Chapter III

THE spring sunshine slept peacefully on the wide gravelled space in front of Hartley front-door; and two collies who had just been out for a run, slept upon the strip of turf, just out of the sunshine, with their long tongues hanging out.

Easter fell late this year, and the trees were, so to speak, just dressed again. The crocuses were out — such at least as had escaped the busy sparrows — and the wallflowers were out, for it was close on Pentecost. To the right and left of the solemn grey house, ran the wide belt of woods, like outstretched arms, between which looked the stone-framed windows, like meditative eyes, right across the flat stretch of meadow-land bisected by the straight drive that led up to the great porch from the double lodge-gates half a mile away.

The house was of an Elizabethan foundation, though most of the Tudor work had been supplanted by Caroline. Up in the attics were still the criss-cross black beams, the uneven floors and the low ceilings; but the rest of the place wore the stately air that is characteristic of the century after. The porch would have been pretentious if it had not been so genuine. Stone men looked over the parapet, as if further to guard the solemn emblazoned coat that was already guarded, by a couple of ramping beasts. Two long rows of tall windows ran the length of the house, above which peered out the dormer windows of the earlier date. The roofs of stable and laundry showed at one end, and to the north, the high gable of the tennis-court above the plantations into which merged the woods. Finally, to the right hand of the house, in a little cleared space there stood, rather to the west of this west front, the domestic chapel of Hartley, in the midst of a rather sombre-looking small churchyard, decked with cypresses; and behind it, the roof of the more recently built chaplain's house. As a whole, it was an exceedingly respectable place, not to be reckoned, of course, amongst the greater domestic shrines, yet entirely good of its kind. It appeared to be as much part of the landscape as the woods themselves, or as the solemn lines of the downs discernible away to the south. It seemed that the woods clothed the house, rather than that the house was built in the woods: the little river that ran as the boundary of the south-eastern gardens on the other side appeared to have been placed there by design, rather than that the gardens had been laid out according to its course.

The collies were so deeply asleep that when their mistress came out at last to see where they were, they never moved. She stood in the shadow looking at them an instant, with a faint smile on her face. They were splashed in the black mud all along their undersides, now brazenly displayed to the world, and all up their delicate frilled legs. Jack's face was quiet and solemn, as befitted a male: Jill was still panting in her sleep as was proper to her hysterical femininity. Their entire attitude was one of complete and exhausted abandonment.

" Oh! you pigs! " she said suddenly, in quite a low voice.

Jack opened an eye as if to reassure her he was still alive, and thumped the end of his tail twice. Jill leapt up and began to cry aloud with delight.

" There, that's enough," said the woman. " Come on round to the gardens; and then you shall go to the stables. Stables, you pigs!... No, Jill; don't be so silly. Not yet; afterwards."

She moved round to the left, and Jack with his middle-aged and masculine sedateness followed her dutifully. Jill, after unfitting her tail from between her hind legs, where she had immediately hidden it upon hearing the fatal place named, consented to come after, but plainly a little nervous in spite of the promise.

" Mummy! " said a voice suddenly from overhead. " Where are you going? "

The woman stopped; and her face twinkled with pleasure as she looked up to the end window of the first floor, where the upper half of a boy appeared over the sill, entirely without any clothes on, but brandishing a towel, and with all his hair on end.

" To the gardens," she said.

" Oh!... Are the dogs there? "

" Yes; they're a perfect disgrace. Where in the world did you find all that mud? "

" Oh! I think it was in the Kestern woods; there was a pond there; and there was a water-hen there; and Jill, you see "

" Yes; I quite see, thanks. Well, they can't come into the house till they're clean."

"Oh... Mummy!"

"Yes?"

" It's not their fault, you know; it was mine. You see, I sent in Jack at one end, while Jill went round to the other, and so "

The woman laughed suddenly.

" Oh! you child! " she said. — " Now get changed quick.

I shall be in the pavilion if you want me. Mr. Morpeth's coming to lunch."

" Oh! And is Miss Morpeth? "

" Go along, Jim, and get changed. Just think if she came along and saw you like that! "

The white apparition vanished.

