Three gentlemen came, before a month was out, to Beatrice's establishment. She hoped shortly to get a fourth or a fifth. Her plan was to play hostess, and thus bestow on her boarders the inestimable blessing of family life. Breakfast was at eight-thirty, and everyone attended. Vera sat opposite Beatrice, Frank sat on the maternal right hand; Mr MacWhirter, who was superior, sat on the left hand; next him sat Mr Allport, whose opposite was Mr Holiday. All were young men of less than thirty years. Mr MacWhirter was tall, fair, and stoutish; he was very quietly spoken, was humorous and amiable, yet extraordinarily learned. He never, by any chance, gave himself away, maintaining always an absolute reserve amid all his amiability. Therefore Frank would have done anything to win his esteem, while Beatrice was deferential to him. Mr Allport was tall and broad, and thin as a door; he had also a remarkably small chin. He was naive, inclined to suffer in the first pangs of disillusionment; nevertheless, he was waywardly humorous, sometimes wistful, sometimes petulant, always gallant. Therefore Vera liked him, whilst Beatrice mothered him. Mr Holiday was short, very stout, very ruddy, with black hair. He had a disagreeable voice, was vulgar in the grain, but officiously helpful if appeal were made to him. Therefore Frank hated him. Vera liked his handsome, lusty appearance, but resented bitterly his behaviour. Beatrice was proud of the superior and skilful way in which she handled him, clipping him into shape without hurting him.

One evening in July, eleven months after the burial of Siegmund, Beatrice went into the dining-room and found Mr Allport sitting with his elbow on the window-sill, looking out on the garden. It was half-past seven. The red rents between the foliage of the trees showed the sun was setting; a fragrance of evening-scented stocks filtered into the room through the open window; towards the south the moon was budding out of the twilight.

'What, you here all alone!' exclaimed Beatrice, who had just come from putting the children to bed. 'I thought you had gone out.'

'No—o! What's the use,' replied Mr Allport, turning to look at his landlady, 'of going out? There's nowhere to go.'

'Oh, come! There's the Heath, and the City—and you must join a tennis club. Now I know just the thing—the club to which Vera belongs.'

'Ah, yes! You go down to the City—but there's nothing there—what I mean to say—you want a pal—and even then—well'—he drawled the word—'we-ell, it's merely escaping from yourself—killing time.'

'Oh, don't say that!' exclaimed Beatrice. 'You want to enjoy life.'

'Just so! Ah, just so!' exclaimed Mr Allport. 'But all the same—it's like this—you only get up to the same thing tomorrow. What I mean to say—what's the good, after all? It's merely living because you've got to.'

'You are too pessimistic altogether for a young man. I look at it differently myself; yet I'll be bound I have more cause for grumbling. What's the trouble now?'

'We-ell—you can't lay your finger on a thing like that! What I mean to say—it's nothing very definite. But, after all—what is there to do but to hop out of life as quickly as possible? That's the best way.'

Beatrice became suddenly grave.

'You talk in that way, Mr. Allport,' she said. 'You don't think of the others.'

'I don't know,' he drawled. 'What does it matter? Look here—who'd care? What I mean to say—for long?'

'That's all very easy, but it's cowardly,' replied Beatrice gravely.

'Nevertheless,' said Mr. Allport, 'it's true—isn't it?'

'It is not—and I should know,' replied Beatrice, drawing a cloak of reserve ostentatiously over her face. Mr. Allport looked at her and waited. Beatrice relaxed toward the pessimistic young man.

'Yes,' she said, 'I call it very cowardly to want to get out of your difficulties in that way. Think what you inflict on other people. You men, you're all selfish. The burden is always left for the women.'

'Ah, but then,' said Mr. Allport very softly and sympathetically, looking at Beatrice's black dress, 'I've no one depending on me.'

'No—you haven't—but you've a mother and sister. The women always have to bear the brunt.'

Mr. Allport looked at Beatrice, and found her very pathetic.

'Yes, they do rather,' he replied sadly, tentatively waiting.

'My husband—' began Beatrice. The young man waited. 'My husband was one of your sort: he ran after trouble, and when he'd found it—he couldn't carry it off—and left it—to me.'

Mr. Allport looked at her very sympathetically.

'You don't mean it!' he exclaimed softly. 'Surely he didn't—?'

Beatrice nodded, and turned aside her face.

'Yes,' she said. 'I know what it is to bear that kind of thing—and it's no light thing, I can assure you.'

There was a suspicion of tears in her voice.

'And when was this, then—that he—?' asked Mr. Allport, almost with reverence.

