'But it was a sort of habit with you, wasn't it?' she said commiseratingly, and had the happiness of seeing his face flush. 'I quite understand. And we were both amused.'

'I wasn't amused,' he said, 'not a bit, and I'm sorry I behaved as I did. You were so young—and so pretty. Well, it's no good making excuses, but I couldn't rest until I'd seen you and—humbled myself.'

'Did Aunt Rose tell you to say this?' she asked.

'Rose? Of course not. Why should she?'

'She seems to have an extraordinary power.'

'Yes, she has,' he said simply.

'And have you humbled yourself to her, too?'

'No. With her,' he said slowly, 'there was no need.'

'I see.' She laughed up at him frankly. 'You know, I never took it very seriously. I'm sorry the thought of it has troubled you.'

He went on, ignoring her lightness, and determined to say everything. 'I meant to meet you that night and tell you what I'm telling you now; but Christabel was very ill and I couldn't leave her. I hope'—this was difficult—'I hope you didn't get into any sort of mess.'

'That night?' She seemed to be thinking back to it. 'That night—no—I went to a concert with Charles Batty.'

'Oh—' He was bewildered. 'Then it was all right?'

'Perfectly, of course.'

'I didn't know,' he muttered. 'And you forgive me?'

She was generous. 'I was just as bad as you. The Malletts are all flirts. Haven't you heard Aunt Caroline say so? We can't help doing silly things, but we never take them seriously. Why, you must have noticed that with Aunt Rose!'

'No,' he said with dignity, 'your Aunt Rose is like nobody else in the world. I think I told you that once. She—' He hesitated and was silent.

'Well, I must be going back,' Henrietta said easily. 'I shan't bother about the primroses. I think it's going to rain. And you won't think about this any more, will you? You know, Aunt Caroline says she nearly eloped several times, and I know my father did it once, with my own mother, probably with other people beside. It's in the blood. I must try to settle down. We did behave rather badly, I suppose, but so much has happened since. That was my first ball and I felt I wanted to do something daring.'

'You were not to blame,' he said; 'but I'm nearly old enough to be your father. I can't forgive myself. I can't forget it.'

'Oh, dear! And I never took it seriously at all. There was a train back to Radstowe at ten o'clock. I looked it up. I was going to get that, but as it happened I went to a concert with Charles Batty. You seem to have no idea how to play a game. You have to pretend to yourself it's a matter of life and death; but you haven't to let it be. That would spoil it.'

'I see,' he said. 'I'm afraid I didn't look at it like that. I wish I had, and I'm glad you did. It makes it easier—and harder—for me.'

'We ought,' she said, 'to have laid the rules down first. Yes, we ought to have done that.' She laughed again. 'I shall do that another time. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye. You've been awfully good to me, Henrietta. Thank you.'

'Not a bit,' she cried. 'If I'd known you were bothering about it, I would have reassured you.' She could not withhold a parting shot. 'I would have sent you a message by Aunt Rose.'

She waved a hand and ran back to the road. She did not trouble to ask herself whether or not he believed her. She was shaken by sobs without tears. She did not love him, she had never loved him, but she could not bear the knowledge that he did not love her. It was quite plain; she was not going to deceive herself any more; his manner had been unmistakable and it was Aunt Rose he loved. She had been beaten by Aunt Rose, and even Charles called her adorable. She did not want Francis Sales; he was rather stupid, and as a legitimate lover he would be dull, duller than Charles, who at least knew how to say things; but something coloured and exciting and dramatic had been ravished from her—by Aunt Rose. That was the sting, and she was humiliated, though she would not own it. She had been good enough for an episode, but her charm had not endured.

Her little, rather inhuman teeth ground against each other. But she had been clever, she had carried it off well; she had not given a sign, and she determined to be equally clever with Aunt Rose. Some day she would refer lightly to her folly and laugh at the susceptibility of Francis Sales. It would hurt Aunt Rose to have her faithful lover disparaged! But, ah! if only she and Aunt Rose were friends, what a conspiracy they could enjoy together! They had both suffered, they might both laugh. How they might play into each other's hands with Francis Sales for the bewildered ball! It would be the finest sport in the world; but they were not friends, and it was impossible to imagine Aunt Rose at that game. No, she was alone in the world, and as she felt the first drop of rain on her face she became aware of the aching of her heart.

She stood for a moment on the bridge. A grey mist was being driven up the river, blotting out the gorge and the trees. A gull, shrieking dismally, cleaved the greyness with a white flash. It was cold and Henrietta shivered, and once again she wished she could sit by a fireside with some one who was kind and tender; but to-night there would only be Aunt Sophia and Aunt Rose sitting with her in that drawing-room, where everything was too elegant and too clear, where now no one ever laughed.



