"You're always talking about what people did when you were young," said Caroline, turning away abruptly.

"I know that. Things is very altered since my day," said Mrs. Creddle. "But there's some things——"

"I've no patience with people like you, aunt," said Caroline. "You know everything has changed, and yet you go on expecting girls to be the one thing that hasn't. It isn't common sense."

She was flinging out of the kitchen, when Mrs. Creddle caught her up and put a motherly arm about her. "Good-bye, my lass. You think nobody's felt like you before about a young man, but they have."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I've a bit of a head, but that's all," said Carrie.

After that she went away. But all the same she was a little comforted—real, disinterested love being the one ointment that can soothe tender hearts not yet cauterized by pain.

So the day passed; then the next wore on towards evening, with no sign of Godfrey. And all through the long hours, Caroline sat in the pay-box looking out of her little window—small, set face, very pale, and bright eyes intently watching—like some creature of the wild behind a gap in the thick leafage.

Now it was past sunset. The residents of Thorhaven had taken possession of their town again and the few visitors who remained were sprinkled about inconspicuously among the audience in the concert hall—the dominant factor no longer. Caroline exchanged greetings with many of her acquaintances who emerged from the seclusion entailed by letting rooms or vacating houses, and now shook their feathers like hens coming off the nest with the pleasant knowledge of a nest-egg successfully achieved. "Pretty good season, considering," ran the verdict; but the general mind was a happy one, in spite of a certain feeling of exhaustion. "Pickles!" said Lillie's mother. "I give you my word, Carrie, one lot ate cheese and pickles after the promenade every night to that degree it fair curdles my inside to think of. But as I say, each person's inside is their own. Live and let live, say I." And the good woman hurried on to spend part of the proceeds of this wise neutrality, her Sunday hat still quite like new from lack of use, and a holiday spirit radiating from her rather worn features.

Caroline had responded to all these greetings, but she was glad when the concert began in the promenade hall and only a few stragglers passed through the barrier at long intervals. Once more she was free to resume that silent, intent watch which had occupied nearly the whole day.

But night was coming on fast now—with a heavy ground-swell and a wild streak of orange on the western sky. Caroline never thought once of the sea, and certainly was not conscious of being affected by it—she was, in fact, not aware of it at all. Yet it was just because she did most deeply respond to it that her affair with Godfrey was lifted for her beyond the trivial into those regions where passion really has dignity. That interview of theirs on the cliff top would have been poignant for both if it had taken place in a dingy back sitting-room; but something must have been absent—that unforgettable thrill which comes when beauty is joined to great emotion.

After a while, Caroline saw a woman leave the concert hall to cross the promenade, which already gleamed darkly with rain-drops. As she went through the turnstile she said: "I doubt we shall have a wet night." Then followed a storm of applause from the hall. "There!" added the woman, "I wish I could have stopped for the encore, but I had to get away, though I was forced to squeeze past Miss Temple and her gentleman on my way out. She does look bad, my word! Them that said it was all a tale about her being ill, have only to look at her. Well, good night."

Caroline waited a moment, then thrust her head forward and peered round the black space between her and the hall; and as she did so, her likeness to some watching wild creature became intensified. Then she withdrew her head, rose from her seat and came out of the pay-box, looking over her shoulder. With light, quick steps she went round the glass walls of the hall until she reached a place through which she could see the occupants of the front seats. Just as she came to a stand, seeking for Laura with heart throbbing and every pulse alert, the singer returned to give the encore.

The voice was long past its prime, but a window above had been opened wide for ventilation and the song could be heard clearly enough. As Caroline peered in vain through the glass dimmed by heat and human breath, the sentimental words floated out over her head; and the heavy organ-like accompaniment of the ground-swell made them more than ever ephemeral. A few bars of music, sounding so thin and strange against the booming of the sea, and then the next verse:

Now we are young, Life's meaning all grows clear, Does he but whisper low: "My dear—my dear!"

She pressed her forehead close to the glass, trying to keep back the tears, for she despised crying. Then the singer began again—the clear articulation almost all she had left:

And if we part, I shall not cease to hear For ever in my heart: "My dear—my dear!"

Caroline could not keep the tears back any longer. They would come, and she wiped them away with her fingers as she walked away. But the singer was evidently roused by applause to an extra effort, for the voice gained for the moment some of the timbre of her triumphant youth, and Caroline could hear more and more softly as she went farther off:

When we are old Some love-words disappear, But this goes all the way; "My dear—my dear!"

She did not see the sentimentality of the song because she liked it, just as she liked the simple love-stories with bright covers; and she had hardly time to dry her eyes before the band began to play God Save the King, and the people to surge through the large gates which were now set open. As soon as she could shut up the pay-box she slipped away into the darkness of the promenade, to escape the crowd who went mostly by the high road. A few steps beyond the north exit took her into absolute solitude, but the rain which was already falling quickly made her afraid of venturing far along the slippery path. The sea and sky were all dark—no white breakers on the heavy swell and no stars in the sky. She felt unutterably sad and deserted, standing there for a moment before she turned up the little terrace which led to the main road. But though she told herself that she was going this way because she had been crying and wished to meet no one, she knew, behind that, that she was lying to herself. She had to know why she really came this way, and what she meant to do, because she had an honest soul.

Then she turned round and went up the uneven road between the dark little houses in the terrace. Only one house still remained lighted downstairs, though the upper blinds were nearly all illuminated from within. Caroline's eyes were fixed on that one house as she went along, and without allowing herself time to think she opened the little iron gate. Then she paused a moment, glancing up towards the attic bedroom where the woman with whom Godfrey lodged was already taking off her tightly curled fringe, and the uncompromising corsets in which she barricaded herself during the waking hours.

With a long knowledge of Thorhaven ways Caroline gently turned the front-door handle, and was not surprised to find the door left on the latch against Godfrey's return. She entered very quietly, tip-toeing down the passage, and went straight into the front room where stood lamp, kettle and other preparations for a light meal.

Caroline breathed hard as she reached the middle of the room, experiencing the odd sense of having been followed by unknown dangers which children know when they run down a long stairway in the dark. But here she was safe. The lamp—the chair—newspaper—the little meal set ready—all reassured her. Yet she was still standing, peering bright-eyed here and there, when a quick step sounded outside, and the next minute Godfrey hurried into the room. "You, here!" he said, staring at her, greatly startled. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." She moved back towards the fireplace. . . . He had not kissed her; he had not even held out his hand. "I aren't going to stop," she said in a low tone. "I only wanted to know if—if your wedding was really broken off for the reason they said. I felt as if I must know. I—I thought perhaps she'd heard something about you and me."

"How should she hear anything?" he said. "The poor girl is ill enough, as anybody can see. But she would come to this rotten concert to-night in spite of all Miss Panton and I could say. She seems unable to keep quiet." He paused and added jerkily: "I suppose you know we were to have been married to-day?"

"Yes." Caroline felt the room swim round her, but she clutched the mantelpiece and kept quiet.

"I came for a couple of umbrellas. She and Miss Panton are waiting under shelter in the hall. I can't stay." He spoke abruptly, uneasily.

"Oh, I won't keep you." She moved a step or two forward and swayed a little, so that he was obliged to catch hold of her by the arm. The next second he was clasping her close while they looked into each other's eyes with a burning curiosity that must at all costs be satisfied. "Do you love me still? Do you love me still?" And yet there was absolute silence in the room while the question was asked and answered.

"Oh, I don't mind now," sobbed Caroline. "I don't mind now. It was only when I thought——"

"Hush!" said Godfrey, moving away. "What's that?"

"It sounds like Miss Armitage coming down," said Caroline, hurrying towards the door. "I'll slip out as quickly as I——" She drew back. "Oh!" Then pulled herself together as the landlady in curled fringe and long grey ulster entered the room, primming long, thin lips.

"Oh! Good evening, Miss Raby," said the woman. "I'm sorry if I intrude. I heard voices down below and I didn't know who it might be. I wasn't aware, Mr. Wilson, you had visitors."

"No more have I," said Godfrey lightly. "Miss Raby has just come with a message from Miss Wilson. I suppose you can't lend her an umbrella, Miss Armitage? I have to hurry away to the promenade with both mine. Miss Temple and Miss Panton are waiting for me there." He turned to Caroline. "I'm afraid I must hurry away. Good night."

As he went off. Miss Armitage said somewhat grudgingly: "If you wait a minute, I dare say I can find you an old umbrella some visitors left here in the summer."

"Please don't bother. I'm neither sugar nor salt," said Caroline pleasantly. "Good night, Miss Armitage."

And her happy tone was not all put on; because though the tangle and bitterness would come back again before the morning, she could realize nothing in the world now but the triumphant answer to that question she had wanted to ask during all those hours when she looked at the waves without seeing them and heard their moaning only inside her heart.