'Only last year,' replied Beatrice.

Mr. Allport made a sound expressing astonishment and dismay. Little by little Beatrice told him so much: 'Her husband had got entangled with another woman. She herself had put up with it for a long time. At last she had brought matters to a crisis, declaring what she should do. He had killed himself—hanged himself—and left her penniless. Her people, who were very wealthy, had done for her as much as she would allow them. She and Frank and Vera had done the rest. She did not mind for herself; it was for Frank and Vera, who should be now enjoying their careless youth, that her heart was heavy.'

There was silence for a while. Mr. Allport murmured his sympathy, and sat overwhelmed with respect for this little woman who was unbroken by tragedy. The bell rang in the kitchen. Vera entered.

'Oh, what a nice smell! Sitting in the dark, Mother?'

'I was just trying to cheer up Mr. Allport; he is very despondent.'

'Pray do not overlook me,' said Mr. Allport, rising and bowing.

'Well! I did not see you! Fancy your sitting in the twilight chatting with the mater. You must have been an unscrupulous bore, maman.'

'On the contrary,' replied Mr. Allport, 'Mrs. MacNair has been so good as to bear with me making a fool of myself.'

'In what way?' asked Vera sharply.

'Mr. Allport is so despondent. I think he must be in love,' said Beatrice playfully.

'Unfortunately, I am not—or at least I am not yet aware of it,' said Mr. Allport, bowing slightly to Vera.

She advanced and stood in the bay of the window, her skirt touching the young man's knees. She was tall and graceful. With her hands clasped behind her back she stood looking up at the moon, now white upon the richly darkening sky.

'Don't look at the moon, Miss MacNair, it's all rind,' said Mr Allport in melancholy mockery. 'Somebody's bitten all the meat out of our slice of moon, and left us nothing but peel.'

'It certainly does look like a piece of melon-shell—one portion,' replied Vera.

'Never mind, Miss MacNair,' he said, 'Whoever got the slice found it raw, I think.'

'Oh, I don't know,' she said. 'But isn't it a beautiful evening? I will just go and see if I can catch the primroses opening.'

'What primroses?' he exclaimed.

'Evening primroses—there are some.'

'Are there?' he said in surprise. Vera smiled to herself.

'Yes, come and look,' she said.

The young man rose with alacrity.

Mr Holiday came into the dining-room whilst they were down the garden.

'What, nobody in!' they heard him exclaim.

'There is Holiday,' murmured Mr Allport resentfully.

Vera did not answer. Holiday came to the open window, attracted by the fragrance.

'Ho! that's where you are!' he cried in his nasal tenor, which annoyed Vera's trained ear. She wished she had not been wearing a white dress to betray herself.

'What have you got?' he asked.

'Nothing in particular,' replied Mr Allport.

Mr Holiday sniggered.

'Oh, well, if it's nothing particular and private—' said Mr Holiday, and with that he leaped over the window-sill and went to join them.

'Curst fool!' muttered Mr Allport. 'I beg your pardon,' he added swiftly to Vera.

'Have you ever noticed, Mr Holiday,' asked Vera, as if very friendly, 'how awfully tantalizing these flowers are? They won't open while you're looking.'

'No,' sniggered he, I don't blame 'em. Why should they give themselves away any more than you do? You won't open while you're watched.' He nudged Allport facetiously with his elbow.

After supper, which was late and badly served, the young men were in poor spirits. Mr MacWhirter retired to read. Mr Holiday sat picking his teeth; Mr. Allport begged Vera to play the piano.

'Oh, the piano is not my instrument; mine was the violin, but I do not play now,' she replied.

'But you will begin again,' pleaded Mr. Allport.

'No, never!' she said decisively. Allport looked at her closely. The family tragedy had something to do with her decision, he was sure. He watched her interestedly.

'Mother used to play—' she began.

'Vera!' said Beatrice reproachfully.

'Let us have a song,' suggested Mr. Holiday.

'Mr. Holiday wishes to sing, Mother,' said Vera, going to the music-rack.

'Nay—I—it's not me,' Holiday began.

'"The Village Blacksmith",' said Vera, pulling out the piece. Holiday advanced. Vera glanced at her mother.

'But I have not touched the piano for—for years, I am sure,' protested Beatrice.

'You can play beautifully,' said Vera.

Beatrice accompanied the song. Holiday sang atrociously. Allport glared at him. Vera remained very calm.

At the end Beatrice was overcome by the touch of the piano. She went out abruptly.

'Mother has suddenly remembered that tomorrow's jellies are not made,' laughed Vera.

