Chapter IV

ANNA sat in the hall, late on the Saturday night, waiting for the wheels that would bring her nephew home.

It was a great room this, in which she sat, running the whole depth of the house from front to back, from the double doors that opened on the porch on the west, to the double doors that opened upon the curved stairway into the garden on the east. The lower half of the hall was panelled, some twelve feet up; and above hung the long Fanning portraits — a very nearly complete set from the days of the Second Charles — tilted a little forwards, with a shaded electric light at the head of each. On the north side of the hall opened three doors — dining-room, servants' staircase, and smoking-room; on the south side, two doors; the one nearer to the front led to the drawing-rooms; then came the open fireplace, then the door of the big square morning-room, and beyond it again, close to the garden entrance, rose up the great staircase that turned twice and ended in a hanging gallery that led right round the square. From this again, opened out the bedrooms and first-floor passages. Tall windows, above and below the gallery, four in each wall, lighted the hall, and, in sunshine, showed even the high painted roof that was on a level with the top of the first floor.

It was, then, a room of very great dignity. The furniture was big and splendid; the floor, under the rugs and between, was laid with flagstones: there was some good armour, of Cavalier days, between the portraits: a little copper and silver, and a glass cabinet or two of china, lit up the darker corners. An organ stood between the fireplace and the door of the morning-room; and there were high tapestried chairs about the hearth.

In one of these sat Anna. She always looked singularly young in evening-dress; her hair seemed as if powdered; her arms and throat were smooth and white. But she had not in the least the air of trying to appear younger than her years. She wore plenty of jewellery and a little fall of black lace, as if to make quite sure of this.

She had dined alone, an hour ago; and had suggested to Masterson to bring the tray in here, so soon as the traveller arrived. Nevill had wired from Folkestone that the boat was late and that he would dine in town. It was, of course, quite dark by now; but she had told the men to leave the windows uncurtained, as it was a still night of stars. Partly she wanted to look at these; and partly she thought it would be pleasant for Nevill, if he cared to look, to see the four windows all aglow with welcome. She had had a wood fire lighted on the hearth, and in Nevill's big bedroom upstairs. She had quite a strong instinct that everything must be very alluring and pleasant for his home-coming, particularly under these circumstances.

She had had plenty of time during these last four days to steady herself for the encounter. Mr. Morpeth had, undoubtedly, set her attitude. She must just take it as done. Nevill was doing nothing that needed protest; he was his own master; he had every possible right to get married; and it was not in the least necessary that his aunt should give her opinion. He must settle such things for himself. There must not therefore be allowed to show even the shadow of a grievance. She must be entirely sympathetic and optimistic. She must congratulate him — really congratulate him and be interested in Enid. She must show that she was really satisfied. And then, when all that had been done, she must begin to make her own arrangements, and ask his advice. But she was feeling quite sure that the Dower House would not do. It was much too near.

She was very pensive, for all her resolution, as she sat quite still and listened for the wheels. She had put down her book, half an hour ago; and had so sat ever since, looking tranquilly into the fire. Jim was asleep long ago, of course. She had looked in immediately after dinner into his room, which was next her own; and he had resembled an angel. Sometimes he stirred in his sleep as she bent over him; to-night he had not.

The house too was as quiet as such a house ever can be. The servants were still at supper; the night was windless, and the fire one noiseless glow. She seemed to herself to be in a kind of parenthesis, in more ways than one. The day of Jim and small duties, and going out to the pavilion and back again — this was all over. And Nevill was not yet come. Presently, she knew, the bell would ring from the lodge-gate half a mile away, as the carriage went by. Then there would break out footsteps and the sound of doors. Masterson would come through and unlock the front-door; there would be the sound of skirts overhead as a maid went for a last look at the young man's bedroom fire. Then there would come the sound of trotting; then the roll of wheels; and then... and then Nevill would be here again, in this hall — its master come home — and nothing would be the same ever again.

