The two girls then concluded that Captain Ellesborough had been causing trouble, as all men did, at some point; and being sympathetic little souls, they worked especially hard in the potato-field, and would not allow Rachel to carry the heavier baskets to the "clamp."
Meanwhile Janet had been wrestling with old Halsey, till he had very reluctantly yielded to her persuasion, and returned to work.
"I'm not the man I wor," he confided to Peter Betts, as they were eating their dinner under a hedge in the damp October sunshine. "When I wor a young man, I wouldn't ha' minded them things, not if it was iver so. But now they do give me the shivers in my inside."
"What do?" said Peter Betts, with a mouthful of cold bacon. He was still greatly in the dark as to why Halsey had left work so early in the afternoon the day before, and why he was now in such a gruff and gloomy mood. There was indeed a rumour in the village that old Halsey had seen "summat," but as Halsey had gone to bed immediately after Miss Leighton had had her say with him, and had refused to be "interviewed" even by his wife, there was a good deal of uncertainty even in the mind of his oldest pal, Peter Betts.
"Why—ghostisses!" said Halsey, with a frown, removing his pipe for a moment to give emphasis to the word. "I don't see as a man can be expected to deal with ghostisses. Anythin' else yer like in a small way—mad dogs, or bulls, or snakes, where they keep 'em, which, thank the Lord, they don't in these parts—but not them."
"What did yer see?" said Betts, after a few ruminating pulls.
"Well, I saw old Watson, the keeper, as was murdered sixty years since, 'at's what I saw," said Halsey with slow decisiveness.
"An' what might be like?" asked Betts, with equal deliberation. The day was mild and sunny; the half-ploughed field on which they had been working lay alternatively yellow in the stubbles and a rich brown purple in the new turned furrows under the autumn noon. A sense of well-being had been diffused in the two old men by food and rest. Halsey's tongue grew looser.
"Well, I saw a man come creepin' an' crouchin' down yon grass road"—(it was visible from where they sat, as a green streak on the side of the hill)—"same as several people afore me 'as seen 'um—same as they allus say old Watson must ha' come after Dempsey shot 'im. He wor shot in the body. The doctors as come to look at 'im fust foun' that out. An' if ye're shot in the body, I understan', yo naterally double up a bit if yo try to walk. Well—that's jes' how I saw 'im—crouchin' along. Yo remember it wor a dull evenin' yesterday—an' it wor gettin' dark, though it worn't dark. It wor not much after fower, by my old watch—but I couldn't see 'im at all plain. I wor in Top-End field—you know?—as leads up to that road. An' I watched 'im come along making for that outside cart-shed—that 'un that's back to back wi' the shippen, where they foun' Watson lyin'. An' I wor much puzzled by the look on 'im. I didn't think nothink about old Watson, fust of all—I didn't know what to think. I was right under the hedge wi' the horses; 'ee couldna' ha' seen me—an' I watched 'im. He stopped, onst or twice, as though he wor restin' hisself—pullin' 'isself together—and onst I 'eered 'im cough—"
Halsey looked round suddenly on his companion as though daring him to mock.
Betts, however, could not help himself. He gave an interrupting and sceptical chuckle.
"Ghostisses don't cough, as ever I 'eered on."
"And why shouldn't they?" said Halsey testily. "If they can do them other things they'd used to do when livin'—walkin' an' seein' an' such-like—why not coughin'?"
Betts shook his head.
"Never 'eered on it," he said, with conviction.
"Well, anyways I seed him come down to that shed, an' then I lost 'im. But I 'ad the creeps somehow and I called to Jenny to come an' take the 'orses. An' then I went after 'im. But there was all the field an' the lane to cross, and when I come to the shed, there wasn't no one and nothink to be seen—excep'—"
The old man paused, and again looked doubtfully at his companion.
"Well?" said Betts eagerly, his philosophic attitude giving way a little.
"Excep'—a large patch o' blood—fresh blood—I touched it—on one of them ole sacks lyin' near the cart," said Halsey slowly. "An' it worn't there in the afternoon, for I moved the sacks mysel'."
Betts whistled softly. Halsey resumed,—
"There was nothin' moved—or taken away—nothin' at all!—only that patch. So then I went all round the farm, and there was nobody. I thought 'ee might ha' turned back by the grass road, p'raps, without my seein' 'im, so I went that way, and there was nothin'—until—a little way up the road—there was blood again"—the old man's voice dropped—"every couple o' yards or so—a drop or two here—an' a drop or two there—just as they tracked old Watson by it, up the hill, and into yon wood—where Dempsey set on him."
The two old men looked at each other. Betts was evidently impressed.
"Are you sure it was blood?"
"Sure. Last night, Hastings said it was sheep-dip! After I tole 'im, when 'ee went to look under the shed, it wor so dark 'ee couldn't see nothin'. Well, 'ee knew better this mornin'. 'Ee fetched me, an' asst me if I'd said anythin' to Miss Janet. And I said, no. So then he tole me I wasn't to say nothin' to the ladies, nor the girls, nor anybody. An' 'ee'd done summat wi' the sack—I dunno what. But 'ee might ha' held 'is tongue last night about sheep-dip! Who's been dippin' sheep about here? 'As Miss Henderson got any ruddle anywhere about the farm? I know she ain't!—an' Muster Hastings knows she ain't."
"Why didn't yer tell Miss Janet?—about the bleedin'?"
"Well, I was a bit skeered. I thought I'd sleep on't, before I got talkin' any more. But on the way 'ome, as I tellt yer, I met Hastings, an' tole 'im, an' then give 'im notice."
"That wor a bit hasty, worn't it?" said Betts after a moment, in a judicial tone. But he had been clearly much exercised by his companion's account, and his pipe hanging idly from his hands showed that his thoughts were active.
"Well, it might ha' bin," Halsey admitted, "but as I said afore, I'm gettin' an old man, and I don't want no truck wi' things as I don't unnerstan'. It give me the wust night as I've had since I had that bad turn wi' the influenza ten year ago."
"You didn't see his face?"
"No."
"An' 'ee didn't mind you of anybody?"
Halsey hesitated.
"Well, onst I did think I'd seen one o' the same build—soomwhere. But I can't recolleck where."
"As for the blood," said Betts reflectively, "it's as curous as the coughin'. Did you iver hear tell as ghosts could bleed?"
Hastings shook his head. Steeped in meditation, the two men smoked silently for a while. Then Betts said, with the explosiveness of one who catches an idea,—
"Have yer thought o' tellin' John Dempsey?"
"I hain't thought o' tellin' nobody. An' I shouldn't ha' told Miss Leighton what I did tell her, if she 'adn't come naggin' about my givin' notice."
"You might as well tell John Dempsey. Why, it's his business, is old
Watson! Haven't yer seen 'im at all?"
Halsey said "No," holding his handsome old head rather high. Had he belonged to a higher station in life, his natural reticence, and a fastidious personal dignity would have carried him far. To a modern statesman they are at least as valuable as brains. In the small world of Ipscombe they only meant that Halsey himself held rather scornfully aloof from the current village gossip, and got mocked at for his pains. The ordinary human instinct revenged itself, however, when he was tête-à-tête with his old chum Peter Betts. Betts divined at any rate from the expression in the old man's eyes that he might talk, and welcome.
