Chapter V

" COME in, old chap/' said Nevill.

Jim advanced from the door, by which he had partly entered, with a solemn awe on his face. It had been impressed upon him at last by his mother that Nevill really did not want the dogs to be brought in to cheer him; and when once he had grasped this, he had concluded that Nevill must be very ill indeed. At the same time, it was gratifying to be sent for immediately after lunch in order to see the invalid.

The boy's eyes wandered vaguely round the room as he paused halfway to the bed. The room had the same mysterious splendour that it always had when Cousin Nevill was at home — a splendour it had lacked terribly during these last three months. There was the mysterious row of boots in their little shelf; the silk dressing-gown hanging up by the bed, and, above all, the shining array of implements— silver and steel and glass ranged on the white covered dressing-table between the windows. There was a funny smell in the room too — very interesting and suggestive. Then his eyes came back to Nevill beneath the canopy.

"Are you going to die, Cousin Nevill? "

" Certainly not," said Nevill. " I shouldn't dream of such a thing. Why do you ask? "

Jim's round eyes roved again, and came back.

" Oh! Then perhaps you'd like the dogs. I've got them chained up in the hall on purpose; and "

" I don't think we'll have the dogs."

" I could make them jump on the bed," suggested Jim.

" I think not even on the bed.... Come round where I can see you, and say good-morning."

He was feeling considerably more cheerful after sleep and lunch and, of course, a cigarette. About seven he had rung his bell in despair, and when Charleson had appeared, had asked for tea. Up to that point he had, really, not slept at all. The galloping horses had been far too busy: he had not been aware that there were so many horses in the world, nor that they could be so untiring. They had galloped, with short pauses, for over seven hours: and his head felt bruised all over. After a cup of tea he had fallen asleep; and Charleson, re-entering from the bath-room on tip-toe, had retired still more on tip-toe and informed Mr. Masterson, and Mr. Masterson had informed Mrs. Fanning. Anna herself had peeped in about a quarter to eleven just before taking Jim to Mass, and again at twelve; and still Nevill slept. A little before one he rang his bell again and demanded shaving-water. Hypocritical Charleson had said " Yessir," without comment, and had immediately informed Mrs. Fanning, in person, this time; and a quarter of an hour later Anna herself had come in — just as Nevill was getting impatient.

" You're not going to have any shaving-water," she said. " I have given orders for all shaving-water to be locked up. You're going to lunch here, and go to sleep again afterwards. How do you feel, my dear? "

She sat down on the chair by his bed-side.

" I am perfectly well," said Nevill. " And I wish to know whether I am or am not the master of the house? "

" Well, if you wish to know, you are not. Masterson is the master and I am the mistress; and we say you're not to get up.... Why in the world are the curtains drawn back? "

" I told Charleson to. I can't bear the dark. Look here, Aunt Anna, this is ridiculous. I must get up: this is simply ridiculous."

" Lunch will be up in ten minutes. I ordered it; and Jim and I will eat what's left."

Nevill leaned back.

" Well, all right," he said, " for this once. But I assure you I shall get up afterwards. Don't let's argue any more. I've given in."

So finally it was arranged. Jim was to come and see him at two o'clock, and then, if he really felt all right, he might get up. Here then, Jim sat, with secret instructions to amuse Cousin Nevill as long as possible, until he — Cousin Nevill — looked sleepy. Then Jim was to retire, in good order, and very quietly, and not bang the door behind him.

" How funny you look," said Jim presently, when he had cautiously kissed Cousin Nevill and sat down again with his bare sandalled legs dangling.

"Funny! Why?"

" Well, you're all dirty on the chin — with hair, I mean."

" Oh — no worse than that? "

" And your eyes look funny."

Nevill was silent a moment.

"Jim, old man, is that wardrobe door open or shut?"

Jim regarded the wardrobe.

" Why, open of course."

" That's all right then," said Nevill, " I thought so."

"Are you going blind, Cousin Nevill?"

" No, of course not. Why do you want to know? "

" Oh! then why did you ask about the wardrobe? Can't you see for yourself? "

" Of course I can/' said Nevill a little sharply. " Did-n't I say that it was open? "

" Oh! " said Jim. " Yes; so you did."

