
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Bracken Turning Brown
Author: Wynne, Pamela [Scott (ne Watson), Winifred Mary]
   (1879-1959)
Date of first publication: 1934
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Collins, 1934
Date first posted: 15 September 2019
Date last updated: 15 September 2019
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1624

This ebook was produced by
Mardi Desjardins, Jen Haines, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






BRACKEN TURNING BROWN

by Pamela Wynne





This is the Story


    _Bracken Turning Brown_ is the most powerful and dramatic
    story that Pamela Wynne has written. A famous barrister is
    ordered by his doctor to take a long and restful holiday. He
    goes to the Lake District and stays in a quiet country rectory
    as paying guest. He finds that he has stumbled on a domestic
    tragedy. The rector, weak-willed and irresponsible, is addicted
    to drink; his wife, still young and attractive, is bravely
    laying to conceal her tragedy from the world. Before long he
    finds that he has fallen in love with her. It is an
    extraordinarily dramatic situation--the famous advocate, who
    hundreds of times in the courts has held up to scorn the
    infidelity of others, now finds himself faced with his greatest
    problem. Miss Pamela Wynne handles her theme with exceptional
    skill. Her book will have an immense appeal to her already large
    public.




    To My Sister
    ETHEL EARLE
    Who Gave Me The Title




CHAPTER I


The Rectory had large mournful windows. Windows that seemed to stare
frowningly down at the beauty that lay spread out in front of them. For
the Vale of Castlemere was extremely beautiful. Lying some way away from
one of the biggest towns in the Lake District it seemed somehow to
escape notice. The roads were too narrow and too steep for motors, and
charabancs were definitely forbidden. Some of the bridges were actually
not safe for very heavy traffic and no one seemed inclined to have them
adapted to meet the new order of things. Once a day, at about five
o'clock in the evening, the old-fashioned coaches would come clattering
back from their trips round some of the nearer lakes, and the few
visitors scattered about in the tiny white farmhouses would come out to
the gates of the equally tiny front gardens and gaze up with interest at
the people perched up on the high seats. And almost with equal interest
at the horses; horses which had become, after years of experience, just
as intelligent as their drivers.

But in spite of the isolation of the Vale of Castlemere it had a church.
A church with an extremely loud and persistent bell. "Come _on_," it
seemed to be saying to the people round about, when it rang. "Come _on_,
here's a church and here's a Rector and Rector's wife who plays the
harmonium. Come on _in_, will you!"

But somehow, all the same, very few people did come in. Children came to
Sunday school because their parents wanted to get them out of the way
for a little while. They were taught by the schoolmistress of the tiny
village school, because no one else offered to do it. She was very much
higher Church than the Rector and took an awful joy in teaching the
children about Feasts and Saints' Days, and even about the Reservation
of the Blessd Sacrament. They liked it because it meant that they got
little brightly-coloured cards from Mowbray's. They stared at the cards
and pocketed them and said "Naw," in their soft musical North-country
voices when the schoolmistress asked them if they remembered what she
had told them the Sunday before. But the schoolmistress was not
discouraged. To instil the Catholic Faith into the minds of these little
ones was, to her, a sacred duty. The Rector would not do it, nor would
the Rector's wife. But as Miss Simmons would, this did not matter as the
Rector very rarely came to the Sunday school at all, and the Rector's
wife did not come because she did not care what was being taught in the
Sunday school so long as she didn't have to teach it. So life went on in
the beautiful lonely valley. In the winter it snowed and the mountains
that shut it in were white and austere and distant, and the trees that
fringed them were frosted and fairy-like. In the early spring it rained;
rain that drifted along the valley in perpendicular streaks; mists of
rain that filled the becks and turned them into miniature torrents. In
the later spring the flowers came out; heavenly flowers, primroses with
long, long stalks and violets and celandine, and in between the showers
the blue sky showed, more blue than ever against the green of the hills.
And then summer came shimmering along and the fields became a glory of
white and gold, and with the feathery grasses that waved above them they
made everything look vague and drifting and still more fairy-like. And
then autumn; the trees a blaze of gold and rust-colour, and the ground
all dry and crackling with fallen leaves. And then the winter again.

And it was the winter that made Susan Carpendale feel that if the life
she was leading now went on much longer she would go raving mad. The
winter was just over; it was nearly March. It was still cold; awfully
cold. For the Rectory was a very difficult house to keep warm. The
windows were too large and so was the kitchen range. It would have been
all right if the Rector was well off, but he wasn't.

"Rachel, it eats coal," Mrs. Carpendale was staring at the kitchen
range. Her servant, a middle-aged married woman who adored her, was
staring at it too.

"It does, Ma'am."

"What shall we do?"

"Nothing," said Rachel sensibly, who had heard all this before.

"You always say that, Rachel," and then Mrs. Carpendale burst into a
little bubble of laughter. And then the laughter faded to something very
near to tears as she turned and flung her arms round her servant.

"What should I do without you?" she choked.

"Get on very well indeed," said Rachel stolidly. She detached her
mistress's young clinging hands. "And now about lunch," she said, "we'll
have to do without meat; that's very certain. But I have a bit of suet
left over from yesterday. The master is out to lunch so we can make it
do."

"Yes, he's gone to Windermere," said Mrs. Carpendale. And there was
suddenly something gay about her young face. "Do let me have lunch in
here with you," she said. "There's a pet."

"It's not suitable," said Rachel firmly, but her eyes dwelt with love on
the young flushed face.

"It may not be suitable. But it'll save a lot of coal," said Susan. "We
need not have the dining-room fire, then. Not until Arthur comes in,
which won't be until after tea."

"Very well," said Rachel. "And you leave the luncheon to me, Ma'am. I'll
make the pudding and put it on now. And then I'll come up and help you
make the beds. I've done the rooms. If you'll just dust round, that'll
be all I want."

"All right," said Susan. She walked out of the kitchen and stood in the
hall. Cold... desperately cold. And so were the stairs cold; she
walked up them shivering. And the bedrooms were colder; bleak, barely
furnished rooms, with huge windows, thinly curtained. Only the view from
them was divine. Suddenly ashamed of her distaste for the old grey stone
house, Susan walked across the floor and stared out of them. Yes, it was
a divine view. Mrs. Carpendale's gaze softened.




CHAPTER II


Susan had done a very ridiculous thing indeed when she married Arthur
Carpendale. But it is the sort of ridiculous thing that is done every
day. One of a large family of girls, with a studious unpractical
clergyman for a father, she had fallen in love with another clergyman.
As a rule there was not another clergyman about, as the living was too
small either to require or to support one. But a man came one day to
preach instead of her father, who had gone to a neighbouring parish.
Arthur Carpendale was tall and ascetic and well-bred. Well-bred men were
rare in that country parish. He had glanced round the table and seen
Susan, small and dimpling and much prettier than any of her sisters. He
was expecting preferment and had a hundred a year of his own. His
courtship was an unparalleled excitement in the Vicar's household. To
have refused him would have been insanity, at least, so it seemed to the
rest of the family.

"A hundred a year, why it's colossal," exclaimed Susan's younger sister,
Millicent.

"Is it?" said Susan doubtfully.

"Of course; besides there's the money he'll get from the living," chimed
in the rest. "He says that he thinks he's going to get something in the
Lake District. Well, imagine that! Living in the Lake District for ever,
after this ghastly flat place. You ought to be mad with joy, Susan."

And so the deed was done. The wedding was quiet and Susan had her two
sisters as bridesmaids. The Vicar thought of his dead wife and wished
she could have been there to see the first fledgling go out of the nest;
and then felt a sort of relief that there would be one less fledgling to
feed. And Arthur Carpendale seeing Susan sitting opposite to him in the
railway carriage wondered for a brief moment why he had done it, and
then forgot his wonder in a greater anxiety as to whether there would be
time for a drink at the junction where they had to change trains.

And that was two years ago. Two years that had made Susan older...
older and also much cleverer. No one must know. No one must know of the
terror that dogged her by night and by day. No one must know it but
Rachel, who had found it out almost at once. Rachel, who sometimes
seemed to Susan to have been provided for her by a merciful God. For she
had materialised almost as if it had been from nowhere. A married woman
with no belongings at all. A husband who had been killed in the war. A
mother who had just died and who therefore did not want her any more. A
North country-woman who was delighted to settle down among the hills and
dales that she loved, and who cooked like a dream.

And who regarded Arthur Carpendale's failing with complete philosophy.
The Rector drank because his father had done the same, said Rachel.
"It's not his fault at all. We must help him," declared Rachel. "Keep it
out of his way if we can. And not let this gossiping valley find it out
if we can possibly help it."

And for nearly two years luck had been with them. On the brief occasions
when the Rector had been unable to take duty Rachel had stepped into the
breach. The Rector had had a heart attack, poor man, and could not take
the service. Rachel had gone down to the tiny church herself and
informed the sturdy church-warden of the fact. "It's all that awful
war," she said, "and the Rector in the trenches, brave man that he is.
We'll have to get a lay reader here, and the sooner the better."

So a lay reader had been installed. One of the neighbouring farmers who
had once been a schoolmaster. The Valley was proud of its lay reader and
liked the blue ribbon with the cross on it. The Bishop agreed and wrote
a nice letter to the Rector about it. The Rector who had won the
Military Cross for his bravery under fire. Susan had only found that out
after she was married. "Why didn't you tell me before?" she looked up at
her husband with reverence in her eyes.

"Oh, I don't know," said Arthur Carpendale. His light eyes had a hunted
look in them. How soon would she find out, this wife of his, ten years
his junior. How soon would she find out that she had married a man who
was a sham and a cheat, and who had no more right to be a clergyman than
the man who kept the public house opposite the station? Less right,
because he at least was honest. He, Arthur Carpendale, ought to be in a
clergy house, wrestling with the twin devils that possessed him; the
devil of wanting a wife and of also wanting something to quench the
thirst that at intervals took him by the throat and made him feel that
he would gladly sell his immortal soul to quench it once and for ever.

But Susan, finding out, was merciful. After the frightful sleepless
night that she could never remember without a feeling of physical
sickness, she faced her husband, and taking his hand laid it against her
heart.

"Will it happen again?" she asked.

"Probably," said Arthur Carpendale. Haggard and unshaven he wondered if
he had the strength of mind to go and drown himself then and there.

"Can't you help it?"

"I feel as if I can't," said the Rector, and then he flung himself down
on the unmade bed and sobbed and choked and made dreadful animal sounds
of suffering that brought Susan to his side in a passion of pity and
love.

But with Susan love went hand in hand with reverence and after two years
it was very nearly dead. The Rector did his work well and the people in
the valley were devoted to him. The men chuckled over their pipes as
they talked of the way in which the two women at the Rectory thought
that no one in the valley knew of 'passon's' weakness.

"Heart attack!" it was old Thomas of the forge speaking, and the lines
round his deep-set eyes were all crinkled up.

"Yes, it's a rare joke. But all the same I like him," returned young
Morley, who managed the garage close to the old disused mill. "Met him
last night in all that rain going up to see young Fison, who caught his
hand in the saw at Pinders. Might have had to have it off if he hadn't
been lucky. Rector was soaked to the skin, and I bet he sat there for
half an hour or so before he went home and changed. And that Rectory's
as cold as a tomb, so I hear. Postman says so anyhow," and then Morley
relapsed into a profound silence as he sat and thought of the Rector's
pale thin face emerging like a ghost of a face from the high shabby
collar of the ancient trenchcoat.

But to Susan the terror that dogged her life had strangled love at
birth. She had married Arthur Carpendale because she had thought that it
was the best thing to do, and also that it was grand to be married. Also
she could look up to him; he was well-bred and understood how to speak
to people like waiters, and took a taxi without apparently thinking
about it. It was gorgeous to have someone to hold your elbow when you
crossed the road, too. Marriage was fun, thought Susan, dimpling and
smiling at her husband across the little round table in the hotel at
Scarborough, where they had spent their brief honeymoon. For Arthur
Carpendale had not wanted to drink during his honeymoon. He had been
diverted, and engulfed in other things. It had not been until the end of
the first three weeks of their life at the Rectory that Susan had found
it out.

And life from that moment onwards had assumed a different aspect
altogether. If it had not been for her servant, Susan often thought that
she would have done away with herself. She could not stand it, she said
it over and over again to herself aloud. Raging up and down the floor of
her bedroom she would say it. Because it wasn't only the thing herself,
it was the fear of what it might mean. Sitting on the high hard seat in
front of the harmonium she would wonder what she would do if she saw her
husband stumble as he came out of the vestry. If he knelt down to say
the usual silent prayer and didn't get up again. If he said something
wrong and then laughed that stupid secret laugh that made her blood turn
cold. If he got up into the pulpit and then fell over sideways and
someone had to help him out again; with her nerves stretched to snapping
point Susan would sit in front of the harmonium, praying wild incoherent
prayers that none of the awful things that she couldn't help imagining
would come to pass.

And so far they had not come to pass. But an imaginative person very
often suffers more in anticipation than in the actual happening of the
thing he dreads. So that after two years of it Susan had got much
thinner. Fortunately she was a good sleeper, and very early on in their
married life they had ceased to occupy the same room.

"I don't feel that it is right," with tormented eyes the Rector had
stared at his wife, and she had looked clearly back at him in reply. The
same thought that had tortured her had tortured him. If they had a
child, to carry on the Shadow. An innocent child that might grow to find
itself accursd... with a prayer of thankfulness she set about
getting the smaller bedroom ready.

And the Rector had got thinner too. He led a strange life for a young
man, spending hours in his study and going long desperate walks and
climbs. When anyone was ill in the Valley he spent all his available
time at their bedside. His parishioners clung to him although Susan did
not realise it. And if she was beginning to realise it a little she felt
that it was only because they did not know. The moment they did know
they would despise him, as she, in a sick terror at the discovery, had
found out that she despised him. But the parishioners had known for a
long time and did not think a whit the less of him for it. Old Thomas
had found it out first. Coming back from Keswick market one day he had
seen someone lying by the side of the road.

"Dang, if it ain't t'parson," he had exclaimed, and getting down from
his seat he had hauled the slim man up from the ground and hoisted him
somehow into his covered cart. And then he had whipped up his fat horse
and bundled him along the narrow lane that led to the Rectory. And there
he and Rachel had put him to bed, for mercifully Susan had been out.

"That's his heart again," said Rachel bending over the bed so that
Thomas should not come near enough, to smell the revealing smell of
whisky.

"That's right," said old Thomas accommodatingly, and he stumped down the
stairs and drove off to the little white farmhouse close up against the
opposite hill.

But from that moment onward the fiction of the Rector's weak heart died
a natural death. No one believed it any more, although oddly enough
Rachel and Susan never found it out.




CHAPTER III


But as spring came stealing along into the beautiful valley Susan found
that there are other things beside the thought of a dead love that can
torment. Bills began to come in; bills addressed to her personally. One
frightful bill from the wine merchants in Keswick.

"Rachel." With white lips Susan rushed into the kitchen where Rachel was
washing up the breakfast things.

"And now what's wrong?" inquired Rachel resignedly.

"Look!"

"Yes, that's bad," said Rachel after a little pause. She had wiped her
hands on her coarse apron before touching the large square piece of
notepaper.

"But where are all the bottles?" gasped Susan.

"Thirty pounds, Rachel! Why, there must be about forty bottles for
that!"

"I dare say it's all wrong," said Rachel solidly. "I'll go and see them
the next time I'm in Keswick. I'll go to-morrow; they're calling with
the groceries and they'll give me a lift."

"Yes, but it's got to be paid."

"We'll pay it somehow," said Rachel cheerfully. But her heart was aching
for the child that she loved. To her it was no surprise. Chasing a fowl
one day she had snatched at its tail feathers as it bolted into a clump
of laurel bushes. And then down on her knees to find out how it had
eluded her she had thrust in her hand and found a heap of black bottles.
Rachel sighed. The Rector was in a bad way and someone ought to know
about it. But supposing they did know, reflected Rachel. What could they
do? And after all he did his job all right. A good deal better, taking
it all round, than many a parson who never looked at a drop of spirits.
"We'll pay it somehow," she repeated.

"How? Beside, it's the disgrace. When they see me in Keswick they'll
know," said Susan stormily. Her face was white as she was pacing up and
down the grey stone flags. "Besides we shall be ruined at this rate,"
she continued. "Arthur only gets a little over three hundred a year, and
with his own hundred it's four. There'll be other bills coming in.
Rachel, I tell you I can't stand it any more." Susan stood there and
stared shakily at her servant. "It's beginning to make me feel queer in
my head. Last night... he was odd at supper. And then he went out
right up the valley to see Mrs. Thwaites, who had a heart attack the
other day. And if people like that begin to find out.... The shame of
it will kill me," gasped Susan, and she began to sob.

"Come now," said Rachel. She put down the large and rather threadbare
teacloth and held out her arms. "My poor little lamb," she said
tenderly.

"I shall go mad," said Susan. "I tell you I shall, Rachel. I shall rush
out one night and throw myself into the beck. After all, what's the
good... it isn't as if I could do anything. Besides, there's something
else. Daddy wrote and asked if I could have Millicent to stay for a bit
as she's so run down. I keep on making excuses that I can't have any of
them, and now there is no excuse because Daddy offers to pay for her. At
least he isn't paying himself. Aunt Dorothy is. Well, of course, Daddy
knows the money would be a help. They will have to find out. I shall
write and tell them myself and tell them not to be surprised if they
hear I'm dead, because I'm going to kill myself," said Susan
hysterically.

"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Rachel sturdily. "And now listen,
my dear lamb, because what you've just said has given me an idea,"
Rachel's round consoling face was suddenly illumined. "We'll make some
money," she said. "I thought of it not so long ago and then I thought it
mightn't do. But now I know that it will. We'll take lodgers, Ma'am.
Like they all do round here in the summer and spring. We've got all
these lovely rooms going to waste. We'll do it," said Rachel excitedly.

"Rachel, how could we?"

"Easily," said Rachel.

"Yes, but they'd find out... Arthur...." There was a sudden queer
undercurrent of pallor in Susan's face.

"We'll have gentlemen," said Rachel, "and only gentlemen, too. Not a
parcel of women with all their fussifications and what not. Gentlemen
don't upset themselves over a little thing like that. The Rector is
always the perfect gentleman whatever little failing he may have, Ma'am.
And we'll have the visitors take their meals alone. That'll be easy
enough," said Rachel cheerfully.

"Easy," said Susan. "Why, you'd have to work like a slave, Rachel. Don't
be so ridiculous. How could we take visitors?" But Susan's face had a
little gleam of light on it. If only they could.... It would be such
fun... desperate fun. A nice man in the house.... Someone who
understood and didn't mind. Someone to turn to; someone to whom you
could tell all the sick terror and fear and agony that seemed to eat
into your very being and make you want to die.

"Rachel, if only we could," she said suddenly.

"But we can," said Rachel. Her thick capable hands moved quickly about
in the basin of hot water. The cups and saucers rattled against one
another as she fished them out, steaming. "I know all about it, Ma'am.
Long before I was married my mother used to take them; we lived near
Buttermere. Reading parties from Oxford. They paid well and they were
mostly out all day. Nice young gentlemen," said Rachel reminiscently.

"Oh, would they have to be young?"

"No, we'd try for an older one," said Rachel decidedly. "He'd fit in
better here. He could have the big room out at the back that looks
towards Great Crag. That's over this and warmer, and there's a good
fireplace. A blessing t'last Rector put in that pump from the copper up
to the bathroom. They always ask for that first. "Is there plenty of hot
water?" and Rachel chuckled.

"You really seem as if you thought it might happen," said Susan quickly.
"You don't really, do you, Rachel?"

"I do," said Rachel, and her nice good-tempered face beamed down into
the hot water full of tea leaves and little bits of slopped bread and
one solitary cup still waiting to be fished out and dried.




CHAPTER IV


Harley Street is not quite so depressing as it used to be. The day of
the tightly-drawn muslin blind is over. Large prosperous windows are now
shrouded with coloured net and waiting rooms have brightly-coloured
cretonne chairs in them, and pewter pots full of flowers. But to Sir
Pelham Brooke it all looked ghastly. Why on earth had he come, he asked
himself furiously. Probably it had only been a little touch of
indigestion that had affected his sight. And then as he walked to the
curtained window and stood there staring out of it he knew that he had
never really thought it was indigestion at all. Fear had driven him
there... deadly overwhelming fear.

And at the soft footstep at the door his fear almost overwhelmed him.
What would happen if he charged past the neat manservant and bolted out
into the street? Had anyone ever done it, he wondered, standing there
tall and well-groomed and without a quiver on his face.

"Will you step this way, please, sir?" And now he was out in the hall
again, following the manservant. In at another door... facing the
high uncurtained window this time. Almost a blaze of light: he closed
his eyes.

"It is Sir Pelham Brooke, isn't it?" The great doctor was small and
cheerful. He almost seemed to be peeping up at his patient as he stood
there holding out his hand.

"Yes," said Pelham Brooke. And then he spoke simply. "I'm sick with
fright," he said. "I'm going blind, or I think I am. Perhaps you can
tell me."

"I could tell you without even seeing you that you are overworked," said
the great doctor cheerfully. "I read my _Times_, you know, Sir Pelham.
Why don't some of you well-known barristers give another man a chance?
Sit down, and have a cigarette while we talk things over," and Sir John
Hearn pattered over to his writing-table.

But half an hour later he spoke gravely. "I've been perfectly frank," he
said; "you asked me to be, and I think in a case of this kind it's far
better. You've come to me just in time. You must take a year's holiday
at once, during which time you must do nothing at all. You must be out
in the open air as much as you can. You must not motor. You can swim,
and best of all, you can walk. You must not read at night, for in
addition to everything else you have badly strained your eyes. To put it
briefly, if you want to live to a healthy old age, and there is not the
remotest reason why you shouldn't, you must lead the life of a vegetable
for the next twelve months."

"Where?" said Sir Pelham blankly. He sat there feeling stupid. For years
he had lived for his work and nothing else. His beautiful rooms in the
Temple. Those wonderful days in Court. Lord Merrivale's round placid
face and his deep, rather booming voice. "May I draw your ludship's
attention...?" The glory of feeling that he had the Court in the
hollow of his hand. "Oh, my God!" he dropped his face into his hands.

"You can afford to take a year's holiday?" said the doctor
sympathetically.

"So far as money is concerned, certainly, but it's a ghastly prospect."

"Then take it and be thankful that you can do so," said the doctor
briskly. "You are not married, I believe?"

"No," said Sir Pelham briefly. "Perhaps if I had been I should not have
come to this. I was engaged some years ago, but she died before we could
be married."

"I see," said the doctor. Again he was standing in front of his patient.
"Work is an exacting mistress," he said. "Perhaps the most exacting of
all. Keep her in her place, Sir Pelham," and the doctor laughed
cheerfully at his own joke.

"Well----" Sir Pelham heaved himself wearily up out of his chair.

"I need not tell you not to drink too much," said the doctor, "because
it is obvious that you don't. But a really good port will help. After
your dinner: it will make you sleep."

"Thanks," said Sir Pelham. And then after placing an envelope on the
writing-table, and a quick hand-shake, he was gone. Out in the hall
again, the same slippery manservant on his heels. Well, on the whole,
the verdict had not been too bad. He slid half a crown into the willing
hand and walked slowly down the well-whitened steps into the street
again.




CHAPTER V


Susan's carefully worded letter of regret that she could not have her
sister Millicent to stay came as a blow to the square Rectory in
Warwickshire. "Why can't she?" Millicent was having breakfast and sat at
the table with dark shadows under her eyes. Eyes that were suddenly
clouded and a little rebellious.

"She doesn't say, my darling." Canon Maitland really liked Millicent
much the best of his daughters. She blew like a gust of wind through the
shabby Rectory and reminded him of his wife. He hated to see her pale
and listless as she was now. And this was a blow. He laid down the
letter and tried not to show how dreadfully he minded.

"Let me see the letter," said Millicent. She caught it as the Rector
twitched it along the table.

"She's hedging," said Millicent after a little silence. "There's
something funny about Susan now. What is it? I think I'll go and find
out."

"Yes, do," said Joan suddenly. Joan was twelve, and fat and jolly.
"What's the good of a married sister if we can't go and stay with her,"
she said. "Besides, the Rectory's jolly. That valley is most entrancing;
there's a girl at school who's been there. She was there last year and
stayed in one of the farmhouses on the side of the hill; and the Vicar
drinks. Not Arthur, of course, there are lots of churches round about
Keswick."

"Don't you think I might go even though she says I can't, Daddy?" said
Millicent. Her eyes were on Joan. "You'll be late," she said. "Do hurry
up."

"I shan't," said Joan roundly. But she pushed back her chair with a
jerk. "Good-bye, everyone," she said, and vanished.

"After all, she only says that I shouldn't enjoy it because there's
nothing to do," continued Millicent, who was eating porridge rather
thoughtfully. "Well, that's my affair. I can always find something to
do, especially in a new place. Aunt Dorothy's paying for it, and it
seems a fearful waste of the money not to use it. I've a good mind to
pack and start off to-day," said Millicent suddenly.

"What, my darling?" Canon Maitland was reading the rest of his letters.
He spoke vaguely.

"I think I'll go and stay with Susan whatever she says," said Millicent
cheerfully. A little colour came flashing into her pale face. She was
longing to get away; it was the only thing that would do her any good...
she knew it was. Influenza had left her with a queer empty feeling
round her waist. It was a bother to do anything, and she was never
properly hungry.

"I shall go this morning," she said suddenly.

"Oh, my darling!" but inwardly the Canon was relieved. His two remaining
daughters were a great anxiety to him. If Millicent went away there
would be only Joan left, and she was always occupied scrimmaging round
with a fat square friend from the High School that they both attended.
The Canon often felt that he could not do justice to the parish with all
his daughters about. They made game of the devoted church workers and
told him teasingly that the plainest of them wanted to marry him. The
Canon did not like his daughters to do parish work and said so clearly.

"Yes, it's the best thing to do," said Millicent briskly. "Will you give
me the money, please, Daddy? Aunt Dorothy did say three guineas a week,
didn't she?"

"Yes, my darling," the Canon was walking over to the writing-table by
the window. He unlocked a drawer. "She sent me four five-pound notes,"
he said, and he took out an envelope. "If you wanted any more she said
she would send it."

"I shan't," said Millicent firmly. "I shan't stay more than a month at
the very most. And the fare isn't anything very enormous, I know. I'll
go and pack, Daddy."

"Yes, my darling," the Canon was relocking the drawer.

"You like me to go, don't you?"

"I want you to get well," said the Canon quietly. "And in a way I shall
be glad to have first-hand information about Susan. I feel as you do,
Millicent. We know so little about her life. She has been married for
two years and none of us have ever seen her. We have neither been there
or she here. I hope she is happy," said the Canon, and he suddenly
looked uneasy.

"I shall soon find out," said Millicent calmly. "Especially as I shall
take her by surprise. She's got that frightfully good servant, so it
can't be really much of a bother to have me. I'll telegraph, but I won't
give her time to reply and stop me. Don't you think so, Daddy?"

"Yes, darling," said the Canon. And he stood and watched the varnished
door open and close again. Arthur Carpendale--who had been speaking
about him the other day? Someone at the conference in Durham that he had
attended a couple of months before. He had heard his name mentioned but
had not been able to catch what had followed. In any event... the
Canon walked over to the fireplace and stooped to push a log a little
farther from the hearth. Millicent would find it all out, he thought,
and wondered, even as he thought it, why he should imagine that there
should be anything to find out.




CHAPTER VI


Susan was frightened when Millicent's telegram arrived. It was brought
up by the daughter of the postmistress, a fat girl of twelve who stood
and stared past her into the dreary tiled hall. It had caused excitement
in the post office, as no one had ever been to stay at the Rectory
except a stray parson or so.

"Wait a minute," said Susan, and she turned and rushed into the kitchen.
"Rachel, how can I stop her?" she gasped.

"You can't," said Rachel laconically, and she lifted her eyes from the
flimsy paper to the fat white clock on the wall. "She's on her way by
now, and a very good thing, too, if you ask my opinion, Ma'am."

"Rachel!"

"I mean it," said Rachel. "Send Nellie away, Ma'am; tell her there's no
answer. And then we'll get busy about it. Why, Ma'am," and Rachel's nice
rosy face broke into a broad smile, "weren't we arranging to take
visitors only a few days ago?" she said.

"Yes, but not my own family."

"I'll tell the girl there's no answer," said Rachel, walking out of the
kitchen. Rachel knew the curiosity with which the villagers regarded the
Rectory. Nellie stood there staring eagerly into the hall.

"No answer, thank you, Nellie," said Rachel firmly and closed the front
door. It closed with a clang and a rattling of the top of the letter
box. The study door opened and the Rector stood there.

"Anyone for me, Rachel?" His thin face was pale and eager.

"No, sir."

"What was it, then?"

"The mistress has had a telegram from her sister Millicent to say that
she's arriving to-day for a little visit," said Rachel calmly.

"Here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, but----"

"She will have started by now, sir," said Rachel, and she stood there
solid and uncompromising.

"Yes, but," and then the Rector went back into his study and shut the
door of it. He stood there with his lips trembling and his eyes full of
a great fear. One of her sisters coming: perhaps sent on purpose to find
out... And then he turned. His wife stood there.

"Did Rachel tell you, Arthur?"

"Yes."

"It will be all right," said Susan suddenly. "After all..."

"After all, what?" said the Rector loudly. His fear made him speak
loudly. A slinking horror of himself and of the life he led. And
yet--God would make allowances. That man with whom he had waited until
the very end, early that morning. Holding his hard frightened hand in
his. "A God of love, Johnson, don't you forget it for one moment.
Waiting to lead you the little bit of the way along which I can't come
with you. Ah, that I could..." and then in that tiny cottage bedroom
the Rector had prayed with the tears standing hot on his own eyelashes.
Ah, how wretched he was: how unutterably hopelessly wretched! Like a
vice it held him; seeming to jeer at his efforts to wrench himself free
from it. Although that morning as he had come through the still narrow
lane underneath the mountains, the sun just showing pale and gold over
the clear dark line of it, he had felt very definitely that God was near
him. Sorry for him. Tenderly sorry as a kind father is sorry for his son
when he seems to make, more than usual, a fool of himself.

"It will be all right," said Susan again. What was it that made it
impossible for her to say to her husband what she would like to say?
That at any cost he must not let Millicent see him the worse for drink.
That although they both knew the terror that lurked in the house it must
remain a hidden terror. She gazed at her husband and wondered why two
people who were husband and wife could be such utter strangers.

"I don't understand what you mean when you keep on repeating that it
will be all right," said the Rector; and tall and thin he stood there
and passionately wished that his wife would go away and leave him alone.

"Well, I don't know, what I do mean," said Susan stupidly, and then she
went away and shut the door of the study. The hall was cold, frightfully
cold. How ugly; how stupefyingly hideously ugly it was, she thought
passionately. What would Millicent think of it? Millicent, who was the
one who had always had ideas. Who had started the idea of having a
notice-board on the landing outside their bedrooms, on which were pinned
ridiculous notices of things that they all had to sell? A pair of old
bedroom slippers for sixpence. When she, Susan, had married she had
advertised masses of things to sell; the board had been quite covered
with them. Fun... such frantic fun. It had always been fun at home,
thought Susan, suddenly remembering it. And now perhaps it would be fun
again. She had always got on well with her younger sister; Millicent had
come next to her. And now she was coming to stay, although she had been
practically told that she couldn't. It had been taken out of Susan's
hands. Suddenly feeling amazingly light-hearted Susan went bolting back
into the kitchen.

And meanwhile Millicent was enjoying the journey. It was a long way from
Warwickshire to Cumberland, although the trains were very convenient.
Millicent was due at Keswick at half-past six in the evening, and it was
now about two. She had brought her lunch with her and had eaten it in a
crowded third-class carriage without minding in the least. People
stared, so Millicent stared back. Her pale face was not nearly so pale
as when she started. She felt better already. A journey always amused
her. She liked the way the train raced up the Shap Fells. She liked the
tang in the air when she let down the window. She smiled all over her
cheerful little face when the lady opposite to her shuffled her feet and
drew her collar closer up round her neck.

"Are you cold?" she inquired, and cheerfully shut the window again. It
was easy to be good-tempered when it was all such fun, thought
Millicent. What a mercy she had come, and not stopped to think about it.
A whole heavenly month away in quite a new place. The compartment was
suffocating; she would go out into the corridor for a bit. Millicent
stepped politely over a barrier of rather hostile feet and emerged with
a feeling of relief. It was fun to lean on the fat brass bar and stare
out of the bigger windows. Oxenholme; they went tearing through it; the
scream of the whistle left floating on the air behind them. And what
air.... Millicent thrust a jubilant head out, staring ahead of her.

But in less than a minute she had it back again. By now Millicent was a
little farther down the corridor. Sir Pelham Brooke alone in his
first-class compartment wondered who the thin girl was who had suddenly
pulled in her head and leaned against his window. He watched her from
his seat in the corner. Something in her eye; from behind his _Times_ he
watched her more closely. A relief to be able to look at something and
be interested. The _Times_ hurt his eyes; he could only skim over the
headings.

"My eye," Millicent had turned her scarlet face to the window of the
compartment against which she was leaning. There was a man there; he
must get it out. There was a simplicity about Millicent that had made
her many friends. She stood with her handkerchief to her face and stared
in.

"Can I help you?" Sir Pelham had got up from his seat. He had nice
hands, thought Millicent, watching them on the fastening of the door. He
slid it back and lifted his hat.

"I've got something in my eye," said Millicent.

"Let me see if I can get it out." Sir Pelham had a very nice voice. He
took Millicent by the elbow and led her into his compartment. "Unwise to
put your head out of the window," he said, and sat down beside her.

"I know," Millicent was blowing her nose. Her clogged and flattened
eyelashes lay on her cheek.

"I know it's easier said than done. But try and open it," said Sir
Pelham. He had his silk handkerchief crumpled in his hand. "Now then,"
he said, and deftly he lifted the quivering lid.

"Oh!"

"A huge chunk of coal," said Sir Pelham, and there was satisfaction in
his voice. He had forgotten to think about his own sight in his anxiety
to help the child.

"Oh, do let me see?" Millicent was blowing her nose again. She wiped her
streaming eyes and stared eagerly at the twisted corner of the
handkerchief.

"There it is."

"Why, it's huge!" said Millicent. She smiled engagingly. "How kind of
you," she said. "And now I must go. I'm in a ghastly third-class
compartment full of people who won't have the window open. If the guard
finds me here he will be furious."

"Sit still for a minute or two," said Sir Pelham. "I'll explain it to
the guard if he comes along. How does it feel now?"

"Quite all right."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Splendid," said Sir Pelham, feeling an odd reluctance to let Millicent
go. He had left London that morning with a passion of regret. His
office--his beautiful rooms overlooking the river, handed over to a
colleague for whom he had a great liking. A year... who knew what
might not have happened before the end of that year? Certainly he had
had a huge practice and had made his name. But names were soon
forgotten. What a blessed mercy he had saved, he thought, sitting back
in the taxi as it slid along the squalid streets towards Euston. And a
mercy that he knew and liked the Ferry Hotel at Ullswater. But after all
you could not stay at an hotel indefinitely. Somehow he shrank from
accepting the hospitality that was instantly showered on him the moment
people had heard of the doctor's verdict. After all, if you stayed with
people you had to make yourself fairly agreeable. You could not inflict
on them your private miseries and heartaches. No, the best thing to do
was to go away and fight the thing out alone and then emerge and face
the world again more or less master of one's own miseries and regrets.
But Millicent amused him. She had a round face like a kitten's and the
same placid gaze. She was gently bred and she sat neatly on the fat
cushions of the well-upholstered seat.

"Are you going far?" Sir Pelham was smiling.

"Yes, I'm going to stay with my sister in the Lakes," said Millicent.
And then she shot a frightened gaze through the thick plate-glass
window. "Here's the guard," she said.

"Why not move your things along to this compartment," said Sir Pelham.
"As a matter of fact," and then, as the guard slid back the door, he
smiled. "I have reserved the whole compartment," he said, "I admit it
was very extravagant of me, but then I dislike being chock-a-block with
people I don't know. Therefore there would be no objection, would there,
guard, to this young lady changing from her third-class compartment into
mine?"

"Not the slightest, sir," said the guard, who knew Sir Pelham very well
by sight. "Has the young lady had an accident?" he examined with
official interest Millicent's red face and slightly inflamed eye.

"A large lump of coal in her eye, which I was fortunate enough to get
out," said Sir Pelham cheerfully.

"Then I'll bring the young lady's things along," said the guard briskly
and departed to collect them. While Millicent stared excitedly at the
tall man who smiled down at her.

"Can I really travel in here without paying?" she asked, and her young
face flushed.

"If you will."

"But I should simply adore it," exclaimed Millicent. "Why, I've never
travelled First before. How I wish the journey wasn't nearly over."

"But it isn't," said Sir Pelham. "It's only half-past three and we don't
get to Keswick until half-past six."

"Are you going to Keswick, too?"

"Nearly to Keswick. I get out at a station called Troutbeck just before
you get there," smiled Sir Pelham. Accustomed to studying the faces of
those with whom he had to deal he felt perfectly at ease with Millicent.
She was young and unsophisticated, and would divert him. He smiled again
as he settled himself in the corner opposite to her.

"This is positive bliss," remarked Millicent. "As I say, I have never
travelled First before."

"No?"

"No," and then Millicent became conversational. As the train fled
through the beautiful scenery Millicent leaned innocently forward and
poured it all out. How she had had influenza and had felt utterly
wretched. How that an aunt had offered to pay for her to have a holiday.
How that her sister hadn't seemed to want her, but that she had just
decided to go. "Because, you know----" and then Millicent hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Well, you see my sister married a clergyman two years ago and we've
none of us seen her since," said Millicent. "To my mind there's
something odd about that and I want to see what's going on."

"Quite."

"What could be going on?" said Millicent ruminantly.

"Nothing," said Sir Pelham. Although in an instant his well-trained mind
had made a leap. Some hidden grief eating up the life and hope of this
child's sister. Hidden away in a sheltered valley of the most beautiful
part of the Lake District. Hoping to be left to it, and now this
keen-eyed child descending on her like a gust of wind.

"Why do you say 'nothing'?" inquired Millicent.

"Because what should there be?" replied Sir Pelham. He smiled across the
little space that separated him from Millicent. Such bright inquiring
eyes and ingenious mouth. These children must have a delightful father,
he decided. Millicent's frank and innocent description of the Rectory in
Warwickshire and her evident devotion to her widowed father had brought
it all vividly before his eyes. Sir Pelham suddenly discovered that his
head and eyes no longer ached. That he no longer felt old and derelict
and as if he had been shoved into a corner with a collection of unwanted
rubbish.

"Well, it might be that Susan had found out that instead of loving him
as she thought she did she only tolerates him," said Millicent shrewdly.
"Or..."

"Well?"

"I'm not at all sure that there wasn't something funny about Arthur's
eyes," said Millicent meditatively. "When you looked straight at him you
noticed it. They slid away from you when you didn't expect them to."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I expect you are blessed with a vivid imagination," smiled Sir Pelham.
"May I smoke?"

"In your own railway carriage? Of course you may," chuckled Millicent.

"May I offer you one?" Millicent's eyes dwelt rapturously on the slender
gold cigarette case extended.

"No, thank you, I don't often smoke," said Millicent. Her eyes suddenly
wandered.

"Would it be rude of me to ask you who you were?" she inquired.

"Not in the least. My name is Brooke," through the haze of fragrant
smoke Sir Pelham's tired eyes smiled.

"Your Christian name?"

"No, my surname. My Christian name is Pelham."

"Pelham?" and then Millicent's gaze was riveted. "Not Sir Pelham
Brooke?" she gasped.

"Yes, why?"

"The man who got off the woman who murdered her husband. Good
heavens..." Millicent suddenly dropped back against the padded
cushions and stared wildly at the man sitting opposite to her.

And now for the first time since he could remember Sir Pelham was
laughing uncontrollably. Healing joyous laughter that filled his lungs
and his soul with a sudden sensation of well-being. He wiped his eyes
and coughed and laughed again. "I can't have done it very well if that's
the decision you came to," he said, and his eyes were suddenly clear and
full of merriment.

"But didn't you know she had done it?" said Millicent And then her eyes
darkened. "He was a devil and a fiend," she said. "Of course she did it,
and quite right, too."

"Why read about such things?" said Sir Pelham, quietly. He felt a little
weary after his sudden outburst. He drew in a long breath of smoke and
let it linger in his lungs.

"Because I like to know what is going on," said Millicent decidedly.
"I've always felt that. Susan is older than me and yet I'm miles older
than she is, really. She's always been sort of dreamy... expecting
everything to be marvellous, and plunged into the depths if it isn't.
Well, I don't believe in that. That means awful agony when you find out
that things aren't as nice as you expect them to be. I like to go along
expecting things to be sort of ordinary, and then when they aren't
you're in a transport."

"Very sensible," smiled Sir Pelham. And then as the train flung itself
through a tiny wayside station he leaned forward and crushed the still
burning end of his cigarette into the tiny brass ash tray fastened to
the panel of the door. "Tea," he said briefly. "Don't you think so?"

"In here?"

"Of course," said Sir Pelham, and again his smile was very charming.

"Tea in a first-class railway carriage with the most famous barrister in
the world is almost more than I can bear," said Millicent dramatically,
and she sat very straight up on the seat and clasped her neatly gloved
hands in her lap.

And again Sir Pelham was laughing. Healing, restoring laughter that
swept through him like a fresh breeze and set his soul and spirit
dancing.




CHAPTER VII


By the time the little local train drew up at Troutbeck Millicent had
realised what it was to travel with a man who knew exactly what he
wanted and got it. "Everybody knows you," she said respectfully as the
little group of officials left standing on Penrith platform dwindled and
grew smaller.

"Well, you see, they have a ridiculous way of putting my photograph in
the paper," said Sir Pelham apologetically. He stood tall and slim by
the window and dragged it up. "It's cold," he said. "I'm glad I kept out
my thicker coat."

"I have only one and I'm glad I've got it on," said Millicent. She
suddenly felt flat. "I wish I hadn't to say good-bye to you so soon,"
she said. "Do you suppose I shall ever see you again?"

"I hope so."

"Are you going to be in the Lakes for long?"

"I have to be away from my work for a year," said Sir Pelham briefly.
"I'd almost forgotten that, you have amused me so. But I've been ill--a
sort of ridiculous breakdown and the doctors won't let me go back to it
for a year. Hell," said Sir Pelham suddenly.

"I can imagine you feel like saying hell," said Millicent. "I felt it,
too, the first day I got up from having influenza. But now I don't feel
it. I think it's been meeting you that's taken it away. If I don't see
you again I shall feel inclined to say hell every time I wake up," ended
Millicent firmly.

"Then that must be avoided at any cost," said Sir Pelham. Again his eyes
were bright with amusement. Regarding Millicent he drew his notecase
from an inner pocket. "I'll give you my address," he said, and scribbled
on a card.

"How marvellous to have your card," reflected Millicent, holding it
tightly and staring at it.

"And now I'm afraid we must say good-bye, at any rate for the moment,"
said Sir Pelham. The train drew into the tiny station and came to a
standstill. Away to the left the moorland road wound whitely into the
distance. A blue distance of hills and mountain and soft grey mist. Sir
Pelham was collecting his things. Letting down the window he wrenched
open the door.

"Take care of yourself," he said. "And thank you for a very pleasant
journey."

"Yes, these are my things, and there are a couple of suitcases in the
van." As he stepped down on to the platform Sir Pelham spoke pleasantly
to the porter who had hurried up.

"You take care of yourself," said Millicent mournfully. She stood up and
leaned dejectedly out of the window. A ridiculous sensation of tears
assailed her. He had been so marvellous--so different to anything she
had ever known before. And now he was gone--for ever, of course, because
she would never see him again; how could she?

"Send me a picture postcard," said Sir Pelham cheerfully. He reached up
and took her small gloved hand in his. "Au revoir," he said, "not
good-bye; we shall meet again, I'm sure."

"I wish _I_ was sure," said Millicent miserably, holding his hand
tightly in hers until the moving train forced her to relax her hold. It
had been so heavenly... so simply marvellous. Millicent hung far out
of the window until, on the receding platform, the tall grey figure only
remained a tiny speck. And then she sat down heavily on the springy
cushions and shed a few ridiculous tears.




CHAPTER VIII


But by the time she had arrived at Keswick she had revived again.
Millicent was essentially volatile. Canon Maitland had often marvelled
at the miracle that set children in families as diverse in disposition
as the poles. Susan and Millicent--the elder so prone to miseries and
despairs; the younger so utterly different.

So Millicent stared cheerfully about the wide platform. Instantly
intrigued by the station-master she stood and watched him marching up
and down by the emptying train. He wore a top hat. How marvellous!

"Keswick Hotel, Miss," it was the pleasant North-country burr of a
porter in Millicent's ears. He was beaming as he prepared to haul down
Millicent's two suitcases from the rack.

"Oh, no, nothing half so grand as that. It's a Rectory, miles away in
the Vale of Castlemere," said Millicent. "I never thought about that.
How on earth am I to get there?"

"Plenty of motors, Miss," said the porter hopefully. A young lady
alighting from a first-class compartment would be certain to take a
motor, thought the porter, visualising the many pairs of eager eyes now
riveted on the exit from the station.

"A motor will cost too much," said Millicent decidedly. Her suitcases
now deposited on the platform she felt more uncertain. There had been
something in the padded security of the first-class compartment that had
given her confidence. Money did not matter when you were with a person
like Sir Pelham Brooke. "Some gentleman has dropped his glove in here,"
said the porter. He held it out in one hand and slammed the door with
the other as the station-master, standing majestically a little higher
up the train, raised his whistle to his lips.

"Ah! that must belong to my friend who got out at Troutbeck," said
Millicent calmly. Taking it from the porter she thrust it into her flat
coat pocket. Complete and utter rapture, she would now have an excuse to
write to him. She would send it back instantly, with a letter.

"A gentleman who got out at Troutbeck?" said the porter unbelievingly.

"Yes," said Millicent, knowing perfectly well that the porter did not
believe her. But that did not matter; she had got the glove. "Now, then,
what shall we do?" she said. "I will give you a shilling if you can
think of a way for me to get out to the Rectory cheaper than in a
motor."