So he poured out what he knew about John Dempsey, a Canadian lad working in the Forestry Corps at Ralstone, who turned out to be the grandson of the Dempsey who had always been suspected of the murder of Richard Watson in the year 1859. This young Dempsey, he said, had meant to come to Ipscombe after the war, and put what he knew before the police. But finding himself sent to Ralstone, which was only five miles from Ipscombe, he saw no reason to wait, and he had already given all the information he could to the superintendent of police at Millsborough. His grandfather had signed a written confession before his death, and John Dempsey had handed it over. The old man, it appeared, had "turned pious" during a long illness before his death, and had wished to square matters with his conscience and the Almighty. When his grandson had volunteered for the war, and was about to sail for Europe, old Dempsey had sent for him, had told him the story, and charged him, when he was able, to place his confession in the proper hands. And having done that, he died "very quiet and comfortable"—so John Dempsey reported.
"Which is more than poor Jem Watson did," growled Halsey. He felt neither respect nor sympathy for a man who, having set up a secret, couldn't keep it; and the confession itself, rather than the crime confessed, confirmed the poor opinion he had always held of the elder Dempsey when they were young men in the village together. But he agreed to let Betts bring "young John" to see him. And thereupon they went back to the sowing of one of Miss Henderson's big fields with winter wheat.
When the milking was done, and work was nearly over for the day, a note brought by messenger arrived at the farm for Miss Henderson. It was from Ellesborough—a few scribbled words. "I am prevented from coming this evening. The Chief Forestry Officer of my district has just arrived, and stays the night. I hope to come over to-morrow between six and seven. Shall I find you?"
Rachel scribbled an answer, which a small boy on a bicycle carried off. Then she went slowly back to the sitting-room, so disappointed and unnerved that she was on the brink of tears. Janet who had just come in from milking, was standing by the table, mending a rent in her waterproof. She looked up as Rachel entered, and the needle paused in her hand.
"I say, Rachel!—you do look overdone! You've been going at it too hard."
For all day long Rachel had been lifting, and sorting, and carrying, in the potato-field, finding in the severe physical exertion the only relief from restlessness. She shook her head irritably and came to stand by the wood fire which Janet had just lit, a welcome brightness in the twilight room.
"Suppose you knock up—" began Janet in a tone of remonstrance. Rachel cut her short.
"I want to speak to you—please, Janet."
Janet looked round in astonishment and put down her work. Rachel was standing by the fire, with her hands behind her back, her eyes fixed on Janet. She was still in the graceful tunic and knee-breeches, in which her young and splendid youth seemed always most at home. But she had taken off her cap, and her brown hair was falling round a pale face.
"Janet—you know Captain Ellesborough and I had a long talk last night?"
Janet smiled.
"Of course I do. And of course I have my own thoughts about it!"
"I don't know what they are," said Rachel slowly. "But—I'd better tell you—Captain Ellesborough asked me to marry him."
She paused.
"Did you think that would be news to any of us?" said Janet, laughing, and then stopped. The sudden contraction of pain in Rachel's face, and something like a sob startled her.
"Don't, Janet, please. I told him something—which made him wonder—whether he did want to marry me after all."
Janet's heart gave an uncomfortable jump. A score of past conjectures and misgivings rushed back upon her.
"What did you tell him?"
"What I see now I ought to have told you—as well as him—long ago. Henderson is my maiden name. I was a married woman for three years. I had a child which died. I divorced my husband, and he's still alive."
The colour had flamed back into her cheeks. Janet sat silent, her eyes fixed on Rachel's.
"I did tell you I had a story, didn't I?" said Rachel insistently.
"You did. I took my chance. It was you who—who brought the action?"
"I brought the action. There was no defence. And the judge said—I'd been awfully badly treated—it was no wonder I wanted—to get free. Well, there it is. I'm sorry I deceived you. I'm sorry I deceived him."
"You didn't deceive me," said Janet. "I had practically guessed it." She rose slowly, and going up to Rachel, she put her hands on her shoulders,—
"Why didn't you tell me, you poor thing!" Her voice and eyes were full of emotion—full of pity. But Rachel shrank away a little from her touch, murmuring under her breath, "Because I wanted never to hear of it—or think of it again." Then, after a pause, she added, "But if you want to know more, I'll tell you. It's your right. My married name was Delane."
"Don't tell me any more!" said Janet peremptorily. "I don't want to hear it. But you ought to be—quite frank—with him."
"I know that. Naturally—it was a great shock to him."
There was something very touching in her attitude. She stood there like a shamefaced boy, in her quasi-male dress; and the contrast between her strong young beauty, and the humility and depression of her manner appealed with singular force to Janet's mind, so constantly and secretly preoccupied with spiritual things. Rachel seemed to her so much cleverer and more vigorous than herself in all matters of ordinary life. Only in the region of religious experience did Janet know herself the superior. But Rachel had never made any outward sign that she cared in the least to know more of that region, whether in Janet or other people. She had held entirely aloof from it. But self-reproach—moral suffering—are two of the keys that lead to it. And both were evident here. Janet's heart went out to her friend.
"When is he coming?"
"To-morrow evening. I dare say he'll give me up."
Janet marvelled at the absence of self-assertion—the touch of despair—in words and tone. So it had gone as deep as this! She blamed herself for lack of perception. An ordinary love-affair, about to end in an ordinary way—that was how it had appeared to her. And suddenly it seemed to her she had stumbled upon what might be tragedy.
No, no—there should be no tragedy! She put her arms round Rachel.
"My dear, he won't give you up! As if I hadn't seen! He worships the ground you tread upon!"
Rachel said nothing. She let her face rest on Janet's shoulder. When she raised it, it was wet. But she kissed Janet quietly, and went away without another word.
VIII
Four grown-ups and a child were gathered in the living-room of Halsey's cottage. The cottage was old like its tenant and had all the inconveniences of age; but it was more spacious than the modern cottage often is, since it and its neighbours represented a surviving fragment from an old Jacobean house—a house of gentlefolks—which had once stood on the site. Most of the house had been pulled down, but Colonel Shepherd's grandfather had retained part of it, and turned it into two cottages—known as 1 and 2 Ipscombe Place—which for all their drawbacks were much in demand in the village, and conferred a certain distinction on their occupants. Mrs. Halsey's living room possessed a Tudor mantelpiece in moulded brick, into which a small modern kitchener had been barbarously fitted; and three fine beams with a little incised ornament ran across the ceiling.
Mrs. Halsey had not long cleared away the tea, and brought in a paraffin lamp, small but cheerful. She was a middle-aged woman, much younger than her husband—with an ironic half-dreamy eye, and a native intelligence much superior to her surroundings. She was suffering from a chronic abscess in the neck, which had strange periodic swellings and subsidences, all of which were endlessly interesting to its possessor. Mrs. Halsey, indeed, called the abscess "she," wrapped it lovingly in red flannel, describing the evening dressing of it as "putting her to bed," and talked of "her" qualities and oddities as though, in the phrase of her next-door neighbour, "it'd a been a christened child." She had decided views on politics, and was a match for any political agent who might approach her with an eye to her vote, a commodity which she kept, so to speak, like a new shilling in her pocket, turning it from time to time to make sure it was there.