Chapter XVIII

Uprooting

Mrs. Bradford and Miss Ethel came out of the Cottage and walked through the garden in which—on so many windy, sunshiny mornings—they had done a little weeding or planting before they went to shop in the long street, where everybody knew them and everybody treated them with respect. "Yes, Miss Wilson. I'll be sure to let you have the middle cut, ma'am. Beautiful day for the time of year." But now there was a "Take it or leave it" attitude which grated very much on Miss Ethel's susceptibilities as she gave her small orders, and she felt thankful there was no shopping to be done on this particular morning. All the same, the errand on which she actually was bent made the way as painful to her as if she had been treading on sharp stones.

"I think Godfrey might have gone over the house with us, as he promised, instead of just leaving the key," she said.

"Did Caroline take the key in? I suppose there was no message?" said Mrs. Bradford.

"No: she said not. I asked her." Miss Ethel paused. "I thought there was something rather funny in her manner."

"What! You don't think there is anything in what the Grahams said?" exclaimed Mrs. Bradford, speaking far more alertly than usual.

"Of course I don't," said Miss Ethel.

"But Mr. Graham is sure he saw Godfrey go up to Caroline at the Gala on the promenade the minute our backs were turned. It was when he went back to buy those air-balloons for the children at the Home and he happened to look round."

"Well, what is there in that? I don't say he is by any means my ideal of a young man," said Miss Ethel. Then she added after a pause: "You must not dream of mentioning the subject to Caroline. It is not our affair."

They walked a few paces in silence, aware that they could not afford to send Caroline away even if she were a bad girl, and yet shamed within themselves by the knowledge.

"The Grahams seemed to think Godfrey has had serious money losses," remarked Mrs. Bradford at last. "Lucky he had Laura's money to fall back on."

"Well, I think she is lucky in having him to make the most of her capital," said Miss Ethel. "He has a wonderful head for business. Any difficulties that he may have will be only temporary." They were both talking without heeding particularly what they said, nervously engrossed by the errand on which they were bent.

But at last they turned the corner of Emerald Avenue, and the blank fact had to be faced. "That is our house, then. Number fifteen," said Miss Ethel.

So they went through the little iron gate, and an old man came hobbling across the street to speak to them. "Good morning, ladies," he said in a high trembling voice. "I hear you're going to live here. I hear my darter's a-going to have you for a neighbour. Well! well! Who'd a-thought it?"

His intention was kindly, but his manner showed a sort of triumph underneath: it was in some way gratifying to him that Miss Ethel, who used to give him tobacco and other little comforts, had come down to the same level as his daughter. Not that he had received anything lately, because Miss Ethel had nothing to give, while his son-in-law made good wages and his daughter let rooms. At any rate Miss Ethel missed the power to give far more than he missed the tobacco; and that from no desire to patronize—though perhaps she did like the gratifying glow of that feeling a little—but because of the real goodness and generosity at the bottom of her nature.

"I'm sure we shall be glad to have such good neighbours," she said pleasantly.

"Yes, yes. My darter's family wants for nothing. They've gotten one of these 'ere gramophones an all," chuckled the old man. "You'll hear it through the wall and it'll mebbe cheer you up if you feel dowly. But it's hard moving at your time of life."

Then he went off, chuckling and muttering to himself, and Mrs. Bradford and Miss Ethel walked up the tiny path to the house which was to be their home for the rest of their lives. But before they reached the door it opened from within, and there stood Laura Temple. She was smiling, and yet her kind eyes were bright with tears which she could scarcely keep from falling—for the two ageing women looked somehow so forlorn in the bright sunshine on the threshold of all this strangeness. But after the briefest pause Miss Ethel relieved the situation by saying briskly: "So you have opened the windows. Now that was good of you."

"Oh, Nanty did that. She's here, too," said Laura. Then they all went through the narrow passage into the front room.

"There is only one corner where I can have my chair," said Mrs. Bradford immediately. "Laura dear, those who lead an active life can't understand how important it is for anyone like me to have a chair in the right place. But you have not been well yourself. I can quite understand your not wanting to go away on a honeymoon when you are not feeling well. I shall never forget having a bilious attack on my own honeymoon. I would always recommend a small medicine chest as part of the wedding outfit—sore-throat remedies and gregory powder, and so on. My dear husband said that, so far as he was concerned, biliousness did not destroy romance; but there are bridegrooms and bridegrooms, and you never know until——"

"We'd better begin measuring the floor," interposed Miss Ethel uneasily, anxious to cut short this unusual loquacity on the part of Mrs. Bradford, which she knew to be caused by the general upset of looking forward to an entire change of place and routine. "Don't you think the old dining-room carpet will do very well here?"

She opened the room door suddenly to discover Miss Panton just outside suppressing her emotion with a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Now she was obliged to let it finally escape in a sort of whoop. "Oh! Excuse me. I can't help it! It's the thought of you here," she said excitedly. "I know silence is golden, but there are tibes—— And to see Miss Ethel going round on her hands and dees with a tape beasure as if it was only an ordinary spring cleaning——" Never had the catarrh been so marked and so marked in its effects on her m's and n's.

"Nonsense! We shall be quite comfortable here and much less work to do. Thousands of richer people than ourselves are having to move into smaller houses," said Miss Ethel; but she was touched all the same.

"I'm not sure my chair will stand in that corner," said Mrs. Bradford, going back to her great preoccupation. "I must measure it. I do wish I had it here."

"I can easily run and get the measurements," said Laura.

"You're sure it won't upset you," said Miss Panton. "You know you ought to take care."

"Of course not," said Laura. "I'm nearly all right again."

But she stood facing the strong light which fell through the uncurtained window, and her face looked very pale beneath the tan; it had the queer bleached appearance which is observable in such complexions even while the healthy brown and red still remain. There were dark marks underneath her eyes, too, which accentuated the faint lines near the mouth. Miss Ethel, glancing across at her was struck for the first time by the fact that Laura was not a young girl any more, though the effect of girlishness produced by her figure and the poise of her head still remained.

Then she went away to measure the chair, while Miss Ethel wrote some figures in a little book and remarked that she would now go up to the front bedroom.

"Then I'll just stay where I am," said Mrs. Bradford. "There is nothing for two to do, is there? And you know my legs, of course——" She did not trouble to be more explicit, because her unusual garrulity was dying down now Miss Panton and Laura had gone, and she knew Ethel would be reasonable enough to understand that the legs of a married lady could not be expected to go up and down stairs as easily as those of a spinster.

Miss Ethel herself so belonged to the generation when a married woman was necessarily on a different and higher level than an "old maid," that though she knew her sister in many ways to be a fool, she yet bowed to the unassailable superiority of the widow. She really did feel that the useless legs of her widowed sister were more worthy of consideration than her own unwedded limbs as she trudged upstairs.

When she spread the measuring tape across the floor in front of the window, her glance wandered for a moment to the house opposite where a fat woman in an untidy blouse was standing in the doorway laughing and talking with the milkman. A small child dragged a noisy cart along the pavement, eating at the same time a large piece of Yorkshire pie. Then a second woman opened the next door and joined the fun. They were all jolly together, self-satisfied. They had done well, and were relaxing after the rush of the season; but they seemed very far away from Miss Ethel as she looked out of the window.

Still she never thought of envying them their jollity and self-satisfaction. Deep in her heart she knew she would rather be herself with nothing, than such as they with everything. She had only a vague sense of uneasiness, which was deepened by the sound of the gramophone next door grinding out "Home, sweet Home." For her sake the old man—who lived with his daughter during the winter when lodgers were few—had sinned against the law which prohibited his use of the new gramophone. This was partly because he really wanted to cheer Miss Ethel, and partly because he realized his daughter's good fortune better when he thought of the ladies listening to him through the wall.

But Miss Ethel's attention was soon distracted, for a baby wailed in the house on the other side, and a fish cart went past ringing a loud bell to warn the women to run out with their dishes. The bell was harsh in tone, filling the street with clamour, and when the cart started again after a purchase the bell pealed afresh each time. It was some time before the desire of Emerald Avenue for the harvest of the sea was satisfied, but in the comparative silence which at last ensued, Miss Ethel pressed her hand to her forehead as she rose dizzily from her knees. For a moment or two the house opposite looked blurred, then the haziness passed off, and she saw the road lying empty in the grey light—the lace-curtained windows, the sideboard with a mirror back on the far side of the room, even the vase of faded flowers.

But despite the minute definiteness of it all, she had a most queer feeling of unreality. She told herself that this would probably be her home until she died, and that there was nothing to complain of—she ought to be ashamed to complain. But the words which were forming on the surface of her thoughts seemed to have no relation whatever to anything going on underneath. She could not, or would not try to see deep down, because that odd sense of unreality rather frightened her; but something rose up like an emanation—a presentiment, she would have called it, had she allowed herself to do so. But the whole idea of her living here seemed so pervaded with bleak unreality, as she stood there looking out of the window, that it seemed to be wiped out of the scheme of actual human happenings. Then from that under-swirl of feeling rose one definite thought: "I shall never live here."