"Well..." the porter was amused. The young lady had a way with her,
he decided. Something like his Annie who had taken service in London. He
pushed back his peaked cap and stared as the long train wound its way
out of the station. "Nothing in the van?" he inquired.

"No, only these two suitcases."

"Then I think I might be able to fix you up with the carter who's going
out to the Guest House with a couple of sacks of flour," said the
porter. "T' Rectory's not much farther on."

"How much will he charge?" inquired Millicent carefully.

"A couple of shillings."

"Then you'll get one and six," said Millicent grandly. She followed the
porter out of the station. "Heh!" the porter was shouting across the
yard to a young man who stood there in gaiters close up to a motor van.

And the young man once invoked, the bargain was soon concluded.
Pocketing his two coins the porter indulged in a loud guffaw. "Left a
gentleman at Troutbeck, did she?" he chuckled. "Well, and I wouldn't be
surprised. A taking little thing and not a doubt about it," and the
porter, still chuckling, went stumping back into the station.

Meanwhile Millicent, sitting up close to the driver of the motor van,
went steering down the station road into Keswick. Round the dangerous
corner into the market place. Cobbles and queer many-cornered shops and
the old white-faced clock over the market-hall. And then down past the
pencil mill and over the bridge and the brown hurrying river Greta. And
then to the left; and in the soft spring evening light Millicent saw for
the first time the exquisite enchantment of the closer mountain ranges.
Tiny little white cottages like forgotten patches of snow lay along the
lower ledges of them. They seemed to be rushing right away into the
heart of all the stillness and beauty and majesty of it all.

"Do you know this district, Miss?" The young man had originally come
from Carlisle and rather fancied himself.

"No," said Millicent politely. And then she smiled. "It's too beautiful
for me to take in all at once," she said. "Please don't talk as it
distracts me."

So the young man fell silent. The young lady was a lady, he decided. Not
like the bare-legged, knock-kneed hussies who made the valleys a sight
with their round shoulders and khaki shorts. But all the same... the
young man extracted a cigarette case from his coat pocket with great
skill, and with amazing dexterity proceded to light one as the van slid
past the Derwentwater Hotel and round the steep lake road that leads
into the heart of the beautiful waterway of Cumberland.

While Millicent sat and only gazed. Her whole being was shaken. Susan
surely must be happy when she lived in this divine place. Why, it was
more beautiful than anything she had ever imagined. Beginning to get
dark and a pale star trembling over that great rolling shoulder of
mountain ahead of them.

"We turn off here," said the young man amiably. "I'll take you to the
Rectory first and drop the flour afterwards," and now they began to
steal along a little narrow lane. High hedges on either side of it. And
the sound of falling water below them. Meadows stretching down to a
little brook, thought Millicent, drinking in the cold evening air and
shivering a little from sheer delight in it all.

"That's the Rectory, yonder," the young man was jerking his chin
upwards.

"There's a sharp corner here as we cross the bridge. Ought to have been
altered years ago, but there's no traffic this way and they don't think
it's worth while."

"Let's stop at the corner and I'll pay you," said Millicent. "Don't you
know when you arrive after not having seen a person for ages it's rather
awkward to have to begin getting out money and things? Also they might
think they ought to pay. I'll give you two shillings, and an extra
sixpence if you will very kindly carry in my suitcases for me."

"With pleasure," said the young man gallantly. He drew up by the low
stone parapet. "A good drop there," he said. "And when that beck's in
spate it's a rare sight."

"I should think it was," said Millicent. The small transaction concluded
she leaned out and took a long breath. And then she gazed down at the
rushing torrent. "I shouldn't like to fall over," she said.

"Nor I," said the young man grimly. And then as Millicent lifted her
head he spoke again, and this time confidentially. "There's something
rather gloomy about that Rectory, Miss," he said. "Don't you agree with
me?"

"I do," said Millicent slowly. Through the dim light she sat there and
stared at it. Grey and solitary and unwinking. Only a vague light in an
upper window. And then the light suddenly extinguished. The person,
whoever it was, was bringing the light downstairs.

But in a few moments she forgot about everything but her sister. Her
sister looking hundreds of years... thousands of years older. And her
brother-in-law, trying not to stoop and kiss her too, only having to
because in her excitement Millicent hardly knew what she was doing. And
as he kissed her the vague faint smell of spirits stabbed Millicent's
brain into an instant alacrity. He drank--of course that was it. What a
fool she had been not to think of that before.

But her eyes were laughing and her voice was jubilant as she stood there
under the feeble light of the hall lamp. And Susan, seeing her standing
there, felt a wave of intense joy and relief flood over her.

"Oh, Millicent, I am glad to see you!" There was something sudden and
frantic in the clutch of Susan's hands on Millicent's arm.

"So am I glad. And I only hope Arthur is too. It's rather a shame of a
sister-in-law to force her way in like this. Do you mind, Arthur?"

But the Rector was already turning away towards his room. Something
terribly pathetic about his back view, thought Millicent, standing and
watching him and then seizing her sister again by both hands.

"Are you glad, Susan?" she chattered.

"Desperately, madly glad," said Susan slowly. And then, as the tears
welled slowly up into her eyes, she fumbled helplessly for her
handkerchief.

"Don't take any notice of me," she said huskily. "But it's seeing
someone of one's own family. Don't you know?"

"Of course I know," responded Millicent sturdily.




CHAPTER IX


Millicent wrote excellent letters. And she wrote one the next morning,
as she waked very early. Her room looked out on to the fells at the back
of the house. The bracken on them was pale and young and the faint green
of it lay softly on the darker green of the grass. There were sheep
about, and lambs with long wavering legs stood close up to them. The sun
was already up and touching with long golden fingers the hills that
stood guardian at the end of the valley. As Millicent groped in her
smaller suitcase for her blotting book and fountain pen she felt an odd
feeling of exhilaration steal over her. There was something wonderful
about all this... something mysterious. Something different...
Millicent, having collected everything she wanted, bundled herself up in
her dressing-gown and got back into bed again. And then she began to
write, and her pen flew.

    "My Darling Daddy,--

    "Here I am after the most marvellous journey. I met a man who
    took me into his first-class carriage; don't gasp, it was
    perfectly all right, it was Sir Pelham Brooke, you know, the
    K.C. who got Mrs. Bates off, you know, the woman who murdered
    her husband. Anyhow he was madly attractive and I only pray I
    see him again sometime; I feel I shall. He's been ill and has to
    take a year's rest, and has gone to Ullswater. Well, I got out
    here at about seven; a man gave me a lift in his cart, otherwise
    it would have been about seven shillings to drive out here. Not
    a cart really, a motor van. I shall never forget the drive out
    here, it was the most beautiful thing I've ever had in my life.
    I had no idea the Lakes were like this, they are too beautiful
    for words. The Rectory is in the most beautiful valley of all;
    you can't imagine what it looks like; it simply takes my breath
    away; don't you know, you can't grasp it, it's so lovely. I
    shall never be able to tear myself away, so prepare yourself for
    it, darling Daddy. You won't really be lonely, because you've
    always got Joan.

    "Susan looked quite all right, but a little sombre. I should
    think that's the result of Arthur: he paddles about in a cassock
    and looks as if he didn't have enough to eat. Anyhow he seemed
    quite pleased to see me, which was very nice of him, as he can't
    have wanted me. Susan was frightfully pleased to see me and
    cried, which touched me very much, only I didn't say so. They
    have a simply champion servant who does every mortal thing for
    them and obviously adores Susan. I made a point of shaking hands
    with her and being very tactful, so I hope she won't mind the
    extra work I shall make. The house is most frightfully cold;
    that's the only snag, but of course it's going to get warmer
    every day now; it's divine to-day, the sun is out, and the
    air... I feel a different creature already. If only you could
    hear the beck at the front of the house! I'm dying to see it
    all; I expect we shall explore a bit to-day. I'm so glad it
    isn't Sunday, I'm sure Arthur can't preach and Susan plays the
    harmonium, I shall be so self-conscious. Anyhow it isn't Sunday
    for five days, so that's all right.

    "I have just been reading this over, and I see I never told you
    why Sir Pelham Brooke took me into his carriage. I got something
    in my eye and he saw and got it out. He had reserved the whole
    compartment; fancy being rich enough for that. I could see the
    very guard was grovelling to him. Darling Daddy, I must
    end--interval while Susan comes in with early tea. Absolute
    rapture and she sends her love and says she's frightfully glad
    to have me. Will end off later...."

"Shall I stop and have mine here?" Susan, a little flushed, set the tray
on the table by Millicent's bed and hesitated.

"Oh, yes, get into bed with me. It's huge. Oh, what fun!" Millicent was
laughing with excitement and pleasure. "Tea, Susan, what frantic
luxury!"

"Rachel said that we must both have it now you've come. She always wants
me to, but I won't." Susan was settling herself a little sedately by
Millicent's side. "I'll pour it out," she said. "You take sugar and I
don't."

"Fancy your remembering that."

"I remember everything about home," said Susan. And then her eyes
fluttered a little. "Have you been writing to Daddy?"

"Yes, I'll read it to you," Millicent was stirring the sugar in her cup.
"I'll read it all," she said, "and then you'll know exactly what I've
put. You'll excuse the bit about Arthur, I know."

"Yes, of course," but Millicent heard the little catch in her sister's
breath. Susan was drinking her tea; staring out of the window as she
drank. Did Millicent guess? The bracken seemed to fade and dim in front
of her eyes as she sat there against the pillows.

"Oh, Millicent, he does have enough to eat!" Millicent had laid down the
letter, and Susan was laughing a little unrestrainedly.

"Poor Arthur, he does; really he does."

"I know, but it'll amuse Daddy," said Millicent sturdily. She put the
letter away and laughed. "Poor old Daddy," she said. "Miss Curwena is
madder about him than ever, but he simply goes sailing along not seeing
it. He is a pet, really."

"Yes, he is," and then Susan sighed. "I must go," she said. "If you want
a bath the water will be boiling. It's the best thing in the house.
Shall I show you?"

"Yes, do," said Millicent. "And show me your room. I was too dazed to
take it all in last night. I'll hold the tray while you get out."

"This is my room," said Susan. The two girls were out on the landing
now. A cold bare landing with five high doors opening out of it. A sort
of shivery landing, thought Millicent, holding her dressing-gown more
closely round her.

"Oh, you don't sleep with Arthur, then?" Millicent spoke airily. "How
modern of you, Susan," she stood and stared round the little room with
its large high windows. A ghastly bedroom, thought Millicent, inwardly
appalled.

"No, he sleeps so badly that we thought it better not," said Susan
steadily.

"Very sensible of you," said Millicent, "Show me the bathroom, Susan.
Oh! what a scheme. What do I do? Work the handle up and down?"

"Yes," said Susan. And as the boiling water from the copper down below
came flooding out into the white enamel bath she stood there with her
pale blue dressing-gown huddled round her and laughed.

"You know," she said, "you'll think me utterly mad, I know, but before
you came I got an idea that I'd like to take people here as P.G.'s. I
believe it was this frightfully efficient plan of bath water that made
me think of it. Don't you know it's what people always clamour for at
once, hot baths? Well, they'd have them here, wouldn't they?" and Susan,
her face looking a little vague through the cloud of steam that
surrounded it, laughed again.

"Yes," and then Millicent's young excited mind made a great leap. She
had not told her sister yet about Sir Pelham Brooke, she was waiting
until the first excitement of her arrival had settled down a bit.
Because Susan would have to listen properly to that, not stare about and
be wondering all the time what her father had got to look like while she
had been away from him. And what Joan wore now, and if her hair was
really naturally curly or only just ordinarily wavy. Millicent, the
night before, had been astounded at the sick hungry way in which her
sister had sat and stared, drinking in all the home news. Not in the
least like Susan, either, thought Millicent, remembering the rather
casual way in which her elder sister had accepted the rle of elder
sister in the Warwickshire Rectory.

"P.G.'s? Men or women?" she inquired lightly, stooping over the steaming
bath and trying the water gingerly with one finger. "Stop pumping,
Susan, or I shall never be able to get it cold enough."

"Oh, men," said Susan carelessly. She stopped working the wooden handle
up and down. "Here's the cold water," she said, and twisted a large
old-fashioned iron tap, thrusting a finger into the noisy spouting of
it.

"And it is cold," said Millicent. She stood there, a little taller than
her sister, and thought how lovely and exciting this was all being. Even
the bathroom was exciting. So tall and narrow and queer with its divine
view of the mountains behind it.

"And now I'll leave you," said Susan. "Breakfast's at half-past eight,
but it won't matter if you aren't punctual. Arthur hardly ever is."

"Any family prayers?" inquired Millicent jauntily.

"Oh, no," said Susan hurriedly. And as she spoke a tiny pang ran through
her. Family prayers! Conducted by the man whom she had begun to despise.
What an awful idea. To begin the day like that.... "Oh, no!" she said
it again as she prepared to shut the door.

"Poor wretch." Millicent had begun to take off her night-dress. She said
the words aloud as she stooped and felt the water with her hand. And
then as she stepped over the edge of the white bath she wondered which
she had meant when she said 'poor wretch.' Both of them, she decided,
letting herself sink down into the water so that it ran up between her
young breasts in a slender runlet. "Heavenly," she said, speaking aloud
as she swung herself from side to side, revelling in the warmth of it.

While just across the landing the Rector sat on the edge of his narrow
bed and stared out of the large window that gave on to the western end
of the beautiful valley. He could see just the grey slated roof of the
tiny church. "Lord have mercy upon us: Christ have mercy upon us." He
muttered the words as he sat there, staring.




CHAPTER X


After breakfast, which was a nice one, the girls separated. Susan had
got an awfully good servant, decided Millicent, and one who could make
coffee properly, which was unusual. The coffee had come in in a tall
brown coffee-pot, and there had been loads of boiling hot milk in a
wide-lipped earthenware jug to go with it. There had also been porridge,
and cream in another earthenware jug, and bacon and eggs in a fireproof
china dish. The Rector had sat at the head of the table, but he had
eaten almost in silence. The impression was that he was hardly there,
decided Millicent, eating heartily herself and talking to her sister at
the same time. And yet while she talked her keen young mind was active.
She had appeared not to be taking much notice of the suggestion that
they should take paying guests, but in reality she was thinking of very
little else. They would do it, and she would stay until it was all in
working order. Sir Pelham Brooke should be the first paying guest, and
the money that Aunt Dorothy had provided should go in buying the sort of
things that one had to have if one had visitors in one's house. Things
like nice hot-water cans and perhaps a cover or two to go over them, and
some pretty china for early tea. She would take in his early tea,
decided Millicent, feeling a prickling of excited rapture running down
the backs of her slender legs.

But the point was which room should he have. Susan had gone into the
kitchen to give the orders for the day, so Millicent decided to explore.
She stood on the rather bleak landing and got quite clear in her head
which were the rooms that she had already seen. Two she had not; one
next to the bathroom and one at the top of three old oak stairs. She
would try the one at the top of the old oak stairs first: she went up
them, feeling an odd excitement. And the minute she opened the door of
this room she knew that this was the room for Sir Pelham Brooke if the
exquisite joy of his coming ever materialised. One of the Rectors must
have built it for a nursery, decided Millicent. For it was long and
rather low and had beautiful, built-in cupboards along one wall of it.
The window had a wide seat to it, and the view from the window was
divine. You could see the waterfall at the head of the valley, and the
upper path that wound away round the shoulder of Great Crag. Just below
the window was a tiny beck, that, having supplied an old stone water
trough outside the kitchen, went tumbling away down through the trees to
the larger stream that ran along at the foot of the meadows.

And now what sort of a fireplace? Millicent was walking up to it.
Old-fashioned, like a little basket with bars. Not on the floor at all,
but raised up. But convenient, decided Millicent, taking it in. You
could keep things warm on those hobs. And then she stood in the middle
of the floor and stared at the furniture. The bed... she walked over
to it and felt it. A queer bed, low and wide and heaped with blankets.
But a box spring. 'Poor wretch,' the words came bubbling up in
Millicent's brain as she turned away from it. But how could one sleep in
the same bed with someone who drank? You couldn't. Susan had had it
shoved here; anything, anywhere so that she didn't have to remember it.
And now, what about the chest of drawers? Millicent, entirely
business-like, walked over to that. A beauty, the drawers of it slipped
like silk. Men hated it if drawers stuck. They kicked them and made
marks. Arthur had chosen his furniture well, decided Millicent, standing
still and making calculations. A new eiderdown for the bed, because it
was only the middle of April and awfully cold. A very large brass box
for coal so that a great deal could be brought up at a time. Another
rather smaller one for logs, because they weren't so heavy to haul
about. And now to suggest it all to Susan, thought Millicent, opening
the door again and closing it carefully behind her.

And half an hour later she had done it. The orders for the day over,
Susan was ready to do anything that Millicent liked. Millicent, standing
at the front door taking in long breaths of the exquisite mountain air,
said that she would like to go to the post. That she had finished her
letter to her father and that she would like to post it.

"Then we'll go," said Susan, surprised at the feeling of excitement that
had seized on her at the thought of going to the post with Millicent. It
was so odd to feel like that again. To lose the rather chill sensation
of flatness and disappointment and a sort of abiding dread of something
horrible that usually hung over her.

"Shall we need hats?"

"No," said Susan. "It's good for our hair and helps to keep mine curly.
Mine begins to go straight if I don't curl it up sometimes. I hate
having to put curlers in, even those sort of stick ones with tin caps to
them that you get on a card at Woolworth's. There's something squalid
about a curler," concluded Susan, suddenly wrinkling up her top lip so
that her row of little even teeth showed.

"I agree with you," said Millicent. "I've got my letter in my pocket, so
let's go now. We've each got on jerseys so we don't need coats, do we?"

"No," said Susan again. "But I'll get a basket because Rachel wants some
apples, and ours are nearly done." She took one down from a row of pegs
fixed close to the front door, and the two girls walked down the little
garden path. A path made of round stones that slid and made little
rattling noises under their feet. The way to the post office lay along a
narrow lane with high hedges on either side of it. Across a bridge with
old stone walls on either side of that, too. Below the bridge a little
tumbling, bubbling stream, the moss on the rocks of it long and waving
like mermaids' hair in the clear water.

"It's divinely beautiful," said Millicent suddenly, not knowing quite
how to begin about Sir Pelham Brooke and the idea of having him as a
paying guest at the Rectory. Because, in her own mind, Millicent had
already absolutely decided that this was what was going to happen. He
would come and settle in there and they would have the most perfect
excursions and madly exciting shopping expeditions and frantic fun about
things like cooking while Rachel was out. And that she, Millicent, would
wait on him, always with that delicious thrill trickling down her spine
because he was so entrancing. She would write and suggest it to him when
she returned the glove, because then he would have to reply anyhow. But
the first thing was to suggest it to Susan. And the thing was to do it
at once. So with her head held high in the pale spring sunshine and the
scent of young green things stealing fragrant about her, Millicent
proceeded to tell her sister all about Sir Pelham Brooke and of how she
had met him in the train. And that how as he had been ordered to take a
year's rest and do nothing, the place for him to do it was the Rectory.

"Which Rectory?" said Susan, feeling rather dazed. Millicent had
travelled practically all the way to Keswick with a man whom she did not
know at all! But what would their father say? "Which Rectory?" she
repeated the words, and, as she said them, a blackbird, hidden in the
soft green leaves of a hazel tree overhanging the stream, broke into a
liquid bubble of song.

"Your Rectory, of course," said Millicent briskly. "You told me this
morning that you had thought of taking P.G.'s because the bathwater was
so beautifully hot. Well, there you are, a sublime P.G. all ready made.
The most perfect voice; a divine way of looking at you, and, I should
say, heaps of money."

"Millicent!"

"Why not?"

"It's out of the question," said Susan unsteadily.

"But why?"

"Because it is," said Susan. And here the lane made a little twist. A
tiny wooden gate with a loop of wire over one post to keep it closed. A
soft grassy path between high waving fronds of pale green bracken. Susan
stood still as she replaced the wire.

"But why?" persisted Millicent. And her young eyes were intent on her
sister. Susan had got to tell her then and there that Arthur drank and
get it over, decided Millicent. Otherwise they could do nothing at all
about anything.

"A man like that wouldn't fit in at the Rectory," said Susan, and her
grey eyes seemed to slide away from her sister's and stay hidden
somewhere.

"But why not?"

"Because he wouldn't," said Susan stubbornly. Her bare hand on her stick
was trembling and damp.

"But why not?"

"Don't ask me, I tell you," said Susan hoarsely, and for a moment she
hated her sister. She knew Millicent... knew her persistence. She had
seen her get her way with it at home with her father. A determined
refusal and Millicent simply pegging away until she----"Don't ask me,"
she said again.

"All right," said Millicent cheerfully. "I won't ask you because I know.
And I'm going to tell you I know, because if I don't it'll always be
between us and that's so stupid. Arthur drinks," said Millicent, and she
stood there looking young and solid between the fragile stalks of palest
green. "And you mind most frightfully... much more than you need,
because most men do something."

"How did you know?"

"By the look of him," said Millicent easily. "And by the way you've kept
everything to do with your life so deadly quiet. It's not natural for
you to do that, you were always the one at home who rather blurted
things out. And that's partly why I came; to find out. I didn't breathe
it to Daddy--what I thought, I mean, and I certainly shan't now."

"Millicent!"

"Don't take it like that, darling," said Millicent suddenly, and with a
little rush she caught Susan close to her. Millicent was frightened now,
because her sister's sobs were agonised and strangling.

"It's been so frightful," gasped Susan. She bowed herself over the pale
oak gatepost as her tears tore her.

"But now I know, it's better," pleaded Millicent.

"It's the shame of it... a clergyman."

"Clergymen are only human beings after all," said Millicent wisely. "And
probably he's having most of his punishment now because he must loathe
doing it so. He looks as if he loathed it. I never saw a man look more
wretched," concluded Millicent seriously.

"What shall I do if other people find out?" choked Susan. But now she
was calmer. Oh, the relief of being able to share her hideous secret
with someone. And to share it with someone like Millicent, who took it
almost as a matter of course.

"They won't," said Millicent cheerfully. "Although if you ask me I
should say that a certain amount of people do know already; especially
in this valley. And that they don't care because he's so awfully good to
them. You often told me about the way he spends all his time racing
round after them: miles up these lonely valleys at any time of the day
or night if they're ill----Well, that is being like Christ," said
Millicent cheerfully. "And that's the thing that matters, and the
villagers know it. They'd much rather have a man like that than a man
who sat all day in his study, writing, or a man who simply lived having
services to which nobody goes."

"Yes, but drink," shuddered Susan, and her swollen eyes were tragic.

"Yes, I agree that it isn't what one would choose," conceded Millicent.
"But, as I say, one can't have everything. He might be making love to
the girls in his confirmation class. Clergymen do, and so do Roman
Catholic priests," said Millicent sagely. "And it's much easier for them
because of the Confessional."

"Don't, Millicent!"

"Well, I always think it's so stupid to pretend things aren't when they
are," said Millicent wisely. "But you always were rather like that,
rather exalting things."

"Oh, dear!" Susan was laughing shakily.

"Well, and now you feel better, don't you?" ventured Millicent. She
stood there a solid little figure. "Let's have Sir Pelham Brooke, Susan.
It's just what we want--both of us. Something exciting; something to
wake us up. Something to give us that lovely trembling feeling that
something frightfully nice is going to happen. Don't you know; you get
it before you wake up with it."

"I've forgotten it," said Susan tremulously. She began to walk along the
narrow grassy path. "I don't know," she said slowly. "I know it would be
fun and all that. But it would work out all right? I mean that having
people in your house who pay is different to having people just to stay.
Rachel wouldn't mind, she was keen on our having someone--she thought it
would divert my mind... she _knows_... of course. Also, of course,
the money would be very useful. But when it actually happened---- And
Arthur mightn't like it. I should have to ask him first, of course,"
unconsciously Susan quickened her steps.

"We'll ask him at dinner to-night," said Millicent triumphantly. "Or
supper or whatever you call it. And, you see, he won't mind. He might
even like it. He might feel that it would be a sort of reason why he
can't... you know," Millicent took a little step and squeezed her
sister's thin arm.

"Oh, Millicent, he can't help it," said Susan heavily. But in a passion
of gratitude for her younger sister's tender comprehension she turned on
the narrow path and faced her.

"You're a brick," she said. "There's no one like one's own family, I
knew it all the time only I felt I couldn't... Promise me you'll
never breathe it, Mill?"

"I promise," said Millicent solidly. Was it only yesterday morning that
she had sat opposite her fat young sister at the breakfast table? What
was it that Joan said? 'That valley's entrancing; there's a girl at
school who's been there. She was there last year and stayed in one of
the farmhouses there and the Vicar drinks...' Of course...
everyone must know. Well, supposing they did... Millicent, suddenly
feeling very grown-up and responsible, leaned forward and kissed her
elder sister on her soft cheek.




CHAPTER XI


Oddly enough the Rector made no demur at the idea of taking paying
guests. He sat at the head of the table pale and unsmiling. Did he even
grasp what they were talking about, wondered Millicent, watching him.

"Are you sure they won't worry you, Arthur?" said Susan timidly. And
then she gave a little quick laugh. "We haven't got anyone yet," she
said. "And I dare say we never shall have anyone."

"It will not worry me in the least," said the Rector slowly. "Do exactly
as you like about it, especially as you say Rachel is in favour of it. I
shall be very late to-night, Susan," and then the Rector's eyes glowed a
little. "Young Thwaites is out of danger," he said, "but his mother
badly needs a night's rest. I have promised to sit up with him
to-night."

"You look as if you needed a night's rest yourself," said Millicent
impulsively. As she sat at the round table she thought how queer it was
all being. The brother-in-law sitting there, cadaverous and dark, like a
spectre. Her sister, small and pale and somehow faltering. The high
ceiling and the white round of the lamp on it. The sort of old-fashioned
bleakness of it, and yet the enchanting beauty of the scenery that
surrounded it. And the nice food. A lovely roast fowl and all the things
that went with it perfectly well cooked. And a sort of pancaky pudding
that fluffed and melted in your mouth.

"I am not in the least tired," returned the Rector, and he suddenly got
up from his chair and went out of the room, closing the door silently
behind him. And when he had gone the eyes of the two sisters met. And
then they glowed and Millicent got up from her chair with a little
caper.

"It's settled," she said. "And I shall write to Sir Pelham to-morrow and
send him back his glove at the same time. Come and tell Rachel about it,
Susan. We'll clear away afterwards; we must tell her directly. My dear,
think of the real excitement of it!" Millicent's voice was shrill with
excitement as she charged across the hall.

"Yes, I'm glad," said Susan soberly, and although her voice was sober it
held a sort of quiet satisfaction in it. Because even if the idea didn't
come to anything, it meant something new to talk about. Something new to
think about. Something new to fill up her life that was so desperately
barren and empty. Because with Rachel to manage things what was there
for her to do? There was no parish to see to; besides, her husband
preferred to do it himself with a couple of lay helpers. She played the
harmonium certainly, but what was that? And even that could be better
done by someone else. Pollie Woodford, who had left school and taken a
place in the big draper's shop in Keswick market-place, was longing to
do it. Rachel had told her so; she had met her in the market-place two
or three days ago. Pollie found the lonely valley dull on Sundays and
wanted to keep up her music. Well, if that occupation was taken away
from her what would she do? No, this was going to be a blessing if it
could ever really come off: Susan walked into the kitchen, her grey eyes
shining with a sort of inner excitement.

And Rachel rose to the occasion wonderfully. She approved of Millicent's
choice of the large low room that ran out at the back. "It'll be warm,"
she said, "because it's mostly all over the kitchen. But we'll have to
freshen it up a bit." And then Rachel's face became more serious. "It'll
cost a lot of money," she said, "and where's it all to come from?"

"From what I'm going to pay," said Millicent triumphantly. "If you can
hang on without it, Susan, it'll buy all we want. We only want new
curtains and perhaps a rug or two and some pretty china for early tea.
Sir Pelham Brooke has early tea, Rachel?"

"And who may he be?" inquired Rachel, tying on her coarse kitchen apron
preparatory to washing up. Her faithful eyes sought those of her
mistress with a look of deep affection in them. She looked better, did
the mistress, thought Rachel. And she had got to go on looking better,
decided Rachel passionately. Even if it meant filling the Rectory with a
pack of fussing women and perhaps their lap-dogs into the bargain. For
Rachel knew all about women and their need for something to love. She
had even felt it herself until she had got herself installed in this
Rectory. But now Susan satisfied that need. Susan with her grey eyes and
slender shoulders and her sudden frantic storms of tears which nothing
would satisfy but Rachel's warm arms and tenderly whispered words of
comfort.

And now Rachel, fishing about among the warm slippery cups and saucers,
heard all about Sir Pelham Brooke. She listened attentively, and her
shrewd North-country brain was busy in a way that Millicent never
dreamed of. He was evidently a very fine gentleman, was this gentleman
from London, decided Rachel. Too fine, probably, to think of coming to
settle down in a faraway valley such as the Vale of Castlemere. But if
he did come... and here Rachel almost cracked a saucer with the quick
clutch of her unsteady fingers in the boiling hot water. He should fall
in love with the mistress, should this fine gentleman from London,
thought Rachel, the idea coming to her in a flash from nowhere. The
Rector was not worthy of her, not nearly. Even with his care of the
villagers in the scattered hamlets along the valley he wasn't. He should
die, decided Rachel suddenly, lifting a rather flushed face from the
steaming basin. Pop off with something like pneumonia from one of the
times when he came in streaming wet and forgot to change until he'd
cooled down.

"It's a grand idea!" she exclaimed, and her honest face was gleaming
with heat and excitement.

"Do you really think so, Rachel?" exclaimed Susan eagerly. For some
reason or other her own heart was jumping. It would be such fun...
such frantic desperate fun. Millicent should write that very afternoon
so that it caught the evening post. The postman would take the letter
with the others when he called that afternoon. They would have to have a
long tough envelope to take the glove as well. Arthur would give them
one. Without thinking about it any longer, Susan went dashing out of the
kitchen and across the hall.

"May I have one of those long envelopes of yours, Arthur?" Susan had
flung open the door of the study.

"Which long envelopes?" The Rector, standing there in his shabby trench
coat, was busy with a little despatch case. He hardly seemed to see his
wife. Young Thwaites had had a relapse; he had just been speaking with a
young and breathless brother of his who had bicycled frantically from
the tiny farmhouse at the head of the valley. He might pass out that
very night; the Rector was packing his robes into the little pocket
reserved for them.

"Take care of yourself, Arthur," said Susan suddenly. She stood there
and looked at him, so absorbed in what he was doing. "I'll leave
something hot for you in a Thermos," she said.

But the Rector had only heard the first part of the sentence. He was
walking to the door now and reaching up for his round black hat. "Take
care of myself? Why?" he said, and then like a flat stealthy shadow he
crossed the dimly-lighted hall; opened the front door and went out of
it.




CHAPTER XII


When Sir Pelham Brooke got Millicent's letter he began to laugh. Lying
in the deep easy chair close to the bright log fire which the sensible
manager of the Ferry Hotel kept going practically all the year round, he
laughed long and uncontrollably. He had thought a good deal about
Millicent since he had parted from her. And this letter was worthy of
his delightful little travelling companion.

    "Dear Sir Pelham," wrote Millicent.

    "I hope you have not forgotten me, because I have thought of you
    practically all the time since you got out at Troutbeck. Here is
    your glove, I do hope you didn't think it was lost; I can never
    think why the shops don't sell spare gloves; what happens if a
    person only has one hand? Anyhow, here it is, and it gave me an
    excuse to write to you which I wanted dreadfully, because I have
    a most fearfully exciting idea in my head and I must tell it to
    you at once. It is this. You know that you said you had to have
    a holiday for a year and not even motor, at any rate at first,
    and be absolutely quiet except just for walking and doing little
    pottery things. Well, couldn't you possibly come and have it
    here? I'll explain. This is a Rectory in quite one of the
    loveliest valleys in the Lake District. It's the Vale of
    Castlemere, about six miles from Keswick. My sister married the
    Rector and he's always busy with the parish. I mean he's one of
    those people who take their work very seriously; often he's out
    for nights on end sitting up with people who are ill. So Susan,
    that's my sister, is left frightfully to herself, and I think
    it's most awfully bad for her. At this point you'll sort of see
    a huge gaunt Rectory with no redeeming features at all, so I'll
    explain more. They have a superb servant who cooks like a dream,
    and the water for baths is always boiling hot and there's masses
    of it. There is a lovely, very large room that could be made
    most frightfully comfortable for you. We would simply lay
    ourselves out for you, any mortal thing that you wanted you
    should have. I mean to say, you'd only just have to say a thing
    and it would _be_. The cooking is really good, I wouldn't say it
    was if it wasn't, because I know that that's a thing that a man
    must have, especially a man like you. Oh, do think it over and
    see if you can manage it! I mean to say, couldn't you just try
    it? Or couldn't you come and stay near and see if you thought
    you would like it? Castlemere is really divinely beautiful, and
    there are mountains practically all round it and the walks must
    be enchanting. I've not had time to explore much yet, but I
    shall. Oh, it just occurs to me to say that, of course, no one
    would expect you to go to church. Arthur isn't in the least like
    that, only two services on Sunday, and Sunday school. _Do come
    and see._ Oh, please do.

    "I hope you are much better already; I expect you are.

    "Yours very sincerely.
    "Millicent Maitland."

Sir Pelham laid the letter down on his rough tweed knee and his eyes
still danced with laughter. He was glad too to have got his glove back;
it was a nice one and it would have been a bother to have had to ransack
the local shops for another pair. Also, he wouldn't have been able to
get one. He would have to have sent to London, and in his present frame
of mind that would have been too much of an effort. He stretched out his
brogued shoes to the brightly burning fire. A faint mist hung over the
trees that grew close up to the hotel. And through the mist one caught
fleeting glimpses of blue sky. All the same, it was gorgeously
comfortable indoors. Sir Pelham had to his great surprise slept
exceedingly well since he arrived. There was something about the keen
damp air that apparently suited him. He liked the cheerful friendliness
of the atmosphere. The manager was competent and saw especially to the
comfort of his guests. No one obtruded themselves on his solitude; they
eyed him and left him alone. Perhaps they knew who he was, thought Sir
Pelham, smiling to himself a little wryly. No, the suggestion of that
funny little girl was ingenious enough, and it had been very nice of her
to send him back his glove. But to exchange the comfort of the Ferry
Hotel for the chilly hospitality of an isolated Rectory would be folly
indeed.

Sir Pelham got slowly up out of his chair to go to the writing table. He
would answer the child's letter at once in case by any delay he led her
to think that he was considering her suggestion. And his letter came the
next morning. Millicent, tingling with excitement, was sauntering up and
down the lane waiting for the postman. Somehow she wanted to be able to
get at Sir Pelham's letter quite by herself. Then she would be able to
break the rapturous news to her sister, and they could immediately begin
to immerse themselves in a frenzy of excited preparation. "Hallo,
postman!" Millicent had dashed to meet him. He had slid his bicycle to
the side of the lane and was walking the few steps to the vicarage gate.
"Give me the letters," she said. "That'll save you having to go up the
drive."

"Thank you, Miss," the postman was diving into his black leather wallet.
Six letters, Millicent had them in her hand. And there was a letter from
Sir Pelham. The beating of Millicent's heart was all over her young
body. In her throat... thumping down her arms. She would read the
letter quickly and then take the other ones in. Enchanting writing, but
then, of course, it would be. She tore open the envelope.

    "Dear Miss Maitland," (wrote Sir Pelham)

    "How extremely kind of you to have taken care of my glove for
    me, and to have returned it so promptly. As I had quite given it
    up for lost I was especially pleased. Thank you too for asking
    how I am. I am glad to say that I am already very much better,
    and that being the case I think I ought to stay where I am.
    Don't you agree with me? This hotel is very well run, and I am
    able to have all my fussy demands attended to without any
    trouble for anyone else. You see, I am really not in a condition
    to plant myself on people. Later on perhaps I might come and
    visit you if your sister would be kind enough to put me up for a
    day or two. I should very much like to explore the Castlemere
    valley, as I have always heard that it is extremely beautiful.
    But that must wait for better weather and for other things as
    well.

    "It was a great pleasure to me to have such a charming little
    travelling companion, and I feel it an honour that you should
    think of me as a possible occupant of your beautiful Rectory. I
    hope you will have a very delightful holiday and go back to
    Warwickshire feeling ever so much better for it.

    "Yours sincerely,
    "Pelham Brooke."

So that was that. Millicent crushed the letter in her hand and stared in
front of her. He was not coming; obviously not even dreaming of it. The
disappointment was blinding... stupefying. Why, she had almost seen
him there; not almost, she had quite seen him. She had seen the long low
room all ready for him... beautifully ready; curtains and everything.
The big box for coal; the logs in a basket. Why, it was awful; hellish.
She turned in at the gate and walked slowly up the shingly drive. How
should she break it to Susan? She would think her such an absolute fool.
Such a... Such a what? Millicent was mounting the few steps to the
front door. She had waked that morning feeling so sure. They had even
fixed up with the man with the grocer's van to pick them up and drive
them in to Keswick that afternoon. They had got Aunt Dorothy's money all
divided up in their heads. So much for curtain stuff and perhaps loose
covers, and so much for new face towels. And now all blighted and
ruined. Millicent walked slowly across the hall into the kitchen.

And Susan's first instinct was to console. She laughed as she took Sir
Pelham's letter in her hand. And as her eyes ran over it she felt out
for Millicent's hand with her free one.

"But you didn't really think he would come, did you, Mill?" She laughed
as she said the words.

"Of course I did."

"I didn't," said Susan. She was pushing the letter back into the
envelope preparatory to handing it back.

"Not only did I think it," continued Millicent gloomily. "But I actually
_saw_ him here. I saw him sitting at the window of his bedroom smiling
at me."

"Then you saw wrong," gleamed Susan. Her eyes were dancing and
care-free. Having Millicent here was perfectly heavenly, she decided. It
made everything different. Utterly different.

"I don't believe I did see wrong," said Millicent stubbornly. "When you
see things like I do they're hardly ever wrong. They're the real things
and the others are only pretence."

"Well, we'll try and get somebody else," comforted Susan. She glanced
across the kitchen to where Rachel stood benign and attentive. "Was his
the only letter there was?" she inquired.

"All the rest for Arthur. I put them down on the chair outside his study
door."

"Well, come up and help me make the beds and we'll think of something
else to do this afternoon," said Susan cheerfully. "We might go into
Keswick anyhow and have tea there and have some fun. Don't let's give
that up altogether."

"No," said Millicent suddenly. And then her face lighted up. "I've got
an idea," she said.

"What?" and then suddenly the old kitchen seemed to be listening as well
as Susan and Rachel. The fat resolute tick of the white-faced clock on
the wall sounded ever so much louder than usual. Behind the heavy iron
bars of the wide kitchener the glowing coal stirred and sent a shower of
white ash down into the pan beneath.

"Why, we'll get the room ready anyhow," said Millicent rather
breathlessly. "We'll go in this afternoon and buy the things. Even the
black eiderdown we'll buy. We'll get every mortal thing we thought of
and make the room most beautiful. Then he'll have to come. He _shall_
come," said Millicent suddenly.

But Susan's reply was interrupted by the slamming of the front door.
When the front door of the Rectory slammed the things in the kitchen
quivered. The china on the dresser tinkled and then went still again.
Susan lifted her face.

"Arthur has gone out."

"Never mind," said Millicent tempestuously. She rushed at Rachel and
seized her round the waist. "Dance," she said, "we're going to turn this
house into a hotel. Think of the mad, the delirious fun of it, Rachel.
Won't you adore it?"

"That depends," said Rachel slowly, and her wide loving gaze fled across
the kitchen and rested on her young mistress's face.




CHAPTER XIII


Keswick is a delightful place to shop in. The market square is so quaint
and cobbled, and the shops that smile into it are so friendly and so
full of the very things that you want at that very moment. Flushed with
excitement Millicent rushed in and out of them. She knew exactly what
she wanted and she also knew exactly how much she was prepared to pay
for it. Susan, following in her wake, was much more shy. A good many of
the shop people in Keswick knew her. Pollie Woodford, in the big
drapers, blushed all over her nice north-country face when Susan,
leaning forward, shook hands with her and said how pleased she was to
hear from the Rector that she was going to undertake the playing at all
the services.

"Yes, ma'am, and I'm very glad to do it," said Polly cordially. "I've
missed it, I can tell you," and then Polly devoted herself afresh to
Millicent, who was buying stuff for curtains. Reversible cretonne with
birds and roses on it.

"Don't you see we can put it either way, and it saves a lot," said
Millicent. "It's fadeless, too." Millicent was making rapid calculations
as to how much they should want. Then there were the hooks and rings.
They must have a pelmet... Susan was astonished at Millicent's grasp
of things. And it was the same with the eiderdown. Staring round the
furnishing department Millicent spotted the one she wanted at once.
Black; quite plain on one side and big sprawling pink roses on the
other.

"My dear, isn't it too expensive?" Susan was shy and hesitating.

"They're making me a special price," said Millicent grandly. She eyed
the attentive assistant. "And now let me see if you have any boxes that
would do for coal," she said easily. "Upstairs? All right. Don't you
bother to come if you'd rather not," she said and turned to her sister.

And in a little over one hour all was done. They had bought thirty yards
of cretonne; two large brass covered boxes for logs and coal. Two
brightly coloured rugs, an eiderdown and a flowered early-tea set and a
tray to go with it. Six yards of dull blue artificial silk for covers
for the chest of drawers and dressing-table, and a cut glass
water-bottle and tumbler. And as all the things had been bought at the
same shop they were to go down in one bill, which would be sent in in
due course.

"How much does it all come to?" asked Susan when they found themselves
in the square again. She felt a little breathless. It was so long since
she had been swept along like this. And when you came to think of it,
what was it all about? They were furnishing a room for a man who had
stated very plainly that he never intended to occupy it. Had Millicent
fallen in love with this famous barrister, wondered Susan, gazing at
Millicent's determined little profile.

"I should say that it came to well over ten pounds," said Millicent
airily. "But it's going to be put down on a bill, so it doesn't seem
half so much. Come on, let's go and have tea. You know the shops for
that; I don't."

"The Green Tea Rooms is the nicest," said Susan. "And it's not dear,
either."

She led the way in a sort of tremor. Ten pounds flung away in a little
over an hour. And all for what? As she sat down opposite her sister she
thought how queer it was all being. This time last week she had felt
quite a different sort of creature altogether. Sort of settled and
comatose and content to just drift along so long as she did not think.
And now here she was being dragged at the heels of this younger sister
of hers. Jerked out of her coma. Jerked out of her coma although perhaps
she would rather have been left in it. Susan was staring down at her
plate, forgetting that they had come into this shop to have tea.

"I shall have a bath bun if it's certain to be absolutely fresh."
Millicent, sitting a little sideways in her chair, was giving clear and
competent orders to the nice smiling waitress. And again Susan felt that
strange sensation of unreality stealing over her. She, Susan, was
married, had been married for over two years. And yet here was this
younger sister of hers taking command of everything. Making her turn her
own home into a guest-house although she had never really considered it
as a serious proposition. And making her do it, although the one person
whom Millicent wanted to come to it had said that he wouldn't! Susan
felt suddenly glad that the tea had arrived and that it was really hot.
Millicent was pouring it out and it poured out steaming and a nice
chestnut brown.

"Well, I think we've bought all we want," Millicent was tackling her
bath bun. "My dear, are those scones fresh?" her young eyes were on her
sister's plate.

"Perfectly, thank you," said Susan hurriedly, buttering one. In another
moment they would be swept away if she knew Millicent. Biting cheerfully
into the thickly spread butter, she smiled.

"I love buying things, don't you?"

"Adore it," said Millicent. "Worship it. I could go on for ever,
especially when I don't have to pay on the spot. I loathe paying out
money. I would much rather sign a cheque for a pound than buy a postal
order for five shillings."

"Would you really?"

"Much rather," said Millicent airily. "Have some more tea?"

"Thank you," said Susan humbly. And as she saw her sister's young
competent hand on the green china handle of the teapot, she wondered
again how this was all going to end. Less than a week and the whole of
her life turned upside down.

"Say when," Millicent was pouring out the milk.

"Now," said Susan abruptly. And then she lifted her eyes and met her
sister's round blue ones.

"I love having you with me, Mill," she said wistfully.

"Do you? Well, I adore being here," said Millicent cordially. "To begin
with I never saw such a beautiful place as Castlemere in my life. And to
go on with I think we're going to have the most roaring fun turning the
Rectory into an hotel."

"Oh, Millicent!"

"Well, it's much better to call it an hotel than a boarding-house," said
Millicent airily, and she turned with a little determined upward
movement of her chin to beckon the waitress to them.




CHAPTER XIV


Life in one of the big hotels in the English Lake District can be a very
delightful thing indeed. And so Sir Pelham found it. People had begun to
find out who he was. He came across an old Oxford friend out on a
walking tour. They met in the lounge one night, both tall and
distinguished in their evening clothes.

"Hallo, Brooke!" And then over a short drink they began to talk. The
years that had passed since they had left The House. The fame of the
elder man, and the comparative obscurity of the younger. Research work,
Mr. Mant's keen eyes were glowing as he spoke enthusiastically.

And in another week's time Sir Pelham knew everybody. Everybody was on
holiday and out to enjoy themselves. Expeditions were planned. Mr. Mant
had a car and was eager to explore. He laughed at the good-natured jibes
at his idea of a walking tour.

"But I find I see much more of the country this way," he explained. "I
send my chauffeur on and then walk after him. And then I stop a day or
so and motor over the roads that I should not care to tackle on foot.
And so I get it both ways. And now, when you've all done scoffing, whose
coming with me to-day?"

So the time flew. The early May days were of an enchanting beauty.
Waking after an almost dreamless night, Sir Pelham would lie and gaze
through the widely drawn curtains. That stumbling, faltering feeling in
his head, had it ever been a reality? That sick fear of a sleepless
night and the frantic effort to banish that fear. The sudden dimming of
his vision and the panic that attended it? Were they real, these things,
or had he only imagined them? In any event, he hadn't got them now,
thought Sir Pelham, kicking back the blankets and stepping out on to the
soft carpet.