The gardens on the eastern side of the house gave a very considerable surprise to anyone who called at the house for the first time. The west side, as has been seen, wore an aspect of a certain severity. There were the solemn front, the cypressed churchyard, the flat lawns cut by the straight drive, and not a flower to be seen except beneath the edges of the plantations on either side. But the eastern side was very different.

First there came a wide stone terrace, flagged underfoot, bounded by a low wall along which stood great stone flower-pots. This was approached from the house (so great was the fall of the ground), by a double flight of stairs leading down in a curve from the door of the hall which ran the whole depth of the building. Beneath the terrace ran a wide gravel path from end to end of the house, and beyond that again, a vast lawn, here broken by a circle of flower-beds, here by a couple of cedars, here, again, unbroken and as soft as velvet. Then again, further out, came a gravel walk, and again a low wall; and then the river. This river, perhaps twenty feet across, ran swiftly from north to south, as clear as crystal in its chalk bed; two or three steps in the wall, straight opposite the hall-door, led down to it; and a punt usually rested here. Forty yards further along, a stone pavilion was built out half over the river, perched in the wall, and was entered by half a dozen steps leading up from the gravel walk.

To this pavilion then, across the wide lawn between the cedars and the flower-beds, came Mrs. Fanning, as she usually did about the time of the second post. Sometimes she brought her letters with her; sometimes they were taken out to her. If she were not in her own room it was generally understood that she would be here from about twelve to half -past one.

The collies, of course, had made instantly for the water-gate, and were noisily drinking. But even Jack was a little nervous if he were surprised here; for more than once he had been pushed in suddenly from behind by the boy who had conversed out of the window just now. When they had quite done they proceeded to the pavilion, where the sacred dogs' mat lay to the left of the entrance, pushed open the nearly closed door, and resumed their slumbers.

The pavilion was an ideal place for a sunny hour in the morning, even in winter. A wide high window ran in a great semicircle over the river, and was furnished inside with a long deep window-seat. Until about four o'clock in summer, and until sunset in winter, all the sunlight that there was streamed in from the south. The chuckling sound of running water, from the current that rushed by beneath, was delicious in summer, and not unpleasant in winter. A sensible round table, really firm upon its legs, and furnished with writing materials, stood in the middle of the circular floor. Two well-filled bookcases hung on either side of the door; three or four deep basket-chairs stood here and there; the ceiling was a plastered dome within, and a cone without — all of solid grey stone; the floor, adequately tiled, was covered with rugs.

Anna Fanning had sat down upon the window-seat as soon as she had made sure that the letters were not waiting for her on the table, and was looking out of the window. By turning her head she could look right up the river for a quarter of a mile, and down it beyond the stone bridge for about a hundred yards. At these two extremities the woods came down and hid it. Beyond the woods to the south, however, showed the line of the downs. Even straight out across the river, the view had its charm; for here was the park proper — long rolling grasslands, broken by copses, stretching for about two miles and rising gradually towards the foot of the heather hills of Ashdown. Here and there were the cattle, feeding resolutely in the sun; and there, under the shadow of a group of tall trees, she could make out the brown bodies of the deer, resting, just outside the bracken, apart and exclusive like the aristocrats that they were.

Anna Fanning was just forty-one years old, and for the last year had considered herself middle-aged.

She had married, just before she was thirty, old Sir Nevill's younger brother Robert; and four years later Jim had been born. They had lived in town for the most part, coming down here again and again, till, when her husband had died a year after Jim's birth, she had come here altogether, six years ago, to keep house for his brother. Then, again, four years ago he too had died, and young Nevill had asked her to stay on.