She turned abruptly from the window, bracing herself by saying aloud: "Bless me! I'm getting like the old women in Back Hoggate. I shall soon be counting my ailing relatives over if a spark flies out of the candle." But even this comparison of herself with the superstitious inhabitants of the oldest part of Thorhaven did not drive away that unpleasant feeling, and she felt relieved by the sound of a human voice calling up the stairs: "Miss Ethel! I've brought the key. And I have put your lunch ready, and left the kettle on. I thought you might be glad of a cup of tea."

The voice, fresh, confident, full of abounding vitality, dispelled those queer sensations of Miss Ethel's. She came to the top of the stairs and thanked Caroline, for she had learned that she could no longer take good and willing service for granted. The extent, indeed, to which she had been bowed by circumstances, showed in her anxious, almost humble manner, as she hastened to add—despite her annoyance about the gossip concerning Caroline and Godfrey: "I hope you found the small beef-steak pie I left for your dinner? I forgot to tell you it was in the safe."

"Oh, I got all I wanted, thank you," said Caroline, adding as she went again down the passage: "I'll come straight in, Miss Ethel."

For she had felt very sorry for these two women as she busied herself about the house all the morning, doing her best to make things cheerful against their return. But on the way here, a few minutes ago, she had met Laura Temple on the road, and that put everything else out of her mind. She actually held her breath as they approached, wondering what would happen. If Laura had heard any of the gossip that was about the town her salutation—supposing she gave one at all—would be different.

But her pleasant "Good morning, Miss Raby," was just the same as usual; and though there might be a stiffness about Miss Panton's greeting, that lady never had been cordial.

But the brief encounter had left Caroline disturbed, confused, breathless—as if she had been running too fast for her strength. Her knees shook under her as she went on her way towards Emerald Avenue, though she looked just as usual—able to exchange a chaffing word with a boy of her acquaintance. For she, no less than other human beings, would be obliged to go through the tremendous crises of her emotional existence in the street, or at a party, or in a tram-car—her real self kept close, enshrouded by that strange cloak which hides every man from his neighbour.

Still it was obvious that Laura knew nothing. The marriage really had been put off for the reason stated. No one could doubt that who saw Laura's face even casually in the street.

Caroline had nearly reached Emerald Avenue when it occurred to her that Laura was probably going to the Cottage and would need her key. But she could not run after her with it. She felt a physical revulsion at the bare thought of speaking to a girl who was engaged to Godfrey—talking to him—receiving his kisses——

It had seemed almost easy, that first night on the cliff top, to behave decently about it all. But then everything had turned different. She could scarcely realize now how it had then seemed so clear, so entirely possible at once to give him up, and to be always certain of his love. The difficulties and confusions all came afterwards.

She told herself once more as she walked along that Godfrey could not possibly be such a cad as to throw over a poor girl who was crazy about him just before the wedding day, nor could he be meeting another girl on the sly at the same time.

And yet the sick trembling brought on by the sight of Laura remained until she reached Emerald Avenue. She had no room in her thoughts for the sorrows of others when she arrived with the key.

Miss Ethel came down directly she left, having finished measuring the floors; and after a while Laura came back to say that she had stupidly forgotten when she met Caroline on the way to ask her if the house were locked, so that she and Miss Panton could not get in, of course. She thought it strange that Caroline had not mentioned the key, as she had it in her hand; and after wondering about this a little they all went away, walking together to the end of the street. Here the ladies from the Cottage turned off towards the north, and when they had gone a little way in silence, Miss Ethel said: "Flamborough looks very clear to-day. We shall have rain." For she hoped by starting this subject to turn her sister's slow-moving thoughts away from the new house. She felt just then that she simply could not endure to discuss it.

But Mrs. Bradford did not want to talk about Flamborough.

"I do wish," she said, "Laura had got the measurements of my chair. I am afraid there may not be room for it on that side of the fire——" So all the way home, at intervals, she kept bemoaning the possible lack of space for her chair.

Miss Ethel felt very tired. But at last they reached the gate of the Cottage, and as they walked up the drive they saw that a man was at work taking up the privet hedge. He was doing it badly, mauling the fine roots in a way that made Mrs. Bradford for once almost energetic in her annoyance.

"Don't look! I can't bear to look at our poor hedge," she said, turning her head away.

Miss Ethel's glance rested indifferently on the man and the partially destroyed hedge. "What does it matter?" she said, and walked on to the front door.

"You mean, because we shall not be here?" said Mrs. Bradford uneasily, for even she felt there was something a little uncomfortable in her sister's voice and look.

But Miss Ethel's glance passed over the neat little lozenge-shaped leaves which lay torn from their place but still clinging to the branches, almost with indifference: then she went straight into the hall, making no reply, and Mrs. Bradford followed slowly, filled with the dull discomfort of the cat turned out of its basket. Her feeling was different from Miss Ethel's—less acute—but she was not in the least consoled by her vague knowledge that she was sharing this experience with thousands of middle-aged men and women all over Europe.



Chapter XIX

A Windy Morning

It was the last week of the Thorhaven season, and a gale from the south-west tore across the little town, blowing away all the remaining visitors—excepting a few barnacles who had moved into the cheap rooms or furnished houses, and intended to stay for the winter.

Miss Ethel heard the familiar sounds of windows rattling and chimneys roaring as they do in an old house, but she was so used to them that she never heeded; they formed part of the background of her life without which, she vaguely apprehended, she would appear as baldly incomplete as a figure cut out with sharp scissors from an old print.

But as she stood there on the landing she became gradually aware of another noise with which she was not familiar, for the simple reason that Ellen had never set the maid's door and window sufficiently wide open in a high wind to produce a gale rushing through the house with such a flap and clatter of blinds and curtains.

Miss Ethel frowned as she marched into the room for she saw the casement window set wide, banging to and fro on the metal fastener. A little more, and it would be blown clear out, to lie shattered on the path below. But when she had closed it, she was suddenly struck by the entire absence of that peculiar close odour which had always been present when the room was occupied by the immaculate Ellen and her predecessors. Now there was only the fresh feeling of salt air, mingled with a very faint fragrance of violets which came either from the soap or from the powder on the toilet table. A nail-polisher lay on the looking-glass, hastily thrown down; and that also witnessed to that bodily self-respect which Caroline shared with nearly all those other girls in Thorhaven who would have been in domestic service ten years ago, but now went daily to shops and offices. They meant to be the equal of any girls in the world, and they began by being personally "nice" in those secret ways, which are only apparent in the general effect. You could meet them anywhere up and down—clear skins sometimes too heavily powdered—bright hair—pink fingers with delicately tended finger-nails.

Caroline had gone off hurriedly that morning, because she wanted to do as much housework as she could before leaving for the promenade. She was sorry for Miss Ethel, who did not look at all well, though this feeling was blunted by her pre-occupation with her own troubles—for it had become quite plain that Godfrey was deliberately avoiding her.

At this moment she was walking quickly along the road, head to the wind; then, turning, found herself sheltered from west and south to some extent by the houses opposite the promenade. But once in the little pay-box she had to listen all day while the little window rattled unceasingly, and the boards creaked as the gale swept across them.

The weather remained like that during the whole week, and Caroline was on duty all day excepting for her meal-times. Occasionally a gleam of sun touched the white crests of the breakers, but immediately afterwards a sharp spatter of rain would drive in the faces of the few who were tempted out.

The hours seemed endless to Caroline as she sat there—listening to the howl and rattle of the wind, and the roaring of the sea, without knowing that she listened to them. But very gradually she began to feel in her spirit the effect of that deep, endless booming, and of the tremendous procession of the breakers that came on and on all day long. It made her almost dizzy, but when she turned for relief to the land, the promenade and the little town itself seemed only like leaves swept together by chance for a moment on the edge of a torrent. A horrid sense of the shortness of life assailed Caroline now, as it will sometimes assail young people when they are dispirited. She felt that cold breath from the immense spaces of eternity to which the young are still sensitive.

But the week would soon be over—— She consoled herself by that thought as she sat before the little window knitting a woollen coat to wear when she went to office in Flodmouth. Every now and then she glanced drearily at the grey waves with the white crests, coming on and on—— It was a rotten world, and she didn't care. What was the good of it all, anyway?

Then a subscriber passed through to the promenade; but her reply to his remark about the weather was as mechanical as her release of the iron turnstile. Directly he was gone she looked out to sea again, thinking now of a girl who had been drowned farther along the coast not long before. Well, she only wished the waves would come over the promenade and take her with them, then she'd be out of it all.

But she did not mean that really; because certain qualities she inherited from her sturdy Yorkshire ancestors would always prevent her from choosing the way of the neurotic. She would be brave enough to live out her life, though she had ceased to expect happiness as a right.