But independent as she was, she rarely interfered with the talk of Halsey and his male friends. And on this occasion when the three men—Halsey, Peter Betts, and young Dempsey—had gathered smoking round the fire, she settled herself with her knitting by the table and the lamp, throwing in every now and then a muttered and generally sarcastic comment, of which her husband took no notice—especially as he knew very well that the sarcasms were never aimed at him, and that she was as proud of him as she was generally contemptuous of the rest of the world.
Halsey had just finished a rather grudging description of his experiences two days before for John Dempsey's benefit. He was conscious that each time he repeated them, they sounded more incredible. He didn't want to repeat them; he didn't mean to repeat them; after this, nobody should get any more out of him at all.
Young Dempsey's attitude was certainly not encouraging. Attentive at first, he allowed himself, as Halsey's talk developed, a mild, progressive grin, which spread gradually over his ugly but honest face, and remained there. In face of it, Halsey's speech became more and more laconic, till at last he shut his mouth with a snap, and drawing himself up in his chair, re-lit his pipe with the expression that meant, "All right—I've done—you may take it or leave it."
"Well, I don't see that what you saw, Mr. Halsey, was so very uncommon!"
Dempsey began, still smiling, in spite of a warning look from Betts.
"You saw a man come down that road? Well, in the first place, why
shouldn't a man come down that road—it's a reg'lar right of way—"
"It's the way, mind ye, as the ghost of old Watson has allus come!" put in Peter Betts, chivalrously anxious to support his friend Halsey, as far as he could, against a sceptical stranger. "An' it's been seen twice on that road already, as I can remember: once when I was a little boy, by old Dan Holt, the postmaster, and once about ten years ago."
Dempsey looked at the speaker indulgently. To his sharpened transatlantic sense, these old men, in this funny old village, seemed to him a curiously dim and feeble folk. He could hardly prevent himself from talking to them as though they were children. He supposed his grandfather would have been like that if he'd stayed on at Ipscombe. He thanked the stars he hadn't!
But since he had been summoned to consult, as a person who had a vested interest, of a rather blood-curdling sort, in the Great End ghost, he had to give his opinion; and he gave it, while Halsey listened and smoked in a rather sulky silence. For it was soon evident that the murderer's grandson had no use at all for the supposed ghost-story. He tore it ruthlessly to pieces. In the first place, Halsey described the man seen on the grass-road as tall and lanky. But according to his grandfather's account, the murdered gamekeeper, on the contrary, was a broadly-built, stumpy man. In the next place—the coughing and the bleeding!—he laughed so long and loudly at these points in the story that Halsey's still black bushy eyebrows met frowningly over a pair of angry eyes, and Betts tried hurriedly to tame the young man's mirth.
"Well, if yer don't think that man as Halsey saw was the ghost, what do you s'pose 'ee was doin' there?" asked Betts, "and where did he go? Halsey went right round the farm. The hill just there is as bare as my hand. He must ha' seen the man—if it wor a man—an' he saw nothin'. There isn't a tree or a bush where that man could ha' hid hisself—if he wor a man."
Dempsey declared he should have to go and examine the ground himself before he could answer the question. But of course there was an answer to it—there must be. As to the man—why Millsborough, and Ipscombe too, had been full of outlandish East Enders, flying from the raids, Poles and Russians, and such like—thievin' fellows by all accounts. Why couldn't it be one of them—prowling round the farm for anything he could pick up—and frightened off, when he saw Halsey?
Betts, smoking with prodigious energy, inquired what he made of the blood. Didn't he know the old story of how Watson was tracked down to the cart-shed? Dempsey laughed again.
"Well, it's curious, grant ye. It's real funny! But where are you going to get blood without a body? And if a thing's a body, it isn't a ghost!"
The two old men were silent. Halsey was lost in a hopeless confusion of ideas, and Betts was determined not to give his pal away.
But here—say what you like!—was a strange man, seen, on the road, which had been used, according to village tradition, on several previous occasions, by the authentic ghost of Watson; his course was marked by traces of blood, just as Watson's path of pain had been marked on the night of the murder; and on reaching the spot where Watson had breathed his last, the apparition, whatever it was, had vanished. Perplexity, superstition, and common sense fought each other. Halsey who knew much of his Bible by heart was inwardly comparing texts. "A spirit hath not flesh and blood"—True—but on the other hand what about the "bodies of the saints"—that "arose"? While, perhaps, the strongest motive of all in the old man's mind was the obstinate desire to prove himself right, and so to confound young scoffers like Dempsey.
Dempsey, however, having as he thought disposed of Halsey's foolish tale was determined to tell his own, which had already made a great impression in certain quarters of the village, and ranked indeed as the chief sensation of the day. To be able to listen to the story of a murder told by the grandson of the murderer, to whom the criminal himself had confessed it, and that without any fear of unpleasant consequences to any one, was a treat that Ipscombe had seldom enjoyed, especially as the village was still rich in kinsfolk of both murdered and murderer.
Dempsey had already repeated the story so often that it was by now perfect in every detail, and it produced the same effect in this lamplit kitchen as in other. Halsey, forgetting his secret ill-humour, was presently listening open-mouthed. Mrs. Halsey laid down her knitting, and stared at the speaker over the top of her spectacles; while across Betts's gnome-like countenance smiles went out and in, especially at the more gruesome points of the tale. The light sparkled on the young Canadian's belt, the Maple Leaf in the khaki hat which lay across his knees, on the badge of the Forestry Corps on his shoulder. The old English cottage, with its Tudor brick-work, and its overhanging beams, the old English labourers with the stains of English soil upon them, made the setting; and in the midst, sat the "new man," from the New World, holding the stage, just as Ellesborough the New Englander was accustomed to hold it, at Great End Farm. All over England, all over unravaged France and northern Italy similar scenes at that moment were being thrown on the magic sheet of life; and at any drop in the talk, the observer could almost hear, in the stillness, the weaving of the Great Loom on which the Ages come and go.
There was a pause, when Dempsey came to a dramatic end with the last breath of his grandfather; till Mrs. Halsey said dryly, fixing the young man with her small beady eyes,—
"And you don't mind telling on your own grandfather?"
"Why shouldn't I?" laughed Dempsey, "when it's sixty years ago. They've lost their chance of hanging him anyhow."
Mrs. Halsey shook her head in inarticulate protest. Betts said reflectively,—
"I wouldn't advise you to be tellin' that tale to Miss Henderson."
Dempsey's expression changed at the name. He bent forward eagerly.
"By the way, who is Miss Henderson? Do you know where she comes from?"
The others stared.
"Last winter," said Betts at last, "she wor on a farm down Devonshire way. And before that she wor at college—with Miss Janet."