As she thought of these things, the silence suddenly impressed itself on her, as a presence. She became aware, with a sudden movement of her mind, not of the mere negative fact of the absence of sound, but of the positive fact of the presence of silence. The situation, viewed dramatically, as she had just viewed it, seemed to have tightened up her nerves and her intuitions. It appeared to her as if Silence had just spoken; and there ran a little shiver of apprehensiveness through her.

She turned her head, ashamed of herself, to look round the great dusky hall, lit only by hidden lights high up behind the cornice. It was all solemn and dignified and large. Yet even the hall had a kind of significance — she did not know of what. It seemed as if it too waited, like a set scene, for an actor to speak and move.

And then, with a sudden sharp thrill of real fear, she became aware of the great corniced door at the head of the stairs — kept locked now, she knew, ever since Nevill's father had died behind it, in the big bed, gripping the hand of his son. She had passed that door, for a few months after the tragedy of that death, with a distinct sense of discomfort, every time she went upstairs or down, particularly after nightfall. But she had got over that, more than three years ago: she had even gone in one night, alone, with her candle in her hand, and looked round the room and at the great hearse-like bed. Yet here again, was the same sudden thrill of terror, sharp and strong, like the blade of a sword laid against the throat.

This would never do....

She shifted her position in her chair, turned her head deliberately and stared up to where the gallery began. There was the high carved banister, black against the pale wall; the great cornice over the door beyond it. And... and of course there was no one there, leaning over the banister, with crossed arms... in a certain flowered dressing-gown.... It was all as empty as... as she knew it was.

A swing-door banged somewhere out of sight; her heart leapt for an instant and then raced. For footsteps came along the passage from the servants' quarters and the middle door opened. And then there was Masterson, exactly as she had rehearsed, and Charles behind him.

" The lodge bell's just rung, 'm/' said Masterson on his way to the front-door.

The young man looked really extraordinarily well, she thought, as she sat and watched him at his little supper. He had refused to go upstairs and wash his hands: he had said that half the pleasure of coming home lay in doing exactly what he liked, instantly; and what he wanted at that instant were two anchovy sandwiches, such as those he saw before him, and a whisky and soda. Then he wanted a cigarette: and then he desired to talk.

" You must just sit up for once, Aunt Anna," he said; " and that's all about it. After all, it's our house, isn't it? And if we choose to have breakfast with sausages and coffee and marmalade at a quarter past three to-morrow — who's to forbid us?"

Her heart gave her a little painful prick of happiness as he said " our house." Just for the present it was true, more or less; but it would not be so for long.

" To-morrow's Sunday," she said. " Father Richardson would have a word to say, if we didn't appear before a quarter past three."

" So he would. I forgot. And I bet he'd say it, too."

He spoke with just the faintest touch of bitterness. He did not much like Father Richardson.

It was a curious mingling of pain and pleasure that she felt as she watched him. He looked better, she thought, than when he had gone away three months ago. There was a line or two under his black eyes; but that was to be expected after a journey; and his hair somehow always reassured her; it looked so springy, and curly and so very black; it was not in the least characteristic of an invalid.

Certainly he was in high spirits at getting home. He talked very pleasant nonsense about the crossing from Boulogne, and a sporting Frenchman who had started very spry and chivalrous and had ended very limp. His face was quite green, still, even on Folkestone platform, said Nevill; and he had seen him shudder visibly at the sight of a cup of very strong station-tea that was thrust before him by his wife.

"And you've been well?" said Anna.

" Good Lord, yes," said Nevill. " I love the sea."

" I meant generally."

A shadow of annoyance came over his face, but passed again like a shadow.

" Oh, yes," he said indifferently. " Please don't ask me my symptoms. I hate Health."

" You mean "

" No I don't. I mean Health, Aunt Anna. It ceases to be health if you think about it."

" But really no more headaches?... No; do tell me: and then I won't ask any more."

