"What a wonderful night," Gabrielle whispered.

"I never knew such a night," he said. "It feels a bit like that evening when we stood leaning over the bridge by the lake."

"Don't," she said. "I want to forget it. Can you smell the dew?"

"Yes, and the scent of may coming over from the meadows."

"We call it whitethorn in Ireland."

There was a long pause, then he spoke again.

"I think you look sad to-night," he said. "Are you sorry that you came?"

"No, no—of course not. It's the moonlight that makes me paler than usual. But I'm always pale. You shouldn't look at me so closely, Arthur."

"I love to look at you. It isn't always that I get the chance. I just wanted to be certain that you weren't anxious. You don't think that we oughtn't to have come here?"

"No, why shouldn't we?" she said, turning her face away.

Then suddenly, in the edge of the copse beyond the nearest field, the nightingale began. The song was so beautiful in the stillness of the night that even Mrs. Payne, who had other things to think of, felt its influence. It was a strange, unearthly moment.

"You hear it?" Arthur whispered; but Gabrielle did not answer; she laid her hand on his sleeve and Arthur trembled at her touch. So they stood listening, close together, while Arthur took the hand that held him. She smiled and turned her eyes towards him but they could not look at each other for long. She surrendered herself to his arms and they kissed.

Mrs. Payne saw their faces close together in the dusk and their shadowy bodies entwined. She could bear it no longer, but turned and groped her way back along the privet hedge to the door from which she had first come. She did not know where she was going or how she went until she found that she had reached her own bedroom again. There, in her dressing-gown, she threw herself on the bed and fell into a fit of violent sobbing. She lay there shaken by sobs like a disconsolate child. Over in the coppice the nightingale sang exultantly as if he knew of the wonder that his song had revealed to the lovers who listened to him with their lips together.



XIX

It seemed to Mrs. Payne an endless time before she heard the steps of Gabrielle returning. She thanked heaven when she knew that she was coming back alone. The bedroom door closed and the sound pulled her together. It suggested to her that the time had now come when something must be done, and though it would have been much pleasanter to let the matter stand over until the morning, she knew that nothing could be gained by waiting, since all of the three people concerned were at that moment awake, and the crisis of the affair had been reached.

The reasons that had dissuaded her from tackling Arthur himself when first her suspicions were aroused still held. She regarded a scene with him as dangerous, for she could not be certain that a big emotional disturbance would not throw him back into his old nature, quite apart from the fact that it would wound her motherly heart. Against Gabrielle, on the other hand, she knew that she could steel herself. Gabrielle was a woman, a woman younger than herself, and, what was more, a visitor in her house. She was satisfied that she could tell Gabrielle what she thought of her, and, in a single interview bring this most uncomfortable and dangerous state of affairs to an end.

She got out of bed again and dressed methodically. This time she wasn't going to put up with any condition that detracted from her dignity. So, having done her hair afresh and satisfied herself that all traces of her breakdown had disappeared, she set out with a high degree of confidence to Gabrielle's room. There was no light in it, but while she stood at the door she heard Gabrielle softly singing to herself inside. Singing! ... Mrs. Payne hardened her heart and knocked at the door. The singing stopped. There was no other sound. Then she knocked again. She heard a soft rustle as Gabrielle stepped to the door. The door opened, and Gabrielle, in her nightdress and bare feet, stood before her. She stared at Mrs. Payne. Who could guess that she knew the reason of her visit? She only said: "Oh ... it's you! I wondered...."

"May I come in?" said Mrs. Payne in a hard voice. As a matter of fact nothing could have stopped her going in.

"Of course," said Gabrielle. "Do...." She shivered slightly.

"You'd better put on a dressing-gown," said Mrs. Payne firmly. "I want to talk to you."

Gabrielle obeyed her, like a small child, slipped an embroidered kimono over her shoulders and stood facing Mrs. Payne. She looked her straight in the eyes, and said in a low voice: "Well, what is it?"

"We won't pretend," said Mrs. Payne. "You know quite well what it is."

"Yes ... I suppose you mean Arthur."

"And you."

"You saw us go out to-night ... heard us?"

"Yes."

Gabrielle made a gesture of impatience. "Well, why shouldn't we? It was the nightingale. Why shouldn't we listen to a nightingale? I'd never heard one."

"I followed you into the garden."