Nevill felt a prick of compunction. But he really had not been quite sure. He had noticed two or three times since he had awakened that he did not seem to see very well. But it was certainly passing again.

" Sorry, old chap, if I spoke sharply. I didn't mean to."

Jim regarded him anxiously.

" I don't know what you mean," he said.

" That's all right then. How are the dogs? "

Jim did not answer. His meditative look had come on him, and he was gazing earnestly, it appeared, at NevilTs hands that lay clasped on the silk coverlet.

" Anything wrong this time with my hands, old chap? The rest seems pretty wrong, doesn't it? "

" I was thinking," observed Jim, with such gravity that Nevill was a little startled.

" What were you thinking about? "

" I was thinking whether I might get up on the bed."

" Why were you thinking that? "

" Because my legs are cold," said Jim. " But Mummy said I mustn't disturb you."

" That's all right. Jump up."

It was curiously soothing to his nerves to have this child with him. The very frankness of his inquiries as to dying and going blind was pleasant; and still more pleasant was the abrupt change of subjects. He wondered whether this would not be rather a good opportunity to tell Jim about the future. Jim arranged himself with great care. He first sat on the pillow within a foot of

NeviU's head; and then he drew up the coverlet over his own knees.

"Oh! is that over your face, Cousin Nevill?"

A stifled voice answered that it looked rather like it.

Jim earnestly re-arranged the coverlet, so that Nevill could breathe.

" That's all right," he said. " Now we're comfortable."

" Jim," said the young man, " I want to talk to you. Are you attending? "

" Yes, of course."

" Well, look here, you're to go to school next year, aren't you? "

" Mummy says so."

" Well, what Mummy says always comes true, you know. How would you like to go a bit sooner? "

" I wouldn't mind," said Jim meditatively.

" Then there's something else. How would you like to live in a house of your own? Just you and your mother? "

" And not you? "

" No, not me, old chap, unless you asked me to come and stay with you sometimes."

" Would it be a nice house? " demanded Jim, prudently.

" Ever so nice. Perhaps it would be the Dower House. That's not far, is it? "

The bed began to jump violently.

" Whatever's the matter?" asked Nevill.

" I'd like that."

"What? The Dower House? Why?"

" There's a well there," said Jim, " without a top to it. I threw a stone down one day."

" And you wouldn't really mind leaving here? "

" I'd come and see you sometimes."

" Of course you would. As often as ever you like."

" I could come, you know/' explained Jim carefully, " if you wanted me — if I hadn't anything else to do. You wouldn't mind so much then, would you? "

" Mind what? "

" Why, my not living here any more."

Nevill sighed with relief. That was half his task done. But he must be very careful.

" No, that'd be all right," he said. " Besides, I should have someone else here, you know. I'm going to be married, Jim. What do you think of that? "

" It's not to mother, is it? " asked Jim tranquilly.

" No; nephews can't marry their aunts, you know."

" Oh! And it's not to Miss Morpeth? "

" No. Why Miss Morpeth? "

" I want to marry her myself," said Jim.

" Well, that's all right; I won't stand in your way. How old's Miss Morpeth, by the way? "

" I think she's nearly twenty," said Jim. " But I shall be twenty sometime, too, you know."

" That'll make it all right then.... By the way, you're sure you understand what I've been saying — All about your going away, and all that? "

" Oh, yes," said Jim indifferently.

" And you don't really mind not having this as your house any more? "

There was dead silence. Nevill suddenly felt nervous. Was it really possible that he had misunderstood and that Jim did mind? That would be horrible.

" Jim, old chap? "

There was no answer. Nevill couldn't see the boy's face; it was both behind and above him. He tried to screw himself round, but the arranged coverlet beneath his chin gripped him like a strait waistcoat.

"Jim!"

"Oh! Yes?"

" What are you thinking about? "

" I was thinking whether you couldn't get up; and come out and teach me tennis."

Tea was in the pavilion, Masterson informed him, when he came downstairs at last, a little after four. He had told Jim that he was really very sorry about the tennis, and that a promise was certainly a promise; but then a headache was a headache. The promise should be redeemed this week, however.

