There was a sharp crack.

‘Aha!’ said Martin; and he went forward to where something flipped in

the air and fell back again, horribly twitching in a mechanical and

aimless motion.

‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ She stood rooted where he had left her, aghast.

He was stooping to examine it....

She knew how it was looking--laid on its flat side and shewing the

tender and vulnerable whiteness beneath its frail stiff paws. He was

stooping just as a figure had stooped above that other rabbit.... What

years ago!... Roddy’s rabbit whose death and burial had started this

awful loving. Who was it devilish enough to prepare these deliberate

traps for memory, these malicious repetitions and agonizing contrasts?

Oh, this world!... No hope, no meaning in it; nothing but perversities,

cruelties indulged in for sport, lickings of lips over helpless victims.

Men treated each other just as Martin treated small animals. The most

you could hope for was a little false security: they gave you that to

sharpen their pleasure in the blow they were preparing: even the ones

that looked kind: Martin for instance. As for Roddy--Roddy liked

experimenting. He chose girls sometimes: that was more voluptuous. She

saw his face, pallid and grinning, crowds of leering faces, all his. The

hillside darkened. She sank on her knees, shaking and perspiring.

He was striding back.

‘I buried it,’ he called. ‘It was a little smashed about the head.’

She had to lift her face towards him; but she made it blind. He came and

stood beside her--he dared to, red-handed as he was.

‘I’m afraid it wasn’t one of the cleanest shots,’ he said cheerfully.

‘I got him at too long a range. Still,--that’s one less.... Come on.’

Her mind would frame only one sentence; and she tried over and over

again to say it.

‘I will not be a witness of your butcheries. I will not be a witness of

your butcheries.’

But he would not understand. Perhaps it did not make sense anyway.

‘Oh dear!’ She sat there, tearing up turf with shaking cold wet hands,

face averted, eyes staring, mouth open and out of shape, impossible to

control. ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!’ The repetition was a sort of whine

or mew.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said sharply. He sank down beside her, and his

astounded face came round her shoulder.

‘Oh, the poor little thing, the poor little thing!...’

‘Do you mean the rabbit?’

She nodded.

‘But, Judith--good heavens! A rabbit.... Judith. I’d never have shot it

if I’d dreamed you’d mind.’

She went on staring and pulling up the grass.

‘Oh, this world!’

‘Judith....’ He was silent, completely at a loss.

‘Still--it can’t be helped.... I suppose one gets accustomed....’

Her mind grew black again with formless and colossal conceptions of

torture, murder, lust: and Roddy’s face went on grinning among them. All

was lost, lost.

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Martin helplessly.

‘Oh, I don’t blame....’

‘It didn’t suffer you know. Did you think it had? That kicking didn’t

mean anything: it was simply reflex action.’ He thought he had found the

clue; and added cheerfully: ‘You’d do the same if I shot you dead at the

back of the head.’

‘I wish you had.’

She wept.

‘Good God! Really, Judith.... I’ve said I’m sorry. I can’t go on saying

it, can I? I didn’t know you were so--you oughtn’t to be so--easily

upset. Rabbits have to be kept down, you know. They destroy everything.

Ask my mother.’

She went on weeping; and after a little while he got up and strode a few

steps away, and stood with his back to her, shoulders hunched.

Worse and worse: he was deserting her.... She bit hard on her thumb till

the pain of it steadied her, waited and then called tremblingly:

‘Martin!’

He turned, saw her hand held out and came quickly and knelt beside her.

‘What is it, Judy, what is it?’

‘Oh, Martin! Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t ask, _don’t_....

Only--just--only----’

His arms went round her and she abandoned herself against him, pressing

her head into his shoulder, groping for comfort, sobbing vast sobs,

while he knelt beside her quietly and let himself be wept on; and now

and then gave her shoulder a little pat.

* * * * *

After a long time she was so empty of tears that their source seemed dry

for ever. She would never in her life weep any more. In the thin

crystalline buoyancy of exhaustion she lay back on his shoulder and

observed the gold light lying tender and still in the folds of the

hills; and two rabbits skipping unperturbed not so very far away; and

blue butterflies swinging on the long grasses; and all the evening

shadows slanting beautifully downwards. Peace and comfort dropped upon

her. The heavy ache for Roddy was gone. Oh, now to make this no-pain

permanent, to fix this languor and mindless calm, to smother the voice

which cried and cried: ‘I am cheap and shameful. I have been used for

sport!’ Now was the time to turn to Martin and see if he could save her.

She sat up and dried her eyes.

‘There!’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you, Martin. You are a dear. You’ve

always been very kind to me, haven’t you?’

‘Kind to you! Oh, Judith, you know----’

‘I think you must rather like me, Martin.’

He said with a deep intake of breath:

‘Like you! You know I’ve loved you for years.’

She was silent, tasting a faint relief and satisfaction; and then said:

‘Well, what would you like me to do about it, Martin?’

She saw that his hands were trembling, and he answered shakily:

‘Do about it ... I.... What do you want to do about it?... I’ve said

I----’

‘Would you like me to marry you?’ she asked softly.

‘God! If there was a chance!...’

‘Well--I might, Martin.’

She started to laugh and cry weakly at sight of the transfigured face he

turned towards her; and a voice went on protesting inside her: ‘No! No!

No! It isn’t true. I never will.’

‘Oh, I’m so tired, Martin, I’m so tired!’

‘Come home, my dear, come home.’

It was compassion and exultation and doubt and certainty, all mixed in

an inarticulate eloquence.

He lifted her and brushed her skirt.

There was nothing to do but accompany him down the hill.

He left her at her bedroom door. His mother, he said, would come and

give her aspirin and put her to bed, and see that dinner was brought up

to her. His mother was splendid about headaches. To-morrow there would

be plenty of time to talk.

He had behaved perfectly.

* * * * *

She fell asleep that night in her white room with its cretonne wreaths

of pink roses tied up with blue ribbon, and dreamed of Roddy. He sat on

the hill, close to where the rabbit had been shot, and conversed in

friendly fashion. He had come back from abroad, from some remote island.

He took a puff at his pipe and said with apparent irrelevance: ‘Not

wives, my dear girl--mistresses. It’s more convenient. When I return I

intend to take Martin as my partner.’

‘Martin wouldn’t come. Not if it’s mistresses....’

‘Oh, dear me, yes. He’ll soon forget you over there. It’s a very

voluptuous clime.’

She said very humbly:

‘Would you care for me to come, Roddy?’

‘I fear you’re supered,’ he said with elaborate courtesy.

‘I suppose so.’

He studied a notebook.

‘Where do I come in your list, Roddy?’

‘You’re in the twenties, somewhere,’ he said indifferently.

‘Oh, miles down----’

He seemed suddenly bored or suspicious, and shifted his position. As he

did so, she saw his face for an instant, heavy-lidded and dissipated.

She understood that he was thinking of voluptuous climes.

It seemed then there was no use in hoping to win him back. He was,

obviously, bored to death with her.

‘What’s in here?’ he said suddenly, and plunged his hand into the earth.

The rabbit!... the rabbit!... Everything shrieked,--and she started

awake, sweating, in horror and desolation.

* * * * *

She leaned out of the window and saw the moon high in the sky. Beneath

it, the trees had suffered their moon-change and were sculptured masses

of dark marble, washed over with a silver-green phosphorescence. A

tragic night, sleepless and staring beneath the urgent pressure of the

moon: there was no comfort in it.

This house was full of ghosts.... Perhaps Roddy’s father had slept in

this room as a small boy. He had grown up here and then shaken the dust

of his home from his feet and gone away and begotten Roddy.... Charlie

must have looked like the beautiful wild sister, and that was why the

grandmother had given him all that anxious and painful love.

The sister had given birth to Mariella, and then run away and led God

knows what sort of life. Poor Mariella! She had never had the sun on

her: she had lived from birth--perhaps before birth--in the shadow cast

by her bright mother; and when she grew up she had not emerged from it.

That was the truth about Mariella.

The family portraits were in the dining-room. To-morrow she would see

them, study and compare....

It was madness to have come to this haunted house.

Oh, Roddy! She could not live without him. He must, he must come back

and take her for a year--a month even. Perhaps he had found out by now

that he did love her after all, and was too proud to write and confess

it. Martin had said it was agony to him to answer even an invitation.

She must write to him again, give him an opening.

Where was he now? If she could be transported to him now, this minute,

she could make him succumb utterly to loving her. She would think of

such ways of delighting him with caresses that he would never be able to

do without her again.... It was sheer stupidity to go on enduring this

agony when it only needed a trifling effort to end it all. For instance,

if you leaned a little further out of the window.... But one did not

commit suicide in other people’s houses: that was the ultimate error of

taste.

And then, poor Martin’s feelings at the inquest!

‘_Mr. Martin Fyfe, who was overcome with emotion several times,

stated that a few hours previously deceased had declared her

willingness to become his wife. This avowal, made on her own

initiative, had met with ample response on his side, and there

seemed every cause for joy and congratulation. The coroner in

returning a verdict of suicide while of unsound mind observed that

this reversal of the customary procedure in betrothals was but

another example of the lack of self-control so deplorably frequent

in the young woman of to-day, and seemed to him sufficient in

itself to suggest a distinct lack of mental balance in deceased. He

tendered his sincerest sympathy to Mr. Fyfe and absolved him from

all blame._’

And Roddy might depart from his habits and inclinations once again, and

write Martin a letter of condolence.

No, no. She was going to show him she did not care, was not weeping for

him: she was going to announce her engagement to Martin before long.