Allport looked at her, and was sad.

When Beatrice returned, Holiday insisted she should play again. She would have found it more difficult to refuse than to comply.

Vera retired early, soon to be followed by Allport and Holiday. At half past ten Mr. MacWhirter came in with his ancient volume. Beatrice was studying a cookery-book.

'You, too, at the midnight lamp!' exclaimed MacWhirter politely.

'Ah, I am only looking for a pudding for tomorrow,' Beatrice replied.

'We shall feel hopelessly in debt if you look after us so well,' smiled the young man ironically.

'I must look after you,' said Beatrice.

'You do—wonderfully. I feel that we owe you large debts of gratitude.' The meals were generally late, and something was always wrong.

'Because I scan a list of puddings?' smiled Beatrice uneasily.

'For the puddings themselves, and all your good things. The piano, for instance. That was very nice indeed.' He bowed to her.

'Did it disturb you? But one does not hear very well in the study.'

'I opened the door,' said MacWhirter, bowing again.

'It is not fair,' said Beatrice. 'I am clumsy now—clumsy. I once could play.'

'You play excellently. Why that "once could"?' said MacWhirter.

'Ah, you are amiable. My old master would have said differently,' she replied.

'We,' said MacWhirter, 'are humble amateurs, and to us you are more than excellent.'

'Good old Monsieur Fanniere, how he would scold me! He said I would not take my talent out of the napkin. He would quote me the New Testament. I always think Scripture false in French, do not you?'

'Er—my acquaintance with modern languages is not extensive, I regret to say.'

'No? I was brought up at a convent school near Rouen.'

'Ah—that would be very interesting.'

'Yes, but I was there six years, and the interest wears off everything.'

'Alas!' assented MacWhirter, smiling.

'Those times were very different from these,' said Beatrice.

'I should think so,' said MacWhirter, waxing grave and sympathetic.



Chapter 31

In the same month of July, not yet a year after Siegmund's death, Helena sat on the top of the tramcar with Cecil Byrne. She was dressed in blue linen, for the day had been hot. Byrne was holding up to her a yellow-backed copy of Einsame Menschen, and she was humming the air of the Russian folk-song printed on the front page, frowning, nodding with her head, and beating time with her hand to get the rhythm of the song. She turned suddenly to him, and shook her head, laughing.

'I can't get it—it's no use. I think it's the swinging of the car prevents me getting the time,' she said.

'These little outside things always come a victory over you,' he laughed.

'Do they?' she replied, smiling, bending her head against the wind. It was six o'clock in the evening. The sky was quite overcast, after a dim, warm day. The tramcar was leaping along southwards. Out of the corners of his eyes Byrne watched the crisp morsels of hair shaken on her neck by the wind.

'Do you know,' she said, 'it feels rather like rain.'

'Then,' said he calmly, but turning away to watch the people below on the pavement, 'you certainly ought not to be out.'

'I ought not,' she said, 'for I'm totally unprovided.'

Neither, however, had the slightest intention of turning back.

Presently they descended from the car, and took a road leading uphill off the highway. Trees hung over one side, whilst on the other side stood a few villas with lawns upraised. Upon one of these lawns two great sheep-dogs rushed and stood at the brink of the, grassy declivity, at some height above the road, barking and urging boisterously. Helena and Byrne stood still to watch them. One dog was grey, as is usual, the other pale fawn. They raved extravagantly at the two pedestrians. Helena laughed at them.

'They are—' she began, in her slow manner.

'Villa sheep-dogs baying us wolves,' he continued.

'No,' she said, 'they remind me of Fafner and Fasolt.'

'Fasolt? They are like that. I wonder if they really dislike us.'

'It appears so,' she laughed.

'Dogs generally chum up to me,' he said.

Helena began suddenly to laugh. He looked at her inquiringly.

'I remember,' she said, still laughing, 'at Knockholt—you—a half-grown lamb—a dog—in procession.' She marked the position of the three with her finger.

'What an ass I must have looked!' he said.

'Sort of silent Pied Piper,' she laughed.

'Dogs do follow me like that, though,' he said.

'They did Siegmund,' she said.

'Ah!' he exclaimed.

'I remember they had for a long time a little brown dog that followed him home.'

'Ah!' he exclaimed.

'I remember, too,' she said, 'a little black-and-white kitten that followed me. Mater would not have it in—she would not. And I remember finding it, a few days after, dead in the road. I don't think I ever quite forgave my mater that.'

'More sorrow over one kitten brought to destruction than over all the sufferings of men,' he said.

She glanced at him and laughed. He was smiling ironically.

