John.”

Rose suddenly began to cry. Then the sight of her own tears frightened

her, and she was as suddenly still.

“I’ll go,” said Jenny.

“No—you’d better let me go,” said Doris—“I’ve got my boots on.”

“Where’s Gervase?” asked Dr. Mount.

“He’s gone to fetch Mr. Luce from Vinehall—George asked for him.”

“How did he go? Has he been gone long?”

“He went in his car—he ought to be back quite soon. Oh, doctor, do you

think it’s urgent ... I mean ... he seems easier now.”

Dr. Mount did not speak—he bent over George, who lay motionless and

exhausted, but seemingly at peace.

“Is he conscious?” asked Rose.

“Perfectly, I should say. But don’t let him speak.”

With a queer abandonment, unlike herself, Rose climbed on the bed,

curling herself up beside George and holding his hand. The minutes

ticked by. Jenny, feeling awkward and self-conscious, sat in the basket

armchair by the fireplace. Dr. Mount moved quietly about the room—as in

a dream Rose watched him set two lighted candles on the little table by

the bed. There was absolute silence, broken only by the ticking of the

clock. Rose began to feel herself again—the attack was over—George would

be all right—it was a pity that Gervase had gone for Mr. Luce. She began

to feel herself ridiculous, curled up with George in the bed ... she had

better get out before Sir John came and sneered at her very useful

flannel dressing-gown ... then suddenly, as she looked down on it,

George’s face changed—once more the look of anguish convulsed it, and he

started up in bed, clutching his side and fighting for his breath.

It seemed an age, though it was really only a few minutes, that the

fight lasted. Rose had no time to be afraid or even pitiful, for Dr.

Mount apparently could do nothing without her—as she rather proudly

remembered afterwards, he wouldn’t let Jenny help at all, but turned to

Rose for everything. She had just begun to think how horrible the room

smelt with drugs and brandy, when there was a sound of wheels below in

the drive.

“That’s Gervase,” said Jenny.

“Or perhaps it’s Sir John....”

But it was Gervase—the next minute he came into the room.

“I’ve brought him,” he said—“is everything ready?”

“Yes, quite ready,” said Dr. Mount.

Then Rose saw standing behind Gervase outside the door a tall stooping

figure in a black cloak, under which its arms were folded over something

that it carried on its breast.

The Lord had come suddenly to Leasan Parsonage.

Immediately panic seized her, a panic which became strangely fused with

anger. She sprang forward and would have shut the door.

“Don’t come in—you’re frightening him—he mustn’t be disturbed.... Oh,

he’d be better, if you’d only let him alone....”

She felt someone take her arm and gently pull her aside—the next moment

she was unaccountably on her knees, and crying as if her heart would

break. She saw that the intruder no longer stood framed in the

doorway—he was beside the bed, bending over George, his shadow thrown

monstrous on the ceiling by the candle-light.... What was he saying?...

“Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest come under my roof....”

_PART III_

FOURHOUSES

§ 1

George Alard’s death affected his brother Peter out of all proportion to

his life. While George was alive, Peter had looked upon him rather

impatiently as a nuisance and a humbug—a nuisance because of his

attempts to thrust parochial honours on his unwilling brother, a humbug

because religion was so altogether remote from Peter’s imagination that

he could not credit the sincerity of any man (he was not so sure about

women) who believed in it. But now that George was dead he realised

that, in spite of his drawbacks, he had been a link in the Alard chain,

and that link now was broken. If Peter now died childless, his heir

would be Gervase—Gervase with his contempt of the Alard traditions and

ungentlemanly attitude towards life. Gervase was capable of selling the

whole place. It would be nothing to him if Sir Gervase Alard lived in a

villa at Hastings or a flat at West Kensington, or a small-holding at

his own park gates, whatever was the fancy of the moment—no, he had

forgotten—it was to be a garage—“Sir Gervase Alard. Cars for hire.

Taxies. Station Work.”