There would be a paragraph in ‘The Times,’ congratulations, letters to

write--(_I am a very lucky girl_)--a pretty ring--and almost certainly

photographs in the illustrated weeklies.

Roddy would smile his cynical smile because she had behaved just as

women always did behave: so long as they hooked some poor devil--no

matter whom--they were quite satisfied. And a damned fuss they made if a

chap refused to be hooked.

Martin would probably insist on being married in Church, and ask Roddy

to be his best man.

No. Poor Martin was not going to be able to save her. Perhaps, instead,

she was going to destroy him.

She went back to bed and tossed between her sheets till dawn.

6

Next morning Martin’s face of suppressed excitement shewed only too

clearly how deeply the web was tangled now.

She went with him after breakfast to visit his little farm.

There was something in the brown soft earth, in the dark warmth of byres

and stables, in the rich smell of animal breath and hay and soil

mingled, something in the many secret, silent heads lifting, snuffing,

reaching tentatively out, then tossing away from the outstretched hand;

especially something in the clear golden-brown eyes curiously greeting

you for a moment, then recoiling, relapsing into their animal aloofness:

something that painfully suggested Roddy. He was like animals, electric

and mysterious. The half-distrustful fleeting glance, the dark soft

glossy head, the appealing grace: these were attributes he had in common

with the farm dog, and the calves, the black kittens playing all over

the stables, the dark chestnut colt in the meadow.

There was no escape from him in all the world.

She said to herself, moving her lips:

‘Sick fancies. Sick fancies.’

If she could see Roddy as a natural human being, then only could she

hope to be free of him.

She climbed a slope and sat on a stile at the top, waiting for Martin

while he interviewed a farmer.

Below lay the house and garden she had elected to share with Martin all

her life: lovely, intricate patterns of roof and wall in the morning

sun; enchanting shapes of violet shadow spilt across the mellow brick;

charming lavender smoke spirals from the chimneys; exquisitely-ordered

paths and lawns, hedges and flower-beds; two cedar trees motionless in

their great planes of gloom on green brightness, green on gloom; and

beyond the fruitful walls, the enfolding patiently-productive land which

was Martin’s.

You would be thought lucky indeed to live here. Perhaps the land might

compensate, drug the mind and give it slow contented musings. Perhaps

you could escape from Martin and feel alone with it.... But no: with its

medium tints and mild companionable expression it was he himself. You

could never get away from Martin here.

As he came running up the hill, eagerly, like a cheerful dog, she

watched him coldly. With a faint distaste she observed his agile leap on

to the stile beside her.

‘Well?’ he burst out happily.

‘Well, Martin?’

‘What are you thinking of, looking so solemn?’

The unpardonable question. And he would always be asking it and she

always answering sweetly with a lie; or else disagreeably with:

‘Nothing.’ No peace ever again, not even to think one’s private disloyal

venomous thoughts.

‘I was thinking, Martin, I don’t believe you know a bit what I’m like.’

‘I know enough to know I love you anyway,’ he said with hearty

confidence.

‘You don’t,’ she said petulantly. ‘Because you’ve never troubled to find

out what I’m really like. It’s never occurred to you there might be

anything more than what you see. That’s so like a man.... Lord, how

stupid! Everybody dismissed with a little label. Everybody taken for

granted once they’ve passed a few idiotic conventional tests....’

‘What on earth have I done now?’ cried Martin despairingly.

‘Nothing. Nothing. I’m only warning you.’

After a pause of non-comprehension he said gently:

‘Of course I don’t take you for granted, Judith. I could never do that.

You’re so clever and beautiful and marvellous--much, much too good for

me. Oh, my dear!--you don’t know how I value you.’ The tears came into

his eyes. ‘Whatever happens, nothing can alter my idea of you. If I

_could_ believe you had any faults, they’d only make me love you more.’

‘Would they? Would they? You don’t know what revolting ones they are.’

He laughed and said indulgently:

‘It’s no good trying to frighten me.’

‘It’s _true_,’ she cried. ‘D’you suppose I’m trying to be humble because

I think it’s the correct idea?’

He said nothing, and she felt him trying with perplexity to think out

the proper method of dealing with her mood. Finally he said:

‘Judy. I’ll tell you what seems to me the only important thing--and

that is, that we should be absolutely truthful with each other. Don’t

you agree? I think telling the truth is my only principle--besides

washing. As long as I know exactly where I am, I can stand anything.’ He

drew her to him and turned her face so that his warm kind eyes could

look into hers. ‘I’ve always dreamt of finding someone I could tell

everything to, and trust absolutely.’

Tell everything to.... O God! Was he going to say: ‘My wife and I must

have no secrets from each other’? Was he that sort of fool? He went on:

‘Judith I might as well try to lie to myself as you. And I can’t lie to

myself. Why if I were to stop loving you even--if that _could_ be--I’d

have to tell you straight out. I couldn’t pretend. I _hope_ you couldn’t

either.’

‘No, I couldn’t.’

He went on with a shade of anxiety.

‘And supposing there was ever anything worrying you--anything on your

mind--please try to tell me. You needn’t be afraid. I hope perhaps--you

might think it was--rather nice to feel there was a person you could

rely on always. Would you, Judith?’

He paused, breathless and deeply moved.

‘Yes, Martin.’

‘Please think of me as that person.’

‘I will, Martin.’

‘You’re not worrying about anything now?’

‘No, no.’

‘That’s right. As long as I _know_. I thought yesterday.... But I

suppose it was the rabbit?’

She shuddered, and nodded her head, remembering her dream, unable to

speak.

He said in an amused, tender, big-man-to-little-woman way:

‘You poor little thing to be so upset.’

She laughed in response, deprecatingly, drearily.

He tightened his arm round her, sighed happily and said:

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Nor can I.’

‘I didn’t sleep a wink last night.’

‘Nor did I.’

‘After all these years.... Do you know, I’ve been in love with you ever

since I’ve known you? Never anybody else for a moment. But I didn’t dare

hope.... I wonder what Roddy will say when we tell him.’

‘I wonder.’

‘You know I was almost sure not so very long ago that if you liked any

one of us specially it was Roddy.’

‘Were you really, Martin?’

‘Yes, and what’s more I thought he was bound to fall in love with you.

God, I was jealous!’

‘Jealous of Roddy? Were you? How ridiculous!’

‘Not really ridiculous. Roddy’s so terribly nice and attractive, it

seemed only natural you should prefer him to a dull chap like me.’

‘He didn’t ever _say_ anything, did he, Martin?’

‘Not he. Roddy’s the darkest horse I know.’

‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ She laughed. ‘I suppose heaps of people fall in

love with him?’

‘Yes,’ he said gravely. ‘He’s run after all right.’

‘Does he--do you suppose he--falls in love himself, much?’

‘Oh, more or less, I suppose.’

‘Not seriously?’

He laughed and shook his head.

‘Not very seriously I don’t think.’

‘Perhaps he _was_ a tiny bit in love with me ... for a bit....’

‘I dare say he was. I don’t see how anybody could help being,’ he said

with light tenderness, dropping quick kisses on her hair.

‘And then I suppose he stopped.... And found somebody else....’

‘Perhaps he did. Don’t let’s worry about him anyway. He and I have

different ideas about--all that sort of thing. He’s rather naughty and

spoilt I think--though he is such a good chap,’ he added hastily, as if

fearful of sounding disloyal.

She persisted, in anguish:

‘How do you mean, naughty and spoilt, Martin?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He was embarrassed, unwilling to give his friend

away. ‘A bit of a sensation-hunter perhaps.’

That was it then: she had been a new sensation: one that had quickly

palled, because she had been so swiftly, so entirely yielded up to him.

She should have whetted his appetite by offering only a little at a time

and then withdrawing it: so, he might still be desirous of her. Instead

she had satiated him at the outset.

She would know better next time.... But there would be no next time.

Instead, there was Martin now who said:

‘Won’t you kiss me?’

She looked at him, aching with tears that were like an inward bleeding;

and put her lips on his cheek for half a second.

‘Listen, Martin.’ She took his hand and started to speak hurriedly, for

fear of more kissing. ‘About that truth business. What was I going to

say....’ She steadied her voice. ‘Yes. If you tried to--compel the truth

you’d expect a lie, wouldn’t you? That’s logic. I’d always expect a lie

anyway. I mean ... I shouldn’t be at all surprised by it. I’d say it was

my fault for not leaving you alone--not letting you be free enough--I’d

think: well, I tried to coerce him, so he chose to deceive me. He was

quite right.’

‘A lie’s a lie,’ said Martin obstinately.

‘A lie’s a--What does that mean? It doesn’t mean anything. Unless you

believe God watches and writes down in his notebook: Martin Fyfe told a

lie on Monday. If this goes on he won’t get his harp. Do you? Truth!

What’s truth? Why, half your so-called truths are built on lies. You can

scarcely distinguish. I could--I bet I could--act a lie to you all my

life and you’d never know it. _Be_ a lie.’

He flushed swiftly at the last words and said in a stiff way:

‘I daresay you could. You’re clever enough for anything and I’m a fool.

But don’t try, please....’

‘But there must be no compulsion, Martin!’ she insisted, horribly. ‘You

wouldn’t try--to get at me--would you? You’d let me be, by myself? If

you ever forced me when I was unwilling I’d tell lies and lies and

congratulate myself for it. And I’d _never_ forgive you.’

He lit a cigarette and said, close-lipped, eyes fixed on the grass:

‘Does all this mean you want me to understand you’ve--changed your mind

and wish to cry off?’

