She could not show her Doctor Hilary's standpoint in the matter, since it was not permissible for her to give the smallest hint that she was acquainted either with it, or with the whole business at all. She could not even hint that she believed Doctor Hilary to be the person concerning whom Pia was troubled. She could only take refuge in generalities, which, with a definite case before her, she felt to be a peculiarly unsatisfactory proceeding. Yet there was nothing else to be done. It was more than probable that Pia was in the same kind of cleft stick as herself, and that therefore direct discussion of the matter was out of the question.

Still stroking Pia's hand, Trix spoke slowly.

"Pia, darling, what I am going to say will sound very poor comfort, I know. But it's this. Isn't it just possible that you could give the—the person concerned the benefit of a doubt? Even if it seems to you that he has acted a lie, and therefore been something of a fraud, mayn't there be some extraordinarily good reason, behind it all, that circumstances are preventing him from explaining? Such queer things do happen, and sometimes people have to appear to others as frauds, when they really aren't a bit. If you were ever really friends with the person—and you must have been, or you wouldn't care—I'd just say to myself that I would trust him in spite of every appearance to the contrary. Perhaps some day you'll be most awfully sorry if you don't. And isn't it a million times better to be even mistaken in trust where a friend is concerned, than give way to the smallest doubt which may afterwards be proved to be a wrong doubt?"

Pia was silent. Then she said in an oddly even voice,

"Trix do you know anything?"

Trix flushed to the roots of her hair. Pia turned to look at her.

"Trix!" she said amazed.

"Pia," implored Trix, "you mustn't ask me a single question, because I can't answer you. But do, do, trust."

Pia drew a long breath.

"Trix, you're the uncanniest little mortal that ever lived, and I can't imagine how you could have guessed, or what exactly it is you really do know. But I believe I am going to take your advice."



CHAPTER XXVI

AN OFFER AND A REFUSAL

Antony was working in his front garden. It was a Saturday afternoon, and a blazingly hot one. Every now and then he paused to lean on his spade, and look out to where the blue sea lay shining and glistening in the sunlight.

It was amazingly blue, almost as blue as the sea depicted on the posters of famous seaside resorts, posters in which a bare-legged child with a bucket and spade, and the widest of wide smiles is invariably seen in the foreground. Certainly the designers of these posters are not students of child nature. If they were, they would know that a really absorbed and happy child is almost portentously solemn. It hasn't the time to waste on smiles; the building of sand castles and fortresses is infinitely too engrossing an occupation. A smile will greet the anticipation; it is lost in the stupendous joy of the fact. But as smiles are evidently considered de rigueur by the designers of posters, and as the mere anticipation will not allow of the portrayal of the Rickett's blue sea, destined to hit the eye of the beholder, smiles and sea have—rightly or wrongly—to be combined.

Antony gazed at the sea, if not quite as blue as a poster sea, yet—as already stated—amazingly blue. Josephus lay on a bit of hot earth watching him, his nose between his forepaws, and quite exhausted after a mad and wholly objectless ten minutes' race round the garden.

Antony turned from his contemplation of the sea, and once more grasped his spade. Presently he turned up a small flat round object, which at first sight he took to be a penny. He picked it up, and rubbed the dirt off it. It proved to be merely a small lead disk, utterly useless and valueless; he didn't even know what it could have been used for. He threw it on the earth again, and went on with his digging. But it, or his action of tossing it on to the earth, had started a train of thought. It is extraordinary what trifles will serve to start a lengthy and connected train of thought. Sometimes it is quite interesting, arriving at a certain point, to trace one's imaginings backwards, and see from whence they started.

The disk reminded Antony of the coppers he had tossed to the child at Teneriffe. From it he quite unconsciously found himself reviewing all the subsequent happenings. They linked on one to the other without a break. He hardly knew he was reviewing them, though they so absorbed his mind that he was totally unconscious of his surroundings, and even of the fact that he was digging. His employment had become quite mechanical.

He was so engrossed that he did not hear a step in the road behind him. Josephus heard it, however, and gave vent to a faint whine, raising his head from between his paws. The sound roused Antony, and he turned.

His face went suddenly white beneath its bronze. The Duchessa di Donatello was standing at the gate, looking over into the garden.

"Might I come in and rest a moment?" she asked. "The sun is so hot."

Antony could hardly believe his ears. Surely he could not have heard aright? But there she was, standing at the gate, most evidently waiting his permission to enter.

He left his spade sticking in the earth, and went to unfasten the gate. Without speaking, he led the way up the little flagged path, and into the parlour.

The Duchessa crossed to the oak settle and sat down. Slowly she began to pull off her long crinkly doe-skin gloves. Antony watched her. He saw the gleam of a diamond ring on her hand. It was a ring he had often noticed. A picture of the Duchessa sitting at a little round table among orange trees in green tubs flashed suddenly and very vividly into his mind.

"It is very hot," said the Duchessa looking up at him.

"Yes," said Antony mechanically.

"Am I interrupting your work?" asked the Duchessa.

Antony started.

"Oh, no," he replied. And he sat down by the table, leaning slightly forward with his arms upon it.

"Do you mind my coming here?" she asked.

"I don't think so," said Antony reflectively.

A gleam of a smile flashed across the Duchessa's face. The reply was so Antonian.

There was quite a long silence. Suddenly Antony roused himself.

"You'll let me get you some tea, Madam," he said.

Awaiting no reply, he went into the little scullery, where the fire by which he had cooked his midday meal was still alight. The kettle filled with water and placed on the stove, he stood by it, in a measure wishful, yet oddly reluctant to return to the parlour. Reluctance won the day. He remained by the kettle, gazing at it.

Left alone, the Duchessa looked round the parlour. It was exceedingly primitive, yet, to her mind, curiously interesting. Of course in reality it was not unlike dozens of other cottage parlours, but it held a personality of its own for her. It was the room where Antony Gray lived.

She pictured him at his lonely meals, sitting at the table where he had sat a moment or so agone; sitting on the settle where she was now sitting, certainly smoking, and possibly reading. She found herself wondering what he thought about. Did he ever think of the Fort Salisbury, she wondered? Or had he blotted it from his mind, as she had endeavoured—ineffectually—to do? And then, with that thought, with the possibility that he had done so, her presence in the room seemed quite suddenly an intrusion. What on earth would he think of her for coming? And what on earth did she mean to say to him now she had come?

The impulse which had led her down the lane, which had caused her to pause at the gate and speak to him, all at once seemed to her perfectly idiotic, and, worse still, intrusive and impertinent. What possible excuse was she going to give for it, in the face of her behaviour to him that afternoon on the moorland? Merely to have asked for shelter on account of the heat, appeared to her now as the flimsiest of excuses, and would appear to him as an excuse simply to pry upon him, to see his mode of living. He had not returned to the parlour. Doubtless his absence was a silent rebuke to her. She had thrust the necessity of hospitality upon him, but he intended to show her plainly that it was entirely of necessity he had offered it.

Her cheeks burned at the thought. She looked quickly round. Anyhow there was still time for flight. She picked up her gloves from where she had laid them on the settle, and got to her feet.

"The water won't be long in boiling, Madam," said Antony's voice.

He had come back quietly into the room. For a moment he glanced in half surprise to see the Duchessa standing by the settle. Then he crossed to the dresser, and began taking down a cup, a saucer, and a plate.

The Duchessa sat down again, drawing her hand nervously along her gloves.

She looked at him getting down the things and setting them on the table. She watched his neat, deft movements. Antony took no notice of her; she might have been part of the settle itself for all the attention he paid her. His preparations made, he returned momentarily to the scullery to fill the teapot. Coming back with it he placed it on the table.

"Everything is ready, Madam," he said. Dale himself could not have been more distantly respectful.

The Duchessa looked at the one cup, the one saucer, and the one plate.

"Aren't you going to have some tea, too?" she asked.

"Servants do not sit down with their superiors," said Antony.

The colour rose hotly in the Duchessa's face.

"Why do you say that?" she demanded.

Antony lifted his shoulders, the merest suspicion of a shrug.

"I merely state a fact," he replied.

"I wish you to," she said quickly.

"Is that a command?" asked Antony.

"If you like to take it so," she replied.

Antony turned to the dresser. He took down another cup and plate and put them on the table. Then he stood by it, waiting for her to be seated.

"Sugar?" asked the Duchessa. She was making a brave endeavour to steady the trembling of her voice.

"If you please, Madam," said Antony gravely.

The meal proceeded in dead silence.

"Mr. Gray," said the Duchessa suddenly.

"My name," said Antony respectfully, "is Michael Field."

The Duchessa gave a little shaky laugh.

"Well, Michael Field," she said. "I was not very kind that day I met you on the moorland."

Antony kept his eyes fixed on his plate.

"There was no reason that you should be kind," he replied quietly.

"There was," flashed the Duchessa.

"I think not," replied Antony, calmly. "Ladies in your position are under no obligation to be kind to servants, except to those of their own household. Even then, it is more or less of a condescension on their part."

"You were not always a servant," said the Duchessa.

There was the fraction of a pause.