She was forty-one years old, as has been said; and sometimes she looked a good deal more, and sometimes a good deal less. For, first, her hair was quite grey, though as abundant as ever. It had begun to go grey, as was almost the accepted custom in her family, soon after her twenty-fifth year; and had continued to do so remorselessly ever since. And there were, of course, lines in her face, though still delicate and slight, especially about her eyes, since she would no more have dreamed of massaging her face than of dyeing her hair. Yet, on the other side, she still could flush like a girl; she still kept her figure, and she still carried herself superbly. She was not in the least pretty, but she was quite beautiful. She had very bright grey eyes; she had finely-cut lips that continually smiled a little, but not much; she had a very straight and good profile. Since her husband's death she had been proposed to at least four times, but always by men nearer sixty than fifty; and she had never had even a moment's hesitation in refusing them. It appeared to her that life at Hartley, with a dutiful month or two in London (so long as she was allowed to be at Hartley for the rhododendron season), was an entirely ideal life. Of course it could not continue indefinitely; she had been quite clear to Nevill that when he married it must end; and had laughed frankly at his statement that he would probably never marry at all.

However, here she lived for the present with Jim; and it was all extremely nice. Jim would go to school next year — to the Benedictines, she thought; and she would continue to keep house even more tranquilly during schooltime — unless, indeed, Nevill married. Here she had her beautiful house, her stone pavilion to sit in, her horse to ride, her church within a stone's-throw, her village to visit in; and just a very few neighbours, with whom ordinary courtesies must be exchanged. And then, when Nevill married, she would consider the question as to whether she would take the Dower-house, as he had suggested, at the further end of the park, or take a flat in town, or a little house near Downside so as to be close to Jim. She rather thought the last plan would be best. But there was no hurry. There never was any hurry with Mrs. Fanning. Things would arrange themselves tranquilly when the time came.

Ill

There approached, as she sat regarding the landscape through the big curved window, in that almost motionless attitude that was so completely characteristic of her, the sound of weighty footsteps.

Anna turned her head as they came up the stairs, and saw that she had been right, and that it was Masterson himself who was bringing out her letters. This, she considered to be very nearly an honour; for there was no one in the whole world, she believed, quite like Masterson.

He had taken service under old Sir Nevill, as his body-servant, at least thirty years ago; and, such was his genius, had not only remained in it as butler, but had so impressed himself on the place that Hartley without Masterson simply would not be Hartley. One might as well blow up the porch or the pavilion at once.

His tact had been infinite when she had first come here to keep house. He had begged her pardon one morning, soon after her official arrival, and had requested to know whether madam wished or did not wish him to give her some kind of an idea as to how things were done at Hartley. His air of deferential detachment from any personal feeling in the matter had been so superb that the idea of impertinence was simply not to be entertained for an instant. His manner resembled that of one general who has been superseded by another in the conduct of a campaign, but who has vanquished every pulse of resentment: he merely desired to be of service to his successor if it were wished; not unless.

Of course she had thanked him very humbly and gravely. He had proceeded then, still with a magnificent deference, to point out one or two little matters that were not quite satisfactory, and then, begging pardon again, had departed. He had renewed his instructions later, on several occasions, had sketched for her the weaknesses as well as the virtues of Mrs. Canning, the housekeeper, and had suggested one or two little improvements. Then gradually these instructions had ceased, when Anna had been properly formed; and finally, he had manifested his entire acceptance of her rule by admitting her to the number of his superiors to whom he permitted himself to be brusque in private. This was the last distinction he could confer: he was never, for instance, brusque to the priest; he had never been brusque to her own husband. He never was brusque to anyone except his obvious superiors, and to them only in the strictest privacy.

Well, here he was, coming in at the door, a large figure of a man, grey-haired and rosy, with a fringe of white below his chin, in a swallow-tail coat with a V-shaped shirt-front. She wondered why he was here.

" The letters, Masterson? "

" Yes'm. Letter from Sir Nevill, 'm."

He extended a silver tray to her, and there, on the top was the envelope addressed in Nevill's neat upright hand, with the Italian stamp in the corner. (That explained Masterson's ceremonial, then.)

She took it at once, with a certain eagerness. She had not had a line from him since the note in Easter week which announced that he wanted to stay a little longer than he had at first intended. (It was just like Masterson, she thought, to have scrutinised the letters, and to have remarked on it so frankly. But she knew the cause to be sheer loyalty.)

Masterson retired to the door and stood there waiting. Jack, thinking that something was required of him, thumped his tail again three or four times; but his friend regarded him severely. It would be entirely as incorrect for him to recognise Jack in public, as to allow the familiarities, under the same circumstances, to Jim, which he would permit in the pantry. Jack ceased, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

There was a minute of silence in the pavilion after Nevill's letter had been opened; broken only by the chuckle of the river beneath the pavilion window. Anna remembered afterwards the significant little silence.