"Was she ever in Canada?"
"Yes!" said Halsey with sudden decision, "she wor—for she told me one day when I wor mendin' the new reaper and binder, that we in this country didn't know what harvest meant. 'Why, I've helped to reap a field—in Canada,' she ses, 'fower miles square,' she ses, 'six teams o' horses—an' six horses to the team,' she ses—'that's somethin' like.' So I know she's been in Canada."
"Ah!" said Dempsey, staring at the carpet. "And she's not married? You're sure she's not married?"
"Married?" said all the others, looking at him in disapproving astonishment.
"Well, if she ain't, I saw her sister—or her double—twice—about two-and-a-half year ago—at a place thirty miles from Winnipeg. I could ha' sworn I'd seen her before!"
"Well, you can't ha' seen her before," said Betts positively; "cause she's Miss, not Missis."
"Ah!" said Dempsey again in a non-committal voice, looking hard this time into the fire.
"Where have you seen her—in these parts?" asked Mrs. Halsey.
"At the Harvest Festival, t'other day. But I must have been mistaken—that's all. I think I'm going to call upon her some day."
"Whatever for?"
"Why—to tell her about my grandfather!" said Dempsey, looking round at Mrs. Halsey, with an air of astonishment that any one should ask him the question.
"You won't be welcome."
"Why not?"
"Because she don't want to hear nothin' about Watson's murder. And whatever's the good on it, anyhow?" said Mrs. Halsey with sudden emphasis. "You've told us a good tale, I'll grant ye. But yer might as well be pullin' the old feller 'isself out of his grave, as goin' round killin' 'im every night fresh, as you be doin'. Let 'im be. Skelintons is skelintons."
Dempsey, feeling rather indignantly that his pains had been wasted, and his audience was not worthy of him, rose to take his departure. Halsey's face cleared. He turned to look at his wife, and she winked in return. And when the young forester had taken his departure, Mrs. Halsey stroked the red flannel round her swollen neck complacently.
"I 'ad to pike 'im out soomhow. It's 'igh time she wor put to bed!"
That same evening, Ellesborough left the Ralstone camp behind him about six o'clock, and hurried through the late October evening towards Great End Farm. During the forty-eight hours which had elapsed since his interview with Rachel he had passed through much suffering, and agonies of indecision. He had had to reconstruct all his ideas of the woman he loved. Instead of the proud and virginal creature he had imagined himself to be wooing, amid the beautiful setting of her harvest fields, he had to think of her as a woman dimmed and besmirched by an unhappy marriage with a bad man. For himself, he certainly resented the concealment which had been practised on him. Yet at the same time he thought he understood the state of exasperation, of invincible revolt which had led to it. And he kept reminding himself that, after all, her confession had anticipated his proposal.
Nevertheless such men as he have ideas of marriage, both romantic and austere. They are inclined to claim what they give—a clean sheet, and the first-fruits of body and soul. In Rachel's case the first-fruits had been wasted on a marriage, of which the ugly and inevitable incidents haunted Ellesborough's imagination. One moment he shrank from the thought of them; the next he could not restrain the protesting rush of passion—the vow that his love should put her back on that pinnacle of honour and respect from which fate should never have allowed her to fall.
Well, she had promised to tell him her story in full. He awaited it. As to his own people, they were dear, good women, his mother and sisters—saints, but not Pharisees.
It was a dark and lowering evening, with tempest gusts of wind. But from far away, after he had passed Ipscombe, a light from one of the windows of the farm shone out, as though beckoning him to her. Suddenly from the mouth of the farm, he saw a bicycle approaching. The rider was Janet Leighton. She passed him with a wave and a smile.
"Going to a Food meeting! But Rachel's at home."
What a nice woman! Looking back over the couple of months since he had known the inmates of the farm, he realized how much he had come to like Janet Leighton. So unselfish, so full of thought for others, so modest for herself! There couldn't be a better friend for Rachel; her friendship itself was a testimonial; he reassured himself by the mere thought of her.
When he drew up at the farm, Hastings with a lantern in his hand was just disappearing towards the hill, and the two girls, Betty and Jenny, passed him, each with a young man, two members, in fact, of his own Corps, John Dempsey and another. They explained that they were off to a Red Cross Concert in the village hall. Ellesborough's pulse beat quicker as he parted from them, for he realized that he would find Rachel alone in the farm.
Yes, there she was at the open door, greeting him with a quiet face—a smile even. She led the way into the sitting-room, where she had just drawn down the blinds and closed the curtains of the window looking on the farm-yard. But his arrival had interrupted her before she could do the same for the window looking on the Down. Neither of them thought of it. Each was absorbed in the mere presence of the other.
Rachel was in her black Sunday dress of some silky stuff. Her throat was uncovered, and her shapely arms showed through the thin sleeves. The black and white softened and refined something overblown and sensuous in her beauty. Her manner, too, had lost its confident, provocative note. Ellesborough had never seen her so adorable, so desirable. But her self-command dictated his. He took the seat to which she pointed him; while she herself brought a chair to the other side of the fire, putting on another log with a steady hand, and a remark about the wind that was whistling outside. Then, one foot crossed over the other, her cheek reddened by the fire, propped on her hand, and her eyes on the fresh flame that was beginning to dance out of the wood, she asked him,—"You'd like to hear it all?"
He made a sign of assent.
So in a quiet, even voice, she began with an account of her family and early surroundings, more detailed than anything she had yet given him. She described her father (the striking apostolic head of the old man hung on the wall behind her) and his missionary journeys through the prairie settlements in the early days of Alberta; how, when he was old and weary, he would sometimes take her, his latest child, a small girl of ten or twelve, on his pastoral rounds, for company, perched up beside him in his buggy; and how her mother was killed by the mere hardships of the prairie life, sinking into fretful invalidism for two years before her death.
"I nursed her for years. I never did anything else—I couldn't. I never had any amusements like other girls. There was no money and no time. She died when I was twenty-four. And three months after, my father died. He didn't leave a penny. Then my brother asked me to go and live with him and his wife. I was to have my board and a dress allowance, if I would help her in the house. My brother's an awfully good sort—but I couldn't get on with his wife. I just couldn't! I expect it was my fault, just as much as hers. It was something we couldn't help. Very soon I hated the sight of her, and she never missed a chance of making me feel a worm—a useless, greedy creature, living on other people's work. If only there had been some children, I dare say I could have borne it. But she and I could never get away from each other. There were no distractions. Our nerves got simply raw—at least mine did."
There was a pause. She lifted her brown eyes, and looked at Ellesborough intently.
"I suppose my mother would have borne it. But girls nowadays can't. Not girls like me, anyway. Mother was a Christian. I don't suppose I am. I don't know what I am. I just had to live my own life. I couldn't exist without a bit of pleasure—and being admired—and seeing men—and all that!"
Her cheeks had flushed. Her eyes were very bright and defiant.
Ellesborough came nearer to her, put out a strong hand and enclosed hers in it.
"Well then—this man Delane—came to live near you?"
He spoke with the utmost gentleness, trying to help her out.