A sharp gust of rain on the window made her look down the promenade. Now the stray figures would come scurrying through again to their homes or lodgings, and she automatically prepared to release the turnstile quickly to oblige people in haste. Then, with a little leap of the pulses, she saw Aunt Creddle. It was Aunt Creddle, out at half-past eleven on baking-day, with her print, working dress ballooning under that old coat and the hair straggling over her face. Caroline jumped up and ran out of the pay-box, her knitting still in her hand, the shower of cold, sharp drops driving across her.

"What's the matter?" she cried. "Has one of the children got hurt?"

Mrs. Creddle so panted for breath that she could only sign with a toil-scarred hand for Caroline to go back into shelter, but on reaching a little protection from the wind she managed to gasp out:

"Nobody's ill. There's nothing the matter. Not in a manner of speaking. Can I come inside there?"

Caroline took her arm and put her into the chair, then shut the door in the side of the little wooden turret. They two seemed very close together in the midst of the storm and wind.

"Why, whatever made you come out like this?" said Caroline, removing the wet cloak. "You must have wanted a job, aunt."

Mrs. Creddle shook her head, her hand on her heart—for she was a stout woman and upset by her tussle with the elements. "You may be sure that it was something that wouldn't keep," she said at last. Then she burst forth: "Carrie, your uncle has been to Mr. Wilson! He's been and told him that if he ever catches you together again he'll break a stick over his back. He lost a couple of hours this morning, and he went and told him. Now he's gone to his work, and I come on here."

"What!" gasped Caroline, her eyes black in a face as white as death. "Uncle's dared to insult me by doing a thing like that? What made him do it?"

"He was at the Buffaloes last night, and when they came away he heard one man say to another that you was Wilson's fancy lady——" She paused and added in a low tone: "They said you'd been stopping out all night."

"Uncle knows I didn't," said Caroline, beginning to tremble. "What beasts men are! Didn't uncle tell them?"

"Oh yes; he told 'em right enough. But he come home in a fine rage, I can tell you. He said he wasn't going to have no more of it: and I believe he would have gone straight to Miss Temple—only she has always behaved very decent to us, and he didn't like to make mischief, seeing she is so set on the feller."

"Why didn't uncle come to me?" said Caroline. "Why didn't you make him, aunt?"

Mrs. Creddle shook her head. "When you know as much about men as I do——"

"But what was his reason?" asked Caroline.

"He said it was no good saying anything to you, because when a lass gets feller-fond there's no doing nothing with her. He said he couldn't use the strap to you now, but he wasn't going to have any lass belonging to him talked about in that way."

There was a moment's silence. "Did uncle tell you what Mr. Wilson said?" Then she threw up her head. "But I expect he threatened to go for uncle."

"Go for him!" echoed Mrs. Creddle. "Not he. He only wanted to get away and not have a scandal in the place."

"I don't believe that," said Caroline. "Uncle can say what he likes, but I don't believe that."

"It's true, my lass," said Mrs. Creddle kindly. "I ran along to tell you now, for fear you should come across Wilson or your uncle before you knew. He promised on his honour to have naught no more to do with you."

"Did he?" said Caroline, her blazing eyes very near to her aunt's in that tiny place. "Then he is a day too late for the fair—and uncle too. You may tell uncle that. I haven't seen Mr. Wilson for ten days or more, and I'll never enter uncle's house again as long as I live."

"You mustn't talk like that, honey," said Mrs. Creddle. "Uncle took it to heart because he thinks such a lot of you. But you'll soon find some nice young feller in your own station of life next time: don't go hankering after a gentleman, my dear. You would never get one of the best sort, and the other sort's no good to you." She sighed. "But you always had high notions, Carrie, though I don't know where you get them from. I suppose they're going about." With that Mrs. Creddle opened the little door of the pay-box, and let in a blast of air that nearly blew her hat from her head; then she hurried down the wind-swept road in order to get her husband's dinner ready before that already irritated breadwinner should return.

But Caroline sat down again on her chair and threw open the little window so that the salt air could blow across her face. She did not want to cry, because at any minute some one might want to come through the barrier; but after a minute or two she had no fear of that. She began to burn so with outraged pride that she could not yet feel the deeper ache of wounded love. Over and over again the words formed of themselves on the surface of the whirling storm in her mind: "I aren't going to give in! I aren't going to be pitied!"

Then a member of the promenade band came along, fighting with the gale, obliged to fetch some music which he had left in the hall the night before. "Wild morning! Can't say I'm sorry we close to-morrow," he said.

Caroline answered him, but he still lingered, though he had never taken any particular notice of her before, and did not know why he felt inclined to stop to-day. He suddenly felt that Caroline was interesting, though he was not actually aware of that odd shining of the spirit through the flesh—like a lamp in an alabaster vase—which was characteristic of Caroline in moments of supreme, passionate emotion. All he thought was, that there was something unusual about the girl, and that he was sorry he had not noticed it before.

Still, as a decent married man with a wife and children, he took such pleasures as talking to the girl on the promenade in strict moderation, so very soon he went off with his mackintosh flapping.

A few minutes later Lillie came to relieve guard, her woollen tam o' shanter wet and her front hair blown out of curl.

"I've had about enough of this," she said. "I'm going to find another job before next summer."

"Oh, I expect your job will be putting your boy's slippers before the fire and getting his tea ready," said Caroline, still speaking from the very top of her thoughts—as careful as if she were treading on very thin ice, not to risk the depths.

The prospective bride giggled, gratified, and Caroline went out; but the next minute she was startled to hear Lillie call shrilly from the little window: "Carrie! Carrie! You've forgotten your umbrella, and on a day like this! You must be in love!"

Caroline took the umbrella, but said nothing; she was at the end of her powers.



Chapter XX

Levelling

When Caroline reached the Cottage she was surprised to see the front door standing wide open, for the storm swept full across the garden from the south now that the privet hedge was taken up. The next moment Laura came out, her face almost ghastly under the tan, and she put her hand on Caroline's arm.

"There's bad news," she said, and paused. Caroline's thoughts flew to Godfrey, and her heart missed a beat. Then Laura went on again: "Miss Ethel has had a fall. I am afraid she is very seriously ill indeed. She was carrying a china pail downstairs and it was too heavy for her."

Caroline stared into Laura's face, forgetting Godfrey. "Oh, Miss Laura! I know what it was. I forgot to empty the pail, and she was doing it. If she dies I have killed her. It's my fault. It's all my fault!"

"Oh no; nothing of the sort," said Laura, a little impatiently, for she had no clue to Caroline's previously over-wrought condition. "The doctor thinks the fall was owing to some sort of seizure."

Then they entered the house together, and as they crossed the hall Wilson came out from the sitting-room; but beyond a grave good morning to Caroline he said nothing, passing at once to the coat lobby to fetch his hat and coat.

Caroline hesitated a moment, not quite knowing what to do: then she went into the kitchen. Her meal was put ready on the table just as Miss Ethel had left it, and when Caroline saw the piece of meat and the cold tart and bread so neatly arranged for her by those hands so long unaccustomed to manual labour, she felt her lips begin to tremble. It was hard. Poor Miss Ethel! Poor Miss Ethel! If only she had remembered to empty that pail! If only—— And all at once she was seized by a passion of weeping which she could neither stop nor control. But it was not really for Miss Ethel—it was for that, terrible blow to her love and pride which came before.

Then Miss Panton came into the kitchen with a hot-water bottle; so Caroline sprang up, choking back her sobs. "Here, let me fill that, Miss Panton!" As she went to the fireplace where there was a kettle boiling, she added in a low voice: "How is Miss Ethel now?"

"The doctor says she is unconscious," answered Miss Panton, also speaking in the unnatural voice which people use at such a time. "It was a blessing the man happened to be laying sods where the privet hedge used to be, or I don't know what Mrs. Bradford would have done. She ran out to him, and he fetched the woman who lives in that new house over the hedge. It seems she was a trained nurse before she married."

"I hope Miss Ethel didn't know. She hated that house being built," said Caroline.

"I don't think she knew; but it wouldn't have mattered to her, poor dear," said Miss Panton. "I suppose that's why it is so dreadful to feel that nothing matters—it always has a taste of death." She spoke from the deeps of her own experience, wise with what she had lived through; but the next second she turned uncertain again and thrust forth one of her copy-book maxims. "Yes, yes. Decessity makes strange bed-fellows."

Caroline fastened the hot-water bag. "I'll run upstairs with this," she said. "Then I shall see if there is anything else I can do."

"I am afraid there is dothing anyone can do," said Miss Panton, for her catarrh had come back with her nervous self-consciousness.

Mrs. Bradford came slowly downstairs into the hall, her big face congested with weeping. "Oh, Caroline!" she said.

But she could not say any more, and walked on into the sitting-room where the Vicar was already seated.

"Oh, Vicar: I'm afraid you are too late," she said, and began to weep afresh. "It's so dreadfully, dreadfully sudden."