Then she looked up sharply.

" Yes, Masterson? Is there anything? "

He raised his eyes for a moment, and then dropped them again.

" No'm.... No news of when Sir Nevill returns, 'm?"

She seemed dazed a little.

" No.... I don't know. I'll tell you when I've read it.... He... he "

She broke off again.

Again came the silence, as she turned back once more to the first page. Then Jill sat up and uttered a loud melodious yawn. Masterson still lingered an instant; and then turned and went out.

So it had come at last — the news of Nevill's engagement — for which she had waited so long. She had told herself again and again that it might come at any time, and that it must come sometime. Yet, now that it had come, it brought to her a greater shock than she had anticipated. It seemed curiously disappointing that it should have come in such a way, without the faintest indication of its approach. She had thought, somehow, that she would have been a witness of the first stages of the affair; that she would know the girl herself; that she would watch Nevill and see how matters developed — perhaps, even, that she would be the confidante of the girl. Two or three names had passed before her mind as possibilities....

For that kind of thing she had been ready enough; she had rehearsed, smiling faintly to herself, little scenes that might have happened; she had even thought that Nevill might come and tell her in this very pavilion. Well, he had told her here, after all; or rather his letter had told her. But it had not been as she had rehearsed it.

She read the name again — Enid Bessington. No; she had never heard of Enid Bessington. It appeared to her curiously disconcerting that anyone called Enid Bessington should be engaged to her nephew Nevill.

A second disappointment lay in the news that she was not a Catholic: and she made haste to take refuge in this. It was quite a sharp little blow that this was so. Of course she had faced the possibility; but a possibility is very different from an assured fact. Of course, too, Nevill said that she was thoroughly broad-minded; that she had definitely made to him the promises as regarded the Catholic upbringing of the children (if there were any), which she afterwards would renew before the marriage was celebrated; he even said that he thought she might very likely become a Catholic herself. But all young men in love thought that kind of thing.

So Anna fixed upon this point as her principal little grievance — as the explanation of her very sharp dismay at the whole news.

For she would not have been human, after all, unless there had always remained in the background of her mind a consciousness that, in spite of probabilities to the contrary, Nevill really might not marry. Never for a moment had she ever permitted herself to wish that he would not: it was entirely right that he should; she had expressly urged it, again and again. Yet she was the mother of Jim, after all; and Jim certainly had been heir-presumptive ever since he had been born; — was, in fact, still the heir-presumptive. Her humanity therefore made its subconscious protest, and experienced its subconscious dismay. But it was wholly subconscious; she would not, even this moment of surprise, allow it to be more. Two points only did she permit to dwell on her mind as disconcerting— one, that Enid Bessington was entirely unknown to her, and the other, that Enid Bessington was not a Catholic.

And then, as she turned the last page of the four she perceived that she must not allow those to be grievances. Nevill was the head of the house; he was perfectly free; he must follow his heart.

" Mummy."

She looked up suddenly; and the heir-presumptive stood in the doorway.

He really was a picture. He had been out riding for a good two hours this morning on a small and very determined little pony, that was, for all that, not so determined as his rider; and he was still flushed from that strenuous exercise and from the cold bath that had followed it. He was close on eight years old; as upright as his mother;

he had a singularly fair complexion and straight golden hair, cut like a fourteenth century page's — (it was deplorable to think that by this time next year it would have to be cropped instead) — bright grey eyes like her own, and an exceedingly resolute mouth. He was back in his sailor-suit now, barefooted; instead of in the perfectly ridiculous and perfectly charming little riding-suit and boots in which he had come to breakfast.

Poor little heir-presumptive!

" Yes, my darling! "

" May I come in? "

He said it like a sort of aside; but it was strictly according to rule that he must ask this always when she was here with her letters. He was beaming on the collies as he asked it.

" Yes, come in."