11

They sat by the fire as she had foreseen, Sophia pretending to be busy with her embroidery, Rose, in a straight-backed chair, reading a book. Henrietta sat on a low stool with a book open on her knee, but she did not read it. The fire talked to itself, said silly things and chuckled, or murmured sentimentally. That chatter, vaguely insane, and the turning of Rose's pages, the drawing of Sophia's silks through the stuff and the click of her scissors, were the only sounds until, suddenly, Sophia gave a groan and fell back in her chair. Rose, very much startled, glanced at Henrietta and jumped up.

'It's her heart,' Henrietta said with the superiority of her knowledge. 'I'll get her medicine.' She came back with it. 'She was like this when Aunt Caroline died, but I promised not to tell. If she has this she will be better.'

It was Henrietta who poured the liquid into the glass and applied it to Sophia's lips. She was, she felt, the practical person, and it was she, and not Aunt Rose, who had been trusted by Aunt Sophia. 'She told me where she kept the stuff,' Henrietta continued calmly. 'There, that's better.'

Sophia recovered with apologies: a little faintness; it was nothing. In a few minutes she would go to bed. They helped her there.

'You ought to have told me, Henrietta,' Rose said on the landing.

'I couldn't. She wished it to be our secret.' It was pleasant to feel that Aunt Rose was out of this affair.

'We must have the doctor and she ought not to be alone to-night.'

I'll sleep on the sofa in her room.'

'No, Henrietta, you need more sleep than I do.'

'Oh, but I'm young enough to sleep anywhere—on the floor! But let Aunt Sophia choose.'

Henrietta went back to the drawing-room, and the housemaid was sent for the doctor. Shortly afterwards there came a ring at the bell; no doubt it was the doctor, and Henrietta wished she could go upstairs with him, for Aunt Rose, she told herself again, was not a practical person and Henrietta was experienced in illness. She had nursed her mother and she liked looking after people. She knew how to arrange pillows; she was not afraid of sickness. However, she would have to wait until Aunt Sophia sent for her; but it was not the doctor: it was Charles Batty who appeared in the doorway.

'Oh,' Henrietta said, 'what have you come for?'

He put down the hat and stick he had forgotten to leave in the hall. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I had a kind of feeling you might like to see me. It's the first time I've had it,' he added solemnly.

He really had an extraordinary way of knowing things, but she said, 'Well, Aunt Sophia's ill, so I don't think you can stay.'

He looked round for her. 'She's not here. I shan't do any harm, shall I? We can whisper.'

'She wouldn't hear us anyhow. It's my room above this one.'

'Is it?' He gazed at the ceiling with interest. 'Oh, up there!'

'I should have thought you knew by instinct,' she said bitingly.

'No.'

'Come and sit down, Charles, and don't be disagreeable. I shall have to go to Aunt Sophia soon, but then you will be able to talk to Aunt Rose. That will do just as well.'

'Not quite,' he said. 'I really came to tell you—'

'You said you came because you thought I wanted you.'

'So I did, but there were several reasons. You said you were going to be happy to-day, not murderous, do you remember? And I thought I'd like to see how you looked. You don't look happy a bit. What's the matter?'

'I've told you Aunt Sophia's ill. And would you be happy if you had to sit in this prim room with two old women?'

'Two? But your Aunt Caroline is dead.'

'But my Aunt Rose is very much alive.'

He wagged his head. 'I see.'

'But she isn't lively. She sits like this—reading a book, and Aunt Sophia, poor Aunt Sophia, sews like this, and I sit on this horrid little stool, like this. That's how we spend the evening.'

'How would you like to spend it?'

'Oh, I don't know.' She dropped her black head to her knees. 'It's so lonely.'

'Well,' he began again, 'I really came to tell you that there's a house to let on The Green: that little one with the red roof like a cap and windows that squint; a little old house; but—' he paused—'it has every modern convenience. Henrietta, there's a curl at the back of your neck.'

'I know. It's always there.'

'I can't go on about the house unless you sit up.'

'Why?'

'Because of that curl.'

'And I'm not interested in the house.' She did not move. 'Whose is it?'

'It belongs to a client of ours, but that doesn't matter. The point is that it's to let. I've got an order to view. Look!—"Please admit Mr. Charles Batty." I went this evening and we can both go to-morrow. It's really a very cosy little house. There's a drawing-room opening on the garden at the back, with plenty of room for a grand piano, and the dining-room—I liked the dining-room very much. There was a fire in it.'

'Is that unusual?'

'It looked so cosy, with a red carpet and everything.'

'Is the carpet to let, too?'

