It was strange that in this bitter crisis of her life the old home, from
which she had longed so impatiently to escape in the days of her
impulsive girlhood, should seem to Prudence a refuge from the distresses
which now overwhelmed her. She wanted to return to her childhood's
home, to her father, to the bedroom with its window facing south and the
roses lifting their heads to the sunlight below the sill. These
familiar pleasant things in their quiet beauty appealed to her
irresistibly. There was a suggestion of peace in the homely picture, of
escape from misunderstanding and worry and the near danger of a presence
which she feared to face.
Edward Morgan raised no objection to her going. Relations between
himself and his wife were so strained since his unusual outburst of
passion that he was relieved to be spared the awkwardness of daily
intercourse for a time. A brief separation might more readily effect a
reconciliation between them than the present hostile conditions of life
together promised. His attitude of cold courtesy towards her, her
silent aloofness, threatened to widen the distances irrevocably; and Mr
Morgan had no desire for an open breach. It was his intention to patch
up the quarrel. Prudence had not arrived at this stage. Her thought
was solely for the present. She realised the urgent need to get away,
to escape from Morningside, and from her husband and this life which had
grown so painful to her.
The return to her old home stuck in her memory by reason of the sense of
change here as elsewhere. The influence of the times had its grip on
Wortheton, on Court Heatherleigh and its inmates. William, whose manner
was oddly unwelcoming towards his sister, was much occupied at the
works, and troubled with labour discontent, and the threatened invasion
of the Trades Union. Some of his workpeople had struck for increased
wages. The increase had been granted after considerable delay; but the
strikers had been compelled to apologise before they were allowed to
resume their places. That was the beginning of the end of William's
autocracy. Higher wages were given elsewhere, and the workpeople spoke
sullenly among themselves of going in quest of better pay and fairer
treatment. The Wortheton factories were fated to come into line with
the rest.
At Court Heatherleigh the family had decreased in numbers, the younger
Miss Graynor being absent on war work. And Agatha had developed the
knitting habit, and was never to be seen without a ball of wool and
needles in her hands. Even during meals she occupied herself with
knitting between the courses. The irreproachable butler was somewhere
in France behind the lines, and his place had not been filled; the
eminently respectable, severe-looking parlourmaid carried on unaided for
the present. Eventually the war engulfed her also; and she drifted from
Wortheton to a munition factory with the settled purpose of bringing the
war to a close.
Prudence observed these changes with wonderment. Somehow she had not
supposed that a war even could alter the course of life in Wortheton--
that lichenous spot, which seemed to have detached itself from the
general progress and fallen into contented slumber for all time. But
the booming of the guns had effectually disturbed its repose. The
booming of those guns in France penetrated everywhere and found their
echo in every heart.
Old Mr Graynor alone stood apart from these things. He was too old and
feeble to feel a great interest in anything beyond the personal aspect
of the great upheaval. He was concerned at his daughters leaving home,
and was anxious for Bobby's safety; but the war between the nations,
which he was fated never to see ended, was too amazing and too vast to
hold his attention. The discussions in the home circle provided all the
information he gleaned of the progress of events.
He was glad of Prudence's company. She, as well as himself, stood
outside the general activity, and conveyed by her presence something of
the atmosphere of the past. He accepted her reappearance in the home
without question. He was growing forgetful and, save when Edward
Morgan's name was mentioned, did not appear to remember his existence.
The changes which had taken the others away had brought Prudence home;
that was how he saw things; and he liked to have her there.
"I'm getting old, Prue," he told her. "I've taken to falling asleep in
my chair, and my memory plays me tricks. It is good to have you back.
They are all so busy; the old man gets overlooked and forgotten. You'll
stay with me?"
"Yes," Prudence answered, responding to the wistful tone in his shaky
voice; "as long as you want me."
He was the only person in all the world, she reflected, who really had
need of her. His dependence on her comforted her greatly. They were
both of them lonely souls, whom the rush of events left stranded beyond
reach of the changing tides.
It was early spring, and the depression of those first months of war
brooded like a dark cloud over everything. The garden, which in former
years had blazed with bloom, seemed to have taken on an air of mourning
with the rest. Only a solitary bulb here and there, left in the soil
from a past season, lifted its defiant head among the empty borders.