"I came the moment Mr. Wilson told me. I chanced to be in the house," said the Vicar. He paused. "I wouldn't trouble too much about my being late, Mrs. Bradford. Miss Ethel did not leave things until now, you know. She was ready to meet her God."

"She is quite unconscious," said Mrs. Bradford. "At first she kept murmuring over and over: 'Everything's so different.—everything's so different.' But the doctor said it was probably what she was saying to herself when she fell. It meant nothing."

"Meant nothing!" It was Miss Panton's voice, which cut abruptly across their solemn conversation, startling them both; but she had again forgotten herself entirely. "You say it meant nothing—when she's dying of it."

"Of what? Of things being different!" said Laura, speaking from a corner of the room where she had intended to remain silent.

But some one had to break that terrible pause. For Miss Panton—Nanty—with all her silliness had spoken words which were to all of them like a search-light suddenly turned upon the inner secrets of the woman who was dying upstairs.

"Poor Ethel! I'm afraid so," said Mrs. Bradford. "It's true that she did take things to heart—about the new houses, and the hedge, and all the rest." But the next moment that blinding light was blurred in Mrs. Bradford's mind: "Of course I disliked the changes too—only I took them differently. I am sure they did not produce my sister's illness. Of course not." And she glanced at Miss Panton with heavy-eyed disfavour.

"I am afraid Miss Ethel dreaded the idea of leaving this house," said the Vicar.

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Bradford. "You see, it was the only home my sister ever knew." And despite her real grief, she glanced up instinctively at Mr. Bradford's portrait, triumphing over the sister who lay upstairs.

"Some natures find these swift and tremendous changes harder to bear than others," said the Vicar. "But there is only one way for people like ourselves to take it, Mrs. Bradford. We must be kind, do the next job, and hold fast——"

Then he broke off, for the nurse was beckoning at the door; the end had come sooner than they expected.

* * * * * *

Caroline drew down the blinds all over the house and then hovered about the hall in her coat and hat, not knowing whether to go back to the promenade or not. Lillie would want to leave, of course; but then she herself might be required here. At last Godfrey came through, but he did not seem real to her. She was so exhausted by her own emotion and by the shock of Miss Ethel's death, that she was actually indifferent to him for the moment.

"Do you think I ought to go for Aunt Creddle?" she said tonelessly. "They will want some one to help."

He did not answer at once, looking at her with a harassed expression, as if he scarcely was aware of what she said. He had a strained and haggard look which sat so oddly on his firm-fleshed, strong-featured face, but she knew it was not produced by grief for Miss Ethel. There was a little leap of the heart, then dull apathy again. Of course it was the money troubles which everybody seemed to know about——

She was about to repeat the question about Aunt Creddle, when Laura came out of the room, and Godfrey immediately said with an air of relief: "Oh, here is Miss Temple. She will be able to tell you better than I can."

Laura paused, and for a moment the two girls stared at each other—interrogating, blaming, excusing—what was it? Anyway, it was over in a flash. The next second Caroline felt it was all imagination, for Laura came forward as frankly as usual, though her kind eyes were a little swollen with tears.

"What a good idea, Miss Raby," she said. "Mrs. Creddle is such a comfortable person when one is in trouble. I'm sure Mrs. Bradford will be glad to have her."

"I'll come back as soon as I have let Lillie know, if there is anything I can do. I can easily get some other girl to take my place," said Caroline.

"No, thank you. Really, there is nothing you can do," said Laura. "You see, there is the nurse and Miss Panton, and myself; besides your aunt, if she comes. We should only run over each other."

Laura's voice was no less pleasant than before, but Caroline felt dismissed. The vague impression of that first, odd moment became startlingly vivid again. But even now she could not be sure that it was not all imagination—the effect of her own self-consciousness, after what had passed between herself and Laura's lover.

As she walked down the drive she saw the jobbing gardener had returned and was continuing to lay sods on the ground where the privet hedge had been. The thought passed through her mind that it looked like a new grave fresh sodded. Then she began to plan in her mind what she should say to Aunt Creddle, and to picture how that good-hearted woman would take it. At last she remembered her declaration only a few hours ago—could it be only a few hours ago?—that she would never enter Uncle Creddle's house again.

Now, it did not seem to matter. The heat of her pride and anger had died down and she began to see that her love for Godfrey was too deep to be destroyed by anger or even contempt. He had planted it in her heart and she must carry it about always. Neither of them by any act of theirs could take it away from her.

But she was not actively and vitally miserable. Her being was simply soaked in a dull unhappiness which made her quite indifferent to the healthy pricking of small annoyances, so that when Mr. and Mrs. Graham passed her with the barest of cold salutations, and never stopped to ask for news, even at this sad crisis, she did not care.

She was finding out the truth of what Miss Panton had said in the kitchen of the cottage—that every time a human being really feels it does not matter, he or she has a bitter foretaste of death, which is what makes this of all emotions the most truly sad.

Even when she reached Aunt Creddle's, whose words and exclamations fell about her ears like hail, she remained the same—delivering her message, then going on at once to take her place in the pay-box.

Lillie had already heard the news and was rather shocked that she should wish to remain. "Anybody can see you've been crying. Now, don't you think about me, Carrie. I don't mind stopping a bit."

"No, thanks, I'd rather be here. After all, it's my job. And they don't want me—there are plenty there without me," said Caroline.

But Lillie urged her at least to go somewhere and have a nice hot cup of tea and a rest, even if she were not needed at the Cottage; then at last departed, rebuffed and slightly irritated.

Caroline sat down on the chair; but she did not take up her knitting, though the rain now fell heavily, persistently, and fewer people than ever passed through the barrier. She remained there with her hands idle, her eyes fixed on the expanse of sea that stretched out before her, so full of buoyant life, the spray from the breakers blown back like smoke in the wind under the swiftly-moving grey clouds.

After a while the handful of people who had been listening to the concert in the hall came out into the rain, shouting remarks to each other above the gale. "Windiest place in England! Very bracing, though—too bracing for my taste!"

A little later members of the band scurrying back to their lodgings: then utter silence, but for the sound of the wind and sea. But just before Lillie was due back again the weather cleared a little—between majestic clouds sweeping along like galleons, appeared a stretch of pure blue sky.

Perhaps it was some association of childhood, some impression she had gained, then, from a hymn speaking of death; but that bright blue sky made her suddenly think with an acute vividness of the woman who was dead. Where was Miss Ethel? What was she doing now?

Caroline's eyes remained fixed on the blue, but her mind had gone searching into the unknown; she was really groping her way, for the first time, across the barriers that lie between this life and the life of the world to come. Her soul really was trying to follow the soul of one already on the other side. Thus, strangely, it was Miss Ethel—buffeted and overcome by change—who led Caroline to this first glimpse of the unchanging.

But these things do not become a conscious part of experience until long afterwards; so Caroline went home to her tea without knowing what had happened—only thinking rather more regretfully and kindly than before about Miss Ethel.



Chapter XXI

St. Martin's Summer

The storm gave place to still weather the day before Miss Ethel's funeral. But that was all now over, so was the Sunday morning sermon wherein the Vicar referred to the good works of the departed, and during which members of the congregation felt for their pocket-handkerchiefs who had not troubled to go near the Cottage for months, or perhaps years.

Though this had happened some days ago the fine weather still held, and Laura had persuaded Mrs. Bradford to come down to the now deserted promenade for a little change of scene. They sat silent on the long bench; Mrs. Bradford a little overdone in her heavy black clothes on such an unexpectedly warm morning, and Laura looking at a sea which once more broke in harmless little glittering waves on the firm sand. The storm had dashed the water right up to the sea-wall, washing away all traces of the Thorhaven season from that part of the shore, while on the promenade itself butterflies fluttered among the flower beds devastated by wind and rain. Far away down the beach, she saw the donkeys which had been ridden by children all the summer to the hootings of donkey boys, but they now plodded sedately with gravel in panniers on their backs up the cliff path, just as their ancestors had done for centuries past. It seemed really as if some power too immense for constant interference had grown suddenly tired of bands, visitors, tents, buckets and spades, and had swept them all away with a gesture, leaving only the stretch of shore; much as it was before Thorhaven existed, and as it would be when Thorhaven was under the sea like the other village beyond, which coast erosion had taken.

Perhaps Laura may have found this contrast between permanence and fleetingness depressing; anyway, her face was sad as she sat quietly there, looking in front of her. After a while she turned round to look inland, where the hall and the cafe and the pay-box were all shuttered and closed—already appearing somehow desolate. Then Mrs. Bradford, having regained her breath, felt that gratitude made a remark necessary.

"Your loss is my gain, my dear," she said. "If you had not put off your wedding again, you would not be here to keep me company. When is it to be now?"

The blood deepened in Laura's face right up to the roots of her hair, but she smiled and answered easily: "Oh, no exact time has been fixed."