'I don't know. I dare say we could buy it. And mind you, Henrietta, the kitchen is on the ground floor. That's unusual, if you like, in an old house. I made sure of that before I went any further.'

'How far are you going?'

'We'll go everywhere to-morrow, even into the coal cellar. To-day I just peeped.'

'I can imagine you. But what do you want a house for, Charles?'

'For you,' he said. 'You say you don't like spending the evenings here—well, let's spend them in the little house. We can't go on being engaged indefinitely.'

'Certainly not,' she said firmly, 'and I should adore a little house of my own. I believe that's just what I want.'

'Then that's settled.'

'But not with you, Charles.'

He said nothing for a time. She was sitting up, her hands clasped on her lap, and as she looked at him she half regretted her last words. This was how they would sit in the little house, by the fire, surrounded by their own possessions, with everything clean and bright and, as he had said, very cosy. She had never had a home.

Suddenly she leaned towards him and put her head on his knee. His hand fell on her hair. 'This doesn't mean anything,' she murmured; 'but I was just thinking. You're tempting me again. First with the ring because it was so pretty, and now with a house.'

'How else am I to get you?' he cried out. 'And you know you were feeling lonely. That's why I came.'

'You thought it was your chance?'

'Yes,' he said. 'I don't know the ordinary things, but I know the others.'

'I wonder how,' she said, and he answered with the one word, 'Love,' in a voice so deep and solemn that she laughed.

'Do you know,' she said, 'I have never had a home. I've lived in other people's houses, with their ugly furniture, their horrid sticky curtains—'

'I shall take that house to-morrow.'

'But you can't go on collecting things like this. Houses and rings—'

'The ring's in my pocket now.'

'It must stay there, Charles. I ought not to keep my head on your knee; but it's comfortable and I have no conscience. None.' She sat up, brushing his chin with her hair. 'None!' she said emphatically. 'And here's Aunt Rose coming to fetch me for Aunt Sophia. Mind, I've promised nothing. Besides, you haven't asked me to promise anything.'

'Oh!' He blinked. 'Well, there's no time now. Good evening, Miss Mallett.' He pulled himself out of his chair.

'Good evening, Charles. I'm glad you're here to keep Henrietta company. The doctor has been, Henrietta—'

'Oh, has he? I didn't hear him.'

'Sophia is settled for the night, and I'm going to her now.'

'But she'll want me!' Henrietta cried.

'No, she asked me to stay with her. Good night. Good night, Charles.'

'But did you say I wanted to be with her?'

Rose, smiling but a little pitiful, said gently, 'I gave her the choice and she chose me.'

She disappeared, and Henrietta turned to Charles. 'You see, she gets everything. She gets everything I ever wanted and she doesn't try—' Her hands dropped to her side. 'She just gets it.'

'But what have you wanted?'

She turned away. 'Nothing. It doesn't matter.'

'Is she going to marry Francis Sales?'

'What makes you ask that?' she cried.

'I don't know. I just thought of it.'

'Oh, your thoughts! Why, you suggested the same thing, for me! As if I would look at him!'

Charles blinked, his sign of agitation, but Henrietta did not see. 'He's good to look at,' Charles muttered. 'He knows how to wear his clothes.'

'That doesn't matter.'

Charles heaved a sigh. 'One never knows what matters.'

'And the Malletts don't marry,' Henrietta said. 'Aunt Caroline and Aunt Sophia and Aunt Rose, and now me. There's something in us that can't be satisfied. It was the same with my father, only it took him the other way.'

'I didn't know he was married more than once. Nobody tells me things.'

'Charles, dear, you're very stupid. He was only married once in a church.'

'Oh, I see.'

'And if I did marry, I should be like him.' She turned to him and put her face close to his. 'Unfaithful,' she pronounced clearly.

'Oh, well, Henrietta, you would still be you.'

She stepped backwards, shocked. 'Charles, wouldn't you mind?'

'Not so much,' he said stolidly, 'as doing without you altogether.'

'And the other day you said you need never do that because'—she tapped his waistcoat—'because I'm here!'

He showed a face she had never seen before. 'You seem to think I'm not made of flesh and blood!' he cried. 'You're wanton, Henrietta, simply wanton!' And he rushed out of the room.

She heard the front door bang; she saw his hat and stick, lying where he had put them; she smiled at them politely and then, sinking to the floor beside the fender, she let out a little moan of despair and delight. The fire chuckled and chattered and she leaned forward, her face near the bars.

'Stop talking for a minute! I want to tell you something. There's nobody else to tell. Listen! I'm in love with him now.' She nodded her head. 'Yes, with him. I know it's ridiculous; but it's true. Did you hear? You can laugh if you like. I don't care. I'm in love with him. Oh, dear!'