These considerations made him unexpectedly tender towards his

sister-in-law Rose when she moved out of Leasan Parsonage into a small

house she had taken in the village. Rose could not bear the thought of

being cut off from Alard, of being shut out of its general councils, of

being deprived of its comfortable hospitality half as daughter, half as

guest. Also she saw the advantages of the great house for her children,

the little girls. Her comparative poverty—for George had not left her

much—made it all the more necessary that she should prop herself against

Conster. Living there under its wing, she would have a far better

position than if she set up her independence in some new place where she

would be only a clergyman’s widow left rather badly off.

Peter admired Rose for these tactics. She would cling to Alard, even in

the certainty of being perpetually meddled with and snubbed. He lent her

his car to take her and her more intimate belongings to the new house,

promised her the loan of it whenever she wanted, and gave her a general

invitation to Starvecrow, rather to Vera’s disquiet. He had hated Rose

while his brother was alive—he had looked upon her as a busybody and an

upstart—but now he loved her for her loyalty, self-interested though it

was, and was sorry that she had for ever lost her chance of becoming

Lady Alard.

He made one or two efforts to impress Gervase with a sense of his

responsibility as heir-apparent, but was signally unsuccessful.

“My dear old chap,” said his irreverent brother—“you’ll probably have

six children, all boys, so it’s cruel to raise my hopes, which are bound

to be dashed before long.”

Peter looked gloomy. Gervase had hit him on a tender, anxious spot. He

had now been married more than a year, and there was no sign of his

hopes being fulfilled. He told himself he was an impatient fool—Jewish

women were proverbially mothers of strong sons. But the very urgency of

his longing made him mistrust its fulfilment—Vera was civilised out of

race—she ran too much to brains. She had, to his smothered

consternation, produced a small volume of poems and essays, which she

had had typed and sent expectantly to a publisher. Peter was not used to

women doing this sort of thing, and it alarmed him. If they did it, he

could not conceive how they could also do the more ordinary and useful

things that were expected of them.

His father laughed at him.

“Peter—you’re a yokel. Your conception of women is on a level with

Elias’s and Lambard’s.”

“No, it isn’t, Sir—that’s just what’s the matter. I can’t feel cocksure

about things most men feel cocksure about. That’s why I wish you’d

realise that there’s every chance of Gervase coming into the property——”

“My dear Peter, you are the heir.”

“Yes, Sir. But if I don’t leave a son to come after me....”

“Well, I refuse to bother about what may happen forty years after I’m

dead. If you live to my age—and there’s no reason you shouldn’t, as

you’re a healthy man—it’ll be time to think about an heir. Gervase may

be dead before that.”

“He’s almost young enough to be my son.”

“But what in God’s name do you want me to do with him? Am I to start

already preparing him for his duties as Sir Gervase Alard?”

“You might keep a tighter hand on him, Sir.”

“Damn it all! Are you going to teach me how to bring up my own son?”

“No, Sir. But what I feel is that you’re not bringing him up as you

brought up George and me and poor Hugh—you’re letting him go his own

way. You don’t bother about him because you don’t think he’s a chance of

coming into the property. And two of the three of us have got out of his

way since he was sixteen.... He’s precious near it now. And yet you let

him have his head over that engineering business, and now you’ve given

way about his religion.”

“The engineering business was settled long ago, and has saved us a lot

of money—more than paid for that fool Mary’s fling. What we’ve spent on

the roundabouts we’ve saved on the swings all right. As for the

religion—he’ll grow out of that all the quicker for my leaving him

alone. I got poor George to talk to him, but that didn’t do any good, so

I’ve decided to let him sicken himself, which he’s bound to do sooner or

later the way he goes at it.”

“The fact is, Sir—you’ve never looked upon Gervase as the heir, and you

can’t do so now, though he virtually is the heir.”

“Indeed he isn’t. The heir is master Peter John Alard, whose christening

mug I’m going to buy next Christmas”—and Sir John made one or two other

remarks in his coarse Victorian fashion.

Peter knew he was a fool to be thinking about his heir. His father,

though an old man, was still hale—his gout only served to show what a

fighter he was; and he himself was a man in the prime of life, healthy

and sound. Was it that the war had undermined his sense of security?—He

caught uneasy glimpses of another reason, hidden deeper ... a vague

sense that it would be awful to have sacrificed so much for Alard and

Starvecrow, and find his sacrifice in vain—to have given up Stella Mount

(who would certainly not have given him a book instead of a baby) only

that his brother Gervase might some day degrade Alard, sell Starvecrow

and (worst of all) marry Stella.