"I did not happen to be actually in a situation when I was on the Fort Salisbury, if that is what you mean, Madam," returned Antony.

"I mean more than that," retorted the Duchessa. "I mean that by your up-bringing you are not a servant."

Antony laughed shortly.

"I happen to have had a better education than falls to the lot of most men who have been in the positions I have been in, and who are in positions like my present one. But most assuredly I am a servant."

"What positions have you been in?" demanded the Duchessa.

A very faint smile showed itself on Antony's face.

"I have been a sort of miner's boy," he replied slowly. "I have been a farm hand, mainly used for cleaning out pigsties, and that kind of work. I have been servant in a gambling saloon; odd man on a cattle boat. I have worked on a farm again. And now I am an under-gardener. Very assuredly I have been, and am, a servant."

The Duchessa's brows wrinkled. "Yet you speak like a gentleman, and—and you wore dress clothes as if you were used to them."

Again a faint smile showed itself on Antony's face.

"I told you I happen to have had a decent education in my youth. Also, I would suggest, that even butlers and waiters wear dress clothes as if they were used to them."

Once more there was a silence. A rather long silence this time. It was broken by the Duchessa's voice.

"Some months ago," she said, "I offered my friendship to Antony Gray; I now offer that same friendship to Michael Field."

Antony gave a little laugh. There was an odd gleam in his eyes.

"Michael Field regrets that he must decline the honour."

The Duchessa's face went dead white.

Antony got to his feet.

"Please don't misunderstand me," he said. "I fully appreciate the honour you have done me, but—" he shrugged his shoulders—"it is quite impossible to accept it. It—you must see that for yourself—would be a rather ridiculous situation. The Duchessa di Donatello and a friendship with an under-gardener! I don't fancy either of us would care to be made a mock of, even by the extremely small world in which we happen to live." He stopped.

The Duchessa rose too. Her eyes were steely.

"Thank you for reminding me," she said. "In a moment of absurd impulsiveness I had overlooked that fact. Also, thank you for—for your hospitality."

She moved to the door without looking at him. Antony was before her, and had it open. He followed her down the path and unfastened the wicket gate. She passed through it without turning her head, and walked rather deliberately down the lane.

Antony went back into the cottage. For a moment he stood looking at the table, his throat contracted. Then slowly, and with oddly unseeing eyes, he began clearing away the debris of the meal.



CHAPTER XXVII

LETTERS AND MRS. ARBUTHNOT

Trix was sitting in a summer-house in the garden of an hotel at Llandrindod Wells. She was reading a letter, a not altogether satisfactory letter to judge by the wrinkling of her brows, and the gravity of her eyes.

The letter was from the Duchessa di Donatello, and ran as follows:

"My Dear Trix:

"I am glad you had a comfortable journey, and that Mrs. Arbuthnot had not been pining for you too deeply. It is a pity her letters gave you the impression that she was feeling your absence so acutely. Possibly it is always wiser to subtract at least half of the impression conveyed in both written and spoken words. Please understand that I am speaking in generalities when I say that we are exceedingly apt to exaggerate our own importance to others, and their importance to us.

"Talking of exaggeration, will you forget our conversation on your last evening here? I exaggerated my own trouble and its cause. Rather foolishly I let your remarks influence me, and sought an explanation, or rather, attempted to ignore appearances, and return to the old footing. The result being that not only did I find that there was no explanation to be given, but that I got rather badly snubbed. As you, of course, will know who administered the snub, you can understand that it was peculiarly unpleasant. I had endeavoured to ignore the fact that he was my social inferior, but he reminded me of it in a way it was impossible to overlook, and showed me that he deeply resented what he evidently looked upon as a somewhat impertinent condescension on my part.

"The theories, my dear Trix, which you set forth in the moonlight under the lime trees, simply won't hold water. For your own sake I advise you to abandon them forthwith. Blood will always tell; and sooner or later, if we attempt intimacy with those not of our own station in life, we shall get a glimpse of the hairy hoof. I know the theories sound all right, and quite beautifully Christian—as set forth in the moonlight,—but they don't work in this twentieth century, as I have found to my cost. You had better make up your mind to that fact before you, too, get a slap in the face. I assure you you don't feel like turning the other cheek. However, that will do. But as it was mainly through following out your theories and advice that I found my pride not only in the mud, but rubbed rather heavily in it, I thought you might as well have a word of warning. Please now consider the matter closed, and never make the smallest reference to that rather idiotic conversation.

"Doctor Hilary was over here again yesterday. He enquired after you, and asked to be very kindly remembered to you. I should like Doctor Hilary to attend me in any illness. He gives one such a feeling of strength and reliance. There's absolutely no humbug about him.

"Much love, my dear Trix, "Yours affectionately, "Pia Di Donatello."

Trix read the letter through very carefully, and then dropped it on her lap.

"It wasn't Doctor Hilary!" she ejaculated. "So who on earth was it?"

She sat gazing through the opening of the summer-house towards the garden. It was the oddest puzzle she had ever encountered. Who on earth could it have been? And why—since it wasn't Doctor Hilary—had Pia jumped to the conclusion that she—Trix—knew who it was?

It wasn't Mr. Danver, that was very certain. "Social inferior" put that fact out of the question. But then, what social inferior had been mixed up in the business? Or—Trix's brain leapt from point to point—had Pia's trouble nothing whatever to do with the mad business at the Hall? Had she and Pia simply been playing a quite amazing game of cross-purposes that evening? It would seem that must have been the case. Yet the recognition of that fact didn't bring her in the smallest degree nearer the solution of the riddle. Again, who on earth was it? What social inferior was there, could there possibly be, at Woodleigh, to cause Pia a moment's trouble? Every preconceived notion on Trix's part, including the colour of the soap-bubble, vanished into thin air, and left her contemplating an inexplicable mystery.

Whatever it was, it had affected Pia pretty deeply. It was absurd for her to say the incident was closed. Externally it might be, in the matter of not referring to it again. Interiorly it had left a wound, and one which was very far from being easily healed, to judge by Pia's letter. It had not been written by Pia at all, but by a very bitter woman, who had merely a superficial likeness to Pia. That fact, and that fact alone, caused Trix to imagine that she had been right when she told Tibby—if not in so many words, at least virtually speaking—that love had come into Pia's life. Love embittered alone could have inflicted the wound she felt Pia to be enduring. And yet the wording of her letter would appear to put that surmise out of the question. Truly it was an insolvable riddle.

Once more she re-read the letter, but it didn't help her in the smallest degree. There was only one small ounce of comfort in it. It wasn't Doctor Hilary who had caused the wound. Pia had merely tried to pick a quarrel with him, as she had frequently tried to pick one with herself and Tibby, because she was unhappy. If only Trix knew what had caused the unhappiness. And Pia thought she did know. If she wrote and told her now that she hadn't the smallest conception of what she was talking about, it would in all probability rouse conjectures in Pia's mind as to what Trix had thought. That, having in view her promise, had certainly better be avoided.

Should she, then, ignore Pia's letter, or should she reply to it? She weighed the pros and cons of this question for the next ten minutes, and finally decided she would write, and at once.

Returning, therefore, to the hotel, she indited the following brief missive:

"My dear Pia,—

"The incident is closed so far as I am concerned. But I don't mean to give up seeking my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I dare say most people would call it an imaginary quest. Well then, I like an imaginary quest. It helps to make me forget much that is prosaic, and a good deal that is sordid in this work-a-day world.

"Please remember me to Doctor Hilary when you see him. Best love, Pia darling,

"Trix."

Three days later Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix,

"The rainbow vanishes, and the sordidness and the prosaicness become rather horribly apparent, especially when one finds oneself obliged to look at them after having steadily ignored their existence.

"Yours affectionately, "Pia."

To which Trix replied:

"My dear Pia,

"My rainbow shines after every shower, and is brightest against the darkest clouds. When I look towards the darkest clouds I wait for the rainbow.

"Yours, "Trix."

And Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix,

"What happens when there is no longer any sun to form a rainbow?

"Yours affectionately, "Pia."

And Trix wrote:

"Wait till the clouds roll by, Jenny, wait till the clouds roll by."

And Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix,

"Some people wait a lifetime in vain,

"Yours affectionately, "Pia."

And Trix wrote:

"Darling Pia,

"You're twenty-eight. Trix."

After which there was a cessation of correspondence for a time, neither having anything further to say on the subject, or at all events, nothing further they felt disposed to set down in writing.

Trix spent her mornings, and the afternoons, till tea time, in her Aunt's company. After that, Mrs. Arbuthnot being engrossed in Bridge till bedtime, Trix was free to do exactly as she liked. What she liked was walking till it was time to dress for dinner, and spending the evenings in the garden.

Even before her father's death, Trix had stayed frequently with her aunt. Her mother had died when Trix was three years old and Mrs. Arbuthnot, a widow with no children of her own, would have been quite ready to adopt Trix. But neither Mr. Devereux, nor, for that matter, Trix herself, were in the least disposed to fall in with her plans. Trix was merely lent to her for fairly lengthy periods, and it had been during one of these periods that Mrs. Arbuthnot had taken her to a farm near Byestry, in which place Mr. Devereux had spent most of his early years.