He felt remarkably light and cheerful as he came out into the garden; he did not recognise however that it was of the nervous kind of lightness which passes rapidly into irritation. He perceived it was so, however, so soon as he caught sight of a long-coated black figure walking up and down with Anna. He did not much like Father Richardson, his chaplain and parish-priest.

The relationship between traditional Catholics and priests is a very peculiar one indeed. On the one hand there is the extraordinary reverence for the priesthood, quite incomprehensible to members of other religions — a reverence sufficiently strong in some countries, though not in England, to have formed the custom of allowing the priest to leave a room before ladies; and in England, strong enough to make a pompous squire of sixty years old and a landowner to stand up instantly when a young priest comes in, and out of doors to take his hat off emphatically, when he sees him even in the distance. Every possible reverence, therefore, on the official side is assured and taken for granted: the pompous squire will kneel humbly in the confessional and submit his judgment to that of his newly-ordained chaplain without hesitation; and, in the Catholic Church, it must be remembered, the priest may very easily be the eldest son of the squire's neighbour's gardener.

But the social side is quite another matter. It has even been known in such a traditional Catholic household, when the priest was of humble origin, that he should take his meals in the housekeeper's room without offence being either intended or taken. The two sides are there, emphatically; the man is a priest of the Most High God, and he may also be quite ill-bred; and some very pretty problems therefore sometimes result.

Now Nevill did not like his chaplain at all. He took off his hat to him like a man; he obediently sat in his pew and listened to his pastor's discourses: he even, occasionally, went to confession to him; he sent him game half a dozen times every winter, and fruit and vegetables all the summer: he provided his house for him and kept it in repair; he paid him one hundred and ten pounds a year; he paid all the expenses of the church, and put half a sovereign into the plate each Sunday morning, and five pounds on Easter Day.

And there he drew the line: he did not in the least consider himself bound to consort with him, nor to encourage him to run in and out of the house when he liked. The man was his priest; but not his friend.

An extraordinarily tactful chaplain, or a naturally very well-bred one might perhaps have seen the difficulty. Father Richardson did not. He had large powers — at least he had had them for about eighteen months — but he did not quite see where their limits lay: he was jealous of his dignity as priest; and was rather quick to think that what he considered a rebuff or a negligence was an insult to his priesthood. He had now called this afternoon, to deliver a rebuke that he considered necessary.

He was a small, very dark man, very blue about the chin and lips; he wore a flat hat, and a coat that was neither long nor short: his trousers were well moulded to his legs. Nevill, as he approached, regarded him with growing disfavour. He had three or four slight encounters with him on the more or less neutral ground between the clergyman's priesthood and manhood; and had not forgotten them.

Nevill had no hat on, so he could not raise it: but he lifted his hand in airy salutation.

" Good-afternoon, Father. Here I am, you see."

The priest gravely inclined his head.

" Good-afternoon, Sir Nevill."

" Back again, you see," Nevill went on, as he fell into step with the other two as they turned back towards the pavilion. " And I hope to be here for a month or two at least."

" I'm very glad to hear it," said the priest emphatically. " It makes a great difference when the squire's away."

There appeared to be a shadow of reproach in his voice. Nevill wondered whether the chap expected him to stay at home all the year round, in order to give a good example of churchgoing.

The gambit of conversation was a singularly unhappy one; for it gave the priest precisely the opening he wanted. Father Richardson had a fine working conscience, and a large sense of personal dignity to supply its motive power; and he had come here to-day expressly in order to rebuke the squire for not being present at Mass that morning.

As they came up the steps into the pavilion, he seized the opportunity. He preceded Nevill and followed Anna, and upon reaching the top step, turned round to relieve that conscience of his. The effect was that Nevill remained on a lower step, as if being lectured from a rostrum.

" I know you'll forgive me saying so, Sir Nevill; but I felt I must tell you what a very bad impression your not being at Mass this morning will have given to your Catholic tenants."

Nevill was completely taken aback. This was a more direct assault than he had ever received. Yet, if he had but known it, it really cost the poor priest a considerable effort to deliver such a rebuke. It was partly because he so feared it, that he had set about it so instantly.