She nodded, drawing her hand away.
"I met him at a dance in Winnipeg first—the day after I'd had a horrid row with my sister-in-law. He'd just taken a large farm, with a decent house on it—not a shack—and everybody said his people were rich and were backing him. And he was very good-looking—and a Cambridge man—and all that. We danced together almost all the evening. Then he found out where I lived, and used to be always coming to see me. My brother never liked him. He said to me often, 'Why do you encourage that unprincipled cad? I'm certain there's a screw loose about him!' And I wasn't in love with Roger—not really—for one moment. But I think he was in love with me—yes, I'm sure he was—at first. And he excited and interested me. I was proud, too, of taking him away from other girls, who were always running after him. And my sister-in-law was just mad to get rid of me! Don't you understand?"
"Of course I do!"
Her eyelids wavered a little under the emotion of his tone.
"Well, then, we got married. My brother tried to get out of him what his money-affairs were. But he always evaded everything. He talked a great deal about this rich sister, and she did send him a wedding present. But he never showed me her letter, and that was the last we ever heard of her while I knew him…."
Her voice dropped. She sat looking at the fire—a grey, pale woman, from whom light and youth had momentarily gone out.
"Well, it's a hateful story—and as common!—as common as dirt. We began to quarrel almost immediately. He was jealous and tyrannical, and I always had a quick temper. I found that he drank, that he told me all sorts of lies about his past life, that he presently only cared about me as—well, as his mistress!"—and again she faced Ellesborough with hard, insistent eyes—"that he was hopelessly in debt—a gambler—and everything else. When the baby came, I could only get the wife of a neighbouring settler to come and look after me. And Roger behaved so abominably to her that she went home when the baby was a week old—and I was left to manage for myself. Then when baby was three months old, she caught whooping-cough, and had bronchitis on the top. I had a few pounds of my own, and I gave them to Roger to go in to Winnipeg and bring out a doctor and medicines. He drank all the money on the way—that I found out afterwards—he was a week away instead of two days—and the baby died. When he came back he told me a lie about having been ill. But I never lived with him—as a wife—after that. Then, of course, he hated me, and one night he nearly killed me. Next morning he apologized—said that he loved me passionately—and that kind of stuff—that I was cruel to him—and what could he do to make up? So then I suggested that he should go away for a month—and we should both think things over. He was rather frightened, because—well—he'd knocked me about a good deal in the horrible scene between us—and he thought I should bring my brother down on him. So he agreed to go, and I said I would have a girl friend to stay with me. But, of course, as soon as he was gone, I just left the house and departed. I had got evidence enough by then to set me free—about the Italian girl. I met my brother in Winnipeg. We went to his lawyers together, and I began proceedings—"
She stopped abruptly. "The rest I told you.—No!—I've told you the horrible things—now I'll say something of the things which—have made life worth living again. Till the divorce was settled I went back to my brother in Toronto. I dropped my married name then and called myself Henderson. And then I came home—because my mother's brother, who was a manufacturer in Bradford, wrote to ask me. But when I arrived he was dead, and he had left me three thousand pounds. Then I went to Swanley and got trained for farm-work. And I found Janet Leighton, and we made friends. And I love farm-work—and I love Janet—and the whole world looks so different to me! Why, of course, I didn't want to be reminded of that old horrible life! I didn't want people to say, 'Mrs. Delane? Who and where is her husband? Is he dead?' 'No—she's divorced.' 'Why?' There's!—don't you see?—all the old vile business over again! So I cut it all!"
She paused—resuming in another voice—hesitating and uncertain,—
"And yet—it seems—you can't do a simple thing like that without—hurting somebody—injuring somebody. I can't help it! I didn't mean to deceive you. But I had a right to get free from the old life if I could!"
She threw back her head proudly. Her eyes were full of tears. Then she rose impetuously.
"There!—I've told you. I suppose you don't want to be friends with me any more. It was rotten of me, I know, for, of course—I saw—you seemed to be getting to care for me. I told Janet when we set up work together that I wasn't a bad woman. And I'm not. But I'm weak. You'd better not trust me. And besides—I fell into the mud—and I expect it sticks to me still!"
She spoke with passionate animation—almost fierceness. While through her inner mind there ran the thought, "I've told him!—I've told him! If he doesn't understand, it's not my fault. I can always say, 'I did tell you—about Roger—and the rest!—as much as I was bound to tell you.' Why should I make him miserable—and destroy my own chances with him for nothing?"
They stood fronting each other. Over the fine bronzed face of the forester there ran a ripple of profound emotion—nostril and lip—and eye. Then she found herself in his arms—with no power to resist or free herself. Two or three deep, involuntary sobs—sobs of excitement—shook her, as she felt his kisses on her cheek.
"Darling!—I'll try and make up to you—for all you've suffered. Poor child!—poor little Rachel!"
She clung to him, a great wave of passion sweeping through her also. She thought, "Now I shall be happy!—and I shall make him happy, too. Of course I shall!—I'm doing quite right."
Presently he put her back in her chair, and sat beside her on the low fender stool, in front of the fire. His aspect was completely transformed. The triumphant joy which filled him had swept away the slightly stiff and reserved manner which was on the whole natural to him. And it had swept away at the same time all the doubts and hesitations of his inner mind. She had told her story, it seemed to him, with complete frankness, and a humility which appealed to all that was chivalrous and generous in a strong man. He was ready now to make more excuses for her, in the matter of his own misleading, than she seemed to wish to make for herself. How natural that she should act as she had acted! The thought of her suffering, of her ill-treatment was intolerable to him—and of the brute who had inflicted it.
"Do you know where that man is now?" he said to her presently. She had fallen back in her chair—pale and shaken, but dressed, for his eyes, in a loveliness, a pathos, that was every moment strengthening her hold upon him.
"Roger? No, I have no idea. I always suppose he's in Canada still. He never appeared when the case was tried. But the summons had to be served on him, and my lawyers succeeded in tracking him to a lodging in Calgary, where he was living—with the Italian girl. But after that we never heard any more of him—except that I had a little pencil note—unsigned, undated, delivered by hand—just before the trial came on. It said I should repent casting him off—that I had treated him shamefully—that I was a vile woman—and though I had got the better of him for the time, he would have his revenge before long."
Ellesborough shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"Threats are cheap! I hope you soon put that out of your mind?"
She made a little restless movement.
"Yes, I—I suppose so. But I did tell you once, didn't I, that—I often had fears—about nothing?"
"Yes, you did tell me," he said, smiling. "Don't have any more fears, darling! I'll see to that."
He took her hands again, and raised them to his lips and kissed them. It astonished him to feel them so cold, and see her again so excited and pale. Was she really afraid of the villain she had escaped from? The dear, foolish woman! The man in his self-confident strength loved her the more for the vague terrors he felt himself so well able to soothe.