In those days Mrs. Arbuthnot's one hobby had been photography. People used to say, of course unjustly, that she never beheld any view with the naked eye, but merely in the reflector of a photographic apparatus. Yet it is entirely obvious that she must first have regarded it in the ordinary way to judge of its photographic merits. Anyhow it is true that quite a good deal of her time was spent beneath the folds of a black cloth (she never condescended to anything so amateurish as a mere kodak), or in the seclusion of a dark room.

Veritable dark rooms being seldom procurable on her travels, she invariably carried with her two or three curtains of thick red serge, several rolls of brown paper, and a bottle of stickphast. The two last mentioned were employed for covering chinks in doors, etc. It cannot be said that it was entirely beneficial to the doors, but hotel proprietors and landladies seldom made any complaint after the first remonstrance, as Mrs. Arbuthnot was always ready to make handsome compensation for any damage caused. It is to be feared that at times her generosity was largely imposed upon.

In addition to the red curtains, the brown paper, and the stickphast, two large boxes were included in her luggage, one containing all her photographic necessaries, and they were not few, the other containing several dozen albums of prints.

Of late years Bridge had taken quite as large a place in her affections as photography. Not that she felt any rivalry between the two; her pleasure in both pastimes was quite equally balanced. Her mornings and early afternoons were given to photography. The late afternoons and evenings Mrs. Arbuthnot devoted to Bridge.

* * * * *

One exceedingly wet afternoon, tea being recently concluded, Trix in her bedroom was surveying the weather from the window.

She was debating within her mind whether to don mackintosh and souwester and face the elements, or whether to retire to a far corner of the drawing-room with a novel, as much as possible out of earshot of the Bridge players. She was still in two minds as to which prospect most appealed to her mood, when Mrs. Arbuthnot tapped on her door, and immediately after sailed into the room. It is the only word applicable to Mrs. Arbuthnot's entry into any room.

She was a large fair woman, very distinctly inclined to stoutness. In her youth she had been both slender, and quick in her movements; but recognizing, and rightly, that quickness means a certain loss of dignity in the stout, she had trained herself to be exceedingly deliberate in her actions. There was an element of consciousness in her deliberation, therefore, which gave the impression of a rather large sailing vessel under weigh.

"Trix, dearest," she began. And then she perceived that Trix had been observing the weather.

"You were not going out, were you, dearest? I really think it would hardly be wise. It is blowing quite furiously. I know it is rather dull for you as you don't play Bridge. Such a pity, too, as you understand it so well. But I have a suggestion to make. Will you paste some of my newest prints into the latest album? There is a table in the window in my room, and a fresh bottle of stickphast. Not in the window, I don't mean that, but in my trunk. And Maunder can find it for you." Maunder was Mrs. Arbuthnot's maid.

Trix turned from the window. Of course Mrs. Arbuthnot's request settled the question of a walk. She had really been in two minds about it.

"Why, of course," she said. "Where are the prints?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot brightened visibly.

"They're inside a green envelope on the writing-table. You'll find a small pair of very sharp scissors there too. The dark edges are so unsightly if not trimmed. You're sure you don't mind, dearest? It really will be quite a pleasant occupation. It is so dreadfully wet. And Maunder will give you the stickphast. There is clean blotting-paper on the writing-table too, and Maunder can find you anything else you want. Well, that's all right. Maunder is in my room now. She will be going to her tea in ten minutes, so perhaps you might go to her at once. And she is sure to be downstairs for at least an hour and a half, if not longer. Servants always have so much to talk about, and take so long saying it. Why, I can't imagine. It always seems to me so much better not to waste words unnecessarily. So you will have the room to yourself, till she comes to put out my evening things. And I must go back to the drawing-room at once, or they will be waiting Bridge for me. And Lady Fortescue hates being kept waiting. It puts her in a bad temper, and when she's in a bad temper she is extraordinarily erratic as to her declarations. Though, for that matter, she is seldom anything else. I don't mean bad-tempered, but seldom anything but erratic. So, dearest, I mustn't let you keep me any longer. Don't forget to ask Maunder for the stickphast, and anything else you want. And the prints and the scissors——"

"Yes, I know," nodded Trix cheerfully, "on the writing table. Hurry, Aunt Lilla, or they'll all be swearing."

"Oh, my dearest, I trust not. Though perhaps interiorly. And even that is a sin. I remember——"

Trix propelled her gently but firmly from the room. Doubtless Mrs. Arbuthnot continued her remembrances "interiorly" as she went down the passage and descended the stairs.

Ten minutes later, Trix, provided with the stickphast, the green envelope, the scissors, and the clean blotting-paper, and having a very large album spread open before her on a table, was busily engaged with the prints. They were mainly views of Llandrindod Wells, though there were quite a good many groups among them, as well as a fair number of single figures. Trix herself appeared chiefly in these last,—Trix in a hat, Trix without a hat, Trix smiling, serious, standing, or sitting.

For half an hour or so Trix worked industriously, indefatigably. She trimmed off dark edges, she applied stickphast, she adjusted the prints in careful positions, she smoothed them down neatly with the clean blotting-paper. At the end of that time, she paused to let the paste dry somewhat before turning the page.

With a view to whiling away the interval, she possessed herself of a sister album, one of the many relations stacked against a wall, choosing it haphazard from among the number.

There is a distinct fascination in photographs which recall early memories. Trix fell promptly under the spell of this fascination. The minutes passed, finding her engrossed, absorbed. Turning a page she came upon views of Byestry, herself—a white-robed, short-skirted small person—appearing in the foreground of many.

Trix smiled at the representations. It really was rather an adorable small person. It was so slim-legged, mop-haired, and elfin-smiled. It was seen, for the most part, lavishing blandishments on a somewhat ungainly puppy. One photograph, however, represented the small person in company with a boy.

Trix looked at this photograph, and suddenly amazement fell full upon her. She looked, she leant back in her chair and shut her eyes, and then she looked again. Yes; there was no mistake, no shadow of a mistake. The boy in the photograph was the man with the wheelbarrow, or the other way about, which possibly might be the more correct method of expressing the matter. But, whichever the method, the fact remained the same.

Trix stared harder at the photograph, cogitating, bewildered. Below it was written in Mrs. Arbuthnot's rather sprawling handwriting, "T. D., aged five. A. G., aged fourteen. Byestry, 1892."

Who on earth was A. G.? Trix searched the recesses of her mind. And then suddenly, welling up like a bubbling spring, came memory. Why, of course A. G. was the boy she used to play with, the boy—she began to remember things clearly now—who had tried to sail across the pond, and with whom she had gone to search for pheasants' eggs. A dozen little details came back to her mind, even the sound of the boy's voice, and his laugh, a curiously infectious laugh.

Oh, she remembered him distinctly, vividly. But, what—and there lay the puzzlement, the bewilderment—was the boy, now grown to manhood, doing with a wheelbarrow in the grounds of Chorley Old Hall, and, moreover, dressed as a gardener, working as a gardener, and speaking—well, at any rate speaking after the manner of a gardener? Perhaps to have said, speaking as though he were on a different social footing from Trix, would have better expressed Trix's meaning. But she chose her own phraseology, and doubtless it conveyed to her exactly what she did mean. Anyhow, it was an amazing riddle, an insoluble riddle. Trix stared at the photograph, finding no answer to it.

Finding no answer she left the book open at the page, and returned to the sticking in of prints. But every now and then her eyes wandered to the big volume at the other end of the table, wonderment and query possessing her soul.

Maunder appeared just as Trix had finished her task. Helpful, business-like, she approached the table, a gleam spelling order and tidiness in her eye.

"Leave that album, please," said Trix, seeing the helpful Maunder about to shut and bear away the book containing the boy's photograph.

Maunder hesitated, sighed conspicuously, and left the book, occupying herself instead with putting away the stickphast, the scissors, the now not as clean blotting-paper, and somewhat resignedly picking up small shreds of paper which were scattered upon the table-cloth and carpet. In the midst of these occupations the dressing-gong sounded. Maunder pricked up her ears, actually almost, as well as figuratively.

Ten minutes elapsed. Then Mrs. Arbuthnot appeared.

"What, finished, dearest!" she exclaimed as she opened the door. "Splendid! How quick you've been. And I am sure the time flew on—not leaden feet, but just the opposite. It always does when one is pleasantly occupied. Developing photographs or a rubber of Bridge, it's just the same, the hands of the clock spin round. And I've won six shillings, and it would have been more if it had not been for Lady Fortescue's last declaration. Four hearts, my dearest, and the knave as her highest card. They doubled us, and of course we went down. I had only two small ones. I had shown her my own weakness by not supporting her declaration. Of course at my first lead I led her a heart, and it was won by the queen on my left. A heart was returned, and Lady Fortescue played the nine. It was covered by the ten which won the trick. She didn't make a single trick in her own suit. It is quite impossible to understand Lady Fortescue's declarations. And did you put in all the prints? They will have nearly filled the last pages. I must send for another album. Are these they?" She crossed to the open volume.