And so the days went on. Glorious excursions by day and a good deal of
very excellent bridge at night. The weather was superb. Sir Pelham,
bronzed and energetic, was enormously in request. Mr. Mant stayed on.
"I'm enjoying myself too much to move," he said, and from his low chair
close up to the open window he turned to smile at his friend.

"Yes, I never felt fitter in my life either," said Sir Pelham. "I never
told you, by the way, how old Hearn dropped on me when I went to see
him. Not to motor; not to exert myself. In fact, to live the life of a
mollusc for a year."

"Did he, though?"

"He did, indeed," said Sir Pelham. "It only shows how little these men
really know. I suppose they have to say what they think they ought to
say to earn their fees. Although, as a matter of fact, when I went to
him I did feel uncommonly seedy. Thank God that's all done with." Sir
Pelham raised a steady hand and took his cigarette from between his
lips.

"Yes. All the same, if old Hearn told you to take it easy I should do
so," said Mr. Mant slowly. "I saw in the papers, of course, that you'd
been ordered to take a year's rest. _The Times_ got quite eloquent about
it, but I didn't know it was anything serious. But if Hearn said not to
motor I shouldn't do it. These men do make mistakes, I agree, but Hearn
is one of the soundest among them."

"Yes," and then Sir Pelham suddenly put down his cigarette. Odd that he
should have just said that and then feel so queer. He would wait a
second and Mant had his back to him and wouldn't notice.

But it was the smell of burning that made Mr. Mant turn at last. A
little creeping streak of flame along the serge tablecloth and the
sagging crumpled figure of his friend over the roll arm of his
easy-chair.

"My God, Brooke." In a second Mr. Mant had bolted to the side table and
wrenched out the stopper of the cut-glass decanter. Mercifully
everything was handy; he supported the dropped shoulders, skilfully
separating the blue lips with the heavy rim of the tumbler. And then,
with a few deft blows with the leather blotting pad he beat out the tiny
runner of flame.

"What on earth has happened?" Sir Pelham, speaking angrily, was
struggling up into a sitting position again. "What's burning?"

"The tablecloth was," said Mr. Mant briefly, and he sat down on the arm
of the easy-chair, the tumbler in his hand. "But it isn't now. Have
another drink," he said cheerfully.




CHAPTER XV


Nice Dr. Crawley, summoned by telephone from Keswick, was perfectly
definite in his diagnosis. He stood in the passage outside Sir Pelham's
room and delivered it to Mr. Mant.

"Sir John Hearn told Sir Pelham to take a year's rest and he has
deliberately disregarded his advice," he said. "I gather from what you
tell me that he was told not to motor and not to exert himself in any
way. He has done both. Therefore he has had this collapse. Didn't you
know what Sir John had said? I gather that Sir Pelham has been
constantly out in your car."

"I hadn't the remotest idea until this evening," said Mr. Mant frankly.
"I should have been the first, of course, to have insisted on the
doctor's orders being obeyed. But Brooke looked to me so fit, I had no
idea..."

"Well, keep him in bed until to-morrow," said Dr. Crawley, "and I'll
come out the first thing in the morning and we'll see what's best to be
done. Personally, with a man like that, I should say a nursing home.
You'll never keep him quiet in an hotel. To begin with he's far too well
known and far too good company. In any event I'll come out again
to-morrow," and with a pleasant smile and grip of his well-kept hand Dr.
Crawley ran down the shallow stairs.

While Mr. Mant went rather thoughtfully back into his friend's bedroom.
He felt ashamed of himself for not having discerned Sir Pelham's
condition long before. But he had been put off by his look of apparent
health, and not having been in possession of the history of the case,
how could he have known? But all the same, now that he did know... he
closed the high white door very carefully behind him and smiled at the
pale face raised high on the pillows.

"Well, what did he say?" Sir Pelham's face was rather pale, although his
lips were steady.

"He says that you have been doing too much," said Mr. Mant simply. "And
now that I know what Hearn told you, of course I agree with him. I had
not the remotest idea that you were in the condition you are. You ought
to have warned me, of course."

"I felt so infinitely better," said Sir Pelham wearily.

"And you probably are infinitely better," said Mr. Mant cheerfully. "But
not so much better that you can afford to return to your ordinary life
as soon as this. Think of the rate at which you have been living during
the last ten days. Up once, if not twice at dawn. Bridge very often
until after midnight, and endless drives in that damned car of mine. I
blame myself very much for that." Mr. Mant fell abruptly silent.

"How on earth could you know?" Sir Pelham turned on his side and stared
out of the window. "But no human agency is going to get me into a
nursing home," he said briefly. "Crawley can stand here until he is blue
in the face if he wants that. I will not go into a nursing home," said
Sir Pelham, and his lips set in a straight thin line of determination.

"Then..."

"Nor will I have a nurse."

"No?"

"No."

"Well, we'll wait and see what Crawley suggests to-morrow," said Mr.
Mant amiably. "Meanwhile, will you consent to stay in bed until
to-morrow? To-morrow I should imagine you will be allowed to get up
provided you will promise to keep quiet."

"You think so?"

"I am practically sure of it," said Mr. Mant cheerfully. "Meanwhile, if
I may suggest, I should say that the thing is for you to go to sleep.
I'll draw these curtains and leave you to it."

"What's the time?"

"Half-past five."

"The best time of the day," grumbled Sir Pelham. He settled his long
limbs rather resentfully under the blankets. "Perhaps I will, though,"
he said after a little pause. "Draw the blasted curtains and leave me to
it. And come back when it's time for me to dress for dinner."

"We'll see about dressing for dinner when the time's arrived for it,"
said Mr. Mant briefly, and he dragged the soft blue velvet curtains
across the long brass rod with a soft jingling of brass curtain rings.
"Sure you've got all you want?" Mr. Mant was standing quietly by the
bed. Unless he was very much mistaken Sir Pelham would be asleep almost
before he was out of the room. And he'd get the manager to let him have
the adjoining room, at any rate for that night. Fortunately it had a
communicating door, which he would surreptitiously leave open.

"Everything, thanks," said Sir Pelham sleepily. Already his keen blue
eyes were shaded by his drooping eyelids.




CHAPTER XVI


But the next day Dr. Crawley was perfectly definite. Sir Pelham had been
ordered a year's rest by the most eminent neurologist in England, and he
had got to take it. How or where was a matter of minor importance.
England was full of nursing homes, and into one of them the famous
barrister must consent to go.

"I will not." From the high pillows Sir Pelham stared out from beneath
knitted brows. "They stink of ether and are full of people exuding death
germs. I would infinitely rather die in a ditch than in a nursing home."

"Well..." Dr. Crawley shrugged his clever Scotch shoulders.

"Why can't I stay here?"

"You can if you will allow me to send in a couple of nurses."

"Good God, no."

"Well, then..." Dr. Crawley got up. "I must get along," he said.
"I've got to be in the Windermere for a consultation at two. But I'll
come along to-morrow morning again. Meanwhile, Mant, I'll leave you in
charge of the patient. He can get up and sit in a chair, but he is not
to go out of this room unless it is absolutely necessary. And I should
prefer that he did not lock the bathroom door when he has a bath if it
can anyhow be managed."

"I'll see to that," said Mr. Mant pleasantly. And then the two men left
the room together. While Sir Pelham sank a little lower on the pillows
and stared up at the high white ceiling. The Rectory in Castlemere
Valley, that was the solution of this, of course. Odd, very odd that he
should have met that child in the train. He would write at once and then
go over and see it. In a couple of days, provided he took it slowly:
Mant could take him in the car. And once there he would rest to his
heart's content, and Crawley was much nearer to Castlemere than he was
to Ullswater.

And the moment Mr. Mant returned to the bedroom Sir Pelham told him his
plan. Told it oddly enough with a certain amount of animation. Mr. Mant
stared at him and wondered what it was all about.

"But where is this place?"

"Give me that map," Sir Pelham, sitting up in bed, was pointing to the
writing table. "It's quite near Keswick," he said, and unfolded the map
that Mr. Mant had handed to him. Spreading it out on the soft blanket he
smoothed out the crackling sections of it.

"Yes, but that sort of place is bound to be primitive," argued Mr. Mant.
"Probably there's no water laid on and horrors of that kind. Also, a
Rectory! You know the average country parson and the way he lives. I
agree that the poor brute very often has to; it's an outrage the way
they pay them. But all the same..." Mr. Mant fell abruptly silent.

"Here it is!" Sir Pelham was gazing with interest at the map. "Right
away at the end of the valley. Almost under High Point Gable. Damn it, I
wish I was fit enough to go and see it; I'd go this afternoon."

"Would you like me to go?" Mr. Mant was staring thoughtfully at the
glowing end of his cigarette. After all, as he reflected, such a place
might do for Brooke. He did not need nursing in the strict sense of the
word. All he did need was good food and perfect quiet. But good food was
the one thing that he probably would not get there, decided Mr. Mant,
raising his eyes from his cigarette and gazing at his friend.

"Would you?"

"With the greatest pleasure."

"Don't let them know that you have anything to do with me," said Sir
Pelham suddenly. "Simply say that you have heard that they take guests
in at the Rectory, and that you have come to see if it would be suitable
for a friend of yours who has been ordered a rest."

"Yes... or rather, no," said Mr. Mant after a long pause. "I think
the best way to tackle it would be for me to say what is true, that I am
a doctor. And that I am looking for a place for a patient of mine. That
will enable me to make the most searching inquiries into everything. I
can inspect the room they would propose to give you. I can, if
necessary, interview the servant or servants to see if she can provide
the food you require. In fact, I can make the most exhaustive inquiries
without running the risk of seeming impertinent."

"Splendid," said Sir Pelham delightedly. He folded up the map and his
keen high-bred face was amused. "And how much are we going to offer them
for all this?" he inquired.

"Six guineas a week."

"Good God! that's not enough."

"You can easily raise it if it seems worth it," said Mr. Mant lazily. He
got up out of his chair. "I'll go and look the car over," he said. "I
sent Phillips into Carlisle for a couple of days, as I didn't think we
should be wanting him."

"My dear fellow, it will be a fearful bother. In fact, I am a bother,"
said Sir Pelham, and his face broke into a smile.

"You aren't," said Mr. Mant briefly, and his answering smile was very
delightful.




CHAPTER XVII


Mr. Mant found the Rectory without much difficulty. He could see it from
the wide turn in the lane and he stopped the car close up to a
five-barred gate to have a leisurely cigarette before going farther. And
as he sat in the driving seat he stared round him and absorbed the
beauty that lay all around. The high hedges were full of honeysuckle and
the foxgloves stood slender and mauve away in the dimness of the woods.
The bracken was green and young and filled the meadows that fringed the
stream with a sort of tangled mystery. There were wild roses too, and
they grew in a luxuriance that enchanted him. Mr. Mant was young and
enthusiastic and adored the country. What a pity, he thought rather
sardonically, that in a moment or two he would be confronted by a faded
vicar's wife with hair strained into a bun at the back of her
disappointed neck, and a Rectory lacking all the niceties that one had
to have as one got older, although one knew that they did not matter
really. The only thing that he was looking forward to seeing was
Millicent, as according to Sir Pelham she was a host in herself and
extremely pretty into the bargain. Mr. Mant was young enough to look
forward to seeing a pretty girl. He would finish his cigarette and then
get along, as it was nearly half-past three and he would probably catch
them all in then as they probably did not go out until after tea.

But Millicent, coming back from posting a letter, saw Mr. Mant before he
saw her. A car... with a young man sitting at the wheel of it! Mad,
delirious excitement! Millicent was beginning to find the life at the
Rectory a shade monotonous. It was now nearly ten days since they had
shopped in Keswick and all the covers and curtains for the spare room
were made. The bill for everything had come in, and it was much more
than they had expected. Certainly the room looked enchanting, but what
was the use of that when there was nobody in it? Fifteen pounds nine
shillings and threepence spent for absolutely nothing. Because it was
now the middle of May, and if people were thinking of coming to the
Lakes they would come now. Susan had declined to consider the idea of
asking Dr. Crawley to recommend them. Her grave eyes had darkened when
Millicent had suggested it.

"No. How do we know that he doesn't know about Arthur? He probably
does," she said. "He wouldn't know that we could probably hide it all
up. I mean, Arthur never does get... Oh, Mill, you know what I mean.
No, we can't do that, we must just wait."

And they waited. Millicent was getting tired of it. The weather was so
divine; they ought to be having enchanting picnics with some very nice
man. And here was a man; whether he was nice or not depended on the
other side of him. His shoulders were nice and broad and his hat was at
the right angle. But still, shoulders and hats weren't everything.
Millicent came up level with the car. And instantly Mr. Mant knew who
she was. Pretty... yes, by Jove, Sir Pelham had been right! He met
Millicent's eyes and whipped off his hat.

"You aren't by any rapturous chance looking for the Rectory, are you?"
inquired Millicent cheerfully. Her eyes were bright and engaging, and
her rather wide mouth smiled.

"I am." Mr. Mant was carefully opening the near door of the car and
getting out of it.

"Oh! whatever for?"

"I am looking for accommodation for a patient of mine," said Mr. Mant.
"He has had a severe nervous breakdown and wants somewhere where he can
be absolutely quiet."

"I see," Millicent's eyes were sober. "When you say he, do you mean he?"
she inquired. "Or is it a sort of generic term for anyone? Neither I nor
my sister want another woman in the house. She is so frightfully kind
that if she knew the person really wanted somewhere like the Rectory to
be she would probably give in. But I know that it would be ghastly to
have a woman, so that if it is a woman I think I'll say straight out
that we can't have her. Then it's settled, and I need never tell her
that I've done it."

"It is a man," said Mr. Mant, and his eyes were dancing. And as they
danced they absorbed Millicent from head to foot. Her hair curled and
had bronze lights in it. Her hands were small and the fingers of them
curled like the paws of a kitten.

"Then I feel that I can't let go of you for one instant," said Millicent
excitedly. "Let's get into the car and go on together, shall we? It's
just there... you can see it. Perhaps you have seen it already?"

"I have."

"It isn't you who wants to come, is it?" Millicent was leaning against
the shining side of the car and looking up at Mr. Mant.

"No, unfortunately."

"Perhaps you could come later?"

"I might be able to manage it."

And then Millicent sighed.

"You know," she said. "I might as well tell you straight off, although
Susan says I'm fearful in the way I blurt things out--that I got the
idea of turning this Rectory into a sort of hotel for two reasons. One
is that my sister leads a most hellish life, never seeing a soul, and
she's quite young. And the other is that on the way up here I met a most
terribly attractive man in the train and I felt that with a man like
that in the house how different everything could be. I come from a home
where our father is a perfect angel; he makes everything heavenly when
he's there. My sister's husband isn't in the least like that. He steals
about the house like a sort of depressed monk and only rouses himself up
when someone is going to die, and wants sort of shepherding into the
next world. Well, that's all very well in a way, but it's not much for a
woman to build up her life on, especially when she's only been married
for two years."

"It is not."

"You may be thinking that the Rectory won't be a very suitable place for
your patient," said Millicent gloomily. "That's always the way when I
begin about a thing, I always say too much."

"I don't think anything of the kind."

"Well, then..."

"I think I'd better see it," said Mr. Mant cheerfully. "But there's no
hurry, is there? Do you smoke?" he drew his cigarette case from his coat
pocket.

"I should love one," said Millicent simply. The cigarette between her
red lips, she leaned towards him, drawing in the flame of the match he
extended. "Heavenly," she said, and breathed out a cloud of smoke.

"Perhaps you haven't had one lately."

"Not since I've been at the Rectory," said Millicent. "Not because it
would matter, don't you know, but just because it somehow doesn't seem
suitable."

"I see." And Mr. Mant's eyes were reflective. He was reflecting that
this was all being extremely odd. He had only just met this girl, and
yet he felt as if he had known her all his life.

"Do you like being a doctor?" inquired Millicent. And as she waited for
Mr. Mant's answer she also reflected that this was being odd. Ten
minutes ago she had been bored more or less to death, and now she did
not feel bored at all. In fact, she felt the very reverse of bored. This
man had such perfect hands and such strong wrists. He had a bright, keen
eyes too, and they looked at her as if they liked her. Millicent gave a
little excited shiver and her lips parted.

"Yes, I like being a doctor very much. Although, as a matter of fact, I
don't doctor much in the ordinary sense of the word. I go in for
research work."

"Poking about to find out why we get the things we do?"

"Exactly."

"Then you must be clever."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

"I do. I know you're clever," said Millicent confidentially. "You've got
it written all over you, and your hands are like that; they've got a
sort of deadly probing look about them."

"Oh, dear," said Mr. Mant, and he spread his hands out palm downwards
and surveyed them ruefully.

"No, no, I didn't mean that they weren't nice," cried Millicent
anxiously. And then she blushed scarlet.

"You are making fun of me," she said.

"No, no, I'm not in the least," said Mr. Mant. He took a quick step
towards the high hedge and dragged down a long trailing branch of
honeysuckle. "Sweets to the sweet, like that ridiculous picture that we
used to have in our nurseries," he said. And deftly he was stripping the
short stalks off the longer branch and making the fragrant pale-tubed
flowers into a fat bunch. "There," he said.

"For me?"

"For you."

"No one has ever given me flowers before," said Millicent rapturously.
"At least not like this."

"How have I given you these?"

"As if you liked me," said Millicent shyly, and she raised her eyes,
suddenly oddly sober, to his.

"I do like you," said Mr. Mant gravely, and without thinking what he was
doing he reached out and took both her hands in his.




CHAPTER XVIII


When Millicent and Mr. Mant arrived at the Rectory Susan was in the
kitchen helping Rachel to get tea. Tea at the Rectory was always nice,
as it was the meal for which the Rector was almost sure to be at home.
Fat, fluffy scones; a big new brown loaf fresh from the oven, and a
white one as well. Two different sorts of jam and a large round dough
cake.

"Where is Miss Millicent?" inquired Rachel. Her eyes twinkled as she
spoke of Millicent. Rachel liked her mistress's younger sister. She had
brought an atmosphere of excitement into the rather monotonous life. It
was good for the slim girl who stood arranging the scones on the large
willow-pattern plate. She looked better; her eyes very often shone with
laughter now. Rachel hoped that Millicent would stay for ever. If it
meant working her fingers to the bone she hoped she would stay for ever,
thought Rachel fiercely.

"I have no idea where she is, Rachel. At least I have; she went to post
a letter to father. By the way, has the Rector come in?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"He did not seem to you to be over-tired?" Susan's eyes rested quietly
on those of her servant.

"No, ma'am, he seemed very well," returned Rachel cheerfully. She walked
to the large grate and shook the stout iron kettle. "Boil, will you,"
she said.

"Rachel, that won't make it," Susan burst out laughing, She stood there
in a shaft of spring sunshine. Through the low diamond-paned windows the
meadow of waving grass and daisies rippled under the soft breeze. Beyond
stood the soft rolling outline of Great Crag. All lovely and radiant and
full of promise of more beautiful days to come. She would make herself a
new dress, thought Susan suddenly. Something soft and pink with bunches
of flowers on it. It need not cost much. She and Millicent would go and
buy the stuff in Keswick. And then the door was flung wide open and
Millicent stood there. Millicent with eyes like stars and trembling with
excitement.

"My dear... we've let the room. Pull yourself together." Millicent
could hardly speak. She shut the door and stood with her back to it.
"Arthur saw us coming and has gone out to talk to him. My dear, he must
stay to tea; it will give him a good impression. Is there any cake?"

"Masses. But whatever do you mean?" said Susan. She stood there with her
hand resting on the edge of the well-scrubbed table. Who had Millicent
got hold of now, she wondered vaguely. Always where Millicent was there
was something happening. Another man? Or was it perhaps the same one who
had suddenly arrived on the horizon, Sir Pelham Brooke, the famous
barrister.

"I met him in the lane," said Millicent. "In a car; madly attractive.
He's looking for a place for a man who's got to have a rest, and I told
him at once that this was the place. The thing is to try to persuade him
to come, too," continued Millicent excitedly. "He's young... quite
fairly young. A doctor. My dear, it's the chance of our lives! Rachel,
pull yourself together." Seizing her sister by the arm, Millicent
proceeded to hurry her to the door.

"So we've both got to pull ourselves together, have we?" muttered
Rachel, tipping the heavy kettle over the large china teapot and
inwardly trembling with excitement. She flung a hasty glance over the
old-fashioned japanned tray loaded with good things to eat. She would
put on the clean tablecloth and wash out the other so that they were not
short. Opening the kitchen door she walked across the hall.

And in five minutes tea was ready. Mr. Mant stood beside the Rector and
felt fairly certain that he had come to the right place. Spotlessly
clean, although rather bare. Something pathetic about the grave face of
the man who stood talking to him; in fact, something almost tragic. But
the two girls were sweet. There was something fragile and calling for
protection in Mrs. Carpendale: Mr. Mant remembered with amusement his
former idea of what the Rector's wife would be. But Millicent... Mr.
Mant's gaze stole round to her. She was gazing at him with her blue eyes
wide open.

"Do you think it will do?" she was waiting breathless for his answer.

"Well..." Mr. Mant looked at Susan and laughed. "I'll talk it all
over with your sister afterwards," he said. "Oh, no; I can't plant
myself on you for tea." He spoke hastily.

"But of course you can," said the Rector cordially. "Come along into the
dining-room, I dare say you'll be glad of it after your long drive." He
led the way across the high square hall. Flooded with sunshine; it
struck through the little oval of stained-glass over the front door and
made little coloured patterns on the stone flags.

And Susan, pouring out tea, thought how odd this was all being. She
noticed that this strange young man's gaze dwelt very often on her
sister. How heavenly if Millicent could marry a man like this, she
thought. Settled and happy and something to look forward to and fill up
her life. Not always racing about and wanting something exciting to
happen. Millicent's longing for excitement was beginning to disturb
Susan a little. It awoke strange and alarming discontents in her own
mind. And what was the use of that, thought Susan, grasping the teapot
with small brown hands and wishing that it was not so heavy.

And Mr. Mant, with his keen gaze taking everything in, was making an
excellent tea. The food would be ideal for Brooke, he decided, and he
had taken them completely by surprise so this could not be a special
tea. He would talk to Mrs. Carpendale directly they had finished. See
the bedroom and find out all about hot water and everything like that.
The bedroom was the most important; Mr. Mant felt himself wishing with
unaccountable urgency that it should be found entirely suitable.

And the moment he stood on the threshold of it he knew that it was. The
May sunshine had flooded in with a sweet warmth. The flowered curtain
hung softly over the rather austere windows, and the oval mirror on the
dressing-table reflected the rolling green of the mountains. There was a
wide and very long couch drawn up close to the fireplace. And the big
bed looked a dream of comfort. Mr. Mant stood close to it and stroked
the eiderdown.

"This looks comfortable," he said.

"It is," said Susan. "It is a box spring and has a hair mattress," and
as she said the words she flushed.

"Let's talk it all over," said Mr. Mant. "Sit down, won't you?"

"If you will."

"Thanks very much," and then Mr. Mant began. There were certain things
that were essential, he said frankly, and then proceeded to say what
they were.

"We have all those," said Susan quietly. "Although the Rectory looks
very old-fashioned, the last Rector had money and modernised it; up to a
certain point, that is."

"Splendid." And then Mr. Mant went into more detail. Food... it must
be good and plentiful. Cream and stewed fruit and fresh fruit too.
Poultry... and, of course, a certain amount of meat. And English
meat, said Mr. Mant firmly.

"Yes." Susan got suddenly scarlet. How much would the man pay, she
wondered wildly. And how old was he? Could she ask those things?

And then Mr. Mant suddenly smiled. He leaned forward and his eyes
twinkled. "I fancy your sister has already met my friend," he said. "In
the train."

"Not Sir Pelham Brooke?"

"Yes."

"But..." and then the blood seemed suddenly to recede from Susan's
heart and she sat there with her hands clenched together and her eyes
closed.

"What's wrong?" Mr. Mant, being a doctor, was not at all alarmed.
Quietly he took one of Susan's wrists in his hand and laid his finger
unobtrusively on her pulse. And then he laughed softly.

"That gave you a shock," he said. "And why?"

"I can't tell you," stammered Susan. "Except that it seemed so odd after
the way we have talked about Sir Pelham coming and then he did not."

"Yes, I know," smiled Mr. Mant. "As a matter of fact he didn't want me
to say who he was. But I thought that hardly fair. He is an eminent man,
as of course you know, and naturally that sort of thing makes a
difference. Not that he isn't entirely simple, because he is. But he can
afford to pay well and, of course, will naturally expect things to be as
he likes them."

"I don't think we shall be grand enough for him," said Susan slowly, and
she raised rather troubled eyes to Mr. Mant's. "After all, you can see
exactly what it's like. At least, you can't, because you haven't seen
all the meals. But we don't dine late. We do always have something nice
for supper and we have it at a quarter to eight. But it isn't a real
late dinner. Not the sort of late dinner that Sir Pelham Brooke would be
accustomed to."

"So long as the food that he has is nourishing and well cooked it is all
that is required," said Mr. Mant. He raised his eyes to the window that
shone goldenly behind Susan's dark head. "Supposing that I were to come
too for the first few days of Sir Pelham's visit," he said slowly. "How
would you like that? Then I could put you in the way of things. It might
make it easier for you."

"Yes," and then there was a long rather oppressive silence. Susan broke
it. "It's a ghastly question to ask," she said. "But how much do you
think Sir Pelham would want to pay? You see..." Susan's face was
scarlet with nervousness. "We should have to have extra help," she
stammered.

"I should say that Sir Pelham would be quite prepared to pay six guineas
a week," returned Mr. Mant equably. "That, of course, not to include
fires or extras of any kind. And if you were kind enough to take me as
well... say for a week; I should be glad to pay five guineas a week;
I can't pay more, because I'm not a rich man. But for that I should only
expect a very minute room, of course."

"Eleven guineas a week! Why, I thought you'd say about two and a half
each," gasped Susan. Eleven guineas a week! Why, it was a fortune...
masses of money. It would keep them all and pay Rachel's wages into the
bargain, and the wages of Rachel's niece as well, because, of course,
everything had been settled long ago as to how they would manage if
anyone did really materialise. "Eleven guineas a week!" she repeated the
words in a stupefied whisper.

"At least that. Probably more if Sir Pelham decides to stay on," said
Mr. Mant briskly. He got up. "And now let's tell your sister," he said,
and his eyes twinkled.

"Millicent will be mad with excitement," breathed Susan, getting up
slowly from the end of the couch.

"I wonder." Mr. Mant was tall and his keen eyes were amused as he looked
down into Susan's oval face. "I can take her about in the car," he said.
"I dare say she'll enjoy that."

"Enjoy it!" Susan's eyes were expressive. "You don't know Millicent,"
she said. "Why, she'll simply go crazy at the idea of anything like
that. This life is too quiet for her really; she is beginning to get
tired of it. I'm used to it," said Susan, and a faint shadow seemed to
slide across her expressive face.

"Your husband won't object, will he?" said Mr. Mant. And as he spoke his
gaze went roving round the room. A beautiful room and the taste with
which it had been arranged was perfect.

"My husband?"

"Yes," and as Mr. Mant said the quiet word he strolled over to the
window. "The view is divine," he said enthusiastically.

"Yes, I know. It's heavenly," said Susan. She stood there staring
straight in front of her. This man was a doctor, she thought
passionately. Should she tell him of her husband's failing? Was it right
not to tell him when he was putting a patient of his under her care? Ah,
he was turning round. No, he was staring at a picture over the
dressing-table. Susan wrenched her trembling hands together and drew in
a long breath.

And Mr. Mant, watching Susan's reflection in the mirror, wondered what
was at the bottom of all this. A mystery somewhere and a mystery that he
would probably discover when he was actually in the house. If it was
anything that mattered he would take Brooke away with him when he left
to return to London. And if it wasn't, the presence of a man like Brooke
in the house might help to dispel it. In any event, the two girls were
charming. This one especially charming with a sort of disarming
helplessness that took you unawares. Although for himself he preferred
the sturdy independence of Millicent. He swung round and smiled.

"Let's go and tell your sister that we've fixed it up," he said. "Shall
we?"

"Yes, but..." Susan's hands were locked together.

"Well?"

"No, nothing. It's only the idea of it that's made me feel rather odd,"
stammered Susan. "Don't you know... it's all so sudden."

"Sudden things are very often the best," said Mr. Mant, and his keen
eyes wandered over Susan, absorbing her soft outlines.




CHAPTER XIX


Sir Pelham was pleased that Mr. Mant had been favourably impressed with
the Rectory and said so.

"Yes, I was very favourably impressed, indeed," said Mr. Mant. It was
after dinner, and Sir Pelham, wrapped in a gay silk dressing-gown, was
lying on the couch in his bedroom, close up to a bright little fire. The
evenings were crisp and cold although it was well on into May. The logs
lay and smouldered mysteriously on the red bricks.

"What did you think of my little friend?" inquired Sir Pelham
mischievously.

"I thought her charming," replied Mr. Mant. "Especially charming,
although Mrs. Carpendale has an atmosphere about her that her younger
sister does not possess. There's a mystery about Mrs. Carpendale; it
hangs round her like a veil. You can't get through it. I liked the
parson, too. Something tragic about his face. Like a man staring through
prison bars. Rather depressing."

And Sir Pelham's face broke into laughter. "Prison bars," he said.
"Rather my line!"

"Yes," but Mr. Mant's face remained grave. "I'm coming with you for the
first few days," he said. "It's better. After all you are, up to a
point, a sick man. And if it's not a suitable place for you, it's far
better for you to have someone with you who can get you out of it
without a row."

"Are you sure that's the only reason you're coming?" Sir Pelham twisted
himself round on the couch and his clever mouth was whimsical. "Own up
to it, Mant, my little friend has made an impression on you."

"Well, I'm not sure that she hasn't," said Mr. Mant humorously. "I ought
to be inured to that sort of thing by now, of course, but somehow there
was a sturdy independence about Miss Maitland that intrigued me very
much."

"And I'm very glad to hear it," said Sir Pelham cordially. "It's time
you settled down, Mant."

"And what about you?"

"God, no!" Sir Pelham's blue eyes were riveted on the fire again. "God!
no," he repeated. "I should think not. After what I've seen. The Divorce
Court.... By the way, do you see that Merrivale is retiring?"

"Yes, I saw it in _The Times_. He'll be badly missed," said Mr. Mant. He
got up and began to walk about the room. "Why do we ever marry, Brooke?"
he said restlessly.

"As a rule because we can't get what we want without it."

"I know. But what a reason for putting one's head into the noose."

"I know. But we shall go on doing it until the end of time," said Sir
Pelham humorously. "At least, I shan't, but you will. And now to
continue about our plans," he went on. "When shall we go? And is there a
garage, and what about Phillips? Can they put him up?"

"No, they can't, but there's a sort of lean-to belonging to a farm a
little farther up the valley," said Mr. Mant. "They can take Phillips
and the car there. I fixed it all up, Brooke; you needn't concern
yourself with details." Mr. Mant was smiling.

"Am I allowed to ask when we are going?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"And have you told Crawley?"

"I shall when he comes to-morrow."

"Well, I think it sounds as if it was going to be delightful," said Sir
Pelham quietly. As he lay staring into the fire he realised how tired he
was. Only a little over forty and yet as tired as an old man. He closed
his eyes and lay there thinking. Here was Mant as keen as mustard about
that little girl whom he had met in the train. And yet he himself would
never stir a muscle to talk to a woman. Unless it was to get himself out
of her vicinity as promptly as possible. Women, and the tangle of misery
that they brought with them. Their lack of even the most elementary
sense of honour. Their rapacity; their determination to get what they
wanted at any cost. "Get out of the way; I will have it!" Hadn't he seen
it time after time in the cases he had undertaken? Little quiet women
with small hands and pale faces. And yet with steel in their finger-tips
when called upon to let go. How often he had seen them stand there,
paling as they faced the keen-eyed President of the Divorce Court. The
Testament still warm from their fingers. And yet lie after lie...
Dreamily he opened his eyes to find his friend gazing down at him.

"You're tired." Mr. Mant drew his chair nearer to the couch and laid a
finger on the quiet pulse.

"Not nearly as tired as I was last night."

"No, that's quite true," said Mr. Mant. As he sat there, feeling the
steady throb of the little artery, he smiled. "No, you're decidedly
better," he said. "That's the life you've led, of course. That's the
best of being a famous barrister, you've got to mind your step."

"True."

"A doctor ought to have a wife," said Mr. Mant seriously. And as he met
Sir Pelham's quizzical gaze he flushed under his tan.

"Is it as bad as that?"

"Don't be a damned fool," said Mr. Mant, and he got up and strolled over
to the open window and stood there staring out of it.




CHAPTER XX


Susan was almost alarmed at Millicent's excitement after the big car had
gone lurching away down the narrow lane with Mr. Mant sitting at the
wheel of it. Millicent was mad... beside herself with excitement.

"My dear, he's a perfect dove. Not a bit like Sir Pelham--nicer much.
He's coming, too. Susan, I shall expire with joy."

"My dear, do try to keep calm." Susan suddenly felt frightened. What had
Millicent let her in for? Two perfectly strange men coming to take up
their residence in her own home. One of them, if he felt inclined, for a
very long time. Where was Arthur? Oddly enough Susan suddenly craved for
the calm dispassionate attitude of her husband. He would be unemotional.
He would take it all calmly and gravely. For even Rachel had lost her
usual placidity. Millicent had infected them all with her excitement.
Even at that very moment the two were standing close together at the
table in the kitchen window composing lists of things that must be
ordered in immediately. Soda water in siphons. Sir Pelham would bring
his own whisky, so Mr. Mant had said. And as he had said it Susan had
clenched her hands a little tighter together. Mercifully there was a
cupboard that locked in the room that Sir Pelham would have. It must be
kept in that, Susan had said so, making some little stupid laughing
remark to the effect that it was better, although Rachel was
absolutely... and then Susan had laughed again.

"Of course," and Mr. Mant had smiled very pleasantly, and then changed
the subject. And now, as Susan stood and watched Millicent and Rachel so
busy together, she wondered why she had ever lent herself to this insane
scheme. Think what it was going to mean... the work! Certainly there
would be Rachel's niece, who was coming to sleep in the house; but even
so...

"What time will they arrive?" Millicent's eyes were like stars; darting
about the kitchen.

"In time for tea, the day after to-morrow," said Susan. She stood there
very still and her grey eyes were heavy.

"My dear, you do look tired."

"I'm not."

"Aren't you mad with excitement?"

"Mercifully not as mad as you are," returned Susan, and as she met her
faithful servant's anxious eyes she smiled.

"What do you think of it, Rachel?"

"I think it's a grand idea," said Rachel enthusiastically. "Here's this
great house all lying idle. And now we've got to get the room ready for
the young doctor gentleman, Miss Millicent. Come along and help me,
there's a dear young lady."

And Susan, left alone, stood there with one slender hand resting on the
well-scrubbed table. Her husband; why did her mind occupy itself so
exclusively with him? As a rule she did not think about him very much.
She would see if he was in his study. Quietly she crossed the hall and
tapped at the high varnished door.

"Come in." The Rector was sitting at his writing-table. Surely he was
much paler and thinner than he used to be, thought Susan, advancing
slowly across the shabby carpet.

"Arthur."

"Well." The Rector's slim hands were clasped together on the blotting
pad.

"How tired you look," said Susan impulsively.

"Do I? I don't feel it."

"What do you think of this plan of taking people here?" said Susan
suddenly. She came nearer and stared at him. Her husband; how odd it
seemed. What constituted a husband? For over a year they had not shared
the same room. Somehow now the very idea of it seemed appalling. It
would be like sleeping with a dead monk, thought Susan, the pupils of
her eyes contracting.

"What do I think of it?" said the Rector. His eyes dwelt on his wife and
then slid away from her. His wife. His living, breathing wife who
loathed the sight of him, thought the Rector feverishly. He looked past
her and out into the soft loveliness of the May evening.

"I think that if it can be managed it will be a good idea," he said.

"Will you mind having them at meals?"

"Not in the least."

"The money will help."

"It will."

"Somehow now that it's settled the idea of it frightens me," said Susan
strangely. She stood there young and slender and her eyes were wide in
her pale face. "Millicent gets so excited; she doesn't realise what it's
going to mean. So much to do," said Susan restlessly. "And such new
things. Arthur, I'm suddenly so frightened," gasped Susan. "Don't you
think me awful, but I'm so frightened about you. They'll drink whisky at
meals, we shall have to let them, it will look so odd if we don't. And
you don't like that. I mean to say--Arthur, Arthur, promise me that you
won't..." and suddenly Susan broke into shrill, uncontrolled sobs.

"Susan!"

"I know, I know. I oughtn't to have said it. But it's all happened so
suddenly. Millicent seems to have swept me off my feet. Arthur, Arthur,
I feel so frightened somehow." Susan was still sobbing hysterically, her
handkerchief held up to her mouth.

"You need not be afraid for me, Susan," repeated the Rector.

"No, I know. It's ages since... Arthur, forgive me," Susan smiled
tremulously as she wiped her eyes.

"No, it is not ages since I drank more than is good for me. But you are
right when you say it is ages since I gave outward and visible sign of
it," said the Rector, and his dark eyes rested with a strange detachment
on his young wife.

"Oh, don't!"

"But why? You know it. It is the dry rot of this vice of mine that has
eaten into the fabric of your love for me and destroyed it."

"Arthur!"

"Sometimes I feel that if you could try again I could be a better man,"
said the Rector suddenly. "Susan, you don't know what it is. You don't
know the hell it is. You don't know how I try," the Rector wrenched his
thin hands together on the blotting pad and stared.

"I do know."

"Then why don't you help me?"

"I can't. It killed something in me. I can't," Susan came a little
closer to the writing-table. And then her eyes dwelling on her husband's
face suddenly grew terrified again. He had got to look so old. His hair
was beginning to turn grey. The crown of his head was beginning to show
through his hair. He was sort of dying before her eyes. Dying slowly
while she did not care. Dying in his tracks as he slaved himself to
death over the people in his parish. People who talked about his
drinking and probably made game of it. No, no, not that. They loved him.
They sent for him when they were ill in case they might die without him.

"Arthur."

"Susan." The soft June sunlight came flooding in at the high uncurtained
window, seeming to light up the Rector's dark, clean-shaven face.

"I----"

And then the Rector smiled. He got up from his chair and held out his
hands. "My wife," he said. "My wretched, terrified little wife whom I
married two years ago. And ever since then what sort of a life has she
led? No, no, my child, go your own way as I go mine. It is God's will
that I lead the life I do. A sort of expiation for the sin that lies so
heavy on my soul. As a matter of fact I am happy in it," said the Rector
abruptly, and he dropped his hands and sat down in his chair again.

"Are you really?"

"Perfectly."

"Then why..."

"The flesh is weak," said the Rector briefly. And his hand moved rapidly
over his writing-table as if he was looking for something. He suddenly
stared at Susan as if he did not see her. Nearly six o'clock, and he had
had nothing to drink at all that day. If only Susan would go he could
take the bottle of whisky out of the grandfather clock in the corner and
perhaps not wait quite until six. It was two minutes past the quarter.
And after that he would go up the valley to see the man who had had his
finger cut off by the circular saw. Only that morning, but he had not
felt able to take so long a walk before.

"Then you think I am doing right in falling in with this plan of
Millicent's?" said Susan. Palely she stood there staring at her husband.

"Perfectly right," said the Rector, and the words came blurred and
rather oddly from his lips. His lips were so dry. They had got suddenly
dry, thought the Rector, moving his tongue a little breathlessly over
them.

Then:

"If you don't mind, Susan, I must ask you to leave me," said the Rector
abruptly. He stood up facing her. "I have work to do. Important work."

"Yes, I know, but----" and Susan still stood there.

"Well?"

"Tell me that I don't make you... too unhappy," stammered Susan.

And then the Rector suddenly laughed. A queer laugh that twitched his
lips, and left his eyes untouched.

"You make me what I deserve to be made," he said. "We will not discuss
it further, because it upsets us both. You go your own way and I will go
mine. I approve of this scheme of yours, and I think it an excellent
one. And now," the Rector moved a little to one side of his chair,
"believe me, Susan, I am busy and pressed for time," he said. "Let me
open the door for you."

"Oh, please."

"It is no trouble whatever," said the Rector, and he hurried with quick,
eager steps across the floor.




CHAPTER XXI


The drive from Ullswater to the Vale of Castlemere tired Sir Pelham more
than he could have thought possible. As the big car steered its careful
way along the narrow lane that approached the Rectory, he felt that he
almost detested the man who sat beside him for his boundless health and
vitality. Mr. Mant was obviously delighted to be coming to the Rectory.
He had let Phillips drive so that he could sit beside his friend and
point out to him the various points from which the view was more than
usually beautiful.

"Yes, I see," Sir Pelham's response was curt. As a matter of fact he
could see the chimneys of what must be the Rectory, and the sight of
them filled him with an intense distaste. They stuck up like rabbits'
ears, grey against the green of the hills. Grey and lonely as if on the
alert for something other than the distant falling of water and the
lowing of sheep to break the silence.

"Isn't it exquisite?" Mr. Mant was sitting forward, his hands linked
over his rough tweed knees.

"That depends on what you call exquisite. Personally, the sight and
sound of a General omnibus tearing round that corner by St. Clement
Danes and lurching down the Strand would afford me more pleasure than
this," said Sir Pelham irritably. He leaned back on the soft cushions
and shut his eyes. God, he was tired! As tired as an old man. He was an
old man, of course, Hearn had said as much. Done, physically and
mentally. Of course, no doctor would say so in so many words, they were
always tactful. They left a ray of hope if such a ray of hope would help
at all to soften their victim's declining years.

"We shall soon be there now," said Mr. Mant cheerfully. "You want some
tea, of course. Also you've missed your afternoon rest. A mistake, but
you were averse to arriving in the morning."

"Of course I was. No one in their senses arrives anywhere in the
morning, especially not at a new place," returned Sir Pelham irritably.
He sat up a little straighter on the seat and felt round for his hat.

"Here it is."

"Good God, Mant, can't I even find my own hat?" said Sir Pelham.
Settling the soft felt closely down on his head he sat there staring out
of the window of the car. Wild roses... flinging themselves broadcast
over the high hedges. Honeysuckle... masses of it, the scent of it
drifting into the car. Foxgloves, how slender and pale they looked,
standing away there in that copse, seen suddenly through the open bars
of a five-barred gate. And over all the hum of bees. The hum of bees and
the sound of running water and the distant whirr of a mowing machine.

"It's round the next turn," said Mr. Mant excitedly. He, too, had
settled his tweed cap on his head. All ready to wrench round the handle
of the concave door, he was watching the road ahead of them. "We can't
drive in, you know," he said the words as if the sense they conveyed
constituted an added virtue to this place that he had found.

And as Sir Pelham got slowly out of the car, stooping because of his
great height, Susan watched him from the shelter of the drawing-room
window. She watched him as he came up the gravel path by Mr. Mant's
side. By sheer force of will she had kept Millicent from dashing down to
meet them.

"Wait until they are nearly up to the front door," she had said. But now
Millicent had gone, and she herself would have to go in a little over a
second.

But in that second she absorbed all she wanted to know about the tall
man with the mouth set in lines of weakness and suppressed irritation.
But a mouth that could be tender. Ah! it had broken into a whimsical
smile as Millicent dashed down the path and caught hold of his free
hand. An enchanting smile, thought Susan, catching her breath and gazing
at the iron-grey head instantly bared. And now she must go out:
clenching and unclenching her hands Susan turned from the window.

"Ha! here is Susan!" Millicent, perfectly at her ease, was sparkling all
over with excitement and pleasure.

"How do you do?" And now Sir Pelham was grave again. So this was the
Rector's wife, was it? Well----However, he felt he must conceal his
acute weariness. Quietly he looked down into her shy, grey eyes.

"You live in a very beautiful valley," he said gently.

"Yes." And then suddenly Susan's panic left her. Here was a very tired
man, she decided. A man who would want to be left to himself and not
have to bother about anything. Millicent could look after Mr. Mant: this
man was her affair.

"I'll show you your room straight away," she said. "Millicent will look
after Mr. Mant and the chauffeur and everything. My husband is out: he
asked me to say how sorry he was. He will be in soon. Till then you must
go to your room and have your tea there. Please come this way," Susan
was leading the way up the stone steps and across the bare hall.

"It is extremely kind of you," said Sir Pelham. His quick gaze absorbed
the hall and the extreme ugliness of it. This of course would not do for
one moment, he decided. Mant must have been quite mad. It had been the
soft prettiness of Millicent that had done the trick. However, the
mistake could easily be rectified, and a couple of days would not kill
him if he stayed in his room.

"This is your room," said Susan shyly. For somehow she was shy again.
This man was so tall and so... so different, thought Susan, mounting
the three steps that led up to the old oak door.

"Good heavens, how pretty!" and Sir Pelham's exclamation came perfectly
spontaneously. For it was pretty. The long low room was flooded with the
soft afternoon sunshine. Drawn up close to the tiny crackling fire was
the low couch, gay with its big pink roses and humming-birds. Beside the
couch a small gate-legged table spread ready for tea.

"Millicent scoffed at the idea of a fire. But I know what a fire is when
you're tired and rather wretched," explained Susan. She stood there
apologetically, gazing up at him like a child. "Also you won't want to
bother to talk, so you must have your tea in here. There is lots of room
for your clothes, and the bathroom and all that are just next door,"
said Susan.

"It is all charming."

"Will you allow me to bring you your tea myself?" said Susan suddenly.

"But why should you trouble?"

"Because now that you are in my care I feel that I want to look after
you myself," said Susan swiftly. Millicent had been right about this
man, she thought swiftly. He was heavenly. He took away all the awkward
feeling that he was a man and that therefore one had to mind what one
said. He understood, thought Susan vehemently, looking up and meeting
the kind gaze again.

"You must not spoil me," said Sir Pelham suddenly, and the corners of
his clean-shaven mouth twitched with amusement. This second child was
oddly like the first except that she was older, he thought humorously.
The same rather stalwart way of speaking, and yet with a fleeting
sensitive fear about her. What was the parson like? wondered Sir Pelham.

"I'll go and get your tea now," said Susan abruptly. "You see, there is
hot water ready for you on the wash-hand-stand. I will bring your tea in
exactly ten minutes if that will do for you?"