She threw out her arms dramatically, crying:

‘Can’t I say anything? Can’t I say anything without being

misunderstood?... being....’

‘I’ve never seen you like this, Judith.’ He got up and stood looking at

her in despair. ‘It worries me. I don’t understand.’

‘It’s not customary, I suppose, in an engaged young lady....’

She shut her eyes, and the tears scorched their lids bitterly.

‘Judy, what is it? Oh, Judy!’

‘Oh, Martin!’ Hands pressed to forehead, voice a faint moan, she

struggled on: ‘Only there are--some things--aren’t there?--there might

be things which _can’t_ be told. Things one must forget--try to--at

once----’

‘Yes. Yes. If you say so,’ he soothed and whispered.

‘Because of the useless misery ... and because they’ve--withered up your

heart--so that you couldn’t recall them--even if you tried.’

‘Yes, my dear.’

‘I’ve had--one or two unhappinesses in my life. Everybody has, I

suppose. I want to forget them....’

‘Of course, Judy, of course. You must _never_ tell me anything you’d

rather not.’

She put her arms round his neck a moment.

‘Thank you, Martin.’ She dried her eyes and said: ‘I won’t be so silly

any more.’

And if a doubt or a fear had begun to cloud his mind, his voice was none

the less gentle, his eyes none the less trusting.

He took her back to the garden and gathered sun-warmed strawberries for

her; and they talked cheerfully together until lunch time.

* * * * *

That afternoon Martin fished for trout in the stream, and she sat on the

bank and read a page of her book now and then; and sometimes watched

him; and mostly dreamed.

His small-boyish absorption was amusing and rather appealing. He was

immensely happy, moving along the bank in cautious excited silence,

casting deftly up and down stream. If he were to be disturbed or upset

in his pursuit, he would say ‘Ach!’ and swear, and flush all over his

face, just as he had in the old days. Even if she were the disturber, it

would make no difference. She knew better than to interfere, or to speak

except when spoken to, and then briefly and to the point. That was in

his eyes one of her most admirable qualities. He loved to have her

beside him, behaving nicely and looking pretty, shewing interest, and

smiling when it was seemly.

By the constant upward curve of his lips and by occasional dwelling

glances, she knew he had thrown off the memory of this morning’s

unnatural emotional perplexities, and was content.

If only their marriage could be a perpetual sitting on a green bank by a

stream, watching him tolerantly, almost tenderly, with quiet pleasure in

his bodily magnificence, with a half-contemptuous smile for his

happiness, and yet with comfort in the knowledge of it, and in the

knowledge that her mere presence was sufficient for it, while her mind

was off on its own, worlds removed from him!...

It would be such an immense easing of the burden if only so much

insincerity as was implicit in the acquiescent body was required,

without the lies of the lips and the mind. She on the green bank

always, with leisurely musings, and he moving past her, up and down, not

touching her or demanding or possessing, but fishing for ever: it would

be a pleasant enough marriage. He would look up now and then, smile

approvingly, and say:

‘Still there, Judith?’

‘Still here, Martin.’

‘Quite cheerful?’

‘Quite.’

‘Feeling safe?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘That’s right. Well, I’ll go on fishing then.’

‘And I’ll go on thinking.’

And he would smile again and send his line whipping and hissing through

the air.

All the rest could go by, remain unsaid, with no falsehood at all.

Perhaps, after years of patient sitting, even Roddy might be forgotten;

or transformed into an object for idle pleasurable regrets.

In the midst of these speculations, Martin came back and threw himself

down beside her.

‘No luck, Martin?’

‘Not a nibble.... I don’t care. I’d rather talk to you.’ He gazed

lovingly at her and said:

‘What are you thinking of?’

She clenched her hands; then answered softly:

‘_ ... of nothing ...

When I muse thus I sleep._’

He turned her face towards him with a hand beneath her chin, and gently

kissed her lips.

* * * * *

‘Oh, Judith, I’ll try to make you happy.’

‘And I’ll try to make you happy, Martin.’

Perhaps in time.... Perhaps in time even Roddy....

At that moment of wistful peace it seemed admirable to undertake the

task of making Martin happy.

He said shyly:

‘I wonder what made you say you’d marry me.’

‘Because I’m so fond of you.’

‘Ah! That’s not quite the same as loving, is it?’ His voice was wistful,

but not disappointed.

She took his hand.

‘No, Martin, not quite the same.’

He wrung her hand and said cheerfully:

‘Well, it’s something to be going on with. It’s a great deal more than I

deserve. Of course I don’t expect you to feel romantic about me. Nobody

could feel romantic about me, anyway.’

‘Oh, I think lots of people could. I’m sure they could,’ she said; and

felt suddenly ashamed. For indeed he was a man whom many women might

love. What right had she to take him?

‘Well, I don’t want them to,’ he said. ‘Your liking’s more than enough

for me.’

‘Oh, Martin! I promise you, at any rate, I wish I were in love with

you.’

‘Mightn’t that be the first step?’ he said smiling.

‘No, no,’ she answered lightly. ‘I’ve finished with falling in love. I

was in love once.’

‘When?’

‘Years ago! It doesn’t amuse me. I reject it. Never again....’ She felt

her lips start to curl and quiver, and stopped: then added in the same

bantering tone: ‘Foolishness. That’s what it is. And as far as you are

concerned, it would seem almost incestuous.’

‘Don’t use horrid words.’ He sat up, amused but startled.

‘Well it would. Not that I disapprove at all of incest, in theory. Yet I

must confess my instinct’s against it.’

‘And so’s mine,’ said Martin firmly. ‘Let’s have no more nonsense.’

He bent forward and dismissed the nonsense with a hearty kiss.

That was the last straw. Her mood, stretched finer and finer in the

preceding few minutes, snapped. She rolled over away from him and stared

into the water.

The tiny brilliant green water-plants and cresses grew up from the mud

and pebbles and spread their leaflets below the surface in delicate

array, motionless as if under glass. Oh, to slip into the water and

become something minute and non-sentient, a sort of fresh water amœba,

living peacefully among their thin-spun tangle of whitish roots--now at

once, before Martin noticed her disappearance! He would peer and peer

into the water, with his red anxious face; and all in vain. In the

shadow of his face her unimpressive form would be but the more obscured;

and, unmoved, she would stare back at him.

God!--to go mad, crack-brained, fantastic, happy mad; or to be stretched

upon a rack in a physical anguish which precluded thought!

‘Tea-time,’ said Martin. ‘What a good afternoon it’s been.’

In the hall they were met with a telegram for Judith. “_Decided go

abroad this week instead of next. Come home to-morrow. Mother._”

Mamma had grown restless then, a trifle sooner than you had expected;

and sent this peremptory summons. What an undreamed-of godsend!

‘You can’t go to-morrow, Judy,’ said Martin, much upset.

‘I must, Martin. There’ll be such a lot to see to. I must go as soon as

I possibly can. I ought to go to-night.’

The sooner she was out of the house the better.

‘You couldn’t possibly get there to-night by train. It’s such a beastly

journey.’ He was struck with an idea and his face cleared a little. ‘I

tell you what. Wait till after dinner and I’ll drive you back. If we

started about eleven we’d be at your home soon after daybreak. Do, Judy,

do. It’d be a marvellous drive. And I’ll break in on Mariella and cadge

some breakfast. There’s so much to talk about. And if you’re going

abroad we shan’t see each other for weeks. It’s most infernally

disappointing, isn’t it?’

She agreed that it was. But as for the drive, that would be a marvellous

arrangement. If Martin would send a wire to tell Mamma to leave the

front door key under the mat, she would go and explain to his mother. As

she left him, her heart felt almost light. Perhaps she could manage to

wriggle out and escape now, after all.

7

Martin’s mother stood on tiptoe to kiss her good-bye, while Martin went

to fetch the car.

Her box was ready in the hall. She had given a last glance through the

open dining-room door at the family portraits. She had been thankful to

find them few and devoid of the likenesses she dreaded. They were just

anybody’s respectable family portraits. Of the dead sister there was no

likeness.

Martin’s little sitting-room, with its photograph on the mantelpiece of

a solemn Roddy in Eton clothes, its cricket groups including Roddy in

flannels and a blazer, its painted green fire-screen decorated by Roddy

with strange figures--that had been far more terrifying. She would not

have to sit there now and look at Martin’s photograph and scrap albums,

as he had suggested.

‘I’m sorry you must go,’ said his mother, charming and abstracted.

‘I’m sorry too.’

‘But,’ she said gaily, ‘what a delightful idea, to drive through the

night. Martin loves it, you know. I often hear him going off on a lovely

night like this. Funny boy.... His horn sounds so dreadfully lonely it

makes me want to cry. He likes to have a companion. I used to go with

him sometimes, but I’ve had to give it up. I feel too old next day.’

She smiled sweetly; and suddenly, standing above her and seeing her so

small and ageing, Judith felt no longer the great barrier of difference

of generation, but the basic intimacy of their common sex; and with this

an extreme tenderness and pity. She bent and kissed her--the poor thing,

who must lie flat in her room thriftily husbanding her resources for the

morrow, while she herself, coming thirty years of nights behind her, had

the open dark for friend.

She knew well enough you did not love her son: she trusted you not to

betray him by marrying him. It would be horrible to force her to hate

you ... unthinkable.

Car-wheels grated on the gravel outside, and Martin sounded his horn.

In another few minutes they had waved good-bye to the small figure on

the steps, and taken the road.