She circled her neck with her hands as though she must clasp something, and it would have been too silly to fondle his ugly hat. And he would remember he had forgotten it; he would come back. She dared not see him. 'I love him,' she cried out, 'too much to want to see him!' She paused, astonished. 'I suppose that's how he feels about me. How wonderful!' She looked round at the furniture, so still and unmoved by the happy bewilderment in which she found herself. The piano was mute; the lamps burned steadily; the chair in which Charles had sat was unconscious of its privilege; even the fire's flames had subsided; and she was intensely, madly, joyously alive. 'It's too much,' she said, 'too much!' And for the first time she was ashamed of her episode with Francis Sales. 'Playing at love,' she whispered.

But Charles would be coming back and, tiptoeing as though he might hear her from the street, she picked up his hat and stick and laid them neatly on the step outside the front door.

She slept with the profundity of her happiness and descended to breakfast in a dream. Only the sight of Rose's tired face reminded her that Aunt Sophia was ill. She had had a bad night, but she was better.

'She's not going to die, too, is she?' Henrietta asked, and she had a sad vision of Aunt Rose living all alone in Nelson Lodge.

'She may live for a long time, but the doctor says she may die at any moment.'

'I don't suppose she wants to live.'

'What makes you think that?'

'Because of Aunt Caroline—and—other people. But if she dies, whatever will you do?'

The question amused Rose. 'Go and see the world at last,' she said. 'Perhaps you will come, too.'

Henrietta laughed and flushed and became serious. 'She mustn't die.'

For, after all, Aunt Sophia was not a true Mallett, according to Aunt Caroline's test; she believed in marriage, she would like to see Henrietta in the little house; one of them would be able to call on the other every day. It was wonderful of Charles to have known she would like that house: she knew it well, with its red cap and its squinting eyes; but, then, he was altogether wonderful.

She supposed he would call for her that afternoon and they would present the order to view together, but he did not come. With her hat and gloves lying ready on the bed, she waited for his knock in vain. He must have been kept by business; he would come later to explain. And then, when still he did not come, she decided that he must be ill. If so, her place was by his side, and she saw herself moving like an angel about his bed; and yet the thought of Charles in bed was comic.

At dinner she ate nothing and when Rose remarked on this, Henrietta murmured that she had a headache; she thought she would go for a walk.

'Then, if you are really going out, will you take a note to Mrs. Batty? She sent some fruit and flowers to Sophia. I suppose Charles told her she was ill.'

Henrietta looked sharply at her aunt: she was suspicious of what seemed like tact, but Rose wore an ordinary expression.

'Is the note ready?' Henrietta asked.

'Yes, I meant to post it, but I'd rather she had it to-night, and there is the basket to return.'

'Very well, I'll take them both, and if I'm a little late, you'll know I have just gone for a walk or something.'

'I shan't worry about you,' Rose said.

Henrietta walked up the yellow drive, trembling a little. She had decided to ask for Mrs. Batty who was always pleased to see her, but when the door was opened her ears were assailed by a blast of triumphant sound. It was Charles, playing the piano; he was not ill, he was not busy, he was merely playing the piano as though there were no Henrietta in the world, and her trembling changed to the stiffness of great anger.

She handed in the basket and the note without a word or a smile for the friendly parlourmaid. She walked home in the awful realization that she had worn Charles out. He had called her wanton; he must have meant it. It was that word which had really made her love him, yet it was also the sign of his exhaustion. Life was tragic: no, it was comic, it was playful. She had had happiness in her hands, and it had slipped through them. She felt sick with disappointment under her rage; but she was not without hope. It stirred in her gently. Charles would come back. But would he? And she suddenly felt a terrible distrust of that love of which he had boasted. It was too complete; he could do without her. He would go on loving, but, she repeated it, she had worn him out, and she could not love like that. She wanted tangible things. But he had said that he, too, was flesh and blood, and that comforted her. He would come back, but she could do nothing to invite him.

This, she said firmly, was the real thing. It had been different with Francis Sales: with him there had been no necessity for pride, but her love for Charles must be wrapped round with reserve and kept holy; and at once, with her unfailing dramatic sense, she saw herself moving quietly through life, tending the sacred flame. And then, irritably, she told herself she could not spend her days doing that: she did not know what to do! She hated him; she would go away; yes, she would go away with Aunt Rose.

In the meantime she wept with a passion of disappointment, humiliation and pain, but on each successive morning, for some weeks, she woke to hope, for here was a new day with many possibilities in its hours; and each evening she dropped on to her bed, disheartened. Nothing happened. Aunt Sophia was better, Rose rode out every day, the little house on The Green stood empty, squinting disconsolately, resignedly surprised at its own loneliness. It was strange that nobody wanted a house like that; it was neglected and so was she: nobody noticed the one or the other.