"It will do excellently. But I still do not see why you should bother,"
said Sir Pelham. And as he spoke he stood and gazed round him. A
beautiful room, he decided, and the bed looked as if it would be
supremely comfortable. Perhaps he would stay after all: at any rate for
a week.

"But I want to bring it."

"Then do so by all means: I shall be delighted," returned Sir Pelham
courteously. Standing there, with one hand on the roll end of the couch,
he wished suddenly that this funny little slender girl would go away.
Five minutes stretched out close to that delightful little fire would
put him right. His feet were cold. His head felt hot, and as if it was
stuffed too full of something. If only he could sleep as he used
sometimes to do in Court. Five minutes with his eyes closed and his
brain clear as a pond again. He opened his eyes to find Susan staring at
him.

"You don't feel well..."

"No, well--I don't think I do," replied Sir Pelham vaguely. He sat down
abruptly on the end of the couch.

And Susan's slender hands were quick and ready. Her eager brain drove
her. "Do the right thing now and he'll see that he can trust you," it
said. She stood close to him and laid a hand on his head.

"Hold it down," she said. "Yes, like this."

"Thanks very much." Sir Pelham's laugh was unsteady. His head in his
hands, he felt the blood come surging back into his brain. "That's all
right," he was lifting his head again.

"No, it isn't really quite all right yet," said Susan quickly. "Twist
round and put your feet up; they'll get warm then. Yes, that's right.
Now I'll just put the eiderdown over you...." Susan was dashing to
the bed. "That's it." She settled it with hands trembling with
eagerness.

"I say, really..."

"No, you must do as I say. That's the only way to get well. Now I'll get
your tea." Susan's eyes were like stars with excitement.

"Don't tell Mant I felt faint. It is so unspeakably futile," said Sir
Pelham feebly. His head resting on the soft blue cushion filled Susan
with a frenzy of protective anxiety.

"Of course I won't." Susan was making for the door. Outside it she
closed it softly and then flung herself down the stairs. Across the hall
to the kitchen. "Rachel, Sir Pelham must have his tea at once," she said
breathlessly. "Is the kettle boiling?"

"It is," said Rachel briefly. Rachel's hard red face was scarlet with
excitement. "Give me the holder, Ada. That's it." Rachel was tipping the
big iron kettle over the small flowered teapot.

"It all looks perfect." Susan surveyed the dainty provisions eagerly.
Two perfectly baked scones. Butter on a dull blue dish, and jam in a
small pot to match. Three rock cakes, peeping from a blue china bowl.

"I don't myself like the bowl," said Rachel gloomily. "But Miss
Millicent would have it like that."

"It's beautiful," said Susan fervently. She stood there in a frenzy of
impatience as Rachel settled the tiny cosy over the teapot. Ada, the
niece, had large blue saucer eyes. Standing there staring, Ada decided
that the Rector's lady was like a lady in a fairy story. So slim...
and as if she was somehow waiting to sail up in the air, tray and all.

"Have they got their tea in the dining-room?" Susan, asking the
question, felt that she did not care whether they had tea or not.
Nothing mattered but the tall distinguished-looking man stretched out on
the couch upstairs. She went quickly to the door, the tray held steadily
in her hands.

"It's just going in," said Rachel solidly. This was life, thought
Rachel, hounding the niece into the larder to get the new brown loaf out
of the big brown crock. People going and coming... and a man about
the house. Not a ghost in a cassock with a face like a death's head.
Never since she had come to take up her residence in the Rectory had
Rachel seen her mistress look as she looked then. Long might it
continue, thought Rachel, seizing the large crusty loaf from Ada's
alarmed fingers and planting it down on a well-scrubbed bread-board.

"And now for the big teapot." Rachel had got the kettle resolutely
between her fingers again. "Hot water jug; look sharp now."

And two minutes later Rachel bore the large japanned tray triumphantly
across the hall. "Another of them taken on a new lease of life," her
heart said jubilantly, as Millicent, her round face all alight with
laughter, turned from the dining-room window.

"Oh, Rachel, are there scones?"

"There are, Miss Millicent." Rachel met Mr. Mant's keen blue eyes and
beamed from ear to ear.

"Oh, Mr. Mant, this is Rachel. She runs this house and everyone in it,"
said Millicent daringly.

"Does she? Then she's got her work cut out with you," said Mr. Mant. He
strolled round the table and held out a cheerful hand. "I have heard
great things of your prowess in cooking," he said. "Not exaggerated by
the look of the tea that you have provided for us."

"Oh, sir!" Rachel was overcome. Seizing the hand held out to her, she
grasped it fervently.

"I'd work my fingers to the bone for my two young ladies," she said.
"And you've only got to ask for a thing and it's there, sir."

"Thank you very much," said Mr. Mant. And as Rachel bundled herself
rather awkwardly out of the room he turned to Millicent and smiled.

"I don't really mean that you'd be difficult to manage," he said.

"Don't you think I should?" Millicent looked very pretty when she was
shy. And she was shy now.

"Not if the hand on the reins was the right one," said Mr. Mant
confidently.




CHAPTER XXII


The next morning Susan was up very early indeed. Somehow she had slept
extremely well. And her sleeping had something light-hearted about it.
It was different sleep, thought Susan, coming slowly into consciousness
again. Generally she waked feeling somehow flat and a little dejected.
Not until she had had that first cup of delicious tea brought to her
bedside by Rachel did she ever feel that life was worth living. But now
it felt living even before she had properly opened her eyes. Susan got
out of bed and began to dress.

But Rachel, racing about the kitchen with Ada hot on her heels, told
Susan that she was down too early, and said it a little crossly.

"But I thought that I would take up Sir Pelham's tea," said Susan
eagerly.

"Then you thought wrong," said Rachel firmly. "That would not be at all
seemly and he would be the first to know it, ma'am. Leave the early teas
to me and Ada. Take yours and Miss Millicent's if you like. It's all
ready."

"Yes, but he might not be feeling very well. Somebody ought to know
that," said Susan. The early morning sunshine shone on her gay overall.
Making her look like some sweet slender flower, thought Ada vaguely,
staring at her, and thinking of a piece of poetry she had once learnt at
school.

"If the gentleman wants any attention he'll get it from me," said
Rachel. Her round face was intent and eager. "Now then, Ada, hurry
along. Here's your tray, Ma'am."

So Susan had to go. Carrying it up the stairs she frowned a little. But,
on the other hand, it would not do to upset Rachel at the very beginning
of things. After all, so much depended on her. And supper the night
before had been so perfectly served and cooked. Such a lovely boiled
fowl and all the things to go with it exactly right. And then the stewed
gooseberries and a great jug of cream. And the two different kinds of
cheese and such crisp biscuits. Even Arthur had smiled and looked more
human. As if the joviality of Mr. Mant and the bubbling excitement of
Millicent had infected him. He had sat at the head of the table and done
the honours of it well. Sir Pelham had decided not to come down? Well,
then, he would have the pleasure of making his acquaintance the next
day, said the Rector, and he smiled as he said it and looked more like a
human being than he had done for some time, Millicent said naughtily, as
she came to bid her sister an excited good-night.

And now at half-past seven in the morning Millicent was equally excited.
In her abbreviated night-dress she was standing at the window as Susan
came in with the tray.

"My dear, are you up already?" Millicent swung round.

"Yes, rather. There'll be heaps to do," said Susan, and she laid the
tray down on the small bamboo table.

"What a divine day," said Millicent happily. "My dear, isn't this all
madly exciting?"

"Madly," said Susan, and she tipped the small green teapot over each cup
in turn.

"Have you seen the god yet?"

"Which one?" said Susan, pouring out the milk.

"My dear," and Millicent's gaze was quick and keen. "Yours," she said.

"I thought he was yours."

"No, you may have him," said Millicent. "I agree that I got him first.
But he's too old for me. He's yours. My dear, Mr. Mant...!"
Millicent fell suddenly silent.

"Don't fall in love with him, Mill," said Susan uneasily. "After all,
you haven't seen very many men. People make themselves most frightfully
agreeable like that and they don't mean anything special by it."

"I know."

"It will worry me," said Susan, and the brightness of her face was
suddenly clouded.

"Why?" inquired Millicent. Seated on a cane chair, her eyes were bright
and amused. "They've only been here twenty-four hours," she said
sardonically, "and already your mind is running on love. I'm ashamed of
you, Susan."

"Yes, but----" over the edge of her cup Susan's eyes were uncertain.

"Don't think about it," said Millicent brightly. "Think of what they're
going to pay. Think of how nobly Arthur came up to the scratch last
night. Weren't you proud of him, Susan?"

"Yes, I was," said Susan.

"I believe it's going to be awfully good for Arthur," said Millicent
suddenly. "After all, think of his life in this valley stuck away among
villagers. It isn't as if he wasn't an educated man, because he is. I
believe that if he has decent cultured men to talk to he'll forget...
you know," said Millicent earnestly.

"I wonder.... Have some more tea," said Susan abruptly.

"No, thank you. I'm going to get up," said Millicent. "I'll scramble
into the bathroom before they start scrambling. I must mind not to step
on the new bath-mat; I'll leave that for them. Have they got their tea?"

"Rachel was just taking it up."

"I love seeing her chivvying Ada," chuckled Millicent. "And now, my
dear, I'll start grappling if you'll make yourself scarce. I'll be down
in about twenty minutes to help you dust the drawing-room. I suppose
we'd better not attempt to lay breakfast. I expect Rachel has got that
all planned out."

"Probably," said Susan. And as she went quickly downstairs with the tray
she thought again of how wonderful and odd this was all being. The house
transformed. Two quite strange men in it. How would it all end? thought
Susan dreamily, slipping quietly into the kitchen to put down the tray
on the side table, and then turning into the drawing-room flooded with
sunshine and the scent of climbing roses.




CHAPTER XXIII


How long was it until that wonderful evening when Millicent, in her
dressing-gown and with her eyes like stars, came to her sister's room
and told her that she wanted to tell her something? Was it only a week?
Susan, standing with her hair-brush half-way to her head, felt stupidly
that it must be much more than a week.

"We are engaged," said Millicent triumphantly.

"Millicent!"

"At least, he will have to ask Daddy, of course," said Millicent. "But
of course he'll say yes. My dear, did you ever know anything so
transcendently joyful in the whole of your life?"

"Millicent, do you love him?"

"Yes, as much as I shall ever love anyone," said Millicent cheerfully.
"I take things more normally than you do, you see. So does he. People
don't nowadays fling themselves into transports and start analysing all
their feelings like they used to. He wants someone to help him on and
take an interest in his work, and he sees that I shall. He's got such
frightfully nice teeth and hands," said Millicent thoughtfully.

"Millicent!"

"I wonder if Sir Pelham has any idea that he likes me?" said Millicent.

"Does he look as if he had?"

"How should I know?"

"Well, you absolutely live in his room," said Millicent calmly. "When is
the creature going to come downstairs? How much are you going to charge
him for all the meals he has upstairs?"

"Don't, Millicent!" said Susan. She turned to the dressing-table and
laid her brush down on the shabby white mat. Passionately she wished
that her sister would go away. It was marvellous... of course it was
marvellous that Mr. Mant should have proposed to Millicent. But somehow
the things she said... Susan's soft neck was stained with colour.

"Aren't you pleased?" said Millicent discontentedly. She stood there
wondering if she dared say something that she would love to say. That
Susan must mind... she must really mind. All this fussing over Sir
Pelham's meals and standing sort of quivering until it was time to take
his tea up to him. For that was the only meal that Rachel let Susan take
up. Her anxiety over his fire, wanting him to have one the instant it
was the slightest atom cold. Her sort of intentness over it all. The way
she moved about the house; a sort of watchful way. The way she looked
when Mr. Mant spoke of Sir Pelham. It was all... all... all so
unbalanced, thought Millicent uneasily.

"Of course I'm pleased," said Susan, and she flung round from the
dressing-table. And then suddenly her grey eyes stood deep in tears.
"Only it's all so sort of overwhelming," she stammered. "You engaged...
what will Daddy say? And does Mr. Mant really mean it? It's so sudden,"
cried Susan. "I feel bewildered. After all, they've only been here
a week. How can so much happen in only a week? It can't," cried
Susan, and her wide-open eyes were strained and frightened.

"But it has happened," said Millicent solidly. "And I shall write and
tell Daddy to-morrow. You can write too and tell him how awfully nice
Bangs is. I call him Bangs because I like that name," said Millicent
complacently. "His real name is Charles, as I believe you know."

"Oh, Millicent!"

"And now give me a nice sisterly kiss and go to bed," said Millicent.
"You look about fifteen standing there staring at me. You're much
younger than I am really, Susan. Good-night, my dear."

"Oh, Millicent!" and now Susan was clinging to this younger sister of
hers. Engaged... and taking it like this. This blinding, dazzling
thing had happened to Millicent...

But Millicent, detaching herself, was placidly matter-of-fact. It was
the only thing to be with Susan, she thought gravely, when a few minutes
later she found herself back in her own room again. For Susan was so...
what was she? thought Millicent, getting solidly into bed. With
Susan everything seemed to take on a sort of vivid hue. Susan wasn't
pleased about a thing, she was transported. She underlined everything in
her life, decided Millicent, lying there staring up at the faintly seen
ceiling. It didn't do, decided Millicent, and a soft smile curved her
determined little mouth. But Bangs was a darling, and Daddy would be
thankful to have another of them safely off his hands; and thinking
this, Millicent fell sweetly asleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *

While in the long low room, with the moonlight outlining the window
panes of it, Mr. Mant sat and met Sir Pelham's slightly quizzical glance
with an amused smile on his own mouth.

"Yes, I've done it," he said.

"My dear Mant; so soon?" Sir Pelham leaned forward and with the tiny
iron poker pushed into place a piece of coal that was exuding a little
gassy spiral of smoke.

"Well, doesn't one generally know at once if it is or is not the real
thing?" rejoined Mr. Mant cheerfully.

"Then you feel it is the real thing?"

"I have not the faintest shadow of doubt about it."

"Then my very heartiest congratulations, Charles." Sir Pelham's smile
was very delightful. He leaned forward out of his low chair and held out
his hand.

"Thanks very much." Mr. Mant's nice face beamed. "You know," he said,
"the bother is that my holiday is coming to an end, and with this thing
on as well I ought to leave here almost sooner than I should have done
otherwise. You see, I shall have to go and see Canon Maitland on my way
to London. What about you? Am I to leave you here or not?"

"Of course."

"I must say you look remarkably better." Also leaning forward, Mr. Mant
rapped the bowl of his briar pipe on the top bar of the old-fashioned
grate. The still glowing ashes of tobacco fell into the coals in a
little cloud.

"And I feel equally better." Sir Pelham's clear-cut profile was serene.
"I don't know when I have felt myself so absolutely in the right place,"
he said. "That servant of theirs is a treasure."

"She is."

"And she cooks so excellently," continued Sir Pelham warmly. "Everything
is so punctual and the meals are so charmingly served. It's making me
damned lazy," said Sir Pelham, laughing. "Fancy, I haven't been
downstairs once since I arrived."

"And a very good thing too," said Mr. Mant emphatically. "That's exactly
what Hearn prescribed for you. Complete rest, without that anxiety to be
up and doing that very often ruins the best-regulated rest-cure. It's
ideal for you."

"All the same, I don't like the way that child insists on slaving for
me," continued Sir Pelham after a little pause. "If I stay on for any
appreciable length of time I think I shall have to alter that."

"Which child?" Mr. Mant had taken his pipe out of his pocket again and
was polishing the bowl of it on the lapel of his coat.

"Not the little monkey that you've undertaken," said Sir Pelham,
laughing. "No, I mean Mrs. Carpendale."

"Susan."

"Not to me--yet," replied Sir Pelham dryly.

"No, well, of course, we've got more informal downstairs," rejoined Mr.
Mant. "Yes... I see what you mean. But on the other hand, if it makes
her happy to look after you, I don't see why you should stop it."

"Makes her happy?"

"Obviously," said Mr. Mant, and his blue eyes were mischievous.

"What a ridiculous idea," said Sir Pelham derisively. "You've got it on
the brain, Mant. Go to bed, and I'll do the same. By Jove, it's nearly
twelve." Sir Pelham stirred his long limbs and the white wings of hair
against the soft silk cushion were ruffled.

"All right, I will," said Mr. Mant. He heaved himself lazily out of his
low chair. "By the way," he said, "does the parson ever come up to, see
you?"

"No," said Sir Pelham. He gazed up at his friend. "You look about twenty
to-night," he smiled. "Love has rejuvenated you. That shows it's the
right thing. No, the parson doesn't come up," he continued. "I shall
have to do something about it, because, after all, I'm occupying the
best room in his house. Perhaps he'd come up one evening and have a
drink with me. He does drink, I suppose?"

"I should say so," Mr. Mant spoke after a short pause. "That is to say,
they generally do nowadays," he added. "He drinks nothing at meals so
far, but then nor do I."

"I've got whisky in my cupboard," said Sir Pelham. "I always kept it by
me although I think it's a much-overrated drink. What sort of a man is
the parson, Charles?" Sir Pelham's eyes were interested.

"It's extremely difficult to tell," returned Mr. Mant slowly. "He speaks
very little at meals and seems to spend his time either in his study or
taking some enormous walk to visit a parishioner. I didn't go to church
on Sunday, so I didn't see him in his official capacity. He seems to me
a harmless sort of fellow," ended Mr. Mant cheerfully.

"Mrs. Carpendale doesn't give me the impression of being the typical
parson's wife at all." Sir Pelham's eyes were still on his friend. Mant
knew something, he decided. Something about the parson, and not to his
credit either. Well, he would very soon find it out for himself.

"No," agreed Mr. Mant. "She does not."

"Well, I'll turn in," said Sir Pelham, yawning. "Again my very heartiest
congratulations, Mant, and send the child in to see me to-morrow
morning. She's a sweet little thing and I knew her before you did."

"Yes, there's no doubt about it, you were her first choice," smiled Mr.
Mant. "But, as I explained to her, the disparity in age held your hand."

"You silly ass," and from his great height Sir Pelham's grey eyes looked
down, keen and merry into those of his friend. A magnificent-looking
man, as Mr. Mant decided, going rather thoughtfully away to his own
room. How was it all going to end? Was it wise to leave him here with
that unhappy girl? Well, what else could he possibly do? One couldn't
remove a man like Sir Pelham by force from a place where he had elected
to remain. No, the best thing was to leave it to chance, decided Mr.
Mant, strolling to his window and gazing out into the moonlight. In any
event he was happy, and so was the child whom he had just asked to marry
him. A marvellous stroke of luck that they should just have happened to
meet like this. Mr. Mant came back to his dressing-table and began
rather thoughtfully to undo the neat little bow of his dress tie.




CHAPTER XXIV


People in love, especially women, forget everyone else but themselves.
Millicent, laughing, pink-cheeked, and hanging on to Mr. Mant's arm like
a nice little flowered work-bag, said that she thought it was time she
went home.

"My dear!" across the narrow bed that she was making, with Millicent's
assistance, Susan looked a little perturbed.

"Well, you see what Daddy says," returned Millicent. "He's petrified, as
of course he would be. Well, Bangs has to go on Friday, so I may as well
go with him. He'll come and see Daddy and ask his permission and all
that, and then go on up to London on Sunday night. He seems to have
rather vague relations; no mother or father or anything, only a brother
and sister. I mean, Bangs isn't beholden to anyone."

"I see." Susan was folding up Millicent's artificial silk night-dress
and putting it rather thoughtfully under the top pillow.

"You'll be all right," said Millicent cheerfully. "There are still three
days before Friday. By the way, I shall be out to lunch and so will
Bangs. He wants to take me to Buttermere. My dear, the fun of having a
man to take one about in his car!" dimpled Millicent.

"I can imagine it," said Susan rather soberly. For somehow Millicent's
youthful joy in her engagement made her feel old. Sir Pelham had teased
her about it that morning.

"But why shouldn't the child take it light-heartedly?" he had said.
Lying on his couch, he had lowered _The Times_ and smiled at Susan over
it.

"It's such a chance," said Susan.

"What is?"

"I mean, it's such a chance whether it will turn out happily or not."
Susan's eyes were restless.

"I know Mant to be a very excellent fellow," said Sir Pelham. "I've
known him for some years, you see. I should say that he and Millicent
were well suited to one another."

"Yes, it looks as if they were," said Susan wistfully. Standing there in
her gay overall, her eyes went flying over Sir Pelham's dark head to
where the bracken stood pale and green on the slopes of the low hills.

"It's such a chance," she repeated.

"But isn't everything in this life a chance?"

"Yes, but marriage is such a dreadfully final thing," said Susan. "There
you are when you're married. Everyone expects you to sort of settle down
and be. Millicent may, but then of course she mayn't."

"Well, if she doesn't then it's her lookout, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know," and then Susan's eyes left the hills and came back to the
sofa.

"Can you eat rabbit?" she said.

"That depends how it's done," said Sir Pelham, and he laughed at the
abrupt change of conversation. Susan amused him. She amused him
extremely, thought Sir Pelham, his keen eyes dwelling on her.

"A pie?"

"Yes, I like rabbit pie. And Rachel makes the most perfect pastry."

"Yes, doesn't she?" and Susan turned to go. This was the first thing she
did every morning after Sir Pelham had had his breakfast. She came up to
see if what Rachel proposed for lunch was what he liked. The evening
meal was easier; it was more elaborate. They were spending a fortune on
food: Susan knew that very well. And the bills were mounting up rather.
But to-day was the day that perhaps they would say something about
paying. They had been here a week. Susan, her hand on the brass knob of
the door, wondered what she would do if they forgot about paying. Rich
people were vague about money. They let things run on for a month and
then paid grandly with a huge cheque.

"Oh, Mrs. Carpendale."

"Yes?" Susan turned quickly.

"We have been here a week," said Sir Pelham easily. "I should like to
settle up, if you don't mind. I'll square it with Mant afterwards. I'll
give you a cheque now if you can spare me a moment."

Had he got her thought wave? Susan's face went suddenly scarlet.

But Sir Pelham had swung his long legs over the edge of the low couch.
"I'm disgustingly lazy," he said. "You are spoiling me, Mrs.
Carpendale."

"Oh, _no_."

"Oh, yes," said Sir Pelham, smiling. He was opening a little drawer in
the writing-table. "Now then," he said, and, putting out a hand, he drew
up a chair. "Here's my cheque-book," he said.

"When it comes to the point there seems something so awful about your
paying," said Susan wretchedly.

"But why?"

"I don't know."

"Nor do I. It would be much more awful if we didn't pay," laughed Sir
Pelham. His eyes were bright and gay. "I think Mant settled that I
should pay six guineas a week," he said. "But, of course, with the
accommodation you have given me and the food and the fires and the
extreme comfort of it all, that is not nearly enough. I think if we say
that I shall pay twenty-five shillings a day it will be better. Mant, I
believe, said that he would pay five guineas a week, and we'll let that
stand if you agree. Twenty-five shillings a day comes to eight pounds
fifteen a week," continued Sir Pelham, scribbling on the back of an
envelope. "And that with Mant's contribution amounts to fourteen pounds.
Fourteen pounds," repeated Sir Pelham, writing with quick firm
handwriting on the pale pink slip.

"Oh, no, it's far too much," gasped Susan.

"To whom shall I make it payable?"

"Sir Pelham!"

"Well," Sir Pelham's well-kept hand was still.

"For what you get it's far too much," said Susan desperately. "After
all, you'd hardly pay that at the Golf Hotel. And there it's most
awfully grand with all the papers and everything."

"I have my own papers."

"Yes, I know. And you lend them to Arthur. He simply loves it," said
Susan simply. "But, after all, you have all that expense as well as all
this. And you pay for your own things to drink."

"My dear child, I am not a poor man," said Sir Pelham quickly. He
laughed a little quick low laugh. "And now to whom shall I make out the
cheque?" he said. "To you or to your husband?"

"Oh, to me," said Susan breathlessly. And with those little quick
breathless words Sir Pelham's well-trained mind leapt at and fastened on
the solution that he had been looking for. The parson drank; of course,
why hadn't he thought of that before? And Mant already knew it. And had
kept it a secret. Well, of course he had. Sir Pelham had turned the
cheque over and was blotting it.

"That's it." His grey eyes were kind and keen as he handed it to Susan.

"I don't know what to say."

"It is for me to say all there is to say," said Sir Pelham. He got up
from his chair and towered over Susan. "You make me extremely
comfortable and I am extremely grateful to you for it," he said. "And I
hope you won't mind if I give that delightful servant of yours something
every week."

"Not as well as this?"

"Yes, as well as this," laughed Sir Pelham. He took one of Susan's small
hands in his and held it closely. "Don't look so alarmed," he said.
"Some people like spending money when they know what they are spending
it on is worth it."

"But is it worth it?"

"Well worth it." Sir Pelham's quick eyes were roving round the room. A
beautiful room and a surpassingly comfortable bed. A divine view and
excellent meals served with perfect punctuality. And the eager anxious
attention of this child. "A very sweet child," thought Sir Pelham,
looking down on to the white parting that ran through Susan's dark hair.
"Can't you see how much better I look?" he said gently.

"Yes, you do look better." Susan's soft gaze was upturned to his.

"Well then..."

"Yes," and then Susan fell silent. Did he know that he was still holding
her hand, she wondered. And if he did, did he know the exquisite rapture
that it was to feel his firm strong fingers round hers?

"Satisfied, then?"

"Utterly," said Susan suddenly. And as she said the words she turned her
face away from him. Because fancy, if he saw, she thought incoherently.
It must surely be blazing on her face. The wonder and the marvel and the
gorgeousness of him. The soft hand in Sir Pelham's was trembling.

"Then we are both pleased," said Sir Pelham lightly. Releasing Susan's
hand, he smiled down at her. And then as she walked quickly away to the
door he stood there and watched her go. And then he sat down again on
the sofa and, swinging his long legs up on to the soft cretonne of it,
he picked up _The Times_ again.

But not to read it. No, there were other things to think about, decided
Sir Pelham, his eyes on the glowing coals that Ada had arranged so
skilfully when she had brought him his early tea that morning.




CHAPTER XXV


Somehow by the end of that day everyone was a little depressed. The
Rector was out and Millicent and Susan and Mr. Mant sat rather silently
at the dinner-table. And this although it was a divinely lovely evening.
The scent of honeysuckle blew in at the open windows. The sky behind the
dark shoulder of Grey Gable was still stained with the evening sunshine.
Millicent laid down her knife and fork and sighed.

"Why do I suddenly feel so abjectly wretched?" she inquired.

"Because you have suddenly discovered that you have made a mistake in
becoming engaged to me," said Mr. Mant cheerfully. "I knew it would
come, and perhaps it is better now than later on."

"Bangs!"

"You're tired, my sweet. That's all, isn't it, Susan? We've motored
miles to-day. Gosh, wasn't it lovely?" Mr. Mant put out his hand and
took Millicent's small brown one in his own.

"Heavenly," said Millicent happily. And Susan, sitting there, suddenly
felt a pang of envy. Why should Millicent have all this happiness when
she herself had made such a deadly failure of everything? Susan sat and
stared at her plate and wondered why everything suddenly seemed so
hateful. And this when she had sat some time with Sir Pelham after he
had had his tea. He had read to her, little bits out of _The Times_, and
when he had finished she had been seized with a sick fear lest he should
ask her what she thought of what he had been reading. Because she had
not been really listening. She had sat, with her serious eyes fixed on
his face, wondering what he looked like in Court when he had on his wig
and gown. A wig would suit him, decided Susan; he had that sort of face.
Also he had that sort of compelling voice. A sort of cordial, sunny
voice, like the nicest broadcasting man. The Rectory did not possess a
wireless now. They had had one but something had gone wrong with it,
because it was a cheap one, and they had not felt that they ought to
afford another.

Susan sitting there wished that Sir Pelham would suggest getting a very
nice one. But perhaps he did not like wireless, thought Susan, letting
her eyes stray to his hands. His hands were perfect, thought Susan,
watching the sort of definite way they held _The Times_.

But now somehow all the sort of glow with which she had left his room
had gone. She was tired; that was it, thought Susan, getting up from the
table with a little sigh. She would go to bed early. Arthur was out, but
that did not matter. Rachel would see that he came in all right, and
have something ready for him to eat if he wanted it.

"I shall go to bed early," she said rather drearily. "I'm tired too.
Mill, why don't you go to bed too? Then you'll be fresh for to-morrow,
because I suppose you are going to dash off somewhere as usual."

"Ullswater," said Millicent cheerfully. "But all the same, I think I
shall go to bed early to-night. I mean, I needn't really go because it's
not so far, really. But I think I shall. What do you think, Bangs?"

"I think it's an excellent idea," said Mr. Mant. "And as a matter of
fact it will give me a chance to talk to Brooke if you do go. I've
neglected him a little lately and as I'm going off on Friday I'd rather
devote at least one evening to him if you don't mind, darling."

"Of course I don't mind," said Millicent. And again Susan felt a jealous
stab at her heart. Because they really did like one another, these two.
A sort of friendly, happy liking. Susan picked up a pile of plates and
went out of the room with them. She did not want to see Millicent lift
up her face to be kissed. It hurt, thought Susan, walking across the
hall to the kitchen. And half an hour later both the girls had gone to
their rooms. Rachel and Ada scurried about the kitchen washing up and
putting away the supper things. Rachel had put a couple of slices of
cold beef on one side and a little tomato salad.

"Is that for t' Rector?" inquired Ada.

"Never you mind," said Rachel briskly. "Get the trays for the morning
tea ready and don't waste my time and yours by asking questions."

And, rather abashed, Ada did as she was told. But all the same, a little
later, as she went slowly upstairs to bed, her mind was busy. This was
an odd house, decided Ada. So many people in it and all so different. No
one seeming to take any account of the Rector and yet, after all, the
house belonged to him. All the fuss about the tall gentleman who had his
meals in his room. And the mistress always in the tall gentleman's room
when her aunt would let her go. Almost a fight sometimes about which of
them should carry up his afternoon tea. Funny, decided Ada, opening the
door of her tiny bedroom and wondering whether she dared shut the window
of it now or whether it was better to wait till there wasn't any chance
of her aunt coming up and flinging it open again. Better to wait,
decided Ada, beginning to unfasten her apron strings and wishing that
she dared suggest having a brown one and cap too next time she had to
buy one. "And why should I wear a cap at all," muttered Ada to herself,
feeling rebellion rise because she was alone in her room.

While in the long low room below, Sir Pelham turned from the window and
smiled a charming smile of welcome.

"Torn yourself away?" he remarked whimsically.

"They've both gone to bed," said Mr. Mant. "They both looked awfully
tired at supper, especially Susan. Millicent was tired from motoring,
and as we are going to Ullswater to-morrow, I thought it was a good idea
for her to turn in early."

"Where's the Rector?"

"Out."

"Then I think I'll come downstairs," said Sir Pelham suddenly. "It's a
chance to do it for the first time when there's no one about. It's such
a divine evening and I feel as fresh as that calf over there. Do look at
its legs, Mant. And its jolly little bullet head. Surely it can't do me
any harm to have a turn in the lane? What do you think?"

"I don't think it can do you the least harm," returned Mr. Mant. "A
little stroll, now that you suggest it yourself, is the very thing. You
see, you haven't seemed to want to move before, so I haven't bothered
you."

"No, but I feel like it to-night."

"Come on, then."

"No, come over here first and look at the calf." The two men stood
together by the open window. The sound of running water and the soft
bleat of sheep came in on the sweet evening air. Mingled with the
melodious, although rather rebellious, lowing of the little calf that
stood with its blunt nose pressed against the gate that kept it in the
field.

"Enchanting," said Sir Pelham softly.

"Then you really think you can stick it?"

"Not a doubt about it."

"For how long?"

"Ask me another," replied Sir Pelham briefly. And the words that had
been forming on Mr. Mant's tongue remained there. No, it was not for him
to begin to unsettle this man, he decided. After all, he was old enough
to see all round a thing. His health was the important thing, and for
that he was undoubtedly in the right place. A famous King's Counsel was
not likely to do anything foolish. Certainly not Brooke, with his
experience of matrimonial entanglements. Mr. Mant bit cheerfully on the
pipe between his teeth.

"Come along downstairs, then," he said, and a little diffidently he
threaded his arm through that of his friend.




CHAPTER XXVI


Stirred by the beauty of the June night the two men stayed out rather
longer than they had meant to. They stayed until the saffron of the sky
stole into paler blue. From behind the dim shoulder of Low Gable a
little crescent moon hung, slim and silver, and round her the stars came
out like little pin-pricks of light.

"Divine!"

"Yes, isn't it?" Mr. Mant stooped and knocked out his pipe on the heel
of his shoe. A dull quick sound against the soft hurrying of the river
at the foot of the meadow.

"Yes, I love the English lakes," he continued. "There's something in the
stillness of these June evenings that seems to get right into one." And
then as he straightened himself he laughed a little ruefully. "I spoke
too soon," he said. "Let's turn, otherwise we shall run into the brute."

"He is singing a hymn, anyhow," said Sir Pelham charitably. But as he
turned he heard with distaste the unsteady footsteps coming along behind
them. Somehow it seemed a desecration that anyone should be drunk under
such stars and under such a slender slip of a moon. Like the dirty rings
left by a bottle of Worcester sauce on the whiteness of a tablecloth
that was meant in its fragility to remain always white.

And now Mr. Mant was hurrying. They were farther from the Rectory gate
than he had thought. And then he heard the quick intake of Sir Pelham's
breath and, conscience-stricken, he slackened speed.

"I'm all right."

"No, don't hurry," said Mr. Mant. "In fact, it wouldn't be a bad idea if
we were to stand back in the hedge and let him pass." For Mr. Mant had
made up his mind. Before he left it was better for Sir Pelham to know
the extent of the skeleton that rattled its bones in the Rectory with
the large sad windows. After he and Millicent had gone, it would be more
difficult for him to get away. Now it would be comparatively easy.

"Onward, Christian soldiers," the Rector had gone back to the first
verse again. He sang melodiously as he came lurching round the bend in
the narrow lane. His pale face showed paler in the dim light. He was
beating time with one hand. As he came up level with the two men he
stopped dead and then swayed vaguely, and faced them.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," he said. And then he laughed foolishly.
"Pardon me," he said. "I should have put it differently. Dearly beloved
brethren."

"Stop it, Carpendale," said Mr. Mant brusquely. He put a practised hand
on the black cloth shoulder. "We'll get him home," he said. "Can you
manage his other arm, or will it be too much for you?"

"Not in the least," said Sir Pelham. But his eyes flew on ahead of him.
If she heard... if that slip of a girl with the frightened eyes and
small brave hands were made aware of this agony of humiliation....

"Let go of me, brethren," said the Rector amiably. Well away, decided
Mr. Mant, or he would have got obstructive. If only they could get him
into the house without being heard. What time was it? Mr. Mant slid his
eyes down to the tiny shining figures of his watch. Half-past eleven;
with any luck the two girls would be asleep.

"Come along," he said firmly, and he took hold of the Rector's arm.

"You are pinching me," said the Rector with a sort of ribald solemnity.

"Come along," repeated Mr. Mant. And with care the two men steered the
Rector along the road. And then Sir Pelham hesitated.

"Someone is coming," he said. Ahead of them a white blotch showed
faintly through the darkness. Someone running. Hurrying, breathless,
terrified footsteps. Coming nearer and nearer.

"It's Rachel," said Sir Pelham with a gasp of overwhelming relief in his
voice. For one awful moment he had thought it was Susan. Susan who had
heard the drunken singing and who in a frenzy of fear had rushed out to
try to stop it somehow... somehow.

"She'll know what to do," he said simply.

"Yes."

"She will not," said the Rector solemnly. "Rachel is a good soul, but
she has her moments of weakness, as we all have. This is one of mine,"
he added, and Sir Pelham felt, rather than saw, a pale tormented face
turned to him. Did the poor brute realise all the time what he was
doing, he wondered, steadying the Rector as he lurched.

"Oh, sir!" Rachel was close to them now. Her good-tempered face was
pale. Since she had heard the drunken singing in the distance she had
lived through an agony. This would end it, decided Rachel, clutching at
the Rector's sleeve. All the joy of this wonderful new life in the
Rectory was at an end. Her mistress would fall back again into that
state of mind that drove Rachel frantic. They would both go, of course,
these two fine gentlemen. One was going anyhow, but the other might have
stayed....

"I'll put him to bed," she said fiercely. "Leave him to me, sir." There
was a suppressed passion in Rachel's voice.

"No, we'll get him home for you," said Sir Pelham briefly. And the last
hundred yards was accomplished in silence. Queer and rather horrible,
that shuffling silent walk, thought Sir Pelham, remembering it
afterwards. Up the drive, Sir Pelham in a fever lest the Rector would
begin to sing again. For his wife slept in the front of the house, and
probably the fear of a thing like this was always with her, waking or
sleeping. She would wake, and come out.... Or would she have the
sense to stay where she was...?

"Now I can manage him, sir." A little breathless, they were all standing
in the rather desolate hall. And now the Rector seemed to have recovered
himself a little. He lurched back against the wall and stood there pale
and staring. "Like a man who had just been sentenced to death," thought
Sir Pelham. The same half-open pallid mouth. The same stupid fumbling
fingers.

"We'd better leave her to do it," he said briefly. And now it was Sir
Pelham instead of Mr. Mant who had taken command. "Let her get him on to
the sofa in his study, or if she's going to take him upstairs we will
help her."

"No, when he's like this he's better in the study," said Rachel. She
turned to the man who stood staring against the wall. "Come along," she
said, and with hatred she laid her hard hand on his arm.

"And now come along up to my room, Mant," said Sir Pelham, and silently
he led the way.




CHAPTER XXVII


The two men talked until very late. Mr. Mant was emphatic.

"Of course you must leave," he said. "I shall not dream of leaving you
here."

"You were quite prepared to leave me here before this happened," said
Sir Pelham dryly. "You admit that you knew the Rector drank before you
had been in the house twenty-four hours. I took longer to find it out, I
must say. I only found out this morning."

"You found out this morning?"

"Yes, by a process of elimination," smiled Sir Pelham. "My brain is
beginning to function again, Charles. Thank God for it."

"But you can't stay here at the mercy of disgusting scenes like this,"
said Mr. Mant rather hotly.

"Why not?"

"Well, you can't," shrugged Mr. Mant. He glanced towards the open
window. Away above the shoulder of the hill the moon hung, fastidious
and drooping. The stars were brighter now. One oval-shaped and almost
blue in its silvery purity. A divine night; a divine night desecrated by
the squalour of what had just been happening. Mr. Mant thought of
Millicent, childish and soft in her narrow iron bed, and felt thankful
that in about another forty-eight hours he would have got her well away.

"I can stay perfectly well," said Sir Pelham. Sunk rather low in an
easy-chair, he smiled across at his friend. "Nothing has altered," he
continued. "The poor brute has been drinking for years, you can see that
by the way Rachel tackled him, it's obviously nothing new to her. I
shall continue to be excellently looked after. I feel infinitely better.
The weather is divine. It would be folly to move. In fact, I'm not going
to move," concluded Sir Pelham.

"Well..." and then Mr. Mant got up out of his chair. "It's long past
midnight," he said. "You ought to have been in bed hours ago. Your first
evening downstairs and all this on the top of it. Awfully bad for you."

"Never felt better in my life," said Sir Pelham. As the door closed
softly behind his friend he stretched out his long legs and stared at
his narrow feet. It was a fact; he did feel better than he had done for
many months. His brain felt more alert; it had lost that feeling of dead
stupidity that had terrified him so. A few weeks ago what had just
happened would have laid him out--probably for months, with a dreadful
mental reiteration of all the horrid details of it. The Rector's
voice--weird and uncanny in the darkness. His slurred syllables. They
would have dwelt with him and made him shiver in that horrid internal
suffocating sort of way that had almost driven him mad with fear. And
now--Sir Pelham stretched luxuriously and then put up lazy fingers to
his collar. He would undress by degrees, and then roll into bed and
sleep that glorious, satisfying, complete sleep that had now become his
blessed portion again.

And then he took down his hand and sat very still. There was someone
outside his door. Rachel probably, too afraid of disturbing him to
knock. The Rector might have had a fit or something. Sir Pelham heaved
himself out of his chair and walked across the floor.

"Mrs. Carpendale?" Sir Pelham stood very still, the door handle in his
hand.

"Yes, may I come in?" Susan, in her heelless slippers and blue
dressing-gown, stood there, and her eyes were wide and fixed.

"By all means." Sir Pelham stood aside to let her pass him. The house
was dark with that sort of deserted darkness that sleeping houses have.
Everyone had gone to bed hours ago, except Mant, and he was on the
landing above. Sir Pelham closed the door and stood there with his back
to it.

"I wish there was a fire," he said.

"I am not cold." Susan's hands were wrenched together. He was going
away, the words were drumming themselves into her brain. Of course he
was going away... how could he stay after what had happened? They
none of them knew that she had seen it all, and imagined all that she
could not see. Probably she had heard her husband singing long before
they had; even in sleep the fear of it was always with her.

"Sit down in that chair. No, get on the couch and I'll cover you up with
something." Sir Pelham was walking over to the bed. "Here you are." He
came back carrying the eiderdown.

"No, no."

"Yes, you can talk to me much better if you are comfortable. Come along
over here." Sir Pelham laid a quiet hand on Susan's shoulder.

"No, I'd rather stand up to say what I have to say." Susan had begun to
shiver. Her trembling gaze slid round the room. To-morrow it would be
empty. How could she persuade him to stay? How could she make him see
that if he went her life, as a life, would be at an end? Barren and
frozen: a dying thing that would go crawling on like some wretched
maimed insect that has to drag itself to eventual death unless some
merciful foot will crush it out of life before.

"Well, what have you got to say?" Sir Pelham's eyes were keen between
their long lashes, and he stood and looked down at her.

"You have seen Arthur drunk. Now you will go." Susan was staring.

"How do you know that we have seen him drunk?"

"I saw."

"How?"

"From my window. It was dark, but one gets used to darkness."

"Good heavens!" Sir Pelham made a little quick sound with his lips. This
was awful, he reflected. What should he say? What could he say?

"Are you going?" As Susan said the words she could hear her heart
beating. Surely he would be able to hear it too? Unconsciously she put
her hands up to her breast.

"Going?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Away from here."

"Certainly not. Why should I go away from here? You make me far too
comfortable for that." Sir Pelham was smiling.

"Why, I thought..." Susan looked round rather wildly. "I thought
you'd be sure to go," she said.

"Were you? Then you thought wrong," returned Sir Pelham cheerfully. He
held out one hand. "Come, come!" he said kindly.

"Don't!" said Susan. With a little quick grimace, infinitely pathetic,
she struggled for self-control. "I felt so sure you'd go," she said, and
burst into a passion of tears.

"My dear child!" No longer a young man, Sir Pelham was perfectly capable
of dealing with Susan's grief. With a kind hand on her arm he led her to
the sofa. And as he comforted her his clever lips twitched a little with
an amusement that would not be controlled. Half-past one in the morning,
and another man's wife sobbing practically in his arms. Well, he had
known stranger things during his varied career.

"If you had said that you were going I think I should have put an end to
myself," said Susan, and she spoke on a long shuddering breath.

"But why?" and then suddenly Sir Pelham did feel a stirring of
uneasiness. But he dismissed it. This was a child; and he a man of over
forty. Ridiculous.

"Why, because since you came everything has altered," said Susan.
Pressing her handkerchief to her eyes she spoke slowly. "I want to get
up in the morning now because I know that you are here. That I can come
and see that you are all right and about your meals and everything. You
make me alive when before I was only dead. If I think of what it used to
be and what it would be again if you went away I get a most frightful
feeling here," said Susan, and she laid a small hand on her heart.

"My dear child!" Sir Pelham covered the hand that still lay on the couch
with his own.

"Promise me that you will stay?"

"For the present, certainly," replied Sir Pelham, and he smiled. "But
there will come a time of course when I shall have to go back to London
and begin work again."

"Not yet?"

"No, not yet," said Sir Pelham. Releasing Susan's hand, he got up. "And
now it is time you went to bed," he said. "Or rather that you went back
to bed."

"I ought not really to have come," said Susan. Standing up, she took a
long shivering breath. She had got what she wanted, namely, an assurance
from him that he was not going to leave because of what had happened.
And yet--if only he would... if only he would what? Susan stood
there, her eyes fixed on his. He must know: surely he must know. Nobody
could help knowing. This frantic, clutching feeling in her heart when
she saw him standing there. There was so much she had meant to say and
she had said none of it. It was such a chance: all alone in the middle
of the night like this. She took a quick breath.

But Sir Pelham was walking to the door. Very kindly he took her cold
hand in his, and pressed it. "Sleep well," he said, "and forget all the
sadness of to-night. Lots of people have agonising things to bear, and
we must not expect to be exempt."

"No," said Susan. Shivering a little, she said good-night to him. And
then outside the door she turned quickly. It had all been over so soon.
She could have said... loads of things, thought Susan, pressing her
hands to her head. And then recollection came back. It was nearly two
o'clock. Supposing Millicent heard a noise and came out of her room. How
could she explain it? Susan went quickly up the stairs that led to her
own room and silently let herself into it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

While left alone, Sir Pelham linked his hands behind his back and began
to walk up and down the room. So had he been used to walk up and down in
his room in the Temple when he had been thinking out a case, he thought
whimsically, stopping by his writing-table to pick a cigarette out of
the box that stood on the leather top of it.




CHAPTER XXVIII


Canon Maitland only had one sister, and he saw as little of her as was
compatible with his sense of duty. For Aunt Dorothy did not approve of
the way in which her brother brought up his children. They were spoilt,
said Aunt Dorothy, who had always remained unmarried herself. But all
the same she was generous to her nieces. She had given Millicent the
money to have a very delightful holiday with her sister, and when she
heard that an engagement had resulted from it she was highly delighted
and announced her intention of coming to stay.

"She can't," said Millicent decidedly. Millicent had now been at home
for two days and had thoroughly enjoyed the importance of her arrival
with her fianc. He had now left for London. Canon Maitland liked Mr.
Mant extremely and did not hesitate to say so. The nice square
Warwickshire Rectory was cheerful and bubbling over with excitement.
Joan was excited because she knew now that when Millicent was married
she would be the only daughter left at home. Not like the doctor's
family where there were five daughters all beginning to lose their nice
fresh looks because they were so disappointed that none of them got
engaged. But now for the first time since her arrival Millicent was
frowning. She helped herself to marmalade and said it again.