" They're much better," said Nevill deliberately, lighting his cigarette. " Now, really — Hullo! "

As he turned to throw away his match his eyes caught a small white phantom at the end of the gallery overhead, where the southern bedrooms lay.

" It's only me, Cousin Nevill," said a rather doubtful voice from the gloom. " You see I heard you talking, and.

" Jim! how dare you? " cried his mother. " I told you distinctly you weren't to come downstairs."

"But I haven't, Mummy; I'm upstairs. So I thought "

" Go straight back to bed this instant."

" But, Mummy "

" Go straight back to bed."

Nevill raised his eyebrows to her in a question; and his lips just moved in a whisper. She nodded slightly. "Do what you're told, old chap," he said; "and don't argue. I'll come and see you in bed, if your mother says I may."

The small pyjamaed figure leant passionately forward.

" May he, Mummy? Oh! do tell me; and then I'll "

" Yes. Now go."

The phantom vanished.

A little silence fell between the two who sat below. To Anna, the apparition of her little son came as a startling symbol of the matter that still had to be discussed between Nevill and herself. If Nevill had instantly spoken, it would have been all natural enough; but he did not. She stole a glance at him; and he was smoking rather violently, and his eyelids drooped ever so slightly as they always did when he was uneasy or anxious or just a shade out of temper.

" By the way," he said, rather abruptly, after that tiny pause. "Have you told him?"

She did not pretend not to understand. That was not her way.

" No," she said. " Of course he's always known perfectly well that this wasn't his home — I mean " (she corrected herself) — " that it wasn't his own home. I don't suppose he's ever dreamt of anything else. But I haven't told him about your letter. I thought "

" I wonder if you'd like me to," said Nevill.

She smiled.

" He'd love it. Particularly if you told him as a secret. He loves secrets, you know."

"Have you told anybody?"

She hesitated.

" I've told one person," she said. " I daresay you'll think it very odd of me. But, you know, you didn't say I wasn't to."

" That's all right. It isn't a secret; though nothing's gone to the papers yet. Whom did you tell, by the way? "

"Well: you'll think it very odd; but I told Mr. Morpeth."

" What! That old chap at the Dower House, isn't he? Why in the world did you "

" Nevill, I like him. I like him very much. I can't think why. I simply had to tell him. I knew he'd be as discreet as the grave, anyhow. And he happened to come to lunch just after I'd got your letter."

" Oh, well. It's all right, anyhow. Aunt Anna! "

"Yes?"

" Look here. Do you mind? "

" Mind? Why, I'm delighted. Haven't I said again and again "

" Yes; of course: all that. But I mean that it came so suddenly; and that you don't know her; and all that."

She smiled delightfully.

" My dear boy; she's to be your wife; not mine. I'm perfectly certain that she's everything you think her; and if she isn't, why, you'll soon make her so."

" She's a Protestant, you know."

" Well, of course, if other things were equal I'd sooner she'd been a Catholic. But one can't have everything. The point is that you care for her, isn't it? "

Then he too smiled; and the very slight look of doubtfulness that had been on his face just now, passed again.

" Yes. That is the point, isn't it? At least it's one half. And... and the other point's all right too, I think. Look here, Aunt Anna: I simply must tell you about her. It's a dreadful thing to do, I know; but I shall burst if I don't."

"My dear boy, what do you think I'm here for? I'll gladly stay up till four in the morning if you'll talk about her. Don't you see I'm dying to hear?"

He settled himself back in his chair. She thought she had never seen him so radiant; and at that sight the last shred of hope that the thing was not absolutely settled left even the lowest reaches of her subconsciousness.

He first drew a cabinet photograph out of his breast-pocket.

" There! " he said, handing it across to her. " That's number one."

She took it eagerly; tilted it a little to catch the light; and looked at it. It presented Enid in evening-dress, standing en silhouette. The light was exquisitely managed, and every line of her profile told. There was a silence.

"Well?" said Nevill.

Her face rose to his, full of feeling.

