Chapter VII

AUNT ANNA knew the instant that she saw the coated and capped figure coming across the lawn to her, that the first stage had been reached. She said nothing at all as she held out her hands at the foot of the pavilion-stairs, down which she had come so soon as she had recognised him. He said nothing as he took them. Still holding one of his hands, she led him back whence she had just come.

He was in his driving-coat still, though the day once more was hot and stifling, and his big cap was pulled forward. His face was quite quiet; but his eyes looked a little uncertain; they blinked three or four times as he stared, first at her, and then past her at the park beyond drowsing in the strong sunshine. She thanked God that Jim was still out.,

" Well, it is all over," he said presently, without introduction or greeting. " She told me what she thought of me last night — yesterday afternoon, I mean. So I have come back to Hartley, you see."

He spoke slowly and deliberately, like a dreamer. His voice shook ever so slightly in his last sentence.

" Yes; you have come back to Hartley, my dear," she said.

Then she saw Masterson come down the steps from the house, and hesitate.

" I'll just go and speak to Masterson/' she said. " You'll wait here till I come back? "

" Masterson," she said, " Sir Nevill has had a shock. Don't ask him any questions as to his luggage. I expect he hasn't brought any."

" No," said the butler, staring straight at her. His face was all set with anxiety.

" If it is to be sent for, I'll let you know this afternoon. I'll tell you anything I can, as soon as I know myself."

(She spoke as to a friend who shared her sorrow. The old man's face twitched violently. Then he wheeled and went back up the steps.)

When she entered the pavilion again Nevill had not moved. He sat still in the low chair, looking out through the window; his eyes turned to meet hers, and then wandered back again to the sunlit park. On the window-seat on which she had been sitting, lay a book or two she had been reading; a rosary of red stones and silver, and half a dozen unopened envelopes. Her post had been just brought to her, and the man gone again, when she had seen Nevill coming.

" My dear, take off your coat and cap."

He sat forward a little and unbuttoned the double-breasted coat; she took hold of it behind, but he shook his head, and himself slipped it off, and then his cap, laying them on the floor. He was in the same grey suit in which he had gone away. He seemed a little shrunken and small. Then he leaned back again; and she sat on the window-seat.

" I don't think there's anything more to say," he said, in that same toneless voice. " She told me what she thought of me, when we were out driving. I went home — back to Elizabeth Street, I mean; and later on I sent a message round to her mother. Her mother came after dinner; but — but it didn't help much. She said that Enid wouldn't speak to her. And then she said some more things; but they weren't any use. So I've come back to Hartley.... Where's Jim? "

" Jim's out riding."

" That's all right," said NeviU. " With the collies,, I suppose? "

" Yes; with the collies."

There fell a silence again. Somewhere within Aunt Anna's soul something seemed spinning like a wheel, so fast that no revolutions could be perceived; but there was there an intense and indescribably swift movement — or it was like a single note, sustained at a pitch so high as to be inaudible; or a colour so bright as to be invisible. This movement in her was so keen that it appeared to absorb into itself all lesser emotions and impulses; leaving her reason cool and capable. It was with this upper part of her perceptions that she saw that she must be very quiet and unemotional and sensible. He must not sit there for ever; yet she must not disturb him yet.

" Would you like lunch out here? " she said.

He did not seem to hear; and she repeated her question.

" Oh! yes," he said.

" I'll go in and tell them presently."

Again he did not answer.

" We'll just sit here quietly," she went on, still tranquil and steady, " and you can talk or not, just as you like. If you'll smoke a cigarette, I'll have one too."

He drew out his case and held it out. She took one; and lit it from a box of matches on the table. He held his case mechanically when she gave it back; and did not take a cigarette out for himself till she held the burning match silently before him. Then he lit it, and leaned back again.

"You brought Charleson with' you?"

"I don't know. Yes; I think he was behind."

" And you drove yourself? "

" Yes. I couldn't see very well. It was dusty. I think I've got some dust in my eyes."

Here was an opportunity. She got off the seat and went and kneeled down at his side, laying her cigarette on the floor; (it tasted like brown paper and hay); and took out her handkerchief. He looked at her.

" Lean right forward," she said, " and I'll take the dust out."

He leaned forward obediently. She put one hand on the top of his head to steady herself, and with the handkerchief ready in the other, searched those eyes that mechanically rolled this way and that for her search. There was one horrible thrill, when she thought that she would break down altogether, as she felt the texture of his hair under her hand, and held her own face so close to that dear face and eyes of his — the eyes as simple and miserable as those of a child in pain; she even felt his breath on her mouth.... She delicately wiped the corner of each eye.

" There, I think it's out," she said, sitting back on her heels.

Then she went back to the window-seat.

A quarter of an hour later she met Masterson in the hall.

" Come into the dining-room," she said.

He followed her in, and shut the door.

" First of all," she said, " we will lunch in the pavilion. Tell them downstairs. Bring it all out on a tray together — everything, you understand. If there is a hot sweet, don't bring it. But bring everything on the tray all ready. And bring it yourself, please. Master Jim must lunch upstairs, and not come out till I send for him. Arrange that, please.

