Henrietta, who had been gazing moodily at the fire, was astonished to

hear the thud, to see her Aunt Sophia leaning drunkenly over the desk.

Sophia’s lips were blue, her eyes were glazed, and Henrietta thought,

“She’s dying, too. Shall I let her die?” but at the same moment she

leapt up and lowered her aunt into a chair.

“It’s my heart,” Sophia said after a few minutes, and Henrietta

understood why poor Aunt Sophia always went upstairs so slowly. “Don’t

tell anybody. No one knows. I ought not to have cried like that.

There’s a little bottle—” She told Henrietta to fetch it from a secret

place. “I never let Caroline know. It would have worried her, and,

after all, she was the first to go. I’m glad to think I saved her that

anxiety. You remember how she teased me about getting tired? Well, it

didn’t matter and she liked to think she was so young. Wherever she is

now, I do hope she isn’t feeling angry with herself. She thought

illness was so vulgar.”

“But not death,” Henrietta said.

“No, not death,” and Henrietta fancied her aunt lingered lovingly on

the word. “This must be a secret between us.” She lay back exhausted.

“I only had two secrets from Caroline. This about my heart was one.

Henrietta, in that little drawer, at the very back, you’ll find a

photograph wrapped in tissue-paper. Find it for me, dear child. Thank

you.” She held it tenderly between her palms. “This was the other. It’s

the picture of my lover, Henrietta. Yes, I wanted you to know that some

one once loved me very dearly.”

“Oh, Aunt Sophia, we all love you. I love you dearly now.”

“Yes, dear, yes, I know; I’m grateful, but I wanted somebody to know

that I had had my romance, and have it still—all these years. But I was

loved, Henrietta, till he died, and I was very young then, younger than

you are now. Yes, I wanted somebody to know that poor Sophia had a real

lover once. He went away to America to make a fortune for me, but he

died. I have been wondering, since Caroline went, if she and he have

met. If so, perhaps she knows, perhaps she blames me, but I don’t think

she will laugh—not now. I hope she laughs still, but not at that. And

now, Henrietta, we’ll put the photograph into the fire.”

“Ah, no, Aunt Sophia, keep it still!”

“Dear child, I may die at any moment, and I have his dear face by

heart. I shouldn’t like any other eyes to look at it, not even yours.

Stir the fire, Henrietta. Now help me up. No, dear, I would rather do

it myself.”

She knelt, her faded face lighted by the flames which consumed her

greatest treasure, her back still girlish, her slim waist girdled with

a black ribbon, her thick knot of hair resting on her neck.

Henrietta went quietly out of the room, but on the landing she wrung

her hands together. She felt herself surrounded by death, decay, lost

love, sad memories. She was too young for this house. She had a longing

to escape into sunshine, gaiety and pleasure. It was Caroline who had

laughed and planned, it was she who had made the place a home. Rose was

too remote, Sophia was living in the past, and Henrietta felt herself

alone. Even her father’s portrait looked down at her with eyes too much

like her own, and out there, beyond the high-walled garden, the roofs

and the river, there was only Francis Sales and he was not a friend. He

was, perhaps, a lover; he was a sensation, an accident; but he was not

a companion or a refuge.

And the thought of Charles rose up, at that moment, like the thought of

a fireside. She wished he would come now and sit with her, asking for

nothing, but assuring her of service. That was what he was for, she

decided. You could not love Charles, but you could trust him for ever,

and the more trust he was given, the more he grew to it. She needed

him: she must not lose him. Deep in her heart she supposed she was

going to marry Francis Sales, yes, in spite of what Aunt Sophia said,

and it was a prospect towards which she tiptoed, holding her breath,

not daring to look; but she, like Rose, had no illusions. She was the

daughter of her mother’s union with her father, and she was prepared

for trouble, for the need of Charles. Besides, she liked him: he was

companionable even when he scolded. One forgot about him, but he

returned; he was there. She went to bed in that comfortable assurance.

§ 9

There could be no more parties for Henrietta that winter, but Mrs.

Batty’s house was always open to her, and Mrs. Batty, like her son

Charles, could be relied upon for welcome and for relaxation. In her

presence Henrietta had a pleasant sense of superiority; she was

applauded and not criticized and she knew she could give comfort as

well as get it. Mrs. Batty liked to talk to her and Henrietta could

sink into one of the superlatively cushioned arm-chairs and listen or

not as she chose. There she was relieved of the slight but persistent

strain she was under in Nelson Lodge, for Sophia and Rose had standards

of manner, conduct and speech beyond her own, while Mrs. Batty’s,

though they existed, were on another plane. Henrietta was sure of

herself in that luxurious, overcrowded drawing-room, decorated and

scented with the least precious of Mr. Batty’s hothouse flowers, and

somewhat overheated.

On her first visit after Caroline’s death, Mrs. Batty received the

bereaved niece with unction. “Ah, poor dear,” she murmured, and whether

her sympathy was for Caroline or Henrietta, perhaps she did not know

herself. “Poor dear! I can’t get your aunt out of my head, Henrietta,

love. There she was at the party, looking like a queen— well, you know

what I mean—and Mr. Batty said she was the belle of the ball. It was

just his joke; but Mr. Batty never makes a joke that hasn’t something

in it. I could see it myself. And then for her to die like that—it

seems as if it was our fault. It was a beautiful ball, wasn’t it, dear?

I do think it was, but it’s spoilt for me. I can only be thankful it

wasn’t her stomach or I should have blamed the supper. As it is, there

must have been a draught. It was a cold night.”

“It was a lovely night,” Henrietta said, thinking of the terrace and

the dark river and the stars. She could remember it all without shame,

for he had not failed her and her personality had not failed. He had

not deserted her, and when they met there would be no need for

explanations. He would look at her, she would look at him—she had to

rouse herself. “Yes, it was a splendid ball, Mrs. Batty.”

“And what did you think of my dress, dear?” Mrs. Batty asked, and

checked herself. “But we ought not to talk about such things with your

dear aunt just dead. You must miss her sadly. Did you—were you with her

at the end?”

But this was a region in which Henrietta could not wander with Mrs.

Batty. “Don’t let us talk of it,” she said.

Mrs. Batty gurgled a rich sympathy and after a due pause she was glad

to resume the topic of the dance. This was her first real opportunity

for discussing it; under Mr. Batty’s slightly ironical smile and his

references to expense, she had controlled herself; among her

acquaintances it was necessary to treat the affair as a mere bagatelle;

but with Henrietta she could expand unlimitedly. What she thought, what

she felt, what she said, what other people said to her, and what her

guests were reported to have said to other people, was repeated and

enlarged upon to Henrietta who, leaning back, occasionally nodding her

head or uttering a sound of encouragement, lived through that night

again.

Yes, out on the terrace he had been the real Francis Sales and that man

in the hollow looking at Aunt Rose and then turning to Henrietta in

uncertainty was the one evoked by that witch on horseback, the modern

substitute for a broomstick. Christabel Sales was right: Aunt Rose was

a witch with her calm, white face, riding swiftly and fearlessly on her

messages of evil. He was never himself in her presence: how could he

be? He was under her spell and he must be cleared of it and kept

immune. But how? Through these thoughts, which were both exciting and

alarming, Henrietta heard Mrs. Batty uttering the name of Charles.

“He seems to have taken a turn for the better, my dear.”

“Has he been ill?” Henrietta asked.

“Ill? No. Bad-tempered, what you might call melancholy. Not lately.

Well, since the dance he has been different. Not so irritable at

breakfast. I told you once before, love, how I dreaded breakfast, with

John late half the time, going out with the dogs, and Mr. Batty behind

the paper with his eyebrows up, and Charles looking as if he’d been dug

up, like Lazarus, if it isn’t wrong to say so, pale and pasty and sorry

he was alive—sort of damp, dear. Well, you know what I mean. But as I

tell you, he’s been more cheerful. That dance must have done him good,

or something has. And Mr. Batty tells me he takes more interest in his

work. Still,” Mrs. Batty admitted, “he does catch me up at times.”

“Yes, I know. About music. I know. He’s queer. I hate it when he gets

angry and shouts, but he’s good really, in his heart.”

“Oh, of course he is,” Mrs. Batty murmured, and, looking at the plump

hands on her silken lap, she added, “I wish he’d marry. Now, John, he’s

engaged; but he didn’t need to be. You know what I mean. He was happy

enough before, but Charles, if he could marry a nice girl—”

“He won’t,” Henrietta said at once, and Mrs. Batty, suddenly alert,

asked sharply, “Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Men are so easily deceived.”

“We can’t help it. You wouldn’t neglect a baby. Well, then, it’s the

same thing. They never get out of their short frocks. Even Mr. Batty,”

his wife chuckled, “he’s very clever and all that, but he’s like all

the rest. The very minute you marry, you’ve got a baby on your hands.”

Henrietta sighed. “It isn’t fair,” she murmured, yet she liked the

notion. Francis Sales was a baby. He would have to be managed, to be

amused; he would tire of his toys. She knew that, and she saw herself

constantly dressing up the old ones and deceiving him into believing

they were new.

“I suppose they’re worth it,” she half questioned.

“Men?”