" I beg your pardon, Father. I was ill."

The priest's face worked a little with nervousness. But he was not to be put off like this.

" So Mrs. Fanning was telling me; but I scarcely think "

Over the priest's shoulder Nevill caught a glimpse of Anna's amazed countenance. But his irritation surged up.

" If you'll have the goodness to let me come in and sit down, Father, instead of keeping me on the steps, perhaps "

The priest stood aside; and Nevill went by, hot with resentment.

" Sit down, Father."

He himself went across and sat by Anna in the window-seat.

" Father," began Anna, with a little tremor in her voice, " I don't think you quite understood what I was "

" Aunt Anna," interrupted Nevill quite firmly, " please let me deal with this. What are you complaining of, Father?"

The priest's little pointed face was very pale. But he sustained himself by his sense of duty, and dignity.

" I do not think that is quite the way to speak to a priest."

" I beg your pardon, Father," said Nevill, icily polite,

" if I was not courteous. I did not mean to be discourteous. Nor do I understand now, what I have said that I should not."

" Your manner, Sir Nevill "

" We will discuss my manners presently then; but let us first dispose of "

" Father/' cried Anna, utterly miserable, " I must tell you — No, Nevill; I will speak. Father, I was going to tell you that Sir Nevill passed an entirely sleepless night, through pain. He fell asleep about seven and "

" Aunt Anna, I am sorry to interrupt. But that is not in the least to the point. I want Father Richardson to tell me why he came here to find fault with me, as if I were a schoolboy, before he took the trouble to ask whether or not I was ill. I also wish to know whether he does not think that he exceeds his authority in coming here to scold me, for a matter that in any case is not quite his business."

The priest swallowed in his throat. Then he seized, as such natures will, upon the single point that seemed in his favour.

" I imagine it to be my duty as pastor to speak to anyone of my flock, however exalted his position, who does not do his duty as a Catholic."

The phrase " however exalted his position," j arred like a file across the teeth. Anna perceptibly winced. Nevill drew his breath in with a perceptible sound.

" I am quite unaware," he said, " of not having done my duty as a Catholic. I do not think I have missed Mass on a single occasion, on Sundays or holidays of obligation, for the last five years, without a valid excuse."

" You are very seldom at Benediction," said the priest desperately. (He began to see that he was in a tight corner; but it would never do tp acknowledge it, he thought. His dignity might suffer. His motto, as he had confided to his fellow-priests more than once, was " Never apologise.")

" I beg your pardon again, Father," said Nevill sweetly. " But I thought you spoke of my duty as a Catholic. I was unaware that attendance at Benediction was an obligation laid down by the Church."

" I meant, of course, as a Catholic landowner," said the priest.

Nevill was thoroughly worked up. He knew he had his pastor penned up. He could not spare him now.

"If you will kindly give me any reputable theologian who lays down as amongst the duties of a Catholic landowner that he should be present at Benediction every Sunday, I will gladly yield, but "

The priest's dignity was suffering terribly. But he would not withdraw.

" We are quite off the point, Sir Nevill. I began by speaking of your absence from Mass this morning."

" And Mrs. Fanning and myself have had the honour of informing you that I was too ill to be present. Is there anything more you wish to say? "

If, even now, the priest had frankly apologised, or burst out laughing first and apologised after, the thing would have been wholly healed. NevilTs code was punctilious. A frank apology, to him, simply ended the matter. But Father Richardson was quite unable to meet him there; and he said, instead, exactly the wrong thing: his desperation entirely blinded him to its insolence.

" You seem very well and strong now, Sir Nevill, at any rate."

Anna gasped. Nevill leaned back tranquilly and began to play with the curtain-tassel.

" Aunt Anna," he said, " we needn't say anything more.

Father Richardson does not believe our word.... What a charming afternoon it is, Father! It is very nearly as warm as it was in Rome last week. Have you ever been to Rome, Father? "

The priest looked dazed. He was beginning to see what he had said, and he was completely taken aback by his host's extreme composure and the serene change of subject. He tried to follow suit. It seemed the most dignified thing to do.