"No," said Trix, "that's an old volume. I was looking at it. Who's the boy in the photograph, Aunt Lilla?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot bent towards the page.

"'A. G., aged fourteen.' Let me see. Why, of course that was Antony Gray, Richard Gray's son. But I never knew his father. He—I mean the boy—was staying in rooms with his aunt, Mrs. Stanley. She was his father's sister, and married George Stanley. Something to do with the stock exchange, and quite a wealthy man, though a bad temper. And his wife was not a happy woman, as you can guess. Temper means such endless friction when it's bad, especially with regard to things like interfering with the servants, and wanting to order the kitchen dinner. So absurd, as well as annoying. There's a place for a man and a place for a woman, and the man's place is not the kitchen, even if his entry is only figurative. By which I mean that Mr. Stanley did not actually go to the kitchen, but gave orders from his study, on a sort of telephone business he had had fixed up and communicating with the kitchen. So trying for the cook's nerves, especially when making omelettes, or anything that required particular attention. She never knew when his voice wouldn't shout at her from the wall. A small black thing like a hollow handle fixed close to the kitchen range. Quite uncomfortably near her ear. Worse than if he himself had appeared at the kitchen door, which would have been normal, though trying. And Mr. Stanley never lowered his voice. He always spoke as if one were deaf, especially to foreigners who spoke English every bit as well as himself. Mrs. Stanley gave excellent wages, and even bonuses out of her dress money to try and keep cooks. But they all said the voice from the wall got on their nerves. And no wonder. And then unpleasantness when the cooks left. As if it were poor Mrs. Stanley's fault, and not his own. She once suggested they should give up their house and live in an hotel. He couldn't have a telephone arrangement to the kitchen there. But he was more unpleasant still. Almost violent. And he died at last of an attack of apoplexy. Such a relief to Mrs. Stanley. Not the dying of apoplexy, which was a grief. But the quiet, and the being able to keep a cook when he had gone." Mrs. Arbuthnot paused a moment to take breath.

"Do you know what became of the boy?" asked Trix.

Mrs. Arbuthnot considered for an instant.

"I believe he went abroad. Yes; I remember now, hearing from Mrs. Stanley just before she died herself, poor soul—ptomaine poisoning and a dirty cook, some people seem pursued by cooks, figuratively speaking, of course,—that her brother had lost all his money and died, and that Antony had gone abroad. We are told not to judge, and I don't, but it did seem to me that Mrs. Stanley ought to have made him some provision, if not before her death, at least after it. By will, of course I mean by 'after'! which in a sense would have been before death. But you understand. Instead of which she left all her money to a deaf and dumb asylum. No doubt good in its way, but not like anything religious, which would have been more justifiable, though she was a Protestant. And teaching dumb people to speak is always a doubtful blessing. They have such an odd way of talking. Scarcely understandable. But perhaps better than nothing for themselves, though not for others. Though with a penniless nephew and all that money I do think—But, as I said, we are told not to judge."

"And you don't know what became of him after that?" asked Trix.

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked almost reproachful.

"My dearest, how could I? Mrs. Stanley in the family grave with her brother,—she mentioned that particularly in her will, and not with her husband, I suppose she could not have had much affection for him,—I could not possibly hear any more of the young man. There were no other relations, and I did not even know what part of the world he was in. Nor should I have thought it advisable to write to him if I had, unless it had been a brief letter of consolation as from a much older woman, which I was. But even with age I do not think a correspondence between men and women desirable, unless they are related, especially with Mrs. Barclay's novels so widely read. Not for my own sake, of course, as I do not think I am easily given to absurd notions. But one never knows what ideas a young man may not get into his head. And now, dear child, I must dress. Maunder has been sighing for the last ten minutes, and I know what that means. And you'll be late yourself, if you don't go."

Much later in the evening, Trix, in a far corner of the drawing-room with a novel, found herself again pondering deeply on her discovery.

She was absolutely and entirely certain that the man with the wheelbarrow was none other than Antony Gray, the boy with whom she had played in her childhood. She remembered now that his face had been oddly familiar to her at the time, though, being unable to put any name to him, she had looked upon it merely as a chance likeness. But since he was Antony Gray, what was he doing at Chorley Old Hall?

Her first impulse had been to write to the Duchessa, tell her of her certainty, and ask her to find out any particulars she could regarding the man. She had abandoned that idea, in view of the fact that she would have to say where she had met him, which would very probably lead to questions difficult to answer.

One thing she would do, however, and she gave a little inward laugh at the thought, when she was next at Byestry, if she saw him again, she would ask him if he remembered the pond and the pheasants' eggs. It would be amusing to see his amazed face.



CHAPTER XXVIII

FOR THE DAY ALONE

Probably there are times in the life of every human being, when the only possible method of living at all, would seem to be by living in the day—nay, in the moment—alone, resolutely shutting one's eyes to the mistakes behind one, refusing to look at the blankness ahead. And this is more especially the case when the mistakes and the blankness have been caused by our own actions. There is not even stolid philosophy to come to our aid, a shrugging of the shoulders, a foisting of the blame on to fate. It may be that the majority of the incidents have been forced upon us, that we have not been free agents in the matter, but if we must of honesty say,—Here or there was the mistake which led to them, and I made that mistake of my own free will,—we cannot turn to philosophy regarding fate for our comfort.

To Antony's mind he had made a big mistake. Fate had been responsible for his receipt of that letter, it had had nothing to do with himself; he might even consider that, having received it, fate was largely responsible for his journey to England and his meeting with the Duchessa, but he could not possibly accuse fate of his acceptance of those mad conditions attached to the will. He had been an entirely free agent so far as they were concerned; they had been put before him for him to accept or reject them as he chose, and he had accepted them. It had been a huge blunder on his part, and one for which he alone had been responsible.

Of course he might quite justly declare that he could not possibly have foreseen all the other moves fate had up her sleeve; but then no living being could have foreseen them. Fate never does show her subsequent moves. She puts decisions before us in such a way, that she leaves us to imagine we can shape our succeeding actions to our own mind and according to the decision made. She leaves us to imagine it is simply a question whether we will reach our goal by a road bearing slightly to the right or to the left, by a road which may take a long time to traverse and be a fairly smooth road, or a road which will take a short time to traverse and be a rough one. Or, even, as in Antony's case, she will leave us to imagine there is one route and one route only by which we may reach our goal. And then, whatever our choice, she may suddenly plant a huge barrier across the path, labelled,—No thoroughfare to your goal in this direction.

Sometimes it is possible to defy fate, retrace our steps, and start anew towards the goal. Occasionally we will find that we have burnt our bridges behind us; we are up against an obstacle, and there we are bound to remain helpless. And here fate appears at her worst trickery.

And even supposing we are minded to call it not fate, but Providence, who does these things, it will be of remarkably little comfort to us when we are aware of our own blunders in the background.

A hundred times Antony reviewed the past; a hundred times he blamed himself for the part he had chosen. It is true that, so far as he could see, none other would have had the smallest chance of leading him to his desired goal, yet any other could not have raised the enormous barrier he now saw before him.

He had angered her: she despised him.

To his mind nothing, no subsequent happening, could alter that fact. There was the thought he had to face, and behind him lay his own irredeemable blunder.

Well, the only thing now left for him was to live his life as it was, minus one spark of brightness. Certainly he didn't feel like singing, but whining was no earthly good. And since he could not sing, and would not whine, silence alone was left him. He would work as best he could till the year was out. He had no intention of going back on his bargain, despite the uselessness of it. At the end of the year, the Hall being his own property, he would sell the place, and travel. Perhaps he would go off shooting big game, or perhaps he would go round the world. It did not much matter which, so long as it prevented him from whining.

And quite possibly, though he would never have any heart for singing, the day might come when he would again be able to whistle.



CHAPTER XXIX

IN THE CHURCH PORCH

It was somewhere about the second week in December that Trix became the recipient of another letter, a letter quite as amazing, perplexing, and extraordinary as that which she had perused in the summer-house at Llandrindod Wells. They had returned to London in October.

The letter was brought to her in the drawing-room one evening about nine o'clock. Mrs. Arbuthnot had gone out to a Bridge party.

Trix was engrossed in a rather exciting novel at the moment, a blazing fire and an exceedingly comfortable armchair adding to her blissful state of well-being. Barely raising her eyes from the book, she merely put out her hand and took the letter from the tray. It was not till she had come to the end of the chapter that she even glanced at the handwriting. Then she saw that the writing was Miss Tibbutt's.

Now, a letter from Miss Tibbutt was of such extremely rare occurrence that Trix immediately leapt to the conclusion that Pia must be ill. It was therefore with a distinct pang of uneasiness that she broke the seal. This is what she read:

"My Dear Trix,—

"I have made rather an astounding discovery. At least I feel sure I've made it, I mean that I am right in what I think. I have no one in whom I can confide, as it certainly would not do to speak to Pia on the subject,—I feel sure she would rather I didn't, so I am writing to you as I feel I must tell someone. My dear, it sounds too extraordinary for anything, and I can't understand it myself, but it is this. Pia knows the under-gardener at the Hall, really knows him I mean, not merely who he is, and that he is one of the gardeners, and that he came to these parts last March, which, of course, we all know.