For half an hour more they sat together, in that first intimacy of love, which transfigures men and women, so that when they pass back from it into ordinary life they scarcely recognize life or themselves again. They talked much less of the past than of the future—and that in the light of the glorious war news coming in day by day. Austria was on the point of surrender—the German landslide might come at any moment—then peace!—incredible word. Ellesborough would hardly now get to France. They might be able to marry soon—within a few weeks. As to the farm, he asked her, laughing, whether she would take him in as a junior partner for a time, till they could settle their plans. "I've got a bit of money of my own. But first you must let me go back, as soon as there are ships to go in—to see after my own humble business. We could launch out—get some fine stock—try experiments. It's a going concern, and I've got a good share in it. Why shouldn't you go, too?"
He saw her shrink.
"To Canada? Oh, no!"
He scourged himself mentally for having taken her thoughts back to the old unhappy times. But she soon recovered herself. Then it was time for him to go, and he stood up.
"I should like to have seen Janet!" he said joyously. "She'll have to get used to Christian names. How soon will you tell her? Directly she comes in?"
"Certainly not. I shall wait—till to-morrow morning."
He laughed, whispering into her ear, as her soft, curly head lay against his breast.
"You won't wait ten minutes—you couldn't! Well, I must be going, or they'll shut me out of the camp."
"Why do you hurry so?"
"Hurry? Why, I shall be an hour late, anyway. I shall have to give myself
C.B. to-morrow."
She laughed—a sound of pure content. Then she suddenly drew herself away, frowning at him.
"You do love me—you do—you will always!—whatever people may say?"
He was surprised at the note almost of violence in her voice. He answered it by a passionate caress, which she bore with trembling. Then she resolutely moved away.
"Do go!" she said to him, imploringly. "I'd like to be a few minutes—alone—before they come back."
He saw her settle herself by the fire, her hands stretched out to the blaze. Seeing that the fire was low, and remembering the chill of her hands in his, he looked around for the wood-basket which was generally kept in a corner behind the piano.
His movement was suddenly arrested. He was looking towards the uncurtained window. The night had grown pitch dark outside, and there were splashes of rain against the glass. But he distinctly saw as he turned a man's face pressed against the glass—a strained, sallow, face, framed in straggling black hair, a face with regular features, and eyes deeply set in blackened orbits. It was a face of hatred; the lips tightly drawn over the teeth, seemed to have a curse on them.
The vision lasted only a moment. Ellesborough's trained instinct, the wary instinct of the man who had parsed days and nights with nature in her wilder and lonelier places, checked the exclamation on his lips. And before he could move again, the face had disappeared. The old holly bush growing against the farm wall, from which the apparition seemed to have sprung, was still there, some of its glossy leaves visible in the bright light of the paraffin lamp which stood on the table near the window. And there was nothing else.
Ellesborough quietly walked to the window, drew down the blind, and pulled the curtains together. Rachel looked around at the sound.
"Didn't I do that?" she said, half dreamily.
"We forgot!" He smiled at her. "Now it's all cosy. Ah, there they are! Perhaps I'll get Janet to come as far as the road with me." For voices were approaching—Janet talking to the girls. Rachel looked up, assenting. The colour had rushed back to her face. Ellesborough took in the picture of her, sitting unconscious by the fire, while his own pulse was thumping under the excitement of what he had seen.
With a last word to her, he closed the sitting-room door behind him, and went out to meet Janet Leighton in the dark.
IX
It was a foggy October evening, and Berkeley Square, from which the daylight had not yet departed, made a peculiarly dismal impression on the passers-by, under the mingled illumination of its half-blinded lamps, and of a sunset which in the country was clear and golden, and here in west London could only give a lurid coppery tinge to the fog, to the eastern house-fronts, and to the great plane-trees holding the Square garden, like giants encamped. Landsowne House, in its lordly seclusion from the rest of the Square, seemed specially to have gathered the fog to itself, and was almost lost from sight. Not a ray of light escaped the closely-shuttered windows. The events of the mensis mirabilis were rushing on. Bulgaria, Austria, Turkey, had laid down their arms—the German cry for an armistice had rung through Europe. But still London lay dark and muffled. Her peril was not yet over.
In the drawing-room of one of the houses on the eastern side, belonging to a Warwickshire baronet and M.P.—Sir Richard Winton by name—a lady was standing in front of a thrifty fire, which in view of the coal restrictions of the moment, she had been very unwilling to light at all. The restrictions irritated her; so did the inevitable cold of the room; and most of all was she annoyed and harassed by the thought of a visitor who might appear at any moment. She was tall, well-made, and plain. One might have guessed her age at about thirty-five. She had been out in the earlier afternoon, attending a war meeting on behalf of some charities in which she was interested, and she had not yet removed a high and stately hat with two outstanding wings and much jet ornament, which she had worn at the meeting, to the huge indignation of her neighbours. The black of her silk dress was lightened by a rope of pearls, and various diamond trinkets. Her dress fitted her to perfection. Competence and will were written in her small, shrewd eyes and in the play of a decided mouth.
There was a knock at the door. At Lady Winton's "Come in!" a stout, elderly maid appeared. She came up to her mistress, and said in a lowered voice,—
"You'll see Mr. Roger here?"
"Why, I told you so, Nannie!" was the impatient answer. "Is everybody out of the way?"
The maid explained that all was ready. Jones the butler had been sent with a note to the City, and the housemaid was sitting with the kitchen-maid, who was recovering from the flu.
"I told them I'd answer the bell. And I'll keep an eye that no one comes down before he's gone. There he is!"
For the bell had rung, and the maid hastened to the hall door to answer it.
A tall man entered—coughing.
"Beastly night, Nannie!" he said, as soon as the cough would let him. "Don't suit my style. Well?—how are you? Had the flu, like everybody else?"
"Not yet, Mr. Roger—though it's been going through the house. Shall I take your coat?"
"You'd better not. I'm too shabby underneath."
"Sir Richard's in the country, Mr. Roger."
"Oh, so her ladyship's alone? Well, that's how I generally find her, isn't it?"
But Nannie—with her eye on the stairs—was not going to allow him any lingering in the hall. She led him quickly to the drawing-room, opened it, and closed it behind him. Then she herself retreated into a small smoking-den at the farther end of the hall, and sat there, without a light, with the door open—watching.
Roger Delane instinctively straightened himself to his full height as he entered his sister's drawing-room. His overcoat, though much worn, was of an expensive make and cut; he carried the Malacca cane which had been his companion in the Brookshire roads; and the eyeglass that he adjusted as he caught sight of his sister completed the general effect of shabby fashion. His manner was jaunty and defiant.
"Well, Marianne," he said, pausing some yards from her. "You don't seem particularly glad to see me. Hullo!—has Dick been buying some more china?"
And before his sister could say anything, he had walked over to a table covered with various bric-a-brac, where, taking up a fine Nankin vase, he looked closely at the marks on its base.
Lady Winton flushed with anger.
"I think you had better leave the china alone, Roger. I have only got a very few minutes. What do you want? Money, I suppose—as usual! And yet I warned you in my last letter that you would do this kind of thing once too often, and that we were not going to put up with it!" She struck the table beside her with her glove.
Delane put down the china and surveyed her.