* * * * *

Into the deep blue translucent shell of night. The air parted lightly as

the car plunged through it, washing away in waves that smelt of roses

and syringa and all green leaves. The moon struggled with clouds. She

wore a faint and gentle face.

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if there was rain before daybreak,’ said

Martin; and, reaching at length the wan straight high road, accelerated

with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘Faster, Martin, faster.’

Faster and faster he went. She settled herself close against him, and

through half-shut eyes saw the hawthorn and wild-rose hedges stream

backward on either hand. The night air was a drug from whose sweet

insinuating caress she prayed never to wake. Soon, through one leafy

roadway after another, the headlights pierced a tunnel of green gloom.

The lanes were full of white scuts and little paws, paralyzed; and then,

as Martin painstakingly slowed down, dipping and twinkling into the

banks. Moths flickered bright-winged an instant in the lamplight before

being dashed to their fried and ashy death. Once or twice came human

beings, objects of mean and foolish design, incongruous in the night’s

vast grandeur; and here and there, under the trees, upon the stiles, in

the grass, a couple of them, locked face to face, disquietingly still,

gleamed and vanished. She observed them with distaste: passion was all

ugliness and vulgar imbecility.

Now the moon looked exhausted behind a gathering film of cloud.

Soon came the rain, with a low murmurous hushing and whispering through

the trees; and then a white blindness of lightning aching on the

eyelids.

‘Shall we stop?’ asked Martin.

‘No, no.’

‘I remember you hated lightning when you were a tiddler.’

‘Do you remember that?’

‘Yes. I shall never forget the day we were trapped by a thunderstorm in

the old boathouse--you and Roddy and I. How you howled! And then you

said you’d seen the lightning fall on Roddy’s head and had he been

struck dead. I kept on yelling that if only you’d open your eyes you’d

see him in front of you, as alive as anything; but you only went on

shrieking. And soon we all of us began to believe Roddy might go up in

flame any minute.’

‘Oh, yes! I’d forgotten.’ She laughed. ‘I remember Roddy’s face, so

solemn and red and doubtful as he felt the top of his head. He was

terrified I was making a fool of him and he wouldn’t say a word. I asked

him privately afterwards if he thought the Lord had visited him with a

tongue of fire. He was disgusted.’

Martin threw his head back to laugh.

‘You were a comic child. We used to think you were a little mad.’

‘Did you, Martin?’ she said, and doubt and sadness swept over her again.

Perhaps even in those days Roddy had laughed at her, thought of her as a

joke, never as a companion.

‘It’s a pity really that we----’ She stopped, remembering that she was

going to marry Martin--on the verge of finishing her sentence:--“that

we met again after we grew up.”

Their relationship should have remained unspoilt in the mysterious

enchantment of childhood, and then she would never have seen Roddy grow

from that lovable small boy into the elegant indifferent young man who

experimented in sensations.

No more lightning; and the rain came softly on to her face through the

open wind-screen, blurring eyes and mind and all, until she sank into a

half-sleep. Martin clasped her hard against his shoulder, once, as who

should say: “Sleep. I am here;” and she felt his enormous protectiveness

flowing over her.

When next she opened her eyes, the darkness was taking back first one

veil, then another. Purple paled to lilac and lilac wasted to grey. The

sky was immaculate and without a glow. The country-side woke from sleep,

gently staring and austere, each object upon it separately outlined

without interrelation of colour and shadow under the uniform wan light.

On the far horizon, a cornfield flashed out one moment in a pale flood

of sunlight; but the sun was still hidden. The hedges frothed palely

with meadowsweet.

Soon came the beech woods crowning the chalk hills. In the valley below

ran the river, blanched and rain-flattened between its willows; and the

road sloped gently down till it ran beside it. They were home.

Stiff and blinking, she stumbled out of the car, and stood on the steps

of the porch.

‘Thank you, Martin. It was marvellous. I hoped we should never get here.

I thought we wouldn’t--I don’t know why. I got it into my head you’d

manage a quiet smash without my noticing it. Everything I passed I said

good-bye to--looking my last on all things lovely; and when I finally

dropped off to sleep I thought I’d never wake up. And after all you

brought me safe home, clever boy. I _suppose_ I’m grateful. But what an

effort to have to start again in an hour or two!’

He did not answer at once; but after a few moments of fingering his hat

looked away and said:

‘Are you _very_ unhappy, Judith?’

‘Well--not very, I suppose. Rather. Not more than’s good for me. I shall

get over it.... I’m so sleepy I don’t know what I’m saying. Don’t take

any notice.’

‘I thought you weren’t happy----’ He stopped, overcome.

‘It’s all right, Martin. Don’t you worry. I laugh at myself. How I laugh

at myself!’

‘Can’t you tell me what it’s about?’ he said gruffly.

‘I don’t believe I can.’

He turned away and leaned despondently against the porch.

The sky was glowing now through all its length and breadth, like the

inside of a shell. The dew shimmered over the grass and the greyish

roses reddened, yellowed on their bushes. The birds bedazed the air with

wild crystalline urgent repetition.

‘You go in a day or two,’ he said at last.

‘Yes. And you?’

‘I join Roddy next week.’

‘Ah, yes.’ She turned to unlock the door, and fumbling for the key,

lightly remarked: ‘There’s a person I shall never see again.’

‘Who?’

He affected surprise; but he was only pretending. She could feel him

saying to himself: ‘So that’s it.’ And suddenly she hated herself for

exposing herself, and him for guessing and dissembling, for forcing her

to pronounce that name; and she added:

‘I can’t marry you, Martin, after all.’

Silence.

‘Well, I’ve told you the truth at last. I thought I could pretend to you

all my life, but I can’t. You ought to be glad.’

He inclined his head.

‘Aren’t you going to say something, Martin?’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Please forgive me,’ she said; but she could not feel contrition: only a

great weariness.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I never really

believed you’d marry me anyway.’

‘Luckily I’m going abroad. You’d better forget all about me.’

‘It’s no good saying that,’ he said, with a brief and bitter laugh. ‘It

was too late for that years ago.’

‘You must try to hate me. I deserve it.’

‘Oh, what’s the good of talking like that?’ he said impatiently. ‘Do you

_want_ me to hate you? You know you don’t.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You know perfectly well I can’t do anything except go on loving you.’

He still leaned with dejected shoulders against the porch, talking out

into the garden. The eastern sky swam brightly, and the first beams of

the sun shot into the garden; and the fluting clamorous chorus redoubled

their enthusiasm.

‘I haven’t seen the sun rise for years. Have you, Martin?’ She came near

to him and put a hand on his sleeve. At the touch he turned round and

confronted her in dumb despair, his eyelashes wet.

‘Martin, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

‘I can’t leave you like this,’ he said, and clung to her. ‘Judith, is

there nothing I can do?’

She reflected.

‘Yes. Will you do something for me?’

‘Of course I will.’ His eyes lit up for an instant.

‘Listen, Martin. Suppose he ever mentions me----’

She felt herself going white and stopped.

‘Yes?’ he muttered.

She went on breathlessly:

‘I don’t think he will, but if he should.... Supposing he ever starts to

tell you something that happened--between him and me--please, you

mustn’t let him. Promise! If he begins, stop him. I shall never see him

again; soon I shall stop thinking about him: but you mustn’t know what

happened. It was just a little silly thing--I shall see it quite

differently some day ... but if I thought people knew I should _die_.

Martin, don’t try to find out.’

‘All right, Judith. It’s none of my business.’

‘Perhaps men don’t tell things in the awful way women do? He doesn’t

generally tell things, does he?’

She could hardly bear to listen for his reply.

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Make it be as if you’d never known me. Oh, don’t talk about me!’

‘I won’t. I promise.’ He looked at her; and she knew by his eyes how

deeply she was making him suffer.

After a long time she added:

‘One more thing. Of course I know that whatever he’d done you’d feel

just the same towards him, wouldn’t you?...’

‘I love Roddy ...’ he said, his breath, his whole being struggling in

anguish.... ‘I’ve always had him--ever since I can remember ... more to

me than a brother ever could have been. But if I thought----’ His voice

altered, grew terrible--‘if I thought he’d done you an injury----’

‘It was nothing he could be blamed for,’ she said slowly, with intense

concentration: ‘It was my fault. If I thought it was going to come

between you I should be more unhappy than ever. Will you see that it

doesn’t?’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said in a dead voice.

She began to tremble violently.

‘I must go in now, Martin. What shall you do?’

‘I’ll go straight back. I don’t feel like--seeing Mariella--or any one.’

‘But don’t you want something to eat?’

‘No. I’m not hungry.’

It seemed unbearably pathetic that he should not be hungry--he who was

always hungry.

‘Good-bye then, Martin.’

‘Good-bye.’

He took her outstretched hand and clutched it.

‘Judith, if you should want me for anything while you’re abroad--let me

know. I’ll come to you. Will you promise?’

‘I promise, my dear.’

He looked a shade less unhappy.

‘And please let me see you when you come back. I won’t be tiresome; but

I must see you sometimes.’

‘When I come back then, Martin--if you really want to. But by that time

you’ll realise what a pig I am.’

He put his arms round her suddenly.

‘Oh, Judith,’ he whispered, ‘can’t you ever ...?’

‘Martin, can’t you ever not?’

‘No.’ He laid his head down on her shoulder for a few moments; then

straightened himself and said with an effort at cheerfulness:

‘Well, I hope you’ll have a good time.’

‘I hope you will. But you’re sure to.’