"She can't."

"My darling." Canon Maitland was smiling because he felt exactly as
Millicent did. "We shall have to have her," he said, and took another
piece of toast.

"Why?"

"Well, you owe Bangs, as you persist in calling him, to Aunt Dorothy,
don't you?" continued the Canon. His delightful clean-shaven face was
amused.

"She paid for me to go to Susan, of course," said Millicent. "But I dare
say I should have met him anyhow. People who are born for each other
always meet somehow."

"Has everyone got someone born for them?" inquired Joan complacently.
Joan was eating porridge and staring at Millicent. Joan rather envied
Millicent. It must be fun to be engaged, thought Joan, who was getting
sick of the High School.

"Yes," said Millicent. "Only you don't always meet the person. Do hurry
up, Joan, or you'll be frightfully late."

"I think when you're born you ought to bring a ticket with you to say
who the person is," continued Joan, beginning to roll up her table
napkin and stuffing it rather crookedly into its silver ring.

"Do you?" said the Canon whimsically. And he turned up a face all
creased with merriment for his youngest daughter's good-bye kiss. And
when she had shut the dining-room door behind her he turned to Millicent
and laughed out loud.

"A very good idea," he said. "Joan amuses me extremely very often. And
now, Millicent, we must settle about your aunt coming. She suggests next
Monday; that gives us a week to get used to the idea. Don't you think we
can face it gracefully?"

"Yes, I think we can," said Millicent cheerfully. "The thought of Bangs
will sustain me, also his letters. Daddy..." and then Millicent
stopped dead.

"Yes, my darling." The Canon was collecting his letters and smiling. And
as Millicent looked at him she bit back the words that were nearly on
her tongue. "Arthur drinks, Daddy, frightfully. Something will have to
be done about it." But what was the good of telling him? Millicent had
turned it over and over again in her mind since she had been at home.
Her fianc had said that he thought Susan's father ought to know. But
Millicent had not agreed with him. What was the good of it? she had
argued. No one could do anything. It would only drive her father mad
with worry.

"And after all, Susan has Sir Pelham there now," she had ended. "He
knows, and has decided to stay. He and Rachel together can tackle the
situation. With those two to back her up Susan can't come to any harm."

And Mr. Mant had shrugged his shoulders and filled himself a pipe.
Deeply uneasy as he was at the condition of affairs in the Rectory in
Castlemere, he realised that it was perfectly hopeless for him to
attempt to do anything about it. Sir Pelham was determined to stay
there.

"But why not?" His keen eyes had rested on Mr. Mant's bronzed face as
the younger man had reasoned with him.

"Because the next thing will be that Susan will fall madly in love with
you, if she isn't already." How Mr. Mant longed to say the words. But he
dared not. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled and said some stupid
thing about the difficulty of knowing exactly the right thing to do at
the right moment.

"But I do know exactly the right thing to do at the right moment," said
Sir Pelham cheerfully. "That's always been my job, you see. And the
right thing for me to do now is to stay here. I am comfortable and well
fed and am rapidly getting back my strength. The fact that last night's
affair has not upset me in the least ought to convince you as to that,
Mant."

"Quite."

"How is the poor devil this morning?"

"He looks perfectly fit," said Mr. Mant briefly. "At least, when I saw
him he did. He had bathed and shaved by then, of course."

"And Mrs. Carpendale?" Sir Pelham's eyes were clear. But there was a
deep-set twinkle in them as he surveyed his friend.

"She looks all right," said Mr. Mant carelessly, and he took his pipe
out of his mouth and twitched away a little hanging strand of unlighted
tobacco that was apparently offending him, for Mr. Mant was frowning
just a very little. And Sir Pelham, seeing the frown, was amused. Mant
didn't grasp apparently that his work in life had been just that, to
find out exactly what people were thinking about. Mant was afraid that
he was going to fall in love with Mrs. Carpendale. He was also afraid
that Mrs. Carpendale was going to fall in love with him. Well... Sir
Pelham had continued to smile.

And now Millicent, getting up from the rather crumby breakfast-table in
the Warwickshire Rectory, tried to dismiss the thought of the other
Rectory in the Lake District from her mind. She could do nothing, so why
spoil what was being heavenly in her own life by worrying over what was
the reverse of heavenly in somebody else's life? Millicent went rather
more quickly than usual in the direction of the kitchen to give the
orders for the day. It was fun wandering about in the parish now that
she was engaged. People came up and congratulated her and smiled much
more than they generally did, because in the back of their minds was the
thought that perhaps when this sturdy little daughter of the Canon's was
married, and he only had solid little twelve-year-old Joan to look after
him, he himself might marry again.

And oddly enough this very same thought occurred to Millicent as she
went home to lunch after quite an entertaining morning in the little
country village. And somehow Millicent did not want her father to marry
again. He was content with his work and his books and his gardening. And
in that way the advent of Aunt Dorothy would be a good thing. "Have you
heard that the Canon's unmarried sister is coming to keep house for him
when Millicent is married?" Yes, it would get all over the parish, and
circumvent anyone who thought that they were going to take her mother's
place, thought Millicent. She decided to say at lunch time that she
thought it was a very good plan for Aunt Dorothy to come, especially now
that the weather was so lovely.

And the Canon was relieved. Secretly he was fond of his rather
domineering sister. She was someone of his own generation, and when you
got older you rather longed for someone to whom you could talk freely
and from the same angle, thought the Canon, smiling at his second
daughter and wondering what she would do if she knew how terribly lonely
he very often felt.




CHAPTER XXIX


Mercifully Aunt Dorothy got on with the one excellent servant whom the
Maitlands had had for years. So her arrival was harmonious. She came
with two large trunks, and Joan seeing them was alarmed.

"How long is she going to stay?" She had rushed out to find Millicent
who, after showing her aunt to her very pretty bedroom, was hurrying
down the garden to get two lettuces.

"I haven't the slightest idea," said Millicent blithely. With a flushed
face she stood still in the middle of the path and held out her left
hand.

"My dear, what a huge one!" Joan laid a brown forefinger on the large
diamond.

"I know, isn't it sublime?" Millicent began to walk on again.

"When did it come?"

"By the afternoon post."

"I wish I was engaged," grumbled Joan. "I'm so deadly sick of that old
High School. The same old thing all the time and such a fuss about all
these rotten examinations. The more hideous you are the more Miss Hunter
adores you."

"No, she doesn't," said Millicent sensibly. "Only she's mad on
mathematics, and when you're good at them you're always more or less
frightful to look at. Hold these lettuces while I pull up some more. If
she turns them upside down in water they'll keep till to-morrow, and
it'll save all the bother of coming all this way to get them again."

"Do you suppose I ever shall be engaged, Mill?" said Joan mournfully as
the sisters turned to go back to the house.

"Yes, if you look after your hands and your teeth and don't get that
sort of silly idea that women are just as good as men, you will," said
Millicent bracingly. "That idea is all right until you're about forty,
and then you begin to wish you hadn't ever had it. Men like you to
appear to think that they're different, even though you don't really."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," said Millicent, beginning to hum. Millicent was extremely
happy in her engagement. So happy that nothing else seemed real. Even
Susan and the Rectory under the mountains seemed shadowy. All that was
_done_ with, thought Millicent, stooping to stroke the cat that had
emerged from a bush and was sliding itself round her slender calves.

But Aunt Dorothy was extremely interested in Susan, and everything
connected with her. Millicent had just been there at her expense, said
Aunt Dorothy bracingly, as they sat down to their evening meal, and
therefore she wanted to know exactly how the life at the Rectory was
going on.

"It is going on beautifully," said Millicent, chopping up the salad on
the small plate beside the big one on which she had some very nice
slices of ham.

"In what way, beautifully?" said Aunt Dorothy, who was sitting there
looking very dignified in a black satin coat with mauve flowers on it.
Aunt Dorothy always wore the same kind of coat in the evening. "Fashion
changes, but I do not," she would remark sometimes, and everyone would
smile and agree. People were afraid of Aunt Dorothy; she had a sort of
dogged way of finding put everything that she wanted to. The next thing
would be that she would find out that Arthur drank, thought Millicent,
eating her salad and forking up bits of ham and wondering what she would
do if Aunt Dorothy suddenly made up her mind to go in person to the
Castlemere Rectory. Because if she did, no one would be able to stop
her; that Millicent knew very well.

And now Canon Maitland was speaking in his kind, cultured voice.

"Tell your Aunt about it, darling," he said. "She is interested in Susan
and you know you owe your beautiful holiday to her. Also, incidentally,
your engagement, Millicent."

"Yes," said Millicent, trying to speak cordially. For by now she was
very seriously uneasy. It would be so awful if Aunt Dorothy began to
suspect that all was not well at Susan's Rectory. She would go there...
she would be certain to go. And then it would all come out that she,
Millicent, had known about it all the time and had kept it hidden
up. Even from her father. He would feel it most frightfully, thought
Millicent, fingering her bread, and watching Aunt Dorothy's upright
carriage, and thinking how odd it was that people ever could have
thought it was right to sit up straight like that at meals.

"Millicent will tell me all about it by degrees," said Aunt Dorothy
kindly. She smiled at the girl's flushed face. "She can think of nothing
but her beautiful engagement ring, and I'm sure I don't wonder, either.
Arthur, you are lucky to have your second daughter so happily settled,"
said Aunt Dorothy, and she beamed round the table.

And no further remark was made about Susan until a good deal later that
evening. The Canon and his sister sat in the flower-filled drawing-room
and watched the two girls putting on the small lawn. It was a beautiful
evening and Millicent went up to bed early. She was tired and wanted to
get away alone so that she could write to her lover. It was past ten
o'clock before she heard a quiet tap at her door.

"Come in."

"It is I, dear," said Aunt Dorothy, solidly advancing across the room.
"I want to speak to you, Millicent, and I think it better to do so
to-night. There is nothing like going to the point at once, is there,
dear?"

"It rather depends on what the point is," said Millicent uneasily. She
got up from her writing-table and dragged another chair forward for her
Aunt.

"Well, it is about Susan," said Aunt Dorothy. "I have not said a word to
your father about it, I think it better not until I have had a talk with
you. You have just been there, so you can tell me. Millicent, does your
sister's husband drink?"

"Why?"

"I have a very old friend who always takes her holiday in that corner of
the Lake District," said Aunt Dorothy. "She stays at the White Gate
Farm, close to Arthur's church. And she tells me that one day he was
unable to get up into the pulpit and his place had to be taken by the
lay reader, who read a very long sermon out of a book. And on making
inquiries she was told that the book was always kept in the vestry as
the parson was often unable to preach owing to his intemperate habits."

"How do you know it wasn't another church?" said Millicent steadily.

"Are there two in the Vale of Castlemere?" inquired Aunt Dorothy.

"No," said Millicent suddenly. And then her pretty flushed face twisted
itself in tears. "Aunt Dorothy, for heaven's sake don't tell Daddy," she
gasped.

"Then it is true?"

"Yes, it is true. And, of course, I ought to have told Daddy ages ago,
but I simply could not. Charles told me to tell him directly I got back,
but I told him I couldn't. It seems so cruel," sobbed Millicent.
"Besides, what could he do if he did know? Susan is all right. She has
Rachel and Sir Pelham Brooke to look after her."

"She has whom?"

And then Millicent cursed herself for her stupidity. Her father had not
told his sister about Sir Pelham Brooke being there. Perhaps he did not
want her to know. But had they told him? Did he know?

"She has whom?" repeated Aunt Dorothy, and her bright eyes were snapping
through her gold-rimmed spectacles.

"Sir Pelham Brooke."

"The K.C.?"

"Yes."

"But what on earth is _he_ doing there?" Aunt Dorothy had two little
spots of colour on her round plump cheeks.

"He is having a rest cure," said Millicent desperately.

"In Susan's home? Have they then turned it into a convalescent home? Sir
Pelham Brooke is a very eminent man. How did he hear of it?" And then
Aunt Dorothy sat very still. "I saw that he had been very seriously
overworked; it was in _The Times_," she said. "Does he then also drink?"

"Oh, no."

"Then what does it all mean?" demanded Aunt Dorothy briskly. "Tell me
about it at once, Millicent, as of course the thing must be taken up
immediately. Your father did not mention it to me at all; he, of course,
would take it for granted that I knew. Susan's husband is a drunkard,
and Sir Pelham Brooke, a man of great eminence in the legal world, is
installed in that isolated Rectory. It sounds to me extremely odd."

"Why odd?" demanded Millicent. Her hands were trembling with
apprehension. Now that Aunt Dorothy had started off on the war-path
nothing could stop her. She would go there... go to the Rectory and
upset everything. Make Arthur mad and drive Susan frantic. Susan, whose
one hope lay in the fact that Sir Pelham was there to stand by her. Why,
heaven only knew what Aunt Dorothy wouldn't do or say once she got
there. She was renowned for that. She thought it her duty to do and say
all sorts of frightful things to put people on the right path. Which
only ended in driving them crazy and making everything much worse.

"Why odd?" repeated Aunt Dorothy. "My dear Millicent, your sense of what
is fitting must be seriously at fault if you can ask me a question like
that."

Aunt Dorothy got slowly up and even the black satin of her coat looked
determined. "You must go to bed," she said. "It is getting late. Put
your letter away, it is bad for your eyesight to write on your knee like
that."

"But tell me first what you are going to do," said Millicent. "After
all, Aunt Dorothy, it is vital that Susan should not be made more
wretched than she is already. If you take my advice," said Millicent
boldly, "you will leave it entirely alone. Susan is perfectly all right
as she is. She has Rachel, who is a tower of strength, to look after
Arthur, when he... when he isn't well. And now Sir Pelham is
there...."

"Well?"

"Well, so she has a man to look after her, too," stammered Millicent.

And Aunt Dorothy standing there, pulling the corners of her black satin
coat down a little more straightly, looked at Millicent with a world of
comprehension in her gaze.

"Yes," she said. "And it is the fact of Sir Pelham Brooke being there
that fills me with the keenest misgiving that I have. Why should a man
of that eminence choose such an isolated spot unless it was to hide
something? Sir Pelham Brooke drinks. And he has chosen to entrench
himself under the protection of a clergyman who also drinks so that no
comment shall be made."

"He does not drink," blazed Millicent. "Ask Charles; ask anyone. How
dare you say he drinks? It is libellous. You could be put in prison for
saying it."

"Do not be rude, dear." Aunt Dorothy was very calm indeed now. She
surveyed Millicent, looking up at her greater height, for Aunt Dorothy
was tiny.

"I will be rude." Beside herself with passion, Millicent's good-tempered
face was blazing. "He's magnificent, Sir Pelham is. There's no one at
all like him. Think what a name he has in criminal cases. Why, he's
marvellous. Every one says that he's a second Sir Marshall Hall."

"Indeed?"

"Yes." Millicent was turning with trembling knees to pick up her
handkerchief from the top of the chest of drawers.

"Well, I shall go and see for myself," said Aunt Dorothy calmly. "It
will appear quite a natural thing for me to pay Susan a visit. I shall
go as a P.G., of course."

"You can't."

"But I can," said Aunt Dorothy amiably. "And as you say there is nothing
to conceal, why should I not go, pray?"

And as there was no answer to this question Millicent made none. She
stood there and glared. But all the time her brain was busy. Susan
sensitive and transparent as the dawn. Her adoration for Sir Pelham
exposed and made the subject of Aunt Dorothy's strictures and comments.
Sir Pelham himself--perhaps he was beginning to like Susan, and after
all Arthur couldn't live for ever. It would all be smashed up; ruined.
All the exquisite glamour of the new life into which Susan was entering
with the timid footsteps of a child finding its way for the first time
was going to be shattered and splintered by Aunt Dorothy's blunt and
hateful way of going on. It should not be.... Millicent stood with
her brown hands clenched behind her, and wondered how she could prevent
it.

"Aunt Dorothy."

But Aunt Dorothy was already half-way to the door. "Good-night, my dear
child," she said equably, and went out.

And Millicent, after standing motionless for a moment or two, flung
herself down again and went on with her letter to her lover.




CHAPTER XXX


But the answer that she got in a couple of days was disappointing. Mr.
Mant wrote extremely kindly, but his letter was very much to the point.

    "My Darling," he wrote.

    "I am sorry to hear you are so distressed, and I wish I could be
    there to comfort you. But I'm so frightfully tied at present,
    I'm afraid I shan't be able to get down, even for a week-end,
    until the end of this month. But you know I've said all along,
    haven't I, that your father ought to be made aware of the state
    of affairs in Castlemere? It's not a right thing that Susan
    should be left there with Sir Pelham to look after as well as a
    groggy husband. And you know, too, because I've told you so,
    that I consider it a dangerous state of affairs as well as an
    unsuitable one. My darling is so safe that I can say to her that
    the next thing will be that Susan will be head over ears in love
    with Brooke, if she isn't already. Personally, I think she is,
    and I'm rather quick at detecting that sort of thing. And now if
    'Aunt Dorothy,' who seems from all accounts to be a bit of a
    grenadier, goes up there to see for herself the fat is in the
    fire. The saving clause in my opinion is that Brooke won't be
    dragooned; he's not a man who'll stand any nonsense, and as he's
    comfortable there he'll see that he continues to be so. The only
    thing is that of course it is a rather unusual situation.
    Anyhow, don't worry, there's a darling. It does no good, and I
    can't bear to think of you unhappy. I'm so glad you liked the
    ring; to be quite honest I rather fancied it myself.

    "Always,
    "Bangs."

So that was that, and Millicent, who had hurried down to get the post
before the others arrived for breakfast, put the letter into the pocket
of her jersey coat. The feeling that her lover knew gave her a warm
feeling in her heart. And also the fact that Aunt Dorothy had obviously
said nothing as yet to her father. Things would turn out all right,
thought Millicent, who had always been the optimistic one of the family.

But that evening she was not so sure. On her way up to change her dress
for their simple evening meal she heard her father calling her.

"Millicent."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Come down to my study for a moment, will you, darling?"

"All right." Millicent turned on the small half-landing and went
downstairs again. Her heart was beating rather fast. So Aunt Dorothy had
told their father after all. She had probably thought it over, because
Aunt Dorothy very rarely did things on impulse, and had then decided
that it was her duty. Duty was always loathsome, thought Millicent,
walking through the open doorway of the study and catching the golden
evening sunshine on her soft face as she did so.

"Darling, your Aunt has told me something that has upset me very much,"
said the Canon gravely. He sat at his writing-table, and his
clean-shaven face looked somehow uncertain and very miserable. "She
tells me that Arthur drinks. Is it true?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Why didn't you tell me yourself?"

"I simply couldn't."

"Or Charles?"

"I wouldn't let him. He wanted to."

"Another thing," said the Canon, and now the sunlight was flickering on
the brass paper-weight that he had picked up and put down again. "Your
Aunt tells me that Sir Pelham Brooke is at the Rectory, convalescing."

"Yes, he is."

"Convalescing from what?" said the Canon, and his eyes were keen and
clear as they rested on his daughter.

"Not from drinking, anyhow," burst out Millicent. "He's simply gorgeous.
Daddy. He's the one hope for Susan now. He knows Arthur drinks, he and
Bangs found it out a night or two before Bangs and I left. Everything's
all right there now. Daddy, don't let Aunt Dorothy _interfere_," said
Millicent passionately.

"Interfere in what?"

"Well, in anything," said Millicent restlessly. "You know what she is,
Daddy. She'll go barging in and set everyone by the ears. Sir Pelham
will be mad; furious. You can't imagine what he's like; frightfully tall
and dignified. The sort of person who wouldn't stand Aunt Dorothy for
one instant."

"My dear Millicent, I don't think you have the least idea what you are
talking about," said the Canon gravely. "Your Aunt spoke to me in the
very kindest and most gentle way about it. The only thing that did make
her a little indignant was that I had been kept in the dark about this
most awful tragedy," and then the Canon, quite unconsciously, put a
quick hand over his eyes.

"Daddy, I couldn't tell you."

"No, quite; I understand how you felt about it, darling. But, all the
same, such a state of affairs must not be allowed to continue. Sir
Pelham Brooke, a well-known man like that... living under my
daughter's roof, and seeing the degradation of a man who ought to be an
example to others. And with apparently not the faintest notice being
taken of it by her father. Why, the thing is appalling," ended the Canon
abruptly.

"Yes, but what are you going to do?" said Millicent fearfully.

"Why, of course your Aunt Dorothy must go there at once," said the Canon
briefly. "I shall write to Susan to-night and tell her that she is
coming. She will then find out how things stand, and if the woman they
have there as servant is sufficiently reliable she can be left to look
after Arthur while Susan comes home here."

"Then what happens to Sir Pelham?"

"He finds somewhere else to convalesce," said the Canon, smiling a
little in the midst of his anxiety. "After all, he is a very rich man,
and the whole of England is open to him. I do not think we need concern
ourselves about him, Millicent."

"Susan will loathe it," said Millicent passionately. "Sir Pelham is all
settled in and he pays like anything and Rachel simply adores him.
Everything is perfectly all right there, Daddy. Oh, Daddy, darling, do
leave it alone," cried Millicent desperately.

"I think you do Susan an injustice when you say that she will loathe
coming back to her old home," said the Canon, and the anxiety on his
face deepened. Was this child of his aware that her sister's affections
were in any way involved, he wondered. In any event such a thing must
not be hinted at.

"No, I don't mean that she will exactly loathe that," said Millicent.
"But don't you know... all the upheaval and everything. It will be
simply frightful."

"What I do think simply frightful, as you express it, is the way that I
have been kept in the dark about everything," returned the Canon warmly.
"You go to stay with Susan, and, I should imagine, find out almost at
once that poor Arthur has this deadly failing. You then, knowing this,
go in hot-foot for Susan taking paying guests. I admit that it has been
the means of your meeting a very charming man who is going to be your
husband. But it might easily have meant the reverse. No, Millicent, if
you ask me I think you have behaved uncommonly badly."

"Daddy, don't." Millicent's wide blue eyes filled with tears. Her father
so rarely scolded them. How awful this was being!

"And the only thing you can possibly do now is to leave me alone to do
what I think best about it," continued the Canon. "I shall talk it over
with your Aunt to-night and then write to Susan myself. And I would ask
you, Millicent, not to write to your sister at all. It is better left
now between her father and herself."

"She'll think me awful for having let it out," gulped Millicent
tearfully.

"In the end she will be very glad that you have," said the Canon
gravely. "Don't cry, Millicent, I am not angry with you now."

"You are," wailed Millicent.

"I am not, darling." The Canon was smiling as he held out his hand.
"Come," he said. "You will be late for supper if you don't go up and
dress. It's all over now, Millicent. Cheer up, my child. It's bad enough
for me to have this awful tragedy launched on me without seeing my
darling all smudged and wet with tears."

"I loathe the feeling of having hurt you," snuffled Millicent, her head
on her father's sleeve.

"And I love the feeling of having a little daughter who feels like
that," said the Canon tenderly, and he picked up Millicent's small brown
hand and held it against his face.




CHAPTER XXXI


Susan got her father's letter two days later. She intercepted the
postman as she stood in the narrow lane reaching up for the wild roses.
Sir Pelham loved wild roses, but they had to be fresh every day, or they
crumpled up and looked wretched.

"I'll take my letters, if I may, Kennard." Susan was smiling. "And then
you take the others on to the Rectory."

"Yes, ma'am." Kennard had got off his red bicycle and was sorting a
large packet. Heaps for Sir Pelham, thought Susan, but then there always
were. Long envelopes with O.H.M.S. on them, and others in neat oblong
envelopes with sturdy flaps to them. Also a packet of books from the
London library. Sir Pelham's books were becoming one of Susan's greatest
joys. Now that Millicent had gone she had more time to read. She would
read in the afternoon, up in the bracken behind the house. Tucked away
where she could see his window. He always rested in the afternoon, and
when he had finished he would generally stroll to the window and look
out. Sometimes lighting a cigarette and flicking the match out of the
window. And then when he had turned away Susan would get up and bolt
down to the back door.

"Sir Pelham is awake, Rachel."

"Is he, though. Look sharp, Ada, with the tray." Rachel would be all
excitement and joy. All such heavenly fun, thought Susan, with a
passionate gratitude to Rachel because she understood.

"Only one for you." Kennard had finished sorting, and was holding out
the square white envelope with the slender cultured writing on it.

"Only one?" Susan had expected a letter from Millicent and was
disappointed. She had heard once, but it was nearly a fortnight since
she and Mr. Mant had left, and it was time to have another.

"Only one, ma'am," said Kennard, smiling, and he went off wheeling his
bicycle, with the remaining letters and parcel hugged under his right
arm. Kennard liked taking letters to the Rectory now, because he very
often got a tip from the tall gentleman who had come to stay there.
While Susan laid down her bunch of wild roses on the little grassy edge
of the lane and tore open the envelope. Her father's handwriting was
easy to read.

    "My Darling," he wrote,

    "This will be rather a distressing letter, I am afraid, but you
    must try to take it as I mean it and not be unduly upset. Also,
    I do not want you to in any way blame Millicent. It was
    perfectly impossible for her to keep from me what I ought to
    have known long ago; namely that your husband has this most
    grievous failing. I cannot bear to think of what my darling
    eldest daughter must have suffered in the past. Why didn't she
    tell her old father about it before? However, it is too late to
    say that now. The point is what are we going to do about it?

    "Well, we are going to do this. In view of what Millicent has
    also told me about your having Sir Pelham Brooke in the house, a
    most astounding state of affairs that I cannot at all grasp, I
    am sending your Aunt Dorothy to spend a week or so with you. She
    will pay, of course. She will then see how things stand, and if
    you agree, will remain on at the Rectory while you come home for
    a time. Or, if she sees that your maid is capable of doing so,
    she will leave her in charge of Arthur. Sir Pelham, of course,
    must find other accommodation, but that will be only a simple
    matter. The great thing is that things should not continue as
    they are. You ought not, my darling, ever to have taken in a man
    of the standing and eminence of Sir Pelham Brooke. He is, of
    course, a sick man, or he would never have agreed to it. But
    this can be remedied.

    "Forgive me, my child, if this hurts you. But, after all, I am
    your father, and your husband is a man of the same profession as
    mine. Do you think he would consent to take one of the
    well-known cures? I know the Bishop of Carlisle well and could
    have it arranged so that people did not know about it.

    "Always your devoted
    Father."

Susan suddenly felt stupid and a little sick. She refolded the letter
and put it back in its envelope. Aunt Dorothy coming to stay... no,
no, the blood suddenly seemed to have got to some queer place at the
back of Susan's neck. Everything around her looked different; the hedge,
it had got that wavery look that things got when it was very hot. Aunt
Dorothy coming to stay; interfering in everything; upsetting Sir Pelham,
because, of course, a man like that was not going to stand a woman
mixing herself up in his affairs. All this glorious sublime happiness
that was making her life a dream instead of a disgusting nightmare was
to be shattered by Aunt Dorothy coming. No, no, Susan said the words
aloud as she clutched the letter to her breast. Her father... she
almost hated him. She would tell Rachel... Rachel would understand.
Rachel who knew how she... Susan went rushing back to the house,
leaving her flowers on the ground. Nothing mattered... nothing in the
world mattered except that this ghastly horror that threatened them must
somehow be averted.

And mercifully she found Rachel alone in the kitchen. Ada had gone
upstairs to turn down the beds that were not already turned down, and do
the little things that Rachel had taught her to do until she was free to
join her.

"And now what's the matter?" She faced her mistress and then walked
slowly across the stone floor to close the door behind her.

"Listen, Rachel. From Daddy." Susan's fingers were shaking as she drew
out the letter again. And Rachel listened in silence.

"H'm," and that was all the comment Rachel made. She leaned towards the
gleaming range and dragged the big iron kettle that was boiling
uproariously a little to one side.

"What are we to do?"

"What can we do?" said Rachel slowly. "I've only seen your Aunt Dorothy
once, but I could tell by that once that she was a lady who, if she made
up her mind to a thing, would carry it through."

"She shall not come here," said Susan passionately. "Daddy has no
right... no business..."

"It's a great pity that you didn't tell him a long time ago about Sir
Pelham coming to stay here, ma'am, if I might say so," said Rachel
sombrely.

"I had a sort of idea that Millicent had," said Susan. "At least she
seemed to be running the whole thing, so I sort of left it to her."

"Just so," said Rachel. "Have you told Sir Pelham, ma'am?"

"No, I came to you first," said Susan. Her blue eyes were desperate.
Rachel didn't seem to grasp the whole despair of it. She stood there and
looked as if it didn't matter whether Sir Pelham went or not. Matter! It
was death... the idea of his going. "I shall die. I shall go raving
mad," she said suddenly.

"No, you won't, my dearie." Rachel lifted her head. "Go and tell him
now," she said. "Before you tell the Rector. Perhaps he may be able to
suggest something. Then come back to me and tell me what he says," and
then Rachel's face suddenly cleared. "He's a wonderful gentleman," she
said. "If only I'd kept those copies of the _News of the World_ that
told about how he got off Mrs. Bates. I did keep them for a long time;
and then I wanted something for the shelf where I keep the saucepans and
used them up for that."

"I'll go now," said Susan. Turning, she bolted out of the kitchen and up
the stairs. Half-past ten: the clock in the hall was right, and he would
be up and dressed by now. He would be writing, but he would hardly be
settled down to it because the letters had practically only just come.

"Come in." Sir Pelham's voice was cheerful. And his eyes were bright as
he turned in his chair and saw Susan standing there.

"Good-morning," he said. "Come along in. What do I want for lunch
to-day? I don't care a rap. For the last ten days I've had such an
appetite that I could eat the back of my chair."

"I haven't come for that," said Susan. "It's something awful...
ghastly."

"Then let's hear it," said Sir Pelham. Tall and narrow-hipped, he got up
out of his chair.

"How can I tell you?"

"Easily." Susan had dropped into a low chair, and the famous barrister
stood there looking down at her.

"It's Daddy," said Susan. "Read his letter. It's better you should. Then
you'll see the ghastly horror of it all." She held out the letter and
covered her face with her hands.

And Sir Pelham read it. He read it twice and then put it back into its
envelope.

"She must come, of course," he said.

"And make you go away?"

"No, nobody can make me do that unless I want to," said Sir Pelham
mildly, and he smiled.

"But she'll make me go home."

"My dear child, nobody can make anyone else do anything that they don't
want to," said Sir Pelham.

"She'll drive Arthur mad." Susan's lips were trembling, as she turned up
her face to his. "And somehow since that awful evening he has seemed so
much better. He preached so well on Sunday. And he goes about the house
so much more cheerfully. Help me to stop her," gasped Susan.

"It would be unwise to stop her," said Sir Pelham. He began to walk up
and down the room with his hands linked behind him. Should he tell this
child of what was going on, he wondered. The pathetic, faltering
entrance of her husband on the night after Millicent and her fianc had
left? His agony of apology. His prayer for help. Any help. Arthur
Carpendale had sat crouched there with the tears pouring down his face.
The strangeness of that first interview. The silence of the sleeping
house. It was like an interview with a man under sentence of death,
thought Sir Pelham, sitting there in his gay silk dressing-gown and
wondering what he could say best to help this unhappy man. An unhappy
tortured man under sentence of almost worse than death, thought Sir
Pelham, hearing his stammered confessions. A drunken father: a drunken
grandfather. What help could he possibly give him? wondered Sir Pelham,
sitting there under the shaded light, his hands clasped between his
knees.

But that he had given him help there was no doubt. Every night now the
Rector came up to his room at half-past ten. Susan always went to bed at
ten. Sir Pelham sometimes came downstairs to supper, and after it he and
Susan would stroll up and down the lane. And then Susan would go and see
Rachel about the meals for the next day, and Sir Pelham would return to
his room. And at ten o'clock exactly Susan would look in and say
good-night, and then at half-past ten the pathetic hunted footsteps of
the Rector would ascend the stairs and cross the landing. And the night
before his entrance had been more pathetic than ever before. For he
brought with him two unopened bottles of whisky.

"Keep them for me," he had said, and at the look in his eyes Sir
Pelham's heart had ached. But his voice had been very level.

"Where is the one already open?"

"Shall I bring that too?"

"I think it would be wise."

"But if I feel... if I feel... You have no conception what it is,"
said the Rector baldly.

"I shall give it to you, of course," said Sir Pelham. "In fact, I shall
tell you where I keep it." He crossed the floor. "I keep my own whisky
here," he said, and he stood before a corner cupboard. "I lock it always
because I think it wise, but the key is always in this drawer. I will
put these two unopened bottles here and also the open one if you care to
bring it."

"I will bring it now," said the Rector. Pathetic, hurrying footsteps on
the stairs. Back again, his eyes were eager. "I feel better already," he
said.

"I am very glad." Sir Pelham's eyes and voice were cordial. And now as
he paced up and down his room he wondered if he should tell Susan this.
And then decided against it. No, it was the Rector's own affair,
although the comfort it would give the poor child would be immense.
However... Sir Pelham's eyes were clear and kind as he stopped
walking and looked down at Susan.

"Leave it to me," he said. "Or, rather, leave it to me to decide what is
best to be done. I dare say I shall get an opportunity to talk it over
with your husband to-night."

"Arthur?"

"Yes."

"Do you like Arthur?" said Susan falteringly. "He seems to like you so
tremendously. I can see it by the way he speaks to you at meals."

"Yes, I like him very much." Sir Pelham hesitated. "Sometimes he comes
up here and has a chat with me before I turn in," he said.

"Arthur does?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind?"

"No, on the contrary, I like it," said Sir Pelham frankly. "He and I
have one thing especially in common, and that is our love of history."

"Yes, he is very good at history." Susan sat silent, the letter in her
hand. "Then I am to go and write to Daddy to tell him that we will have
Aunt Dorothy?" she said.

"Yes, I think that will be best after all," said Sir Pelham after a
little pause. "I will tell your husband that it is decided. Canon
Maitland evidently wishes it, and as he does we can only fall in with
his wishes."

"How long do you suppose she will stay?" said Susan miserably. "It's the
agony of feeling that all our talks after supper and all that will be
ruined." She trembled.

And now Sir Pelham was laughing. "She hasn't arrived yet," he said.
"Don't cross your stile before you come to it."

"Will you vow you won't go?" urged Susan desperately.

"I shan't go yet."

"When?"

"My dear child!" Sir Pelham's eyes were bright and merry. "What a goose
it is," he laughed.

"I..." and then Susan stood up. "You don't know," she gasped. "You
can't understand a bit what I feel." Desperately she caught up his hand
and held it to her lips. "It's just that I..." Susan's strained face
held up to his was white.

"My dear child." Sir Pelham's distinguished face was very quiet. He left
his hand in hers and stood there wondering what on earth he should do if
she began to cry. For she was sweet... far too sweet for Arthur
Carpendale, thought Sir Pelham, as Susan convulsively let go of his hand
and made a rush for the door. And after she had closed it he still stood
there. This was, of course, what Canon Maitland had been afraid of,
thought Sir Pelham, and he stood there listening to the sound of the
water as it came spouting out into the water trough below his window and
then away again into the brook that chattered along at the foot of the
fields that stretched down below the Rectory.




CHAPTER XXXII


Somehow that night Sir Pelham slept badly. Arthur Carpendale stayed
longer than he generally did, and Sir Pelham had been obliged to give
him a whisky and soda. It was appalling to watch the avidity with which
he gulped it down, and almost equally appalling to see the instant
clearing of the heavy gloom on the clean-shaven face.

"But I have had nothing to drink since that night over a fortnight ago,"
he said eagerly.

"No, I know. It's splendid," said Sir Pelham cordially.

"Won't you have a drink yourself?"

"No, thanks. I always wait until quite the last thing," said Sir Pelham.
His eyes were clear but he suddenly felt cross. What was he doing here?
he suddenly asked himself. Canon Maitland had been right; it was
frightfully unsuitable. Comfortable he might be, but there were other
things beside comfort to be considered. This man was beginning to depend
on him and so was this man's wife. As soon as the famous Aunt Dorothy
arrived he would slip away, meditated Sir Pelham. He felt so
marvellously fit. It was amazing to feel so fit after the hopeless crock
he had been a couple of months before.

"And when do you expect Miss Maitland? Help yourself." Sir Pelham was
holding out a tin of tobacco.

"Thanks very much." The Rector's slender fingers were busy with the dark
amber strands. Pushing them down into the bowl of his pipe, he lifted
his face and smiled.

"We expect her on Friday," he said. "My wife has told me that you agree
to her coming."

"Of course." Sir Pelham got up and strolled away to his writing-table. A
sudden distaste for the man sitting happily in the cretonne-covered
chair had seized on him. This evening visit was going to become a bore,
he decided, picking a cigarette out of the large silver box and settling
it between his clean-shaven lips.

"Miss Maitland is a peculiar character," continued the Rector. "I have
only seen her once, at our wedding. But I was impressed. She has that
extraordinary tenacity of will that you sometimes see in single women."

"How very inconvenient," said Sir Pelham. And again he felt a strong
impulse of impatience. What business had this confirmed drunkard had to
marry? There ought to be a law against such marriages, thought Sir
Pelham, flicking the dead match into the fire.

"Well, I think I will go," said the Rector suddenly. He got up and
looked uneasily round the room. "Now it is raining," he said.

"Yes, it's tremendous, isn't it?"

"Susan went along to inquire how Mrs. Mason is," said the Rector. "I
have not heard her come in."

"She must be in by now. She went before the really heavy rain began,
didn't she?" Sir Pelham had got up and was standing with his back to the
fire.

"Yes, she went directly after supper. It was beautifully fine then,"
said the Rector. "All the same, I think I'd better just go up to her
room and see if she is safely in bed."

"Oh, I don't think I should do that if I were you," said Sir Pelham
easily. But as he said the words he felt a quick sensation of alarm.
What was the feeling that had seized on him? A feeling of fury that this
unappetising drunken fellow should have the right to look on his own
wife asleep? He must be going mad, thought Sir Pelham, standing very
still and gazing at the Rector.

"And why not, pray?" said the Rector suddenly, and there was suddenly
something furtive in his quick gaze.

"It's a mistake to wake up anyone who is well away in her first sleep,"
said Sir Pelham calmly. "She is perfectly all right. Turn in yourself;
you look extremely tired."

"I am tired. You are quite right," said the Rector slowly. "Very well,
then, good-night."

"Good-night," said Sir Pelham, and he forced his voice to be cordial.
But when the door closed behind the Rector he frowned. Yes, he would
have to go, of course. There was something about this that was...
what was it? wondered Sir Pelham, walking to the window and staring out
of it. Yes, it was raining, by gad. Cataracts of rain. Was the child in?
Supposing she wasn't; the thought was like a stab in the back. Supposing
she was out there, soaked to the skin. Supposing she had sprained her
ankle; been knocked down by a motor bicycle. The lane was so narrow--so
unfrequented. Who would know? Sir Pelham stood there in his gay silk
dressing-gown, irresolute. How could he find out? He walked to the door
and opened it. A pitch dark house and the vibrant tick of the old
grandfather clock in the hall. No, not quite dark; there was a thread of
light across the stairs coming from the hall. Sir Pelham walked quickly
across the landing and down the stairs. The light came from the kitchen;
Rachel lifted her head with a little grunt of fright.

"Oh, how you startled me, sir." Rachel lifted her face from the ironing
board. The fat white-faced clock on the wall showed the hour of eleven.

"I'm so sorry." Somehow the sight of Rachel's nice hard face restored
Sir Pelham's equilibrium. He smiled.

"Is Mrs. Carpendale safely in?" he said.

"She is, sir. Sleeping like a baby. I've just been up," said Rachel. She
put down her iron to gaze at the tall man standing by the door.

And when with a pleasant smile and good-night Sir Pelham had gone again,
she still stood there. "How can we get rid of him?" she muttered, and
there was something heavy and ominous about her voice. Her pet and her
baby lying there upstairs with her small helpless hand thrust under her
cheek. And that drunken... Rachel walked to the big iron range and
laid the iron rather heavily down on it.




CHAPTER XXXIII


When Aunt Dorothy arrived at Keswick station with her two large trunks,
Susan, meeting her there with a taxi, stood on the platform, suddenly
feeling desolate and stupid.

"Ah, so here is Susan." Aunt Dorothy, stepping out of a third-class
compartment, was neatness and competence personified. "How are you, my
dear?"

"Very well, thank you, Aunt Dorothy," said Susan, and somehow her
desolation seemed suddenly less acute. Aunt Dorothy's round face,
although firm, was kind. She stood there and smiled at Susan.

"Have you a porter, dear?"

"Yes," said Susan. And then she hesitated. "I wonder if the taxi will
take those two trunks," she said.

"It must," said Aunt Dorothy briskly. "You see, my wraps and
despatch-case can go inside with us. Oh, thank you, dear." Aunt Dorothy
relinquished her despatch-case.

"I'll have to get my barrow," said the porter, and as he turned to go he
winked to a compatriot. "Lend us a hand," he said.

"Righto," and the two trunks were bundled up on to the barrow and
trundled out into the station-yard. Susan and her aunt followed. And now
Susan's heart sank again. There would be two porters to tip: would Aunt
Dorothy do it properly?

But Aunt Dorothy was used to travelling and tipping. Also something in
her brisk and business-like heart had softened at the sight of this
fragile girl. Millicent's plump self-possession annoyed her. Susan was
different, decided Aunt Dorothy, stepping up into the taxi.

"How far is it, dear?"

"Miles," said Susan, smiling a little. And as the taxi went careering
down the hill into the town she sat there and wondered why she suddenly
felt much less wretched than she had expected to. Perhaps it was that it
was a relief to have a woman relation come to stay. Someone to talk to.
That is to say, if it became possible to talk to Aunt Dorothy. She would
have to find that out by degrees. But Aunt Dorothy, her heart warming to
the slight, silent girl who sat beside her, began to talk at once.

"I don't think I have seen you since your wedding day, dear," she said.

"No," and then Susan, biting her lips, stared straight in front of her.

"Don't feel that I have come as an enemy, dear," continued Aunt Dorothy,
wincing a little as the taxi flung itself round the corner into Keswick
Market Place. "Believe me, I have not."

"I am sure you haven't," replied Susan, feeling a ridiculous inclination
to tears.

"Every situation has a solution if one can only find it," continued Aunt
Dorothy. "By the way, dear, how many Celebrations of Holy Communion do
you have on Sunday?"

"Two on the first Sunday; one on all the rest," said Susan, and now the
sensation of tears had melted into laughter. Aunt Dorothy jumped about
so in what she said; it was fun.

"And does this Sir Pelham Brooke attend church?"

"Oh, _no_!"

"But why not?" asked Aunt Dorothy briskly. "He belongs to the Church of
England, I presume."

"I haven't ever asked him," said Susan, and her sweet blue eyes were
full of sudden mirth. Fancy asking Sir Pelham a question like that. Why,
one simply couldn't.

"I must ask him," said Aunt Dorothy, and her keen eyes were alert and
eager as the taxi hummed along the well-made road. The evening sun was
low on the hills and the trees were soft and green from the recent rain.

"How beautiful it is."

"Yes, isn't it?" said Susan warmly. And then she clasped her hands
together in her lap.

"Aunt Dorothy, don't ask Sir Pelham anything like that at once, will
you?" she said nervously.

"My dear child, of course I shan't," replied Aunt Dorothy warmly. More
and more did her rather desiccated nature kindle as she noted Susan's
delicate profile and her anxious trembling hands. So different, so
utterly different from sturdy Millicent. This was a child to champion:
to protect. Aunt Dorothy suddenly felt thankful she had come. Underneath
her rather hard exterior she had dreaded it. It would be difficult: very
difficult, she had thought. But now Aunt Dorothy decided that it would
not be difficult at all. Only affection and tenderness were needed to
smooth this poor child's path; at any rate at first. Afterwards plans
could be made and carried out. But not at first.

"We are nearly there," said Susan. "If you lean forward, Aunt Dorothy,
you can see the chimneys of the Rectory."

"Not without my glasses, dear."

"Oh, no, I expect you can't," said Susan. Sitting forward like a child
on the cushioned seat, she felt her heart beginning to beat in a way
that it often did now. Thumping beats that seemed to spread all over
her. In her throat; in her head; making her forehead get all hot and
wet. Supposing Aunt Dorothy said something queer and abrupt to Sir
Pelham and he took exception to it and said that he must go at once. He
was famous; wonderful. Did Aunt Dorothy realise it? How could she
express it so that Aunt Dorothy understood what she meant and yet did
not get cross?

But there was no need to tell Aunt Dorothy anything. Sir Pelham was in
the front garden as the taxi drew up, talking to the Rector. Had he or
had he not done it on purpose, wondered Susan wildly, stepping down and
preparing to hand out her aunt.

"Allow me," said Sir Pelham, coming forward, and inwardly he was
smiling. It was important to get this droll little lady with the
determined mouth on his side immediately, he decided. Sir Pelham was
well known in legal circles for his extraordinary adroitness in dealing
with would-be hostile witnesses. He held Aunt Dorothy carefully by the
hand, supporting her elbow at the same time.

"Ah, how do you do, Arthur? This, I presume, is Sir Pelham Brooke." Aunt
Dorothy had her keen eyes fixed on the clear-cut profile high above her.

"How do you do, Miss Maitland? Yes, this is Sir Pelham." The Rector was
smiling as he held out a hand.

"You are very famous. Sir Pelham. I am proud to make your acquaintance,"
said Aunt Dorothy, and as she said the words she wondered vaguely where
they had come from.

"And so am I proud to make yours," replied Sir Pelham. And unconsciously
his eyes found Susan's and held them. "There you are, I have done the
trick," they seemed to say.

"And now let me show you your room, Auntie," said Susan gently. She
stepped forward, and in the dimming light she suddenly looked very soft
and young. "I do hope you'll like it," she continued, as the two women
mounted the stairs.

"I am sure I shall," said Aunt Dorothy warmly. "Susan, what a very
remarkable-looking man Sir Pelham is."

"Yes, isn't he?"

"Is he quite happy here; a well-known man like that?"

"He seems to be."

"And how does Arthur get on with him?"

"Excellently."

"Dear me," said Aunt Dorothy. And then she made a little exclamation of
pleasure. "My dear child, how extremely pretty." Aunt Dorothy was
walking to the window. "And what a divine view."

