IV

Sarah Greene wakened in the night straight from deep sleep to

considerable pain.

She had wakened often these last few months to that same rending pain

which numbed her elbow, ran up her under arm, stabbed fiercely at her

arm-pit and concentrated itself in an agonising grasp of her left

breast.

She had lain on her back panting and sweating, conscious of her heart

thumping unevenly, waiting for the first moment of relief when she

would be able to stretch out her hand for the opiate that was always

ready by her bed: an opiate too mild to give sleep, but strong enough

to dull the edge of the attack.

When this stage had been reached and she was no longer abandoned to

the horror of the moment, Mrs. Greene almost invariably found herself

betrayed into moments, and even hours, of pure panic, when

speculation as to the nature of her disease forced itself on her

reluctant mind.

Time and again she had brought herself to the point of deciding to

see a specialist; time and again she had told herself that she knew

what it was--cancer--and she would repeat the word, Cancer; cancer is

what is wrong with you Sarah Greene; but always there had been an

element of uncertainty to torment her with a hope too frail to build

on but too tough to disregard.

These hours of desperate indecision had culminated at last in the

appointment with Dr. Stiff, whose verdict left no loophole, as Mrs.

Greene remembered when the pain began to subside.

Instead, she was conscious of a feeling of comfortable relaxation.

The ugly possibility established as an inevitable fact, had lost its

horror; it simply had to be accepted and dealt with.

Lying there with her face turned to the small window of Mary's spare

bedroom Sarah Greene found that she was perfectly happy. Now that no

further struggle was possible and that a conclusion had been reached,

she had fallen into a condition of luxurious restfulness which she

decided would probably last till her death, broken of course by

successive bouts of pain, and by small variations of mood. But

fundamentally she was at ease and likely to remain so.

A small wind blew along the street between the two rows of tall

narrow houses, and fluttered the curtains at her window.

She sighed; it was a London wind; even in the cool of the autumn

night long before dawn, it was a London wind. She got up restlessly,

put on a dressing-gown and sat down in a chair beside the low window.

The house opposite seemed indecently near and indecently small.

There could be no dignity of life in so cabined a space. Everywhere

she saw a huddle of houses and chimneys. Wind blew along the street

again and a casement curtain flapped out of the window opposite and

filled her with distaste. It was so close to her, this grotesquely

flapping piece of linen that belonged to people whose name she did

not know, whose lives were alien to hers.

A sudden nostalgia for Lynton broke like a storm in her heart; Lynton

where her windows looked out on lawns and fields and beech trees, and

even the sky seemed more remote.

She stood up, her fingers pressed nervously on the window sill, and

whispered, "I must go back to Lynton, I must go at once. It's

impossible to spend a whole week in town. I'll go to-morrow."

There was a gentle knock at the door. Resentful of any intrusion she

said sternly, "Come in," and waited, a rigid small figure at the

window.

Roger came quietly round the door and shut it carefully.

"May I come in for a few minutes?" he asked, "Mary's asleep, but I

wakened up and heard you moving about, and thought I'd like to come

and talk to you. I've had a feeling all evening that there was

something wrong, or not exactly wrong; I don't quite know."

He broke off uncertainly, then lifted a chair over to the window and

said gently:

"Let's sit and talk for a little; will you tell me if there's

anything on your mind?"

Mrs. Greene sat down again. Her resentment had died. Roger in

pyjamas and dressing-gown looked young and tentative, and yet there

was about him an air of steadfastness that suited the occasion. She

looked at him and said lightly:

"My dear, this is a very funny scene. You and I sitting here at the

window in the middle of a cold November night."

But Roger only answered:

"Don't put me off, Aunt Sarah. I feel there is something wrong, and

I do want you to tell me."

She sat silent. It had never occurred to her to take anyone into her

confidence; the thought of being pitied was too upsetting; but Roger

was different. He would be able to help; he was strong and reliable

and dignified. Supposing she told him, he would not obtrude his

knowledge of her secret during the next few months, and indeed he

must be fond of her, she decided, or he would never have guessed at

the existence of trouble for he was not naturally intuitive.

She took a rapid decision and then spoke.

"I'm glad you came in to-night, Roger. I would like to tell you

something rather important both to you and to me. I had never

thought of telling, but now I feel I would like to do so."

She paused for a moment, looking down into the quiet street, and then

continued:

"I saw a specialist to-day as you know, and he told me what I've

feared for some months. I've got cancer, Roger dear, and they can't

operate or do anything for it."

Unconsciously she tightened her grasp of his hand and hurried on.