To think he would be with Roddy for weeks, sharing work and talk and

jokes and meals--seeing him sleep and wake; while she herself ... never

again. If she saw him coming towards her, she must turn back; if she

passed him in the street she must look away.

‘Please take care of yourself, Judith.’

She nodded, smiling wearily.

He jerked round and went down the steps and she waited for him to turn

his head again. But, when he reached the corner, without looking back,

he waved his hand in a young quick awkward pretense of jauntiness, and

strode on.

She stood and saw the fresh garden filling with light and shade; and

thought: ‘Poor Martin’s crying’; and shut the door on him and the sun

and the screaming of the birds.

8

The hotels and shops made a circle round the great _Place_; and to and

fro all day went the people to their baths and douches and sprays.

Bilious obese old Jews and puffy, pallid Americans thronged and

perspired; and ancient invalids came in bathchairs with their glum

attendants. There was one, a woman long past age and change, with a skin

of dusky orange parchment, black all round the staring eyeholes, tight

over the cheeks and drawing back the dark lips in a grin. She was alive:

her orange claws twitched on the rug. Perched high upon her skull, above

the dead and rotten hair, she wore a large black sailor hat trimmed with

a wild profusion of black feathers. Every morning, seated idly in front

of the hotel, Judith watched for that most _macabre_ figure of all in

the fantastical show.

The sun poured down without cloud or breeze, and the buildings and

pavements seemed to vibrate in the air. It was too hot to stay in the

valley. She joined parties and motored up through the vineyards into the

hills--racing along in search of a draught on her face, eating succulent

lunches at wayside inns, coming back in the evening to play tennis and

bathe; to change and dine and dance; to hear a concert at the Casino; to

sit in the open air and drink coffee and eat ices.

The hours of every day were bubbles lightly gone.

She was Miss Earle, travelling with her elegant and charming mother,

staying at the smartest hotel and prominent in the ephemeral summer

society of the health-resort. Her odd education sank into disreputable

insignificance: best not to refer to it. She was adequately equipped in

other ways. She had a string of pearls, and slim straight black frocks

for the morning, and delicious white and yellow and green and pink ones

for the afternoon; and white jumpers with pleated skirts and little

white hats for tennis; and, for the evening, straight exquisitely-cut

sleeveless frocks to dance in. She had them all. Mamma had ordered them

in Paris with bored munificence and perfect taste, and an unenthusiastic

ear for the modiste’s rapturous approval of her daughter.

‘If you were a little more stupid,’ said Mamma, ‘you might make a

success of a London season even at this late date. You’ve got the looks.

You _are_ stupid--stupid enough, I should think, to ruin all your own

chances--but you’re not stupid all through. You’re like your father: he

was a brilliant imbecile. I never intended to put you into the

marriage-market--but I’ll do so if you like. _If_ you haven’t already

decided to marry one of those young Fyfes.... They’re quite a good

family, I suppose.’

She appeared to expect no answer and received none.

Judith laughed at Mamma’s epigrammatic dictums and was a social success.

She motored, chattered, danced and played tennis, at first with

effort--with Roddy rising up now and again to make all dark and

crumbling; then gradually with a kind of enjoyment, snapping her fingers

at the past, plunging full into the comedy, forgetting to stand aside

and watch: silly all through--stupid even: stupider every day.

Demurely she passed through the lounges: they all knew her and looked

her up and down as she went, discussed her frocks in whispers, with

smiling or stony faces. In the streets they stared, and she liked it;

she admired her own reflection in the shop windows. An elderly French

count, with two rolls of fat in the back of his neck, entreated Mamma

for her daughter’s hand in marriage. It was a very good joke.

Then, one evening after dinner, while she sat in the lounge with Mamma

and discussed the clothes of her fellow-visitors, she saw Julian walk

in. He wore an old white sweater with a rolled collar, and his long hair

was wild upon his pale chiselled forehead. His face, hands and clothes

were grey with dust, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright with extreme

weariness. He stood alone by the door, unself-conscious and deliberate,

his gaze roving round to find her among the staring, whispering

company. Even before she recognized him, her heart had leapt a little at

sight of him; for his fine-drawn blonde length and grace were of

startling beauty after a fortnight of small dapper men with black

moustaches and fat necks.

‘It’s Julian!’

She ran across the room and took his hand in both her own, joyfully

greeting him. A friend from England! He was a friend from England. How

much that meant after all! He had, romantically, kept his promise and

come to find her, this distinguished young man at whom they were all

staring. He and she, standing there hand in hand, were the centre of

excited comment and surmise: that was flattering. She was pleased with

him for contriving so dramatic an entry.

He had motored from Paris, he said, going all day over execrable roads

in stupefying heat. He had found her hotel at the first guess.

He booked a room and went off to have a bath and to change. Judith went

back to explain to Mamma, who asked for no explanations. It was, she

remarked, pleasant to see a new face; and those Fyfes had always looked

well-bred. She was glad Judith would now have a congenial companion

while she finished her cure. If to her cat-deep self she said: “So

that’s the one!” her diamond-like eyes did not betray her.

He came down half an hour later, elegant in his dinner-jacket, sat down

beside Mamma and started at once to entertain her with the easy,

civilized, gossiping conversation she enjoyed.

Then, when the band started to pluck voluptuously at the heart-strings

with _Einmal kommt der Tag_, he turned for the first time to Judith,

crying:

‘We’ll dance to it, Judith.’ He jumped up. ‘What a tune! We’ll express

our sentimentality.’

Mamma’s rasping little laugh of amusement sounded in her ears as she

rose and followed him.

He put an arm closely round her and murmured:

‘Come on now. Perform! Perform!’--and they went gliding, pausing and

turning round the empty floor, while everyone stared and the band

smilingly played up to them. The rhythm of their bodies responded

together, without an error, to the music’s broken emotionalism.

‘Once, Julian, you refused to dance with me.’

‘Ah, you were a little girl then. It would have been no use. _Et

maintenant, n’est-ce-pas, la petite est devenue femme?_ We shall get on

very well.

After a silence he said:

‘You wear beautiful clothes. You carry yourself to perfection. You have

an air.... There is nobody in this room to touch you. What are you going

to do with it all?’

‘Oh, exploit it, exploit it!’

He held her away from him a moment to look down into her face.

‘_Tiens! Tiens!_ Is gentle Judith going to start being a devil?... It

would be amusing to see her try.’

‘Oh, I will! I’d be most successful. You shall see.’

He laughed, watching her.

‘May I help you? Shall we tread the primrose path together?’

She nodded.

‘Well, start by looking a little more as if you were going to enjoy it.

Have you ever been happy? No. Whenever you come near to being, you start

thinking: ‘Now I am happy. How interesting.... Am I really happy?’ You

must learn a little continental _abandon_--I’ll teach you.’

‘You!’

‘---- and scornful as well! Oh, Judith, you’re getting on. I like to see

your mouth trying to be hard. It has such pretty points.’

The music stopped, and she disengaged herself. A few people clapped, and

she nodded and smiled to the band ... performing, performing;

conspicuously self-possessed....

‘Good!’ said Julian. ‘Oh, good!’

She turned to him and said:

‘Thank you, Julian. That was exhilarating.’

‘Yes, you look as if you’d found it so.’

His eyes, brilliant with nervous fatigue, pierced her with a glance too

penetrating.

‘What a pity,’ he said, ‘you’re so unhappy.’

‘If it were so,’ she said, starting to walk back towards her chair, ‘it

would be a pity.... Or perhaps that would be exhilarating too.’

‘Oh, don’t be enigmatical with your old friend,’ he said plaintively.

She laughed and gave him her hand.

‘Good night, Julian. You go to bed. You’re so tired you can hardly stand

upright. To-morrow we’ll start enjoying ourselves frightfully. You’ll

stay a bit, won’t you?’

‘Oh, I’ll stay,’ he said. ‘I think the moment is auspicious for me....

Didn’t I always say I could wait my turn?’

‘Yes, you said so. You have a _flair_ undoubtedly. You are full of

_finesse_.... Good night.’

She waved a hand and left him.

Something was afoot.... He had come casting shadows before and behind

him. Old things were stirring: the old illness of remembering was going

to start again. And ahead was not a glimmer.

9

In that thick, steamy world, in the mingled soils of sickly heat,

bilious faces, rich food, sensual dancing, heavy scents of women,

applied bow mouths, soft perspiring flesh--sprouted and flourished her

response to Julian. Rooted in reluctance, nourished by his skilful arts,

it grew, a curious plant: stronger and more curious with every stab of

reawakening memory.

Julian must save her this time: surely his wit and wisdom, surely the

unknown world of sexual, emotional and intellectual experience which he

held so temptingly, just out of reach--surely these would, in time, heap

an abiding mound upon the past.

Neither by touch nor look did he seem to desire her. He wove his net

with words: he understood her and she felt him coming closer, a step at

a time.

He made himself the perfect companion--gossiping and exchanging

cynicisms with Mamma, executing commissions for her, his car always at

her disposal; taking them to hear music, to eat delicious meals; playing

tennis with Judith and her hotel acquaintances.

He even went so far as to say tennis was good for his asthma and played

in the tennis-tournament, with herself for partner; and they were barely

defeated in the finals by the Brazilian brother and sister, amid scenes

of hilarious enthusiasm.

His car was waiting outside the ground to whisk her away from the hot

crowd.

Happy, perspiring, dazed with heat and fatigue, she climbed in beside

him and lay back.

‘We’ll go and find somewhere to bathe,’ he said.

‘Yes!’