“No, babies,” Henrietta answered, meaning the same thing, but Mrs.

Batty took her up with fervour. She was reminiscent, and tears came

into her eyes; she was prophetic, she was embarrassing and faintly

disgusting to Henrietta, and when the door opened to let in Charles,

she welcomed him with a pleasure which was really the measure of her

relief.

She had not seen him since she had parted from him in the car. He did

not return her smile and it struck her that he never smiled. It was a

good thing: it would have made him look odder than ever, and somehow he

contrived to show his happiness without the display of teeth. His eyes,

she decided, bulged most when he was miserable, and now they hardly

bulged at all.

“You’re back early to-day, dear,” Mrs. Batty said. “I’ll have some

fresh tea made.” But Charles, without averting his gaze from Henrietta,

said, “I don’t want any tea,” and to Henrietta he said quietly, “I

haven’t seen you for weeks.”

To her annoyance, she felt the colour creeping over her cheeks. No

doubt he would account for that in his own way, and to disconcert him

she added casually, “It’s not long really.”

“It seems long,” he said.

No one but Charles Batty would have said that in the presence of his

mother; it was ridiculous, and she looked at him with revengeful

criticism. He was plain; he was getting bald; his trousers bagged; his

socks were wrinkled like concertinas; his comparative self-assurance

was quite unjustified. He had looked at her consistently since he

entered the room, and Henrietta was angrily aware that Mrs. Batty was

trying to make herself insignificant in her corner of the sofa.

Henrietta could hear the careful control of her breathing. She was

hoping to make the young people forget she was there. Henrietta frowned

warningly at Charles.

“What’s the matter?” he asked at once.

“Nothing.” She might have known it was useless to make signs.

“But you frowned.”

“Well, don’t you ever get a twinge?” she prevaricated.

“Toothache, dear?” Mrs. Batty clucked her distress. “I’ll get some

laudanum. You just rub it on the gum—” She rose. “I have some in my

medicine cupboard. I’ll go and get it.” She went out, and across her

broad back she seemed to carry the legend, “This is the consummation of

tact.”

Charles stood up and planted himself on the hearthrug and Henrietta

wished Mrs. Batty had not gone. “I’m sorry you’ve got toothache,” he

said.

“I haven’t. I didn’t say I had. My teeth are perfect.” With a vicious

opening of her mouth, she let him see them.

“Then why did you frown?”

“I had to do something to stop your glaring at me.”

“Was I glaring? I didn’t know. I suppose I can’t help looking at you.”

Henrietta appreciated this remark. “I don’t mind so much when we are

alone.” From anybody else she would have expected a reminder that she

had once allowed more than that, but she was safe with Charles and half

annoyed by her safety. Her instinct was to run and dodge, but it was a

poor game to play at hide-and-seek with this roughly executed statue of

a young man. “Your mother must have noticed,” she explained.

“Well, why not? She’ll have to know.”

“Know what?” she cried indignantly.

“That we’re engaged.”

She brightened angrily. After all, he was thinking of that night and

she felt a new, exasperated respect for him. “But I told you—I told you

I didn’t mean anything when I let you—when we were alone in that car.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said, and she felt a drop. He had no

business not to think of it.

“Then what do you mean?” she asked coldly.

“I’ve been engaged to you,” he said, “for a long time. I told you. But

I’ve been thinking that it really doesn’t work.”

“Of course it doesn’t. Anybody would have known that except you,

Charles Batty.”

“Yes, but nobody tells me things. I have to find them out.” He sighed.

“It takes time. But now I know.”

“Very well. You’re released from the engagement you made all by

yourself. I had nothing to do with it.”

“No,” he said mildly, “but I can’t be released, so the only way out of

it is for you to be engaged too.” He fumbled in a pocket. “I’ve bought

a ring.”

She sneered. “Who told you about that?”

“I remembered it. John got one. It’s always done and I think this one

is pretty.”

She had a great curiosity to see his choice. She guessed it would be

gaudy, like a child’s, but she said, “It has nothing to do with me. I

don’t want to see it.”

“Do look.”

“Charles, you’re hopeless.” “The man said he would change it if you

didn’t like it.” Into her hand he put the little box, attractively

small, no doubt lined with soft white velvet, and she longed to open

it. She had always wanted one of those little boxes and she remembered

how often she had gazed at them, holding glittering rings, in the

windows of jewellers’ shops. She looked up at Charles, her eyes bright,

her lips a little parted, so young and helpless in that moment that she

drew from him his first cry of passion. “Henrietta!” His hands

trembled.

“It’s only,” she faltered, “because I like looking at pretty things.”

“I know.” He dropped to the sofa beside her. “It couldn’t be anything

else.”

She turned to him, her face close to his, and she asked plaintively,

“But why shouldn’t it be?” She seemed to blame him; she did blame him.

There was something in his presence seductively secure; there was

peace: she almost loved him; she loved her power to make him tremble,

and if only he could make her tremble too, she would be his. “But it

isn’t anything else,” she said below her breath.

“No, it isn’t,” he echoed in the loud voice of his trouble. He got up

and moved away. “So just look at the ring and tell me if you like it.”

He heard the box unwrapped and a voice saying, “I do like it.”

“Then keep it.”

“But I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. It’s for you. It’s pretty, isn’t it? And you like pretty

things.”

“I could just look at it now and then, couldn’t I? But no, it isn’t

fair.”

“I don’t mind about that.

“I mean fair to me.”

He turned at that. “I don’t understand.”

“A kind of hold,” she explained.

“How could it be? I wasn’t trying to tempt you, but we’re engaged and

you must have a ring.”

She shook her small, clenched fists. “We’re not, we’re not! Oh, yes,

you can be, if you like; but I didn’t mean it would hold me in that

way. I meant it would be like a sign—of you. I shouldn’t be able to

forget you; you would be there in the ring, in the box, in the drawer,

like the portrait of Aunt Sophia’s—” She stopped herself. “And I can’t

burn you.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I suppose I ought to.”

“No, you oughtn’t.” She sprang up, delivered from her weakness. “This

is nonsense. Of course, I can’t keep your ring. Take it back, Charles.

It’s beautiful. I thought it would be all red and blue like a flag, but

it’s lovely. It makes my mouth water. It’s like white fire.”

“It’s like you,” he said. “You’re just as bright and just as hard, and

if only you were as small, I could put you in my pocket and never let

you go.”

She opened her eyes very wide. “Then why do you let me go?” she asked

on an ascending note, and she did not mean to taunt him. It would be so

easy for him to keep her, if he knew how. She expected a despairing

groan, she half hoped for a violent embrace, but he answered quietly,

“I don’t really let you go. It’s you I love, not just your hair and

your face and the way your nose turns up, and your hands and feet, and

your straight neck. I have to let them go, but you don’t go. You stay

with me all the time: you always will. You’re like music, always in my

head, but you’re more than that. You go deeper: I suppose into my

heart. Sometimes I think I’m carrying you in my arms. I can’t see you

but I can feel you’re there, and sometimes I laugh because I think

you’re laughing.”

She listened, charmed into stillness. Here was an echo of his

outpouring in the darkness of that hour by the Monks’ Pool, but these

words were closer, dearer. She felt for that moment that he did indeed

carry her in his arms and that she was glad to be there. He spoke so

quietly, he was so certain of his love that she was exalted and

abashed. She did not deserve all this, yet he knew she was hard as well

as bright, he knew her nose turned up. Perhaps there was nothing he did

not know.

He went on simply, without effort. “And though I’m ugly and a fool, I

can’t be hurt whatever you choose to do. What you do isn’t you.” He

touched himself. “The you is here. So it doesn’t matter about the ring.

It doesn’t matter about Francis Sales.”

She said on a caught breath and in a whisper, “What about him?”

He looked at her and made a slight movement with the hands hanging at

his sides, a little flicking movement, as though he brushed something

away. “I think perhaps you are going to marry him,” he said deeply.

Her head went up. “Who told you that?” she demanded.

“Nobody. Nobody tells me anything.”

“Because nobody knows,” she said scornfully. “I haven’t seen him

since—” She hesitated. This Charles knew everything, and he said for

her, rather wearily, very quietly, “Since his wife died. No. But you

will.”

“Yes,” she said defiantly, “I expect I shall. I hope I shall.”

A shudder passed through Charles Batty’s big frame and the words,

“Don’t marry him,” reached her ears like a distant muttering of a

storm. “You would not be happy.”

“What has happiness to do with it?” she asked with an astonishing young

bitterness.

“Ah, if you feel like that,” he said, “if you feel as I do about you,

if nothing he does and nothing he says—”

“He says very little,” Henrietta interrupted gloomily, but Charles

seemed not to hear.

“If his actions are only like the wind in the trees, fluttering the

leaves—yes, I suppose that’s love. The tree remains.”

She dropped her face into her hands. “You’re making me miserable,” she

cried.

He removed her hands and held them firmly. “But why?”

“I don’t know,” she swayed towards him, but he kept her arms rigid,

like a bar between them, “but I don’t want to lose you.”

“You can’t,” he assured her.

“And though you think you have me in your heart, the me that doesn’t

change, you’d like the other one too, wouldn’t you? I mean, you’d

really like to hold me? Not just the thought of me? Tell me you love me

in that way too.”