" She's extraordinarily beautiful," she said quietly. "Now go on.... No; let me hold this. I want to look at it while you talk."

She leaned back, resting the photograph on her knee, to listen.

" I told you about her people in my letter/' he began. " I needn't say that all over again. Her father lost most of his money, as I said, when she was a child, and his place in Norfolk and all that. But her mother's quite well off and there aren't any other children. However, that doesn't matter anyhow."

" The point is Enid."

He lit another cigarette from the stump of the other, and tossed the stump in the fire.

" Well; she's exactly your sort," he began again. " I don't in the least want to flatter you, Aunt Anna; but you know what I mean. She's deep — in the right way. She doesn't care a hang about society and jawing and teaparties; she loathes them as much as I do; and very nearly as much as you do. That was how we made friends at first.

" Then she's religious. She isn't a Catholic, as I said; though of course she may become one. But I shan't press her to, in the least. She's got the real thing — that's underneath all religions. She said one or two extraordinarily good things about that, by the way — when I told her what she would have to promise, and all that. I told her that before I actually put my proposal into words, of course."

"What did she say?" asked Anna without the movement of a muscle.

" She said that she could not conceive that being any difficulty to anyone who understood. I didn't see quite what she meant, at first. Then I saw. She meant that real religion was quite independent of those things — that Catholicism was quite as good, as an...an external system, as anything else — if not better. In fact, I know she does think it the best of all. She said once she wished she'd been born a Catholic."

He paused. Anna did not move.

"Well; that's the main thing/' he went on. "That kind of thing matters more than anything. If that's all right, everything else will be. Then she's extraordinarily fond of out-of-door things — just like you, Aunt Anna. She told me how she hated the flat in town where she and her mother live sometimes; and about the garden of their country cottage. She'll simply love this place, you know. By the way, I promised to send her all the picture post-cards of it there are. Have you got a set to spare? "

" Oh yes," said Aunt Anna.

" Well, she and her mother are coming down at the end of the month — just for a few days. That'll be all right, won't it? "

" Why, my dear boy — of course...."

" Well, then, that's all right. Where was I? Oh! yes; about out-of-door things. I told her about the pavilion here; and she said that was exactly what she had always wanted.... What's the matter, Aunt Anna?"

" Nothing, my dear, nothing. I was only changing my position. Go on: I love to hear it."

" I told her how much you liked it too.... She wants to meet you, dreadfully, you know. She said she only wished you'd stay on here; but that she was perfectly certain you wouldn't; because the really nice people always went away just when you wanted them. That was nice, wasn't it? "

" Very nice," said Aunt Anna.

" I suppose you won't stay, will you? "

She shook her head, smiling straight at him.

" My dear, it's perfectly beautiful of you to want me — and of her too. And I shall remember that always. But it wouldn't do for a single second."

"Why not?"

" Oh! do go on! We can talk all that out later. I want to hear about... about Enid."

Again his face beamed all over with pleasure; and again it came upon her, as it already had three or four times since he had begun to talk, how curiously and deliciously stupid men were sometimes. They were all just large editions of Jim; the meshes of their subtlety would let even camels march through.

" Well," he said, " I really don't know what else to say. You see... you see, I'm in love with her."

" You dear boy. You've said quite enough. She's... she's just right, I know. And how clever you are to say she's like me. Where did you learn your diplomacy? "

" No; but she really is, you know.... I say, Aunt Anna, you do look dog-tired. What a beast I am! "

A clock began to strike — solemn and sonorous strokes from a tall clock under the stairs.

" That's eleven," he said. " And you always go to bed at half-past ten. And I promised to see Jim."

" Well; I think I will go to bed," she said. " I think there's thunder about. You won't wake Jim, will you, if he's asleep? "

He grinned as he rose.

" I think I'd bet ten pounds Jim won't be. He's a determined child. By the way, I'll take my own time to tell him, if you don't mind."

She nodded.

She was standing now, and looking straight at her nephew; at his upright square-shouldered figure and his bronzed face.