"That was a mean thing to do!"

"Perhaps it was. No ... I'd a right to do it. I saw everything that happened."

"When we kissed each other?"

Mrs. Payne nodded. Gabrielle looked at her challengingly. "It was the first time," she said. There was a pause and then she burst out passionately. "I love him ... we love each other. You can't stop us!"

"It's got to be stopped," said Mrs. Payne.

Gabrielle turned away and perched herself on the end of the bed. She appeared to be thinking, and when next she spoke it was almost dreamily.

"It was the first time. We didn't know before to-night."

There was nothing dreamy about Mrs. Payne's reply. She believed that Gabrielle was acting a part, and had no patience with her.

"That's rubbish," she said. "I don't believe it."

Gabrielle jumped to her feet and faced her again, blazing with pride and anger and amazingly beautiful.

"You don't believe me? How dare you? I've told you that we didn't know. I don't tell lies. You're insulting me...."

She was so passionate that Mrs. Payne was almost convinced. She softened for a moment. "After all, you ought to have known," she said. "You're a married woman."

"Married ..." Gabrielle repeated. "Yes ... but I didn't know. I've told you I didn't. That's enough."

"Well, if you didn't know, I did," said Mrs. Payne with a laugh.

"How? Tell me how?"

"It wasn't difficult to see."

"I can't imagine it. But I know nothing of love. Only once..." and Gabrielle relapsed into her dream, standing with her hand on the bedpost gazing towards the window. After a second she turned again quickly. "Then, if you knew, was that why you invited me here?"

Mrs. Payne said: "Yes——"

"Why didn't you tell me instead of doing that?"

"I wanted to make certain."

"Why didn't you tell my husband?"

"For your sake. I wanted to save you."

"No, you didn't... You weren't thinking of me. You were thinking of Arthur."

This was perfectly true, but Mrs. Payne had not gone through hell to discuss fine points of that kind. She had left her room in very much the same frame of mind as she would have adopted in approaching the dismissal of a servant. She had expected to be met with passionate denials, had prepared herself, indeed, for a stormy "scene"; instead of which Gabrielle appeared to be curious rather than disturbed about her discovery, and a great deal more interested in the psychological than in the practical aspects of the case. If she had offered any violent opposition to Mrs. Payne, Mrs. Payne could have given her violence in return. But she didn't. The mood of exaltation into which their love-making had lifted her made her regard this woman with something nearer to pity than dislike. Her attitude implied that to consider the practical aspect of the affair would be in the nature of a condescension. Mrs. Payne naturally resented this, but in any case Gabrielle had taken the wind out of her sails. They were drifting—rather unpleasantly—away from the object of her visit. She pulled herself—and then Gabrielle—up short.

"You can't pretend not to realise the seriousness of your position," she said. "You're a married woman. If you persist in this madness you'll ruin your whole life. I'll be candid with you. What happens to you doesn't matter to me; but what happens to Arthur does. Can't you see the end of it?"

"No ... it's only begun...."

"Then I'll tell you the end. Your husband will divorce you."

"Then I shall be free? And why not? We don't love each other. Why should we go on living together? The thought of him makes me shudder ... now."

"That is your affair. I'm afraid I can't help you in it. But Arthur is mine. I'm not going to see him dragged into this ... impossibility. No ... we can't discuss it like this. You may be as innocent as you pretend to be—though it's difficult to believe it. You imagine you're in love. You're drifting out of an ordinary sort of friendship into ... what I saw to-night. Well, that can only lead to the most awful unhappiness for all of us. You must consider it finished. We won't have any disturbance; but, all the same, you can't see Arthur again. We'll invent some reason to explain your going away to-morrow ... something plausible ... to satisfy him. With your husband it will be more difficult. But I'm prepared to help you. It can be managed without any scandal if we work together... I'm sure you'll agree with me and be sensible about it. If you won't, I can't answer for the consequences."

Mrs. Payne was presuming too much. All the time that she spoke Gabrielle sat with lowered eyes, motionless but for little protesting movements of her hands; now she turned upon her, speaking very low and rapidly.

"You think I can give him up? You think it's possible? Love ... the only thing I want! The thing I've never had! Happiness... Why should you ruin our happiness? You've had yours. Oh, you're selfish. I shan't give him up if he wants me. Ask him yourself if he loves me... Ah, you're afraid. You daren't. You daren't!"