'For the latter, you see,' she replied, 'I am not responsible.'

As they neared the top of the hill a few spots of rain fell.

'You know,' said Helena, 'if it begins it will continue all night. Look at that!'

She pointed to the great dark reservoir of cloud ahead.

'Had we better go back?' he asked.

'Well, we will go on and find a thick tree; then we can shelter till we see how it turns out. We are not far from the cars here.'

They walked on and on. The raindrops fell more thickly, then thinned away.

'It is exactly a year today,' she said, as they-walked on the round shoulder of the down with an oak-wood on the left hand. 'Exactly!'

'What anniversary is it, then?' he inquired.

'Exactly a year today, Siegmund and I walked here—by the day, Thursday. We went through the larch-wood. Have you ever been through the larch-wood?'

'No.'

'We will go, then,' she said.

'History repeats itself,' he remarked.

'How?' she asked calmly.

He was pulling at the heads of the cocksfoot grass as he walked.

'I see no repetition,' she added.

'No,' he exclaimed bitingly; 'you are right!'

They went on in silence. As they drew near a farm they saw the men unloading a last wagon of hay on to a very brown stack. He sniffed the air. Though he was angry, he spoke.

'They got that hay rather damp,' he said. 'Can't you smell it—like hot tobacco and sandal-wood?'

'What, is that the stack?' she asked.

'Yes, it's always like that when it's picked damp.'

The conversation was restarted, but did not flourish. When they turned on to a narrow path by the side of the field he went ahead. Leaning over the hedge, he pulled three sprigs of honeysuckle, yellow as butter, full of scent; then he waited for her. She was hanging her head, looking in the hedge-bottom. He presented her with the flowers without speaking. She bent forward, inhaled the rich fragrance, and looked up at him over the blossoms with her beautiful, beseeching blue eyes. He smiled gently to her.

'Isn't it nice?' he said. 'Aren't they fine bits?'

She took them without answering, and put one piece carefully in her dress. It was quite against her rule to wear a flower. He took his place by her side.

'I always like the gold-green of cut fields,' he said. 'They seem to give off sunshine even when the sky's greyer than a tabby cat.'

She laughed, instinctively putting out her hand towards the glowing field on her right.

They entered the larch-wood. There the chill wind was changed into sound. Like a restless insect he hovered about her, like a butterfly whose antennae flicker and twitch sensitively as they gather intelligence, touching the aura, as it were, of the female. He was exceedingly delicate in his handling of her.

The path was cut windingly through the lofty, dark, and closely serried trees, which vibrated like chords under the soft bow of the wind. Now and again he would look down passages between the trees—narrow pillared corridors, dusky as if webbed across with mist. All round was a twilight, thickly populous with slender, silent trunks. Helena stood still, gazing up at the tree-tops where the bow of the wind was drawn, causing slight, perceptible quivering. Byrne walked on without her. At a bend in the path he stood, with his hand on the roundness of a larch-trunk, looking back at her, a blue fleck in the brownness of congregated trees. She moved very slowly down the path.

'I might as well not exist, for all she is aware of me,' he said to himself bitterly. Nevertheless, when she drew near he said brightly:

'Have you noticed how the thousands of dry twigs between the trunks make a brown mist, a brume?'

She looked at him suddenly as if interrupted.

'H'm? Yes, I see what you mean.'

She smiled at him, because of his bright boyish tone and manner.

'That's the larch fog,' he laughed.

'Yes,' she said, 'you see it in pictures. I had not noticed it before.'

He shook the tree on which his hand was laid.

'It laughs through its teeth,' he said, smiling, playing with everything he touched.

As they went along she caught swiftly at her hat; then she stooped, picking up a hat-pin of twined silver. She laughed to herself as if pleased by a coincidence.

'Last year,' she said, 'the larch-fingers stole both my pins—the same ones.'

He looked at her, wondering how much he was filling the place of a ghost with warmth. He thought of Siegmund, and seemed to see him swinging down the steep bank out of the wood exactly as he himself was doing at the moment, with Helena stepping carefully behind. He always felt a deep sympathy and kinship with Siegmund; sometimes he thought he hated Helena.

They had emerged at the head of a shallow valley—one of those wide hollows in the North Downs that are like a great length of tapestry held loosely by four people. It was raining. Byrne looked at the dark blue dots rapidly appearing on the sleeves of Helena's dress. They walked on a little way. The rain increased. Helena looked about for shelter.

'Here,' said Byrne—'here is our tent—a black tartar's—ready pitched.'