"The vase is Ming all right—better stuff than Dick generally buys. I congratulate him. Well, I'm sorry for you, my dear Marianne—but you are my sister—and you can't help yourself!"
He looked at her, half-smiling, with a quiet bravado which enraged her.
"Don't talk like that, Roger! Tell me directly what it is you want. You seem to think you can force me to see you at any time, whatever I may be doing. But—"
"Your last letter was 'a bit thick'—you see—it provoked me," said Delane calmly. "Of course you can get the police to chuck me out if you like. You would be quite in your rights. But I imagine the effect on the aristocratic nerves of Berkeley Square would be amusing. However—"
He looked round him—
"As Carlyle said to the old Queen, 'I'm getting old, madam, and with your leave I'll take a chair—'"
He pushed an arm-chair forward.
"And let me make up the fire. It's beginning to freeze outside."
Lady Winton moved quickly to the fireplace, holding out a prohibiting hand.
"There is quite enough fire, thank you. I am going out presently."
Delane sat down, and extended a pair of still shapely feet to the slender flame in the grate.
"Dick's boots!" he said, tapping them with his cane, and looking round at his sister. "What a lot of wear I've got out of them since he threw them away! His overcoat, too. And now that it's the thing to be shabby, Dick's clothes are really a godsend. I defraud Jones. But I have no doubt that Jones gets a good deal more than is good for him."
"Look here, Roger!—suppose you stop talking this nonsense and come to business," said Marianne Winton, in pale exasperation. "I've sent Jones out with a note—but he'll be back directly. And I've got an appointment. What are you doing? Have you got any work to do?"
She took a seat not far from her brother, who perceived from her tone that he had perhaps gone as far as was prudent.
"Oh, dear, no, I've got no work to do," he said, smiling. "That's not a commodity that comes my way. But I must somehow manage to keep a roof over Anita and the child. So what can I do but count on your assistance, my dear? My father left you a great deal of money which in equity belonged to me—and I am bound to remind you of it."
"You know very well why he left you so little!" said Lady Winton. "We needn't go into that old story. I ask you again, what do you want?" She took out her watch. "I have just ten minutes."
"What do I want?" He looked at her with a slow, whimsical laugh. "Money, my dear, money! Money means everything that I must have—food, coals, clothes, doctor, chemist, buses—decent houseroom for Anita and myself—"
A shiver of revulsion ran through his sister.
"Have you married that woman?"
He laughed.
"As you seemed to think it desirable, Anita and I did take a trip to a Registry Office about a month ago. It's all lawful now—except for our abominable English law that doesn't legitimize the children. But"—he sprang to his feet with a movement which startled her—"whom do you think I've seen lately?"
His sister stared at him, amazed at the change in him—the animation, the rush of colour in the hollow, emaciated face.
"Rachel!—my wife—my former—precious—wife. I thought she was in Canada. No doubt she thought the same of me. But I've stumbled upon her quite by chance—living close to the place where I had taken lodgings for Anita and the babe, in September, in case there were more raids this winter. What do you think of that?"
"It doesn't interest me at all," said Lady Winton coldly.
"Then you have no dramatic sense, my dear. Just think! I stroll out, for want of anything better to do, with Anita, into the market-place of a beastly little country town, to see a silly sort of show—a mixture of a Harvest Festival and a Land Girls' beano—when without a moment's warning—standing up in a decorated wagon—I behold—Rachel!—handsomer than ever!—in a kind of khaki dress—tunic, breeches, and leggings—enormously becoming!—and, of course, the observed of all observers. More than that!—I perceive a young man, in an American uniform, dancing attendance upon her—taking her orders—walking her off to church—Oh, a perfectly clear case!—no doubt about it at all. And there I stood—within a few yards of her—and she never saw me!"
He broke off, staring at his sister—a wild, exultant look—which struck her uncomfortably. Her face showed her arrested, against her will.
"Are you sure she didn't see you?"
"Sure. I put the child on my shoulder, and hid behind her. Besides—my dear—even Rachel might find it difficult to recognize her discarded husband—in this individual!"
He tapped his chest lightly. Lady Winton could not withdraw her own eyes from him. Yes, it was quite true. The change in him was shocking—ghastly. He had brought it entirely on himself. But she could not help saying, in a somewhat milder tone,—
"Have you seen that doctor again?"
"To whom you so obligingly sent me? Yes, I saw him yesterday. One lung seems to have finally struck work—caput! as the Germans say. The other will last a bit longer yet."
A fit of coughing seized him. His sister instinctively moved farther away from him, looking at him with frightened and hostile eyes.
"Don't be alarmed," he said, as soon as he had found his voice again, "I'm drenched in disinfectant. I take all proper precautions—for the child's sake. Now then"—he rose with an effort to his feet—"what are you going to do for me?"
His aspect had altered, had assumed a sinister and passionate intensity. His sister was conscious of the menace in it, and hastily taking up a small hand-bag lying near her, she produced a purse from it.
"I have saved twenty pounds for you—out of my own money—with great difficulty," she said, with indignant emphasis. "If I were to tell Richard, he would be furious. And I cannot—do—anything—more for you, beyond the allowance I give you. Everything you suffer from, you have brought upon, yourself. It is hopeless to try and help you."
He laughed.
"Well, then, I must try Rachel!" he said carelessly, as he looked for his hat.
"That I think would be the lowest depth!" said Lady Winton, breathing quick, "to beg money from the wife who divorced you!"
"I am ready to beg for money—requisition is the better word—from anybody in the world who has more of it than I. I am a Bolshevist. You needn't talk to me about property, or rights. I don't acknowledge them. I want something that you've got, and I haven't. I shall take it if I find the opportunity—civilly if I can, uncivilly, if I must."
Lady Winton made no reply. She stood, a statue of angry patience waiting for him to go. He slowly buttoned on his coat, and then stepped coolly across the room to look at an enlarged photograph of a young soldier standing on the piano.
"Handsome chap! You're in luck, Marianne. I suppose you managed to get him into a staff job of some sort, out of harm's way?"
He turned to her with a sneer on his lips. His sister was still silent.
The man moving about the room was perhaps the thing she feared and hated most in the world. Every scene of this kind—and he forced them on her, in spite of her futile resistance, at fairly frequent intervals—represented to her an hour of torture and humiliation. How to hide the scenes and the being who caused them, from her husband, her servants, her friends, was becoming almost her chief preoccupation. She was beginning to be afraid of her brother. For some time she had regarded him as incipiently insane, and as she watched him this evening he seemed to her more than ever charged with sinister possibilities. It appeared to be impossible to influence or frighten him; and she realized that as he seemed not to care a fig whether she caused a scandal or not, and she cared with every pulse of her being, she was really in his power, and it was no good struggling.
"Well, good-night, Edith," he said at last, taking up his hat. "This'll last for a bit—but not very long, I warn you—prices being what they are. Oh, by the way, my name just now is Wilson—make a note of it!"
"What's that for?" she said disdainfully.
"Some Canadian creditors of mine got wind of me—worse luck. I had to change my quarters, and drop the old name—for a bit. However—what's in a name?" He laughed, and held out his hand.