‘And have supper at an inn, and stay out much later than we ought.’

‘Yes. Oh, Julian, we have done nice things together. I shall always

remember them.’

She put a hand on his knee, and he smiled and nodded, all simple and

brotherly.... He had tried his very hardest to help her win. She was

grateful to him for fitting himself to her mood.

The car went spiralling up the vine-covered hills, and the electric air

quivered away on each side of them in visible waves. The sun sank

magnificently, without a cloud, a blood-red lamp. Its rays had long ago

passed from the tortuous, steep and rock-bound way through which they

now went; and a grey-green tranquil coolness blessed every sense. Then

the road ran into profounder, wooded loneliness, and she espied a

stream, leaping and plunging in little falls, far down in the gully

below the side of the road.

‘Stop here, Julian. We must bathe.’

She went springing down towards the water and he followed with the

bathing suits and towels.

The stream was shallow and broken up with boulders: no use for bathing.

‘Let’s follow it, Julian. We’ll find something, I know.’

Soon it took a turn deeper into the wood’s heart, and began to grow in

depth and volume; then all at once plunged in a smooth gentle cascade

into a wide rock basin. There it had pause, deep and silent, before

dropping again at the basin’s further edge in a sheer plumed column, and

racing on downwards, and downwards again.

‘Oh, Julian, _what_ a bathing-pool! Is it possible? Look at that colour

I ask you. Is it limestone?’

The whole circular sweep of the rock shimmered in faint silver through

the dim bluish depth of water.

‘And deep enough to dive into, Julian--if we dare break into such

fairiness.... What do you suppose lives here? It may put a spell on

us.... I don’t care! I long to be spell-bound. Don’t you think, if one

plunged in, one might come out all silver-blue and cold and gleaming?

I’d love to walk through the hotel lounge naked like that, with long

blue dripping hair! Oh, come on, Julian--let’s both try! I’ve had no

luck for ages, have you? Perhaps it’s turned to-day. You undress here

and I’ll go behind this bush and talk to you out of it, like God.

Come--off with our lendings!’

And, in a flash, with the uttering of the last words, Jennifer came

back, slipping the clothes down off white shoulder and breast, talking

and laughing. A tide of memories; Jennifer’s head burning in the

sunlight, her body stooping towards the water--the whole of those May

terms of hawthorn blossom and cowslips, of days like a warm drowsy wine,

days bewildered with growing up and loving Jennifer, with reading Donne

and Webster and Marlowe, with dreaming of Roddy.... Where had it all

gone--Where was Jennifer?--Whom enchanting now?--How faintly remembering

Judith? Compared with that tumultuous richness, how sickly, how wavering

was this present feeling--what a sorry pretense! Would one ever be happy

again?

Julian, lean and hairy in his bathing-suit, was already feeling the

water with his toe when she emerged and, spurring her flagging spirits,

leapt down through the bushes, paused a moment beside him, cried ‘Ah!’

and dived into liquid twilight.

He plunged in after her, and they came up together, ‘You shouldn’t have

dived like that,’ he cried. ‘Don’t do it again. There’s a great jag of

rock just below where you went in,--you might have hit your head. You’re

a very naughty girl.’

‘Pooh!’ She splashed and kicked round him, and went swimming close under

the waterfall, feeling its weight press down and bubble upon her

shoulder. The water was cold: the sun could never reach it save in light

flecks through leafy branches. The pouring of the falls made a soft,

full, lapsing speech. Nothing in the world was so smooth as the polished

silk of their down-curving necks.

‘Hey!’ cried Julian.

She looked round and saw him near the further edge of the basin, trying

to save himself from being carried over. She laughed, but he did not

laugh back, and dragged himself out and sat on a rock in silence; and

she saw that his legs and arms were grazed and bleeding. She went to him

remorsefully and washed the blood away with palmfuls of water and sat by

him, murmuring little sympathies until the stinging pain eased. He was

not strong, she must remember: the shock and pain had made him white

about the lips. Poor Julian.... How smooth and creamy her limbs looked

beside his....

‘One more dip before dressing, Julian. You sit there and rest.’

He sat and watched while she slipped in again and, lying on her back,

pushed off vigorously from the side with both feet and floated in a

great ruffle of water to the other edge. Then she climbed out and stood

opposite him, dripping and smiling.

Something leapt into his eyes as they rested, for once, full on her: not

admiration or desire, but something harsh and hostile, as if the sight

of her exasperated him.

‘Oh, yes, it shows you off well,’ he said.

‘What does?’

‘Your _maillot_. I suppose you weren’t aware of it?’

‘No!’ She spat the word at him; and went quickly away.

* * * * *

They had supper at a white inn by the edge of the wood, about half a

mile farther on. The same stream flowed, sedately now, through the

garden; and a dark plump Madame with great glossy raven plaits brought

omelettes and trout and salads and fruits to their table beneath the

plane-tree. Birds were singing the last of their songs in all the

branches.

‘Listen, Julian!--if that isn’t a thrush? What is he doing out of

England? Can you imagine a French thrush? Oh, he sounds homesick!’ A

sudden nostalgia overcame her. ‘I want to go home, too! I’m not a

traveller. Sick for home--that’s what I am. This thrush and our pool are

probably the things I shall most remember about France--and all because

they made me think of England.... There was a girl at College I used to

bathe with.... You’d have loved to look at her. Her name was Jennifer

Baird....’

‘Oh, I think I’ve met her.’

What was he saying so casually?

‘You’ve met her?’ Hands clasped, heart thumping, she stared at him.

‘Yes, I’m sure that was the name. I was staying in Scotland with some

cousins of hers.’

‘When, Julian?’

She could scarcely speak.

‘Last year, I believe. I remember now she was at Cambridge and said she

knew you; but she wasn’t very forth-coming about you. I’d never have

guessed from her that you were bosom friends.’ His voice sounded

mocking.

‘No, you wouldn’t!’ she retorted, stung and scornful. ‘She doesn’t tell

just anybody when----’ She checked herself; for perhaps after all it

had been that Jennifer had not remembered her much in absence. She added

quietly: ‘She was a person I knew well for a time. Tell me.... What did

you think of her?’

‘Oh, mad as a hatter. But she was more alive than most people. A flame,

let us say.’ His voice was ambiguous, unkind.

‘You didn’t like her, then?’

‘No, nor she me.’ He laughed briefly. ‘But she had a power, I admit. I

intend to go and find her again some day. I dare say I might make

her--like me.’

‘I don’t think you could!’ She wanted to strike him for his cold-blooded

self-assurance. ‘If you think you could--manage her, control her, I pity

you, that’s all! I’d like to see you try! You’d think you’d got her

easily--and then in another moment she’d have slipped through your

fingers.... How I’d laugh!... Personally I didn’t need to make her like

me: she just did.’

She felt that she was speaking wildly, and fell silent, weak before the

flooding onslaught of the past.

It was too much pain. What was the use of trying to go on? You could

never get free of the past. It came all around again at a word, and in a

trice all save its shadows was trivial and insubstantial.

Julian was watching her; raising his eyebrows in a pretense of polite

surprise and watching closely.

‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘Calm yourself, my serpent. You have convinced me

my best endeavours would be wasted.’

She hid her face, stooping it over the table with both hands across her

forehead, feeling the nausea and sweat of faintness.

He helped himself to grapes and remarked:

‘Not that I shan’t be sorry never to see her on a horse again. She

looked magnificent.’

‘Oh, yes! She....’ Still with her face hidden she added, summoning a

faint but steady voice: ‘I’d go to her now, this minute, if I knew where

she was. But I don’t.’

There was a silence; and then he said gently:

‘I’ll find her for you if you like, my dear.’

She stretched a hand across the table to him.

‘No. Help me forget her ... and everything else....’

He stroked the hand; and without a word left her, to pay the bill. When

he came back she was able to raise a calm and smiling face to him.

* * * * *

The stars were out when they took the road again, and the coming dark

flowered like a field of pansies.

‘Hadn’t we better go home now, Julian?’

‘No. I’m not going to take you home yet.’

She sat beside him, silent and dully apprehensive.

‘It’s a pity you’re so unhappy,’ said Julian. ‘I think I said so

before.’

She made no answer.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘you’re a fool to take on like this.’

Silence.

‘You’re simply destroying yourself over it and it can’t be worth it. Why

don’t you tell me about it? I’ll be nice.’

She shook her head.

‘Do tell me, darling. You know, things have a way of swelling to

monsters if we lock them up inside us. You see if you won’t feel better

after you’ve once got it out of you.’ He spoke like a kindly father, and

put an arm round her.

‘I’m in love with someone,’ she whispered. ‘That’s all. I thought it

was finished.... Oh, dear, dear, dear, how awful!...’ She drew deep

choking breaths.

‘Poor devil,’ he said.

‘You needn’t be sorry.’ She collected herself. ‘It’s good for me.

Besides, it _is_ finished really: I scarcely ever think of it now.’

‘Does that yellow-haired female come into it then?’

‘Jennifer? No. Though she’s gone too ... and that makes it all far

worse....’ She added quickly: ‘It’s nobody you know.’

His silence told her that he was not deceived.

‘Anyway,’ she said lightly, ‘there’s one bad thing over in my life:

falling in love, I mean. I’m _free_ of it!’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, my dear child! _Don’t_ be such a fool! Why,

you haven’t mastered your infant primer yet. _I_ know! Do you mean to

tell me this unknown fellow has absorbed all your powers of loving to

the end of your life? I’m sorry then: you’re less of a person than I

thought you. Ah, you think I’m mocking, and you hate me. And I do mock.