She almost laughed, and Mrs. Payne knew that she had spoken the truth. It looked, for a moment, as if she were going to be beaten on this point, for Gabrielle snatched at her weakness, repeating the unanswerable "You daren't!" Then, suddenly, without any warning, the girl's triumphant spirit collapsed. From the verge of laughter she toppled over into tears. She put her hands to her eyes and then, turning her back on Mrs. Payne, collapsed on her bed, weeping bitterly.

At the sight of this thankfulness flooded Mrs. Payne's heart; but beneath this dominant emotion, which came almost as the result of her conscious wish, flowed another that she would gladly have suppressed: pity, nothing less, for the child who lay sobbing on the bed. A minute before she had seen in Gabrielle her most dangerous enemy in the world; now, even though she rejoiced in the girl's sudden collapse, she felt that she wanted to take her in her arms and kiss her and comfort her. For a moment or two she fought against it, but in the end, scarcely knowing what she had done, she found that she was fondling Gabrielle's hand and being shaken by the communicated passion of her sobs. One thought kept running through her brain: "I've won ... I've won, and can afford to be generous," and this, together with the curious physical liking that she had always felt for Gabrielle, disarmed her. She set herself to comforting the child. It was the last thing in the world she had intended to do, but it came natural to her motherly soul. She was glad, indeed, that Gabrielle did not resent these attentions, as she very well might have done. Gradually her sobbing ceased and she began to speak, clinging all the time to Mrs. Payne, herself not guiltless of a sympathetic tear, while she told her the story of her early years: of the wild life she had led at Roscarna, of Jocelyn's debauches and Biddy's rough mothering.

It was the first time that all this flood of reminiscence had been loosed. Gabrielle had never made a confidante before, and it was an ecstasy of tears and laughter to dwell upon these memories, and to rehearse them. "I was so happy as a child," she said, "so awfully happy. But now there's nothing left."

Mrs. Payne, still sympathetic, found herself suddenly plunged into the ardours of the Radway affair; the miraculous meeting on the Clonderriff road; the halcyon days of August, and then the overwhelming tragedy.

"They made me marry him," said Gabrielle, clutching at her hand. "They made me. I didn't understand. It was cruel. It would have been better if I had died like my baby."

She relapsed into tears, and Mrs. Payne, quite bowled over by the piteousness of her case, tried to soothe her with caresses. It was a curious end, she reflected, to the punitive expedition on which she had set forth. Holding Gabrielle triumphantly in her arms she did not realize the mistake that she had made. It wasn't the end at all, it was merely the beginning.

"You see what a terrible time I've had," Gabrielle pleaded, drying her tears. "I always felt that you were the only person I could talk to about these things. I knew you would sympathize ... you're so human. Now you can understand why I can't live without Arthur. Do you see?" She looked up, pleading, into Mrs. Payne's eyes.

Her quiet words staggered that good woman. She had to pull herself together and begin all over again. It wasn't easy, for the sympathetic mood into which the girl's story had betrayed her had subtly weakened her purpose. She felt that her position was false. She must reassert herself, and so she hurriedly freed herself from Gabrielle's arms and stood with her back to the door. Gabrielle too rose and faced her. Her tears had put an end to the dreamy mood in which Mrs. Payne had found her at first. Now she was determined, dangerous, ready to fight with all the quickness of her wits and the suppleness of her youth against the elder woman's dogged devotion. They faced one another, ready to fight to the end, for the possession of the thing they each loved best, and both of them realized the bitter nature of the struggle.

"We can't speak of that again," said Mrs. Payne. "I thought that was understood. Surely you didn't imagine that by playing on my feelings you could make me change my mind? I'm sorry you misunderstood me. I will write to your husband to-morrow. For Arthur's sake I hope you won't tell him the real explanation of your going back, and of Arthur's staying here. I think you owe that to us ... even if you don't realise that it's also the best for yourself." She turned towards the door. "I think we had better say good-night. There is a train at seven-fifty in the morning. I'm sorry it's so early, but there's no other. As I may not see you again I'll say good-bye now. There's no reason why we shouldn't part friends."

She held out her hand, she couldn't think why, but as she did so Gabrielle clasped it. "No ... don't go!" she pleaded.