"I found this out quite by accident, and will explain the incident to you. You must forgive me if I am lengthy; but I can only write in my own way, dear Trix, and perhaps that will be a little long-winded.

"Yesterday afternoon, which was Saturday, Pia and I motored into Byestry, as she wanted to see Father Dormer about something. I went into the church, while she went to the presbytery. I noticed a man in the church as I went in, a man in workman's clothes, but of course I did not pay any particular attention to him. I knelt down by one of the chairs near the door, and just beyond St. Peter's statue. I suppose I must have been kneeling there about ten minutes when the man got up. He didn't genuflect, and I glanced involuntarily at him. He didn't notice me, because I was partly hidden by St. Peter's statue. Then I saw it was the under-gardener,—Michael Field, I believe his name is.

"My dear, the man looked dreadfully ill, and so sad. It was the face of a man who had lost something or someone very dear to him. He went towards the porch, and just before he reached it, I heard the door open. Whoever was coming in must have met him just inside the church. There was a sound of steps as if the person had turned back into the porch with him. Then I heard Pia's voice, speaking impulsively and almost involuntarily. At least I felt sure it was involuntarily. It sounded exactly as if she couldn't help speaking.

"'Oh,' she said, 'you've been ill.'

"'Nothing of any consequence, Madam,' I heard the man's voice answer.

"'But it must have been of consequence,' I heard Pia say. 'Have you seen a doctor?'

"'There was no need,' returned the man.

"Then I heard Pia's voice, impulsive and a little bit impatient. She evidently had not seen me in the church, and thought no one was there.

"'But there is need. Why don't you go and see Doctor Hilary?'

"'I am not ill enough to need doctors, Madam,' returned the man.

"'But you are,' returned Pia, in the way that she insists when she is very anxious about anything.

"I heard the man give a little laugh."

"'It is exceedingly good of you to trouble concerning me,' he said, 'and I really don't know why you should.'

"'Oh,' said Pia quickly, 'you need not be afraid that I, personally, wish to interfere with you again. You made it quite plain to me months ago that you had no smallest wish for me to do so. But, speaking simply as one human being to another, as complete and entire strangers, even, I do ask you to see a doctor.'

"Then there was a moment's silence."

"'I think not,' I heard the man say presently. 'I am really not sufficiently interested in myself. Though—' and then, Trix dear, he half stopped, and his voice altered in the queerest way,—'the fact that you have shown interest enough to ask me to do so, has, curiously enough, made me feel quite a good deal more important in my own eyes.'

"'You refused my friendship,' I heard Pia say, and her voice shook a little.

"'I did,' said the man in rather a stern voice.

"Again, Trix dear, there was a little silence. Then Pia said:

"'I don't intend again to offer a thing that has once been rejected. I shall never do that. But because we once were friends, or at all events, fancied ourselves friends, I do ask you to see Doctor Hilary. That is all.'

"She must have turned from him at once, because she came into the church, and went up the aisle to her own chair. She knelt down, and put her hands over her eyes; and, Trix dearest, she was crying. I am crying now when I think about it, so forgive the blots on the paper. A minute later I heard the door open and shut again, so I knew the man had gone. I got up as softly as I could, and slipped out of the church. It would never have done for Pia to see me, and I was so thankful to St. Peter for hiding me.

"Well, my dear Trix, wasn't it amazing? And one of the most amazing things was that the man's voice and way of speaking was quite educated, not the least as one would suppose a gardener would speak.

"I went to the post-office and bought some stamps, though I really had plenty at home, and loitered about for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then I thought I had better go and find Pia. I met her coming out of the church. She was very pale; but she smiled, and wanted to know where I'd been, and I told her to the post-office. And then we drove home together. Pia laughed and chatted all the way, while my heart was in a big lump in my throat, and I could hardly keep from crying, like the foolish old woman that I am. I ought to have been talking, and helping Pia to pretend.

"She has been quite gay all to-day, and oddly gentle too. But you know the kind of gayness. And to-night my heart feels like breaking for her, for there is some sad mystery I can't fathom. So, Trix dearest, I have written to you, because I cannot keep it all to myself. And I am crying again now, though I know I oughtn't to. So I am going to leave off, and say the rosary instead.

"Good night, my dear Trix. "Your affectionate old friend, "Esther Tibbutt.

P.S. I wish you could come down here again. Can't you?"

Trix leant back in her chair, and drew a long breath. The novel was utterly and entirely forgotten. So that was what Pia's letter had meant. It was this man she had been thinking of all the time. A dozen little unanswered questions were answered now, a dozen queer little riddles solved.

Trix slid down off her chair on to the bear-skin rug in front of the fire. She leant her arms sideways on the chair, resting her chin upon them. Most assuredly she must place the whole matter clearly before her mind, in so far as possible. She gazed steadily at the glowing coals, ruminative, reflective.

And firstly it was presented to her mind as the paramount fact, that it was the mention of this man—this Michael Field, so-called—that had been the direct cause of Pia's odd irritability, and not the indirect cause, as she most erroneously had imagined. Somehow, in some way, he had caused her such pain that the mere mention of his name had been like laying a hand roughly on a wound. Secondly, though Trix most promptly dismissed the memory, there was Pia's hurting little speech, the speech which had followed on her—Trix's—theories promulgated beneath the lime trees. In the light of Miss Tibbutt's letter that speech was easy enough of explanation. Had not Pia had practical proof of the unworkableness of those theories? Proof which must have hurt her quite considerably. How utterly and entirely childish her words must have seemed to Pia,—Pia who knew, while she truly was merely surmising, setting forth ideas which assuredly she had never attempted to put into practice. Thirdly—Trix ticked off the facts on her fingers—there was the amazing little game of cross-questions. That too was entirely explained. How precisely it was explained she did not attempt to put into actual formulated words. Nevertheless she perceived quite clearly that it was explained. And lastly there was Pia's letter to her, the letter which had vainly tried to hide the bitterness which had prompted it. Clear as daylight now was the explanation of that letter. Buoyed up by Trix's advice, by Trix's eloquence, she had once more attempted to put the high-sounding theories into practice. And it had proved a failure, an utter and complete failure.

All these things fell at once into place, fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle, an unfinished puzzle, nevertheless. The largest pieces were still scattered haphazard on the board, and there seemed extremely little prospect of fitting them into the rest. How had Pia ever met the man? What was he doing at Chorley Old Hall? And why was he pretending to be Michael Field, when she—Trix—now knew him to be Antony Gray? The last two proved the greatest difficulty, nor could Trix, for all her gazing into the fire, find the place they ought to occupy. She remembered, too, her own idea regarding the colour of that bubble. Was it possible that she had been right in her idea? Verily, if she had been, in the face of this new discovery, it opened up a yet more astounding problem. Pia actually and verily in love with the man, a man she believed to be under-gardener at the Hall,—Pia, the distant, the proud, the reserved Pia! It was amazing, unthinkable!

Trix heaved a sigh; it was all quite beyond her. One thing alone was obvious; she must go down to Woodleigh again as soon as possible. Certainly she had no very clear notion as to what precise good she could do by going, nevertheless she was entirely convinced that go she must. And then, having reached this point in her reflections, she returned once more to the beginning, and began all over again.

And suddenly another idea struck her, one which had been entirely omitted from her former train of thought. Was it possible that Mr. Danver knew of the identity of this Michael Field? Was it possible, was it conceivable that he held the key to those greatest riddles? Truly it would seem possible. His one big action had been so extraordinary, so mad even, that it would be quite justifiable to believe, or at least conjecture, that minor extraordinary actions might be mixed up with it.

And then, from that, Trix turned to a somewhat more detailed consideration of Pia's position. One point presented itself quite definitely and clearly to her. It was certainly evident from that memorable letter of Pia's, that she did regard this man as a social inferior, from which fact it was entirely plain that she had no smallest notion of his real identity. Trix clasped her hands beneath her chin, shut her eyes, and plunged yet deeper into her reflections. They were becoming even more intricate.

Now, would it be a comfort to Pia to know that this man was by birth her social equal, or would it, in view of the fact that he had in some way shown her what she had called "a glimpse of the hairy hoof," appear to her an added insult. Trix pondered the question deeply, turning it in her mind, and sighing prodigiously more than once in the process.

And then, all at once, she opened her eyes. Where, after all, was the use of troubling her head on that score. Comfort or not, who was to tell Pia? Most assuredly Trix couldn't. She had considered that question already, weeks ago in fact, and answered it in the negative. Of course it was quite possible that she was being somewhat over-sensitive and ultra-scrupulous on the subject. But there it was. It was the way she regarded matters.

Trix sighed deeply. It was all terribly perplexing, and Tibby's letter was quite horribly pathetic. Anyhow she would go down to Woodleigh as soon as she possibly could.