"Ah, well; I daresay you are right. You can't enjoy anything—even getting married—when you are in bad health. I was told the postponement might have something to do with Godfrey's financial difficulties," Mrs. Bradford added, "but I felt sure there was nothing in that report." Still she glanced curiously at the girl by her side.

"No, it was not that." Laura paused, then went on: "Every business man who is making his way occasionally takes on more business than he has capital for. But I am sure he will get through all right. It was only temporary."

"I'm glad of that, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bradford. Then she lowered her voice confidentially: "But if I were you, I should see that my own money was securely tied up. Godfrey may be a Wilson, but he is human. I know poor Ethel would not have said this to you, because she always thought so much of the family. I don't blame her—poor Ethel!—but being married naturally gives one a wider view." And having thus triumphed over Miss Ethel, even in her grave, Mrs. Bradford relapsed into silence. Laura seemed equally inclined to sit quiet, so nothing more was said for a considerable time. At last three girls came walking briskly along the promenade, stimulating a further effort at conversation.

"I'm glad Caroline has decided to stay with us until our things are sold," said Mrs. Bradford.

"Yes. She has been very obliging," said Laura. Then Mrs. Bradford's thoughts went evenly inward again. "I have arranged to keep my own chair. The proprietress of the boarding-house at Scarborough has been very obliging about having it placed in a corner out of the draught. They like a permanent boarder who is well recommended, and I shall be quite comfortable so long as I have my own chair in a nice corner, and my book and my knitting. You see, the sale of the house and furniture will enable me to take a good room on the first floor. I have no doubt I shall be all right there"—she paused—"as right as I can be now, that is to say," she added, her lip trembling.

During the silence which followed, the three girls passed once more—heads erect and neatly-shod feet stepping lightly on the hard path. Mrs. Bradford looked after them with a sort of dull aversion. "Two of those girls' mothers were in service. Why aren't they?"

"I suppose they prefer other employment," said Laura.

"They'd be far better off in domestic service. Now they are only doing what men can do. But men can't do what the girls' mothers used to do," said Mrs. Bradford. "I can't see that they are doing any good in the world at all."

"Can't you?" Laura hesitated a moment, piecing together her own thoughts. "Well, do you know, Mrs. Bradford—I didn't think of it before—but I really do believe girls like those are achieving something rather wonderful, after all. I believe they are reaching up to a stage of manners and speech which will soon cause them to merge with the girls of our own class, so that you can't feel any difference. Then we shall get the real equality which people are always talking about. They're doing it the right way, too, levelling up, not levelling down."

"Oh! Is that how you look at Caroline?" said Mrs. Bradford.

Laura waited for a moment. "Yes," she said then, "Caroline is one of those I mean."

Mrs. Bradford relapsed into silence again, and they sat so for a long time. Then Laura rose abruptly: "Oh, here are the Grahams! Do let us move on."

Mrs. Bradford also rose, impelled by the urgency of her companion's tone, but wondering in her dull way what it was that made Laura turn so red, and seem so anxious to get away all of a sudden. Surely Laura could not have quarrelled with the Grahams? Then being very curious—like the majority of stupid people—she sat obstinately down again. "I must have a word or two with Mr. and Mrs. Graham," she said. "They have been so kind. But don't you wait, Laura, unless you like. I dare say you have other things to do."

"Oh no, I am not busy this morning: besides, it is too late to do anything now before lunch." And she also sat down again.

The Grahams came up and immediately began to explain in subdued tones about Mr. Graham's sore throat, which was so bad on the day of the funeral that his wife absolutely threatened to lock the front door if he attempted to attend. It was equally unfortunate that one of Mrs. Graham's prostrating sick headaches obliged her husband to forbid her paying that last token of respect and affection to dear Miss Ethel.

Mrs. Bradford murmured a vague reply, wiping her eyes, and saying that the cross of early chrysanthemums was very beautiful—it was nice of them to remember that poor Ethel liked chrysanthemums. Then after a pause she mentioned the delicious fruit and potted meats which the Grahams had sent her almost daily, for indeed they were very kind when it did not hurt them.

Laura said little, but the occasion was not one for discussing her affairs, so that denoted nothing; and very soon the Grahams went off, without satisfying Mrs. Bradford's curiosity in any way.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Bradford's legs retained the same inability to do anything their owner did not wish as had distinguished them during Miss Ethel's lifetime, so towards sunset she sent Caroline to do various errands in the village.

As the girl went along, she had on her right the old grey tower of the church standing with a sort of noble repose against the red and orange sunset. It made her think of Miss Ethel, laid to rest in the old churchyard in the middle of the village—among friends and neighbours of her youth. The churchyard was now only used by those who had the old family graves there, so that Caroline had never been at a funeral exactly like Miss Ethel's before, and those in the new cemetery had not made the same impression on her mind.

But her attention was diverted now by the sight of the carrier with his trolley, who had brought her box to the Cottage that day in the spring. And as she began to run after him, her flying figure was caught here and there by the glow of the sunset, giving her a slight momentary resemblance to the nymph on fire that Wilson's fancy had once seen in her.

Wilson, himself, may even have been reminded of this as he stood looking after her; but he turned up the road leading to Laura Temple's, and Caroline remained unaware that he had been anywhere near.

She had a long run before the carrier heard her calling: then he pulled up his old white horse and waited at the top of the little hill, the air about them seeming almost iridescent with the gold and red of the autumn sunset shining through it.

"Here you are again, then," he said as she came up. "Where do you want your box moved to this time? You see, you stopped on at the Cottage, after all."

"I'm not going yet—not for another fortnight." She was panting slightly, a little out of breath. "I want you to take a typewriter for me to Mr. Wilson's lodgings. It's one he left at the Cottage for me to practise on."

"All right. I'll call round to-morrow," he replied.

"Oh! I do wish you could come to-night," she said. "I particularly want it to go back to-night."

The carrier laughed good-naturedly, looking down at her. "Oh, that's it, is it?" he said. "Well, you're in the right on it. One lass is enough for any man. Gee-up." And he shouted back as he went: "I'll call round in an hour or so."

Caroline stood still in the road as he jolted round out of sight, forgetting to move, her bodily sensations all swamped by the tumult of her mind. How dare he say such a thing! she said to herself; then she burst forth, aloud: "I aren't going to have it. I aren't going to have it!"

But behind all that, she felt the iron touch of reality. Life was not to be as she wanted it, just because she was herself—as she had felt in the past. No matter how she might rebel, she'd got to "have it." The people in Thorhaven must pity her or laugh at her as they liked: she could not prevent them from destroying the steps she had hewn with such careful pains on the side of that steep hill which led to everything she desired. With all her fun and easy friendliness she had always kept herself a little "nice"—a little carefully unsmirched—holding her head up among the other girls—— And now they had the laugh of her. Now, she thought—standing there, digging her finger-nails into her palms—now they'd giggle and talk about her as they did about all those others who had been made fools of and left in the lurch. And she could not get away from it all. Despite her fine talk about never entering Uncle Creddle's house again, she had found that it would be literally impossible to live in Flodmouth on what she earned at first, and she would be obliged to lodge with Aunt Creddle, going in and out by train every day.

Suddenly, the thought swept over her of how she had gloried in the idea of travelling with the other girls who were off to places of business in Flodmouth—all so neat, and nicely dressed, and so independent. Now that was spoilt, like everything else.

Then the sudden hooting of a motor-bicycle caused her to start aside, and Wilf careered past—cap correctly poised, slim young body bent forward. The next moment, he swerved round with a dash and swirl, shouting out:

"Hello! hello! You'll be getting run down one of these days!" But it was to show his new motor-bicycle, and what he had gained by her "turning him down," as well as what she had lost.

Caroline was conscious of his triumphant attitude, though she only felt a sort of incredulous wonder that she could ever have thought of him as a lover. It seemed, somehow, to have happened in another life, so far off it appeared from her present experiences.

After that two girls whom she knew passed, laughing and talking together on the other side of the road, and she immediately felt sure that they were making fun of her. No doubt it was all over the town that she had been "carrying on" with Wilson—a man just about to be married to Miss Temple, whom everybody respected and liked. There would be no pity there—only contempt. So she called out "good night" and went on as fast as she could, fancying what the girls were saying to each other. "Well, I wouldn't have done such a thing! And I never reckoned to be as particular as Carrie Raby. But pride will have a fall——"

She could almost hear them say it as she hurried on, her ambition as well as her love so deeply wounded that she could scarcely bear herself. Revolting, fighting—having to find out with exasperated agony like every one else that those who fight against destiny only hurt themselves. But as she passed the short street leading to the promenade a strong current of sea-air blew down it and she turned her hot face towards the breeze, looking up towards the pay-box which stood silent and deserted in the fading light. It took on for her now that strange quality which belongs to places where we have felt a great deal—as if the walls had absorbed some of the currents of emotion which had been given out there. She both loved the little wooden erection, and longed never to see it again. Beyond it, the Flamborough lights swung out across the sea: white—white—red. How unhappy life was! And contempt did not kill love, as she had always understood from the novels in the pretty paper covers which she liked to read so much. It had killed trust; but the ache in her went on just the same, even though Godfrey had been threatened by Uncle Creddle with a big stick, and had shown such a cowardly anxiety to escape a row.