Every morning Henrietta took Aunt Sophia for a stately walk; every afternoon she went to a tea- or tennis-party, for the summer festivities were beginning once more; and often, as she returned, she would meet Aunt Rose coming back from her ride, always cool in her linen coat, however hot the day. Where did she go? How often did she meet Francis Sales? Why should she be enjoying adventures while Henrietta, at the only age worth having, was desperately fulfilling the tedious round of her engagements? It was absurd, and Aunt Rose would ask serenely, 'Did you have a good game, Henrietta?' as though there was nothing wrong.

Henrietta did not care for games. It was the big sport of life itself she craved for, and she could not get it. All these young men, handsome and healthy in their flannels and ready to be pleasant, she found dull, while the figure of the loose-jointed Charles, his vague gestures, his unseeing eyes screening the activity of his brain, became heroic in their difference. She never saw him; she did not visit Mrs. Batty; she was afraid of falling tearfully on that homely, sympathetic breast, but Mrs. Batty, as usual, issued invitations for a garden-party.

'We shall have to go,' Sophia sighed. 'Such an old and so kind a friend! But without Caroline—for the first tune!'

'There is no need for you to go,' Rose said at once. 'Mrs. Batty will understand, and Henrietta and I will represent the family.'

'No, I must not give way. Caroline never gave way.'

There was no excitement in dressing for this party. Without Caroline things lost their zest, and they set out demurely, walking very slowly for Sophia's sake.

It was a hot day and Mrs. Batty, standing at the garden door to greet her guests, was obliged to wipe her face surreptitiously now and then, while the statues in the hall, with their burdens of ferns and lamps, showed their cool limbs beneath their scanty but still decent drapery.

Mrs. Batty took Sophia to a seat under a tree and Henrietta stood for a moment in the blazing sunlight alone. Where was Aunt Rose? Henrietta looked round and had a glimpse of that slim black form moving among the rose-trees with Francis Sales. He had simply carried her off! It was disgraceful, and things seemed to repeat themselves for ever. Aunt Rose, with her look of having lost everything, still succeeded in possessing, while Henrietta was alone. She had no place in the world. John's affianced bride was busy among the guests, like a daughter of the house, a slobbering bulldog at her heels; and Henrietta, isolated on the lawn, was overcome by her own forlornness. It had been very different at the ball. And how queer life was! It was just a succession of days, that was all: little things happened and the days went on; big things happened and seemed to change the world, but nothing was really changed, and a whole life could be spent with a moment's happiness or despair for its only marks.

Henrietta, rather impressed by the depths of her own thoughts, moved through the garden. Where was Charles? She wanted to see him and get their meeting over, but there was not a sign of him and, avoiding the croquet players and that shady corner where elderly ladies were clustered near the band, the same band which had played at the ball, Henrietta found herself in the kitchen garden. She examined the gooseberry bushes and strawberry beds with apparent interest, unwilling to join the guests and still more unwilling to be found alone in this deserted state. It was very hot. The open door of a little shed showed her a dim and cool interior; she peeped in and stepped back with an exclamation. Something had moved in there. It might be a rat or one of John's ferocious terriers, but a voice said quietly, 'It's only me.'

She stepped forward. 'What are you doing in there?'

'Getting cool,' Charles said. 'I thought nobody would find me. Won't you come in? It's rather dirty in here, but it's cool, and you can't hear the band. I've been sitting on the handle of the wheelbarrow, so that's clean, anyhow. I'll wipe it with my handkerchief to make sure.'

'But where are you going to sit?'

'Oh, I don't know.'

'There's room on the other handle.'

Henrietta sat with her knees between the shafts, and he sat on the other handle with his back to her.

'We can't stay here long,' she said.

'No,' Charles agreed.

The place smelt musty, but of heaven. It was draped with cobwebs like celestial clouds; it was dark, but gradually the forms of rakes, hoes, spades and a watering-pot cleared themselves from the gloom and Charles's head bloomed above his coat like a great pale flower.

She put out her hand and drew it back again. She found nothing to say. Outside the sun poured down its rays like fire. Henrietta's head drooped under her big hat. She was content to stay here for ever if Charles would stay, too. Her body felt as though it were imponderable, she had no feet, she could not feel the hard handle of the wheelbarrow; she seemed to be floating blissfully, aware of nothing but that floating, yet a threat of laughter began to tickle her. It was absurd to sit like this, like strangers in an omnibus. The laughter rose to her throat and escaped: she floated no longer, but she was no less happy.