§ 2

For in his heart Peter too expected Gervase to marry Stella. He knew

there was a most unsuitable difference in their ages, but it weighed

little against his expectation. He expected Gervase to marry Stella for

the same reason that he expected to die without leaving an heir—because

he feared it. Besides, his family talked continually of the possibility,

and here again showed that obtuseness in the matter of Gervase that he

deplored. They had no objection to his marrying Stella Mount, because he

was the younger son, and it wasn’t imperative for him to marry money, as

it had been for Peter. Another reason for Peter’s expectation was

perhaps that he could not understand a man being very much in Stella’s

society and not wanting to marry her. She was pretty, gentle, capable,

comfortable, and oh! so sweet to love—she would make an excellent wife,

even to a man many years younger than herself; she would be a mother to

him as well as to his children.

This did not mean that Peter was dissatisfied with Vera. His passion for

her had not cooled at the end of a year. She was still lovely and

desirable. But he now realised definitely that she did not speak his

language or think his thoughts—the book of poems was a proof of it, if

he had required other proof than her attitude towards Starvecrow. Vera

was all right about the family—she respected Alard—but she was

remarkably out of tune with the farm. She could not understand the

year-in-year-out delight it was to him. She had even suggested that they

should take a house in London for the winter—and miss the ploughing of

the clays, the spring sowings, and the early lambing! “The country’s so

dreary in winter,” she had said.

This had frightened Peter—he found it difficult to adjust himself to

such an outlook ... it was like the first morning when he had found she

meant always to have breakfast in bed.... Stella would never have

suggested that he should miss the principal feasts of the farmer’s

year.... But Stella had not Vera’s beauty or power or brilliance—nor had

she (to speak crudely) Vera’s money, and if he had married her

Starvecrow would probably now have been in the auction market.

Besides, though loyal to Starvecrow, Stella had always been flippant and

profane on the subject of the family, and in this respect Vera was all

that Peter could wish. She was evidently proud of her connection with

Alard—she kept as close under its wing as Rose, and for more

disinterested reasons. She had her race’s natural admiration for an

ancient family and a noble estate, she felt honoured by her alliance and

her privileges—she would make a splendid Lady Alard of Conster Manor,

though a little unsatisfactory as Mrs. Peter Alard of Starvecrow Farm.

As part of her lien with Alard, Vera had become close friends with

Jenny. It was she who told Peter that Jenny had broken off her

engagement to Jim Parish.

“I didn’t know she was engaged to him.”

“Oh, Peter, they’ve been engaged more than three years.”

“Well, I never knew anything about it.”

“You must have—you all did, though you chose to ignore it.”

“I always thought it was just an understanding.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Indeed it isn’t!”—At that rate he had been engaged to Stella and had

behaved like a swine.

“Well, whatever it was, she’s through with it now.”

“What did she turn him down for?”

“Oh, simply that there was no chance of their marrying, and they were

getting thoroughly tired of each other.”

“A nice look-out if they’d married.”

“That would have been different. They might not have got tired of each

other then. It’s these long engagements, that drag on and on without

hope of an ending. I must say I’m sorry for poor Jenny. She’s been kept

hanging about for three years, and she’s had frightfully little sympathy

from anyone—except perhaps Mary. They were all too much afraid that if

they encouraged her she’d dash off and get married on a thousand a year

or some such pittance.”

“I’ve always understood Parish paid three hundred a year towards the

interest on the Cock Marling mortgages—that would leave him with only

seven hundred,” said Peter gravely.

“Impossible, of course. They’d have been paupers. But do you know that

till I came down here I’d no idea how fashionable mortgages are among

the best county families?”