She drew in deep breaths of the salt air—cold, invigorating as it always was here after sunset on the warmest days; and all her mind was bent on despising him as he deserved. She tried to put her contempt into words, so as to make it more real. "He's no good. I'm well rid of him. I wouldn't have anything to do with him now, not if he were to crawl after me on his hands and knees from here to Flamborough."

But the silence of the evening gave back an answer which she was obliged to hear in her heart; and she told herself, though with less certainty: "I won't care; I will end by not caring. He's not worth it."

But at last she did manage to flick the raw place until she was really bitter against him. For the sudden thought came to her that he dare not have behaved to a girl of his own sort in the same way as he had done to her. It was because he looked down on her that he could do it.

Then she saw the two girls coming her way down the road again, and hurried up the side street in order to escape them. But they followed, evidently going to the promenade, so she turned down to the shore where she was certain of being alone at this season and this hour. As she went along, a most vivid sense of this waste of her youth's bright happiness came across her. "I will forget him! I aren't going to be made miserable just by falling in love," she said to herself, half sobbing—a little figure running along through the twilight by the edge of the sea like a leaf driven by the wind, flinging defiance at the god of love whom no change can displace.



Chapter XXII

Morning

It was two days later, and Caroline was going down to cash a cheque for Mrs. Bradford. There had been a slight touch of frost in the night, and the atmosphere was so rarified this morning that every object seemed to meet the eye with equal distinctness—with the effect, somehow, of a Dutch painting. A little black dog jumping up excitedly outside the fishmonger's, a woman in the doorway of the little toy-shop taking down a bundle of wooden spades, a red-faced farmer getting out of his trap at the bank—all looked equally clear, lacking the usual hazy effect of the damp air. It was partly for this reason, perhaps, that Caroline felt as if everybody were pressing round her, and trying to read her thoughts. Though the toy-shop woman called out a pleasant "good morning," after her habit, Caroline thought she peered curiously from behind her grove of spades, and that she was no doubt wondering what it felt like to be made the "talk of the place"—especially by a gentleman who allowed stout, middle-aged Mr. Creddle to threaten horse-whipping with impunity. Then in going past the fish-shop, the very cod seemed to turn a contemptuous, lack-lustre eye upon her, as if they also said to each other: "There goes the girl who was made a fool of by a man who never really meant to marry her."

But it was the worst when she caught sight of the hoarding on the little Picture Hall. For suddenly the phrase which she had seen there on the film flashed across her mind with such vividness that it seemed to be written in dancing, bright letters across the sunshiny street: "I swear I want to marry you."

She felt dizzy, then it passed. It was true enough, of course. Men did always say that, as Aunt Creddle had told her. She was only one of the millions of silly girls so easily deceived. And she went down the street, feeling that from every eye streamed out a baleful ray which reached and hurt the sore place in her heart.

At last she came to the bank; and the farmer was there at the counter, pushing his notes across grudgingly—as does the man of all nations who has wrung his hard living out of the soil. "I hate these no-ates," he was saying. "They do-an't seem like money. But I doubt they'll last my da-ay."

His drawl seemed to go in and out of Caroline's thoughts, soothing her while she waited; then she heard a door open beyond the counter and saw Laura come forth, attended by the bank-manager, and wearing a jaded, excited look, as if she had been through a difficult interview in which she had at last come off triumphant. On catching sight of Caroline she flushed deeply, hesitating for a second, then coming forward with hand outstretched. "Oh, I was wanting to see you, Miss Raby."

Caroline wondered why Laura should look like that on unexpectedly meeting her, if this were so; but the farmer went out and his place at the counter was now clear. Laura, however, followed her, saying in a low tone: "Is Mrs. Bradford at home this morning?"

"No," said Caroline, "she has gone to see Mrs. Graham."

"Ah, I thought so." She paused. "Are you going straight home?"

"Yes, at least, I have only one other errand," said Caroline. With that she turned to the man behind the counter who was waiting to transact her business, and Laura went out of the bank.

Caroline walked home, thinking once or twice about the incident, for Laura's manner seemed odd if she only wanted to know whether Mrs. Bradford were at home or not. Then about an hour later, when she was near a front window, she chanced to see Laura coming up the drive. So going to the door; she said at once: "I'm sorry, but Mrs. Bradford has not come in yet. Do you care to leave a message?"

As Laura stood there hesitating, that odd mixture of maturity and a sort of girlish angularity in her appearance became unusually marked. "No—no message. I—I think I will just come in."

"But I am afraid Mrs. Bradford may be some time," said Caroline.

Laura looked at her as if seeking something in her face, then repeated awkwardly: "Oh! I think I will just come in."

So Caroline led the way to the sitting-room, but just as she was about to go, Laura said quickly: "I suppose you like the idea of working at an office?"

"Oh yes; I think it will be all right, thank you," said Caroline, moving on towards the door all the time. She did not want to stay in the same room with this girl who was to marry Godfrey. Let them marry and be happy, so far as she was concerned; but she did not want to have anything to do with either of them again.

Then she went through the door, but before she was across the hall she heard Laura's voice raised on a sort of high, breathless note calling after her: "Don't—don't go, yet. I—we so seldom have a chat. This—this must have been a most trying time for you."

Caroline went back and stood just within the door, her small face pale and rather severe. What did this girl want of her? For she could see that there was something behind those halting words which Laura felt either afraid or ashamed to say. She would not help by a single word. No, not though the kind brown eyes began to distress her a little, like those of a dog with a hurt paw.

"I suppose office work is really what you like best?" said Laura nervously. "You think you will really enjoy it? You"—she drew a breath and plunged, as it were—"you have no idea of getting married at present?"

"No," said Caroline, speaking with fair composure, though her own nerves began to quiver and she breathed rather quickly. For this was what Laura had come for, then! She had heard tales and wanted to find out if they were true.

Well—let her! For one second a great temptation assailed Caroline. She stood there in the doorway, with the power of happiness or unhappiness in her hands, knowing perfectly well that she had only to tell the actual, unvarnished truth as it had actually happened for Godfrey's chance of a rich wife, and Laura's chance of a probably successful marriage to vanish in less time than you could open and shut the door.

But the next moment it was all over. She knew, with a just pride, that she could never do a mean trick like that: it was not in her. When the room, which had gone a little dim, grew clear again, she heard herself continuing, as if it were somebody else: "I'm sure I shall enjoy being on my own. I'd rather keep myself than be dependent on any man. You can do as you like. It's better than getting married."

"But nothing is better than marriage with the right man," said Laura. She was still looking intently at Caroline; still seeming all the time to have something behind her words which hovered but remained unspoken. Then, suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

Caroline looked away, perplexed and troubled. "I'm afraid Mrs. Bradford may not be in for some time."

Laura rose in a hesitating fashion. "Do you think so? Well, I suppose I had better go. Mrs. Bradford will be glad when the sale is over. She will be happier in a boarding-house at Scarborough."

They were at the front door now; and to avoid looking at each other they both glanced at the man who was wheeling a barrow-load of building implements in from the field across the place where the privet hedge used to be.

"I suppose that is for the improvements to the Cottage?" said Laura, who seemed as if she could not go and yet did not really want to stay.

"Yes. They begin altering the outside buildings before the sale," said Caroline; but all the time she was asking within herself: "What is it? What is it?"

Again they looked at the man, who was now trudging back over the newly-laid sods.

"Poor Miss Ethel!" said Laura. "She would not have liked that, would she?"

Caroline shook her head, not speaking—it was all so curiously far off from what they were both thinking about that words only seemed to echo from a distance. "There have to be changes," she said at last, growing afraid of the pause lest it should imply too much.

"Well, Miss Ethel always hated change," said Laura. Then her expression began to alter curiously under Caroline's eyes—becoming charged, as it were, with an inner radiance that shone right through the outer dullness, or embarrassment, or sadness—whatever there might be. "At any rate, she has gone where things are certain."

Caroline's heart beat fast with the sudden impact of discovery. Laura, too, then! They were both just like people hanging on to a spar in a rough sea and hoping to be thrown on shore at last. That was what life was, even when you were going to be married to the man of your choice. But the expression of Laura's face—or was it that thought of a rough sea?—had in some way brought back that time in the pay-box after Miss Ethel's death, when Caroline herself had looked up at the blue sky breaking through the grey. Once more she tried to grope across the barrier between the seen and the unseen.

What was there after all? Then a line of one of those Sunday-school hymns floated across her mind—"Oh, Thou that changest not"—And the thought of Miss Ethel on the stairs with that heavy pail in her hand.