'What's the matter?' asked the voice of Charles.

'So funny, sitting like this.'

'What else can we do?'

'You could turn round.'

'There's not room for all our knees.'

She stood up with a little rustle and walked to the door. 'No, it's too hot out there,' she said, and returned to face him. 'Charles,' she said in rather a high voice, 'did you find your hat and stick that night?'

'What? Oh, yes,' and then irrelevantly he added, 'I've just been made a partner.'

'Really?' She was always interested in practical things. 'In Mr. Batty's firm? How splendid! I didn't know you were any good at business.'

'I've been improving, and you don't know anything about me.'

'I do, Charles,' she said earnestly.

'No, nothing. You haven't time to think of anybody but yourself. And now I must go and look after all these people. You'd better come and have an ice.'

There was ice at her heart and she realized now that her past unhappiness had been half false; she had been waiting for him all the time and trusting to his next sight of her to put things right, but she had failed with him, too.

In that dim tool-house she had stood before him in her pretty dress, smiling down at him, surely irresistible, and he had resisted. Well, she could resist, too, and she walked calmly by his side, holding her head very high, and when he parted from her with a grave bow, she felt a great, an awed respect for him.

She went to find her Aunt Sophia, who was still sitting under the tree, surrounded by a chattering group. She looked tired, and, signalling for Henrietta to approach, she said, 'I'm afraid this is too much for me, dear child. Can you find Rose and ask her to take me home? But I don't want to spoil your pleasure, Henrietta. There is no need for you to come.'

Henrietta's lip twisted with dramatic bitterness. There was no pleasure left for her. 'I would rather go back with you, Aunt Sophia. Let us go now.'

'No, no. Find Rose.'

There was another buffet in the face. It was Rose who was wanted and Henrietta, walking swiftly, crossed the lawn again, casting quick glances right and left. Rose was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, for their ways had an odd habit of following the same path, she was in the tool-house with Francis Sales, but as she turned to go there, the voice of Mrs. Batty, husky with exhaustion and heat, said in her ear, 'Is it your Aunt Rose you are looking for, love? I think I saw her go into the house, and I wish I could go myself. It's so hot that I really feel I may have a fit.'

Henrietta went into the cool, shaded drawing-room on light feet, and there, against the window, she saw her Aunt Rose in an attitude startlingly unfamiliar. She was standing with her hands clasped before her, and she gazed down at them lost in thought—or prayer. Her body, so upright and strong, seemed limp and broken, and her face, which was calm, yet had the look of having composed itself after pain.

There was no one else in the room, but Henrietta had the strong impression that someone had lately passed through the door. She was afraid to disturb that moment in which an escaped soul seemed to be fluttering back into its place, but Rose looked up and saw her and Henrietta, advancing softly as though towards a person who was dead, stopped within a foot of her. Then, without thought and obeying an uncontrollable impulse, she stepped forward and laid her cheek against her aunt's. Rose's hands dropped apart and, one arm encircling Henrietta's waist, she held her close, but only for a minute. It was Henrietta who broke away, saying, 'Aunt Sophia sent me to look for you. She doesn't feel well.'



12

Mrs. Batty was cured of giving parties. It was after her ball that Miss Caroline died, and it was after her garden-party that Miss Sophia finally collapsed. The heat, the emotion of her memories and the effort of disguising it had been too much for her. She died the following day and Mrs. Batty felt that the largest and most expensive wreath procurable could not approach the expression of her grief. It was no good talking to Mr. Batty about it; he would only say he had been against the ball and garden-party from the first, but Mrs. Batty found Charles unexpectedly soothing. He was certainly much improved of late, and when she heard that he was to go to Nelson Lodge on business connected with the estate, she burdened him with a number of incoherent messages for Rose.

Perhaps he delivered them; he certainly stayed in the drawing-room for some time, and Henrietta, sitting sorrowfully in her bedroom, could hear his voice 'rolling on monotonously. Then there was a laugh and Henrietta was indignant. Nobody ought to laugh with Aunt Sophia lying dead, and she did not know how to stay in her room while those two, Aunt Rose and her Charles, talked and laughed together. She thought of pretending not to know he was there and of entering the drawing-room in a careless manner, but she could not allow Aunt Rose to witness Charles's indifference. All she could do was to steal on to the landing and lean over the banisters to watch him depart. She had the painful consolation of seeing the top of his head and of hearing him say, 'The day after to-morrow?'

Rose answered, 'Yes, it's most important.'

Henrietta waited until the front door had closed behind him and then, seeing Rose at the foot of the stairs, she said, 'What's important, Aunt Rose?'

'Oh, are you there, Henrietta? What a pity you didn't come down. That was Charles Batty.'