She had been so entirely engrossed with her reflections, that she had quite forgotten the passing of time. It was with a start of surprise, therefore, that she heard the door open. At the selfsame moment the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of midnight. Trix got to her feet.

"My dearest," exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot, "not gone to bed yet! And all the beauty sleep before midnight, they tell us. Not that you need it except in the way of preservation, dearest. For I always did tell you, regardless of making you conceited which I do not think I do do, that I have admired you from the time you were in your cradle. Well, food is the next best thing to sleep, so come and have a sandwich and some sherry. I am famished, positively famished. And I ate an excellent dinner, I know; but Bridge is always hungry work. Bring the tray to the fire, dearest. I see James has put it all ready. And ham, which I adore. It may be indigestible, though I never believe it with things I like. Not merely because I like to think so, but because it is true. Nature knows best, as she knew when I was a child, and gave me a distaste for fat which always upset me, and a great appreciation for oranges which doctors are crying up tremendously nowadays."

Mrs. Arbuthnot sank down in an armchair, and threw back her cloak. Trix brought the tray to a small table near her.

"And how have you been amusing yourself, dearest? Not dull, I hope? But the fire and a book are always the best of companions I think, to say nothing of one's own thoughts, though some people do consider day-dreaming waste of time. So narrow-minded. They read novels which are only other people's day-dreams, and their own less expensive, as saving library subscriptions and the buying of books, besides a certain superiority in feeling they are your own. On the whole more satisfactory, too. Even though you know the end before you come to it, it can always be arranged as you like, and sad or happy to suit your mood. Though for my part it should always be happy. If you're happy you want it happy, and if you're not, you still want it to make you. If it weren't for the difficulty of dividing into chapters, I'd write my own day-dreams, and no doubt have a big sale. But publishers have an absurd prejudice in favour of chapters, and even headings, which means an average of thirty titles. Quite brain-racking. A dear friend of mine who wrote, told me she always thought the title the most difficult part of a book."

She helped herself to a glass of sherry and two sandwiches as she concluded her speech.

"And did you really have a pleasant evening?" said Trix, politely interrogative.

Mrs. Arbuthnot surveyed her sandwich reflectively.

"Well, dearest, on the whole, yes. But unfortunately Mrs. Townsend was there. An excellent Bridge player, and I am always pleased to see her myself, but some people are so odd in their manner towards her. Quite embarrassing really, in fact awkward at times. Absurd, too, with so good a player. And though her father was a grocer it was in the wholesale line, which is different from the retail. Besides, she married well, and doesn't drop her aitches."

Trix's chin went up. "I hate class distinctions being made so horribly obvious," said she with fine scorn.

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked thoughtful.

"Well, dearest, in Mrs. Townsend's case, perhaps. But not always. I remember a girl I knew married a farmer. Most foolish."

"But why, if he was nice?" demanded Trix, exceedingly firmly.

"Oh, but dearest," ejaculated Mrs. Arbuthnot, "it was so unsuitable. He wasn't even a gentleman farmer. He had been a labourer."

"He might have been a nice labourer," contended Trix.

Mrs. Arbuthnot sighed. "In himself, possibly. But it wouldn't do. The irritation afterwards. We are told to avoid occasions of sin, and it would not be avoiding occasions of ill-temper if you married a man like that. Beer and muddy boots, to say nothing of inferior tobacco. The glamour passed, though for my part I cannot see how there ever would be any glamour, probably infatuation, the boots—you know the kind, dearest, great nails and smelling of leather—the beer and the tobacco would be so terribly obvious. No, dearest, it doesn't do."

Trix was silent. After all wasn't she again arguing on a point regarding which she had had no real experience? Pia had tried the experiment, and declared it didn't work; and that, in the case of a man who was of gentle birth, though posing as a labourer. In her own mind she felt it ought to work,—of course under certain circumstances. It was not the birth, but the mind that mattered. And, if there were the right kind of mind, there most certainly would not be the boots, the beer, and the tobacco. Trix was perfectly sure there wouldn't be. But it evidently was no atom of good trying to explain to other people what she meant, because they entirely failed to understand, and she was not certain that she could explain very well to herself even what she did mean.

It was not in the least that she had ever had the smallest desire to run counter to these conventions in any really important way, but she did hate hard and fast rules. Why should people lay down laws, as rigid as the laws of the Medes and Persians on matters that did not involve actual questions of right and wrong! There were enough of those to observe, without inventing others which were not in the least necessary.

It was all horribly muddling, and rather depressing, she decided. She finished her sandwich and glass of sherry, swallowing a little lump in her throat at the same time. Then she spoke.

"Aunt Lilla," she said impulsively, "I want to go down to Woodleigh."

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked up.

"Woodleigh, dearest. You were there only a little time ago, weren't you?"

"It was in August," said Trix. "And, anyhow, I want to go again. You don't mind, do you?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot took another sandwich.

"That's the fifth," she said. "Disgraceful, but all the fault of Bridge. Why, of course not, if you want to go. But what made you think of it to-night?"

Trix leant back in her chair. "I had a letter from Miss Tibbutt," she said.

Mrs. Arbuthnot laid down her sandwich. She regarded Trix with anxious and almost reproachful eyes.

"Oh, my dearest, nothing wrong I hope? So inconsiderate of me to talk of Bridge. I saw a letter in your hand, but no black edge. Unless there is a black edge, one does not readily imagine bad news. Not like telegrams. They send my heart to my mouth, and generally nothing but a Bridge postponement. So trivial. But it is the colour of the envelope, and the possibility. Ill news flies apace, and telegrams the quickest mode of communicating it. Except the telephone. And that is expensive at any distance." Mrs. Arbuthnot paused, and took up her sandwich once more.

"Oh, no," responded Trix, answering the first sentence of the speech. Experience, long experience had taught her to seize upon the first half-dozen words of her aunt's discourses, and cling to them, allowing the remainder to float harmlessly into thin air. Later there might be the necessity to clutch at a few more, but generally the first half-dozen sufficed. "Oh, no; no bad news. But Miss Tibbutt is not quite satisfied about Pia."

That was true, at all events.

Mrs. Arbuthnot made a little clicking sound with her tongue, expressive of sympathy.

"Oh, my dearest, I know that term 'not quite satisfied.' So vague. It may mean nothing, or it may mean a good deal. And we always think it means a good deal, when it is probably only influenza. Depressing, but not at all serious if taken in time. And ammoniated quinine the best thing possible. Not bitter, either, if taken in capsule form. But I quite feel with you, and go-by all means if you wish. And take eucalyptus, with you to avoid catching it yourself. So infectious, they say, but not to be shirked if one is needed. I would never stand in the light of duty. The corporal works of mercy, inconvenient at times, and I have never been to see a prisoner in my life, but perhaps easier than the spiritual, except the three last. You always run the risk of interference with the first of the spiritual, so wiser to leave them entirely to priests. When do you want to go, dearest?"

Trix came to herself with a little start. She had lost the thread of Mrs. Arbuthnot's discourse.

"The day after to-morrow, I think," she said, reflectively. "I can wire to-morrow and get a reply."

Mrs. Arbuthnot got up.

"Then that's settled. Don't look anxious, dearest, because there is probably no cause for it. Though I know how easy it is to give advice, and how difficult to take it, even when it is oneself. Though perhaps that is really harder, being often half-hearted. And now we will go to bed, and things will look brighter in the morning, especially if it is fine. And the glass going up as I came through the hall. Quite time it did. I always had sympathy with the boy in the poem—Jane and Anne Taylor, wasn't it?—who smashed the glass in the holidays because it wouldn't go up. It always seems as if it were its fault. Though I know it's foolish to think so. And there is the clock striking one, and I shall eat more sandwiches if I stay, so let us put out the light, and go to bed."



CHAPTER XXX

A QUESTION OF IMPORTANCE

It had been chance pure and simple which happened to take Doctor Hilary to Woodleigh on the day the Duchessa received Trix's telegram, but it cannot be equally said that it was chance which took him to Exeter on the following day, and which made him travel down again to Kingsleigh by the four o'clock train. Also it was certainly not chance which induced him to be on the platform at least a quarter of an hour before the train was due at the station, ready to keep a careful lookout on all the passengers in it.

* * * * *

Trix had had an uneasy journey from London. She had re-read Miss Tibbutt's letter at least a dozen times. At first she had allowed herself to be almost unreasonably depressed by it; afterwards she had been almost more unreasonably depressed because she had allowed herself to be depressed in the first instance. Quite possibly it was all a storm in a tea-cup, and this man had nothing whatever to do with Pia's unhappiness. Of course the chance meeting and the overheard conversation had fitted in so neatly as to make Miss Tibbutt think it had, and she had easily communicated the same idea to Trix. But quite probably it had nothing more to do with it than her own surmise regarding Doctor Hilary had had. And that had proved entirely erroneous, though at the time it had appeared the most sane of conclusions. Also Miss Tibbutt might quite conceivably be wrong as to Pia's being now unhappy at all, whatever she had seemed to be in the summer.