But the thoughts passed so quickly that Laura had not noticed the pause. "I like to fancy Miss Ethel in a place where things don't change. It makes you think, when somebody you know goes——" And Caroline saw Laura felt the same; was drawn more closely in touch with this eternity to which Miss Ethel had just gone over.

Then a man over in the field shouted loudly to his mate. Both girls glanced, half startled, in that direction, and when they looked at each other again the mental atmosphere had quite altered.

"Well, I must be going," said Laura.

But it was still so evident she had left something unsaid, that Caroline remained half-consciously expectant in the doorway. And a few steps down the drive Laura did suddenly stop short, pause a moment and return with quick, nervous steps. "Oh, by the way, I suppose you won't know that my engagement with Mr. Wilson is broken off?"

For a moment—an age—Caroline's throat seemed to dry up, and she felt like a person in a nightmare struggling to make a sound which will not come. Then, out of all the turmoil of questions, fears, emotions that Laura's words had caused to seethe within her, she was only able to bring to the surface: "I—I didn't know."

"No?" Laura paused. "Well, you'll tell Mrs. Bradford I have been——" And she hurried away down the drive; but she had not yet lost that air of having left something unsaid which she had come on purpose to say.

Caroline could see her near the gate, then paused a moment as at the approach of voices; and the next minute Mr. and Mrs. Graham came in, accompanying Mrs. Bradford. Their attitudes were most plainly visible to Caroline in the doorway, though she could not hear what was said; Mrs. Bradford solidly engrossed in her own importance as a mourner—Mr. Graham bending forward to speak to Laura, conciliatory, voluble; and Laura herself unresponsive.

Caroline gave a last look at them before going indoors to take the potatoes from the fire; and as she did so, she experienced one of those sudden, blindingly clear moments of intuition common to almost every one, in which the processes of fact, argument, reason are all skipped, and the knowledge is there, full blown. She knew perfectly well that Mr. and Mrs. Graham had felt it their solemn duty to inform Laura—with the best intentions—of what was being said about Godfrey Wilson and the girl on the promenade.

But before she had time to turn away the group dissolved, Laura going on alone, while Mrs. Bradford and Mrs. Graham came up the drive. The picture bit like acid into her mind. The three coming up the path; the clear sky; the man with the barrow wheeling cement over the forlorn dismantled part of the garden where the privet hedge had been.

But in the kitchen, while she was taking the potatoes from the steamer, her face suddenly flushed crimson. "I aren't going to be frightened," she murmured to herself. "I aren't going to care what anybody says. She would never break off her engagement because of a bit of scandal. She's not that sort. They'll be married, all right."

Beneath her defiance, however, Caroline was terribly afraid. She sub-consciously so dreaded the agony she must endure if he did come after her again and she had to send him away. For that was what she would do. Never for one second did she waver in her determination to have no more to do with a man who could behave as he had done. She couldn't help loving him, but she could help trusting him with her life.

Mrs. Bradford appeared, black and bulky in the kitchen doorway. "Oh, Caroline——" And her voice, though heavy and rather husky, put the same immeasurable distance between Caroline and every Wilson in the world as Miss Ethel's clear tones, speaking the same words, had always done. "I am expecting Mr. Wilson on business after tea. Will you show him into the breakfast-room if you have not gone out when he comes?"

Caroline murmured acquiescence, angry to feel herself blushing; and when she looked up Mrs. Bradford's little eyes were fixed on her with the insatiable curiosity of the dull; so she looked steadily down again at the bowl of potatoes. After a pause that seemed very long, she heard the pad-pad-pad of a heavy, elderly woman's walk sounding along the passage.

Mrs. Bradford, waiting for her lunch, also looked at the wheel-marks left by the passing of the workman's barrow over the place where the privet hedge used to be. She might not like it, but she was without that fiery hatred of change which did actually release Miss Ethel's spirit for its escape to certainty.



Chapter XXIII

On the Shore

Mrs. Bradford was timid about being alone in the house after sunset since her sister's death, so Caroline usually went out between tea and early supper. On this occasion she hurried off directly tea was over, in her anxiety to avoid a possible meeting with Godfrey. She did not even wait to go upstairs and change her dress, but kept on the old blouse and skirt she had been wearing beneath her overall, put on an old garden hat and ran down the drive, fearing all the time to hear Mrs. Bradford calling from the doorway.

However, she reached the road in safety, thankful that there was now no chance of being obliged to usher in Godfrey with Mrs. Bradford's dull rather malicious gaze fixed on her. But even while she waited a second, out of breath, she caught sight of his figure coming along the road from the town, and hurried on again towards the cliff top. There was the bench on which she had sat that moonlight night with Godfrey, when it seemed to her that they could love each other for ever just the same, no matter what might divide them. She had been filled then with the exultation which is so difficult to distinguish at the time from happiness—which seems so independent of human accident—a joy never to be assailed by common experience.

But all that had gone. Now she was going down the rough, muddy path on the side of the clay cliff—slipping, making her shoes and skirt dirty, grasping at the wiry grass as she slipped and not caring—simply because she wanted to escape any chance of meeting the same man who had inspired those wonderful emotions. The contrast seemed to hit a blow on her heart, even though she was not going to let it hurt her any more. But at last she reached the bottom, and stood for a moment to rest.

The sea, heaving with a strong ground-swell, reflected the pale blue of the sky in millions of pools of light on the dun-coloured surface. She was not conscious of looking at it, but she had a feeling of freshness and consolation—of freedom from herself. The truth was that, without knowing it, she had made a friend of the sea. She had done so during all those hours in the pay-box on the promenade when she endured that hard spiritual experience which turns people from children into men and women—and the sea remains faithful.

After resting a moment or two she walked on, her path skirting the wet sea-weed which showed that there had been heavy weather outside the bay. The brown streamers had blue lights on them like the sea and the sand was firm and hard. A thick froth churned up from the deeps rested among the sea-weed, or blew along the shore in front of her before the south-easterly wind.

She inhaled the smell of fresh sea-weed—not exactly noticing it, but with her senses influenced by it, as a person's may be by the heavy scent of roses on a June evening. Less than ever was she going to give in because she had to do without love. There were plenty of things in life besides love——

Then, as if in answer to that defiance, she saw part of a man's shadow thrown by the westering sun on the sand before her. She swerved sharp round—not startled—not afraid; but filled with an extraordinary fury against Godfrey which may have been partly caused by these emotions.

"How dare you come creeping up after me on the sand like that?" she said. "Which way are you going? Tell me, and then I'll go the other."

He looked down at her with amusement and ardour in his glance; but all the same he bore the marks of some storm only just over in the strained lines of his face, and in the marks of sleeplessness under his eyes.

"You won't get rid of me so easily as that," he said. "I have come here to talk things out with you, and I mean to do it."

She turned back towards the promenade. "Of course, I can't prevent you walking with me if you will," she answered. But it was because she felt that her curiosity might betray her that she desperately slammed the door of opportunity in his face by adding: "I suppose you know you are safe here to worry me as much as you like. You won't come across Uncle Creddle on the sands."

"Your uncle——" He was rather thick-skinned and flushed seldom, but he did so now, growing crimson to the edge of the cap pulled down over his forehead. "Oh! I see. So you actually believed I was afraid. Turn round!" He took her arm and made her face him. "Now! Do I look as if I should be afraid to fight old Creddle?" She obstinately refused to answer, and he went on, still holding her: "You know I should not. I was thinking of you, and you only. Do you realize what people say about a girl when her nearest male relative breaks, or even tries to break a big stick over her lover's back? Well, I wasn't going to have anything of that sort said about you, Carrie."

"You were very thoughtful about my reputation all of a sudden," said Caroline. She paused, but the words had to come. "It was not because you wanted to keep any talk from getting to Miss Laura's ears, I suppose?"

The question was a sneer, but it was there, all the same; she had had to ask it. And now her whole being hung trembling on the answer, though she was no less grimly resolved than before to have done with a man whom she could not trust. But now he did not reply; and that burning urge of curiosity made Caroline go on—against better judgment, intention, pride: "Does she know?"

He released Caroline's arm at once and walked on. "Let us leave her out of the discussion," he said stiffly. "I was just about to tell you that our engagement is broken off."

But Caroline could not understand—any more than the majority of women—the feeling which makes a decent man reluctant to discuss an old love with a new one, and she was now easily able to speak as coldly as she wished. "I've heard that piece of news," she said.

He turned sharp round. "Why, who told you? It only happened last night."

"Miss Laura told me," she answered.

"What more did she tell you?" he asked quickly.

"Nothing."

He looked away from her to the sea without replying, and this was her chance to walk away, if she had wished; but there was still that question which she must have answered.

"Has Miss Laura heard anything about us? Was that why the engagement was broken off?"

He waited a moment. "No," he said. "After all, you have a right to know that you had nothing to do with it. Nothing. She had never heard a word about you and me until I told her myself; and that was after our engagement was broken off."