"It was the money you paid me for Millicent that provided all the things
that you think pretty in this room," said Susan warmly. And then a
little flood of something warm and spontaneous rose in her throat. "Aunt
Dorothy, I am so glad you have come," she stammered.

"Are you, dear?" And then Aunt Dorothy turned and faced her niece. "I'm
not really as hard and business-like as I seem," she said. "Millicent
doesn't like me, I know, but then that is perhaps because we do not see
eye to eye in many things. You and I, dear, I feel shall be different."

"I feel sure we shall," said Susan. And there was a little rush of
happiness all over her that made even getting hot water from the
bathroom a joy. Perhaps it was that she had been dreading it so, she
thought, lifting down the nicest and newest of the hot water cans and
hurrying back with it, and giving Aunt Dorothy an impulsive kiss on both
her pale old-fashioned white cheeks before she left her alone to unpack
and change her dress.

While in his own room Sir Pelham stood and very leisurely took off his
lounge coat and hung it on a hanger. A change from the old days, as he
reflected, remembering his valet's quick deft fingers and noiseless
footsteps. A mercy the fellow had wanted to marry at Easter. And there
was a good deal to be said for the simple life, especially when it made
you feel ten years younger than you had ever done before, thought Sir
Pelham, strolling in his shirt-sleeves to the window and dwelling with a
sort of calm content on the beauty of the view as it spread itself in
quiet placidity before him.




CHAPTER XXXIV


In a couple of days Sir Pelham and Aunt Dorothy were staunch friends. It
had made Aunt Dorothy look younger, decided Susan, watching the two
strolling up and down the front garden one day after breakfast. Susan
and Rachel were making the beds.

"Look, Rachel," she said, and she chuckled.

"It's a marvel," responded Rachel, standing close to Susan. "But then
it's not to be wondered at, is it? Such a gentleman," said Rachel
fervently.

"And Arthur seems to be so much better too," said Susan. That was part
of the joy of Rachel, one could say anything to her knowing that she
would never repeat it.

"Yes," said Rachel solidly. But there was no enthusiasm in Rachel's
voice. "A pity the worthless hulk is better, and that's my opinion," as
she muttered to herself going away upstairs to the linen cupboard. For
the sight of the Rector drifting palely about the house was beginning to
rouse in her a sort of suppressed fury. Over Susan the whole of Rachel's
suppressed maternity yearned. She was her baby; her darling. She was
going to be happy at any cost; Rachel was determined on that. As she
went about her work she brooded over it. How could it best be
accomplished? wondered Rachel, diving her capable hands into the flour
barrel and drawing them out all white and fluffy. Sir Pelham was well on
the way for caring for her, decided Rachel, who had eyes like a hawk.
And her darling herself... why, it was written all over her. It
should come right, decided Rachel, pouring in with skilful hands a high
stream of sour cream and then falling to and pummelling the mixture with
vehemence.

And meanwhile, Aunt Dorothy, leaning on Sir Pelham's arm, was talking
very gravely. They had already discussed the Rector's failing. Oddly
enough Aunt Dorothy had forgotten that she had come prepared to advise
Sir Pelham to leave and to conduct Susan back to her own home. That plan
was entirely at an end. Now, in her wide-brimmed straw hat and short
square coat, she was asking Sir Pelham's advice. He was so fitted to
give advice and to see a situation from every angle, said Aunt Dorothy,
trotting by his side with short firm steps.

"My advice is to leave everything exactly as it is," said Sir Pelham.
"He has not had an outbreak since that last unfortunate one. He has
handed me over all his whisky; at least, he says he has. When he comes
up to see me in the evening and asks me for a drink I give him one.
Well, we cannot do better than that at the moment. Can we?"

"No," said Aunt Dorothy. "But, you see, my brother, Canon Maitland,
thought that it would be better for Susan to come back to Warwickshire
with me." With a feeling of guilt Aunt Dorothy suddenly remembered this.
Perhaps it was Susan's steady gaze from the window above that brought it
to her mind. Susan was wondering if they were talking about that. If
they were they could continue to talk. She would not go. _She would not
go._

"But I do not see how that would help things," said Sir Pelham briefly.
And with consummate skill he proceeded to represent to Aunt Dorothy how
such a procedure would be nothing short of a disaster. "Here she comes,"
he said suddenly. "We must be careful that she does not hear."

"Oh, no," said Aunt Dorothy hurriedly. And as Susan came down the stone
steps into the garden she loosed her arm from Sir Pelham's. "I have a
few things that I ought to see to," she said, and Aunt Dorothy trotted
away across the garden, leaving Sir Pelham standing there.

"Well?" His eyes met Susan's.

"Yes."

"Come for a stroll along the lane," he said briefly. "The weather is
divine; it's a pity to miss an instant of it."

"What about ordering the meals?"

"Rachel will do it far better."

"Oh."

"No, I don't mean it. Come along," said Sir Pelham. Tall and compelling,
he took hold of Susan's small brown hand. "We'll walk to the end of the
lane," he said.

"Oughtn't you to have a hat?"

"Not I," laughed Sir Pelham. They walked along the narrow lane, the
hedges high on each side of them. Honeysuckle; wild roses; everything a
riot of fragrance after the heavy rain.

"This is the place I love," said Susan suddenly. The lane had made a
sharp turn, and through a gate the soft dimness of a tiny fir wood could
be seen. Tall foxgloves; the bracken growing high around them. The
sunlight filtering through the spikey branches made faint golden patches
on the mossy carpet of it.

"Let's go in to it," said Sir Pelham suddenly.

"Oh, shall we?"

"Yes," said Sir Pelham. And there was a queer exultant tone in his
voice. It was feeling so fit after months of such misery that made him
feel like this, he told himself as he held back the gate for Susan.

"Where does this jolly little path go to?"

"To a tiny pool right through the wood," said Susan. "It's some way
though, too far for now, I think."

"This is good enough," said Sir Pelham. They were out of the sight of
the road now. Susan stood there with the sunshine heavy on her dark
head. Her eyes were shining with happiness. She had got him here all
alone; he was well enough now to go a walk like this without thinking of
it. He was hers; to worship if she wanted to; and she did want to.
Gorgeous and good and kind. Utterly perfect, thought Susan, her heart in
her eyes as she stood and gazed at him.

"Happy?"

"Utterly."

"And why?"

"Because I'm here with you," said Susan simply.

"My dear child!"

"Is it wrong to say it?"

"No, not wrong."

"What then?"

"Unwise."

"Why?"

"Why, because I am only human," said Sir Pelham briefly. "And you are an
exceedingly sweet woman."

"You can't think so, really," stammered Susan. Her eyes were wide like
the eyes of a child.

"But I do," said Sir Pelham. "How can I help it? You slave for me; you
watch over me: you do every mortal thing you can to make me happy. I
should be ungrateful indeed if I did not appreciate it."

"Appreciate sounds so stiff."

"What would you like me to say?"

"I should like you to say that you liked me because I was me," said
Susan steadily. "That you perhaps thought my hair was nice, or that
there was something about me that attracted you yourself. Not only the
part that likes to be looked after and made comfortable. Do you know
what I mean?"

"Perfectly," said Sir Pelham, and a sudden quick gleam shone in his
eyes.

"And if I say it will, you take the consequences?" he said.

"What sort of consequences?"

"Any sort."

"The sort that might mean that you would go?" trembled Susan.

"I might have to."

"No, no," cried Susan passionately. "That's the one thing I could not
bear. If you go I can't live, I simply cannot live." Susan's face was
white and she was shivering.

"My dear child." Sir Pelham took both her hands in his and held them
very close to his coat. "Funny little girl," he said. But there was no
mirth in the eyes that held hers. He was going to make a fool of
himself, or worse: Sir Pelham knew it very well. But for one joyous
care-free moment he did not care. This child loved him, and it was so
long since he had been loved in this selfless enchanting way. He stooped
his well-brushed head and kissed her.

"Susan."

But Susan was standing very still, her arms held stiffly down beside
her. "It can't be true," she said heavily.

"And why not?" and now Sir Pelham had taken her recklessly in his arms.
So slender and so frightened and yet, if he knew anything about women,
trembling with passion.

"Because it's too perfect?" said Susan, and she held herself back from
him and stared up into his eyes.

"Has no one ever kissed you before?"

"Kissed me before?" and Susan's reply came, heavy with scorn. "Why, you
haven't the slightest idea," and then her voice broke into tears. "I
don't know what I'm saying," she sobbed. "You make me; you make me..."

"I make you what?"

"Mad; frantic," said Susan. Through the tears her eyes shone very blue.
"It's heaven," she said. "Even if you don't really care except for the
fun of seeing me like this, it's heaven. I would die for you: I would be
your slave and crawl round the world after you. I would do anything,"
said Susan, and she broke into very bitter weeping.

"Darling," and now Sir Pelham's voice was very deep and tender. He drew
her into his arms and held her there. And all the time his quick inward
vision saw the whole thing as it really was. Disgraceful. A disgraceful
betrayal of the faith of a man who, even if he was a drunkard, was a
gentleman, decided Sir Pelham, stooping his head and feeling the warm
saltness of Susan's tears on his lips.




CHAPTER XXXV


And it was not made easier for Sir Pelham by the Rector's tremulous
confidences that night. He came earlier than usual, as Aunt Dorothy and
Susan had gone to bed earlier than usual.

"I have been thinking, Sir Pelham," he said, "that I might brace myself
up to taking one of these cures." The Rector's eyes were pathetic in
their searching eagerness. "You see, I have a good deal of my annual
summer holiday that I have never taken. I could make use of that."

"But what about Sunday duty?" inquired Sir Pelham briefly. He was
standing by his writing-table taking a cigarette out of the large silver
box that always stood on it.

"That would be easily arranged for," said the Rector. "A colleague of
mine who has been ordered to rest is coming for July, August and
September to Rossiters Farm. I heard from him to-day. He very kindly
volunteered to give me any help that I might require and would, I know,
be only too glad to take over the duty entirely."

"But do you feel that you could tackle the cure?"

"I feel that I could tackle anything so that I could reinstate myself in
my wife's opinion," said the Rector huskily, "And I feel that I have to
very largely thank you for that, Sir Pelham. Your kindly help in
allowing me to unburden myself to you in the evenings like this has
seemed to give me new hope," and the Rector's eyes filled with tears.

"Please don't thank me," said Sir Pelham abruptly. And as he spoke a
vision of Susan as he had seen her when she had come in to say
good-night to him rose before his eyes. Slender and trusting and with
love in her eyes. He had not kissed her; that must not become a habit,
as he had told himself cynically, looking down on her dark head. But he
had taken both her hands in his and they had trembled in his grasp.

"But I must thank you," said the Rector. "And now that I have told you
what I intend to do, it only remains for me to tell Susan. I have
already mentioned it to Miss Maitland, and she very kindly says that if
I go, she will stay on here while I am away. Therefore there will not be
any need for you to shift your quarters unless you feel that you wish to
do so. As you know, the very generous weekly sum that you pay us is a
great help," concluded the Rector simply, and he got up out of his
chair.

"Won't you have a drink before you go?" Sir Pelham also stood up. Never
had he felt more contemptible, he reflected, looking down into the
Rector's sad dark face.

"No, thank you. God is giving me grace to resist," said the Rector
quietly. "I never seemed to realise before what a very present help in
trouble He can be, if one truly turns to Him."

"So I have always heard."

"You don't yourself believe..."

"Well, I don't know what I really do believe," said Sir Pelham. "You
see, I have been so intimately connected with the sorrows and tragedies
of other people's lives that perhaps I've got a bit mixed," he smiled.

"Yes," and now the Rector also smiled. "You have at any rate brought
happiness and comfort into our home," he said. "Susan looks a different
woman. Miss Maitland was remarking on it to me to-night. She had even
noticed the difference in the few days she has been here."

"Really?"

"Yes, and I am profoundly grateful to you," said the Rector.
"Good-night, Sir Pelham."

"Good-night, Carpendale," and as the Rector walked to the door the tall
man watched him go. And then he turned and flung himself down into a low
chair. One of these ugly damnable situations that one created by one's
own damnable behaviour and then wished one hadn't, as he thought,
wondering if he should pour himself out a really stiff drink, and then
deciding that he wouldn't.




CHAPTER XXXVI


The Rector had gone. And as Aunt Dorothy sat in front of her
looking-glass in her old-fashioned petticoat bodice with its funny
little short sleeves and strip of tough embroidery round the neck, she
thought about his going. It had been sad, with a sort of tearing
sadness. He had been cheerful and there had been a sort of inner light
on his face.

"Aunt Dorothy, it will kill me." Susan, up in Aunt Dorothy's bedroom,
had gone raging up and down the floor in a passion of tears. "He minds
going, and the thought of his minding seems to give me a sort of
frightful pain here. Because I don't care, I don't care at all. Oh, Aunt
Dorothy, I am so profoundly, hopelessly wretched. Help me! whatever
should I do if you weren't here," and Susan had swung round in a sort of
fierce desperation and flung herself down on her knees by Aunt Dorothy's
chair.

And Aunt Dorothy had comforted. Staring out over Susan's bowed head, she
had racked her brain for the best thing to say. The complete change
would do him good; apart from the cure it would do him good. He had gone
cheerfully; no, that was not putting it strongly enough; he had gone
happily. Susan would be selfish to grieve. She would be wrong to grieve,
said Aunt Dorothy firmly.

"Do you really think so?"

"I am sure of it."

And Susan had gone away comforted. And now after four days it was almost
as if the Rector had never been there. It was like, thought Rachel,
dashing in and out of the larder and hounding the miserable Ada about,
as if a coffin had been taken out of the hall. Something dead and
immovable that you had to pass to get to anywhere else. Blinds up and
windows flung wide open. Light and joy and the scent of flowers, where
before there had been the smell of death and the stuffiness of crape.

And Sir Pelham felt very much the same. Especially as after a
consultation with Aunt Dorothy he decided to go into Keswick and be
overhauled by Dr. Crawley.

"Yes," Aunt Dorothy's pale maiden face was absorbed. She was pleased at
being consulted.

"You see," continued Sir Pelham, "it seems a pity now that we are in the
midst of such perfect weather that we should not take advantage of it.
If Crawley pronounces me fit I will get my car and chauffeur up from
London and we can make some excursions."

"Yes." Inwardly enormously impressed, Aunt Dorothy spoke gravely.

"We will go to-morrow," said Sir Pelham, "for perhaps you will come with
me, Miss Maitland."

"I should be delighted."

"And if you don't mind we will not tell Mrs. Carpendale. She has always
been unnecessarily concerned about my health and might worry," said Sir
Pelham lightly. "Say that you want to do some shopping, and so do I, and
that as we are going to be busy we think it better to get it off our
chests by ourselves," he concluded, laughing.

"Yes," and as Aunt Dorothy looked up at Sir Pelham's clear-cut profile,
for he had turned to flick the ash from his cigarette out of the open
window, she felt a queer upheaval under her rather flat chest. She was
going out alone with this wonderful and famous man, she thought
incoherently. Life suddenly seemed different. Tingling with something
tremulous and glittering, thought Aunt Dorothy, going up to her bedroom
to think about it.

And now the interview with Dr. Crawley was over. It had been a prolonged
one. Since his attendance on Sir Pelham at Ullswater the keen-faced
Scotch doctor had got into touch with Sir John Hearn. He had received a
letter from the great neurologist and a detailed history of the case.
With infinite precision and care he proceeded with his examination of
his famous patient.

Aunt Dorothy, sitting outside in the taxi clasping her leather handbag,
felt her feet getting cold and her hands inside their well-worn gloves
becoming a little damp. Supposing the verdict was unfavourable. What
were they all going to do? wondered Aunt Dorothy, staring out of the
window of the taxi and watching the river Greta going rushing and
tumbling over the stones, and hearing in the distance the moaning hum of
the pencil works.

But she need not have been afraid. Sir Pelham came down the neat gravel
path of the doctor's house with the quick step of a boy. His face was
radiant as he nodded to the taxi-driver, who stepped forward to wrench
open the door.

"Well?" Sir Pelham sat down on the cushioned seat with a bump. "I'm so
sorry. I'm afraid I've kept you waiting an unconscionable time."

"Not at all."

"Let's go and do some shopping, shall we?" said Sir Pelham. Getting up,
he thrust his head out of the window, and gave a brief order. And then
he sat down again.

"Well?" and he said it again with a brilliant smile.

"Please tell me," said Aunt Dorothy, and there was a little anxious
pucker between her brows.

"Well, he pronounces me a perfectly sound man," said Sir Pelham briefly,
and he folded his arms and crossed his long legs one over the other. "He
is as amazed as I am. But he says that it has been the perfect quiet and
the excellent food and the absence of any nerve strain. He did not know,
of course, that I was at the Castlemere Rectory. I had purposely not
told him, as I knew that if I was ill he would find out automatically
and I don't care for a doctor hanging about me. Not that Crawley would
be likely to hang about anyone," ended Sir Pelham with a little laugh.

"And does he say that you can return to London?" asked Aunt Dorothy
after a little imperceptible pause.

"He says that I can return with perfect impunity when the Courts re-open
after the summer vacation."

"And when is that?" What was the matter with her hands, wondered Aunt
Dorothy impatiently.

"October the eleventh."

"So you have three whole months with us yet."

"Very nearly. Where are we now? No, a little more; it's the 10th of July
to-day," replied Sir Pelham. He turned impulsively on the seat and took
one of Aunt Dorothy's gloved hands in his. "How nice you are to be so
kind to me," he said. "I'm going to buy some champagne in Keswick. And
some sweets for Susan. And what would you like, Miss Maitland?"

"I should like some lavender water," said Miss Maitland sedately. "It is
my favourite scent since..." and then for one mad moment Miss
Maitland wondered if she should tell this wonderful man who had hold of
her hand that she had once been engaged. And that he had given it to
her, the man she had loved and who had died.... Died simply because
he had not been properly looked after in his London lodgings, where he
had lived while he was reading for the Bar. He would have been much
older than Sir Pelham, of course, but still...

"Since. Yes?" Sir Pelham's charming gaze was interested.

"Since I was a girl," finished Miss Maitland simply. For this was not
the moment for confidences, she decided, as the taxi bumped and rattled
itself over the cobbles of Keswick market-place.

"You must tell me all about it some time," said Sir Pelham quietly. He
released Miss Maitland's hand and smiled. "And now what brand of
champagne do you like best? Wait a minute till I get out and can help
you."

And as Aunt Dorothy stood on the pavement brushing a little speck of
dust from her neat-grey coat and skirt she wondered vaguely what he had
meant. "You must tell me all about it some time." Ah, yes, but then
famous barristers learned to read people's minds. But then there were
some things that one didn't want read in one's minds. Susan's slender
fugitive thoughts, darting like little glittering fish under her white
forehead. What if he read them, thought Aunt Dorothy, turning rather
vaguely to pass through the shop door that Sir Pelham was holding open
for her.

And then she forgot it all in the new and delightful experience of
shopping with someone who was really rich. "Oh, it is too large!" Aunt
Dorothy was gasping at a bottle of lavender water about ten inches high.

"Not if you like it."

"And now do you think Mrs. Carpendale would like some eau de cologne?"

"Oh, I know she would."

"One of those nice big bottles covered with wickerwork. Yes, the largest
one, please." Sir Pelham was slipping his hand in his breast pocket for
his notecase.

And as the delighted assistant rushed to the door to hold it open for
them Aunt Dorothy passed through it, a little spot of colour on both
cheeks. A new world: a new world entirely. And yet there were people who
always lived in this rash excited way. How they must pity everyone else,
thought Aunt Dorothy, suddenly seeing herself in a shop window and
giving a little surreptitious tug to her prim black hat that had lurched
itself a little to one side.




CHAPTER XXXVII


Summer, in the less frequented and more distant valleys of the English
Lake District, can be the most beautiful thing in the world, especially
when it is fine. Although to the real lover of that enchanted region
even the rain itself, drifting in long slanting waves down the valleys,
has its charm. But somehow, this year, there seemed to be very little
rain. If it rained, it rained discreetly and at night, filling the
brooks and laying the dust and bringing everything out again the
following morning, fresh and dewy and full of the beauty of God. And Sir
Pelham, standing at his window in the early morning, would wonder at the
astonishing feeling of well-being that filled his soul. Every day was
fun. It was so long since he had experienced that almost childish
sensation of fun, he reflected, standing there drawing on his cigarette
and wondering if they should go to Watendlath or Buttermere. It rather
depended on how far they could take the car towards Watendlath, he
decided. Aunt Dorothy was quite a good walker, but they must not run the
risk of overtiring that valiant little lady. He would ask Warner, who
would soon be round for orders and coming up to his room. Yes, there he
was. Sir Pelham turned at the discreet knock on the door.

And Warner was all for Watendlath. You could get almost up to the top of
the steepest bit, he said respectfully, for Warner had studied his road
guide and map of field paths. You turned in at the gate on the main road
from Keswick on the other side of Derwentwater, said Warner.

"Splendid. Well, are they making you comfortable at the Gate Farm,
Warner?"

"Yes, Sir, thank you."

"Plenty of room for the car?"

"They've given it a barn to itself," said Warner, allowing himself a
discreet smile.

"I'm glad they have," smiled Sir Pelham in return. "Well, then, if we
start at half-past ten I think it will be time enough. You might slide
the roof half back; not all the way or it gets too hot."

"Very good, sir," said Warner neatly, and departed. And still Sir Pelham
stood there. She would be in in a minute, unless he was very very much
mistaken. Susan... transformed, made young again, radiant with that
intangible thing that the young had a right to demand from life. Or
hadn't they? They had, decided Sir Pelham, gazing out at the radiant
quiet and stillness of the mountains. Made by God, that exquisite
beauty. And yet the halting frustrated misery of the human creature was
supposed to be the fulfilment of His purpose. It wasn't, decided Sir
Pelham, turning at the soft tap on the door.

"Well?"

"Where are we going to-day?" Susan had on a soft dust-coloured jumper
suit with a ruffled crpe de chine blouse open at the neck.

"To Watendlath."

"Oh, how heavenly." Susan stood still in the middle of the floor. "Shall
I tell Rachel to put us up lunch?" she asked.

"Why?"

"Why, it's so frightfully expensive: you're always paying for Aunt
Dorothy and me."

"Is it?" Sir Pelham's eyes were amused.

"Yes."

"Well, then I shall expect a reduction in the weekly terms that you
exact from me," he said.

"Oh, I never thought of that!" Susan was suddenly scarlet and trembling.

"You blessed child, I'm only in fun." Sir Pelham took a quick step
forward. And then he also stood still. No, since that unguarded moment
he had ventured no endearment. He held out his hands and took hers in
his.

"Have you begun to feel that you pay too much?" stammered Susan.
Unconsciously she turned her head aside. Ah, but if he would only kiss
her, she thought blindly.

"Little goose, no," said Sir Pelham lightly. He let go of her hands and
watched them as they hung down at her sides. Trembling. "And simply
because I was trying to pull your leg," he said tenderly.

"What?"

"Little trembling hands."

"Not little ones," said Susan, trying to regain her composure and
faintly smiling.

"But now tell me; why do your hands tremble when I tease you?" said Sir
Pelham. Was it the beauty of the day, or the fragility of the girl who
stood trying to avoid his gaze, or the devil that lurks in every man
that prompted the question? wondered Sir Pelham, standing there and
looking at Susan.

"How can I tell why? It's probably because I'm so stupid," faltered
Susan unhappily.

"I am not awe-inspiring then?" questioned Sir Pelham mischievously.
Again he held out his hand and took hers in his.

"Oh, you are!" replied Susan fervently.

"Well, then----"

"It's because you're so utterly different," burst from Susan. "You know
you are; of course you do. How can you possibly help knowing? Why, here
we all are, simply worshipping you, and Rachel rushing like a mad thing
when she thinks you might perhaps be wanting something that you haven't
got. And Aunt Dorothy..."

"Yes, Aunt Dorothy," prompted Sir Pelham, his eyes dancing.

"Well, you've made her quite different. She's always been my idea of
someone fearfully, sort of, hard," said Susan, frowning in her anxiety
to make herself understood. "Someone who's always wanted one to do the
hateful thing, don't you know, the sort of deadly dull thing that one
hates to do. And now she's all alert, and so happy about these heavenly
excursions. She talks about them in her bedroom, and raves about the
car, and everything. And she and Rachel simply plan your food: I'm
hardly allowed near them," said Susan, and she suddenly laughed
joyfully, like a child.

"In fact, I'm most terribly spoiled," said Sir Pelham, and he too
laughed heartily. That laughter had just saved the situation, he
decided, strolling to the window again when Susan had gone. The fact was
that the weather and his renewed health and the jolliness of everything
was becoming a little too much for him, decided Sir Pelham, his eyes on
the waving feathery greenness of the bracken and on the lambs that ran
and nuzzled and were so nearly no longer lambs. For the year was getting
on. Well into July. And soon, if he knew anything about it, his chief
clerk would begin to get busy. Back again to the luxurious room with its
three rounded windows looking out on to the Thames. The conferences; his
chief clerk shepherding them all in. And there they would sit with their
eyes fixed on him, most of them lying like the devil. Especially the
women, thought Sir Pelham, sliding a glance down to his wrist. It was
time to get ready. What an awful thing it was to think of that life
waiting to pounce on him again. And one of his best friends gone. It
would be difficult to replace Merrivale, with his kindly wisdom and his
tolerance and his air of knowing all about everything. However... Sir
Pelham walked over to his writing-table and began to fill his
tortoiseshell cigarette-case from the big silver box that always stood
on it.

While Susan and Aunt Dorothy excitedly consulted one another as to what
they should wear--"Darling, do you think I shall want my motor
veil?"--Aunt Dorothy was standing by her chest of drawers, a pile of
chiffon under her right hand.

"Oh, no, darling." Susan's eyes were twinkling. "You see, the car is
practically closed," she said.

"But I should not like my hair to become dis-arranged."

"It won't," said Susan staunchly. She stepped forward and took the small
determined figure in her young arms. "You are a darling," she said.

"And why?"

"Because you sort of go in for everything so," said Susan earnestly.

"But my dear child," Aunt Dorothy had detached herself and was also
speaking earnestly. "I consider Sir Pelham a very remarkable man," she
said. "And anything that we can do to make this enforced rest of his
more pleasant I also consider our duty," and Aunt Dorothy spoke very
definitely indeed.




CHAPTER XXXVIII


Watendlath is one of the most beautiful places in the Lake District. A
tiny upland valley nursed in the lap of the mountains that surround it.
Waterfalls, the sound of them coming pattering through the sunshine.
Farmhouses, white and scattered like streaks of clinging mist. Susan
stood there and gazed around her, Aunt Dorothy by her side.

"Yes, isn't it divine?" Susan's eyes were dreamy. "You walked most
wonderfully, Aunt Dorothy."

"I am a very good walker," said Aunt Dorothy complacently. "And the car
brought us up a very long way: further than I thought it would."

"Yes."

"And where is Sir Pelham?"

"He's gone into that cottage. He's most frightfully entertained to find
that we can't get anything but bacon and eggs for lunch," said Susan.
"At least, nothing hot. But he's gone into the cottage to order them and
to find out if they can give us anything else as well. He loves doing
it," said Susan happily. "It's something so absolutely new for him, you
see."

"Quite. Ah, there he is," said Aunt Dorothy. And breathing in the
fragrance of the air and the sunshine Susan watched her aunt going to
meet the tall man in plus-fours. He was laughing; bending his head to
speak to Aunt Dorothy, who turned to trot along beside him.

"Well?" and there was a light in his eyes as he came up to Susan.

"Well."

"I've fixed up our lunch. Bacon and eggs and a fine new loaf. Stewed
raspberries and red currants and a junket and a lot of cream. The
raspberries and red currants, also the butter and cream, are there in
the dairy as cold as you please, and she's going to make the junket
now."

"How perfect!"

"Yes, isn't it?"

"How long before lunch?" inquired Susan delicately.

"Three-quarters of an hour," said Sir Pelham, replacing his soft cuff.

"Oh."

"And how is Aunt Dorothy going to spend the time until then?" inquired
Sir Pelham, putting a quick affectionate hand on Aunt Dorothy's discreet
grey sleeve.

"In sitting and thinking that I am glad I am alive," said Aunt Dorothy
unexpectedly.

"Well done, Miss Maitland." Sir Pelham threw back his head with a shout
of laughter. And then he fingered his tie and looked at Susan.

"And you and I will have a walk," he said. "Not a long one, as we've got
to get back to the car after lunch. But just to that wood over there.
See, Miss Maitland?"

"I see," said Aunt Dorothy, and her square-toed shoes went brightly and
cheerfully over the soft grass to a long wooden seat with a comfortable
back to it. While Sir Pelham and Susan strolled away; across the tiny
wooden bridge that spanned the rushing stream and up the cobbled path
with the loose flint wall on either side of it.

"Yes, this really is divine," Sir Pelham spoke after a long pause as he
gazed around him.

"Yes, isn't it?"

"But, of course, you know it well. Don't hurry." Sir Pelham laid a
restraining hand on Susan's soft woolly sleeve.

"Yes, I know it very well indeed. But somehow it looks different
to-day," said Susan simply.

"Why?" and as Sir Pelham said the word he wondered why he had said it.
Everything within him fighting to make him behave. And yet, no, not
everything. One part of him egging him on. "Go on... she adores you;
her life has been one long starvation. Her husband; that wretched
drunken fellow is well out of the way. Make the most of your
opportunities: you are clever and experienced enough to know when to
stop. Go _on_...."

"Why?" Susan had taken off her tiny soft cap and was staring ahead of
her as she settled her hair in place.

"Why, because I'm with you," she said.

"Oh, Susan!"

"Does it matter my saying it? Why should it? It's perfectly obvious,"
said Susan quietly. "I don't feel ordinary shame in telling you as I
should if it was any other man. In fact, I couldn't tell any other man
because there isn't any other man in the world but you. You must know
it's true when you see how everyone behaves when you're there. Even Ada
rushing upstairs to light your fire if there's the slightest excuse for
it. Servants don't rush to do things for people even when they do get
very well tipped. It's something about you... a heavenly kindness. A
sort of kindness that gets into one's very soul," said Susan, and in the
strong sunlight her lips went suddenly pale.

"Oh, my God!" Sir Pelham turned his head restlessly. "Susan, I do wish
you wouldn't speak like that," he said.

"Why?"

"Come along through this gate, it's quieter," he said. They walked side
by side along a narrow grassy path. Trees standing slenderly together,
the sunlight catching the trunks of them and making them pale.
Foxgloves, also slender, their stalks thick with pinkish blooms. The
light, getting dimmer as the trees grew more closely together. Susan,
her eyes starry, walked like someone in a dream. And yet her thoughts
were not in the least starry. They were reckless. She did not care; she
did not care _what_ happened. She was his, unutterably engulfingly his.
If only he would want her like that. Ah, if only he would!

"Susan."

"Well?"

"You make it very difficult for me when you speak like that."

"Why?"

"Because you do," said Sir Pelham, and he gave a little quiet laugh.

"If I thought that I should indeed be happy," said Susan simply. She
stood and lifted her face to his. "Why shouldn't I say it?" she said.
"Why shouldn't I acknowledge what has altered my life from a thing of
misery and squalor to something that is dignified and glorious? I love
you in a way that I don't believe even you can understand. It's like
having some lovely thing to look at when you've been shut up within four
grey walls with nothing to look at at all."

"And when you speak to me like that how do you expect me to behave?"
said Sir Pelham briefly, and he took off his tweed cap and crumpling it
up put it in his pocket.

"How do men behave when they know that a woman adores them?"

"It depends."

"On what they feel for the woman?"

"Yes."

And then Susan's eyes were steady. "I know that you feel nothing at all
for me," she said. "How could you? You belong to another sort of world
entirely. Think of what you have done and what you have seen and the
people you meet. You're famous. I'm nothing: nobody." And then the
steadiness of Susan's gaze faltered into tears.

"And supposing I told you that you were the woman I love," said Sir
Pelham slowly.

"I shouldn't believe it."

"And if I took you in my arms and told you. If I told you now: under
these trees. With our lunch getting cold and Aunt Dorothy wondering
where we are." And now Sir Pelham's clean-shaven lips were also pale.

"I shouldn't believe it."

"But it is true." And there was a queer suppressed passion in Sir
Pelham's voice. "I'm a devil," he said. "I sneak into another man's
house and make love to his wife. A thing I've held up to scorn hundreds
of times. I make my living out of faithless husbands and treacherous
wives. I expose their infidelities and make them writhe with my
strictures on them. And then, when I get the chance, I do exactly the
same thing myself. Susan, I love you. Come into my arms and let me kiss
you, or by God I'll strangle you as you stand there."

"Oh...."

"What are you afraid of, my love?"

"No, no."

"What then? Tell me?" Towering over her, Sir Pelham had Susan crushed in
his arms. "Tell me that you don't like it," he said. "Tell me that it's
not heaven to be held like this close up against my heart. With your
baby, untried innocent mouth on mine. Tell me."

"I..."

"Ah, that's just like a woman. Frightened when she finds that the kindly
gentle somnolent creature whose neck she has been stroking turns and is
inclined to bite. Why didn't you think of it before?" Sir Pelham's voice
was clipped and passionate.

"I..."

"I-I-I... Oh, God, we must go back." Sir Pelham suddenly dropped his
arms from Susan's shaking body and put an unsteady hand up to his tie.
"My God in heaven," he said slowly.

"It's been too much for you," cried Susan, terrified.

"Too much for me!" and then a sudden gust of laughter swept into Sir
Pelham's eyes. "You child," he said, and closing his upper teeth on his
lower lip he smiled. "Baby!" he said. "Here, stick this foxglove into
your belt if you've got one, and come along back to that farm or our
lunch will be cooked to smithereens."

"But..."

"No, for the moment this discussion is closed," said Sir Pelham briefly.
"You've stirred up enough fires for one day, my child; let the ashes get
cold with as much decency as possible."

"I..."

But there was something hard and a little cruel about Sir Pelham's voice
as he replied.

"No," he said, "come along. We've kept Miss Maitland waiting far too
long as it is," and with a shrug of his powerful shoulders Sir Pelham
turned and, leading the way back along the narrow grassy path with the
tall trees coming close up to the edge of it, he walked with his head a
little bent.




CHAPTER XXXIX


Susan sat through the meal that followed with eyes that felt as if they
had been thrust into the back of her head and then dragged out again
with burning fingers. Mercifully they had not been away nearly as long
as they thought they had. Aunt Dorothy was coming to meet them, smiling,
and smoothing her coat down at the back.

"Just in time," she said, and there was something sprightly and
delighted about her voice. It was so long since Aunt Dorothy had been
with people who did not seem to find her a bother. As you got older,
always to feel yourself a bother became like a little nagging pain that
you could not forget. You went bravely out trying to forget it was
there. Perhaps it wasn't there. And then something said or done would
bring it back. As a cold wind brings back a dreaded neuralgia. But these
two people coming towards her really liked her to be with them. In
fact--and then Aunt Dorothy's maiden heart gave a great leap as the
daring thought struck her--if she wasn't there they would not be able to
be together at all. With Susan's husband away, of course, Susan would
have to be away too. With renewed complaisance Aunt Dorothy trotted
along by Sir Pelham's side to the white cottage under the hill.

And the meal served to them in the big flagged kitchen with its
oak-beamed ceiling was a very good one. Sir Pelham was hungry and so was
Aunt Dorothy. The bacon was genuine Cumberland and the eggs were
burstingly fresh.

"Why aren't you eating?" Across the table Sir Pelham's voice was curt.

"I'm not very hungry."

"Nonsense." Sir Pelham's response was brief. Reaching out, he slid the
spoon and fork under a couple of rashers of bacon and a large golden
egg. "Eat it up," he said, "or I shall have to treat you as my parents
used to treat me when I was a child. No pudding unless the meat course
is properly eaten. Don't you agree, Miss Maitland?"

"Yes," said Miss Maitland delightedly, her maiden sensibilities stirred
by this assertion of masculine authority. "Why aren't you hungry, dear;
has the walk been too much for you?"

"Oh, no," Susan pressed her first finger heavily on the handle of her
knife to prevent it from trembling. Why had he suddenly got like this,
she wondered feverishly. Was it all a dream that he had snatched her to
his heart and told her that he loved her? Or was he furious and
disgusted now because he had done it. Or had he said it on impulse and
was now wondering how he was going to get out of it? In any event, if
she went on eating any more of this bacon and eggs she would be sick,
thought Susan desperately, grasping her knife and fork and seeing in a
sort of dream the nice landlady coming in with a smile to ask her if
they wanted any more.

"No, thank you," said Aunt Dorothy delicately. "What delicious butter
this is."

"Isn't it?" said Sir Pelham heartily. His clean-shaven face was
untroubled and a little amused. "But wait till you see the raspberries
and cream, Miss Maitland. Come along, Susan, finish what you have on
your plate and then you can have some too."

"I can't finish it," said Susan, and heavy tears stood in her blue eyes.

"Nonsense, eat it up," said Sir Pelham. And as he sat with his clever
hands linked together on the coarse tablecloth he felt in some obscure
way that this almost childish assertion of authority was helping him to
regain his self-respect. This slender girl had set him alight with her
frank avowal of love and he resented it, for he was not a man who was
easily set alight. Experienced with women, he expected them to keep
their place. This girl had crept into his heart without his knowing it.
He was angry: deeply and rather resentfully angry. It made the position
difficult; impossible. He would have to go, and he did not want to go
until the autumn.

"Finished?"

"Yes," said Susan wretchedly. She could not meet his gaze and she sat
there rather hunched like a child.

"Let me take your plate, dear." Aunt Dorothy suddenly became aware that
something was wrong with this beloved niece of hers. And she got up and
trotted round the table.

"Oh, thank you, Aunt Dorothy." Susan half got up out of her chair and
then sat down again.

"And now give her some raspberries, Sir Pelham." Aunt Dorothy, eager
that there should be nothing to mar this heavenly day in this lovely
upland valley, was all smiles, and standing at Sir Pelham's side watched
him bale the rose-coloured fruit out of the blue china bowl.

"Cream?"

"Oh, yes, dear, have some cream?"

Between them they would kill her, thought Susan desperately, her eyes on
Sir Pelham's muscular wrist.

"Enough?"

"Masses." If she was not to burst out into screaming tears she would
have to be monosyllabic, thought Susan. Her eyes flew to the fat white
clock on the distempered wall. They had all that long walk back to the
car before them; how would she get through it? With him like this; all
his wonderful kindness and tenderness turned into something hard and
unyielding. He was angry, of course, thinking that she had been
impertinent in the way she had forced her love on him. Well, of course
she had. She was married, and it was a disgraceful and scandalous thing
to have done. Susan's eyes swam in tears, and one large one fell into
the middle of her plate.

"Well, I'll leave you while I go out and have a cigarette." Sir Pelham
had seen the tear and it only made his heart a little harder. He had
seen too many women cry for it to stir him. Often he had set himself
deliberately out to make them cry under cross-examination, and would
then wither them with sarcasm when he had done it. He glanced down at
his wrist. "If we start to walk back in half an hour it will be plenty
of time," he said, and stooping his tall head, for the door was low, he
went out.

"Oh, my darling, what is it?" her round gold-rimmed spectacles gleaming
in the sunlight. Aunt Dorothy leaned right over the crumbly tablecloth
and peered anxiously up into Susan's flushed face. It had all been so
lovely and so auspicious and now Susan, for some inexplicable reason,
was in tears. And Sir Pelham so oddly down on her. All the joy of the
beautiful day seemed to be quenched. Queer unspoken thoughts seemed to
be circulating round the old oak table. Aunt Dorothy suddenly felt
thoroughly uncomfortable.

"It's nothing," said Susan hoarsely. She pushed back her plate and got
up from the table.

"Then why do you cry, dear?" asked Aunt Dorothy simply, and her flat
pale face was all creased with disappointment and anxiety. Sitting very
straight up in her chair she spoke very gently.

"Gentlemen often speak rather harshly without any real reason for doing
so," she said. "Even your dear father has sometimes been quite sharp
with me for practically nothing. It is better to take no notice of it,
Susan."

"All right, then, I won't," said Susan blindly. Finding her handkerchief
she pressed it to her eyes. The great thing was to get home with some
semblance of dignity, she thought feverishly, and then she could shut
herself up in her room and think about it. All the beautiful protective
tenderness that she had been accustomed to receive from this man was
gone, and she herself had banished it by her behaviour. Instead of it
being a joy and a rapture to look forward to almost three months of this
sort of life, it was going to be a terror. Susan was blowing her nose
and wondering wildly at the same time if it would not be possible for
her to give Sir Pelham and her aunt the slip and get back to the car
alone. If she had about half an hour by herself she might be able to
pull herself together. Why did people close round you when you were
longing to be alone? "Aunt Dorothy."

But Aunt Dorothy had gone out of the room. Discreetly she was
interviewing the nice friendly woman of the house. "Out there, Miss,"
very much alarmed, Aunt Dorothy was following her.

For, after all, in the back of her mind. Aunt Dorothy had a very shrewd
idea what was the matter with Susan. Rachel, in her rapture in getting
the Rector out of the house, had hinted at it. And Aunt Dorothy had
pretended not to understand. Had even pretended to herself that she had
not understood. For in some new and dreadful way all the old values
seemed to be being reversed, and it frightened her. Susan, a married
woman, had allowed her fancy to stray towards this magnificent and
famous barrister. She must take the thing up at once: remove Susan from
the danger zone and take her home with her.

Instead of which, in her thin sloping handwriting, she had written as
follows to her brother.

    "My Dear Walter,--

    "I am afraid that you will think me very dilatory in writing,
    but I have been waiting to do so until I could write fully and
    to some purpose. As you know, Arthur has consented to go to
    Carlisle and take the cure, and leaves this afternoon by the two
    o'clock train. While he is away I shall, of course, remain here,
    although really, with Rachel so capable and Sir Pelham so all
    that can be desired, there is no need. He is charming; we need
    not have distressed ourselves about any undesirable contretemps.
    He keeps a good deal to his room and seems extremely
    comfortable, and Susan and I get on very well indeed. What more
    can one want? The house is extremely well run in every way.
    Well, my dear boy, I intended to write a long letter, but here
    is Susan herself to take me to the post with her, and as it is a
    lovely day it seems a pity to stay in.

    "Always your loving sister,
    "Dorothy."

And now as Aunt Dorothy walked through the overgrown garden with its
riot of raspberry canes, she was thinking about his letter, which had
been the first of several, all to the same effect. Everything was
charming and exactly as it should be. But was it? As Aunt Dorothy went
back into the oak-beamed kitchen and saw Susan standing there, outwardly
quite calm and inwardly, as Aunt Dorothy felt perfectly convinced, a
boiling furnace of feeling, she also felt her own head humming a little.
Youth and love and an unhappy married life behind one. Or, at least, not
behind one... going on. That was the difficulty, going on. For Arthur
Carpendale would come back and Sir Pelham would go away, and then what
would happen?

"Is it time that we started back, dear? Everything is perfectly all
right and nice of you...." Poor Aunt Dorothy was trying to seem quite
at her ease. Because if one once began to show that one sensed that
things were not quite what they appeared on the surface, then where
would it end?

"Oh, thanks. Yes, perhaps we had better let Sir Pelham know that we are
ready. You tell him, while I..." Susan went out of the kitchen with
quick determined steps.




CHAPTER XL


The day after the expedition to Watendlath Susan waked with a headache.
Rachel, bringing in her early tea, saw her lying there very flat on her
pillow, and felt a sinking of the heart. Swift to detect any change in
her darling's expression, she had noticed the evening before that she
was not herself. And now what had happened? Rachel's sturdy optimism
that everything was going to turn out all right began to waver a little.

"What is it, my dearie?"

"My head," said Susan simply, and she shut her eyes again.

"You drink this up and lie quiet," said Rachel, putting down the tray.
"And I'll leave your curtains as they are. You'll stay where you are for
breakfast. Yes, you will," said Rachel with emphasis.

"Oh, no..." Susan opened her heavy eyelids again.

"Yes," said Rachel, and she went away. And when she had gone Susan got
heavily out of bed. Pressing her fingers on her eyeballs she stood there
and wondered it she would be better if she was sick. No, she did not
feel sick, really. Only that frightful feeling as if someone was clawing
at the back of her eyeballs. After brushing her teeth and combing her
short hair through with her white comb, she got back into bed again.
Yes, the tea was nice. Leaning on her elbow Susan poured herself out a
second cup of it. It was not nearly so fine to-day; the sunlight was not
shining through her curtains as it generally did. Generally it waked her
and the glory of the waking was all part of the wonderful rapture of the
new day. Now it only felt dead and grey and somehow horrible. Having
finished her tea Susan lay down flat again. She would not think about
what happened yesterday. It was there, crouched at the back of her mind,
all ready to leap and smother her capacity for intelligent thinking. But
at the moment she was too tired. Too deadly, hopelessly tired.

And Rachel, bringing in her breakfast tray, took it silently away again.
Far better that her darling should sleep, thought far-sighted Rachel.
She was delighted with a sort of vindictive delight when she met Sir
Pelham on the way to his bath.

"Hallo, someone not well?" he made a gesture towards the tray she was
carrying.

"The mistress. She lies there looking like death," said Rachel promptly.

"Why, what's the matter with her?" and in spite of his desperate anxiety
that Rachel should not guess anything, Sir Pelham could not disguise the
quick uneasiness in his voice.

"That I cannot say, sir, so early on," replied Rachel ominously.

"But probably I can. I've had a good deal of experience in illness,"
said Sir Pelham promptly. He put down his towels and sponge bag. "Leave
that tray and come along upstairs with me," he said. And they went
upstairs together, the tall man in his gay silk dressing-gown and Rachel
behind him. "You go in first," he said, "quietly, in case she is
asleep."

And Susan, lying there, clenched her hands under the sheet and lay there
rigid. Sir Pelham watched her fluttering eyelashes and then turned to
Rachel. "I think I know what is wrong," he whispered. "Just go outside
for a moment or two, I'll call you if I want you."

"Yes, sir," and tiptoeing out Rachel went. And standing there alone Sir
Pelham remained motionless, looking down at Susan. "Ah," he spoke very
softly as a tear stole out from under Susan's shut eyelids and ran down
her face.