" Next: tell Charleson and Paul, so soon as they have dined, that they must go straight back to Elizabeth Street. Charleson is to pack all Sir Nevill's things and bring them back with him before dressing-time this evening. While he is doing that, Paul is to go round to Mrs. Bessington's flat: he'll know that; and leave this note on her. It's possible that Mrs. Bessington may wish to come back in the car. If so, she will give him the answer herself, if she is in: if she is not he must find out where she is and go after her. He is to bring her down here this evening, if she wishes to come. I don't know in the least whether she will stay the night or not, if she does come. Just tell them downstairs to be ready.

"And — Masterson — just tell them all that Sir Nevill is in great trouble; and that they're not to gossip. But I don't think they will. They must notice nothing. Don't say a word to him even yourself — will you, Masterson? He is in great trouble. The marriage is broken off. That is all I know myself."

Half an hour after lunch, trembling a little, she suggested his going to his room and lying down. To her astonishment he consented; saying that he had rather a headache. He stumbled once or twice as he went down the pavilion steps, and up again into the house. He seemed dazed into a dreadful kind of childish simplicity. He had eaten and drunk just a little, without comments or refusals. She saw him into his room, and promised to look in later.

She had learned practically nothing more than he had told her at first; he had repeated three or four times that

Enid " had told him what she thought of him "; that he was " selfish and brutal." Aunt Anna steadied herself by a violent effort only, when she understood this. She made no comments except the simplest,

" She doesn't know you, really," she had said quietly. She restrained herself with considerable difficulty from commenting upon Enid.

What, however, bewildered her most of all, was her hopeless attempt to understand what kind of person Enid must really be. She had, as has been seen, suspected her of a few rather undesirable qualities; and even this suspicion she had discounted, because of her knowledge of her own jealousies; but she could not honestly say to herself that she had noticed any symptoms whatever of that astounding cruelty which Nevill's little story revealed. At any rate, Enid was not an adventuress. She had been engaged to a man of a quite considerable wealth and position; and had flung him over, savagely and violently, without the faintest excuse. For Aunt Anna to hear that Nevill had been called selfish and brutal was for her to know that the girl who so described him must, practically, be mad.

But what motive could she have? What occasion could have produced such a fantastic lie? What misunderstanding could be so complete? Or was there no motive at all? Was it merely a ferocious and wild irresponsibility?

She sent for Jim as she passed downstairs again on her way to the garden. He must be prepared in some kind of way for the situation which must reign in the house for the present. When he came out, looking a little scared — for Masterson had been rather emphatic with him — she made him climb up on the window-seat behind her.

" Jim, my dear; I want to talk to you as if you were grown-up."

" Yes, Mummy," said Jim, making himself perfectly comfortable with a cushion.

" Cousin Nevill has come back again suddenly. You remember that when he went away, Miss Bessington had promised to marry him? Well; Miss Bessington is not going to marry him, after all."

" Oh! " said Jim, wriggling a little on his cushion.

" Well: Cousin Nevill is very sad and unhappy about it. Because, you see, he was very fond of Miss Bessington. (You mustn't call her Cousin Enid any more, by the way.)"

" I didn't want to, at first," observed Jim.

" Well; what I want to say is this — that you mustn't talk at all to Cousin Nevill, when you see him, about what he's been doing in London. And you mustn't look at him as if you wanted to know what was the matter; and, of course, you mustn't ask him. Because all that might make him more unhappy. Do you see? "

Jim nodded solemnly.

" Just try to think of Cousin Nevill as he was before — before Miss Bessington and her mother came here at all — as he was, even before he went away to Rome."

" Oh— Mummy."

" Yes, my boy."

" Why was Cousin Nevill so fond of Miss Bessington? "

She set her teeth for an instant.

" I don't know," she said in a low voice...." Well, do you understand? I'm talking to you just as I would talk to a grown-up person; because I think you will. And if Mrs. Bessington comes down this evening, and you see her, either to-night or to-morrow, just be quite polite; but don't talk to her or ask her questions at all."

Jim nodded again. His eyes were round and meditative. These were great matters.

" And there's one other thing I want you to do for me.

I want you to go to the stables and order Marcus to be saddled again. Then come back to me here, and I'll give you a note. I want you to mount in the stables and ride over to Mr. Morpeth and give him the note. Then you can do as you like till tea. I want you to have tea upstairs again, unless I send for you."

Ill

By six o'clock Mr. Morpeth had long been gone again; and she sat, alone once more, waiting for the next event, whatever that might be. The car was not yet come back.

She had slipped upstairs two or three times and peeped into Nevill's room; and every time he had been lying quite still with his eyes closed, and his cheek resting on his hand. Once he had opened his eyes, in a vague, dazed kind of way; and she had slipped out again noiselessly. She had not even sent tea upstairs.

The old man had said very little about Enid, when she had told him all she knew. He seemed quite uninterested in the personal cause of all this pain; the thing that was " their job " (he had said) was Nevill.