Yes, yes! And I’m so sorry for you I---- But of course you won’t believe

that.’

He spoke with passion, slowing the car down till she scarcely crawled,

then finally stopping her altogether by the edge of the road, beneath an

overhanging rocky hillside. It was getting very dark: she felt rather

than saw the tense expression of his eyes and mouth.

‘You won’t believe that,’ he repeated, ‘and you’re thinking at this

moment that such a brute as I never before existed.’

‘No.’ She felt dazed. ‘I think you’re meaning to be kind. But you don’t

understand.’

‘Aha! Of course not. How can a coarse male animal like myself understand

the feelings of a refined and sensitive young lady?’

‘Oh, Julian--unfair ... unkind!’

‘Well, _damn_ you, don’t you see I love you myself?’ he cried in a

perfect fury. ‘Here am I, alone with you at last for a paltry ten

days--after waiting years, mind you, _years_ for my opportunity, and I

find you moping and moaning over your lost schoolgirl illusions! Good

God! Haven’t you the guts to snap your fingers at a fellow who can’t be

bothered with you? Aren’t you attractive and intelligent? Can’t you

laugh? Aren’t there plenty of others? What am I here for? Go to the

devil for a bit--I’ll help you. I’ll see you through it. But _don’t

moan_.’

He paused for breath, and went on:

‘Here am I, as I said, with ten days of your company as my limit--ten

days in which to make you _look back_ into my eyes, not through them, to

make you stop smiling and being polite and tolerant and sorry for

me--oh, anything rather than your damned indifference! Why don’t you

hate me? I could do some good with you then. I thrive on hatred. Here am

I, of all people, not able to sleep or eat for wanting to kiss you,

shaking all over when I see you coming, raging when you talk to another

man--and here are you, making a fool of yourself--obstinately wasting

our time making a romantic fool of yourself.’

‘Well, we’re quits then,’ she interrupted quickly. ‘I love without being

loved and I’m a fool. I agree with you. You love without being loved.

You’re another.’

He turned to her and said delightedly:

‘You’re angry. I’ve stung you up. You’ve lost your temper.’

‘Oh, you’re impossible.’

‘No, no, I’m not,’ he said coaxingly. ‘Look, I’ll be so nice now. Listen

to me, Judy darling. You’re not the sort of person to have one abortive

little romance and go to your grave an old maid. An old maid who’s had a

disappointment, Judy!--isn’t that what it’s called? There, I’m teasing

again and I said I wouldn’t. Darling, what’s the use of being so damned

constant? _Do_ find someone else quick. You’ve no idea how delightful

you’ll find it when you’re old to remember what a lot of people you’ve

loved. And it’s the _very_ best remedy, Judy, for your indisposition.’

‘Shall you employ it if----’

‘If you turn me down? Probably. But don’t turn me down--not without a

trial. Here am I, ready to hand: you could do a damned sight worse than

take me. I’ll see we have a good time.’

Moths flittered and spun in the light of the head-lamps; beyond the two

still long shafts of brightness the night looked very dark. How many

miles from home?

At length she said:

‘I take it this is not a proposal of marriage, Julian.’

He laughed.

‘No, my dear, it is not. Nothing so grim.’

‘Ah, I see--your mistress.’

Her voice and her words made her wonder if she were not holding a

conversation in a dream: there was the same feeling of having made a

pronouncement of the first importance; but whose meaning you could not

detect.

Julian’s mistress.... The idea was for some reason profoundly shocking.

A French, an Austrian, a Russian; and now an English.... But perhaps he

had been lying then. He did tell such lies about his experiences.

‘I’m not made for matrimony any more than you are,’ he said in a voice

of gentle explanation. ‘Can you imagine me as a husband? What hell for

some poor fool!... Yet,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I’d be fond of my

children. I’d like to bring up a son. But I shall never have one.’

‘If you would marry Mariella,’ she said, still out of her dream, ‘you

could bring up Peter. She’d like that. I think she loves you.’

He took no notice; and she wondered if she had not spoken aloud, after

all; or whether her small voice had not penetrated his absorption.

‘Why, what would we make of each other married?’ he went on. ‘It would

be one long succession of _agaçements_. We’re both so self-conscious, so

fastidious, so civilized.... Oh, it would be appalling.’

‘Yes, it would.’

‘But, Judith, lovely delightful Judith,’ he pleaded, his voice deep and

beautiful, ‘for a season, for a season! A clean leap in, and out again

the minute it started to be a failure. Think what we could give each

other!’

‘It would be very good for us I suppose....’ She held her head in her

hands, trying to think. What could he possibly give her that she would

want?

‘It would, it would. We’d _live_ a bit instead of thinking. I’d make you

forget, I swear: and what things I’d give you to remember instead!--good

things that have been my secrets for years, that I’ve longed for years

to share, to offer to your lovely quick intelligence. No one else has

had them, Judith. They’ve been waiting for you: nobody else has ever

come near you in my mind. Judith, it wouldn’t be the irritating tiresome

old bore you know: that isn’t I! I’ve got secrets. Let me tell you them.

So much beauty I’d enrich you with, and then I’d let you go. Isn’t that

fair? Isn’t that worth having? Go and marry and breed afterwards if you

must, but let me give you this first. Try me, Judith, try me. You can’t

refuse to try me. I want you so much.’

She wanted to stop her ears: for she felt herself helplessly yielding to

the old syren of words.

‘Julian--I couldn’t give you--what you wanted. Oh, I couldn’t! It’s such

a step--you don’t realise--for a woman. She can’t ever get

back--afterwards, and be safe in the world. And she might want to.’

‘I’d see you got back if you wanted to. But I don’t think you will. You

won’t want to be safe. That’s not for you. Oh, Judith, I know you better

than you know yourself.’

‘No. No.’

She was locked away from him and he did not know it. What he mistook

for her living self was a mummy, with a heart of dry dust. He had not

the perspicacity to see it.

He was silent and then said:

‘I wouldn’t ask you for anything you--weren’t prepared to give me. I

hope--that might come. But for the present all I want is to help you

live again--in better, more enduring, ways. Will you let me? Will you

allow me to love you, Judith?’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps, Julian. I’ll try. I’ll try to love you too.’ The

words broke from her on top of a great sigh.

‘My dear!’ She felt his triumph. He put an arm round her and lightly

kissed her, and she thought: ‘Now I’ve been kissed by all three of

them.’

‘But wait, Julian!’ she protested, near to nervous tears. ‘Don’t say any

more now. Take me home.’

‘Yes, yes. I’ll take you home now.’ His voice was soothing and tender.

He was letting her see that his patience was infinite. This time, she

was caught.

The car glided downwards from the hills into the plain, through the

lovely calm. Once she broke silence to say:

‘Nothing’s worth while, Julian? It doesn’t matter what one does? There’s

no point, really, in being alive?’

He laughed.

‘Poor Judy! Give it up! You’ll have to in time. Resign yourself, and the

compensations won’t seem so preposterously inadequate. There was a

time.... But that’s past. So long as there’s a balance of happiness I’m

content to be alive. That it’s all futile has ceased to trouble me. It’s

not really difficult to be happy, Judith.’

‘Well--you shall show me.’

But she felt crushed with melancholy to hear him; and his calm voice

echoed drearily in her heart.

* * * * *

She bade him good-night in the empty lounge, and went upstairs to the

bedroom’s rose and gilt harshness.

She was going to be Julian’s mistress.... He was sure of her: she had

noted his triumphant eyes and smiling mouth when he said good night....

Perhaps if she had offered to be Roddy’s mistress he would have agreed

with alacrity. He too was not made for matrimony.

She wished suddenly for Martin and sat down and started a letter to him;

gave up after a few sentences, too heavy-minded to think; and went to

bed.

10

The next day was _jour de fête_: there were to be grand balls, carnivals

and exhibition-dancing in all the hotels.

‘We’ll make the round of them, Judy,’ said Julian. ‘And afterwards we’ll

take the car and go up into the hills--shall we?’

And she thanked him and agreed.

He was debonair, gay and gracious: the lines in his face seemed to have

been smoothed out, and the likeness to Charlie was strongly in evidence.

Dreaming ahead, she saw herself reluctantly, helplessly, plunging

further and further into relationship with him. He would not weary of

her soon. When once the thing started, the break with the past would

inevitably be complete. Together they would be reckless, free; together

they would snatch pleasure out of life’s worthlessness; for Julian had

promised faithfully that he was going to give her exactly what she

wanted, that he had learnt precisely how happiness was to be come by,

and would teach her.... She had given him leave to teach her.

Judiciously he absented himself for the day; and she spent the morning

with Mamma, watching all the internally-disordered people pass, cup in

hand up and down the _Place_ from spring to spring; and the afternoon

with Mamma at the dressmaker’s; and the hours between tea and dinner

with Mamma in the hotel-lounge, drearily banishing and recurring to

thoughts of Roddy.

Mamma sent her out to buy a copy of the Continental Daily Mail, which

shrill-voiced women were excitedly advertising in the _Place_. Through

her lorgnette, Mamma scanned the announcement of recent arrivals, the

political outlook, the new French train smash, yawned, remarked that the

holiday season in England seemed marked as usual by murders and drowning

fatalities, yawned again and went upstairs to rest before her

bridge-party.

An hour yet till dinner and nothing to do but sit and think of things.

Idly she picked up the evilly printed sheets. _Triple Boating Tragedy._

Why were they always triple? What must it be like to be relatives and

friends of a triple boating tragedy? But that was a class disaster, like

a charabanc death--not general.