“Yes,” he said, “I love you in that way too, but I tell you it doesn’t

matter.” He dropped her hands as though he had no more strength. “Marry

your Francis Sales. You still belong to me.”

“But will you belong to me?” she asked softly. She could not lose him,

she wanted to have them both, and Charles, perhaps unwisely, perhaps

from the depth of his wisdom, which was truth, answered quietly, “I

belonged to you since the first day I saw you.”

She let out a sigh of inexpressible relief.

§ 10

To Rose, the time between the death of Caroline and the coming of

spring was like an invalid’s convalescence. She felt a languor as

though she had been ill, and a kind of content as though she were

temporarily free from cares. She knew that Henrietta and Charles Batty

often met, but she did not wish to know how Charles had succeeded in

preventing her escape: she did not try to connect Christabel’s illness

with Henrietta’s return; she enjoyed unquestioningly her rich feeling

of possession in the presence of the girl, who was much on her dignity,

very well behaved, but undeniably aloof. She had not yet forgiven her

aunt for that episode in the gipsies’ hollow, but it did not matter.

Rose could tell herself without any affectation of virtue that she had

hoped for no benefit for herself; looking back she saw that even what

might be called her sin had been committed chiefly for Francis’s sake,

only she had not sinned enough.

But for the present she need not think of him. He had gone away, she

heard, and she could ride over the bridge without the fear of meeting

him and with the feeling that the place was more than ever hers. It was

gloriously empty of any claim but its own. To gallop across the fields,

to ride more slowly on some height with nothing between her and great

massy clouds of unbelievable whiteness, to feel herself relieved of an

immense responsibility, was like finding the new world she had longed

for. She wished sincerely that Francis would not come back; she wished

that, riding one day, she might find Sales Hall blotted out, leaving no

sign, no trace, nothing but earth and fresh spikes of green.

Day by day she watched the advance of spring. The larches put out their

little tassels, celandines opened their yellow eyes, the smell of the

gorse was her youth wafted back to her and she shook her head and said

she did not want it. This maturity was better: she had reached the age

when she could almost dissociate things from herself and she found them

better and more beautiful. She needed this consolation, for it seemed

that her personal relationships were to be few and shadowy; conscious

in herself of a capacity for crystallizing them enduringly, they yet

managed to evade her; it was some fault, some failure in herself, but

not knowing the cause she could not cure it and she accepted it with

the apparent impassivity which was, perhaps, the origin of the

difficulty.

And capable as she was of love, she was incapable of struggling for it.

She wanted Henrietta’s affection; she wanted to give every happiness to

that girl, but she could not be different from herself, she could not

bait the trap. And it seemed that Henrietta might be finding happiness

without her help, or at least without realizing that it was she who had

given Charles his chance. She had rejected her plan of taking Henrietta

away: it was better to leave her in the neighbourhood of Charles, for

he was not a Francis Sales, and if Henrietta could once see below his

queer exterior, she would never see it again except to laugh at it with

an understanding beyond the power of irritation; and she was made to

have a home, to be busy about small, important things, to play with

children and tyrannize over a man in the matter of socks and collars,

to be tyrannized over by him in the bigger affairs of life.

And with Henrietta settled, Rose would at last be free to take that

journey which, like everything else, had eluded her so far. She would

be free but for Sophia who seemed in these days pathetically subdued

and frail; but Sophia, Rose decided, could stay with Henrietta for a

time, or one of the elderly cousins would be glad to take up a

temporary residence in Nelson Lodge.

She was excited by the prospect of her freedom and sometimes, as though

she were doing something wrong, she secretly carried the big atlas to

her bedroom and pored over the maps. There were places with names like

poetry and she meant to see them all. She moved already in a world of

greater space and fresher air; her body was rejuvenated, her mind

recovered from its weariness and when, on an April day, she came across

Francis Sales in one of his own fields, it was a sign of her condition

that her first thought was of Henrietta and not of herself. He had

returned and Henrietta was again in danger, though one of another kind.

She stopped her horse, thinking firmly, Whatever happens, she shall not

marry him: he is not good enough. She said: “Good morning,” in that

cool voice which made him think of churches, and he stood, stroking the

horse’s nose, looking down and making no reply.

“I’ve been away,” he said at last.

“I know. When did you come back?”

“Last night. I’ve been to Canada to see her people. I thought they’d

like to know about her and she would have liked it, too.”

A small smile threatened Rose’s mouth. It seemed rather late to be

trying to please Christabel.

“I didn’t hope,” he went on quietly, “to have this luck so soon. I’ve

been wanting to see you, to tell you something. I wanted to get things

cleared up.”

“What things?”

He looked up. “About Henrietta.”

“There’s no need for that.”

“Not for you, perhaps, but there is for me. You were quite right that

day. I went home and I made up my mind to break my word to her. I’d

made it up before Christabel became so ill. I wanted you to know that.

I couldn’t have left her that night—perhaps you hadn’t realized I’d

meant to—but anyhow I couldn’t have left her, and I wouldn’t have done

it if I could. You were perfectly right.”

Rose moved a little in her saddle. “And yet I had no right to be,” she

said. “You and I—”

“Ah,” he said quickly, “you and I were different. I don’t blame myself

for that, but with Henrietta it was just devilry, sickness, misery.

Don’t,” he commanded, “dare to compare our—our love with that.”

“No,” she said, “no, I don’t think of it at all. It has dropped back

where it came from and I don’t know where that is. I don’t think of it

any more, but thank you for telling me about Henrietta. Good-bye.”

She moved on, but his voice followed her. “I never loved her.”

She stopped but did not turn. “I know that.”

“Yes, but I wanted to tell you.” He was at the horse’s head again. “I

don’t think much of the way those people are keeping your bridle.

There’s rust on the curb chain. Look at it. It’s disgraceful! And I’d

like to tell you that I tried to make it up to Christabel at the last.

Too late—but she was happy. Good-bye. Tell those people they ought to

be ashamed of themselves.”

“I suppose we all ought to be,” Rose said wearily.

“Some of us are,” he replied. “And,” he hesitated, “you won’t stop

riding here now I’ve come back?”

“Of course not. It’s the habit of a lifetime.”

“I shan’t worry you.”

She laughed frankly. “I’m not afraid of that.”

She was immune, she told herself, she could not be touched, yet she

knew she had been touched already: she was obliged to think of him. For

the first time in her knowledge of him he had not grumbled, he was like

a repentant child, and she realized that he had suffered an experience

unknown to her, a sense of sin, and the fact gave him a certain

superiority and interest in her eyes.

She went home but not as she had set forth, for she seemed to hear the

jingle of her chains.

At luncheon Henrietta appeared in a new hat and an amiable mood. She

was going, she said casually, to a concert with Charles Batty.

“I didn’t know there was one,” Rose said. “Where is it?”

“Oh, not in Radstowe. We’re going,” Henrietta said reluctantly, “to

Wellsborough.”

But that name seemed to have no association for Aunt Rose. She said,

“Oh, yes, they have very good concerts there, and I hope Charles will

like your hat.”

“I don’t suppose he will notice it,” Henrietta murmured. She felt

grateful for her aunt’s forgetfulness, and she said, with an enthusiasm

she had not shown for a long time, “You look lovely to-day, Aunt Rose,

as if something nice had happened.”

Rose laughed and said, “Nonsense, Henrietta,” in a manner faintly

reminiscent of Caroline. And she added quickly, against the invasion of

her own thoughts, “And as for Charles, he notices much more than one

would think.”

“Oh, I’ve found that out,” Henrietta grieved. “I don’t think people

ought to notice—well, that one’s nose turns up.”

“It depends how it does it. Yours is very satisfactory.”

They sparkled at each other, pleased at the ease of their intercourse

and quite unaware that these personalities also were reminiscent of the

Caroline and Sophia tradition of compliment.

Sophia, drooping over the table, said vaguely, “Yes, very

satisfactory,” but she hardly knew to what Rose had referred. She lived

in her own memories, but she tried to disguise her distraction and it

was always safe to agree with Rose: she had good judgment, unfailing

taste. “Rose,” she said more brightly, “I’d forgotten. Susan tells me

that Francis Sales has come home.”

Rose said “Yes,” and after the slightest pause, she added, “I saw him

this morning.” She did not look at Henrietta. She felt with something

like despair that this had occurred at the very moment when they seemed

to be re-establishing their friendship, and now Henrietta would be

reminded of the unhappy past. She did not look across the table, but,

to her astonishment, she heard the girl’s voice with trouble, enmity

and anger concentrated in its control, saying quickly, “So that’s the

nice thing that’s happened!”

“Very nice,” Sophia murmured. “Poor Francis! He must have been glad to

see you.”

Rose’s eyes glanced over Henrietta’s face with a look too proud to be

called disdain: she was doubly shocked, first by the girl’s effrontery

and then by the truth in her words. She had indeed been feeling

indefinitely happy and ignoring the cause. She was, even now, not sure

of the cause. She did not know whether it was the change in Francis or

the jingling of the chains still sounding in her ears, but there had

been a lightness in her heart which had nothing to do with the sense of

that approaching freedom on which she had been counting.