§ 3

Peter did not meet Jenny till some days later. She had been to see Vera,

and came out of the house just as Peter was talking to young Godfrey,

the farmer of Fourhouses. This farm did not belong to the Alards—it

stood on the southern fringe of their land in Icklesham parish. At one

time Sir William Alard had wanted to buy it, but the owners held tight,

and his grandchildren lived to be thankful for the extra hundred acres’

weight that had been spared them. Now, the situation was reversed, and

the Godfreys were wanting to buy the thirty acres of Alard land

immediately adjoining Fourhouses.

Sir John was willing to sell, and the only difficulty was the usual one

of the mortgage. Godfrey, however, still wished to buy, for he believed

that the land would double its value if adequate money was spent on it,

and this he was prepared to do, for his farm had prospered under the

government guarantees. For generations the Godfreys had been a

hard-working and thrifty set, and the war—though it had taken Ben

Godfrey himself out to Mesopotamia—had made Fourhouses flourish as it

had never done since the repeal of the Corn Laws.

The problem became entirely one of price, and Peter had done his best to

persuade his father not to stand out too stiffly over this. The family

badly needed hard cash—the expenses of Mary’s suit had been heavy, and

as their money was tied up in land it was always difficult to put their

hand on a large sum. Here was a chance which might never happen

again—for no one was likely to want the Snailham land under its present

disabilities, except Godfrey, whose farm it encroached on. If they did

not sell it now, it might become necessary (and this was Peter’s great

fear) to sell the free lands of Starvecrow. Therefore if the Snailham

land brought in the ready money they wanted, they must try to forget

that it was going for little more than half what Sir William had given

for it seventy years ago.

“Well, I’ll talk it over with Sir John,” he said to Godfrey, who was on

horseback in the drive. It was then he saw Jenny coming towards them out

of the house.

“Wait a minute,” he said to her—“I want to speak to you.”

He was uncertain whether or not he ought to introduce the young farmer

to his sister. Godfrey did not call himself a gentleman farmer—indeed he

was inclined to despise the title—but he came of good old yeoman stock,

and his name went back nearly as far as Alard into the records of

Winchelsea.

“Jenny, this is Mr. Godfrey of Fourhouses—my sister, Miss Jenny Alard.”

Godfrey took off his soft hat. He had the typical face of the Sussex and

Kent borders, broad, short-nosed, blue-eyed; but there was added to it a

certain brownness and sharpness, which might have come from a dash of

gipsy blood. A Godfrey had married a girl of the Boswells in far-back

smuggling days.

He and Peter discussed the Snailham snapes a little longer—then he rode

off, and Peter turned to Jenny.

“I didn’t know you’d come over,” he said, “and I wanted to talk to you a

bit—it’s an age since I’ve seen you.”

He was feeling a little guilty about his attitude towards her and Jim

Parish—he had, like all the rest of the family, tried to ignore the

business, and he now realised how bitter it must have been to Jenny to

stand alone.

“Vera told me that you’d broken off your engagement,” he added as they

walked down the drive.

“So it was an engagement, was it?” said Jenny rather pertly.

“Well, you yourself know best what it was.”

“I should have called it an engagement, but as neither his family nor

mine would acknowledge it, perhaps it wasn’t.”

“There was no chance of your getting married for years, so it seemed

better not to make it public. I can’t tell you I’m sorry you’ve broken

it off.”

“I should hardly say it’s broken off—rather that it’s rotted away.”

Her voice sounded unusually hard, and Peter felt a little ashamed of

himself.

“I’m frightfully sorry, Jenny”—taking her arm—“I’m afraid we’ve all been

rather unsympathetic, but——”

“Gervase hasn’t. It was he who advised me to end things.”

“The deuce it was!”

“Yes—he saw it as I did—simply ridiculous.”

“So it was, my dear—since you couldn’t get married till the Lord knows

when.”

“That wasn’t what made it ridiculous. The ridiculous part was that we

could have got married perfectly well if only I hadn’t been Jenny Alard

of Conster Manor and he Jim Parish of Cock Marling Place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s got over seven hundred a year. Most young couples would look

upon that as riches, but it’s poverty to us—partly because he has to pay

away half of it in interest on mortgages, and partly because we’ve got

such an absurd standard of living that we couldn’t exist on anything

less than two or three thousand.”