"And you see dear, I haven't much time left; only a few months in

fact, and you can help me to arrange all sorts of things if you will."

She stopped, a little breathless, and looked at Roger. He was

sitting very still but she could see the muscles of his throat

twisting as he swallowed and swallowed again, still in silence. When

at last he answered her his voice came huskily from a dry throat.

"I never guessed at anything like this, Aunt Sarah. I never dreamed

of anything so terrible. I don't suppose you want me to tell you how

sorry I am"--He broke off and then burst out, "It's hopelessly

inadequate just to say I'm sorry; it means far more than that."

"Hush, my dear, you'll waken Mary if you talk so loud; and listen,

Roger, I don't want you to feel like this. I'm an old woman and I've

not got much to live for, so it seems quite natural and right to me.

I don't want you to get worked up about it; I want you to help me."

"Of course I will," answered Roger. "You must tell me what to do.

But you must realise, Aunt Sarah, that this is a bad knock to me;

it's so awful to have you here like this, here with me now, and to

know at the same time that you're so ill."

He was obviously unstrung, but Sarah Greene was too intent on her

subject even to notice. Her soft untroubled voice went on:

"It isn't awful to know beforehand, Roger; it's splendid, because of

Lynton. Lynton really is important, and I can make so many

preparations now that I know. I'm leaving it to you, Roger--money

too, of course, but that doesn't matter. It's the house and land

that matter. You'll live there, you and Mary; your children will be

born there, and when you die your son will have it. Are you

listening Roger dear, do you understand?"

Roger relaxed his attitude of strained attention; he had caught

something of the urgency of her preoccupation.

"I love Lynton," he said simply. "It will entirely change my life.

You know I'm not very happy in my work and living like this, but I

can be absolutely happy at Lynton, and I'll try to have things

exactly as you would like them. It's absurd to thank you, Aunt

Sarah; Lynton isn't a Christmas present, but I promise you I'll keep

it up to standard."

"It does reassure me to hear you say that," Mrs. Greene answered

happily, "I know you love it, Roger, and there will be enough money

to keep it as it ought to be kept."

Her eyes were vague, her thoughts abstracted as she brooded over the

years during which her life had been bound up with the life of Lynton.

"You know, I've lived there all my life," she went on, "except for

the first three years after I married. There was never enough money

when I was a girl; the house got shabbier and shabbier, and there

were only two labourers for the gardens, and everything was

over-grown; even the lawns had to be scythed and looked like rough

meadows. And then I married Hugh and he loved it nearly as much as I

did, and even during the three years when Mamma was still alive, he

spent a little money here, and a little there, very secretly and

carefully so that she shouldn't guess."

"Where were you living then, Aunt Sarah?" interrupted Roger.

"We had taken a house not far from Lynton. You know it surely; it's

called Willowes, only about two miles the other side of Petworth. Of

course Hugh came up to town during the week; he was very busy you

know. Geoffrey had refused to go into his father's business, so Hugh

stepped into old Mr. Greene's shoes when he died. I came up

sometimes, but not very often. Then when Mamma died we went to live

at Lynton of course, and Hugh gave me a free hand. I put the house

right first; it was the easiest, but then it took a long time to work

up the gardens, and the lawns didn't come right for years. And you

see the tenants hadn't had anything done for them for a long time, so

I had to be very judicious. The farms needed new roofs and some

wanted new outbuildings, and the fences and gates were in a shocking

state, but we improved it all slowly."

Mrs. Greene fell silent, thinking gratefully of all that her

husband's money had been able to do for the place she loved.

"And now of course it's perfect," said Roger soberly.

She caught eagerly at the word.

"Yes, I think it is perfect, but you know it would go downhill at

once if it wasn't looked after. And that's why I'm so glad to have

told you all my affairs. You see dear, now I can go over everything

with you, and give you all sorts of details that it would take you

some time to find out for yourself, and so there need be no hitch

later on when you take over."

Both were conscious that this was a reminder of the grim fact

underlying the whole conversation, but to Mrs. Greene it seemed

unimportant, and Roger was enough in tune with her to be able to

concentrate on the one lovely aspect of the situation.

"I'd like to go with you to Lynton," he suggested.

"That's exactly what I want. I feel I must get back there at once

dear. I can't stay on in town. But I don't want to hurt Mary's

feelings, and I must come up again next week for Mrs. Rodney's party.

What is the best thing to do?"

"Do you really want to go at once?"

"Yes, really at once. To-morrow if possible--I suppose I mean

to-day------"

A sudden realisation of the time swept over Mrs. Greene.