"There's nothing more to be said." But Gabrielle still held her hand and would not let it go.

"Only be merciful to me," she cried. "Let us think about it. There must be some other way. Supposing ... supposing that we go back to Lapton just in the ordinary way: supposing that I promise you faithfully that nothing more shall happen. Listen, we never, never kissed before to-night. I'll give you my word of honour that it shan't happen again ... if only you'll let him go back to us. Isn't that fair? Surely it's fair...."

Mrs. Payne shook her head.

"You mean that you don't believe me ... you won't trust me?"

"I can't trust both of you. Do you think I don't know what love is?"

"But think ... think of all these months in which we've been so happy together without a word of love! I love him ... you know I love him ... I believe I love him more than you do. No, don't be angry with me for saying that! Don't you think my love is strong enough to prevent me from doing anything that could possibly harm him? Can't you believe that?"

"No ... it's too dangerous. You can answer for yourself, but you can't answer for Arthur."

"Oh, if you loved him as you say you do ... as I believe you do ... wouldn't you trust him? I'll talk to him. I can tell him anything. I'll tell him exactly how things stand. I'll tell him what I've promised you. Only don't take him away from me altogether. I couldn't bear it ... I couldn't." She turned back on herself. "Why won't you believe in him?"

"You should know why that's impossible. Haven't I told you his history? You've only known him for a year. I've had him for seventeen and loved him all the time." She became almost passionate. "He's my son. And all those years my love has been full of the awful bitterness of his trouble. The tears! The disappointments! You know nothing of them. You can't realize how I've struggled and schemed and had my hopes raised and dashed to the ground ... time after time. To see the person that you love best in the world, a part of your own body, living without a soul: a thief, a liar—that's the plain truth—inhuman and cruel ... But you know as well as I do what he was."

"I do know what he was."

"And now, thanks to your husband—God knows I'm grateful!—he's better. He's what I knew he ought to have been all these awful years. And then you come on the scene—you, who've borne nothing of all the years before—and begin to drag him down again. You must be mad to think I could risk it!"

"But don't I know all this? Do you think I'm less anxious than you are that he should stay as he is? Only trust me ... trust me! His future ... think of that...."

Mrs. Payne laughed bitterly, but Gabrielle persisted.

"His future ... My husband says that he can make a success of him. He can take a high place in a Government examination; he can get into the diplomatic service. Just believe that I love him too much to stand in his way. Why, I can even help him. If he does this I know that he'll want influence. You haven't influence to help him. I don't want to belittle you, but I know you've nothing but your money, while I can help him. My cousin is Lord Halberton. He's been a Cabinet minister. There's no knowing what he mightn't do with his help. If you love anyone as I do him, why shouldn't you give your life to his interests? That's what I'd do. I'd think of nothing else. I'd give all my thoughts to him. And I promise ... oh, I promise faithfully, that I won't let him love me ... if only you'll let me love him."

Mrs. Payne stiffened. "You're trying to bribe me," she said, "and I'm not the kind of person who can be bribed. I don't care that much about his future! Until the last month I never so much as dreamed that any future of that kind was possible. It's quite enough for me that he should settle down here into the sort of life that his father would have lived if he'd been spared. I don't want to share his successes with you...."

"Ah, you're jealous!"

"Of course I'm jealous. I've reason to be. He's mine. But even if I could trust you ... and I believe I could ... Arthur's future wouldn't tempt me to risk his present. No ... it's too dangerous."

"Dangerous..." Gabrielle clutched at the word. "Dangerous!" She became suddenly quiet and intense. "I don't believe you know where the danger lies," she said.

"I can see the most obvious danger, and that's a love affair with a married woman."

"You can't see any other? You said just now that Arthur had changed thanks to my husband. Perhaps my husband took the credit for it and you believed it. But it isn't true. I've seen the change coming hour by hour, day by day. Every moment of it I've watched and treasured. He did not change because he worked with my husband. He changed because I loved him and he loved me. I know it ... I've known it all the time. What did your love do for him in all those years? Nothing ... nothing at all. For heaven's sake don't think I'm boasting! Your love never changed him a hair's breadth, and you know it!"

Mrs. Payne gasped. "You don't realize what you're saying."

"But I do ... I do. You say his body's part of you—belongs to you. I'll give you that. But this soul ... his new soul ... is mine. That's part of our love. Ours and nobody else's...."