“Well, I hope you’d never be such a fool as to marry on seven hundred.”

“That’s just it—I’m refusing to marry on seven hundred. But I’ll tell

you, Peter—I’d do it like a shot for a man who didn’t look upon it as a

form of suicide. If ever I meet a man who thinks it enough for him, I

promise you it’ll be enough for me.”

“That’s all very well, Jenny. But Parish must think of Cock Marling.”

“He is thinking of it. It’s Cock Marling that’s separated us just as

Conster separated you and Stella.”

Peter was annoyed.

“You’ve no right to say that. What makes you think I wanted to marry

Stella? It’s not fair to Vera to suggest such a thing.”

“I’m sorry, Peter. I oughtn’t to have said it. But I did once think....

But anyhow, I’m glad you didn’t.”

“So am I.”

“And I’m glad I’m not going to marry Jim.”

“Then you needn’t be angry with Cock Marling.”

“Yes, I am—because I know I could have been happy with Jim if there’d

been no Cock Marling. It’s all very well for you to talk, Peter—but I

think.... Oh, these big country houses make me sick. It’s all the

same—everywhere I go I see the same thing—we’re all cut to a pattern.

There’s always the beautifully kept grounds and the huge mortgaged

estate that’s tumbling to pieces for want of money to spend on it. Then,

when you go in, there are hothouse flowers everywhere, and beautiful

glass and silver—and bad cooking. And we’re waited on badly because

we’re too old-fashioned and dignified to employ women, so we have the

cheapest butler we can get, helped by a footman taken from the plough.

Upstairs the bedrooms want painting and papering, but we always have two

cars—though we can’t afford motor traction for our land. We’re falling

to pieces, but we hide the cracks with pots of flowers. Why can’t we

sell our places and live in comfort? We Alards would be quite well-to-do

if we lived in a moderate sized house with two or three women servants

and either a small car or none at all. We could afford to be happy

then.”

“Jenny, you’re talking nonsense. You’re like most women and can’t see

the wood for the trees. If we gave up the cars tomorrow and sacked

Appleby and Pollock and Wills, and sold the silver and the pictures, it

wouldn’t do us the slightest good in the world. We’d still have the

estate, we’d still have to pay in taxes more than the land brings in to

us. You can’t sell land nowadays, even if it isn’t mortgaged.

Besides—damn it all!—why should we sell it? It’s been ours for

centuries, we’ve been here for centuries, and I for one am proud of it.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m ashamed. I tell you, Peter, our day is over, and

we’d better retire, while we can retire gracefully—before we’re sold

up.”

“Nonsense. If we hang on, the value of the land will rise, we’ll be able

to pay off the mortgages—and perhaps some day this brutal government

will see the wickedness of its taxation and——”

“Why should it? It wants the money—and we’ve no right to be here. We’ve

outlived our day. Instead of developing the land—we’re ruining it,

letting it go to pieces. We can’t afford to keep our tenants’ farms in

order. It’s time we ceased to own half the country, and the land went

back to the people it used to belong to.”

“I see you’ve been talking to Gervase.”

“Well, he and I think alike on this subject.”

“I’m quite sure you do.”

“And we’ve made up our minds not to let the family spoil our lives. It’s

taken Jim from me—but that was his fault. It’s not going to smash me a

second time. If I want to marry a poor man, I shall do so—even if he’s

really poor—not only just what we call poor.”

“Well, you and Gervase are a precious couple, that’s all I’ve got to

say.”

The next moment he softened towards her, because he remembered that she

was unhappy and spoke out of the bitterness of her heart. But though he

was sorry for her, he had a secret admiration for Jim Parish, who had

refused to desert the Squires.

§ 4

He was intensely worried that his sister and brother could take up such

an attitude towards the family. They were young socialists, anarchists,

bolsheviks, and he heartily disapproved of them. He brooded over Jenny’s

words more than was strictly reasonable. She wasn’t going to let the

family spoil her life, she said—she wasn’t going to sacrifice herself to

the family—she wasn’t going to let the family come between her and the

man she loved as he had let it come between him and Stella. She’d no

right to say that—it wasn’t true. He couldn’t really have loved Stella

or he wouldn’t have sacrificed her to Alard and Starvecrow. Yes, he

would, though—yes, he had. He had loved her—he wouldn’t say he hadn’t,

he wouldn’t deny the past. He had loved her, but he had deliberately let

her go because to have kept her would have meant disloyalty to his

family. So what Jenny had said was true.