'I know. What's important?'

'There is a lot of complicated business to get through.'

'You might let me help.'

'I wish you would. When Charles comes again—his father isn't very well—you had better be present.'

'No, not with Charles,' Henrietta said firmly. 'Does he understand wills and things?'

'Perfectly, I think. He's very clever and quite interesting.'

'Oh!' Henrietta said.

'I'm glad he's coming again. And now, Henrietta,' she sighed, 'we must get ready for the cousins.'

The female relatives returned in dingy cabs. They had not yet laid aside their black and beads for Caroline, and, as though they thought Sophia had been unfairly cheated of new mourning, they had adorned themselves with a fresh black ribbon here and there, or a larger brooch of jet, and these additions gave to the older garments a rusty look, a sort of blush.

Across these half-animated heaps of woe and dye, the glances of Rose and Henrietta met in an understanding pleasing to both. This mourning had a professional, almost a rapacious quality, and if these women had no hope of material pickings, they were getting all possible nourishment from emotional ones. Their eyes, very sharp, but veiled by seemly gloom, criticized the slim, upright figures of these young women who could wear black gracefully, sorrow with dignity, and who had, as they insisted, so much the look of sisters.

The air seemed freer for their departure, but the house was very empty, and though Sophia had never made much noise the place was heavy with a final silence.

'I don't know why we're here!' Henrietta cried passionately across the dinner-table when Susan had left the ladies to their dessert.

'Why were we ever here?' Rose asked. 'If one could answer that question—'

They faced each other in their old places. The curved ends of the shining table were vacant, the Chippendale armchairs were pushed back against the wall, yet the ghosts of Caroline and Sophia, gaily dressed, with dangling earrings, the sparkle of jewels, the movements of their beringed fingers, seemed to be in the room.

'But we shall never forget them,' Henrietta said. 'They were persons. Aunt Rose, do you think you and I will go on as they did, until just one of us is left?'

'We could never be like them.'

'No, they were happy.'

'You will be happy again, Henrietta. We shall get used to this silence.'

'But I don't think either of us is meant to be happy. No, we're not like them. We're tragic. But all the same, we might get really fond of one another, mightn't we?'

'I am fond of you.'

'I don't see how you can be'—Henrietta looked down at the fruit on her plate—'considering what has happened,' she almost whispered.

Rose made no answer. The steady, pale flames of the candles stood up like golden fingers, the shadows behind the table seemed to listen.

'But how fond are you?' Henrietta asked in a loud voice, and Rose, peeling her apple delicately, said vaguely, 'I don't know how you measure.'

'By what you would do for a person.'

'Ah, well, I think I have stood that test.'

Henrietta leaned over the table, and a candle flame, as though startled by her gesture, gave a leap, and the shadows behind were stirred.

'Yes,' Henrietta said, 'I hated you for a long time, but now I don't. You've been unhappy, too. And you were right about—that man. I didn't love him. How could I? How could I? How could anybody? If you hadn't come that day—'

Rose closed her eyes for a moment and then said wearily, 'It wouldn't have made any difference. I never made any difference. You didn't love him; but he never loved you either, child. You were quite safe.'

Henrietta's face flushed hotly. This might be true, but it was not for Aunt Rose to say it. Once more she leaned across the table and said clearly, 'Then you're still jealous.'

Rose smiled. It seemed impossible to move her. 'No, Henrietta. I left jealousy behind years ago. We won't discuss this any further. It doesn't bear discussion. It's beyond it.'

'I know it's very unpleasant,' Henrietta said politely, 'but if we are to go on living together, we ought to clear things up.'

'We are not going on living together,' Rose said. She left the table and stood before the fire, one hand on the mantelshelf and one foot on the fender. The long, soft lines of her dark dress were merged into the shadows, and the white arm, the white face and neck seemed to be disembodied. Henrietta, struck dumb by that announcement, and feeling the situation wrested from the control of her young hands, stared at the slight figure which had typified beauty for her since she first saw it.

'Then you don't like me,' she faltered.

Rose did not move, but she began to speak. 'Henrietta, I have loved you very dearly, almost as if you were my daughter, but you didn't seem to want my love. I couldn't force it on you, but it has been here: it is still here. I think you have the power of making people love you, yet you do nothing for it except, perhaps, exist. One ought not to ask any more; I don't ask it, but you ought to learn to give. You'll find it's the only thing worth doing. Taking—taking—one becomes atrophied. No, it isn't that I don't care for you, it isn't that. I am going to be married.'

Very carefully, Henrietta put her plate aside, and, supporting her face in her hands, she pressed her elbows into the table; she pressed hard until they hurt. So Aunt Rose was going to be married while Henrietta was deserved. 'Not to Francis Sales?' she whispered.