Trix's visit began to appear to her somewhat in the light of a wild-goose chase. Anyhow she had not given Pia the smallest hint as to why she was coming. Naturally she could not possibly have done that. She had still to invent some tangible excuse for her sudden desire to visit Woodleigh again. Sick of London greyness would be quite good enough, though certainly not entirely true. But possibly a slight deviation from truth would be excusable under the circumstances. And she was sick of London greyness. The fog yesterday had got on her nerves altogether, though quite probably it would not have done so if it had not been for Miss Tibbutt's letter, which had made her feel so horribly restless. But then there was no need to say why the fog had got on her nerves.

Yes; the fog would be excuse enough. And it was not an atom of good worrying herself as to whether Miss Tibbutt had been right or wrong regarding the idea communicated in her letter. If she were right it made Trix unhappy to think about it, and if she were wrong it made Trix cross to think she had thought about it. So the wisest course was not to think about it at all. But the difficulty was not to think about it.

Trix knew perfectly well that absurd little things had this power of depressing her, and she wished they had not. She knew, also, that other quite little things had the power of cheering her in equal proportion, and she wished that one of these other things would happen now. But that was not particularly likely.

The depression had been at its lowest ebb as they ran into Bath. It was, however, slightly on the mend by the time Trix reached Exeter, though she was still feeling that her journey had probably, if not certainly, been a piece of pure foolishness on her part.

The carriage she was in was up in the front of the train. She was the sole occupant thereof. She now put up something akin to a prayer that she might remain in undisturbed possession. Apparently, however, the prayer was not to be granted. A tall figure, masculine in character, suddenly blocked the light from the window. Trix heaved a small sigh of patient resignation.

"Good afternoon, Miss Devereux," said a voice.

Trix looked up. Her resignation took to itself wings and fled.

"Doctor Hilary!" she exclaimed.

Doctor Hilary heaved his big form into the carriage, and turned to take a tea-basket from a porter just behind him. First tipping the said porter, he put the basket carefully on the seat.

"I've been on the lookout for you," he remarked calmly.

"Oh," said Trix, a trifle surprised.

Doctor Hilary sat down, keeping, however, one eye towards the platform.

"Yes," he continued, still calmly. "The Duchessa happened to tell me yesterday that you were coming, and as I happened to be in Exeter to-day I thought we might as well do this bit of the journey together."

"I see," said Trix.

Doctor Hilary looked up. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked quickly.

"Mind!" echoed Trix, "I am quite delighted. I've been so bored, and rather tired, and—yes, I think quite depressed."

Doctor Hilary looked concerned.

"You poor little thing," he said. "And I suppose you have had one sandwich, and no tea. Men turn to food when they're depressed, and women think they can't eat. Honestly, there's nothing like a good meal for helping one to look on the brighter side of things."

Trix smiled first at him, and then at the tea-basket.

"Anyhow I'm to be fed now, it seems."

The train began to move slowly out of the station. Doctor Hilary gave vent to an ill-supressed sigh of relief. The train was non-stop to Brent. He began pulling at the straps of the tea-basket.

Tea and Doctor Hilary's company had a really marvellous effect on Trix's spirits. The little pleasant occurrence had happened, and quite unexpectedly.

"I'm glad you're coming down to Woodleigh," said Doctor Hilary presently. "The Duchessa has seemed out of sorts lately, and I fancy your coming will cheer her."

"Oh," said Trix, "you think so, too." And then she stopped.

"Who else thinks so?" queried Doctor Hilary.

"Well, Miss Tibbutt didn't seem quite satisfied about her," owned Trix. "It was a letter from her made me come. And then I thought perhaps she'd been mistaken, and I'd been silly to think there was any need of me, and that—well, that I'd been a little officious. It's a depressing sensation," sighed Trix.

Doctor Hilary laughed.

"So that was the cause of the depression," quoth he.

Trix nodded. "It was rather silly, wasn't it?" she asked.

"I am not sure," he said.

"It was such an idiotic little thing to worry about," said Trix

Doctor Hilary looked thoughtful.

"Perhaps. But isn't it just the little things we do worry over? They are so small, you know, it's difficult to handle them. It is far easier not to worry over a thing you can get a real grasp of."

Trix smiled gratefully.

"I am so glad you understand," she said. "I am always doing things on impulse. I fancy I am indispensable, I suppose, and then all at once I think what a little donkey I am to have interfered. It is so easy to think oneself important to other people's welfare when one isn't a bit."

"Aren't you?" said Doctor Hilary quietly.

"Of course not," replied Trix. There was a hint of indignation in her voice. "And please don't say I am, or else it will make me feel that you think I said what I did say just in order that you might contradict me. Like fishing for a compliment, you know. And I didn't mean that in the least, I didn't truly."

Doctor Hilary smiled, a queer little smile.

"I know you didn't mean that. But all the same I am going to contradict you."

Trix looked up. "Oh well," she began, laughing and half resignedly. And then something in Doctor Hilary's face made her stop suddenly, her heart beating at a mad pace.

"You have become very important in my life," he said quietly. "I did not realize how important, till you went away."

Trix was silent.

"I am not very good at making pretty speeches," said Doctor Hilary steadily, "but I hope you understand exactly what I mean. You have become so important to my welfare that I should find it exceedingly difficult to go on living without you. I suppose I should do it somehow if I must, but probably I should make a very poor job of it." He stopped.

Trix gave a sudden little intake of her breath. For a moment there was a dead silence. Then:—

"Will you always feed me when I am depressed?" she asked. And there was a little quiver half of laughter, half of tears, in her voice.



CHAPTER XXXI

MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS

"Yes, Tibby angel, you were quite right."

It was the sixth time Trix had made the same remark in the last half hour, and she had made it each time with the same attentive deliberation as if the words were being only once spoken, though she knew she would probably have to say them at least six times more.

She was sitting in front of her bedroom fire clad in a blue dressing-gown. Miss Tibbutt was sitting in an armchair opposite to her. She had come into the room presumably for two minutes only, to see that Trix had all she wanted, but after she had fluttered for full ten minutes from dressing-table to bed, and back to dressing-table again, talking all the time, Trix had firmly pushed her into an armchair.

Miss Tibbutt took off her spectacles, and polished them slowly.

"And what is to be done, Trix dear?"

Trix looked thoughtful.

"I really don't know just at the moment. You see, though we are pretty certain, we are not quite certain. I know I thought last August that Pia was in love with someone, and now you say you are certain it is this man, and of course, as you say—" Trix hesitated a moment, feeling slightly hypocritical,—"it does seem odd when he is only a gardener, and one wonders how she could have met him, and all that. But, you know, you are not quite certain that you are right; or, even supposing that you are, that Pia will want any interference on our part. We must just wait a day or two and think matters over."

Miss Tibbutt sighed.

"But you do think I was right to let you know?" she asked.

And a seventh time Trix replied with careful deliberation,

"Yes, Tibby angel, you were quite right."

"You see," said Miss Tibbutt, "I thought—" And she related exactly what she had thought, all over again.

Trix listened exceedingly patiently. She did not even know she was being patient. She only knew the enormous relief it was to Miss Tibbutt to repeat herself. With each repetition the thought which had choked her mind, so to speak, for the last five days, was further cleared from her brain. It was quite possible that Miss Tibbutt might sleep a very great deal better that night than she had done lately.

At last she stopped speaking, and looked towards the clock.

"My dear, I had no idea it was so late. You must be tired after your journey, and here have I been thinking only of myself again, and of my own anxiety, and not of you at all. I am not going to keep you up a moment longer. And if I am late for breakfast, please tell Pia I have gone to Mass. The walk won't hurt me, and telling our dear Lord all about it will be the best way to help Pia. So good night, dear. And you are really not looking very tired in spite of your journey, and my having kept you up so late."

Trix went with her to the door, and then returned to her chair by the fire. She was not in the least sleepy, and bed would do quite well enough later. Just now she wanted to think. There were two distinct trends of thought in which she wished to indulge; the one certainly contained cause for a little anxiety, the other was quite extraordinarily delicious. She must take the anxious trend first.

She had been considering matters exceedingly earnestly all the while Miss Tibbutt had been talking to her, and she had come to one very definite conclusion. She felt perfectly certain now, that it would ease the situation considerably if Pia knew who this Michael Field really was. It had come to her in an illuminating flash, that the same reason which had caused him to hide his identity, was responsible for his odd behaviour towards Pia. Now, of course, if Pia could see some even possible reason and excuse for the oddness of his behaviour, it must be a great comfort to her. But the question was, could she—Trix—tell her? Would not the telling probably involve her in the untruth her soul loathed? Or, if she was firm not to tell lies, would it not somehow involve a breaking of her promise to Nicholas? Again she saw, or thought she saw, all the questions which must ensue if she said where she had met the man; and if she did not say where she had met him, it would probably mean saying something which, virtually speaking at least, would not be true. If only she had not met him in the grounds of Chorley Old Hall.

It was the same old problem which had presented itself to her mind twice already, and the same possible over-scrupulosity was perplexing her now. However, she must stop thinking about it for to-night. She had come to an end of these thoughts so far as she could muster them into shape, and it was not the least particle of use going over them again. Her brain would run round like a squirrel in a cage, if she did. And Tibby was not with her to open the cage door, as she had opened it for Tibby. Besides, there was the other trend now.