"Going to shake hands, Edie? You used to be awfully fond of me, when you were small."
She stood, apparently unmoved, her hands hanging. The pathetic note had been tried on her too often.
"Good-night, Roger. Nannie will show you out."
The door closed on him, and Lady Winton dropped on a sofa by the fire, her face showing white and middle-aged in the firelight. She was just an ordinary woman, only with a stronger will than most; and as an ordinary woman, amid all her anger and fear, she was not wholly proof against such a spectacle as that now presented by her once favourite brother. It was not his words that affected her—but a hundred little personal facts which every time she saw him burnt a little more deeply into her consciousness the irreparableness of his personal ruin—physical and moral. Idleness, drink, disease—the loss of shame, of self-respect, of manners—the sense of something vital gone for ever—all these fatal things stared out upon her, from his slippery emaciated face, his borrowed clothes, his bullying voice—the scent on him of the mews in which he lived!
She covered her face with her hands and cried a little. She could remember when he was the darling and pride of the family—especially of his father. How had it happened? He had said to her once, "There must have been a black drop somewhere in our forbears, Edie. It has reappeared in me. We are none of us responsible, my dear, for our precious selves. I may be a sinner and a loafer—but that benevolent Almighty of yours made me."
That was wicked stuff, of course; but there had been a twist in him from the beginning. Had she done her best for him? There were times when her conscience pricked her.
The clock struck seven. The sound brought her to her feet. She must go and dress. Richard would be home directly, and they were dining out, to meet a distinguished General, in London for a few days' leave from the front. Dick must, of course, know nothing of Roger's visit; and she must hurriedly go and look up the distinguished General's career in case she had to sit next him. Vehemently she put the preceding hour out of her mind. The dinner-party to which she was going flattered her vanity. It turned her cold to think that Roger might some day do something which would damage that "position" which she had built up for herself and her husband, by ten years' careful piloting of their joint lives. She knew she was called a "climber." She knew also that she had "climbed" successfully, and that it was Roger's knowledge of the fact, combined with a horrid recklessness which seemed to be growing in him, that made the danger of the situation.
Meanwhile Delane stepped out into the fog, which, however, was lifting a little. He made his way down into Piccadilly, which was crowded with folk, men and women hurrying home from their offices, and besieging the omnibuses—with hundreds of soldiers too, most of them with a girl beside them, and smart young officers of every rank and service—while the whole scene breathed an animation and excitement, which meant a common consciousness, in the crowd, of great happenings. All along the street were men with newspapers, showing the headlines to passers-by. "President Wilson's answer to the German appeal expected to-morrow." "The British entry into Lille."
Delane bought an Evening News, glanced at the headlines, and threw it away. What did the war matter to him?—or the new world that fools supposed to be coming after it? Consumptives had a way, no doubt, of living longer than people expected—or hoped. Still, he believed that a couple of years or so would see him out. And that being so, he felt a kind of malignant indifference towards this pushing, chattering world, aimlessly going about its silly business, as though there were any real interest or importance in it.
Then, as he drifted with the crowd, he found himself caught in a specially dense bit of it, which had gathered round some fallen horses. A thin slip of a girl beside him, who was attempting to get through the crush, was roughly elbowed by a burly artilleryman determined to see the show. She protested angrily, and Delane suddenly felt angry, too. "You brute, you,—let the lady pass!" he called to the soldier, who turned with a grin, and was instantly out of reach and sight. "Take my arm," said Delane to the girl—"Where are you going?" The little thing looked up—hesitated—and took his arm. "I'm going to get a bus at the Circus." "All right. I'll see you there." She laughed and flushed, and they walked on together. Delane looked at her with curiosity. High cheek-bones—a red spot of colour on them—a sharp chin—small, emaciated features, and beautiful deep eyes. Phthisical!—like himself—poor little wretch! He found out that she was a waitress in a cheap eating-house, and had very long hours. "Jolly good pay, though, compared to what it used to be! Why, with tips, on a good day, I can make seven and eight shillings. That's good, ain't it? And now the war's goin' to stop. Do you think I want it to stop? I don't think! Me and my sister'll be starvin' again, I suppose?"
He found out she was an orphan, living with her sister, who was a typist, in Kentish town. But she refused to tell him her address, which he idly asked her. "What did you want with it?" she said, with a sudden frown. "I'm straight, I am. There's my bus! Night! night!—So long!" And with a half-sarcastic wave of her tiny hand, she left him, and was soon engulfed in the swirl round a north-bound bus.
He wandered on along Regent Street, and Waterloo Place, down the Duke of York's steps into the Mall, where some captured guns were already in position, with children swarming about them; and so through St. James's Park to the Abbey. The fog was now all but clear, and there were frosty stars overhead. The Abbey towers rose out of a purple haze, etherially pale and moon-touched. The House of Commons was sitting, but there was still no light on the Clock Tower, and no unmuffling of the lamps. London was waiting, as the world was waiting, for the next step in the vast drama which had three continents for its setting; and meanwhile, save for the added movements in the streets, and a new something in the faces of the crowds hurrying along the pavements, there was nothing to show that all was in fact over, and the war won.
Delane followed a stream of people entering the Abbey through the north transept. He was carried on by them, till a verger showed him into a seat near the choir, and he mechanically obeyed, and dropped on his knees.
When he rose from them, the choir was filing in, and the vergers with their pokers were escorting the officiating Canon to his seat. Delane had not been inside a church for two or three years, and it was a good deal more since he had stood last in Westminster Abbey. But as he watched the once familiar spectacle there flowed back upon him, with startling force, old impressions and traditions. He was in Cambridge again, a King's man, attending King's Chapel. He was thinking of his approaching Schools, and there rose in his mind a number of figures, moving or at rest, Cambridge men like himself, long since dismissed from recollection. Suddenly memory seemed to open out—to become full, and urgent, and emphatic. He appeared to be living at a great rate, to be thinking and feeling with peculiar force. Perhaps it was fever. His hands burnt.
"My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour!"
As the chant rose, and he recognized the words, he felt extraordinarily exalted, released, purified. Why not think away the past? It has no existence, except in thought.
"I am what I conceive myself to be—who can prove me to be anything else? What am I then! An educated man, with a mind—an intelligence. I have damaged it, but there it is—still mine."
His eyes wandered, during the Lesson, to the line of sculptured Statesmen in the north transept. He had taken History honours, and his thoughts began to play with matter still stored in them: an essay on Dizzy and Cobden he had written for a Cambridge club—or Gladstone's funeral, which he had seen as a boy of seventeen. He had sat almost in this very place, with his mother, who had taken pains to bring him to see it as an historic spectacle which he might wish to remember. A quiet, dull woman, his mother—taciturn, and something of a bookworm. She had never understood him, nor he her. But she had occasionally shown moments of expansion and emotion, when the soul within glowed a little through its coverings; and he remembered the look in her eyes as the coffin disappeared into the earth, amid the black-coated throng of Lords and Commons. She had been for years a great though silent worshipper of Mr. Gladstone, to the constant amusement of her Tory husband and sons.