"Please go away."

"Why?"

"Because I ask you to."

"You really wish it?"

A sob was Susan's only reply. She turned and buried her face in the
pillow. And Sir Pelham, standing there, smiled. How alike all women
were, he reflected. Never counting the cost until it was too late.
Letting their imaginations and their emotions flame and run riot. Why
should this woman have fixed her affections on him of all people? Why
had he been such a criminal fool as to have let her see that he also
cared? For that was where the real mischief came in. Left alone with his
folly he could have subdued it, for he was perfectly determined on one
point, and that was that he was not going to ruin his career for any
woman. The futility and the indignity and the eventual disaster of that
was out of the question. For now that he was restored to health Sir
Pelham had come to see how much his career meant to him. Already in
correspondence with his junior counsel he was contemplating taking up,
at any rate, a couple of important cases for the Michaelmas term. The
papers would be coming up to him shortly, and before the end of the
vacation Trevor was coming to the Derwentwater Hotel for ten days or so
to talk things over. 'Brooke... Oh, haven't you heard, he's got
himself mixed up with some woman in the Lake District, the wife of a
parson, I believe.' No, no, no; and as if in repudiation of the horror
of the thought, Sir Pelham stooped and laid a hand on Susan's soft hair.

"Does it ache?"

"Not when you put your hand on it," said Susan simply, and she lay there
very still.

"Tears will not help."

"They do help," said Susan steadily. And somehow now it was easy to be
steady. His quiet matter-of-fact way of speaking was restoring her
self-respect. No longer that abysmal shame in having forced his hand and
the knowledge that in the forcing of it she had turned his thought
against her.

"Susan."

"Yes." Susan was feeling about under the pillow for her handkerchief. It
was softly scented with eau de cologne and the clean fragrance of it was
wafted upward.

Sir Pelham dragged up a chair. And then he twisted the handle of the
door and opened it. "Go down and turn off my bath, Rachel," he said.
"I'll be down in a minute or two, don't wait."

"Yes, sir," and Rachel, going quickly and solidly down the stairs, felt
her heart singing. All would be well now, thought Rachel, bustling into
the bathroom and twisting the large brass tap and then opening the
window a crack at the top to let out the steam that had collected.

While Sir Pelham drew his chair closer up to the bed. "Let me feel your
hand," he said. "Just to see if you have any fever, although I'm sure
you haven't."

"No, I'm sure I haven't."

"No, not an atom," and Sir Pelham held Susan's small hand closely in
his.

"Darling," he said, "listen to me."

"Yes." He had called her darling. Then he was not angry, thought Susan,
watching him with wide-open despairing eyes.

"Yesterday was a mistake," said Sir Pelham simply. "It was an unhappy
incident in a very happy day. I had no business to speak as I did; it
was dishonourable as well as extremely foolish. For if that sort of
thing creeps in between you and me then, of course, I must go. You see
that, don't you?"

No, and Susan lying there very still wondered if she dared say the word.
For with his hand close round hers her pulses were leaping again. He
loved her; he had said so. Then why shouldn't he take her; then... at
any time, at any time during the day or night, thought Susan, her eyes
wide and very blue as they dwelt speechlessly on his.

"You see," continued Sir Pelham, and in his quiet tranquillity it was
almost as if he had taken her thoughts into his, and then calmly handed
them back to her again. "In this life it is very necessary to be
sensible. I am no longer a young man. If I was I should probably
consider that the inestimable gift of your love over-rode all other
considerations. But I know that that is a fallacy. Things don't work out
that way. I have a career, and it is part of my very existence. If that
is gone, half of me is gone with it. Do you see?"

"Would it matter?" and Susan's whisper was pathetic in its anxiety.

"Would what matter?"

"Your loving me," choked Susan.

"Yes, it would matter very much indeed," said Sir Pelham, and suddenly
his brilliant smile broke out. What a baby it was, he thought,
caressingly smiling down into Susan's despairing eyes.

"Then what happens?"

"We go on exactly as we are," said Sir Pelham, "or rather exactly as we
were. We face the fact that if we want to have this delightful time
together we must behave. Do you see?"

"I can't," choked Susan.

"But you must."

"But then what happens next?"

"How do you mean 'What happens next'?"

"When Arthur comes back," breathed Susan, and the colour rushed over her
face in a great flood. But Sir Pelham's eyes were steady.

"My darling child," he said. "You yet have to learn that there is
nothing so foolish as to look ahead. Your husband will not be back for
another couple of months... no, longer. Leave the thought of that
entirely out of your mind. We are here together now, and have everything
to make us happy. Divine weather, a car to go about in, and Aunt Dorothy
to make everything nice for us. Isn't that enough for you?"

"No," said Susan, and she suddenly said it bravely. She raised herself
on one elbow and stared at him. "I want you to kiss me," she said
desperately. "If I don't ever have that I'll die--perish. I don't care
if it is depraved to say it, I will say it. I won't think anything else,
I mean to say..." and here Susan's colour flooded up all over her
soft neck again. "I mean to say that I know you wouldn't want to do
anything else... how could you? But you can kiss me, you can, you
can. You shall," cried Susan, and she lay back on the pillows again
staring at him.

"Is it wise?" But Sir Pelham's eyes were bright and merry. He stooped
and laid his face on hers. "Baby," he said. "Oh what a baby you are,
Susan."

"And do you still like me?"

"I do." Sir Pelham lifted his head and slipped a hand round Susan's soft
bare neck. His gaze dwelt on hers. How wise she was, he reflected, or
did she simply do it out of innocence? Out of innocence, he decided,
stooping again and now pressing his mouth to hers.

"Oh," and now Susan's lips were parted in a soft rapture.

"Yes, but all this time my bath is getting cold," said Sir Pelham, and
he laughed and, getting rather quickly out of his chair, he went out of
the room.




CHAPTER XLI


After this everything went better. Only in the servants' hall were there
storms and discords. Rachel was cross and her usually good-tempered face
was creased with a disturbed preoccupation. The wretched Ada could do
nothing right. If she went into the scullery it should have been the
larder, and vice versa.

"I shan't stay," one day Ada lifted up her voice and howled.

"Yes, you will. You'll stay till the autumn, when we'll probably all be
gone," said Rachel ominously, and the terrified Ada stopped crying and
only stared.

"And now you go and get ready for church, and don't be late back or you
won't get that nice dinner that you generally have. Understand?"

"Yes," breathed Ada as well as she was able for her tears. And as she
walked rapidly along the flowery lane she wondered, and not for the
first time either, why it was that no one but her ever went to church
now that the Rector wasn't there. Even Miss Maitland only went to the
early service, and that not every time they had it, either.

The others never seemed to think of it. It was just as if going to
church might remind them of the Rector, mused Ada, who was not quite so
stupid as everyone thought she was. No one wanted to remember the
Rector, that's what it was: and not to be wondered at, either, Ada
decided, hastening her steps so that she might catch up Pollie Woodford,
who played the harmonium, because she liked to sit close to her and sing
loud, and it was easier if the harmonium drowned your voice when it got
squawky, as it did when you had to stop too long on the top notes.

And left alone in the big spotless kitchen Rachel did her work and
thought hard all the time. Rachel was now about forty-four and her mind
did not move as quickly as it used to do. It was apt to settle itself
down in one spot and brood. She was brooding now. The Rector; the time
was getting on and he would soon be coming back. Rachel had got it
marked down on the calendar from the Keswick wine merchants. He was to
be away three months. Well, they were nearly in August now. He would be
back about the 10th of October. Rachel was stooping down to open the
oven door and the hot savoury smell of the roasting beef came wafting
out into her face as she spooned the gravy over the frizzling joint. All
in to lunch to-day, so it had got to be a beautiful one. Roast sirloin
of beef and Yorkshire pudding made at the very last minute so that it
fluffed, and mashed potatoes, because her darling had once said that
potatoes roasted in the dripping of the joint were vulgar. Rachel
surreptitiously spooned more gravy over the four potatoes sitting there
for Ada and herself. Lucky that it doesn't matter how vulgar we are, as
she thought with a funny little twisted smile.

"Well, Rachel, that smells very savoury," the tall man standing by the
door was smiling.

"Yes, sir," and now Rachel's face was also all smiles. She rose
respectfully to her feet.

"Let me have a look. I don't believe I've ever seen a joint cooking
before." Sir Pelham came cheerfully across the flagged floor. Stooping
his tall head he peered into the oven.

"Roast potatoes," he said, standing upright again, "How sublime."

"There now," said Rachel.

"What?"

"And the mistress says that they're vulgar. I'm getting ready mashed
ones for the dining-room."

"Vulgar? Good heavens, what blasphemy, Susan." And now Sir Pelham was
standing at the open door shouting up the stairs.

"Coming," and Susan, all flushed and happy, slid down them like a
whirlwind.

"What's the matter?" she stood there all expectancy, like a child.

"Did you tell Rachel that roast potatoes were vulgar?"

"Oh, Rachel, did I? Why? do you like them?"

"Like them! Why, they're enchanting," said Sir Pelham. His bronzed face
was all alight with fun. "Alter the menu," he said. "If I don't see
roast potatoes on the table for lunch I shall leave at twenty-four
hours' notice."

And now everyone was laughing. Aunt Dorothy, coming out of the
dining-room to find out what was happening, was laughing too. Everything
was fun. The sunshine flooded the old grey Rectory and made even the sad
old windows of it look joyful. The larks... they seemed to be singing
more boisterously than they had ever done before. The river... down
at the bottom of the meadow, full now of big ox-eyed daisies and pink
sorrel and tiny thrusting field flowers that one couldn't see unless one
looked, was tumbling along and chattering and laughing as it went. Life
and joy and happiness; everything as it was meant to be, thought Susan,
racing upstairs to her room again, because they were all going out in
the car that afternoon and she wanted to finish putting a new ribbon on
her straw hat. It was too sunny for a cap now; Susan, intent and
absorbed on her work, was humming. She was happy; utterly and completely
happy. He had made it all right... the man she adored and worshipped.
He had shown her that to spoil what was beautiful by wanting what one
could not have was folly. "Live by the day," he had said, and he had
taken her hand in his and told her very gravely that if she did not feel
able to do this he was going away at once.

And with a little cold stab at her heart Susan had obeyed him. At first
it had been difficult. It is not easy to subdue fires within one that
leap up at a touch. Also Susan had read a good many rather foolish
novels. In novels, if you keep on at it long enough, the man gives way.
You touch him and he flames. But Susan found out that in real life that
is exactly what does not happen. A strong man goes away when he finds
that he is inclined to flame when flaming means dishonour. It was either
that or nothing, and Susan had some rather agonising hours when she
fought it out with herself. But she had conquered. And now every day was
more enchanting than the last. Long excursions in the car. Lovely
evenings when Aunt Dorothy would potter about in the garden while they
walked up and down the lane together. Delightful shopping expeditions
into Keswick. Cloudless days and long peaceful nights and a waking to
another heavenly day. Susan throve and her bare arms were creamy brown,
and so was her delicate imaginative oval-shaped face. And so August wore
to a close, and September came in with a softening and a deepening of
tint. The blackberries were purple and clustered on the long straggling
branches that flung themselves among the hazel bushes that lined the
hedges. The tall stems and fairy fronds of the bracken went to a lovely
rust-colour. "The bracken is turning brown." Aunt Dorothy said it
solemnly as she and Susan walked to the post-office.

"Yes," and then it was exactly as if a cold creeping hand had stirred
Susan's dark hair. The bracken was turning brown. It was coming to an
end. The heavenly time was coming to an end. Next month; Arthur was
coming back next month. His weekly letter spoke of it. The thought of it
suddenly stabbed itself at Susan as if she had let a living thing out of
a locked room. "I am here... nearly here," the thing was dancing
round her, jibing at her. "He is coming back: your husband, your own
living loving husband is coming back." For the Rector had spoken of
improved health and strengthened will. Humbly he had spoken vaguely of a
new beginning. They would try to begin their married life again. 'We
will build it up together, Susan. I have failed you, horribly; no one is
more conscious of it than I am. But I will be different. By the Grace of
God I will be different.'

And in answering the letter Susan had written kindly. She felt the soft
pity for her husband that one feels for the victims of an earthquake in
an island one has never heard of. Remote, of another life altogether,
were these utterances of a man who meant no more to her than the
fountain pen with which he wrote them. It was not yet, and therefore it
was not at all. 'Live by the day.' The words were indelibly inscribed on
Susan's obedient brain.

But these simple words of Aunt Dorothy had razed the self-erected
barrier to the ground. "The bracken is turning brown." Susan stopped
dead in the middle of the lane.

"Have you forgotten something, dear?" Aunt Dorothy also stood still.

"Yes," said Susan hoarsely.

"Then let me go back for you, darling."

"No, no, it's not that." And now Aunt Dorothy was alarmed. This beloved
niece of hers was ill. Obviously she was ill. She held out her hand.

"Let me take those letters of Sir Pelham's quickly on to the post for
you," she said. "And you stay here, dear. Sit down in the shade there."

"Where?"

"There," said Aunt Dorothy firmly. And taking the bundle of letters from
Susan's nerveless hand she gently pushed her down on to a fallen tree
trunk. "The very thing," she said, "and it is quite dry. I would not
leave you but that I know that Sir Pelham is very anxious that these
should catch the half-past eleven post."

"Yes, all right: you go on," said Susan stupidly. Sitting there she
wondered what had happened to her head. It was just as if someone had
given it a great whack with a sandbag. Dulling everything except a sort
of blazing consciousness of a horror to come. The End... like going
into the blackness of a tunnel out of the sunshine. No hope. No End; at
least no end that meant emerging into sunlight again. Only stumbling and
groping with outstretched clawing hands and eventually falling never to
get up again. "The end... bracken turning brown." Susan began to
repeat the words over stupidly to herself.




CHAPTER XLII


By seven o'clock that evening Sir Pelham was beside himself with
anxiety. But he did not show it. And his calm reassured Aunt Dorothy.
"She will be back to dinner," she said. "As I told you, Sir Pelham, on
the way to the post-office, she suddenly looked very faint. But I expect
that she suddenly felt that a long walk would do her good. I remember in
the old days she would often go off like that without giving anyone any
warning. She will be back in half an hour or so," and Aunt Dorothy, who
was weeding the front garden, went on weeding it.

But Rachel was not so optimistic. As she went on with her preparations
for dinner she lifted heavy eyes to Sir Pelham as he stood at the
kitchen door.

"Has she come in?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Where on earth can she have gone?" said Sir Pelham restlessly.

"That's not for me to say," returned Rachel ominously.

"What do you mean?"

"You run out and get a lettuce, Ada," Rachel jerked her white-capped
head and Ada fled.

"Well...?"

"There's death in the air," said Rachel, and she suddenly sank down in
the chair close to her side and flung her apron over her head.

"What on earth do you mean?" and through the queer silence that followed
Sir Pelham heard the quick determined tick of the pale kitchen clock.
There it hung, ticking away. It had often struck him in court, the
relentless impassivity of the big brown wooden clock on the high
panelled wall. Ticking away the moments while a sweating pallid human
being clutched the rounded wooden edges of the dock and prayed for mercy
where with justification there could be no mercy.

"What do I mean, sir?" and now Rachel's usually good-tempered face was
wild with panic. "I mean this. It's turning her brain; what with her
love for you and the fear of the Rector coming back. Oh, I know I
oughtn't to say it, but you're accustomed to hearing people say things
that they oughtn't. I know it's that, I know it too well. Haven't I
watched my darling when she never had a thought that I was doing it? I
know all her blessed innocent thoughts. She's afraid, now that she's
given her love to you. She's afraid that she's done wrong. Wrong," cried
Rachel violently. "As if even a man as great as you are, sir, didn't
ought to go down on his knees and thank the Almighty that a child like
my mistress has given her love to you," and here Rachel broke into great
heavy sobs. And then she turned and rushed to the door. "And now I'm
going to find her," she said. "I know where she is. That is if God is
merciful and she hasn't thrown herself over. She nearly did it once
before, and I found her there just in time."

"And why in God's name didn't you tell me that before?" Sir Pelham had
Rachel's arm in a furious grip. He wrenched her back from the door. "I
shall go, of course. Tell me where it is; I can go twice the pace that
you can. Is the car any use?"

"No, sir," and now Rachel was struggling for self-control. "It's up by
the old quarry," she said. "You know the path, it's right on at the end
of the lane where it turns down to the church. You keep straight on and
it's an awful climb. That's just the hope, she may not have been able to
get to the top," choked Rachel.

"I'll go at once," and now Sir Pelham was out of the kitchen and taking
the stairs two at a time. Once in his bedroom his mind seemed to work
more quickly. Brandy... his flask was already full. A couple of
woolly pullovers... a tin of biscuits; his heart contracted a little
as he remembered Susan's eagerness over those biscuits; they must always
be fresh and crisp. A thermos of coffee... he turned at a sound at
the door.

"Have you any coffee ready?"

"Yes, sir, I always keep it from breakfast," said Rachel. Seizing the
thermos from his hand, she bolted down the stairs again.

"And now I'll go and tell Miss Maitland." Murmuring the words aloud, Sir
Pelham was stuffing the things he had collected into his rucksack. A
thin mackintosh, yes, and a couple of crpe bandages: a sick feeling
took him by the throat as he wrenched open the drawer of his
washhand-stand. Crpe bandages... yes, convenient things to bind up a
dropping jaw. He thrust in his hand and dragged out a third to still the
ugly flights of his imagination. And now his rucksack was full except
for the coffee: taking his tweed cap from the top shelf of his wardrobe,
he ran down the stairs.

"Is the coffee ready?"

"Yes, sir, and some sandwiches, badly cut as they are," and with a few
turns of Rachel's capable wrist the celluloid cup over the squat cork
was in place, and thrust into the rucksack with the flat paper packet.
And now for Miss Maitland. Sir Pelham opened the door of the
sitting-room.

"But do you anticipate?..." Aunt Dorothy's firm lips were parted.

"No, but it is always better to be prepared," and now Sir Pelham was
running down the front steps. Round to the left... he blessed his
restored health as he broke into a steady trot. Rachel's explanations,
although hysterical, had been explicit. Up to the left: the quarry. Yes,
he could see the narrow black slatey path leading up to it. At this
distance it looked almost perpendicular. Miles away. And how the
rucksack bumped on his back as he ran. He shifted it, standing still to
tighten one of the straps. And now on again... the evening sun
streaming slantwise into his eyes. Up to the left, a narrow grassy path,
with bracken standing high on either side of it. Bracken that was
turning colour, that showed how the year was getting on, thought Sir
Pelham vaguely. He began to gasp as he hurried. And that would not do,
if he had a heavy climb ahead of him he must harbour his strength. He
forced himself to walk more slowly.

But after a few more hundred yards he felt that he had got his second
wind. Also it was much cooler. A few misty clouds had drifted over the
setting sun. Sir Pelham shot a quick glance behind him. Yes, that was
why it was getting cooler. A mass of cloud was blowing up behind him,
coming skimming over the tops of the surrounding hills like steam from a
boiling kettle. A storm, unless he was very much mistaken. Yes, there
was the heralding of it, like the plop of a stone in a pond sending out
circling rings of sound. Only a growl, but it was quite enough to warn
him what he was in for.

But as soon as he was at the foot of the precipitous black path he
forgot the storm. It was nearly dark now and the heavy clouds were low
over his head. Away to his left hung the framework of the old mine-head;
that would be where the cage used to hang. The shaggy sliding heaps of
slatey refuse loomed indescribably gloomy in the fading light. A flat
stone dislodged itself from under his heavy brogued shoe and he kicked
it ahead of him. But it slid slantwise, and Sir Pelham heard it go
rattling down the steep bank on his left. It bounced from stone to
stone, and then seemed to come to rest miles away. In the deadly silence
he could almost hear it setting down among the others. Horrible sound.
Sir Pelham tried to whistle. A deadly failure; he was not a man who ever
whistled. Breathing heavily now, for the ascent was very steep, he
plodded on. Supposing Rachel was wrong and Susan had not come in that
direction at all. Supposing she was even now sitting calmly at the
Rectory wondering why he had got excited and rushed out after her.
Supposing... and then Sir Pelham set his clean-shaven lips in a thin
line and took hold of his thoughts. Mercifully he had trained himself to
do that. He would think of nothing at all except that he was taking some
much-needed and violent exercise and that he was extremely thankful that
he could do it and not peg out as he would have pegged out under six
months ago.

And now he was at the top. How long had he been walking? he wondered; he
had purposely not looked at his watch before. Two hours: it was just
half-past nine. The storm had not materialised, the sky was clear again.
Away to his left the rolling end of Great Crag showed vaguely against
the evening sky. It was much lighter now: although close up to him it
was dark because the rocks were black and heavy. The mine had been
worked here; there were low tunnellings in the rocks like giant rabbit
burrows. Ah, but this must be what Rachel had meant; ahead of him he saw
a narrower path leading away from the main one. Yes, that would be it.
Tiny rusty railway lines with about a three-feet gauge. A broken coal
truck showing skeleton and twisted ribs. Sir Pelham suddenly felt a
little sick. A disused mine; why on earth hadn't he brought someone up
with him? Supposing she had fallen into water. Supposing... and then
Sir Pelham suddenly realised how little he had really thought that any
definite harm had come to her. The hysterical ravings of a servant:
subconsciously he felt that they were only that. But now... a
stealthy chill was enveloping him. He suddenly felt that he could not go
on. He would be so helpless if she was in any real danger. One would
want ropes and ladders and lanterns: why had he started off in that
careless irresponsible way? And then he thought he heard a faint cry.
"Susan!" he shouted instantly in response. "Susan!" and all around him
he heard it in mocking echoes. "Susan!" it was coming trickling back to
him from the big black wall of rock on his left. "Susan!" it was yelping
at him from the cavern ahead of him. But now he was hurrying on. A
broken iron fence patched with barbed wire. A ghastly tuft of something
sticking to it: he forced himself to finger it. No, obviously sheep's
wool. He stood on the edge of the pitchy hole and stared into the abyss
of it. "Susan!" he shouted it again. And it came up to him as if someone
was bellowing it into his open mouth. "Susan," Sir Pelham shivered as he
clutched the rough rusted railing. And then he stood absolutely still.
It was useless to shout. His only hope was to remain perfectly
motionless, so that if she was anywhere about he would hear the
slightest sound she made.

And he stood like that for about five minutes. Once he thought he heard
a shrill sound and then it came again and he knew it was a bird. A
squeaking bat: he heard its muffled circle round his head. Horrible! He
had always loathed bats since once, as a little boy, he had seen them in
a loft hanging silently upside down. Without eyes: his nurse had told
him so and he had tumbled half mad with fright down the ladder and
rushed away into the sunshine. And now he felt the same horror envelop
him. Alone up here, surrounded by black gaping mouths. He would go down
again and collect men and lanterns, and then come back again if she had
not arrived.

And he turned and retraced his steps. Away from the old disused shaft he
felt better. The black tunnellings on his left were hateful, but he
would soon leave them behind him too. He walked a little more quickly.
Far, far below him in the valley he could see twinkling lights. There
was something consoling about them. He would have a cigarette; he had
not felt inclined to smoke before. He stopped and, shrugging his
shoulders, he slipped one strap of the rucksack free.

And then it was that he heard a cry again. A scream, although muffled.

"Susan!" Sir Pelham shook himself free from the rucksack and his eyes
raked the darkness. Where was it coming _from_: he flung up his hands
and cupped them over his ears. Ah, it was from over there, away to his
left. From those tiny little open mouths in the black cliff face. Sir
Pelham flung round and began to run.

"Stop screaming, darling, and tell me where you are," his raised voice
was imperative. And now he was quite close to the smallest opening in
the cliff. But how on earth could she ever have got in there?--if she
was there--he thought frantically.

"I'm wedged." Susan was screaming with the mad uncontrolled terror of a
child. "I'm wedged. Help me, help me," the voice came tinily out of the
opening. Like a voice from the grave, thought Sir Pelham, his heart
beating in great thuds.

"Don't scream. I'm coming in to fetch you," shouted Sir Pelham. He flung
himself down on his stomach and began to crawl. Ghastly, horrible, he
thought, as he felt the great rock press down heavy on his back. Fancy
if it fell in and left them both there buried alive.

"You can't, you'll be wedged too." Susan's voice, louder now, clanged in
his ears from the metallic rock all round him. A voice thick with sobs
and terror. "Can't I! I'm getting on like a house on fire." Sir Pelham's
voice was cheerful. He felt his feet warmer now, as they no longer
protruded into the open air. He drew a long breath as he felt with
nervous terror that he was beginning to stifle. No, pure imagination,
there was heaps of air. But how in God's name had the child got in so
far?... He wriggled on, finding it easier now.

"It's a bit of wood across the tunnel. It's fallen down and I can't get
through it." Sir Pelham was quite close to Susan now. Her voice was
hoarse. "No, no, don't pull it. Something may fall down. Go back and
fetch someone." She was panting like an animal mad with fright.

"I'll keep anything that may fall up with my back," said Sir Pelham
calmly. "Besides, it won't. Come out, you devil." Sir Pelham's mind
began to work as he hauled at the piece of wood. And as it worked, the
words of a collect that he had always liked began to drum themselves
over in his brain. "Lord, support us all the day long of this troublous
life. Support, yes, hold up this damned piece of wood and let us both
get out alive," prayed Sir Pelham, as he struggled. For if he left the
child to get help, ten to one the wood would fall down and the roof with
it, and if it didn't, she would think it would, which, in her state of
mind, would be almost as bad. And then he suddenly felt inclined to
laugh as the relief of the thought struck him. The piece of wood _had_
fallen down and nothing else had fallen with it. "Come out," and, lying
flat on his stomach, Sir Pelham reared up his head and hauled. And then
he wriggled a foot or so more forward and thrust his powerful neck under
the beam. "Get _up_, blast you," he gasped.

And up it went. And then he reached out a shaky hand.

"Where are you?" he said. "All clear now."

"I'm further back; there wasn't room to sit up there." Susan's groping
icy-cold hand met his.

"Flatten yourself on your stomach and crawl out after me," said Sir
Pelham. "Hang on to my hand, as I must go feet first. That's it," and
through the blackness and the scratching of the slatey tunnel they went.
"Thank God." Sir Pelham muttered the words as he felt his kicking feet
in the chill of the outside air again. He took a long, bursting breath
as he drew his knees up under him, still dragging Susan. And now they
were both of them out. He lifted her up on to her feet.

"And what possessed you to go in there?" he said shakily.

"It began to rain. I was afraid there was going to be a thunderstorm. I
didn't know what I was doing." Susan was trembling and sobbing. "I was
sure no one would ever find me. A rat or something ran over my hand."
Through the darkness Sir Pelham could see the white of her wide-opened
eyes.

"Well, it's all right now." Sir Pelham spoke in a matter-of-fact voice
and was smiling. "And if I had had the sense to bring my torch it would
all have been very much easier. Stop crying now, Susan, or I shall be
very seriously angry with you."

"I'm so hungry," snorted Susan hysterically.

"And so am I," said Sir Pelham. Tenderly he tucked her hand under his
arm. "I've got some coffee and some sandwiches over there," he said. "In
my rucksack. Come along." He led her through the darkness. "Here we
are." He came to a standstill on the path.

"I'm simply covered with mud." Susan's teeth were chattering. Through
the dim light her cotton dress showed white.

"I've got two woollies: you see I've forgotten nothing." Sir Pelham was
busy with his rucksack. "Hold out your arms," he was finding Susan's
hand to push it into the sleeve of one of them.

"Is there one for you?"

"Yes, I'm all right. And now for the coffee. Drink it up while it's hot;
it will do you good; that's what you want. Sandwiches," the paper was
crackling in Sir Pelham's hand. While all the time he was thinking how
odd this was all being. This girl who loved him, standing there choking
over a chunk of bread, for Rachel had been right: the sandwiches had
been cut in a hurry. And he... what did he feel? Damned glad to be
out of that nasty rabbit hole. But not in the least tired: that was
the wonder of it. Fresh as a trout that has just been hoicked out from
under a stone. Sir Pelham chuckled at the aptness of the thought. And
hungry... he bit into the well-buttered bread.

"What time is it?" and now Susan's voice was steadier.

"Half-past ten." Sir Pelham's eyes were resting on the little circle of
light below his cuff.

"I've been there about seven hours."

And now Sir Pelham suddenly felt impatient.

"And what possessed you to come up here at all?" he said.

"I can't imagine," said Susan stilly. For she felt the chill in his
voice and resented it. Utterly wretched, she stood there, shivering.

"You don't know why you came up here?" Susan could see the white rim of
Sir Pelham's collar as he stood looking down at her.

"Well, I do know," said Susan, sobbing. "It was because I suddenly
realised that it was all coming to an end. The bracken is turning brown.
Aunt Dorothy said so. That means that the autumn is nearly here. Arthur
will be coming back and you will be going. I felt somehow that I could
not stand it. So I thought that if I came up here I could fall over the
edge of something; I nearly did it once before and Rachel followed me
and told me how wicked it was and dragged me home again. And then it
began to rain, and I heard a sort of crackle of thunder, and I am
terrified of thunder. So I rushed into this quarry place and crawled
into a hole. And then--you know--the wood fell down and I couldn't get
out."

"Prepared to kill yourself, you took shelter from a thunderstorm!" said
Sir Pelham drily. "Susan, Susan!"

"I know, I know," wept Susan. "But then I'm like that. I go sort of
mad... you don't know the feeling. I get to feel _I can't bear this any
more_. You won't understand. Men don't get that feeling. I ought to have
rushed along to that shaft and flung myself down it at once, and not
thought about the thunder. Then I shouldn't have heard it."

"You certainly wouldn't," said Sir Pelham grimly, and suddenly he was
deeply moved. In the darkness he went close to her and drew her into his
arms.

"And what about me?" he said quietly.

"You wouldn't have cared?"

"Wouldn't I?" said Sir Pelham drily. Still holding her with one arm, he
took her trembling chin between the strong fingers of this other hand.
"I can't see you properly," he said, "but I can imagine the little
woebegone face that is looking up at me. Susan, darling, it was infamous
of you. Infamous," and he stopped and laid his face on her hair.

"I'm sorry."

"So you ought to be."

"But what is going to happen to us?" wailed Susan.

"My darling child, haven't I told you to live by the day?" said Sir
Pelham quietly.

"But if Arthur comes back quite well. Then I..." and Susan clutched
at him with shaking fingers.

"Not of necessity. You could go home for a time. He would surely
understand that," said Sir Pelham quietly. And then he suddenly laughed
out loud. "Here we are discussing all these things as if people down
below weren't half mad with fright waiting for us," he said. "Come
along, my child, I'll stuff all these things in my rucksack and we must
get down as fast as we can."

"Kiss me before you let go of me," breathed Susan.

"Do you think you deserve it?"

"No, no, I know I don't," trembled Susan.

"Well..." and then Sir Pelham's grasp on Susan's slender shoulders
was suddenly very heavy. "Only the stars can see," he said, "and they
are far away enough not to matter. Darling, darling, darling," he held
her close to him, straining her to his heart.

"I can see your eyes," after a long silence Susan was whispering.

"Can you?"

"Yes, perfect, darling eyes."

"Full of love for a naughty girl?"

"Is it love?"

"Is it love?" and then Sir Pelham gave a little short laugh. "God! it
is," he said, and kissed her again, hungrily this time.




CHAPTER XLIII


And now it seemed to be Aunt Dorothy's turn to be overwrought and queer.
Perhaps it was the excitement and unusual happenings of Susan's long
absence and then her return in the dark with Sir Pelham that upset her.
But she began to move about her room with uncertain steps. She fingered
all her little old-maid appointments that always travelled about with
her with thoughtful unseeing eyes. She was fond of her pretty bedroom;
it was full of the thought and care of the niece to whom she was
devoted. But all the same... And then one afternoon when Sir Pelham
and Susan had gone into Keswick in the car to do some shopping, and Ada
was out enjoying her well-merited half-holiday. Aunt Dorothy sought out
Rachel in the kitchen.

"Yes, miss." Rachel liked Aunt Dorothy, and she raised her nice square
face from her sewing to smile at her. "Sit down, miss, if you will do me
the favour," and Rachel made as if to rise from her chair.

"Oh, please don't get up, Rachel." Miss Maitland sat hurriedly down on
the hard ladder-backed chair. She sat erect and there was a spot of
colour on both her cheeks.

"Rachel."

"Yes, miss."

"Rachel, I'm worried," said Aunt Dorothy suddenly.

"You are, miss?"

"Yes."

"You'll excuse me asking you why, I am sure, miss," returned Rachel, and
she did not lift her eyes from her sewing, which she continued to do
with placidity.

"It seems such an odd thing to say," said Aunt Dorothy restlessly. "I
trust you so entirely, Rachel, or I would not even dream of putting it
into words."

"You can trust me, miss." Rachel half rose and, reaching up for the
worsted holder, she moved the large iron kettle, that was boiling
furiously, a little to one side of the range.

"You see..." and then Aunt Dorothy folded her hands in her lap and
sat up still a little straighter in her chair.

"Yes, miss," returned Rachel encouragingly, and she sat down again.

"Rachel, have you ever thought," said Aunt Dorothy desperately, "that
Mrs. Carpendale entertains any warmer feelings for Sir Pelham Brooke
than friendship?" Aunt Dorothy's eyes were rather wider open than usual.

"Any warmer feeling, miss--"

"Yes."

"The mistress has been head over ears, as they say, in love with Sir
Pelham ever since he arrived here, miss," said Rachel laconically.

"Rachel!"

"Well, what's the use of pretending that what is isn't?" inquired Rachel
solidly, and she made queer little scratching sounds with her thumb nail
on the long seam.

"But what is going to happen?" said Aunt Dorothy, and vaguely she
stooped and picked up a piece of white cotton that was straggling itself
across the bright steel fender.

"Ask me another," returned Rachel cryptically, and she lifted her
forefinger to her mouth and sucked it. "You'll excuse the way I've put
it, miss," she said apologetically.

"Of course."

And now there was a little silence. A coal stirred in the tiny furnace
behind the bars, and there was a little drenching of bright sparks that
in drenching turned to ash. Aunt Dorothy watched them with blinking
eyes.

"Rachel."

"Yes, miss."

"What shall we do?" said Aunt Dorothy despairingly.

"Get rid of the Rector," said Rachel abruptly, and she flicked the end
of cotton still remaining in her needle into the ash box, and, taking up
a large fat reel from the work-box by her side, she bit off a new strand
with square white teeth.

"Rachel!"

"Well, what else?" said Rachel placidly. "Those that won't go of their
own accord must be helped to it!"

"But..."

"There are ways and means, miss," said Rachel, and now she lifted her
faithful brown eyes to Aunt Dorothy's terrified ones, with the calm of
complete assurance. "But we won't talk about it if you don't mind. It's
the talking that does the mischief. My mother always said that and she
was a rare one for knowing what was right and what was wrong. They'll be
late," continued Rachel irrelevantly, and she lifted her eyes to the fat
white clock face on the wall. "We'll have a cup of tea, miss, before
they come back, if you will excuse the liberty and join me."

"I should be delighted," said Aunt Dorothy rather excitedly. Tea at an
odd hour seemed to be somehow all part of this great adventure on which
she was embarked. Rachel had terrified her for a moment or two, but now
that terror was merged in the interest of this impromptu tea in this big
old-fashioned kitchen. Rachel knew where everything was and the quickly
opened cupboards showed spotless white paper linings to them. Susan was
fortunate indeed in this capable and trustworthy servant, thought Aunt
Dorothy, smoothing out a crease or two in the soft white tablecloth that
Rachel had laid over the small round table that she dragged from a
corner, while Rachel herself took a small rosewood tea-caddy down from
the mantelpiece.

"It's my own tea," she said briefly. "It's a fancy of mine and it costs
a lot. But sometimes it takes me like that; a nice cup of tea I must
have and no nonsense about it. But this kettle's been boiling too long,
miss. I'll have to fill the small one. It won't take a minute," said
Rachel, and she bustled off to the scullery.

And ten minutes later the tea was ready. No wonder it was always good,
thought Aunt Dorothy, watching the meticulous care with which everything
was prepared. The teapot, not wetted with hot water, but stood on the
flat iron top of the range to get hot. The kettle, watched like a lynx
so that at the first luxuriant bubbling of it the water could be
cascaded down on to the tea leaves, carefully dropped from an equally
carefully measured teaspoon into the hot dry earthenware.

"We'll let it stand a minute or two, miss." Rachel was settling the
knitted cosy down on to the green fireproof china teapot. And then she
tipped the kettle over each flowered cup in turn. "A hot cup," she said.
"It's marvellous the difference it makes, but do you suppose I can get
that Ada to remember it? Not she!" and Rachel shot the hot water out
into the protesting fire and then, holding each cup upside down in turn,
she shook out the remaining drops.

"And now I think it'll be just right, miss. Would you like me to bring
your cup into the drawing-room? Or would you prefer to have it here, all
cosy by the fire? Not that one wants a fire on these lovely summer days,
although I always think a fire is company," said Rachel, beaming.

"Oh, I'll have it in here, please, Rachel," and as Aunt Dorothy put the
cup up to her lips she wondered anew at the simple pleasure she felt at
this impromptu tea-party. And the tea was beautifully made. "It's
beautiful." Aunt Dorothy was drinking with pleasure.

"I'm so glad you think so, miss." Rachel was drinking with
circumspection. And as she drank she smiled.

"You mustn't take what I said about getting rid of the Rector seriously,
miss," she said.

"Oh, no!" Aunt Dorothy's reply came a little fluttered.

"The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the
Lord," said Rachel unexpectedly.

"Quite," said Aunt Dorothy, suddenly feeling embarrassed and
uncomfortable. For Rachel's face had a brooding melancholy on it. And
yet, not quite a melancholy, thought Aunt Dorothy, considering it. It
was more a brooding satisfaction that had spread itself over that honest
hard-worked face. Rachel was thinking of something pleasant. She smiled.

"May I have the pleasure of giving you another cup, miss?"

"Oh, no, thank you," and then Aunt Dorothy suddenly got the feeling that
she must get out of the kitchen at any price. A queer unaccountable
feeling like an unexpected faintness. She stood up, her cup still held
in her hand.

"Oh!" She put it down again with a little laugh.

"Sure you won't have any more, miss?"

"Quite sure, Rachel," and then Miss Maitland hesitated.

"I have been very frank with you, Rachel," she said. "You will respect
my confidence, I know."

"Miss, I knew what you told me long before you did," replied Rachel. And
then Miss Maitland with a little nervous laugh sat down again in her
chair. Why had she suddenly felt that queer feeling of oppression? she
wondered. It was gone... entirely gone. Rachel was sitting there as
smiling as she had ever been. Susan was fortunate... indeed she was
fortunate, to have a servant like this. "Tell me, Rachel." Miss Maitland
was leaning eagerly forward in her chair.

"Tell you what, miss?"

"What we shall do about Mrs. Carpendale and Sir Pelham Brooke."

"Leave it to Fate, miss," and Rachel's broad smile seemed to bring
something Oriental and secret into her face. Her cheek bones... had
they got higher and flatter or was it the light? wondered Miss Maitland,
staring at her. No, it was the light. Of course it was the light,
decided Miss Maitland, reaching out her hand and touching Rachel's as if
in unconscious apology. And then she started.

"Oh, you have cut it!" she exclaimed.

"Cut what?"

"Your hand."

"Where, miss?" said Rachel, holding it out.

"But I saw the blood," said Aunt Dorothy.

"No blood there," said Rachel, with a sort of convincing cheerfulness.
"It must have been the light, miss."

"Yes, so it must," said Aunt Dorothy faintly. But this time she got up
out of her chair and did not sit down in it again. There was something
queer in this big light kitchen. "There is something queer," she said
the words aloud, not knowing that she did so.

"Something queer?" repeated Rachel, staring.

"Why? did I say anything aloud?" inquired Aunt Dorothy, speaking
rather stupidly. She was moving quickly towards the door. Over the
flagstones... they suddenly felt slippery. "Rachel, some of the blood
from your hand must have dripped on to the floor," she said wildly, and
she picked up her skirts and held them gripped to her in her pale hands.

"Blood, miss? Why, there isn't any," said Rachel in her jolly heavy
voice. "Why, you're all pale and shaking, miss. Sit down again and I'll
get you my smelling salts."

"No, no, I must go," gasped Aunt Dorothy. And it was not until she stood
in her pretty bedroom with the afternoon sun streaming over the gay
artificial silk eiderdown and making a queer distorted pattern on the
opposite wall that she breathed in ordinary long steady breaths again.

"Nerves," she said tremulously. "Nerves. Too much tea. I must be careful
and drink less of it. But Rachel makes it so extremely well."

While down in the kitchen Rachel sat and sewed again. Ada could wash up
when she came in, she decided; it would do the little monkey good. And
then Rachel laid down her sewing and let herself slip a little lower
into her carpet chair, and her round good-tempered face became heavy
with sort of brooding, weighted heaviness.




CHAPTER XLIV


By the beginning of September Arthur Carpendale was tired of being in
the Home. But he kept his thoughts to himself. The Superintendent, a
wise, keen-eyed man of vast experience, watched the tall, ascetic
parson, and came to the conclusion that he was going to be one of his
failures. Clergymen did not give way to drink without a very severe
struggle. This man had struggled; you could see it by the lines deep
graven round his clean-shaven lips. But the history was bad; the
Superintendent had it all written out in a large leather-bound book kept
always in his safe. So he was not in the least surprised when one day
Arthur Carpendale sought him out in his office. The Superintendent was
always available at certain hours for the confidences, despairs, and
lying protestations of those under his care.

"Yes?" The Superintendent sat very still, his clever hands clasped on
the large blotting pad with the silver corners. He valued this blotting
pad; it had been given him by one of his most pronounced successes.

"I feel that I am cured," said Arthur Carpendale. "By the grace of God,
I feel that I am cured."

"Far be it from me to limit the grace of God, Carpendale," said the
Superintendent seriously, "but I think in this case you are mistaken.
You certainly ought to complete your three months here, and I should
have been glad if you could have brought yourself to take a fourth
month. So much is at stake, Carpendale," said the Superintendent
gravely. "Don't jack it all up on impulse, and regret it for the rest of
your life."

"I am not jacking it up on impulse," said the Rector, speaking with a
certain amount of nervous dignity. And there the discussion ended. And a
little later the Superintendent sat and discussed it with the resident
medical officer of the Home. Dr. Morgan was young and modern, and took a
passionate interest in his cases. But he considered Arthur Carpendale a
bad example of the man who has the habit of intemperance ingrained in
him, and he said so.

"Look at his history," he said, and he waved his cigarette at the large
fat book that the Superintendent had taken out of his safe for the
second time that day. "Grandfather: probably great-grandfather--only
that we don't know for certain--and father. Probably there's also a
streak somewhere on the maternal side. Well, what chance has the poor
brute? The only thing that might have saved him would have been the
change of soul that I have seen sometimes take place in a Salvation Army
Home, or during one of their services. The man 'finds God.' One can't
explain it except by saying that; and it is, to the onlooker, as if the
man's very vitals had turned in their socket. He turns from Darkness to
Light and the marvellous thing is that the Darkness loses all its
attraction for him. I've seen some marvellous things happen in my time,"
said Dr. Morgan musingly, and he leaned forward to knock a little of the
greying ash from the end of his cigarette.

"Then what do you advise?" The Superintendent had closed the big book in
front of him with a little sigh.

"Let him go."

"I've got to do that, anyhow," said the Superintendent ruefully, "thanks
to our inadequate and futile legislation."

"Yes, I know. But let him go with your blessing," smiled the doctor.
"And let Lloyds Bank know at once. They will inform the anonymous
guarantor of his fees. He'll need watching, and anyone who has been
generous enough to pay for him will be keen enough on his welfare to
look after him when he's let loose again." So three days later Sir
Pelham found the letter in the tough oblong envelope among a host of
others from London. So Carpendale was coming out, was he? And before his
time. Then, of course, he himself must leave at once. There were some
things that no one could be expected to stand, and one was the sight of
a reformed man taking in his arms again a woman who loathed him.
Dropping the letter on to his writing-table, Sir Pelham got up and began
to rage up and down the room. What had he expected? he asked himself in
a frenzy of contempt for his idiotic philanthropy. That Carpendale would
die? That he would commit suicide in a fit of desperation at the
restriction and enforced abstinence? But Homes for Inebriates were not
run like that. They were there to preserve life, not to allow it to be
dispensed with hastily and without premeditation. They were also there
to introduce dignity and self-respect where dignity and self-respect
were lacking. And this he had done himself, or rather he had provided
the wherewithal for it to be done for him. And now he was going to reap
the consequences. Sir Pelham stopped short in the middle of his pacing.
Susan--she would also be having a letter; and probably from Arthur
Carpendale himself. Susan, whom he now loved with all the force and
passion that he had thought were dead in him. What was he going to _do_?
Why had he done this insane--this imbecile thing? Because when he had
done it he had not known that he was ever going to love Arthur
Carpendale's wife: that was the snag; the ugly irrevocable snag of it.
It had only been since the Rector had gone to Carlisle that the
disastrous thing had happened. Susan--in the arms of that thin monkish
fellow with the hungry mouth. Never; never! At least, not with him in
the house. Sir Pelham flung himself down at his writing-table again. He
would make arrangements... at once. So that when Susan came to him
with her own letter he could be definite. Brutal: fiendishly brutal it
might be. But inevitable. And then Sir Pelham began to write. But it was
not until the evening that she came to him.

"I have had a letter from Arthur by this afternoon's post," she said.
And she stood there staring at him.

"Yes?"

"He is coming home."

"Yes." Sir Pelham's gaze was level.

"What am I to do?" said Susan vaguely. Her eyes wandered round the room.
And then out of the window. Tall rust-coloured stems waving a little in
the evening wind. "The bracken is turning brown," she said.

"Yes, it is." Sir Pelham forced himself to speak naturally.

"What am I to do?" said Susan again.

"Face it."

"How?"

"As one always faces things if one has to," said Sir Pelham. "Bravely.
It's been a dream... a glorious dream if it helps you to think that.
But only a dream. Now it's over and we are back in real life again. He
is coming back; the man you promised to take for better or for worse.
Well... take him," said Sir Pelham brutally.

"And you can speak like that?"

"I must."