Mrs. Payne choked back her emotion. "I don't grudge it you," she said, "I only thank God for it gratefully ... gratefully."

"But you don't see what I mean," said Gabrielle slowly. "Arthur has changed because he loves me. He's ceased to be cruel because he knows that for him to be cruel pains me. He's learned to see things just as I see them. And now you want to separate us ... even after what I have promised you. Can't you see what I'm afraid of?"

She paused, and Mrs. Payne was silent. Gabrielle quickly pressed her advantage.

"If you separate us, if you try to destroy our love, you'll be taking away from him the thing that's saved him. How do you know that he won't slip back again? You can take his body from me ... I know that ... but you may lose more than you get."

Mrs. Payne stood staring straight in front of her.

"Then you will know what you are worth to him." Gabrielle's tone was almost scornful. "You see how it stands," she continued. "We both of us want him for ourselves, we want him as he is to-day ... and we can't either of us have him without the other's consent. You hold his body, and I hold his soul. Let's be reasonable. Let's compromise. I'm ready to do my part. Oh, I beg you to be reasonable!"

"You're a devil, not a woman," said Mrs. Payne.

"But you see that I'm right?" Gabrielle persisted.

Mrs. Payne summoned all her strength. "No, I don't. I don't believe it."

"Ah, you pretend that you don't! But you're bluffing me. I know it. Why did you come to me about this instead of to Arthur himself? Because you were afraid. That was the reason."

The shot was made at a venture, but Gabrielle quickly saw that it had taken effect. She followed it up:

"You thought that if you upset him he might lose what he's gained. You don't know—we none of us know yet—how deep the change is. You didn't dare to face that little risk; but it's nothing compared with the one you want to take now. That's what you've got to face!"

She could say no more. When she stopped speaking Mrs. Payne knew that the girl's eyes were fixed on her eagerly, desperately, trying to search into her mind. The older woman stood there still and bewildered by the choice that had been presented to her. It was the most awful moment in her emotional life. Her mind was a battlefield on which her love, her sense of right, her acquired conventions, her religion, and her hungry maternal passion were pitted against one formidable dread. She wanted to shield Arthur against harm: from a social disaster no less than from what she considered a mortal sin; and, above all, after these years of patient suffering, she wanted him for herself. It was neither religion nor morality that drove her to her final decision, but a thing far stronger: her passionate instinct to possess the son of her body. Even if she were to lose him, to rescue no more than the changeling that she had always known, she could not bring herself to share him with any other woman on earth. He was hers and hers alone. She did not know if she were right. She did not care if she were wrong. The decision formed itself inexorably in her mind. She could only obey it. Gabrielle, watching her narrowly, saw a sudden peace descend upon her agonised face. Mrs. Payne gave a long shuddering sigh. Then she spoke, dully, mechanically:

"The train goes at seven-fifty. I will order the carriage. I will write to Dr. Considine in the morning."

Gabrielle clutched at her breast. "You can't realise what you're doing! It's too great a risk. Think of it again ... I beg you!"

"No," said Mrs. Payne slowly. "I've made up my mind. We must invent some plausible excuse. Illness will do ... anything. And you must help me, if only for your own sake."

Desperate tears came into Gabrielle's eyes.

"For your own sake," Mrs. Payne repeated. "You've realised, I know, that if you go on with this unfortunate love-affair you must ruin not only your own happiness and your husband's, but Arthur's as well. If you love him at all you can't drag him into social ruin. Well, I've made my decision. If anything disastrous happens my blood's on my own head. We must make the best of a bad job. Don't think I'm not sorry for you, my dear."

This final tenderness was too much for Gabrielle. She broke down, sobbing so tragically in Mrs. Payne's arms that the older woman was almost ashamed of her victory. She knew that she could afford to be kind. She felt that she would like to tell her that under any other circumstances she knew none whom she would rather trust as Arthur's wife; but to say so would have been a bitter mockery. She waited in silence while Gabrielle mastered her own feelings and raised, at last, her haggard eyes.

"What can you say to my husband?" she said.

"We must say that I am ill. That will give you a good reason for returning."

"And Arthur?"

"The same reason will explain why he doesn't go back to Lapton on Tuesday. After that I don't know what I shall do."

"But I can see him before I go?"