" You look a shade tired yourself," she said — " now I look at you. No headache? "

" Just a touch," he said. " But only train-headache."

"Well: I shall tell them not to call you."

She moved across to the bell.

" Nonsense, Aunt Anna — I tell you "

" And I say ' Nonsense/ too," she said. " You must do as you're told, like Jim. By the way, Masterson was so anxious when you didn't write. He brought me your letter, when you did — and stood over me like a gaoler till I could see there was no bad news."

" You mean that letter "

" Yes: the one I opened in the pavilion, you know."

" And you'll swear you didn't — didn't think it bad news? "

" You silly boy — the best in the world.... Here's Masterson.... Masterson, Sir Nevell mustn't be disturbed to-morrow till he rings. He'll tell Charleson if he wants breakfast in bed."

" Aunt Anna "

" You understand, Masterson, don't you? "

" Yes'm."

" And you'll remember too, Charleson? "

" Yes'm."

" Well; good-night, my dear."

He bent his head to her, and she kissed him lightly on the forehead, as her custom was.

He stood waiting until he heard her skirts go rustling along the gallery towards her room. Then he kissed his hand to her. (What a darling she was! he thought; and how Enid would love her!) Then he turned to Master-son, who was solemnly removing the tray, not out of the hall, because Charles must do that; but on to a side-table near the entrance to the servants' passage.

" Well, Masterson, I'm glad to be home again."

"Yes, Sir Nevill."

" You don't think much of foreign parts, Charleson told me."

Masterson set the tray down emphatically.

" No, I don't," he said, without the faintest deference, as his manner was with the select few who were his idols. " And I don't know whatever you find to stay out there so long."

Nevill smiled delightedly. This was indeed a home-coming.

" Masterson," he said, " I want to tell you something. But you're not to tell anybody else till it's public."

Masterson regarded him stiffly.

" You've put your finger on the spot, Masterson, as usual. I've found a wife — I mean she's going to be. That's what kept me in foreign parts so long."

Masterson grew positively rigid.

" I've told you as an old friend," continued Nevill. " I've told nobody else in England but Mrs. Fanning. Now then, what have you got to say? "

Masterson's grim lips moved; but no sound came from them.

" Shake hands, Masterson; and wish me luck."

Masterson took the hand in a violent grip; his mouth shook with emotion; but he said nothing. He wheeled and went out. Nevill was content. He understood the other well enough.

Upstairs in the passage outside Jim's room and his mother's a single shaded light was still turned on, showing the boy's door to be open.

Nevill pushed upon it with infinite delicacy; and it made a little brushing sound over the carpet inside.

" Cousin Nevill, I'm awake," sounded a small voice from within.

Nevill went in, but still cautiously.

" You little disobedient brute/' he said. " I'm sure your mother told you to go to sleep. Where are you? "

" I'm here."

He made his way across towards the voice; and presently found the edge of the bed with his shin, and drew his breath swiftly, with the exquisite pain. But he had no time to recover himself: a pair of arms seized him round the neck and dragged him sideways on to the bed. Then he felt himself violently kissed all over his ear.

" Put your head down on the pillow by me, Cousin Nevill.... Oh! how ripping this is! "

He did what he was told; but his headache was certainly a little worse than it had been ten minutes ago. Then in the gloom he began to feel the warm sweet breath of this child on his face. The small hands were again clasped behind his head.

" And tell me everything, Cousin Nevill," whispered the voice.

" My dear, I can't possibly. I can't breathe."

A chuckle of laughter sounded; and the hands slightly relaxed.

" You can. Go on. Did you see the Pope? "

" Yes, of course I did."

"What's he like?"

" He's just an old man in white."

" Did you kiss his toe? "

" No. No one does nowadays."

" Oh!... Did you see the wolves? "

" What wolves? "

" The Romulus and Remus wolves. I mean their children."

" No. I didn't know there were any."