"And you said that you loved me," whispered Susan.

"I do love you."

"No, I don't call it love," said Susan hoarsely. "And I'm glad...
glad that you have spoken like this. It helps me... it sort of gives
my pride a stab, and that's what it wants." Susan stood there very
still, and a long shaft of pale sunshine laid itself across her small
feet.

"I am going away," said Sir Pelham briefly. "Before your husband comes
back, of course. You will understand that."

"Yes."

"Does he tell you the date?"

"He says on Friday."

"Two days. I'll get busy at once," said Sir Pelham.

"Have pity on me," said Susan suddenly, and her wide eyes dwelt on his
in an agony.

"No, it only makes it worse for both of us," said Sir Pelham heavily,
and he thrust both his hands into his pockets and held them gripped
there.

"Won't you even kiss me?"

"No," said Sir Pelham, and his eyelids fluttered down for an instant and
then lifted themselves again. While Susan, turning, flung out her hands
and then walked a little unsteadily to the door.




CHAPTER XLV


The next day it began to rain. Aunt Dorothy tidying her already
perfectly tidy bedroom, simply from a longing to have something to do;
kept on going to the window and looking out of it. She had never seen
such rain... never known that there could be such rain in England.
All the sunshine and the radiance and the glory of the early autumn days
was quenched. The mountains were blotted out and the chattering,
glittering beck at the bottom of the meadow opposite was a brown raging
torrent. You could hear it raging as it tore along over the stones
carrying with it logs and leaves, and even the tins that had been rooted
up from where the villagers loved to throw them under the bridge.

While Susan moved about the house like a pale wraith of her ordinary
joyful self. To-morrow... he is coming to-morrow. She kept on
repeating the words over and over to herself. Resolutely she had closed
her heart to the remembrance that Sir Pelham was also going to-morrow.
She had forgotten him... he no longer existed for her. Where she had
once had a heart there was now a stone. Something cold and hard that did
not move or matter. She watched with entire indifference the chauffeur
coming down the stairs from Sir Pelham's room carrying a suitcase. He
was taking it into Keswick to be repaired. Only a couple of stitches in
a strap; they could be done while he waited, as he said cheerfully to
Rachel, who was ironing as if her very life depended on it.

"If you wait you'll never get back again," said Rachel, not raising her
eyes from the ironing sheet and the afternoon tablecloth spread
meticulously out on it. "The water'll be across the road by six o'clock
to-night if it goes on as it's doing now."

"I'll chance it," said the chauffeur cheerfully. But at half-past five
that evening he came in soaked almost to the skin. Brushing the wet hair
out of his eyes, and standing apologetically very close to the door, he
told Sir Pelham that in all his born days he had never seen anything to
equal it just out of Keswick.

"Nothing must prevent our leaving to-morrow," said Sir Pelham briefly.

"No, sir," said Warner, who was as eager as his master to get away. "All
very well for a week or so," as he was wont to grumble to himself as he
cleaned the car. "But a month or more of it fairly sticks in my gizzard,
and that's the truth."

So Warner went back to his lodgings, driving with determination through
the deluge. Twice the water was almost over the axles of the car. It
ploughed its way along, sending up the dull brown water in two great
splashing scythes on each side of the gleaming bonnet.

While in the Rectory, Susan sat in the kitchen close to the bright fire,
her listless hands clasped on her lap. It was cold; it was always cold
when it began to rain, and the kitchen was much the warmest place.
Besides, there was something about Rachel now that Susan clung to.
Rachel was as depressed as she was at the idea of Sir Pelham leaving.
Although it was not quite depression. It was more a heavy gloom. It hung
over Rachel's rosy face. She moved about the kitchen almost
mechanically. And she made not the faintest attempt to make any
preparations for the Rector's arrival on the following day.

"What's the use?" she said defiantly. "If it goes on raining like this
he'll never be able to get out here. The roads is flooded already, and
it'll be much worse after another night of it."

"But it may stop," said Susan. Overhead she could hear Sir Pelham moving
about his room. He was packing: what did it matter that he was packing?
What did anything matter when you had a stone for a heart? But how nice
it was not to feel anything, thought Susan, staring at the bright red
coals behind the iron bars. Just dead all over, and no consciousness
that this was the last evening that the man she loved and worshipped
would be here. No, only a quiet placidity and a longing for it to be
time to go to bed, so that she could fall into complete unconsciousness
and then wake up to a day that meant that Arthur would be back and all
that had happened would be just like a dream. Only Aunt Dorothy being
there would be different, and she would not be there very long, because
she had announced her intention of going back to the Warwickshire
Vicarage as soon as Susan's husband had arrived and settled in again.

And so the long evening passed and the night began. And still it went on
raining. There was something weird about the sound of it, thought Sir
Pelham, lying there sleepless. A sort of relentlessness about it. He got
up and lit the gas and drew back his curtains. The light from his room
streamed out and caught the rain as it came down in great sparkling
drops. The trough below his window was overflowing and the water came
out of it in black shining waves. It was almost horrible, thought Sir
Pelham, dragging his curtains together again. It was a mercy that the
beck was at the foot of a sloping meadow, or they would all be under
water by now.

And then at a sound outside his door he reached quickly out for his
dressing-gown. Pray heaven, it was not Susan: he stood there with his
heart thumping. And then he went quickly across the floor and wrenched
round the handle.

"Miss Maitland!" and in his relief Sir Pelham almost laughed out loud.
"Come in," he said, and he gently closed the door behind her. "There's
just an atom of fire left: I'll rake it together."

"I know it is very irregular," said Miss Maitland anxiously, "but the
noise of the rain is so terrible that I could not sleep. So I thought I
would venture to see if you were awake."

"Well, I am," said Sir Pelham. "Very much awake, as it happens," and he
smiled.

"I came to you because I am deeply anxious," said Miss Maitland.
"Nothing else would have made me come to your room in this condition of
dshabille," and Miss Maitland smoothed her red dressing-gown with
nervous white fingers.

"Tell me," said Sir Pelham simply.

"It is Rachel," said Miss Maitland. "She sleeps above me, as you may
know, and she is talking to herself. At first I thought that Susan might
be there, and I crept up to see, or rather to hear. But Rachel is
alone."

"Yes," said Sir Pelham. And the relief that this neat little figure in
the old-fashioned dressing-gown had not come to drag his heart out by
the roots by talking about the woman he loved, made him speak very
cordially.

"I am convinced that Rachel is contemplating the murder of Arthur
Carpendale," said Miss Maitland solemnly.

"Contemplating _what_?"

"Yes, I know you must think I am mad," said Aunt Dorothy hurriedly. "I
felt that I was mad myself when the idea first occurred to me."

"And when did the idea first occur to you?"

"About a fortnight ago," said Aunt Dorothy. "No, a little longer. It was
a few days after Susan was lost for some hours and you brought her back.
You will remember."

"Yes, I remember."

"I sat in the kitchen with Rachel and suddenly I saw blood on her hand,"
stammered Aunt Dorothy. "And then I looked again and it was no longer
there."

Sir Pelham smiled.

"And is that all?" he said soothingly. And as he spoke he let his keen
gaze linger on Aunt Dorothy's pale maiden face. Nerves, of course. Or
perhaps the nice little lady had been to sleep and waked after a
nightmare. The noise of the rain was enough to give anyone a nightmare.

"No, it is not all."

"Go on, then."

"I can hear her repeating it over and over again to herself," shuddered
Aunt Dorothy. "She said it to me that day in the kitchen too. 'We must
get rid of the Rector.' If you could only hear her saying it now!" said
Aunt Dorothy, and her voice rose in a little nervous crescendo.

"Well, but----" and then with a little smile Sir Pelham began to reason
with Miss Maitland. He smiled at her fears, laughing at them. And then
he got up: "Look here," he said, "you're thoroughly overwrought and I
don't wonder. I'm going to give you a little something to warm you up
and make you forget it all."

"Not drink?" said Aunt Dorothy tremulously.

"Yes, drink," laughed Sir Pelham. And standing there in his gay silk
dressing-gown, he laughed at her again. "It won't hurt you an atom," he
said. "In fact, it will do you good," and he strolled away to his corner
cupboard.

"Is it gin?" inquired Aunt Dorothy nervously as Sir Pelham, holding the
tiny glass level with his eyes, proceeded to fill it with a clear
colourless liquid.

"No, it is something extremely nice called curacoa bols," laughed Sir
Pelham. And he came back with a liqueur glass held in each hand. "Try
it," he smiled. And now Aunt Dorothy was sipping:

"Yes, it is delicious," she said nervously.

"I knew you would like it," and then Sir Pelham, sitting down again and
sipping from his own glass, began to talk easily. Until Aunt Dorothy,
quite forgetting that she was sitting in a man's bedroom also in a
dressing-gown, also began to talk. She laughed as she remembered why she
had come.

"How too ridiculous," she said, and she laughed flutteringly.

"Not at all ridiculous," said Sir Pelham kindly. "You were perfectly
right to come to me if you were nervous. And when you go back to your
room I will come with you if I may, and then we can listen together to
hear if Rachel is still talking to herself. And if she is I will go up
myself and find out what it is all about."

"Oh, I have never had a man in my bedroom at this hour of the night,"
faltered Miss Maitland, and she laughed a little as the cordial stirred
the blood in her veins.

"Never mind. It is never too late to begin," chaffed Sir Pelham, and he
held Aunt Dorothy's arm very closely in his as he escorted her back to
her bedroom. She was a little dear, he decided, as he stood there
listening, with her arm still close to his side.

"Not a sound," he said, after a long pause.

"No," and then Aunt Dorothy looked up into the distinguished
clean-shaven face above her:

"We shall miss you very much," she said, and there were sudden tears in
her pale eyes.

"Not more than I shall miss you," said Sir Pelham, and on a sudden
impulse he held Aunt Dorothy's arm a little more closely.

"Shall I kiss you?" he said. "That would just about complete the
impropriety, wouldn't it?"

"I should love it," said Aunt Dorothy simply. And after he had stooped
and kissed each soft cheek in turn she suddenly clung to his hands.

"I should like you to know," she stammered. "I did once have someone who
loved me. It is so dreadful, I always think, to have been a woman whom
no one has ever wanted in that way."

"I am sure no one would ever think that you were that sort of woman,"
said Sir Pelham, and he stood there very still, smiling down at her.

"You are a man whom many women have loved," said Aunt Dorothy
breathlessly.

"Oh, no."

"Yes," said Aunt Dorothy. "My niece loves you, as of course you know.
And when she comes and sobs it out to me as she has done once or twice,
I tell her that she should be proud that she has found a man like you to
whom to give her love."

"Oh, Miss Maitland!" and in the quiet prim little bedroom Sir Pelham
suddenly let go of Aunt Dorothy's hands and then took them closely into
his own again. "Thank you," he said.

"Please call me Aunt Dorothy."

"May I?"

"I should be proud," said Aunt Dorothy, and the tiny figure in the red
dressing-gown was suddenly very erect.

"And if she is unhappy, you will stay and comfort her?" said Sir Pelham,
and not an atom ashamed of the tears that welled up into his eyes, he
stood there trying to smile.

"Of course," said Aunt Dorothy simply. And when he had gone she stood
there staring at the softly closed door. "Oh, Lord, support us all the
day long of this troublous life." This was a collect that Aunt Dorothy
loved and she repeated it all the way through.... Then, "Lord, in Thy
mercy grant us safe lodging: a holy rest: and peace at the last," and
now Aunt Dorothy was down on her knees by her narrow bed, sobbing as if
her heart would break.




CHAPTER XLVI


The next morning it was still raining. And again Sir Pelham was relieved
that the Rectory stood high. Although it had its disadvantages. All
night long the water came rushing down from the green slopes behind the
house, keeping him in a condition of semi-consciousness. It was
appalling: Susan, standing heavy-eyed and pallid at her window, looked
out on a waste of water.

"The car can't possibly get through this." Susan spoke to Rachel, busy
at the washhand-stand, without turning.

"No, nor anything else," said Rachel laconically, and then she went away
again. And Susan began to dress. A sort of deadness had taken hold of
her, and somehow the thrashing and drifting of the rain helped her. Her
husband was coming back--and the man whose image dwelt like something
hidden and precious in her heart, was going away. Very well, then,
nothing mattered. It didn't even matter what she wore, thought Susan,
dragging out of her wardrobe the first woolly skirt that caught her eye.

And at nine o'clock Warner arrived. He stood on the flagstones of the
kitchen and stamped his heavy waterproof boots. The water ran from his
oilskins, making a little pool on the floor.

"Some weather!" he ejaculated.

"Sir Pelham has had his breakfast in his room and said that I was to
send you up as soon as you arrived," said Rachel shortly. "Get on with
you, Ada; what are you staring at?" she flared.

"Nothing," said Ada breathlessly, and went racing out of the kitchen.

"How's the road between here and Rossiter's?"

"Two feet deep in water and getting higher." Warner was cross. "It's
going under the bridge nineteen to the dozen," he said. "It's not safe
to bring the car over that bridge, I don't think. I'm going to tell the
boss that it's out of the question to try and make Keswick until it
stops a bit."

"He won't listen to you," said Rachel grimly. "He's set on going. Give
me your mack and I'll hang it on the scullery door." And now Warner was
sitting stooping, on a wooden ladder-back chair. "Gosh!" he had hauled
off one shining boot.

"Yes, that's just about it," said Rachel. And having hung up the
mackintosh she stood aimlessly by the fire. "My head aches," she said
suddenly.

"Too much tea," said Warner.

"Not I," said Rachel scornfully. "I'm not one of your tea-drinking lot.
I'm tired, that's what it is."

"You're getting the parson back to-day, aren't you?" said Warner
conversationally. "Chuck me over my felt slippers, please, ma'am."

"Yes, we are," said Rachel, and there was something suddenly blank in
her expression, as she stooped to the hearth.

"Thanks. Bit of a teaser, isn't he, by what I hear?"

"He's a good man," said Rachel suddenly. And then there was silence.
Warner, having hauled on his big felt slippers, went rather gingerly
over the flags in them. "Ta, ta," he said, and went out.

And as the soft steps continued overhead, Rachel stood and listened. He
was going... and with him all the joy and light that had made her
darling's life the thing it had been for the last three months. Rachel
turned to the window and flung her hard hands up over her ears. The
rain... it made a noise like a machine-gun: Rachel had spent a holiday
once at Shoeburyness. Deluging down and slopping out of the overflowing
trough. Rachel rushed at the range and wrenched off one of the round
iron covers of it. The flames danced out and then were hidden again as
she slid the big iron kettle over them.

While up above, Sir Pelham raised himself from strapping his last
suitcase and spoke again.

"I am going whatever the weather, Warner," he said. "Go and get the car,
please."

"Very good, sir," and then Warner went away. And in the kitchen he
grumbled as he wrenched on his dripping boots.

"Folly, that's what I call it, folly," he said, and he went out through
the scullery into the rain again, with his peaked cap pulled very low
over his eyes.

While Susan, up in her bedroom, was mechanically tidying her top drawer.
Her stockings... all in muddly twists instead of properly rolled. She
had seen Warner come splashing up the front garden in his shining
mackintosh. And then she had seen him bolt down it again. What had been
decided? Did it matter what had been decided? she wondered. No, because
she felt nothing. Nothing that hurt, that is to say. Only a sort of
clogging sensationless misery. An emptiness. And then as Susan wandered
vacantly to the window again a flash of acute searing pain went through
her. His car: sending up great shafts of water beside each front
wheel.... Ah, she could feel again now. Susan flung her hands up to her
breast. Warner, getting out of the driving seat backwards, so as to
dodge the rain, and coming pelting up the gravelly path. So he was
going: Susan stood very still, feeling her eyes burn. She could not say
good-bye to him: _she could not._

"Well," and now Susan had her clutching hands pressed over her ears.
Torture: like a knife straight through her heart. Finding out the places
that would hurt without killing. Finding them _out_....

"No, no, no!" she was gasping the words.

"My darling, we must. Come," and now he had her in his arms, straining
her to his heart.

"I shall die!"

"No, no, you won't. You must be brave."

"I can't be brave."

"Susan, think of me."

"I can't, because you needn't have had it like this. I would have come
with you: I wouldn't have cared. I would have been your mistress."
Susan, in an agony, was choking with sobbing.

But Sir Pelham's voice was steady:

"Now then--once more. Good-bye, my darling," resolutely he unloosed her
arms from round his neck. "Good-bye," and now he was gone. Running down
the stairs blinded with tears... into the sitting-room:

"Good-bye, Miss Maitland."

"Oh, Sir Pelham!" Aunt Dorothy's shining scissors went tinkling down on
to the carpet as she got abruptly on to her feet.

"Go up to her, will you? And say good-bye to Rachel for me and give her
this," and now Sir Pelham was out in the hall and running down the
dripping steps. "Thank God for the rain," he muttered as he whipped out
his handkerchief, holding it rather ostentatiously up to his face. "Is
all the luggage in, Warner?"

"Yes, sir," said Warner coldly. For Warner was cross and anxious into
the bargain. This was no joke, he muttered, letting in the clutch and
steering his way very noiselessly out into the middle of the lane.
"Nothing more than a bloody lake all the way to Keswick." Warner was
very cross indeed.




CHAPTER XLVII


When Arthur Carpendale arrived at Keswick the station-master was polite
but gloomy. "I'm afraid you'll not get anything to take you out to
Castlemere to-day, sir," he said. "It's not stopped raining for the last
twenty-four hours; most of the roads are flooded."

"Then I must walk," said Arthur Carpendale. "And my luggage must follow
me as soon as it can." He buttoned the top button of the dark blue
Burberry and smiled.

"You'll find it a job to get out there, walking," said the
station-master, and then he smiled rather absently and hurried away into
his office. Floods were troublesome things in these parts, and the
station-master knew it well. Part of the line between Keswick and
Troutbeck was low-lying, and the Derwent was roaring along like a mill
stream.

While Arthur Carpendale drove his hands into his pockets and walked out
into the station yard, the rain blew into his face and made him gasp.
But he was light of heart and did not care. That day was going to be the
beginning of a new life for him. Susan... his little love. They would
begin their life anew together and she would see that she had a man for
her husband and not a drunken waster. He flung up his head and smiled at
the clouds that hung low over Castlemere. Clouds, yes, but clouds were
fleeting things. They hid the sun and the blue of the sky, but they only
hid them. The blue was there all the time.

But by the time that Sir Pelham saw Arthur Carpendale he was very wet.
He came splashing through a great wave of water that had covered the
road to a depth of about two feet. Warner was turning in his seat to
speak to his master.

"It'll be well over the axles, sir," he said. "I'm afraid it'll stop the
engine once and for all if I go on."

"Hell and damnation!"

"I'll try it if you like, sir."

"No, it's no good doing anything idiotic," said Sir Pelham irritably.
And then as he sat back on the cushions wondering what he should do, he
saw the tall thin figure approaching. Bent, and battling with the rain
that drove into his face in great gusts.

"I think that's the Reverend Carpendale, sir," Warner had turned round
again.

"Oh, my God in heaven!" and then an uncontrollable laughter seized Sir
Pelham. He sat there, his shoulders shaking. Her husband; and they would
have to return to the Rectory together. For they could not go on: and
one could not let even a dog continue to battle with rain such as was
falling then. It wasn't falling; it was lashing and thrashing the trees
and the car and the miserable drenched human being approaching them. And
now he was abreast with the car, raising a pale soaked face.

"Can I..." and then an incredulous smile broke across Arthur
Carpendale's clean-shaven face.

"Sir Pelham!"

"Get in," said Sir Pelham briefly.

"But..."

"Slip off your coat before you sit down," said Sir Pelham. "That's it,
leave it on the floor."

"But..."

"Yes, I know, we were trying to make Keswick," said Sir Pelham, "but it
is quite impossible. I am afraid we shall have to turn back."

"Were you leaving us?" Arthur Carpendale was staring at the neatly
stacked suitcases.

"I was. But I am afraid I shall have to beg for your hospitality for at
least one more night," said Sir Pelham. "That is to say, if the car can
get back again. It's quite useless to try and go on."

"It is," said the Rector simply. "A little further on between here and
the Derwentwater Hotel the lake is right over the road. I could only
just get through it: in fact, I very nearly turned back myself."

"Would to God you had!" but Sir Pelham did not say the words aloud. He
only smiled, his clean-shaven face a little paler than usual.

"We will turn back at once," he said, "before it gets any worse. I have
never seen such rain in my life, Warner." Sir Pelham was leaning
forward. "Can you turn the car? We must give up the idea of going on at
any rate for the moment. It is perfectly hopeless."

"Very good, sir," and then with head a little turned, Warner began to
manoeuvre the long dust-coloured car. With infinite skill he backed close
into the hedge, and then turned very, very slowly round.

"Now, then, go as quickly as you can without landing us in the ditch,"
and Sir Pelham, leaning back again, took out his silk handkerchief and
wiped his top lip.

"This is providential," said the Rector briefly, and he smiled.

"Yes," and then the two men fell silent. What would Susan _do_? wondered
Sir Pelham wildly. And yet what else could he have done? To go on was
madness. To leave the Rector battling with the elements was inhuman.
There was not a car or lorry on the road to pick the poor brute up. And
if he and Warner had struggled on, ten to one the car would have been
stuck, and disabled for weeks. No, he had done the only possible thing.
Sir Pelham took out his cigarette-case.

"No, thank you," the Rector smiled his thanks. And the two men sat
silent again, Sir Pelham staring out of the window, the lighted
cigarette between the thin line of lip. The trees on either side of the
steep road were swaying in the wind, their soaked branches dropping
almost to the roof of the car. The rain slashed at their progress as if
it would do its utmost to prevent them going on. But Warner had his
teeth hard set under the high collar of his coat. He would get to the
Rectory at any price, and then the rest of the road would be easy, as it
lay high. He would get George of the farm to help him wipe down the car,
and then he would settle in by the fire with a pipe and a bottle of
beer. Warner gave a brief secret smile at the joyful prospect.




CHAPTER XLVIII


Susan saw them coming first. Staring almost unconsciously out of her
bedroom window she saw the car stop at the gate. He had come back! No,
it was not possible. He was sorry... no, no, he was not like that.
Susan bent forward and tried to see more clearly. Her eyes were clogged
with hopeless tears. She had stood there ever since he had gone. An
hour... two hours, how long had it been? Aunt Dorothy had come in and
she had screamed at her to go away. Poor Aunt Dorothy, it had been a
shame, thought Susan vaguely. But now her brain began to work again.
No, it was not he who was getting out of the car. It was Arthur.
Arthur! Arthur in Sir Pelham's car. He was dead: Sir Pelham was dead.
Dead! Arthur had come to tell her that he was dead. Susan, her hands
flung over her ears, went flying out of the room. Down the stairs...
across the hall: into the kitchen. "Rachel, he is dead!" Susan was
breathing the words in great gasps.

"Who is?" and there was a flame of bright colour over Rachel's staring
face as she flung round from the fire.

"Sir Pelham!"

"Never!" said Rachel, and she put out a groping hand and clutched at the
back of a wooden chair.

"Go out and see," gasped Susan. And helplessly she sank down on to the
chair that Rachel abruptly let go of. "Dead, dead, dead," she was
repeating the word stupidly to herself as someone came into the kitchen,
shutting the door behind him.

"Susan."

"I thought----" Dazed and speechless Susan stood up.

"Your husband is here. I met him walking out from Keswick and had in
common decency to pick him up," said Sir Pelham briefly. "I agree that
it is about the most ghastly thing that could possibly have happened to
us, but that cannot be helped. Susan, pull yourself together and be
brave. For my sake as well as your own. Will you?" Sir Pelham stooped
and laid his face quickly on her hair.

"I can behave now," said Susan quietly. And detaching herself from him
she walked to the door and opened it. "Arthur," she said, and there was
a quiet radiance in her smile.

"Oh, Susan!" The Rector stood there with Rachel on one side of him and
Aunt Dorothy on the other. Aunt Dorothy had in desperation put on one of
her newest coats. She stood there with her pale middle-aged hands
clasped in front of her. Rachel looked so extraordinary, thought Aunt
Dorothy tremulously. And certainly this was all being very unfortunate;
Sir Pelham back again and his bedroom all upturned. It was always
awkward when people came back when you thought they had gone, thought
Aunt Dorothy, staring at Susan and wondering how any one so young could
hide her feelings so successfully. Or was Susan perhaps glad to see her
husband back again... But, if she was, why had she screamed at her so
strangely when she went up to comfort her in her bedroom only just an
hour ago?

"Oh, Susan," said the Rector again. And then he put a timid arm round
her and drew her away. Into his study; Aunt Dorothy watched them go. And
then she faced the tall man who had come out of the kitchen.

"We must get your room ready for you again," she said tremulously.

"I may be able to get off later in the day. Leave it as it is for the
moment," said Sir Pelham briefly.

But Rachel was already half-way up the stairs.

"Come along now and look sharp," she said, as the wretched Ada came
bolting out of Aunt Dorothy's bedroom and into Sir Pelham's partly
dismantled one.

"What's happened?" she said, and her young mouth was wide open.

"Ask no questions and you will be told no lies," said Rachel furiously,
and she dragged Ada in at the open door and banged it behind her.




CHAPTER XLIX


And by supper time Ada had told Rachel with howls and snorts that she
wasn't going to stay another day. "Not if you offered me twice my pay:
no, not three times," she wailed.

"We'll see about that," said Rachel ominously. She turned her eyes to
the streaming window. It was as if the very heavens were melting. Great
Crag was blotted out. Fires had been lighted all over the house; there
was a beautiful one in the dining-room where the excellent supper had
just been served. Sir Pelham had come down to supper, after having lunch
and tea in his room. And now Rachel stood and stared into the fire. So
he was back, was he? and a new man at that. Tall and erect, and with a
light in his eyes as he smiled at his wife. His wife... her darling,
who had come into the kitchen just before tea, and sat there with her
eyes all wide and her mouth all pale and trembling. But never a word:
not even to her Rachel.

"They've done. There's the bell; go in and start clearing," said Rachel
suddenly. And then she turned:

"Who's there?" she demanded.

"Where?" snuffled Ada.

"At the back door," said Rachel. And running through the scullery she
lifted the iron latch and held it widely back. "Who's there?" she
demanded.

"It's me; from Thwaites." A small dripping figure emerged out of the
fierce wet darkness. "Is t'passon here?"

"Yes, he's here. What do you want?" The wind blew in with a howl and a
flurry of wet leaves and Rachel dodged back, dragging the boy in by his
soaking sleeve. "Goodness gracious me, you're wet," she exclaimed. "What
brings you out on a night like this?"

"It's father. He's fell out of the loft and hurt his back," wailed the
boy. And now Rachel flung round to the gaping Ada.

"You go on and start clearing," she hectored. And as the miserable Ada
made herself scarce Rachel spoke kindly to the boy. Drawing him with her
through into the warm kitchen, she pushed him down into a wooden
ladder-back chair.

"I'll give you a nice hot drink of cocoa," she said, "and you start and
tell me all about it. I'll be ready in half a tick," and then Rachel
began to bustle about between the fire and the tall cupboard. And as the
boy drank, with tearful gulps, she listened attentively. His father had
fallen and hurt his back, and they had heard from the postman earlier in
the day that the Rector was expected back.

"But my mother, she says I'm to wait and come with him," sobbed the boy,
his pathetic dirty little hands clutching at the big cup. "For the
bridge is down on the lower road and the river is running something
awful. All over the road it is. But we can get by t'field path round by
Rossiter's. My mother she told me to be sure to say that: I come that
way myself."

"That's all right," soothed Rachel. "I'll tell him in a brace of shakes;
he's just finishing his dinner. Don't you wait, my lad, that'll be a
pity, for he'll have to get his coat and all and your mother'll be
wanting you. Just you get along and tell her that t' Rector won't be
long behind you. See?"

"Yes, ma'am," snuffled the child.

"And here's a couple of nice hot rock cakes to take along with you,"
continued Rachel. Opening the oven door she dragged forward the baking
tin and then shoved it back again. "Pocket too wet? Take them in your
hand, then," said Rachel, and she smiled.

But on Ada, coming back into the kitchen with a well-filled tray, that
smile made an impression she never forgot. The boy had gone: only Rachel
stood there, smiling....

"That's bad," she said slowly.

"What's bad?" Thrusting out her small person Ada heaved the heavy tray
up to the dresser and stood there with her back turned to her aunt.

"Thwaites is dying and wants to see t' Rector," said Rachel. "I'll go
and tell him," and Rachel walked out of the kitchen.




CHAPTER L


But the Rector was adamant. "Of course I must go," he said simply. "I
never have allowed the weather to interfere with my duty towards my
parishioners and I certainly cannot begin to do so now."

"Arthur, it's not safe." Susan, standing in the study watching her
husband make his preparations, wrenched her hands together. "Perhaps
Thwaites will be dead by the time you get there, and then you'll have
had all that awful walk for nothing. The rain is simply frightful."

"My darling," and now the Rector had turned. He laid down the despatch
case that he had just unlocked and smiled.

"To hear you anxious for me is heaven on earth," he said simply. "It
just makes this home-coming perfect for me." The Rector came closer.
"Susan," he said. "When I come back, and it may be very late, may I come
to your room?"

"Yes, of course you may," said Susan. And through the drumming of the
blood in her ears she heard her husband's quick intake of breath. He was
happy; she had made him happy: then what did anything else matter?
thought Susan wildly. _He_ had said that she must be brave. Then wasn't
this being brave? After all, he was her husband. While she had sat with
him that afternoon, her trembling hands busy on her sewing, she had
listened in an agony to his faltering confessions. He owed more than he
could express to Sir Pelham. He had helped him: stimulated him. In his
absence he had made life happy for her, his wife. And for Aunt Dorothy
too. "Nice staunch little Aunt Dorothy," the Rector had said it
musingly, his pale lips smiling.

And his reward was to be her shrinking body. "Lord, don't let it be too
shrinking," prayed Susan as she undressed that night. "Because, after
all, it is my duty. I have deceived him, utterly. And to-morrow _he_
will be gone again and for good this time." Closing her eyes, Susan
blundered a little as she crossed the floor. She felt stupid; dazed. The
rain made such a noise and Arthur would soon be back now. It was
half-past ten. Susan sat suddenly down on the end of her bed.

While Sir Pelham went in long quick steps up and down the floor of his
room. For the first time for very many years he had had about as much as
was good for him to drink. Perhaps a little more, he thought
sardonically, hearing the door open behind him, and finding it a little
difficult to turn without swaying on his feet.

"Sir." It was Rachel standing there.

"What do you want?"

"Sir, I have killed him," said Rachel dryly.

"What the hell do you mean?" Sir Pelham said it violently. The fire in
his veins died down: he suddenly felt almost alarmingly sober.

"What I say," said Rachel heavily, and she turned and closed the door.
Her mouth worked queerly. "He's taken the lower road to Thwaites'," she
said, "and the bridge is down. The water's all over the road: feet deep
and running like a mill-stream: young Thwaites told me when he came to
fetch him."

"Good God!"

"I did it on purpose," said Rachel. "For I want my darling to be happy.
But I don't want to go to my death with murder on my soul, for in the
midst of life we are in death, as the Scriptures have it. So I thought
I'd come and tell you, sir, for you're accustomed to deal with murderers
and such like."

"Don't be such a damned fool, and keep your mouth shut," said Sir Pelham
hoarsely. His gaze flung round the room. His coat: his flask: his torch:
his thick boots! That poor devil, gone to his death! And he himself in
some horrible way responsible for it. He flung himself into his coat as
Rachel stared at him, petrified.

"You're not going after him, sir?"

"Of course, I am," blazed Sir Pelham as he dragged on his boots.
Hideous, unspeakably hideous situation. This woman: mad, or obsessed to
the point of madness. One came across it sometimes in women. A sort of
smouldering undying determination to get what they wanted at any cost.
He pushed her aside as he strode to the door.

And then he turned again and caught her by the shoulders.

"If you breathe one word of what you have just said to me," he said, and
even as he spoke he felt a quick spasm of distaste at himself for the
horrid melodrama of the whole situation. "I'll have you hanged as surely
as you stand there. Go downstairs and make up the fire, and get ready as
much boiling water as you can manage. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." Rachel's brick-red face was distorted with fright.

"And not a word to a soul. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

And then Sir Pelham was gone. Down the stairs two at a time: the front
door had been left unlocked for the Rector. Wrenching it open he plunged
out into the screaming windswept darkness, and then turned again to drag
it shut behind him.




CHAPTER LI


But after he had been running for ten minutes or so, battling with the
fury of the rain that drove into his face and into his mouth so that he
angrily had to spit it out again, Sir Pelham began to realise the
hopelessness of it all. The Rector had had at least a couple of hours'
start; no, perhaps a little less than that, but still, quite enough to
make it practically impossible for him to be overtaken. No, by now he
would either be drowned or safely over the flooded area. From Rachel's
brief explanation Sir Pelham gathered where that was. There were two
roads leading up to the head of the valley, and one, the more direct of
the two, lay much lower than the other. It was that bridge that was
down, of course, and the river had over-run it. As he ran he flashed his
powerful electric torch ahead of him. It showed the wet whipped surface
of the lane but enabled him to see where he had to splash through water.
His brain was busy as he ran. Supposing the Rector was dead and the
woman who was responsible for it babbled it all out in her hysteria. The
inquest... the open mouths of the rustics as she gulped it all out.
How that her mistress loved the famous barrister who had come to live at
the Rectory, so that she, Rachel, her devoted servant, could not bear to
see her grief and despair at the return of the husband whom she loathed.
In imagination Sir Pelham saw and heard the snuffles and muttering of
the men who had been summoned to sit in judgment on the cold still body.
Intolerable... hideous and intolerable situation; unconsciously Sir
Pelham forced himself to go faster. Ah! he could hear it now. He had
come to the forking of the roads. Flashing his torch to the right he
turned down the hill. God! it sounded horrible: he went a little more
slowly. And now he went more slowly and cautiously still. He could see
it now: the white light of his torch caught the cresting waves of the
rushing torrent. Right over the road: the smashed fragments of the old
stone bridge stabbing the water and sending it feet high. Horrible! Sir
Pelham suddenly felt sick with fear. He had never seen the unchained
vengeance of a flood before. Perhaps the Rector had pulled up in time:
Sir Pelham went close to the edge of the rushing water. Standing there
he flashed his torch slowly and methodically ahead of him.

And now he was plunging into the water up to his knees. God in heaven,
the poor brute was there!... spreadeagled over one of the jutting
stones. One white hand showing palely where it clutched. Yes, it still
clutched, heaven be praised for that!

"Hold on!" Sir Pelham was yelling it over the roar of the water, for,
seeing the light flickering over his hand, the Rector was trying to turn
his head. "Hold on!" He yelled it again, sputtering the words through
the water that splashed up into his mouth. For it was getting deeper and
deeper. The river must have risen enormously since the Rector had
started to cross on those stones. Because that must have been what he
had done, decided Sir Pelham, holding the torch over his head and
desperately floundering on. If he died in the attempt he was going to
get that man back to dry land. He set his teeth and shook the water out
of his eyes. And then he stepped back, dodging as a floating log came
rushing by. And now on again, the horrible thunder of the water drumming
in his ears. "No, you don't!" he suddenly spoke aloud defiantly. For
there was something almost malignant in the way that the water bore down
on them. Black and swirling, making frantic efforts to dislodge that
pallid hand and straining wrist clutching at the black rock.

But now he was there. Speechless, he lurched up on to a bit of granite
and grabbed at the Rector's dark waist. "Oh, my God!" He stood there,
hauling at him. Yes, he was all right now. He had him now, dragged up on
to a higher bit of rough stone.

"Sir Pelham!"

"Ah, still alive?" And now Sir Pelham felt a hysterical sensation of
laughter rising in his throat. How odd they must both look! he choked
and drew his free hand across his clogged eyes.

"Yes." But Arthur Carpendale's voice was faint. "Still alive, but only
just. How in the name of heaven?" the Rector's voice trailed off.

"Never mind that now; drink this." Sir Pelham had dragged his flask from
his soaking weighted pocket. Unscrewing the top of it he held it to the
Rector's pale mouth.

"Do you think I'd better?" Wedged against the rock the Rector held his
strained wrist closely in a trembling hand.

"Don't be a damned fool!" And now Sir Pelham, accustomed to the
darkness, could see better where they were. Only knee-deep they stood on
the debris of the shattered bridge. If the Rector had only known he
could have struggled his way to comparative safety by himself. But his
fall forward must have knocked him out, and only the instinct to hold on
had remained with him.

"You have some too, then," and now the Rector's voice was stronger.

"Rather," and lifting the flask to his own lips Sir Pelham drank deeply.
A mercy he had filled it, he thought, for he still had to get the Rector
back to dry land. And they must not delay either, for the river was
still rising. It was coming down from the mountains in torrents, of
course.

"Come on," he said it briefly.

"Where?"

"Back to the road, of course." Again Sir Pelham flashed his torch out
over the waste of waters. For it was a waste now; the edge of the road
looked much farther away.

"You'll never get me there," said the Rector simply. "I think I've hurt
myself inside: it feels very odd."

"It's the cold," said Sir Pelham briefly. "Come on. Keep a grip of my
shoulder and don't let go, for God's sake, or I shall never get hold of
you again. Now then": and together they stepped out into the swirl of
thick brown water. Suddenly sick to his very vitals, Sir Pelham felt
something soft and yielding under his feet. A sheep, perhaps... "Hang
on," he gasped the words as he sank almost shoulder-high into the waves.
But at last they stumbled up on to the soaking road. How, Sir Pelham
never knew. Breathless they stood there clinging to one another. "Now,
then..." Sir Pelham spat out a mouthful of water. "Brandy... you
must have some more."

"Sir Pelham, brandy isn't going to help me now." The Rector's weight was
heavy on the taller man's shaking arm.

"Yes, it is," said Sir Pelham briefly. "I've got to get you back to the
Rectory, remember. Here you are: but leave me some," and Sir Pelham
laughed breathlessly.




CHAPTER LII


The Rector lived for exactly a week. It had been found impossible to
move him to a nursing home: Dr. Crawley, who had battled his way out the
following day, had given it as his opinion at once.

"He is injured internally," he said. "How, I don't quite know, but he is
frightfully bruised externally. And his vitality is so low that an
operation would be out of the question. You did all you could in giving
him unlimited brandy and keeping him warm. That servant of yours is a
treasure."

"Yes," said Sir Pelham briefly.

"I shall send for a couple of nurses and return myself with them," said
Dr. Crawley. "I have given him a hypodermic injection, so he is
perfectly all right for the moment."

"Splendid."

"And how are you feeling yourself?" inquired Dr. Crawley, and his shrewd
Scotch gaze was on the tall man who stood there so quietly. "You saved
his life, of course, he told me, very feebly, but he told me."

"I feel perfectly fit," said Sir Pelham briefly. "A little sleepy
perhaps, as, of course, Rachel and I were up all night, but that's
easily remedied."

"And Mrs. Carpendale?"

"She is perfectly calm and being extremely useful."

"Good. Thank God it's stopped raining. I've got to go further up the
valley. Thwaites is gravely ill, but that was all bunkum about his back.
It was monstrous that they dragged Carpendale out on a night like last
night."

"He would go," said Sir Pelham simply, and then he felt a sensation of
tears at the back of his eyes. The pathos: the agonising pathos of it!
That pale still face with the suffering eyes, so flat on the low
pillows. His whispered passion of gratitude.

"You saved my life at the risk of your own." Would he ever be able to
forget those words? Frightful: Sir Pelham fumbled awkwardly for his
handkerchief.

"Yes, I know," said Dr. Crawley. "He has always been a man with a very
strong sense of duty towards those under his care. But you know, Sir
Pelham," and here Dr. Crawley spoke very gravely, "I think that really
this is a very happy solution to an insoluble problem. Of course, as you
know, Carpendale drinks. I gather that he has been undergoing a cure for
it. But I know his history. It's hopeless," said Dr. Crawley slowly.

"You really think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"And for that young wife of his it's been a heart-breaking life. One
really cannot regret.... If there had been a child, for instance."
Dr. Crawley fell abruptly silent.

"Quite."

"And now I must be off," said Dr. Crawley, resuming his old cheerful
tone. "In another hour or so I'll be out with nurses and everything that
we want. Your generosity..." and now Dr. Crawley held out a very
cordial hand.

"Please don't. Anything that I can do...."

"Well, it's extremely good of you," said Dr. Crawley. And then he was
gone. And Sir Pelham strolled to the window and watched him go. Awful!
And yet in spite of himself a fugitive leaping joy at the back of his
brain. Susan... slender and afraid, but his own. Well! he crossed the
hall to the kitchen.

"Rachel."

"Yes, sir."

"Leave what you're doing and come up to my room," said Sir Pelham.




CHAPTER LIII


The Rector died on a lovely sunny evening. The September sunshine
slanted over the rust-coloured bracken, making long slender shadows on
the green hills.

Beautiful blue shadows--the day nurse who was sitting with her patient
saw the same blue shadow steal across the quiet face sunk in the low
white pillows, and getting noiselessly up she ran to the door.

"Susan." And now the Rector was smiling: a very little.

"Arthur, Arthur!" Susan crouched on her knees by the narrow bed, dropped
her face on to the pale hand in an agony of tears.

"My darling... please." The Rector's voice was very faint as he
gropingly tried to draw his hand away so that he could lay it on her
head.

"I haven't been kind...."

"You have, my child."

"No, no."

"Where is Sir Pelham?" The Rector moved his head restlessly on the
pillows. "Give me something," his dry lips formed the words.

"That's better, isn't it?" The night nurse was stooping to him with a
medicine glass in her white-cuffed hand.

"Yes. Thank you. Ah, there he is!" and without turning his head the
Rector's eyes moved to the door. "Ah," the Rector was breathing with
difficulty now.

"Carpendale." Sir Pelham's lips were thin with the effort for
self-control. He crossed the floor quickly, standing there in a shaft of
sunlight.

"She is crying," said the Rector feebly, and a little fleeting smile lay
deep in his eyes. "And it hurts me. Help her." The Rector groped feebly
with his pale hand. "Put it on her head," he whispered, and fumblingly
he found Sir Pelham's strong brown fingers and held them in his own
trembling ones.

And in an agony of compassion for the dying man Sir Pelham felt Susan's
soft curly hair under his hand. "Traitor; cad!" he whispered the words
to himself as he felt her tremble under his touch. And yet, was he?
After all, he had done what he could to save this man who now lay dying
in front of his eyes. Dying... slipping out of this much-vaunted life
with all its perplexities and unhappinesses and unfairness of
distribution. Was the Rector to be pitied after all? No, thought Sir
Pelham, feeling his self-control return as he stood watching the white
eyelids droop lower over the hollow sockets beneath them. For the Rector
was nearly gone now: the amazing dignity of Death Itself was stealing
over the pale face. Detachment: an almost triumphant detachment from
earthly things held sway there now. Ah! he stepped back as the day nurse
came quietly forward, stooping low and professionally over the narrow
bed.

"Come, my child," and now Sir Pelham had lifted Susan up from her knees.

Staring stupidly from the tender compassion on the keen face to the
starched and competent sympathy of the two nurses, Susan stood there
trembling.

"Is he dead?" Faltering the words she lifted her tear-soaked eyes.

"Yes, dear."

"Do you think that he knew that I was sorry for everything?" stammered
Susan.

"I am perfectly certain he did," said Sir Pelham simply. "Come along
with me now, my child."

"If only I had been different," sobbed Susan, and the two nurses turned
compassionately away as she bowed her head on to Sir Pelham's
outstretched hands in a passion of unavailing tears.

While down in the kitchen Rachel went on preparing supper. Aunt Dorothy,
quietly crying, sat close up to the fire. Ada, her face stained with
tears and sniffing convulsively, was getting the plates and vegetable
dishes down from the china cupboard.

"Hurry up, now," said Rachel in a fierce whisper.

"I don't want to die, and I suddenly feel as if I might," snorted Ada in
a sudden panic of fear.

"Then you behave yourself," retorted Rachel, "and you won't die until
your rightful time," and then Rachel's voice trailed into sudden silence
as the kitchen door opened abruptly.

"Yes, sir," and now Rachel's voice was breathless and gasping. Flinging
out a floury hand she snatched at the rounded corner of the
well-scrubbed kitchen table.

"We should like supper as soon as possible, please," said Sir Pelham
quietly, and then, with a fleeting glance at the staring pallid face he
went out again.

And now it was Ada's turn to throw herself into the breach: Ada and Aunt
Dorothy. For Rachel had suddenly collapsed. Her apron flung over her
head, she was howling.

"I can't cook any more." Heaped all sideways in her chair Rachel was
doubled up in a frenzy of noisy crying.

"Fetch Sir Pelham, Ada." Aunt Dorothy, approaching rather helplessly,
gave the order sharply, and Ada ran. While Rachel, struggling out of the
chair, screamed hysterically.

"No, no." She was backing against the scullery door, her eyes wide and
staring. While Aunt Dorothy spoke apologetically as Sir Pelham, followed
by the terrified Ada, came back into the kitchen and stood there
quietly.

"I cannot think what is the matter with her," she said tremulously.

"The shock has been too much for her. Leave me alone with her for a
minute or two," said Sir Pelham briefly. And as the kitchen door closed
behind the two frightened women he still stood there and looked at
Rachel.

"Sir, will you have me hanged?" Rachel's eyes were staring and fixed.
Her hands moved convulsively up and down the panels of the door behind
her.

"Well..."

"Sir, have mercy on me!" choked Rachel. She fell on her knees, clutching
at the thin ankles.

"I will not have you hanged this time," said Sir Pelham deliberately,
speaking after a long pregnant silence.

"When, then?" choked Rachel, and she passed her tongue over her suddenly
parching lips.

"When it seems to be going to happen again," said Sir Pelham briefly.
"And now get up from the floor and go on with your preparations for
supper. And remember: not one single word of what you did that night
or----" Sir Pelham paused significantly.

"Sir, I swear it," gasped Rachel dryly.

"Very well then, we will consider it forgotten," said Sir Pelham, and he
walked quietly out of the kitchen. While Rachel, with a long shuddering
sigh lurched up from her knees, and stumbling over to the oven she
opened the door of it with a shaking floury hand and then jerkily shut
it again.






[End of Bracken Turning Brown, by Pamela Wynne]