She watched him first sit down suddenly between the collies and then roll over in a kind of ecstasy, bringing an arm round each shaggy neck and dragging each long nose down into the back of his head. An indescribable sound rose from the entangled group, of scratching claws, loud excited moans from Jill, the steady good-humoured growling of Jack, and long whines of pleasure from the boy.

She watched them meditatively.

"Well; be dirty again, if you like," she said, "but remember you'll have to wash and brush your hair all over again."

He sat up, his whole face screwed tight with delight and with the physical ecstasy of having been scratched and nosed all over the back of his neck.

"Oh! Mummy," he began — "No, Jill; go away; I don't want you."

He pushed her violently in the chest.

" Come up here if you want to keep clean — get down, Jill!"

He climbed up behind his mother, and threw his arms round her waist.

" Oh! Mummy! " he said, " how jolly it all is! "

At moments like this a kind of joy ran through her that very nearly terrified her. Jim's superabundant vitality continually broke out in violent caresses. He would suddenly embrace his pony's nose before mounting and kiss him between the eyes; or he would roll on the ground, as just now, between the collies; or, again, it was his mother now and then whom he fiercely embraced. He was just one tingling four foot of life that burst out irrepressibly. He had, of course, as such natures do have, long meditative intervals in which he stared, steadily and unseeing, at some entirely familiar thing and when questioned gave what seemed a wholly inadequate subject to occupy his mind so utterly. And then, as abruptly and as inconsequently, he would set his small teeth in a passion of affection and seize his mother — or even Master-son's trousered leg would do — and say how jolly it all was.

But at this moment, breaking upon the news that she had just had, and on her knowledge of the amazing change that it registered in his fortunes, his embrace was like a sword for pain. She felt herself suddenly flush; then she too seized him, pulled him round and kissed him almost savagely between the eyes. Then, ashamed, she recovered herself.

" There, my dear, and now pick up that letter you've just knocked down, and give it me. It's from Cousin Nevill; and he's coming back on Saturday. Quick; or Jill '11 get it."

Mr. Morpeth, who was coming to lunch, as she had reminded Jim half an hour ago, and in whose honour, therefore, he must be even more speckless than usual, was a man she was beginning to like particularly.

At first he had been a name to her, and nothing else. In the long run she managed most of the estate of which Nevill was the official owner; and it was to her, therefore, that the agent had come and reported, six months ago, that an exceedingly desirable tenant had applied for the Dower House, that he was a Catholic with one daughter, that he was a retired business-man of tolerable wealth, that he had made no difficulties at all and that, while he would have preferred a longer lease, he was perfectly willing to sign one for a year only, with a first option of renewing it at the same rent every year for ten years at least. (Nevill had insisted on these terms in case Aunt Anna might want the house herself.)

For the first three months after his arrival she had seen no more of him than absolute courtesy demanded. He and his daughter dined with them once, and no more. Ella, the daughter, was just ordinary, who seemed to make no demands on anyone; and her father had appeared to be exactly what he was — a sensible, quiet sort of man, of almost sixty, who had obviously been in business, and noWj no less obviously was glad to be out of it and at peace in the country. Anna could have said no more of him than that. She was just aware that he was paying a good deal of attention to his garden.

Then there had been some trouble about a son of one of the keepers, who had been arrested for poaching. He was a wild hopeless kind of boy, exceedingly independent and irresponsible. She had met Mr. Morpeth one day after Mass and she happened to mention to him her difficulty about the lad; she had talked to him, she said, without the smallest effect; and was in despair as to his future. Then, she scarcely knew how, it had been arranged that Mr. Morpeth was to see him. He had done so; and a day or two later came up to report his success.

That success, it appeared, had been complete. Dick had capitulated; had promised to enter regular employment and was to come up to apologise in person. (This he did next day.) But that was not all; it was the character of a few remarks that Mr. Morpeth had made to herself that had made her for the first time regard him with interest. This whiskered gentleman, it appeared, knew a considerable amount more about human nature than she did; and his manner of speaking of Almighty God, too, had been peculiar.... So, little by little, she had begun to understand that Mr. Morpeth was — well — •a little beyond her power of understanding. She knew •as yet hardly more than that; but she was aware that she would like to know a good deal more. He interested her quite remarkably. Among other things she had come to the conclusion that he was exactly what she meant by a gentleman; and she meant a good deal by that.