He stooped under the low boughs of a very large yew tree that stood just back from the path. She crept after him. It was really a very good shelter. Byrne sat on the ledge of a root, Helena beside him. He looked under the flap of the black branches down the valley. The grey rain was falling steadily; the dark hollow under the tree was immersed in the monotonous sound of it. In the open, where the bright young corn shone intense with wet green, was a fold of sheep. Exposed in a large pen on the hillside, they were moving restlessly; now and again came the 'tong-ting-tong' of a sheep-bell. First the grey creatures huddled in the high corner, then one of them descended and took shelter by the growing corn lowest down. The rest followed, bleating and pushing each other in their anxiety to reach the place of desire, which was no whit better than where they stood before.

'That's like us all,' said Byrne whimsically. 'We're all penned out on a wet evening, but we think, if only we could get where someone else is, it would be deliciously cosy.'

Helena laughed swiftly, as she always did when he became whimsical and fretful. He sat with his head bent down, smiling with his lips, but his eyes melancholy. She put her hand out to him. He took it without apparently observing it, folding his own hand over it, and unconsciously increasing the pressure.

'You are cold,' he said.

'Only my hands, and they usually are,' she replied gently.

'And mine are generally warm.'

'I know that,' she said. 'It's almost the only warmth I get now—your hands. They really are wonderfully warm and close-touching.'

'As good as a baked potato,' he said.

She pressed his hand, scolding him for his mockery.

'So many calories per week—isn't that how we manage it?' he asked. 'On credit?'

She put her other hand on his, as if beseeching him to forgo his irony, which hurt her. They sat silent for some time. The sheep broke their cluster, and began to straggle back to the upper side of the pen.

'Tong-tong, tong,' went the forlorn bell. The rain waxed louder.

Byrne was thinking of the previous week. He had gone to Helena's home to read German with her as usual. She wanted to understand Wagner in his own language.

In each of the arm-chairs, reposing across the arms, was a violin-case. He had sat down on the edge of one seat in front of the sacred fiddle. Helena had come quickly and removed the violin.

'I shan't knock it—it is all right,' he had said, protesting.

This was Siegmund's violin, which Helena had managed to purchase, and Byrne was always ready to yield its precedence.

'It was all right,' he repeated.

'But you were not,' she had replied gently.

Since that time his heart had beat quick with excitement. Now he sat in a little storm of agitation, of which nothing was betrayed by his gloomy, pondering expression, but some of which was communicated to Helena by the increasing pressure of his hand, which adjusted itself delicately in a stronger and stronger stress over her fingers and palm. By some movement he became aware that her hand was uncomfortable. He relaxed. She sighed, as if restless and dissatisfied. She wondered what he was thinking of. He smiled quietly.

'The Babes in the Wood,' he teased.

Helena laughed, with a sound of tears. In the tree overhead some bird began to sing, in spite of the rain, a broken evening song.

'That little beggar sees it's a hopeless case, so he reminds us of heaven. But if he's going to cover us with yew-leaves, he's set himself a job.'

Helena laughed again, and shivered. He put his arm round her, drawing her nearer his warmth. After this new and daring move neither spoke for a while.

'The rain continues,' he said.

'And will do,' she added, laughing.

'Quite content,' he said.

The bird overhead chirruped loudly again.

'"Strew on us roses, roses,"' quoted Byrne, adding after a while, in wistful mockery: '"And never a sprig of yew"—eh?'

Helena made a small sound of tenderness and comfort for him, and weariness for herself. She let herself sink a little closer against him.

'Shall it not be so—no yew?' he murmured.

He put his left hand, with which he had been breaking larch-twigs, on her chilled wrist. Noticing that his fingers were dirty, he held them up.

'I shall make marks on you,' he said.

'They will come off,' she replied.

'Yes, we come clean after everything. Time scrubs all sorts of scars off us.'

'Some scars don't seem to go,' she smiled.

And she held out her other arm, which had been pressed warm against his side. There, just above the wrist, was the red sun-inflammation from last year. Byrne regarded it gravely.

'But it's wearing off—even that,' he said wistfully.

Helena put her arms found him under his coat. She was cold. He felt a hot wave of joy suffuse him. Almost immediately she released him, and took off her hat.

'That is better,' he said.

'I was afraid of the pins,' said she.

'I've been dodging them for the last hour,' he said, laughing, as she put her arms under his coat again for warmth.

She laughed, and, making a small, moaning noise, as if of weariness and helplessness, she sank her head on his chest. He put down his cheek against hers.

'I want rest and warmth,' she said, in her dull tones.

'All right!' he murmured.

THE END