The stars had faded and a pale dawn was creeping up the sky.

"It's cold," she said, "and it's some absurd hour in the morning. We

must both go to bed. I don't know what we've been thinking of; this

is all most unusual."

Roger smiled and stood up.

"I'm just going," he said, "but first about plans: We'll tell Mary

that you feel it's too long to stay in town, and that you're going

home to-day, and coming back next week. And I'll join you to-morrow,

Saturday, and spend Sunday with you."

It was surprising that Roger should take the initiative to this

extent; he seemed suddenly to have become more mature, more capable,

and Sarah Greene found the effect very restful.

"Thank you, Roger dear, that will be the best possible plan," she

said, enjoying to the full the rare sensation of being arranged for.

She stood up, shivering a little in the cold morning air.

"You've been the greatest comfort to me," she said, "and I don't want

you to think of this talk as being at all sad. It isn't. Planning

for the future is a very happy thing, and now I'm going to bed again."

Roger kissed her.

"Goodnight, my dear," he said. "Sleep well till breakfast, and rely

on me. I'll take care of Lynton for you."

V

On Saturday morning a dense pearl-coloured mist rose about two feet

above ground, so that walking along her familiar paths Sarah Greene

experienced unfamiliar sensations. Trees and bushes seemed to

balance lightly on the swimming vapour; the gentle slope up to the

garden assumed a fiercer gradient; everything was wet to the touch,

yet no rain fell.

At noon a watery sun gleamed fitfully through the stationary clouds,

but at four o'clock when Roger drove along the beech avenue only

occasional bare branches were dimly visible, and when the car turned

the last corner he saw that the lovely sombre house was softly

shrouded.

Mrs. Greene had spent the afternoon in a state of unreasonable

disappointment. She knew that Roger had arrived at Lynton countless

times in the full splendour of sunlight, but she had determined that

this arrival, too, should have the benison of the sun. He was not

coming this time only as Roger Dodds; he was coming as owner of

Lynton who must also be lover of Lynton.

Proud and confident as she was of the irreproachable beauty of house

and land, she had nevertheless set her heart on showing them off to

their best advantage at this particular moment when Roger would be

likely to see them from a new angle.

His first words dispelled her anxiety.

"Isn't this mist beautiful? I don't think I've ever seen the house

look so lovely and mysterious."

"Does it really strike you like that? I've been feeling so cross

with the weather all afternoon; I wanted sun for you, but it doesn't

matter if you like this."

"I do. I think it's beautiful," repeated Roger emphatically.

"Come and have tea now," said Mrs. Greene, "and just tell me when you

have to go back to town so that I can arrange everything to get the

most value from your visit."

"I must go to-morrow evening about five, I'm afraid. There's a

rotten slow train about then that'll do me quite well."

"Is Monday quite impossible?"

"I'm afraid it is, quite," Roger answered definitely.

"Very well, then," said Mrs. Greene. "After tea and this evening

we'll devote to business. I'll get out the map of the estate and

give you details about all the tenants and go over the books with

you. That will leave us free really to enjoy to-morrow. I think it

will be a lovely day; it often is after a mist like this, and we'll

go for a long walk and have a late lunch.

"I'd like that immensely."

"We'll go down the grass walk to the lower fields where Lynton

marches with Hurstfield and then home through the woods. And

sometime I want you to talk to Hamilton. He's an excellent man and

he can help you a great deal. I'm not quite satisfied with Parks,

the second gardener. We'll ask Hamilton what he thinks of him."

"I've been thinking a lot about Lynton yesterday and to-day," said

Roger, shyly, "and realising how much I like every detail. It's good

the way the house stands four square to the winds, and I like the

Portland stone it's built of. Really the exterior is a lovely

combination of ornament and discretion. It's sound, don't you think?"

"That's exactly what your Uncle Hugh used to say," answered Mrs.

Greene slowly. "Yes, it's sound. Houses are beautifully permanent,

aren't they? I like to think that stone lasts, just as I like to

remember that the beeches will be better for your son than they were

for my grandfather. Lynton consolidates itself with every

generation."

"It's a good point of view," said Roger soberly. "You know I like

stability and soundness. I saw so much chaos in the war that I had a

violent reaction in favour of settled traditional things. In fact

I'm very conventional."