She turned to Sophia as though Henrietta had not spoken. “Yes, I think

he was glad to see a friend. He has been to Canada to see Christabel’s

family. No, he didn’t say how he was, but I thought he looked rather

old.”

“Ah, poor boy,” Sophia said. “I think, Rose dear, it would be kind to

ask him here.”

“Oh, he knows he can come when he likes,” Rose said.

On the other side of the table Henrietta was shaking delicately. She

could only have got relief by inarticulate noises and insanely violent

movements. She hated Francis Sales, she hated Rose and Sophia and

Charles Batty. She would not go to the concert—yes, she would go and

make Charles miserable. She was enraged at the folly of her own

remark, at Rose’s self-possession, and at her possible possession of

Francis Sales. She could not unsay what she had said and, having said

it, she did not know how to go on living with Aunt Rose; but she was

going to Wellsborough again and this time she need not come back: yet

she must come back to see Francis Sales. And though there was no one in

the world to whom she could express the torment of her mind she could,

at least, make Charles unhappy.

Rose and Sophia were chatting pleasantly, and Henrietta pushed back her

chair. “Will you excuse me? I have to catch a train.”

Rose inclined her head: Sophia said, “Yes, dear, go. Where did you say

you were going?”

“To Wellsborough.”

“Ah, yes. Caroline and I—Be careful to get into a ladies’ carriage,

Henrietta.”

“I’m going with Charles Batty,” she said dully.

“Ah, then, you will be safe.”

Safe! Yes, she was perfectly safe with Charles. He would sit with his

hands hanging between his knees and stare. She was sick of him and, if

she dared, she would whisper during the music; at any rate, she would

shuffle her feet and make a noise with the programme. And to-morrow she

would emulate her aunt and waylay Francis Sales. There would be no harm

in copying Aunt Rose, a pattern of conduct! She had done it before, she

would do it again and they would see which one of them was to be

victorious at the last.

She fulfilled her intentions. Charles, who had been flourishing under

the kindness of her friendship, was puzzled by her capriciousness, but

he did not question her. He was learning to accept mysteries calmly and

to work at them in his head. She shuffled her feet and he pretended not

to hear: she crackled her programme and he smiled down at her. This was

maddening, yet it was a tribute to her power. She could do what she

liked and Charles would love her; he was a great possession; she did

not know what she would do without him.

As they ate their rich cakes in a famous teashop, Charles talked

incessantly about the music, and when at last he paused, she said

indifferently, “I didn’t hear a note.”

Mildly he advised her not to wear such tight shoes.

“Tight!” She looked down at them. “I had them made for me!”

“You seemed to be uncomfortable,” he said.

“I was thinking, thinking, thinking.”

“What about?”

“Things you wouldn’t understand, Charles. You’re too good.”

“I dare say,” he murmured.

“You’ve never wanted to murder anyone.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Who?”

“That Sales fellow.”

Her eyelids quivered, but she said boldly, “Because of me?”

“No, of course not. Making noises at concerts. Shooting birds. I’ve

told you so before.”

“He’s been to Canada.”

“I know.”

“But he has come back.”

“Well, I suppose he had to come back some day.”

“And I hate Aunt Rose.”

“What a pity,” Charles said, taking another cake.

“Why a pity?”

“Beautiful woman.”

“Oh, yes, everybody thinks so, till they know her.”

“I know her and I think she’s adorable.”

The word was startling from his lips. Charles, too, she exclaimed

inwardly. Was Aunt Rose even to come between her and Charles?

“But of course”—he remembered his lesson—“you’re the most beautiful and

the best woman in the world.”

“I’m not a woman at all,” she said angrily: “I’m a fiend.”

“Yes, to-day; but you won’t be to-morrow. You’ll feel different

to-morrow.”

He had, she reflected, a gift of prophecy. “Yes, I shall,” she said

softly, “I’m stupid. It will be all right to-morrow. I shan’t even be

angry with Aunt Rose and you’ve been an angel to me. I shall never

forget you.”

He said nothing. He seemed very much interested in his cake.

And because she foresaw that her anger towards Aunt Rose would soon be

changed to pity, she apologized to her that night. “I’m afraid I was

rude to you at luncheon.”

“Were you? Oh, not rude, Henrietta. Perhaps rather foolish and

indiscreet. You should think before you speak.”

This admonition was not what Henrietta expected, and she said, “That’s

just what I was doing. You mean I ought to be quiet when I’m thinking.”

“Well, yes, that would be even better.”

“Then, Aunt Rose, I should never speak at all when I’m with you.”

“You haven’t talked to me for a long time.”

She made a gesture like her father’s—impatient, hopeless. “How can I?”

she demanded. There was too much between them: the figure of Francis

Sales was too solid.

She set out as she had intended the next afternoon. It was full

spring-time now and Radstowe was gay and sweet with flowering trees.

The delicate rose of the almond blossom had already faded to a fainting

pink and fallen to the ground, and the laburnum was weeping golden

tears which would soon drop to the pavements and blacken there; the red

and white hawthorns were all out, and Henrietta’s daily walks had been

punctuated by ecstatic halts when she stood under a canopy of flower

and leaf and drenched herself in scent and colour, or peeped over

garden fences to see tall tulips springing up out of the grass; but

to-day she did not linger.

It seemed a long time since she had crossed the river, yet the only

change was in the new green of the trees splashing the side of the

gorge. The gulls were still quarrelling for food on the muddy banks,

children and perambulators, horses and carts, were passing over the

bridge as on her first day in Radstowe, but there was now no Francis

Sales on his fine horse. The sun was bright but clouds were being blown

by a wind with a sharp breath, and she went quickly lest it should rain

before her business was accomplished. She had no fear of not finding

Francis Sales: in such things her luck never failed her, and she came

upon him even sooner than she had expected in the outermost of his

fields.

He stood beside the gate, scrutinizing a flock of sheep and lambs and

talking to the shepherd, and he turned at the sound of her footsteps on

the road. She smiled sweetly: rather stiffly he raised his hand to his

hat and in that moment she recognized that he had no welcome for her.

He had changed; he was grave though he was not sullen, and she said to

herself with her ready bitterness, “Ah, he has reformed, now that

there’s no need. That’s what they all do.”

But her smile did not fade. She leaned over the gate in a friendly

manner and asked him about the lambs. How old were they? She hoped he

would not have them killed: they were too sweet. She had never touched

one in her life. Why did they get so ugly afterwards? It was hard to

believe those little things with faces like kittens, or like flowers,

were the children of their lumpy mothers. “Do you think I could catch

one if I came inside?” she asked.

“Come inside,” he said, “but the shepherd shall catch one for you.”

She stroked the curly wool, she pulled the apprehensive ears, she

uttered absurdities and, glancing up to see if Sales were laughing at

her charming folly, she saw that he was examining his flock with the

practical interest of a farmer. He was apparently considering some

technical point; he had not been listening to her at all. She hated

that lamb, she hoped he would kill it and all the rest, and she decided

to eat mutton in future with voracity.

“I was going to pick primroses,” she said. “Are there any in these

fields?” “I don’t know. Can you spare me a few minutes? I want to

speak to you.”

Her heart, which had been thumping with a sickening slowness, quickened

its beats. Perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps his serious manner

was that of a great occasion, and she saw herself returning to Nelson

Lodge and treating her Aunt Rose with gentle tact.

“Shall we sit on the gate?” she asked.

“I’d rather walk across the field. I’ve been wanting to see you—since

that night. I owe you an apology.”

She dared not speak for fear of making a mistake, and she waited,

walking slowly beside him, her eyes downcast.

“An apology—for the whole thing,” he said.

She looked up. “What whole thing?”

“The way I behaved with you.”

“Oh, that! I don’t see why you should apologize,” she said.

“It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even decent.”

“But it was a sort of habit with you, wasn’t it?” she said

commiseratingly, and had the happiness of seeing his face flush. “I

quite understand. And we were both amused.”

“I wasn’t amused,” he said, “not a bit, and I’m sorry I behaved as I

did. You were so young—and so pretty. Well, it’s no good making

excuses, but I couldn’t rest until I’d seen you and—humbled myself.”

“Did Aunt Rose tell you to say this?” she asked.

“Rose? Of course not. Why should she?”

“She seems to have an extraordinary power.”

“Yes, she has,” he said simply.

“And have you humbled yourself to her, too?”

“No. With her,” he said slowly, “there was no need.”

“I see.” She laughed up at him frankly. “You know, I never took it very

seriously. I’m sorry the thought of it has troubled you.”

He went on, ignoring her lightness, and determined to say everything.

“I meant to meet you that night and tell you what I’m telling you now;

but Christabel was very ill and I couldn’t leave her. I hope”—this was

difficult—“I hope you didn’t get into any sort of mess.”

“That night?” She seemed to be thinking back to it. “That night—no—I

went to a concert with Charles Batty.”

“Oh—” He was bewildered. “Then it was all right?”

“Perfectly, of course.”

“I didn’t know,” he muttered. “And you forgive me?”