" I was ordained there, Sir Nevill. I..." There came a torrent of noises from the lawn, yelps and screams; and the next moment Jack and Jill entered at full speed, with Jim behind, trailing a chain to which were attached two collars.

Ill

" There's no more to be said, Aunt Anna," observed Nevill half an hour later, as their pastor went down the garden towards the church. " He's impossible. Haven't I always said so? "

Jim, too, was gone, and minds could be spoken.

Poor Father Richardson had made matters even worse, if that is conceivable. If he had simply said good-bye when the entrance of Jim and the collies gave him an opening, at any rate that would have shown some faint sense that a breach had opened. Or if, even then, he had said he was sorry for having spoken as he had, and that his last remark, above all others, was quite indefensible (as, in his heart, he knew it to be) — even then the decencies would have been observed. But he stayed on to tea; he talked, as he thought, intelligently and easily; he allowed Nevill, who had war in his heart, to hand him the buttered tea-cake* and he had helped himself to a piece of cake;

and he had done all this believing that somehow it mended matters, and thinking that if Sir Nevill could talk smoothly about Rome and the weather, he himself could not do better than follow his example. He went away at last then, certainly perturbed by the memory of the previous scene, and quite aware that he had been exceedingly indiscreet; and yet, on the whole, reassured by the naturalness of the other two, and especially glad that he had not been obliged to apologise. It would all blow over, he told himself. Besides, he was a priest, and his rights could not possibly be encroached upon. It might have lowered his dignity to have apologised. He was tolerably content then, as he went back to his house and began to get his sermon ready for the evening.

Anna made no answer to her nephew's remark. Indeed, there was not much answer to make.

" You see," continued Nevill, " it's no kind of good being decent to a man like that. As it is, I shouldn't be in the least surprised if he denounced me from the altar, or preached against insolence and discourtesy to God's priests."

" Nevill! Of course he won't. I'm certain that he's perfectly miserable."

" Not in the very least," said Nevill. " He's congratulating himself, on the contrary, on having been brave enough to beard people of an exalted position. Exalted Position! Ha! "

" Don't, my dear."

Nevill was silent a moment.

" And to think that that man will be chaplain here when Enid comes. It's unthinkable! "

" I'll write to the Bishop," said Anna.

" That's no good. He hasn't done anything to disgrace himself, technically. At least, he thinks he hasn't. When he first came the Bishop wrote to tell me I was very lucky to get such a man!... Aunt Anna! "

She lifted her pensive eyes from the floor. She was just about as unhappy as she could be.

" Yes, my dear? "

" Do you see now why I'm not exactly — well — keen on religion? He told us we were liars. Liars, Aunt Anna! Do you realise that? "

" My dear boy, please don't."

" Well, you see now, don't you? I don't want to rub it in. But it's hardly likely that I should be very keen, with a chap like that. Of course I go to Mass, and all that — Oh! I forgot; I don't even do that. I sham illness, don't I; and then lie about it "

" NeviU! Please! "

" All right.... Well, you see now, anyhow? "

" I don't know what to say," said Anna.

" And of course I shall go on sending him game and fruit and paying him every quarter, and settling the candle and oil bill. That's the privilege of us of the Catholic laity, you know. He told us so from the pulpit once, you remember. And he'll wolf it all down, and "

" Nevill, I can't bear it! "

" Oh, good Lord! " burst out the young man, banging the tassel on the window-ledge. " And that's supposed to be religion! Why, there's more religion in... in a daisy growing at Frascati, or... or a cock that pecks his hens when you crow at him. I haven't told you about the cock, Aunt."

" No, you haven't," said Anna mechanically.

" Well; he pecked his hens when I crowed at him. That's all. At Frascati. That was when I had my first long talk with Enid. My word, that was a day! "

"What did you do?"

" Oh, we went out to Frascati, and Enid and I went up into the woods. And we jawed. Heavens! how we jawed! And there was a Pieta there "

"Yes?" said Anna, looking up.

" Oh! it was there. That was all. And we said we didn't like it. And we didn't. It was just a... a blot on the landscape; like that little man who's just gone away."

" I don't understand."