This realisation did not soothe, though he never doubted the rightness

of what he had done. He wondered how much he had hurt Stella by putting

her aside ... poor little Stella—she had loved him truly, and she had

loved Starvecrow. He had robbed her of both.... He remembered the last

scene between them, their goodbye—in the office at Starvecrow, in the

days of its pitch-pine and bamboo, before he had put in the Queen Anne

bureau and the oak chests. He wondered what she would think of it now.

She would have fitted into Starvecrow better than Vera ... bah! he’d

always realised that, but it was just as well to remind himself that if

he had married her, there would have been no Starvecrow for her to fit

into. He hadn’t sacrificed her merely to Alard but also to

Starvecrow—and she had understood that part of the sacrifice. He

remembered her saying, “I understand your selfish reason much better

than your unselfish one.”

Well, there was no good brooding over her now. If he had loved her once,

he now loved her no longer ... and if she had loved him once, she now

loved him no longer. She was consoling herself with Gervase. She might

be Lady Alard yet, and save Starvecrow out of the wreck that her husband

would make of the estate. Peter felt sick.

The next day he met her at tea at Conster Manor, whither he had been

asked with Vera to meet George’s successor, the new Vicar of Leasan. She

was sitting on the opposite side of the room beside the Vicar’s wife—a

faded little woman, in scrappy finery, very different from her

predecessor who was eating her up from her place by Lady Alard. Peter

had met Stella fairly often in public, but had not studied her closely

till today. Today for some reason he wanted to know a great deal about

her—whether she was still attractive, whether she was happy, whether she

was in love with Gervase, though this last was rather difficult to

discover, as Gervase was not there. On the first two points he soon

satisfied himself. She was certainly attractive—she did not look any

older than when he had fallen in love with her during the last year of

the war. Her round, warmly coloured face and her bright eyes held the

double secret of youth and happiness—yes, he saw that she was happy. She

carried her happiness about with her. After all, now he came to think of

it, she did not lead a particularly happy life—dispensing for her father

and driving his car, it was dull to say the least. He could not help

respecting her for her happiness, just as he respected her for her

bright neat clothes contrasting so favourably with the floppy fussiness

of bits and ends that adorned the Vicar’s wife.

He could not get near her and he could not hear what she was saying. The

floor was held by Mr. Williams, the new Vicar. The Parsonage couple were

indeed the direct contrast of their predecessors—it was the husband who

dominated, the wife who struggled. Mr. Williams had been a chaplain to

the forces, and considered Christianity the finest sport going. A

breezy, hefty shepherd, he would feed his flock on football and

billiards, as George had fed them on blankets and Parochial Church

Councils. It was inconceivable that anyone in Leasan should miss the way

to heaven.

“I believe in being a man among men,” he blew over Sir John, who was

beginning to hate him, though he had chosen him out of twenty-one

applicants—“that’s what you learnt in France—no fuss, no frills, just

playing the game.”

“You’d better have a few words with my youngest son,” said Sir John,

resolving to give him a hard nut to crack—“he’s turned what used to be

called a Puseyite in my young days, but is now called a Catholic, I

believe.”

“A Zanzibarbarian—what? Oh, he’ll grow out of that. Boys often get it

when they’re young.”

“And stay young all their lives if they keep it,” said Stella—“I’m glad

Gervase will be always young.”

The Vicar gave her a look of breezy disapproval. Peter was vexed too—not

because Stella had butted into the conversation and thrown her opinion

across the room, but because she had gone out of her way to interfere on

behalf of Gervase. It was really rather obvious ... one couldn’t help

noticing ... and in bad taste, too, considering Peter was there.

“Here he is,” said Sir John, as the Ford back-fired a volley in the

drive—“you can start on him now.”