She was generous. “I was just as bad as you. The Malletts are all

flirts. Haven’t you heard Aunt Caroline say so? We can’t help doing

silly things, but we never take them seriously. Why, you must have

noticed that with Aunt Rose!”

“No,” he said with dignity, “your Aunt Rose is like nobody else in the

world. I think I told you that once. She—” He hesitated and was silent.

“Well, I must be going back,” Henrietta said easily. “I shan’t bother

about the primroses. I think it’s going to rain. And you won’t think

about this any more, will you? You know, Aunt Caroline says she nearly

eloped several times, and I know my father did it once, with my own

mother, probably with other people beside. It’s in the blood. I must

try to settle down. We did behave rather badly, I suppose, but so much

has happened since. That was my first ball and I felt I wanted to do

something daring.”

“You were not to blame,” he said; “but I’m nearly old enough to be your

father. I can’t forgive myself. I can’t forget it.”

“Oh, dear! And I never took it seriously at all. There was a train back

to Radstowe at ten o’clock. I looked it up. I was going to get that,

but as it happened I went to a concert with Charles Batty. You seem to

have no idea how to play a game. You have to pretend to yourself it’s a

matter of life and death; but you haven’t to let it be. That would

spoil it.”

“I see,” he said. “I’m afraid I didn’t look at it like that. I wish I

had, and I’m glad you did. It makes it easier—and harder—for me.”

“We ought,” she said, “to have laid the rules down first. Yes, we ought

to have done that.” She laughed again. “I shall do that another time.

Good-bye.”

“Good-bye. You’ve been awfully good to me, Henrietta. Thank you.”

“Not a bit,” she cried. “If I’d known you were bothering about it, I

would have reassured you.” She could not withhold a parting shot. “I

would have sent you a message by Aunt Rose.”

She waved a hand and ran back to the road. She did not trouble to ask

herself whether or not he believed her. She was shaken by sobs without

tears. She did not love him, she had never loved him, but she could not

bear the knowledge that he did not love her. It was quite plain; she

was not going to deceive herself any more; his manner had been

unmistakable and it was Aunt Rose he loved. She had been beaten by Aunt

Rose, and even Charles called her adorable. She did not want Francis

Sales; he was rather stupid, and as a legitimate lover he would be

dull, duller than Charles, who at least knew how to say things; but

something coloured and exciting and dramatic had been ravished from

her—by Aunt Rose. That was the sting, and she was humiliated, though

she would not own it. She had been good enough for an episode, but her

charm had not endured.

Her little, rather inhuman teeth ground against each other. But she had

been clever, she had carried it off well; she had not given a sign, and

she determined to be equally clever with Aunt Rose. Some day she would

refer lightly to her folly and laugh at the susceptibility of Francis

Sales. It would hurt Aunt Rose to have her faithful lover disparaged!

But, ah! if only she and Aunt Rose were friends, what a conspiracy they

could enjoy together! They had both suffered, they might both laugh.

How they might play into each other’s hands with Francis Sales for the

bewildered ball! It would be the finest sport in the world; but they

were not friends, and it was impossible to imagine Aunt Rose at that

game. No, she was alone in the world, and as she felt the first drop of

rain on her face she became aware of the aching of her heart.

She stood for a moment on the bridge. A grey mist was being driven up

the river, blotting out the gorge and the trees. A gull, shrieking

dismally, cleaved the greyness with a white flash. It was cold and

Henrietta shivered, and once again she wished she could sit by a

fireside with some one who was kind and tender; but to-night there

would only be Aunt Sophia and Aunt Rose sitting with her in that

drawing-room, where everything was too elegant and too clear, where now

no one ever laughed.

§ 11

They sat by the fire as she had foreseen, Sophia pretending to be busy

with her embroidery, Rose, in a straight-backed chair, reading a book.

Henrietta sat on a low stool with a book open on her knee, but she did

not read it. The fire talked to itself, said silly things and chuckled,

or murmured sentimentally. That chatter, vaguely insane, and the

turning of Rose’s pages, the drawing of Sophia’s silks through the

stuff and the click of her scissors, were the only sounds until,

suddenly, Sophia gave a groan and fell back in her chair. Rose, very

much startled, glanced at Henrietta and jumped up.

“It’s her heart,” Henrietta said with the superiority of her knowledge.

“I’ll get her medicine.” She came back with it. “She was like this when

Aunt Caroline died, but I promised not to tell. If she has this she

will be better.”

It was Henrietta who poured the liquid into the glass and applied it to

Sophia’s lips. She was, she felt, the practical person, and it was she,

and not Aunt Rose, who had been trusted by Aunt Sophia. “She told me

where she kept the stuff,” Henrietta continued calmly. “There, that’s

better.”

Sophia recovered with apologies: a little faintness; it was nothing. In

a few minutes she would go to bed. They helped her there.

“You ought to have told me, Henrietta,” Rose said on the landing.

“I couldn’t. She wished it to be our secret.” It was pleasant to feel

that Aunt Rose was out of this affair.

“We must have the doctor and she ought not to be alone to-night.”

I’ll sleep on the sofa in her room.”

“No, Henrietta, you need more sleep than I do.”

“Oh, but I’m young enough to sleep anywhere—on the floor! But let Aunt

Sophia choose.”

Henrietta went back to the drawing-room, and the housemaid was sent for

the doctor. Shortly afterwards there came a ring at the bell; no doubt

it was the doctor, and Henrietta wished she could go upstairs with him,

for Aunt Rose, she told herself again, was not a practical person and

Henrietta was experienced in illness. She had nursed her mother and she

liked looking after people. She knew how to arrange pillows; she was

not afraid of sickness. However, she would have to wait until Aunt

Sophia sent for her; but it was not the doctor: it was Charles Batty

who appeared in the doorway.

“Oh,” Henrietta said, “what have you come for?”

He put down the hat and stick he had forgotten to leave in the hall. “I

don’t know,” he said. “I had a kind of feeling you might like to see

me. It’s the first time I’ve had it,” he added solemnly.

He really had an extraordinary way of knowing things, but she said,

“Well, Aunt Sophia’s ill, so I don’t think you can stay.”

He looked round for her. “She’s not here. I shan’t do any harm, shall

I? We can whisper.”

“She wouldn’t hear us anyhow. It’s my room above this one.”

“Is it?” He gazed at the ceiling with interest. “Oh, up there!”

“I should have thought you knew by instinct,” she said bitingly.

“No.”

“Come and sit down, Charles, and don’t be disagreeable. I shall have to

go to Aunt Sophia soon, but then you will be able to talk to Aunt Rose.

That will do just as well.”

“Not quite,” he said. “I really came to tell you—”

“You said you came because you thought I wanted you.”

“So I did, but there were several reasons. You said you were going to

be happy to-day, not murderous, do you remember? And I thought I’d like

to see how you looked. You don’t look happy a bit. What’s the matter?”

“I’ve told you Aunt Sophia’s ill. And would you be happy if you had to

sit in this prim room with two old women?”

“Two? But your Aunt Caroline is dead.”

“But my Aunt Rose is very much alive.”

He wagged his head. “I see.”

“But she isn’t lively. She sits like this—reading a book, and Aunt

Sophia, poor Aunt Sophia, sews like this, and I sit on this horrid

little stool, like this. That’s how we spend the evening.”

“How would you like to spend it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She dropped her black head to her knees. “It’s so

lonely.”

“Well,” he began again, “I really came to tell you that there’s a house

to let on The Green: that little one with the red roof like a cap and

windows that squint; a little old house; but—” he paused—“it has every

modern convenience. Henrietta, there’s a curl at the back of your

neck.”

“I know. It’s always there.”

“I can’t go on about the house unless you sit up.”

“Why?”

“Because of that curl.”

“And I’m not interested in the house.” She did not move. “Whose is it?”

“It belongs to a client of ours, but that doesn’t matter. The point is

that it’s to let. I’ve got an order to view. Look!—‘_Please admit Mr.

Charles Batty._’ I went this evening and we can both go to-morrow. It’s

really a very cosy little house. There’s a drawing-room opening on the

garden at the back, with plenty of room for a grand piano, and the

dining-room—I liked the dining-room very much. There was a fire in it.”

“Is that unusual?”

“It looked so cosy, with a red carpet and everything.”

“Is the carpet to let, too?”

“I don’t know. I dare say we could buy it. And mind you, Henrietta, the

kitchen is on the ground floor. That’s unusual, if you like, in an old

house. I made sure of that before I went any further.”

“How far are you going?”

“We’ll go everywhere to-morrow, even into the coal cellar. To-day I

just peeped.”

“I can imagine you. But what do you want a house for, Charles?”

“For you,” he said. “You say you don’t like spending the evenings

here—well, let’s spend them in the little house. We can’t go on being

engaged indefinitely.”

“Certainly not,” she said firmly, “and I should adore a little house of

my own. I believe that’s just what I want.”

“Then that’s settled.”

“But not with you, Charles.”

He said nothing for a time. She was sitting up, her hands clasped on

her lap, and as she looked at him she half regretted her last words.

This was how they would sit in the little house, by the fire,

surrounded by their own possessions, with everything clean and bright

and, as he had said, very cosy. She had never had a home.