She settled herself back among the cushions, and gazed at the dancing flames. It was all so wonderful, so gorgeously unexpected, and yet it was one of those things which just had to be. She was so sure of that, it made the happening doubly sweet. It was exactly as if she had been walking all her life through a quiet wood, a wood where the sunshine flickered through the trees overhead just sufficiently to make her feel quite certain of the existence of the sunshine, and then suddenly she had come out into its full warmth and beauty to behold a perfect landscape. And she knew that no single other path could have led her to this place, also that there could be no other prospect as beautiful for her.

"When did you first know?" she had asked him. The question millions of women have asked in their time, and that will be asked by millions more.

"I think," he had answered smiling, "it was the very first moment you came into the room, looking like a woodland elf in your green frock. Anyhow I am quite certain it was when you were—shall we say a trifle snubbed in the moonlight."

"Ah, poor Pia," said Trix.

And then they had told each other countless little trivial things, things of no earthly importance to any one but their two selves, things rendered sweet, not so much by the words, as by the tone in which they were spoken. It had been the old, old story, the story which began in all its first beauty in the Garden of Eden, before the devil had entered therein with his wiles, a story which even now ofttimes holds much of that age-old wonderful beauty. And the stuffy, fusty railway carriage had not in the least diminished the joy of the telling.

Trix smiled to herself, a soft little radiant smile.

To-morrow she must tell Pia. She gave a little sigh. It would seem almost cruel to let her know of their happiness.

For Trix's own happiness to be without flaw, it was invariably necessary that others should be in practically the same state of bliss.



CHAPTER XXXII

SUNLIGHT AND HAPPINESS

Sleep, they say, brings counsel. Most certainly it brought counsel to Trix, and really such simple counsel she marvelled that she had not thought of it before.

After all, the question as to whether she should or should not disclose Antony Gray's identity to Pia, and thereby run the risk either of untruth or of breaking a promise, was purely a question of conscience. Now, in a question of conscience, if you cannot decide for yourself, it is always safe to consult a priest. She would therefore walk over to Byestry after breakfast—after she had told Pia her own particular and wonderful news—and consult Father Dormer. It would be quite easy to explain matters to him without mentioning names.

Trix began formulating her query in her mind as she dressed. By the time this process was completed, however, she had come to the conclusion that she was not altogether sure whether it would be so easy. She found herself getting wound up into rather extraordinary knots. Well, anyhow she would explain somehow, and no doubt words would come when she was actually confronted with him. Besides, it was never the smallest use arranging conversations beforehand, like a French conversation book, because people never gave the right answers to your questions, and never put the questions to which you had the answers ready.

Trix crossed slowly to the window. There had been a frost in the night, and the lower part of the window-pane was covered with magic fern fronds, while lawn and shrubs were clothed with a light white veil.

Suddenly the sun came up behind the distant hills, a glowing ball of fire, sending forth his ruddy beams till they struck clean through the window, turning the fern fronds to ruby jewels, and making of the frost veil without a web of diamonds.

"That," breathed Trix softly, "is what happened to us yesterday."

And she knelt down quite suddenly by the window.

* * * * *

The breakfast hour at the Manor House was, ordinarily speaking, most punctually at nine o'clock, but owing, doubtless, to some slight hitch in the lower regions, the gong that morning did not sound till a quarter past the hour. This delay gave Miss Tibbutt time to put in an appearance not more than two minutes late, and saved any necessary explanation regarding her early walk to Byestry. As it was really on Pia's account that she had gone to Mass, she wished to avoid mentioning that she had been. Of course Pia could not possibly have guessed the real motive, but Miss Tibbutt had a feeling, which reason told her to be quite foolish, that in some odd way she might guess. And she did not want her to guess.

"What is the plan of campaign to-day?" asked the Duchessa, as they assembled in the morning room after breakfast.

Trix examined an ornament on the mantelpiece with rather studied care.

"I was thinking of walking over to Byestry, this morning," she remarked.

"All right," agreed the Duchessa, "and after lunch we will have the car. It is cold, but too good a day to be wasted."

Trix had a moment's anxiety.

"We shan't be late for tea?" she queried.

"I don't think so," responded Pia. "The days are too short now. But why?"

Trix put down the ornament she was examining.

"Doctor Hilary is coming to tea," she announced carelessly, though she knew perfectly well that the colour was rising in her cheeks.

Pia looked at her.

"Trix!" she said.

"Yes, darling," nodded Trix, "just that."

"Oh, my Trix!" cried Pia delighted, putting her arms round her.

Miss Tibbutt looked a trifle bewildered.

"What is it?" she demanded

Pia laughed.

"These two," she said, "Trix and Doctor Hilary. I told you, you remember, and said there were trains, though I never dreamed they would be utilized quite so literally. Of course it was yesterday?"

"Yes," nodded Trix again. And then with a huge sigh, "Oh, Pia, I am so happy."

Pia turned her round towards Miss Tibbutt.

"Tibby, look at her face, and then she tells us she is happy, as though it were necessary to advertise the fact to our slow intelligences."

Trix laughed, though the tears were in her eyes. Laughter and tears are amazingly close together at times.

"And is it quite necessary to walk to Byestry this morning?" teased Pia. "He will probably be on his rounds, you know."

Again Trix laughed, this time without the tears.

"I am not proposing to sit in his pocket," she remarked. "He did not happen to suggest that I should, and it certainly never occurred to me to suggest it."



CHAPTER XXXIII

TRIX SEEKS ADVICE

Trix walked along the road from Woodleigh to Byestry in infinitely too happy a state of mind to think consistently of any one thing. She did not even think precisely definitely of the man who had caused this happiness. She knew only that the happiness was there.

The hoar frost still lay thickly on the hedges and the grass by the roadside. The frost finger had outlined the twigs, the blades of grass, the veins of dried leaves with the delicate precision nature alone can achieve. At one spot a tiny rivulet, arrested by the ice-king in its course from a field and down a bank, hung in long glistening icicles from jutting stones and frozen earth. Now and again her own footfall struck sharp and metallic on the hard road. The sky was cloudless, a clear, cold blue. A robin trilled its sweet, sad song to her from a frosted bough.

It was all amazingly like a frosted Christmas card, thought Trix, those Christmas cards her soul had adored in her childish days, and yet which, oddly enough, always brought with them a sentimental touch of sadness. Many things had brought this odd happy sadness to Trix as a child,—the sound of church bells across water, fire-light gleaming in the darkness from the uncurtained windows of some house, the moon shining on snow, a solitary tree backgrounded by a grey sky, or a flight of rooks at sunset.

It was a quarter to eleven or thereabouts when she reached Byestry, and she made her way at once to the little white-washed, thatched presbytery, separated from the road by a small front garden.

Trix walked up the path, and rang the bell. Father Dormer was at home, so his housekeeper announced, and she was shown into a small square room with a round table in the centre, and a vase of bronze chrysanthemums on the table.

Trix sat down and began to try and arrange her ideas. She was by now perfectly well aware that they were not only rather difficult to arrange, but would be infinitely more difficult to express. She sighed once or twice rather heavily, gazing thoughtfully at the bronze chrysanthemums the while, as if seeking inspiration from their feathery brown faces. And then the door opened and Father Dormer came in in his cassock, which he always wore in the morning.

"It is an unexpected pleasure to see you, Miss Devereux," he said. "Please sit down again."

Trix sat down, and so did Father Dormer.

"I only arrived yesterday," said Trix, "and I came over to see you this morning because I wanted to ask you something rather particular." Trix was feeling just a little nervous, she was also feeling that if she did not open the subject immediately, it was quite possible that she might leave the presbytery without having done so, despite all her preconceived intentions.

"Yes," smiled Father Dormer. He was perfectly well aware that she was feeling a trifle nervous.

"Well," said Trix, "it isn't going to be quite easy to explain, because I can't mention names. But as it is a thing I can't make up my mind about,—about the right or wrong of doing it, I mean,—I thought I'd ask your advice."

"That is always at your service," he assured her as she stopped.

Trix heaved a little sigh. She leant forward in her chair, and rested her hands on the table.

"Well then, Father, it's like this. I know something about someone which another person doesn't know, and I think it is rather important that they should know it. The first person doesn't know I know it, and mightn't quite like it if they knew I knew it. Also I am pretty sure that they don't want any one else to know it. But under the circumstances I think I'm justified in telling the second person, because it isn't a thing like a scandal, or anything like that. But the difficulty is, that in telling the second person about the first person, I may either have to tell lies, or disclose a secret about a third person, and that is a secret I have promised not to tell. Do you think I ought to take the risk?"

Father Dormer listened attentively.

"Do you mind saying it again," he asked politely as she ended. There was just the faintest possible twinkle in his eyes.

Trix laughed outright.

"Oh, Father, don't try to be polite," she urged. "I know it is the muddliest kind of explanation that ever existed. Can't you suggest some way of making it clearer?"