"That would be quite useless. It might even do harm. You are going to help me, you know, for his sake."

"He'll wonder. How can we satisfy him? What can I do?"

"You had better write to him. Tell him that after to-night it's impossible for you to stay. Only ... only please don't mention me."

"It will kill him...."

"Or save him. It's the only thing that you can do."

"I'll write it now."

She went over to the writing table in the window, and there, with streaming eyes, she wrote her letter. It took her a long time to do, and when she had finished she brought it with the envelope to Mrs. Payne.

"Do you want to read it?" she asked.

"No ... Of course I trust you."

"Thank you." She fastened the envelope and addressed it. "I feel as if I were dead," she said.

"You're young," said Mrs. Payne.

"But you'll let me know what happens, you'll write to me?"

"Yes, I'll write to you."

"I have a dread, an awful dread of what may happen. I can't be sure that we've done right."

"Neither can I. I had to make a decision. I pray God that it will turn out well. We can do no more."

"I know now that you love him. I'm glad to know that."

"Did you ever doubt it?"

"But for me there's nothing left ... nothing." Gabrielle stood for a moment in silence. Then she said, "I'd better pack," and Mrs. Payne clutching at any refuge from the intensity of the moment offered to help her.

"No," said Gabrielle, "if you don't mind, I'd rather be alone. We'd better say good-bye."

"I don't like to leave you," said Mrs. Payne, "but perhaps you're right."

With a sudden impulse Gabrielle came over to her. Mrs. Payne took her in her arms and they kissed.

"I could love you," said Gabrielle. "You have Arthur's eyes...."

Mrs. Payne left her.



XX

Much to the disgust of Hollis, who was in the habit of making the most of his Sundays, Gabrielle left Overton by the early morning train while Arthur slept undisturbed after his night of wonder, and Mrs. Payne rose anxiously to face the certain embarrassments and the possible bitterness of her victory. She had not slept at all, for though she never for one moment dreamed of going back on the decision which her conscience, amongst other things, had dictated, she was still in doubt as to whether she had won her son or lost him for ever. She almost regretted the burst of generosity in which she had refused to read Gabrielle's letter of renunciation. For all she knew the wording might be provocative and calculated to wreck her plans at the last moment. The letter lay sealed upon her dressing-table. It speaks well for her sense of honour in a bargain that this pathetic document remained unopened. Meanwhile she only prayed that the hours might pass and her fate be revealed. She could only rack her brains imagining some means by which the severity of the blow might be tempered for Arthur.

Next morning he came down ten minutes late for breakfast. He missed Gabrielle at once.

"Where's Mrs. Considine?" he said. "I called at her door as I came down, but I don't think she's there."

"No," said Mrs. Payne. "She had to go back to Lapton by the first train. An urgent call of some kind."

"A telegram? The old man isn't ill, is he?"

"She left a letter for you," said Mrs. Payne, handing him Gabrielle's envelope.

"What a rotten shame," he said as he took it. "It's a splendid morning for a ride. I hope it's not serious."

He opened the letter and read it. What Gabrielle had written Mrs. Payne never knew, for even in later years he did not tell her. She had expected a terrible and passionate outburst and prepared herself to meet it with argument and consolation, but no outburst came. She saw him go very red and then white. Then he steadied himself and said in a curious voice: "Mother ... if you'll excuse me, I must go out."

She put out her hand to him but he pushed back his chair and went quickly through the French window of the dining-room, into the garden. She wanted to follow him, for she feared that on the impulse of the moment he might do something terrible, but controlled herself in time.

She stood on the terrace, impotent, watching him as he crossed the lawn and made for the fields. It was a terrible day for her. She felt that she couldn't go to church in her usual way, but stayed at home tortured by the most hopeless and tragic anticipations of evil. At lunch time he had not returned. It was with difficulty that she restrained herself from sending Hollis out over the hill with a search party, but the curious fatalism that had settled on her when once her decision was made, compelled her to patience. It was his own battle, she reflected, and if he had wanted her help he would have come to her. Evidently, he had decided to fight it out alone. She went to her own room and prayed desperately for his salvation.