But Gervase was hungry and wanted his tea. He sat down beside his mother

and Rose, so that he could have a plate squarely set on the table

instead of balancing precarious slices of cake in his saucer. Peter

watched him in a manner which he hoped was guarded. There was no sign of

any special intelligence between him and Stella—Gervase had included her

in his general salutation, which he had specialised only in the case of

the Vicar and his wife. At first this reassured Peter, but after a while

he realised that it was not altogether a reassuring sign—Gervase should

have greeted Stella more as a stranger, shaken hands with her as he had

shaken hands with the strangers, instead of including her in the family

wave and grin. They must be on very good terms—familiar terms....

Stella rose to go.

“Have you got the car?” asked Gervase.

“No—Father’s gone over to Dallington in her.”

“Let me drive you back—I’ve got Henry Ford outside.”

“But have you finished your tea? You’ve only eaten half the cake.”

“I’ll eat the other half when I come back—it won’t take me more than a

few minutes to run you home.”

“Thanks very much, then,” said Stella.

She had never been one to refuse a kindness, or say “No, thanks,” when

she meant “Yes, please.” None the less Peter was angry. He was angry

with her for accepting Gervase’s offer and driving off in his

disreputable lorry, and he was angry with her for that very same

happiness which he had admired her for earlier in the afternoon. It was

extremely creditable of her to be happy when she had nothing to make her

so, when her happiness sprang only from the soil of her contented heart;

but if she was happy because of Gervase....

“He’s an elegant fellow, that young son of mine,” said Sir John, as the

lorry drove off amidst retchings and smoke—“No doubt the day will come

when I shall see him drink out of his saucer.”

§ 5

The woman Peter loved now left Conster more elegantly than the woman he

had loved once. The Sunbeam floated over the lane between Conster and

Starvecrow, and pulled up noiselessly outside the house almost directly

it had started. Peter was beginning to feel a little tired of the

Sunbeam—he had hankerings after a lively little two-seater. An

eight-cylindered landaulette driven by a man in livery was all very well

for Vera to pay calls in, or if they wanted to go up to town. But he

wanted something to take him round to farms on business, and

occasionally ship a bag of meal or a load of spiles. He couldn’t afford

both, and if they had the two-seater Vera could still go out in it to

pay her calls—or up to London, for that matter. But she refused to part

with the Sunbeam—it was her father and mother’s wedding present, and

they would be terribly hurt if she gave it up. Two-seaters were always

uncomfortable. And why did Peter want to go rattling round to

farms?—Couldn’t he send one of his men?—Vera never would take him

seriously as a farmer.

This evening, thanks to the Sunbeam, they reached home too early to

dress for dinner. Peter asked Vera to come for a stroll with him in the

orchard, but she preferred the garden at the back of the house. The

garden at Starvecrow used to be a plot of ragged grass, surrounding a

bed of geraniums from the middle of which unexpectedly rose a pear-tree.

Today it was two green slips of lawn divided by a paved pathway shaded

by a pergola. The April dusk was still warm, still pricked with the

notes of birds, but one or two windows in the house were lighted, orange

squares of warmth and welcome beyond the tracery of the pergola.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” murmured Peter, taking Vera’s arm under her

cloak—“Oh, my dear, you surely wouldn’t be in London now.”

“No,” said Vera—“not when it’s fine.”

“What did you think of Williams?”

“Oh, he seemed all right—I didn’t talk to him much. But his wife’s a

bore.”

“I felt sorry for poor Rose, having to welcome her.”

“You needn’t worry—she didn’t do much of that.”

“She had to sit there and be polite, anyhow.”

“I didn’t notice it. But I tell you what really interested me—and that

was watching Stella Mount and Gervase.”

“Oh!”

“They were most amusing.”

“I never noticed anything.”

“No, my dear old man, of course you didn’t, because you never do. But

it’s perfectly plain that it’s a case between them. I’ve thought so for

a long time.”

“He may be in love with her, but I’m sure she isn’t in love with him.”

“Well, she seemed to me the more obviously in love of the two. She had

all the happy, confident manner of a woman in love.”