Suddenly she leaned towards him and put her head on his knee. His hand

fell on her hair. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she murmured; “but I

was just thinking. You’re tempting me again. First with the ring

because it was so pretty, and now with a house.”

“How else am I to get you?” he cried out. “And you know you were

feeling lonely. That’s why I came.”

“You thought it was your chance?”

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t know the ordinary things, but I know the

others.”

“I wonder how,” she said, and he answered with the one word, “Love,” in

a voice so deep and solemn that she laughed.

“Do you know,” she said, “I have never had a home. I’ve lived in other

people’s houses, with their ugly furniture, their horrid sticky

curtains—”

“I shall take that house to-morrow.”

“But you can’t go on collecting things like this. Houses and rings—”

“The ring’s in my pocket now.”

“It must stay there, Charles. I ought not to keep my head on your knee;

but it’s comfortable and I have no conscience. None.” She sat up,

brushing his chin with her hair. “None!” she said emphatically. “And

here’s Aunt Rose coming to fetch me for Aunt Sophia. Mind, I’ve

promised nothing. Besides, you haven’t asked me to promise anything.”

“Oh!” He blinked. “Well, there’s no time now. Good evening, Miss

Mallett.” He pulled himself out of his chair.

“Good evening, Charles. I’m glad you’re here to keep Henrietta company.

The doctor has been, Henrietta—”

“Oh, has he? I didn’t hear him.”

“Sophia is settled for the night, and I’m going to her now.”

“But she’ll want me!” Henrietta cried.

“No, she asked me to stay with her. Good night. Good night, Charles.”

“But did you say I wanted to be with her?”

Rose, smiling but a little pitiful, said gently, “I gave her the choice

and she chose me.”

She disappeared, and Henrietta turned to Charles. “You see, she gets

everything. She gets everything I ever wanted and she doesn’t try—” Her

hands dropped to her side. “She just gets it.”

“But what have you wanted?”

She turned away. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“Is she going to marry Francis Sales?”

“What makes you ask that?” she cried.

“I don’t know. I just thought of it.”

“Oh, your thoughts! Why, you suggested the same thing, for me! As if I

would look at him!”

Charles blinked, his sign of agitation, but Henrietta did not see.

“He’s good to look at,” Charles muttered. “He knows how to wear his

clothes.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Charles heaved a sigh. “One never knows what matters.”

“And the Malletts don’t marry,” Henrietta said. “Aunt Caroline and Aunt

Sophia and Aunt Rose, and now me. There’s something in us that can’t be

satisfied. It was the same with my father, only it took him the other

way.”

“I didn’t know he was married more than once. Nobody tells me things.”

“Charles, dear, you’re very stupid. He was only married once in a

church.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And if I did marry, I should be like him.” She turned to him and put

her face close to his. “Unfaithful,” she pronounced clearly.

“Oh, well, Henrietta, you would still be you.”

She stepped backwards, shocked. “Charles, wouldn’t you mind?”

“Not so much,” he said stolidly, “as doing without you altogether.”

“And the other day you said you need never do that because”—she tapped

his waistcoat—“because I’m here!”

He showed a face she had never seen before. “You seem to think I’m not

made of flesh and blood!” he cried. “You’re wanton, Henrietta, simply

wanton!” And he rushed out of the room.

She heard the front door bang; she saw his hat and stick, lying where

he had put them; she smiled at them politely and then, sinking to the

floor beside the fender, she let out a little moan of despair and

delight. The fire chuckled and chattered and she leaned forward, her

face near the bars.

“Stop talking for a minute! I want to tell you something. There’s

nobody else to tell. Listen! I’m in love with him now.” She nodded her

head. “Yes, with him. I know it’s ridiculous; but it’s true. Did you

hear? You can laugh if you like. I don’t care. I’m in love with him.

Oh, dear!”

She circled her neck with her hands as though she must clasp something,

and it would have been too silly to fondle his ugly hat. And he would

remember he had forgotten it; he would come back. She dared not see

him. “I love him,” she cried out, “too much to want to see him!” She

paused, astonished. “I suppose that’s how he feels about me. How

wonderful!” She looked round at the furniture, so still and unmoved by

the happy bewilderment in which she found herself. The piano was mute;

the lamps burned steadily; the chair in which Charles had sat was

unconscious of its privilege; even the fire’s flames had subsided; and

she was intensely, madly, joyously alive. “It’s too much,” she said,

“too much!” And for the first time she was ashamed of her episode with

Francis Sales. “Playing at love,” she whispered.

But Charles would be coming back and, tiptoeing as though he might hear

her from the street, she picked up his hat and stick and laid them

neatly on the step outside the front door.

She slept with the profundity of her happiness and descended to

breakfast in a dream. Only the sight of Rose’s tired face reminded her

that Aunt Sophia was ill. She had had a bad night, but she was better.

“She’s not going to die, too, is she?” Henrietta asked, and she had a

sad vision of Aunt Rose living all alone in Nelson Lodge.

“She may live for a long time, but the doctor says she may die at any

moment.”

“I don’t suppose she wants to live.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because of Aunt Caroline—and—other people. But if she dies, whatever

will you do?”

The question amused Rose. “Go and see the world at last,” she said.

“Perhaps you will come, too.”

Henrietta laughed and flushed and became serious. “She mustn’t die.”

For, after all, Aunt Sophia was not a true Mallett, according to Aunt

Caroline’s test; she believed in marriage, she would like to see

Henrietta in the little house; one of them would be able to call on the

other every day. It was wonderful of Charles to have known she would

like that house: she knew it well, with its red cap and its squinting

eyes; but, then, he was altogether wonderful.

She supposed he would call for her that afternoon and they would

present the order to view together, but he did not come. With her hat

and gloves lying ready on the bed, she waited for his knock in vain. He

must have been kept by business; he would come later to explain. And

then, when still he did not come, she decided that he must be ill. If

so, her place was by his side, and she saw herself moving like an angel

about his bed; and yet the thought of Charles in bed was comic.

At dinner she ate nothing and when Rose remarked on this, Henrietta

murmured that she had a headache; she thought she would go for a walk.

“Then, if you are really going out, will you take a note to Mrs. Batty?

She sent some fruit and flowers to Sophia. I suppose Charles told her

she was ill.”

Henrietta looked sharply at her aunt: she was suspicious of what seemed

like tact, but Rose wore an ordinary expression.

“Is the note ready?” Henrietta asked.

“Yes, I meant to post it, but I’d rather she had it to-night, and there

is the basket to return.”

“Very well, I’ll take them both, and if I’m a little late, you’ll know

I have just gone for a walk or something.”

“I shan’t worry about you,” Rose said.

Henrietta walked up the yellow drive, trembling a little. She had

decided to ask for Mrs. Batty who was always pleased to see her, but

when the door was opened her ears were assailed by a blast of

triumphant sound. It was Charles, playing the piano; he was not ill, he

was not busy, he was merely playing the piano as though there were no

Henrietta in the world, and her trembling changed to the stiffness of

great anger.

She handed in the basket and the note without a word or a smile for the

friendly parlourmaid. She walked home in the awful realization that she

had worn Charles out. He had called her wanton; he must have meant it.

It was that word which had really made her love him, yet it was also

the sign of his exhaustion. Life was tragic: no, it was comic, it was

playful. She had had happiness in her hands, and it had slipped through

them. She felt sick with disappointment under her rage; but she was not

without hope. It stirred in her gently. Charles would come back. But

would he? And she suddenly felt a terrible distrust of that love of

which he had boasted. It was too complete; he could do without her. He

would go on loving, but, she repeated it, she had worn him out, and she

could not love like that. She wanted tangible things. But he had said

that he, too, was flesh and blood, and that comforted her. He would

come back, but she could do nothing to invite him.

This, she said firmly, was the real thing. It had been different with

Francis Sales: with him there had been no necessity for pride, but her

love for Charles must be wrapped round with reserve and kept holy; and

at once, with her unfailing dramatic sense, she saw herself moving

quietly through life, tending the sacred flame. And then, irritably,

she told herself she could not spend her days doing that: she did not

know what to do! She hated him; she would go away; yes, she would go

away with Aunt Rose.

In the meantime she wept with a passion of disappointment, humiliation

and pain, but on each successive morning, for some weeks, she woke to

hope, for here was a new day with many possibilities in its hours; and

each evening she dropped on to her bed, disheartened. Nothing happened.

Aunt Sophia was better, Rose rode out every day, the little house on

The Green stood empty, squinting disconsolately, resignedly surprised

at its own loneliness. It was strange that nobody wanted a house like

that; it was neglected and so was she: nobody noticed the one or the

other.

Every morning Henrietta took Aunt Sophia for a stately walk; every

afternoon she went to a tea- or tennis-party, for the summer

festivities were beginning once more; and often, as she returned, she

would meet Aunt Rose coming back from her ride, always cool in her

linen coat, however hot the day. Where did she go? How often did she

meet Francis Sales? Why should she be enjoying adventures while

Henrietta, at the only age worth having, was desperately fulfilling the

tedious round of her engagements? It was absurd, and Aunt Rose would

ask serenely, “Did you have a good game, Henrietta?” as though there

was nothing wrong.