In the evening he returned, tired out with ceaseless wandering. He had eaten nothing all day and looked very old and haggard. She had expected a tender scene of confidence and was ready to overwhelm him with the consolations of her love; but even now he said nothing to her, and she dared not take the first step herself. From his silent misery she gathered that Gabrielle had not told him that she knew of the secret. Evidently, and very wisely, she had given him general and conventional reasons for her renunciation, treating it as a matter that concerned themselves and no one else, denying Mrs. Payne the privilege and pain of sharing in Arthur's disillusionment. Therefore, his mother judged it wiser to behave as though she knew nothing of what he was suffering, though she saw by the steadiness of his demeanour that he had taken the blow squarely, and come through.

The fact that he didn't break down miserably, as she had expected he would, convinced her more than ever that he had become a man. She felt certain now that she had been right in following her instinct and facing the risk that her action involved. She believed that she had triumphed. Certainly, the boy who faced her at the dinner-table in suffering and awkward silence was very different from the Arthur of six months before. There was a look of determination in his eyes that made her confident. He kissed her good-night without the least tremor, and she went to bed herself full of serene thankfulness. Nor did she forget how much she owed to the girl who was breaking her heart in the loneliness of Lapton. She wrote to Gabrielle that night. "I think it is all right," she said. "Heaven only knows what I owe you for your generosity ... what Arthur owes you."

He never mentioned Gabrielle's name to her again. Next morning, in a calm and serious mood, he approached her on the subject of his return to Lapton.

"Would you mind very much," he said, "if I don't go back to Devonshire? I feel that I'm rather out of place there. You see, I'm older than the others. Do you think it could be arranged?"

At first she feigned surprise—she could do nothing else—but in doing so she cleverly contrived to make it easy for him.

"If you wish it I will write to Dr. Considine," she said. She didn't suggest the elaborate falsehoods on which she would build her letter. "I think you are old enough to decide," she told him. "What would you like to do?"

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't travel?" he said. "I feel that I want a change. I should like to see something of the world."

So, without further difficulty, it was arranged. She sent him round the world with a new tutor, waiting placidly and happily at Overton for his return. It was in these days that I became acquainted with her and conceived the admiration for her that I still hold. She often spoke to me in terms of the most utter devotion of her son. I imagined her an ideal mother, as indeed she was.

After a year or more abroad Arthur returned, very much the man of the world. At his own desire he went up to Oxford, where he passed a perfectly normal three years and took a decent degree. In his last term he fell in love with the daughter of a neighbouring parson, whom, in due course, he married. The following year the young people went out to New Zealand, a country to which Arthur had been attracted on his travels, and that is all that I know of him.

During all this time Mrs. Payne corresponded regularly with Gabrielle. Now that Arthur's safety was beyond question and even in the earlier debatable period, she had not the least objection to sharing him with her rival ... at a distance. She even sent her his letters from abroad. In this way they arrived at a curious and altogether happy intimacy. Gabrielle's letters became part of her life, and when, in the autumn after Arthur's engagement was announced, they suddenly stopped, Mrs. Payne felt that she had suffered a loss. She wrote two or three times to Lapton, but received no reply, and it was only by the chance meeting of a friend who had been staying in Devonshire that she learned what had happened. It came to her as a piece of idle gossip, but the shock of an extraordinary coincidence upset her for many days. It appeared that Dr. Considine, by this time a well known figure in the county, had gone out one evening rabbit-shooting with his wife. As they were returning from their expedition down one of the steep slopes above Lapton Manor, he had slipped in getting over a gate and fallen. It was the usual type of shooting accident that no one could explain. The gun had gone off and shot him dead. "He was terribly mutilated about the head," said Mrs. Payne's informant. She did not know what had happened to his widow. Probably she had gone to her cousins the Halbertons. In any case the jury had completely exonerated her.

Mrs. Payne flared up in Gabrielle's defence. "Exonerated?"

"It was well known that they were not on the best of terms," said her visitor discreetly.



XXI

I do not know what has possessed me since I began to write this story. I have grown tired of this river, where the trout are always shy, and more tired than ever of Colonel Hoylake's fishing stories and his obituary reflections. The place is haunted for me by the tragic image of Gabrielle Hewish. It is strange that I should be affected by the loss of a woman whom I have never seen or known. But I feel that I cannot stay here any longer. Wherever I go in this valley I am troubled by a feeling of desolation: a curious feeling, as though some bright thing had fallen—a kingfisher, a dragon-fly.

THE END