“She couldn’t be in love with him—he’s a mere boy.”

“Very attractive to women, especially to one past her early youth.

Stella must be getting on for thirty now, and I expect she doesn’t want

to be stranded.”

For some reason Peter could not bear to hear her talked of in this way.

“I know she’s not in love with him,” he said doggedly.

“How can you know?”

“By the way she looks and behaves and all that—I know how Stella looks

when she’s in love.”

“Of course you do. But since she couldn’t get you perhaps she’d like to

have Gervase.”

Peter felt angry.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. Stella isn’t that sort at all—and

she didn’t love me any more than I loved her.”

“Really!”

“You all talk—I’ve heard Doris and Rose at it as well as you—you all

talk as if Stella had been running after me and I wouldn’t have her. But

that isn’t the truth—I loved her, and I’d have had her like a shot if it

had been possible, but it wasn’t.”

He felt a stiffening of Vera’s arm under his, though she did not take it

away. He realised that he had said too much. But he couldn’t help it.

There in the garden of Starvecrow, which Stella had loved as well as he,

he could not deny their common memories ... pretend that he had not

loved her ... he had a ridiculous feeling that it would have been

disloyal to Starvecrow as well as to Stella.

“You needn’t get so angry,” Vera was saying—“I had always been given to

understand that the affair wasn’t serious—a war-time flirtation which

peace showed up as impossible. There were a great many like that.”

“Well, this wasn’t one of them. I loved Stella as much as she loved me.”

“Then why didn’t you marry her?”

“I couldn’t possibly have done so—and anyhow,” shamefacedly, “I’m glad I

didn’t.”

“Then I still say you didn’t really love her. If you had, you’d have

married her even though the family disapproved and she hadn’t a penny.

She’d have done it for you—so if you wouldn’t do it for her, it shows

that you didn’t love her as much as she loved you.”

“I did”—almost shouted Peter.

Vera took her arm away.

“Really, Peter, you’re in a very strange mood tonight. I think I’ll go

indoors.”

“I’m only trying to make you understand that though I don’t love Stella

now, I loved her once.”

“On the contrary—you’re making me understand that though you didn’t love

her once, you love her now.”

“How can you say that!”

“Because you’re giving yourself away all round. You’re jealous of your

brother, and you’re angry with me because I don’t speak of Stella in a

way you quite approve of. Don’t worry, my dear boy. We’ve been married

over a year, and I can hardly expect your fancy never to stray. But I’d

rather you weren’t quite such a boor over it.”

She walked quickly into the house.

Peter felt as if he had been struck. He told himself that Vera was

unjust and hard and cynical. How dare she say he was jealous of Gervase?

How dare she say he had never really loved Stella?—that was her own

infernal jealousy, he supposed. How dare she say he loved Stella

now?—that again was her infernal jealousy. He took one or two miserable

turns up and down the path, then went in to dress for dinner.

A wood fire was burning sweetly in his dressing-room, and his clothes

had been laid out by the parlourmaid, who was as good a valet as only a

good parlourmaid can be. Under these combined influences Peter learned

how material comforts can occasionally soothe a spiritual smart,

dressing there in warmth and ease, he began to slip out of those

distressing feelings which had raged under the pergola. After all, Vera

had made him supremely happy for a year. It was ungrateful to be angry

with her now, just because she had taken it into her head to be a little

jealous. That was really a compliment to him. Besides, now he came to

think of it, he had not spoken or behaved as he ought. What a fool he

had been to kick up such a dust just because Vera had doubted the

reality of his dead love for Stella. No wonder she had drawn

conclusions ... and instead of trying to soothe and reassure her, he had

only got angry.

He made up his mind to apologise at once, and paused at her door on his

way downstairs. But he heard the voice of the maid inside, and decided

to wait till they were alone in the drawing-room before dinner. She was

nearly always down a few minutes before eight.

However, tonight, perversely, she did not appear. The clock struck

eight, and to Peter’s surprise, Weller, the parlourmaid, came into the

room.

“Dinner is served, sir.”

“But your mistress isn’t down yet.”

“She has ordered her dinner to be sent up to her room, Sir.”

§ 6