" Of course there are. Miss March told me last week. Did you see the King? "

" I... Yes... I did. In a dogcart."

"Oh! Is he very tall?"

" No: very small."

" Oh!... I thought he was big. Are you sure you saw him? "

" Of course I'm sure.... Oh! Jim! don't pinch so. And, you know, I only came to say good-night."

(His headache was, indeed, in full blast now. It beat intolerably; and every pulse was pain. He allowed to himself that this was not a train-headache after all. It was the real crusted old brand, he told himself.)

"Well; one more thing. Will you teach me tennis to-morrow afternoon? "

" I...1 should think so. Why shouldn't I?" (He had entirely forgotten the solemn arrangement of waiting till Jim's eighth birthday.)

The entire body of Jim jumped with delight, like a newly caught trout on the grass; and every bounce shook Nevill's tormented head. The headache was growing like a storm.

"Oh! Jim; do let go. I'm... I'm not very well."

" Aren't you? Were you seasick? "

Nevill sat up; and in the dark pressed his hands on his temples.

" No; I wasn't seasick at all. But I must go, Jim. See you to-morrow."

"Well; kiss me, can't you?"

Nevill bent and kissed him.

" Good-night, Cousin Nevill."

" Good-night, my dear."

At the door once more the voice reached him.

"Good-night, Cousin Nevill." " Good-night, old chap."

" Leave the door open, won't you? Or else the cat can't get in."

" All right, old chap.... Good-night." " Good-night."

He blinked as he came out into the light of the passage again; and still more when he reached the gallery looking over the hall; for the lights were not yet turned out, though he could hear footsteps moving about in one of the rooms that opened out of it — moving about, no doubt, on that mysterious business that always takes servants round a house the last thing at night.

For the moment the light seemed to relieve his eyes — perhaps as a kind of counter irritation; and he waited here, looking down into the hall before going on to his room that was next his father's old room on the other side.

The hall looked very big and majestic from here; and, as earlier in the evening to Anna, it appeared to him to resemble a stage, set for some play. The tall tapestried chairs in which the two had sat a while ago were still in the positions they had left them in, and the little table was between. The red light of the wood fire, now sunk to a steady glow, glimmered on the carving here and there.

And then he suddenly thought of what a perfect setting all this would be for Enid — how perfectly she would fit into the picture. He remembered her long dresses that had seemed to him curiously antique; the thin chain of pearls she wore round her neck; her masses of hair. In these two chairs, perhaps, they would be sitting together, probably, a few months hence. Aunt Anna would be gone, no doubt. That was a pity; and yet, perhaps, just for the first year or two, it might be better.

How exquisitely, too, Enid's slow movements would suit this place. A bustling girl, in a tweed skirt, would be as much out of place as a tourist in a Cathedral. He glanced down at one of the portraits he could see under the gallery to his right. That was Lady Brightington, he remembered, who had married his great-grandfather. He thought there was something of Enid in her pose — not, of course, the least in face or expression; but just in her still manner and dignity.

Then he remembered that Aunt Anna had not given him the photograph back, and clapped his hand to his pocket. He must ask her for it to-morrow.

As he stood upright again from leaning on the banisters, his eyes fell (as again Anna's had done a couple of hours earlier) on the great corniced door that was the entrance to what had been his father's room; and to him too, came a memory of the tragedy that had been played behind it, and a touch of the fear that had been so vivid to him too, at the sight of it, for the first month or two after his father's death. Again the house was quiet. The footsteps below had ceased. The servant had probably gone out at the further end of whatever room he had been in.

Nevill stared a moment or two longer at the door. His pain was coming back now, in swift strides: the pulses that were like stabbing knives in the front and at the top of his head were prevailing more and more swiftly over the pulses that were comparatively painless. Yet, even through that pain, a strange fear made itself felt. To him, too, it seemed for a perceptible space of time, that if he kept his attention fixed on that door for a little longer, it might open, and a figure come out... in a flowered dressing-gown, with the bandages that held the ice like a terrible crown about the head. Or,... or perhaps even now, the door was open; and the figure was there, looking at him: it was only that he could not see it....