Henrietta did not care for games. It was the big sport of life itself

she craved for, and she could not get it. All these young men, handsome

and healthy in their flannels and ready to be pleasant, she found dull,

while the figure of the loose-jointed Charles, his vague gestures, his

unseeing eyes screening the activity of his brain, became heroic in

their difference. She never saw him; she did not visit Mrs. Batty; she

was afraid of falling tearfully on that homely, sympathetic breast, but

Mrs. Batty, as usual, issued invitations for a garden-party.

“We shall have to go,” Sophia sighed. “Such an old and so kind a

friend! But without Caroline—for the first tune!”

“There is no need for you to go,” Rose said at once. “Mrs. Batty will

understand, and Henrietta and I will represent the family.”

“No, I must not give way. Caroline never gave way.”

There was no excitement in dressing for this party. Without Caroline

things lost their zest, and they set out demurely, walking very slowly

for Sophia’s sake.

It was a hot day and Mrs. Batty, standing at the garden door to greet

her guests, was obliged to wipe her face surreptitiously now and then,

while the statues in the hall, with their burdens of ferns and lamps,

showed their cool limbs beneath their scanty but still decent drapery.

Mrs. Batty took Sophia to a seat under a tree and Henrietta stood for a

moment in the blazing sunlight alone. Where was Aunt Rose? Henrietta

looked round and had a glimpse of that slim black form moving among the

rose-trees with Francis Sales. He had simply carried her off! It was

disgraceful, and things seemed to repeat themselves for ever. Aunt

Rose, with her look of having lost everything, still succeeded in

possessing, while Henrietta was alone. She had no place in the world.

John’s affianced bride was busy among the guests, like a daughter of

the house, a slobbering bulldog at her heels; and Henrietta, isolated

on the lawn, was overcome by her own forlornness. It had been very

different at the ball. And how queer life was! It was just a succession

of days, that was all: little things happened and the days went on; big

things happened and seemed to change the world, but nothing was really

changed, and a whole life could be spent with a moment’s happiness or

despair for its only marks.

Henrietta, rather impressed by the depths of her own thoughts, moved

through the garden. Where was Charles? She wanted to see him and get

their meeting over, but there was not a sign of him and, avoiding the

croquet players and that shady corner where elderly ladies were

clustered near the band, the same band which had played at the ball,

Henrietta found herself in the kitchen garden. She examined the

gooseberry bushes and strawberry beds with apparent interest, unwilling

to join the guests and still more unwilling to be found alone in this

deserted state. It was very hot. The open door of a little shed showed

her a dim and cool interior; she peeped in and stepped back with an

exclamation. Something had moved in there. It might be a rat or one of

John’s ferocious terriers, but a voice said quietly, “It’s only me.”

She stepped forward. “What are you doing in there?”

“Getting cool,” Charles said. “I thought nobody would find me. Won’t

you come in? It’s rather dirty in here, but it’s cool, and you can’t

hear the band. I’ve been sitting on the handle of the wheelbarrow, so

that’s clean, anyhow. I’ll wipe it with my handkerchief to make sure.”

“But where are you going to sit?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“There’s room on the other handle.”

Henrietta sat with her knees between the shafts, and he sat on the

other handle with his back to her.

“We can’t stay here long,” she said.

“No,” Charles agreed.

The place smelt musty, but of heaven. It was draped with cobwebs like

celestial clouds; it was dark, but gradually the forms of rakes, hoes,

spades and a watering-pot cleared themselves from the gloom and

Charles’s head bloomed above his coat like a great pale flower.

She put out her hand and drew it back again. She found nothing to say.

Outside the sun poured down its rays like fire. Henrietta’s head

drooped under her big hat. She was content to stay here for ever if

Charles would stay, too. Her body felt as though it were imponderable,

she had no feet, she could not feel the hard handle of the wheelbarrow;

she seemed to be floating blissfully, aware of nothing but that

floating, yet a threat of laughter began to tickle her. It was absurd

to sit like this, like strangers in an omnibus. The laughter rose to

her throat and escaped: she floated no longer, but she was no less

happy.

“What’s the matter?” asked the voice of Charles.

“So funny, sitting like this.”

“What else can we do?”

“You could turn round.”

“There’s not room for all our knees.”

She stood up with a little rustle and walked to the door. “No, it’s too

hot out there,” she said, and returned to face him. “Charles,” she said

in rather a high voice, “did you find your hat and stick that night?”

“What? Oh, yes,” and then irrelevantly he added, “I’ve just been made a

partner.”

“Really?” She was always interested in practical things. “In Mr.

Batty’s firm? How splendid! I didn’t know you were any good at

business.”

“I’ve been improving, and you don’t know anything about me.”

“I do, Charles,” she said earnestly.

“No, nothing. You haven’t time to think of anybody but yourself. And

now I must go and look after all these people. You’d better come and

have an ice.”

There was ice at her heart and she realized now that her past

unhappiness had been half false; she had been waiting for him all the

time and trusting to his next sight of her to put things right, but she

had failed with him, too.

In that dim tool-house she had stood before him in her pretty dress,

smiling down at him, surely irresistible, and he had resisted. Well,

she could resist, too, and she walked calmly by his side, holding her

head very high, and when he parted from her with a grave bow, she felt

a great, an awed respect for him.

She went to find her Aunt Sophia, who was still sitting under the tree,

surrounded by a chattering group. She looked tired, and, signalling for

Henrietta to approach, she said, “I’m afraid this is too much for me,

dear child. Can you find Rose and ask her to take me home? But I don’t

want to spoil your pleasure, Henrietta. There is no need for you to

come.”

Henrietta’s lip twisted with dramatic bitterness. There was no pleasure

left for her. “I would rather go back with you, Aunt Sophia. Let us go

now.”

“No, no. Find Rose.”

There was another buffet in the face. It was Rose who was wanted and

Henrietta, walking swiftly, crossed the lawn again, casting quick

glances right and left. Rose was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, for their

ways had an odd habit of following the same path, she was in the

tool-house with Francis Sales, but as she turned to go there, the voice

of Mrs. Batty, husky with exhaustion and heat, said in her ear, “Is it

your Aunt Rose you are looking for, love? I think I saw her go into the

house, and I wish I could go myself. It’s so hot that I really feel I

may have a fit.”

Henrietta went into the cool, shaded drawing-room on light feet, and

there, against the window, she saw her Aunt Rose in an attitude

startlingly unfamiliar. She was standing with her hands clasped before

her, and she gazed down at them lost in thought—or prayer. Her body, so

upright and strong, seemed limp and broken, and her face, which was

calm, yet had the look of having composed itself after pain.

There was no one else in the room, but Henrietta had the strong

impression that someone had lately passed through the door. She was

afraid to disturb that moment in which an escaped soul seemed to be

fluttering back into its place, but Rose looked up and saw her and

Henrietta, advancing softly as though towards a person who was dead,

stopped within a foot of her. Then, without thought and obeying an

uncontrollable impulse, she stepped forward and laid her cheek against

her aunt’s. Rose’s hands dropped apart and, one arm encircling

Henrietta’s waist, she held her close, but only for a minute. It was

Henrietta who broke away, saying, “Aunt Sophia sent me to look for you.

She doesn’t feel well.”

§ 12

Mrs. Batty was cured of giving parties. It was after her ball that Miss

Caroline died, and it was after her garden-party that Miss Sophia

finally collapsed. The heat, the emotion of her memories and the effort

of disguising it had been too much for her. She died the following day

and Mrs. Batty felt that the largest and most expensive wreath

procurable could not approach the expression of her grief. It was no

good talking to Mr. Batty about it; he would only say he had been

against the ball and garden-party from the first, but Mrs. Batty found

Charles unexpectedly soothing. He was certainly much improved of late,

and when she heard that he was to go to Nelson Lodge on business

connected with the estate, she burdened him with a number of incoherent

messages for Rose.

Perhaps he delivered them; he certainly stayed in the drawing-room for

some time, and Henrietta, sitting sorrowfully in her bedroom, could

hear his voice “rolling on monotonously. Then there was a laugh and

Henrietta was indignant. Nobody ought to laugh with Aunt Sophia lying

dead, and she did not know how to stay in her room while those two,

Aunt Rose and her Charles, talked and laughed together. She thought of

pretending not to know he was there and of entering the drawing-room in

a careless manner, but she could not allow Aunt Rose to witness

Charles’s indifference. All she could do was to steal on to the landing

and lean over the banisters to watch him depart. She had the painful

consolation of seeing the top of his head and of hearing him say, “The

day after to-morrow?”

Rose answered, “Yes, it’s most important.”

Henrietta waited until the front door had closed behind him and then,

seeing Rose at the foot of the stairs, she said, “What’s important,

Aunt Rose?”

“Oh, are you there, Henrietta? What a pity you didn’t come down. That

was Charles Batty.”

“I know. What’s important?”

“There is a lot of complicated business to get through.”

“You might let me help.”

“I wish you would. When Charles comes again—his father isn’t very

well—you had better be present.”

“No, not with Charles,” Henrietta said firmly. “Does he understand

wills and things?”

“Perfectly, I think. He’s very clever and quite interesting.”

“Oh!” Henrietta said.