"You have to be conventional if you're going to be at all happy in

the country," Mrs. Greene announced with decision. "I don't mean

because of the people, though there's that too, of course. They are

much more conventional than in town, and they'd be disappointed and

puzzled if one didn't do certain conventional things. But I was

thinking of Nature really. You'll find that the land and the woods

and the gardens all proceed along the most orderly and conventional

lines. Really, Roger, there are no surprises, except that every year

I find the first tulips more lovely than I had remembered. But

nothing bizarre ever happens. Things either go smoothly and the

crops are good and the flowers do well, or else it's warm too early

and we get frost in April and everything is nipped; but either way it

goes by rote."

"Every word you say makes me like it all the more." Roger's face was

serious. "You see I'm rather like that myself. I'm dull; I've no

surprises."

Mrs. Greene attacked him hotly in his own defence.

"Really Roger, what nonsense you talk. It's ridiculous to say you're

dull. I don't find you so at all, and you very often surprise me. I

don't approve of your underrating yourself like that."

Roger laughed.

"I don't mean to underrate myself, but sometimes I feel I'm a dull

dog."

"You never need feel that when you're with me, Roger," said Mrs.

Greene, struggling to express an emotional fact in an unemotional

manner. "You know how fond I am of you, my dear boy, and proud of

you too. You touched me very much by what you said at dinner the

other night about our friendship. I know it was quite true and

genuine, and the more I think of it, the more I am glad to think of

you and Mary living here."

She stood up abruptly.

"Come now, let's go and get out the books; I really have a great deal

to tell you."

Late that night Sarah Greene drew back the curtains of her bedroom

and looked out over the wide lawns to the formally cut box hedge

beyond and to the meadows beyond that, sloping steeply up to the

solitary woods.

A breeze had sprung up dispelling the mist, the heaped-up clouds were

hurrying across the dark sky, and the young clear moon was unrimmed.

"To-morrow will be a wild and lovely day," she said softly, "Lynton

will look its best for Roger."

Confident and contented she got into bed and slept till morning, when

she wakened to just such a day as she had foretold. White clouds

were still hurrying across the sky, but in between it was a deep and

steady blue. Leaves were flying over the lawn; a branch had been

blown off the lime tree near her window and lay untidily on the path

below. Even the solid hedge yielded a little this way and that to

the contrary wind.

It was a sparkling and exhilarating morning. Sarah Greene and Roger

Dodds shared in its exhilaration as they started out before eleven.

They had made no professions of pleasure beyond Roger's casual

comment, "A lovely day, isn't it?" as he came in a little late and

sat down to breakfast. But each was conscious of the other's

happiness, and at times when Mrs. Greene caught Roger's eye, or saw

him lift his head suddenly intent as a fiercer gust battered on the

windows, she felt that they were conspirators who shared a secret too

exquisite to be alluded to.

This feeling persisted. Never before had Roger seemed so responsive.

As they walked at a good pace down the grass path, his hidden

excitement communicated itself to her, and her delight was obvious to

him.

I've never felt like this with anyone but Hugh, she thought. It's

like a discovery. I've never really known Roger before, and now,

just when Lynton and I need him, he suddenly unfolds. It's too

surprising.

A small toad hopped clumsily across their path; his legs as he took

off for each leap seemed incredibly long, and his protruding eyes

were startled. They stopped to watch him, and laughed.

Roger, too, was conscious that a marked change had taken place in

their relationship; it was more alive, and at the same time more

comfortable. It struck neither of them as strange that this should

be so; everything seemed perfectly natural to the ill-assorted pair;

the small woman of seventy, pinched, sallow, dressed in nondescript

clothes, but walking bravely in her sensible shoes, and the tall

untidy young man, with his inexpressive body and face.

Mrs. Greene did not attempt to explain to herself this forward move

in their intimacy. She accepted it as a belated discovery of Roger's

real quality. But as they left the grass walk and trudged through

the busy rustling woods, still not talking, Roger hit on a solution

that satisfied him.

It's the link of succession, he decided; there must be a link of

either love or hate between a person who is going to hand over the

thing he values most highly to someone who values it too. And Aunt

Sarah has neither hate nor resentment for me, so that this particular

situation which might be painful is oddly enough quite easy.

"What are you thinking, Roger?" asked Mrs. Greene suddenly. He

turned his head to smile down at her.

"I was thinking how very comfortable we were," he answered simply.

"I thought that a few minutes ago. I'm very comfortable altogether,

Roger. Mary said to me the other day that she thought I had no

worries, and really, you know, it's perfectly true."

"How big exactly is the estate?" asked Roger inconsequently.

"Two thousand, five hundred and thirty-four acres," Mrs. Greene

answered precisely.

"That ought to provide you with a worry or two," suggested Roger.

"No, it doesn't. I have occasional anxieties but no real worries."