Jim had gone in to make himself ready for the second time; and she was still sitting with Nevill's letter in her hand, and the rest unopened, when she saw Mr. Morpeth coming across the lawn. She was conscious of a sudden pleasure at the sight of him. Somehow it was reassuring. She stood up briskly to greet him.

" Come in, Mr. Morpeth," she said. " The bell hasn't rung yet. Good-morning."

He looked very ordinary indeed as he came up the steps.

He was in his usual grey tailed suit, and carried his Panama hat in one hand and his handkerchief in the other. His high bald forehead shone with heat, and he was a little flushed with walking. There was nothing whatever noticeable about him except his kindly eyes, and these were not anything extraordinary.

" Good-morning," he said. " Yes; it's quite warm, isn't it? I came across the grass. The swifts are beginning to build, by the way."

" You know all about that kind of thing, don't you? " she said. " I love it too; but I don't know anything."

He carefully wiped his forehead once more, and then the inside of his hat; and set hat and handkerchief together on the floor by his chair. Jack rose solemnly and put his nose to them; then he placed that same nose on Mr. Morpeth's knee and regarded him contemplatively. Mr. Morpeth put a hand on the dog's head.

" Yes," he said; " that kind of thing; and Almighty God. Those, I may say, are my business just now." It was just that sort of sentence that had first attracted Anna's attention. At first she had thought it the peculiar kind of thing converts did say; but she had begun to perceive that it was characteristic of this individual rather than of any general type. He said it quite simply and unaffectedly.

She smiled a little, and nodded in assent.

" I've just heard from Nevill," she said. " He's... he's coming back on Saturday."

" I hope he's better," said Mr. Morpeth politely.

" Well; he doesn't say anything about his headaches; and he seems to have been doing a good lot. So I should think he was."

" He saw a doctor before he went abroad, you said, I think?"

" Yes, indeed; I made him. And he must see him when he comes back too. But "

She stopped. Nevill had said nothing about keeping the engagement private; and yet she was not quite sure whether he meant her to speak of it.

" Yes? You were going to say? "

She suddenly decided she would speak of it. That was the kind of effect that this man's presence did have on her: he seemed to her, in his soul, at least, to be rather like an experienced priest, or a wise doctor. His persuasiveness lay in his eyes, she thought. They were not at all perfect in shape, or exceptionally large, and anything of that kind; but they were narrow and very blue and exceedingly kindly-looking.

" Mr. Morpeth," she said, " I may as well tell you. Of course you understand it's confidential until you hear of it from outside. But Nevill's engaged himself to be married."

"Yes?"

" It's what I've always told him to do, of course. But "

" But naturally it's rather a shock, now it has come; because of your boy."

That pricked her sharply; and she started. For an instant she thought herself offended.

" I quite see that. I cannot imagine its being otherwise," continued Mr. Morpeth tranquilly.

" Oh dear me! " she said. " Yes, of course you're right. That does come in. But that's not all."

" She's probably a Protestant," observed Mr. Morpeth next.

Then indeed she was startled.

" How in the world did you know? " she asked.

" My dear Mrs. Fanning; it's quite simple. First you aren't quite happy about it; and next — well — Sir Nevill was almost sure to marry a Protestant. You haven't met her, I expect; and that's another point."

She laughed outright.

" Well, you'd better give me the news instead," she said, with an air of mock-resignation. " I suppose you can't guess her name? "

" That's quite beyond me "

" You must tell me," she cried. " How did you guess I hadn't met her? And what in the world do you mean by saying that Nevill would be sure to marry a Protestant? "

" Well; I guessed you hadn't met her; partly because you didn't mention her name, and I think you would have mentioned it first of all if you knew her. And then, I thought from your manner that there was another point you did not quite like; and I could think of nothing else."

" Well; it was a very brilliant shot; and perfectly right. And now about the other."

For a moment Mr. Morpeth did not speak. He dropped his eyes to Jack, and passed his hand over the smooth head two or three times. There was no look in his face as if he were aware he had been at all clever: he was quite natural and quiet. Then he spoke.