" Oh yes, you do, Aunt. You know perfectly well what I think about that kind of thing. It's quite hateful. Why can't they keep those locked up in churches, with... with the priests? That little man who's just gone away would think it beautiful. Lord! Fancy a Pieta on that lawn! "

He looked out through the still open door beyond the tea-things. The evening sunlight was golden here, out of the shadow of the house; and in the shadow the light was growing faintly blue. Through it towered the tall, stately east front, with its solemn windows and its carved balustraded terrace, and its great stones vases dripping with greenery. As he looked, the dignified figure of Masterson came out at the hall and began to descend the steps. He was coming to clear away the tea-things. Certainly a Pieta would be singularly inharmonious upon this stage of smooth and wealthy peace.

Nevill watched Masterson's approach in silence. The old butler's arms swung stiffly from the shoulders, and he moved with that peculiar air of dignity of which such personages alone have the secret. As he came up the steps, Nevill had a surge of anger again at the memory of the priest, and he took a swift decision.

" Masterson."

" Yes, Sir Nevill."

" If Father Richardson should call again at any future time, please don't show him straight in to either of us. Tell him to wait, and then come and ask if we're at home or not, just as you would with anyone else."

" Yes, Sir Nevill," said Masterson with an immovable countenance, standing like a decrepit statue.

Nevill saw Aunt Anna's agonised countenance; but he was determined to have his way.

" Tell the other servants the same, will you? And if Father Richardson should want to come and see for himself, if we're in the garden, for instance, just tell him what your orders are. Tell him it's the same for everybody who calls. Do you understand? "

Masterson's eyes gleamed a little. He entirely disliked the priest; and indeed all priests. He was not a Catholic.

" Yes, Sir Nevill."

When the butler was half-way back across the lawn with the tea-tray, Anna spoke. Nevill saw that a strong protest was coming, and braced himself to meet it.

" My dear boy," she said, " do you quite realise what you've done? He'll think it fearfully rude."

" I can't help it. I've let him run in and out up to now, because I didn't quite know how to stop it. But if he chooses to ride the high horse and claim the privilege.of being a priest — all right, let him be a priest, and have them all, down to the last farthing. But he shan't have any more."

" He'll never forgive you."

" That's a matter for his own conscience then. He can do as he likes about that. So long as he's priest here he shall have his rights. But if he says a word, I shall ask him if the Council of Trent that he's always appealing to, says anything about the Catholic laity — even of exalted position — letting priests run in and out of their houses just as they please. I had him nicely over that landowner business, didn't I? "

" I wish you wouldn't."

Then Nevill blazed a little again.

" My dear Aunt Anna, you forget Enid. I know you'd stand anything: you're a Catholic, you see, and a saint, and a few other things. She's a saint, too; but of another kind. And she certainly wouldn't stand a bounder like that — I beg his pardon, I mean a clergyman like that — coming and going exactly as he pleases. Even if she would stand it, I won't let her. And I may as well settle it, once and for all, and get the row over, before she comes — if there's to be one."

" Oh! I see," said Anna slowly; "that's why, is it?"

" That and other things. But this last business has brought it to a point. I'm rather glad it has. I dare say I'd have let things drift, otherwise. But this has finished it. It's a good job."

" My dear boy! "

" Well, what would you have? " cried the young man dramatically. " What else can you suggest? "

" I...1 don't know. Can't you give him another chance? "

" No, I can't, Aunt Anna. And I won't. There's a limit, and he's passed it. He told us we were liars. And it isn't the first time "

" He's never called you a liar before! "

" No, of course he hasn't," said Nevill a trifle peevishly. " And I'll bet he won't again. But he's done half a dozen things nearly as bad. Don't you remember when he preached against bridge, just after we'd had the Levesons down here and played till one in the morning? And all the winnings went into the plate the Sunday after, too! I remember that well, because I won nine pounds and had to fork up. Well, he knew perfectly well we'd been playing, and he knew perfectly well it wasn't a sin — or, if he didn't, he ought to go back to school again. That was number one. Then there was "

" Oh! don't go on about all that! " protested Anna feebly.

" Well, you know it's all true. But this really is the limit. There's no more to be said."

There was silence again. Then Nevill once more broke out.