The Court was short-handed; and Agatha had deemed it unfitting to waste
time and money over the planting of unnecessary flowers. But below
Prudence's window the _gloire de Dijon_ roses were opening slowly,
bringing their golden promise of warmer days to come.
In the evenings, when her father had retired early as his custom was of
late, Prudence would stand at her old place and lean upon the sill and
look out over the shadowy stillness upon the white riband of road beyond
the walls. And her thoughts would travel back to the days when she had
leaned there as a girl and watched a man go striding down the hill,
whistling as he walked. She had dreamed of love in those days, and of
romance: but these things too had passed her by and gone down the road
of life, following the man's destiny out of her sight. When one has
voluntarily accepted the lesser gift it is vain to hunger after what
might have been. There are two philosophies in life, and they both lead
to definite points, and each has its followers: the one is to accept
one's lot, whatever it may be, and bear it courageously; the other is to
cast off responsibility and take what offers agreeably as the
opportunity presents itself. The individual can resolve for himself
alone which is the better course. Temptation assails people
differently. The prudent nature is not necessarily always the higher;
but discretion is a wise virtue, and restraint is a proof of strength.
Not until the night of her unexpected meeting with Steele had Prudence's
fortitude been really tried. She had felt it to be unequal to battle,
and had not stayed to test its strength. Safety for her lay in flight.
Yet had she paused to reflect she might have realised that by her flight
she betrayed her weakness to the man who had avowed in passionate terms
his determination to meet and have speech with her again.
Prudence had sought only to avoid a further meeting; but while she stood
at her window a few nights after her return to Court Heatherleigh a
sudden conviction seized her that Steele would make inquiries, would
discover her movements, might even follow her. He had been in earnest
when he had said: "We've got to meet and talk this matter out... It's
not going to end like this. Now that I know you love me nothing else
counts."
Nothing else counts! ... So many things counted; so many conflicting
interests stood between her and this reckless reasoning. It was not in
his right, nor in hers, to set aside every consideration that baulked
his desire.
Prudence rested her elbows on the sill and sunk her chin in her hands
and remained still, lost in thought. It was late. The big clock in the
hall had chimed the hour of midnight; but still she lingered there--
lingered in the windy moonlight, which the dark clouds, hurrying athwart
the sky, intermittently obscured. A fever of pain and unrest fired her
blood, and sent the warm colour to her cheeks where it burned, two
brilliant spots of crimson, that defied the cooling breath of the wind.
A sense of something impending held her breathless. All that day she
had felt an influence at work, an intangible something which oppressed
and oddly disquieted her; the prescience of some unexpected event armed
her against surprise. She stood at the window as one who watches and
waits for the event to befall. She did not know what she expected, what
she waited for in the silent room, that room in which she had lived
through so many emotions, none more disturbing than those which swayed
her now. She felt that something was about to happen. The suggestion
of a presence near her was so real that she could not rest. She had no
thought of going to bed. Something in the night called to her
imperatively and kept her at her post.
Suddenly while she leaned there her attention was caught by a sound
below her window, a sound which brought with it a rush of memories which
were a part of the past. Some one moved swiftly out from the shadows of
the bushes and stood under her window and called to her softly by name.
The quiet authority of that voice set her pulses beating rapidly, till
the thudding of her heart sounded loudly in her ears. For a long moment
she remained motionless, looking down through the shadowy moonlight upon
a man's upturned face, a strong determined face with purposeful eyes
raised to meet her shrinking gaze.
Prudence half drew back, and put a hand over her breast with a quick
involuntary movement; at the same moment the man below drew himself a
foot or so nearer to her by grasping at the trellis against which the
rose-bush was trained.
"If you don't come down, I will come up to you," Steele said.
"Oh! wait," she cried.
She remained for awhile irresolute; then, as if in answer to an
impatient movement from below, she said quietly:
"Please be cautious. I will join you in a minute."
And the next moment the light of the moon was eclipsed and the stars
paled to insignificance--or so it seemed to Steele--as her form vanished
from above him, and he was alone in the windy darkness with the clouds
trailing drearily across the face of the moon.