" Well," he said, " it's most impertinent of me. But since you ask me, I should say simply that Sir Nevill struck me, on the one or two occasions I met him, as being that kind of young man. He's a little restless, you know; he rather resents being in prison, as he thinks it; and he's very independent, really. Well; that kind of man usually does marry a Protestant; partly because there are a good many more Protestants than Catholics in England; and partly because he would be attracted by their appearance of independence. Sir Nevill is not initiated... if I may use the phrase."

Up to the last sentence she understood him perfectly and agreed with him; though never before had she so put it to herself. But she perceived it to be quite true. But the last sentence was beyond her.

" What do you mean by initiated? " she asked gently.

Again he waited an instant before answering. His hand passed rhythmically over the head still passive on his knee, and beneath the ears. His eyes wandered out for a moment through the open door to the lawns and the great house. Then Jill, who had been watching the caresses with liquid pained eyes, whined suddenly.

" There! go and lie down," he said softly, " your wife's getting jealous.... Initiated, Mrs. Fanning? Well; I hardly know what other word to use. Well; the difference between your nephew and yourself, if I may venture to say so."

As his eyes came round to hers she was conscious of a sudden slight flush of pleasure across her bewilderment; and, simultaneously, understood, or thought she understood what he meant. Yet it surely was an odd phrase.

" Please be more explicit," she said, smiling.

" Well, you know," said Mr. Morpeth, " of course I don't profess to say there's a hard and fast line. But it's quite plain, surely, that there is one class of persons on one side and another on the other. The one accepts what happens, so soon as it really has happened; and the other does not. The one knows that the past is inevitable, and the other is not sure. The one is not surprised at things, and therefore does not resent them; he is behind the scenes, so to speak, and understands what it is all about, even if he cannot quite make out the details; and the other looks on from the stalls, and knows nothing except what he sees. I suppose that is more or less what I meant just now."

" But Nevill's a Catholic/' said the woman rather inconsequently, as she thought.

" Oh, yes, and I cannot imagine his being anything else. But for all that he struck me as not initiated."

She opened her lips to speak; and then closed them again. Simultaneously the stable bell began to ring.

" Well, shall we go to lunch? " she said.

It was nearly four o'clock before she found herself alone again in the pavilion; and, somehow or other, the situation wore a very different complexion from that of this morning.

At lunch, of course, they had talked of all the things that did not matter. Ella, it appeared, was not yet back from town; the garden of the Dower House was shaping really excellently. Dick Fottrel, the gamekeeper's turbulent son, was doing well on the railway.

Jim, too, so admirable was his behaviour, demanded a certain amount of conversation. He did not interrupt once while high and grown-up matters were being discussed; but his look of pathetic self -repression made it entirely necessary for the history of the water-hen incident of this morning to be thoroughly reviewed, and for reassurances to be given to the authorities that neither Jack nor Jill had shown any signs of having disturbed a possible nest. Plans, also, had to be sketched with a view to Cousin Nevill's return on Saturday, and the probabilities debated as to whether he might not possibly, seeing that Jim's eighth birthday came in June, forestall that event by giving him his first lesson in tennis, promised so soon as that date should be reached.

Jim, too, had come out with them for coffee into the pavilion afterwards, for the performance of the usual ceremonies with Jack and Jill, who were allowed to lick the inside of the coffee-cups clean of sugar, on condition that Jim carefully dirtied them again afterwards. It was Jim's peculiar delight, " because it was so beastly," to smell those cups after the dogs had licked them; and indeed the odour of coffee and dog mixed is as startling as a chord crashed on a piano.

When, at last, Jim was gone away to see if Charles the footman would consent to come and bowl to him at the net; the two had begun again.

It became more and more astonishing to Anna to find how quickly she was understood by this prosaic old gentleman. Not only did he seem to understand her instantly, but he seemed to be familiar too with the processes and grounds that underlay what she had always thought to be small fancies of her own. For instance, she had spoken of the death of Nevill's father, as being one of the most impressive and terrible scenes she had ever witnessed. It was pretty notorious that he had lived an exceptionally wild life; and that he had died comparatively young in consequence; so she was guilty of no indiscretion in what she said.