'Yes, to Francis Sales.'

She had a wild moment of anger, succeeded by horror for Aunt Rose. Was she stupid? Was she insensible? And Henrietta said, 'But you can't, Aunt Rose, you can't.' Her distress and a kind of envy gave her courage. 'He isn't good enough. He played with you and then with me and you said there was some one else.' The figure by the mantelpiece was so still that Henrietta became convinced of the potency of her own words, and she went on: 'You know everything about him and you can't marry him. How can you marry him?'

A sound, like the faint and distant wailing of the wind, came out of the shadows into which Rose had retreated: 'Ah, how?'

'And you're going to leave me—for him!'

'Yes—for him.'

'Aunt Rose, you would be happier with me.'

Again there came that faint sound. 'Perhaps.'

'I'd try to be kinder to you. I don't understand you.'

'No, you don't understand me. Do you understand yourself?' She left her place and put her hands on Henrietta's shoulders. 'Say no more,' she said with unmistakable authority. 'Say no more, neither to me nor to anybody else. This is beyond you. And now come into the drawing-room. Don't cry, Henrietta. I'm not going to be married for some time.'

'I wish I'd known you loved me,' Henrietta sobbed.

'I tried to show you.'

'If I'd known, everything might have been different.'

Rose laughed. 'But we don't want it to be different.'

'You won't be happy,' Henrietta wailed.

'You, at least,' Rose said sternly, 'have done nothing to make me so.'

Henrietta stilled her sobbing. It was quite true. She had taken everything—Aunt Rose's money, Aunt Rose's love, her wonderful forbearance and the love of Charles.

'I don't know what to do,' she cried.

'Come into the drawing-room and we'll talk about it.'

But they did not talk. Rose played the piano in the candlelight for a little while before she slipped out of the room. Henrietta sat on the little stool without even the fire to keep her company. She was too dazed to think. She did not understand why Aunt Rose should choose to marry Francis Sales and she gave it up, but loneliness stretched before her like a long, hard road.

If only Charles would come! He always came when he was wanted. A memory reached her weary mind. This was 'the day after to-morrow,' and Aunt Rose expected him. She leapt up and examined herself in the mirror. She was one of those lucky people who can cry and leave no trace; colour had sprung into her cheeks, but it faded quickly. She had waited for him before and he had not come, and she was tired of waiting. She sank into Aunt Caroline's chair and shut her eyes; she almost slept. She was on the verge of dreams when the bell jangled harshly. She did not move. She sat in an agony of fear that this would not be Charles; but the door opened and he entered. Susan pronounced his name, and he stood on the threshold, thinking the room was empty.

A very small voice pierced the stillness. 'Charles, I'm here.'

'I won't come a step farther,' Charles said severely, 'until you tell me if you love me.'

'I thought you'd come to see Aunt Rose.'

'Henrietta—'

'Yes, I love you, I love you,' she said hurriedly. 'I'm nodding my head hard. No, stay where you are, stay where you are. I've been loving you for weeks and you've treated me shamefully. No, no, I've got to be different, I've got to give. You didn't treat me shamefully.'

'No,' he said stolidly, 'I didn't. Here's the ring, and I took that house. I've been renting it ever since I knew we were going to live in it. Here's the ring.' He dropped it into her lap.

She looked down at the stones, hard and bright like herself. 'Aunt Rose will be very much surprised,' she said, and she was too happy to wonder why he laughed.

Standing on the stair, Rose heard that laughter and went on very slowly to her room. She had, at least, done something for Henrietta. She had given Charles his chance, and now she was to go on doing things for Francis Sales. She owed him something: she owed him the romance of her youth, she owed him the care which was all she had left to give him. Things had come to her too late, her eyes were too wide open, yet perhaps it was better so. She had no illusions and she wanted to justify her early faith and Christabel's sufferings and her own. There was nothing else to do. Besides, he needed her, and with him she would not be more unhappy; he would be happier, he said. She had to protect him against himself, yet even there she was frustrated, for he had, in a measure, found himself, and now that she was ready and able to serve him there would be less for her to do. But she had no choice: there was the old debt, there were the old chains, and as she faced the future she was stirred by hope. She could tell herself that something of her dead love had waked to life, yet when she tried to get back the old rapture, she knew it had gone for ever.

She entered her room and did not turn on the light. There seemed to be a strange weight in her body, pressing her down, but, as she looked through her open window at the summer sky deepening to night and letting out the stars, which seemed to be much amused, there was a lightness in her mind and, smiling back at them, she was able to share their appreciation of the joke.

THE END