And then the pain drove all else away, as physical sensation can eliminate, if. it be but sharp enough, the more delicate tremors of the mind or soul; and he went to his room, telling himself that he was a ridiculous ass; and that he must see to it that the room was opened again properly, and inhabited once more. Perhaps he himself had better take it, and have done with it. Meanwhile, here was the headache to be reckoned with.

Two hours later he still was awake.

The usual programme was being carried faithfully through. He had taken his medicine which Charleson had set out, according to custom, on his dressing-table; and had then bathed his forehead, first in stinging hot water and then with eau-de-Cologne.

Then he had got ready for bed; and when all was ready had once more soaked his handkerchief and tied it round his forehead. Then he had got into bed, turned out the light, and pretended that he was going to sleep.

Then the interior drama had begun.

It was first a galloping horse that approached from the immeasurable distance to which the hot water and eau-de-Cologne had temporarily banished the agony — that approached, to announce to him that they were all coming back as fast as they could.

This horse galloped slowly and rhythmically, at a steady rate of progress; and the beat of his four hoofs all together marked the blows of pain that he experienced.

The horse came nearer and nearer, growing, as was but natural, in weight as he approached; until he was really there, so to speak. He remained there a few seconds — never longer than about a minute, apparently prancing to the same rhythm, in the same place, without otherwise moving at all. Then he began to recede again on the other side, intolerably slowly, it was true; but yet it was very nearly pleasure that he should recede at all. It was as this movement began that Nevill really resolved to go to sleep before the next. Again and again he reached the point of no longer feeling his limbs in the bedclothes; and once, even, he thought that Aunt Anna was by his bed, looking down on him with an expression he could not make out.

But at that moment two horses began to gallop, again in the immeasurable distance; and the worst of it all was that they would not keep in step.

These two then punctually pursued the course of their fore-runner; they approached, they arrived; they remained steadily prancing, the four feet of each rising and falling, not quite together; they began to recede.

Then, three horses came; then four; then five; and then a regiment. He tried to count them sometimes, in a kind of bitter humour; but they were unreckonable. They kept tolerably in step; that was one comfort; but they took longer to arrive, and remained longer, prancing. It was very nearly interesting, when they all pranced together: they looked almost ludicrous — this long line, from horizon to horizon — (the horizons, of course, were his own temples) — rising and falling together like performers in a circus.

Then even these began to recede — very" slowly, it is true — yet they receded, further and further, until the thunder of their hoofs was no more than a murmur... and at last silence.

Nevill began to breathe very carefully through his nostrils. He had already arranged his attitude. He turned on his side always, as soon as the troop began to move off; until that he lay on his face with the pillow clasped about his ears: he did so, that is, generally, after the group of three began to approach.

He lay then, softly, afraid to stir, lest a horse should begin to gallop up again to see what he was doing: and sometimes he managed really to go to sleep. But to-night it was useless. In spite of every conceivable precaution, the single horse began to suspect something, as he fed there miles away in the prairies, scarcely stirring the ground as he moved. He began to trot; he began to canter; to gallop... and the hunt was up.

It was as the clock struck half-past one in the hall below that Nevill sat up in bed, very nearly delirious with pain.

" This is perfectly ludicrous! " he said aloud to the listening night.

" Go very quietly past Cousin Nevill's room as you go downstairs," said Aunt Anna to Jim, coming in about eight o'clock, before he was dressed. " Cousin Nevill's only just gone to sleep. He's been awake all night with headache."

" Oh! has he? Won't he be able to teach me tennis to-day? "

" No. Now I'm going to Mass, or I shall be late. Mind you say a prayer for Cousin Nevill, when you get up."

" Yes, Mummy."

" And you mustn't bring the dogs upstairs all day."

" Not if I make them walk on tip-toe? "

" No; not even if you make them walk on tip-toe."