_Sailing Fatality off St. Catherine’s, Isle of Wight._ That was where

Martin and Roddy were yachting. They might have witnessed it. _Tragic

End of Well-known Young Yachtsman._

She had an impulse to put down the paper; but a name caught her eye and

she had to go on reading.

_A dense fog in the Channel is presumed to be the cause of the

death of Mr. G. M. St. V. Fyfe, one of the best known of the

younger Solent yachtsmen._

_According to information at present available, Mr. Fyfe, who was

an expert sailor and swimmer, had been out since early morning of

the--th sailing his small cutter “Sea Pink” single-handed. About

noon a heavy sea-fog drove up from the channel with great

suddenness and in the evening his friends became alarmed at his

failure to return. Next morning a life-buoy and some other wreckage

identified as belonging to Mr. Fyfe’s boat was found washed up on

the shore near Brooke. It is thought that the boat must have been

run down by a liner or other large vessel off St. Catherine’s Head

during the fog of the previous afternoon. The body has not yet been

recovered._

_Mr. G. M. St. V. Fyfe, who was twenty-four years of age, was the

only son of the late Sir John Fyfe, K.C.B., and of Lady Fyfe of the

Manor House, Fernwood, Hants. Educated at Eton and Trinity College,

Cambridge, he was among the most_....

There followed a few more words, but the type was illegible.

It could not be Martin, because he was Mr. Martin Fyfe. Martin’s

initials were--O God!--forget you knew his initials. She could see them

now written in her own hand on an envelope: G. M. St. V. Fyfe, Esq. Such

dignified, satisfying initials.... It could not be Martin because an

unfinished letter to him was lying upstairs waiting to be sent. Martin

was sailing safely with Roddy and one or two others. He would not sail a

cutter single-handed in a fog, because that was so dangerous; and he

never did dangerous things.

The body had not yet been recovered....

If she read the thing through again calmly she would realize it was

somebody else.

Perhaps better not.

Just the date though.... Two days old, this thing was now.... Mr. G. M.

St. V. Fyfe--Martin Fyfe--_Martin_ had been nothing for two days....

She thought: If I pretend I never saw it, it will be just as if it

hadn’t happened. I won’t know it, and then it’ll stop being true.

She folded the newspaper carefully, took it and went upstairs; and

dressed for dinner with meticulous care. She was going to dine with

Julian at the hotel which promised the best exhibition dancing; and she

had agreed to wear his favourite frock to-night.

* * * * *

It was a very rich and expensive dinner that Julian had ordered; and a

bouquet of red carnations lay beside her plate. Lobster and champagne.

What a crowd of excited people! Bare flesh was very ugly, and all those

waved heads of women were intolerable. The monotony of faces in a

crowd!...

Julian was studying her covertly, with flickering glances, though his

attention was ostensibly for the company. He drank restlessly: the lines

in his face were very marked. She would say something to him about the

monotony of faces in a crowd; and then something about waved hair. After

that she said:

‘Julian, does anybody know you’re here?’

‘No, not a soul.’

‘You left no address?’

‘No. Paris is my headquarters. When I go off like this I prefer that the

great world should await my return, not follow me.’

‘Ah, you’re wise.’ She laughed. ‘It must make you feel so free.’

‘Why did you ask?’

‘Because it just occurred to me.’

Because they might have sent him a telegram: he was the eldest of the

family, and they might have wanted him for all sorts of reasons: for the

funeral.... But the body had not yet been recovered. Soon she must say

to him: ‘Julian, Martin has been drowned.’ He would not much mind: they

had never been very intimate: but of course they had shared that

blood-intimacy of the circle. She must really tell him soon.

They were dancing now. The room was full of smoke and light and sickly

scent; and the heat was choking. Everybody was rising to dance.

One of the American young men from her hotel was bowing and murmuring in

front of her.

‘Not just now, thank you so much.’ She flashed a smile at him. ‘Perhaps

later on....’

Oh, the queer marionettes bobbing up and down in their mechanical

motions! How could people look so serious and perform such imbecile

antics? But they were not real people.

‘Look, Julian, there’s the Spanish boy we played against in the

tournament. He’s good-looking, isn’t he? He’s simply enrapturing that

girl. Hasn’t he got a lazy smile?... You know, however ugly a

Frenchwoman’s body is at any rate it is a body and she’s not ashamed of

it. Those English people are just bundles of clothes. If you undressed

them there’d be nothing. That’s the whole difference.... Oh, look,

they’re giving out favours. Oh, I’d like a fan. Let’s dance.’

Threading her way through the crowded tables, she passed a party of fat

elderly Frenchmen and heard one say to another, loudly and with drunken

excitement:

‘_Mais regardez donc un peu! En blanc--vois tu? Elle est bien, celle-là.

C’est tout à fait mon type._’

Their faces leered at her out of a dream.

Julian took her once round the room and then looked down at her and

said:

‘You can’t dance to-night. What’s the matter?’

She gazed at him in dread, dumb. There was a reason. Soon--soon she

would have to tell him; and then, when it had been spoken, imparted, it

would be true for ever and ever. Not yet.

After a little while Julian held her as if he had ceased to expect or

desire any response or rhythm from the lumpish wooden body he had to

push. It was no good trying to keep things going much longer.... All

things were coming waveringly to an end. The end would come with her own

voice saying: “Martin has been drowned.” After that there would be a

breaking-up and confusion, a going away to hide.... Not yet.

The dancing competition had started, amid loud laughter and applause.

The couples, gradually thinning out, circled self-consciously. The

little soft-eyed half-caste brother and sister--they were the ones.

Their bodies were lithe and flat and sinuous, their proudly-carried

small heads shone like black water, their eyes and lips were dreamy,

sensual, sad, their limbs made poetry and music as they moved. They

agreed, as prize-winners, to dance an exhibition dance.

Blushing, her teeth sparkling in a smile, she glided from the other end

of the room towards her brother. He gave her his hand, she paused with a

swirl of her long full yellow skirt,--and then they started swaying and

circling together. They whirled; stopped dead; whirled again. He lifted

her in the air and there she hung poised, laughing at him, pointing her

tiny foot, then dropped like a feather and went weaving on.

Oh, let them dance for ever! While they danced, people could die,

gently, easily, as a dancer sinks to earth, without pain to them or

horror to others. Let them dance for ever!... It was over. Hand in hand

they curtsied and bowed, and ran off the floor.

‘That was dancing,’ said Julian. ‘Nobody but each other to dance with,

you see, poor little devils. That’s the way to learn.’

Roddy would have danced with that soft-smiling side-long-glancing little

dancer: he would have made a point of it, not out of pity. Martin would

have left her alone with quiet distaste.

_Then, in a flash, saw the sea try

With savage wrath and efforts wild

To smash its rocks with a dead child._

To smash its rocks with Martin.

Everybody was very gay now. Through the smoke, all the eyes and mouths

laughed, excited with wine and dancing. Balloons and favours waved; the

band blared. The musicians donned false noses and moustaches and stood

up, leaping and shouting.

_Oh, this place is Hell!_

Yes, Hell. Grimacing faces, obscene bodies, chattering parrot and

monkey voices; Hell’s musicians, with vicious tunes and features dark

with unmentionable evil....

The lights were dimmed, the floor cleared. A dancing girl leapt into the

middle of the space, throwing flowers. Her white ballet skirts spun

mistily. The lights were extinguished altogether, and you saw that the

outline of her bodice and her skirts, her shoe-buckles and the star on

her forehead had been painted with luminous paint; so that now she was

three stars and some circles and loops of light, wheeling fantastically

in the dark.

Now was the time to slip out. Julian would not notice.

Half-way across the _Place_ he caught her up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘There’s something I must show you. Come with me.’

He followed in silence, into the hotel, upstairs, into the sitting-room.

‘Wait there, then. I’ll come back.’

She saw that she was carrying a purple balloon. She dropped it and

watched it go bouncing like a great bubble across the room.

In the bedroom she found the letter in the folds of the blotter. ‘_What

a silence, Martin! I have been missing you_....’ Aghast, she tore it in

shreds.

Now to go back to Julian.

He was standing in the middle of the room, waiting.

‘Julian, what are Martin’s initials?’

He thought.

‘Something St. V.--G. M. St. V.--George Martin St. Vincent.’

He raised his eyebrows--but grew pale.

‘Ah, yes.’

The paper lay on the window-seat; she went to get it. ‘Take it away and

read. There, where I’ve marked it.’ She made a cross with her thumbnail.

She went back to the bedroom and locked the door; and, after a few

minutes, heard him going downstairs again.

Then she flung herself upon the bed, weeping for Martin whom she loved:

whom she had left crying for her sake; who should have lived to be loved

by his children, and honoured and full of years; Martin who was kind

when all else was unkind--Martin who had been dead two days, rolling

about in the waves; Martin for whom poor Roddy had searched the sea in

vain; Martin who had been comely and now was destroyed utterly and made

horrible,--sea-water in his mouth and eyes and hair, sea-water swelling

his shapely body to a gross lump.

Whom had he thought of while he drowned? Had he fought and cursed? Or

had he welcomed death because of somebody’s unkindness and deceit?

‘Martin, I didn’t mean it.’

Martin was almost in the room--quite in the room--standing just behind

her, saying: “I’m all right.” He had come to comfort her.

Martin had entered into everlasting life. Yes!

No. No. No. Dead. Unconscious. Nothing. Beyond sight and touch for

ever.