" What astonished me most," she said, " was my nephew's splendid behaviour. His father clung to him, you know, very much at the end — he was simply terrified at the thought of death. Even the priest — it was old Father Benedict we had then, you know — even the priest seemed rather taken aback by some of the... the things that happened. But Nevill — my nephew, I mean — was splendid. He never faltered or showed the least sign of fear, you know. Now what do you make of that, Mr. Morpeth? He was the strongest person there."

The old man nodded quietly, without speaking.

"No; but tell me," she said eagerly. "Doesn't that look as if he was Initiated, as you call it? "

He looked up at her questioningly.

" Yes, I mean it," she said. " Tell me."

" Well; I should think it was his Paganism that supported him; not his Christianity."

" Yes; that was exactly true." She perceived it the moment he had said it. It was certainly not Nevill's grip of what lay beyond death that had been his strength; he loathed death and pain, and had said so, again and again. But it was a fine sort of defiance that had inspired him. Simply, he would not be beaten. She had fallen silent when Mr. Morpeth had said that.

She had gone on to describe presently — so extraordinarily sympathetic did she find this old man — another incident connected with that deathbed.

" Just before the end," she said, " he was a little quieter. (It was up in the big room in the front, you know. We haven't used it at all, since then.) Well, just before the end, he said a rather dreadful thing. He was holding on to my nephew with both hands: he kept his strength, you know, extraordinarily. That was partly what made it all so much more terrible. Well; he seemed to think that Nevill would suffer for him, somehow... that... that it was sure to be so. Well; but Nevill took him up, and said that he only hoped he would. Of course, he didn't mean it. I don't think any of us knew what we were saying.... But it was a fine thing to say, wasn't it? "

" It was quite a fine thing to say," repeated Mr. Morpeth tranquilly.

She bit her lip sharply.

" I see what you mean," she said. " You mean that he didn't mean it! "

" You thought so too., though," he said gently.

" Well; I did; and I do still. But do you think that kind of thing really does happen — people offering themselves for others? "

" Why, yes," he said, as gently as ever. " The Old Law even said that it would be so; and the New Law underlined it, surely."

" I don't understand."

" Well; the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. That is in Nature, as we say. And the New Law says that the children ought to be ready to accept it, willingly. That is the whole idea of Atonement, is it not? "

It seemed very simple, put like that, thought Anna.

" But... but you don't think in this case " she began, suddenly a little afraid.

He spread his hands in a small gesture.

" Who in the world can tell? " he said. " We know the principles of things: but no more. In any case it will be all perfectly well."

Somehow, then, when he left her an hour later she felt reassured all round. This morning, for the few minutes after the opening of NevilFs letter and before the old gentleman's arrival, she had been conscious of a considerable interior disturbance. Now, though he had uttered scarcely a word to reassure her directly, though, even, he had, superficially, corroborated all her fears, she was aware of comfort. It was not that he had taken anything away; rather, he had drawn pointed attention to the facts. But he had seemed to present them in a new sort of setting; and they looked quite different. There remained Enid Bessington; there remained Jim's altered position and prospects; there remained even more than a suspicion that Nevill was not entirely satisfactory. Yet the air had changed....

She sat again in the window-seat, staring out at a dancing Mayfly that had rashly left the far bank to adventure himself into the gardens whose scent, perhaps, was drawing him. She was thinking steadily, and with a restored tranquillity, of this new setting of ideas, and simultaneously had her own attention fixed on the Mayfly.

He was dancing up and down in a frenzy of delight; now, for a fleeting instant he tapped the glassy surface of the stream, now he whirled a couple of feet above it.

(" It'll be all right," she whispered to herself, thinking of the engagement.)

The Mayfly was nearing safety: one more whirl would land him on the grass. But once more, for the last time, he dipped, close to the bank; and as he dipped, a swirl rose to meet him; a dark nose showed for a moment in the midst of the glass and was gone again: and so was the Mayfly.

She caught her breath for the fraction of a second.

" But it's all part of the scheme/' she said aloud.