" And to think that religion comes down to that sort of thing.... Oh! you will love Enid, Aunt Anna. She's so... so fresh and big and out-of-doors. And spiritual. She was asking me about stipends for Masses one day, and, upon my word, I didn't know what to say to her."

" Why," began Anna dutifully, " you know perfectly well that you don't pay for the "

" Oh! I know the stock answer, of course. But stock answers won't do with Enid. She goes right down to things. She hasn't a stock answer in the world. They're only counters, you know. And she uses gold only."

" But, my dear "

" Oh! don't go on about that. That's not the point. When you see Enid you'll know what I mean. She's... she's like a great wind. And yet she's so still, too. You... you... What an ass you must think me! "

He was all flushed with enthusiasm, and his eyes shone. There seemed not a trace of illness about him. Anna stood up.

" You're a dear boy," she said softly. " And I... I hope Enid "

She could not go on.

" And you're a dear aunt," said Nevill. " Give me a kiss."

She went across and kissed him gently on the forehead, laying her hands on his temples. She kissed him very slowly. She didn't want him to see her brimming eyes.

" There! " said Nevill. " And now it's Pax about Father Richardson. If he behaves himself, that's to say."

" And you'll let him come in and out as usual? "

" I will not," said Nevill. " What I have said I have said. I only meant that I wouldn't, after all, go and tell him precisely what I think of him. I had meant to, you know."

"Till when?"

" Till you kissed me."

She turned away to the steps.

" Where are you going? "

" I'm going to get ready for church," she said, with her face still averted.

" You're going to church! After all that! "

" Of course I am. What difference does it make? Come too."

" By George! Shall I...? What a gorgeous slap in the face! "

Nevill lowered his legs from the window-seat as if in hesitation.

" Do. But not as a slap in the face."

Nevill replaced his legs.

" No," he said firmly. " I shall not come to church. It would be extremely unchristian to slap him in the face. And, what's worse, he wouldn't feel it. He'd think he'd brought me to a better mind. No."

She laughed a little, in spite of herself — a little bubble of laughter.

" Well, I must go. There are the bells." " Pray for me," said Nevill, as she went down the steps. And she turned and nodded to him slowly.

He sat on a few minutes, listening to the bells. They were only three in number, but their jangle was very pleasant and very Sundayish, dimmed, as it was, by the great bulk of the house and high-roofed tennis-court that lay between the church and the pavilion.

The shadow had crept across by now and lay even on the pavilion itself; and the river, too, that chuckled so coolly beneath the open window at which he lay, was no longer shot with lines and planes of golden light. It was soft and liquid glass into which he looked, faintly tinged here with brown and there with green, so gently blended that one tint faded into another without abruptness. He could see two or three dark shadows, poised at the bottom, motionless, it appeared, except for the shifting lines that swayed above them.

Far out across the park as he turned to see, the sunlight still lingered both on the higher slopes and on the motionless tops of the nearer trees. He could see a couple coming down from the direction of the Dower House. That would be Mr. Morpeth, no doubt, and his daughter Ella. They were the only Catholics, so far as he knew, who lived in that direction. The village itself was completely on the other side, beyond the front lodge-gates through which he had driven last night.

It was an evening of great silences and spaces, wholly tranquil; and while the bells, considered in themselves, were soft and melodious, they signified something, he thought, completely out of harmony with the evening.

They were, psychologically considered, a kind of interruption. He pictured the interior of the little church, the Stations of the Cross round the walls, the sheaves of burning candles above the gilded altar; the sparse congregation; Father Richardson's voice, his personality, his narrow views, and his lack of breeding. And yet Enid was to come down here— not only on the visit she was to pay three weeks hence, but as a permanent mistress of it all.

How would she fit in? Well, she would fit in to perfection with the park and the spaces and the stillness and the great house; but scarcely with that for which the church-bells stood.

On the whole, now, he did most emphatically not think that she would be a Catholic.

It was growing a little chilly, and he shivered once or twice. Then he thought he had better go in. Certainly his headache was all right, and he could see again as well as ever. But it was best to take no risks. He would go and see where Jim was. Perhaps, if he wasn't at church he would like a lesson at billiards.