“I’m glad he’s coming again. And now, Henrietta,” she sighed, “we must

get ready for the cousins.”

The female relatives returned in dingy cabs. They had not yet laid

aside their black and beads for Caroline, and, as though they thought

Sophia had been unfairly cheated of new mourning, they had adorned

themselves with a fresh black ribbon here and there, or a larger brooch

of jet, and these additions gave to the older garments a rusty look, a

sort of blush.

Across these half-animated heaps of woe and dye, the glances of Rose

and Henrietta met in an understanding pleasing to both. This mourning

had a professional, almost a rapacious quality, and if these women had

no hope of material pickings, they were getting all possible

nourishment from emotional ones. Their eyes, very sharp, but veiled by

seemly gloom, criticized the slim, upright figures of these young women

who could wear black gracefully, sorrow with dignity, and who had, as

they insisted, so much the look of sisters.

The air seemed freer for their departure, but the house was very empty,

and though Sophia had never made much noise the place was heavy with a

final silence.

“I don’t know why we’re here!” Henrietta cried passionately across the

dinner-table when Susan had left the ladies to their dessert.

“Why were we ever here?” Rose asked. “If one could answer that

question—”

They faced each other in their old places. The curved ends of the

shining table were vacant, the Chippendale armchairs were pushed back

against the wall, yet the ghosts of Caroline and Sophia, gaily dressed,

with dangling earrings, the sparkle of jewels, the movements of their

beringed fingers, seemed to be in the room.

“But we shall never forget them,” Henrietta said. “They were persons.

Aunt Rose, do you think you and I will go on as they did, until just

one of us is left?”

“We could never be like them.”

“No, they were happy.”

“You will be happy again, Henrietta. We shall get used to this

silence.”

“But I don’t think either of us is meant to be happy. No, we’re not

like them. We’re tragic. But all the same, we might get really fond of

one another, mightn’t we?”

“I am fond of you.”

“I don’t see how you can be”—Henrietta looked down at the fruit on her

plate—“considering what has happened,” she almost whispered.

Rose made no answer. The steady, pale flames of the candles stood up

like golden fingers, the shadows behind the table seemed to listen.

“But how fond are you?” Henrietta asked in a loud voice, and Rose,

peeling her apple delicately, said vaguely, “I don’t know how you

measure.”

“By what you would do for a person.”

“Ah, well, I think I have stood that test.”

Henrietta leaned over the table, and a candle flame, as though startled

by her gesture, gave a leap, and the shadows behind were stirred.

“Yes,” Henrietta said, “I hated you for a long time, but now I don’t.

You’ve been unhappy, too. And you were right about—that man. I didn’t

love him. How could I? How could I? How could anybody? If you hadn’t

come that day—”

Rose closed her eyes for a moment and then said wearily, “It wouldn’t

have made any difference. I never made any difference. You didn’t love

him; but he never loved you either, child. You were quite safe.”

Henrietta’s face flushed hotly. This might be true, but it was not for

Aunt Rose to say it. Once more she leaned across the table and said

clearly, “Then you’re still jealous.”

Rose smiled. It seemed impossible to move her. “No, Henrietta. I left

jealousy behind years ago. We won’t discuss this any further. It

doesn’t bear discussion. It’s beyond it.”

“I know it’s very unpleasant,” Henrietta said politely, “but if we are

to go on living together, we ought to clear things up.”

“We are not going on living together,” Rose said. She left the table

and stood before the fire, one hand on the mantelshelf and one foot on

the fender. The long, soft lines of her dark dress were merged into the

shadows, and the white arm, the white face and neck seemed to be

disembodied. Henrietta, struck dumb by that announcement, and feeling

the situation wrested from the control of her young hands, stared at

the slight figure which had typified beauty for her since she first saw

it.

“Then you don’t like me,” she faltered.

Rose did not move, but she began to speak. “Henrietta, I have loved you

very dearly, almost as if you were my daughter, but you didn’t seem to

want my love. I couldn’t force it on you, but it has been here: it is

still here. I think you have the power of making people love you, yet

you do nothing for it except, perhaps, exist. One ought not to ask any

more; I don’t ask it, but you ought to learn to give. You’ll find it’s

the only thing worth doing. Taking—taking—one becomes atrophied. No, it

isn’t that I don’t care for you, it isn’t that. I am going to be

married.”

Very carefully, Henrietta put her plate aside, and, supporting her face

in her hands, she pressed her elbows into the table; she pressed hard

until they hurt. So Aunt Rose was going to be married while Henrietta

was deserved. “Not to Francis Sales?” she whispered.

“Yes, to Francis Sales.”

She had a wild moment of anger, succeeded by horror for Aunt Rose. Was

she stupid? Was she insensible? And Henrietta said, “But you can’t,

Aunt Rose, you can’t.” Her distress and a kind of envy gave her

courage. “He isn’t good enough. He played with you and then with me and

you said there was some one else.” The figure by the mantelpiece was so

still that Henrietta became convinced of the potency of her own words,

and she went on: “You know everything about him and you can’t marry

him. How can you marry him?”

A sound, like the faint and distant wailing of the wind, came out of

the shadows into which Rose had retreated: “Ah, how?”

“And you’re going to leave me—for him!”

“Yes—for him.”

“Aunt Rose, you would be happier with me.”

Again there came that faint sound. “Perhaps.”

“I’d try to be kinder to you. I don’t understand you.”

“No, you don’t understand me. Do you understand yourself?” She left her

place and put her hands on Henrietta’s shoulders. “Say no more,” she

said with unmistakable authority. “Say no more, neither to me nor to

anybody else. This is beyond you. And now come into the drawing-room.

Don’t cry, Henrietta. I’m not going to be married for some time.”

“I wish I’d known you loved me,” Henrietta sobbed.

“I tried to show you.”

“If I’d known, everything might have been different.”

Rose laughed. “But we don’t want it to be different.”

“You won’t be happy,” Henrietta wailed.

“You, at least,” Rose said sternly, “have done nothing to make me so.”

Henrietta stilled her sobbing. It was quite true. She had taken

everything—Aunt Rose’s money, Aunt Rose’s love, her wonderful

forbearance and the love of Charles.

“I don’t know what to do,” she cried.

“Come into the drawing-room and we’ll talk about it.”

But they did not talk. Rose played the piano in the candlelight for a

little while before she slipped out of the room. Henrietta sat on the

little stool without even the fire to keep her company. She was too

dazed to think. She did not understand why Aunt Rose should choose to

marry Francis Sales and she gave it up, but loneliness stretched before

her like a long, hard road.

If only Charles would come! He always came when he was wanted. A memory

reached her weary mind. This was “the day after to-morrow,” and Aunt

Rose expected him. She leapt up and examined herself in the mirror. She

was one of those lucky people who can cry and leave no trace; colour

had sprung into her cheeks, but it faded quickly. She had waited for

him before and he had not come, and she was tired of waiting. She sank

into Aunt Caroline’s chair and shut her eyes; she almost slept. She was

on the verge of dreams when the bell jangled harshly. She did not move.

She sat in an agony of fear that this would not be Charles; but the

door opened and he entered. Susan pronounced his name, and he stood on

the threshold, thinking the room was empty.

A very small voice pierced the stillness. “Charles, I’m here.”

“I won’t come a step farther,” Charles said severely, “until you tell

me if you love me.”

“I thought you’d come to see Aunt Rose.”

“Henrietta—”

“Yes, I love you, I love you,” she said hurriedly. “I’m nodding my head

hard. No, stay where you are, stay where you are. I’ve been loving you

for weeks and you’ve treated me shamefully. No, no, I’ve got to be

different, I’ve got to give. You didn’t treat me shamefully.”

“No,” he said stolidly, “I didn’t. Here’s the ring, and I took that

house. I’ve been renting it ever since I knew we were going to live in

it. Here’s the ring.” He dropped it into her lap.

She looked down at the stones, hard and bright like herself. “Aunt Rose

will be very much surprised,” she said, and she was too happy to wonder

why he laughed.

Standing on the stair, Rose heard that laughter and went on very slowly

to her room. She had, at least, done something for Henrietta. She had

given Charles his chance, and now she was to go on doing things for

Francis Sales. She owed him something: she owed him the romance of her

youth, she owed him the care which was all she had left to give him.

Things had come to her too late, her eyes were too wide open, yet

perhaps it was better so. She had no illusions and she wanted to

justify her early faith and Christabel’s sufferings and her own. There

was nothing else to do. Besides, he needed her, and with him she would

not be more unhappy; he would be happier, he said. She had to protect

him against himself, yet even there she was frustrated, for he had, in

a measure, found himself, and now that she was ready and able to serve

him there would be less for her to do. But she had no choice: there was

the old debt, there were the old chains, and as she faced the future

she was stirred by hope. She could tell herself that something of her

dead love had waked to life, yet when she tried to get back the old

rapture, she knew it had gone for ever.

She entered her room and did not turn on the light. There seemed to be

a strange weight in her body, pressing her down, but, as she looked

through her open window at the summer sky deepening to night and

letting out the stars, which seemed to be much amused, there was a

lightness in her mind and, smiling back at them, she was able to share

their appreciation of the joke.