"But have you any theory at all?" she asked.

" It may be any one of three or four things," he said. " It is of no use to theorise. I should suppose she is just an Egoist, with a particular temperament. But that is not the point."

He had described " the point " then, more carefully. It consisted entirely in Nevill's attitude. Three things, he said, may be done when real pain is encountered. It may be resisted; or it may be allowed to crush; or it may be accepted. The violent man does the first; the weak man, the second; and in both cases it leads to catastrophe.

" But I think our friend will accept it," he said. " He can do nothing at present, except realise it. But I think he will accept it when he understands. Or else I do not see why God has permitted it."

He had said, then, very little. He had not been dogmatic in any way. Yet his very presence brought a bracing kind of reassurance. He seemed so absolutely certain that all was in order; that there was nothing whatever to be astonished at, still less to fear.

"He will not break down; he will not kill himself; he will not fling himself into any other extreme. Of all that I am confident. You must brace him, Mrs. Fanning; not try to console him. You must not soften him in any way at all. You have been crying? "

" Just a little," she said, " before you came. Not before him."

" You must not; before him."

And so, at last, he had gone, leaving her steadied and courageous.

It was as the clock was striking six that she looked out through the pavilion door, and saw Mrs. Bessington following Masterson out upon the lawn.

It was almost appalling to Aunt Anna to see how wholly herself this woman seemed. She was in the very same black hot-looking mantle in which she had gone away; she moved with the same busy kind of step, neither retarded nor accelerated by the knowledge she bore; she smiled in the same rather hard and wooden kind of way. And, as she greeted Aunt Anna, she began as usual, her rapid, unconnected comments on the warmth of the day, and the kindness of Mrs. Fanning in sending the motor for her.

" But I must be getting back this evening," she said. " There is a most excellent train, that stops only three times between here and London, that leaves at five minutes after eight. We came down in very good time."...

Aunt Anna could bear it no longer.

" Mrs. Bessington," she said, " you'll forgive me for interrupting you "

"Oh, my dear!"

" No; please let me say right out what I want. Then I want to hear what you think of it all. When I "

" I am sure "

" Please let me say right out what I have in my mind," said Aunt Anna, in so exceedingly an emphatic tone that the other stopped, and, so to speak, folded up her mouth. And it was then for the first time that Anna saw through the shallow-looking grey eyes that regarded her, a look of extreme and poignant interest.

Then Aunt Anna began.

She took about five minutes to say what she had to say. She had asked Mrs. Bessington to come down immediately, because she wished really to get at the facts; and because Nevill would say nothing. She knew that Miss Bessington had spoken to him in such a manner that he had, apparently, taken it for granted that the engagement was at an end. Well, Nevill's happiness was of the greatest possible moment to herself. She might say that there was practically nothing for which she cared more. She had asked down Mrs. Bessington, therefore, first in order to learn the facts at once — that there might, for instance, be no doubt about the matter if the engagement were finally at an end; next, if it were not, to know that instead; thirdly, in order, if Nevill wished it, that he might have an opportunity of seeing her. (She eyed, rather anxiously, the house-door, from time to time: she had deliberately given orders that Mrs. Bessington was to be shown straight out here, without concealment; but she intended, if she saw

Nevill coming out, to go and meet him, and tell him who was come.)

" It is entirely unconventional and very impertinent of me to have asked you down like this," she ended. " But I know you will forgive me. I stand very nearly to him as a mother might. It struck me as the only thing that I could think of to do. Will you very kindly tell me what you think? "

She looked her full in the face; and then she began to understand....

It seemed to Aunt Anna, as Mrs. Bessington talked, that she was watching (so to say) an extraordinarily fine portrait being painted with the trembling, uncertain strokes of a completely incompetent artist. Yet the artist was infinitely pathetic too: for, for the first time, Aunt Anna perceived, beneath the senseless trickle of words and the set conventional face, not only a humanity which she had never suspected, but a humanity that was in anguish and had, with a stoical kind of courage, succeeded hitherto in hiding its pain under this flat and dreary exterior. Again and again, as the middle-aged woman talked — interrupting herself, wandering away into parentheses that never closed, describing details minutely, and omitting principles — the other was drawn off in a kind of wonder from the repellent vision of Enid revealed by her mother, to the poignant vision of the mother as tormented by Enid. For the first time in her life Anna stood face to face with a figure of sorrow that was almost grotesquely dull, with a soul that was suffering intolerable pain under a flat and foolish mask.

When the woman had finished — when, rather, she had tailed off into wholly inconsequent repetitions and comments, Anna understood as she had never thought to understand.

That beautiful girl, then, was a practically insane egoist. She had been so the whole of her life long. Obviously she had been spoiled as a child; her father had done the most of it; and her mother had yielded. She cared, really, for absolutely no one except herself; one or two almost incredible little stories were related as to the way she had treated her friends. For now she had no friends at all: her beauty and her charm drew people to her again and again; and, for a week, or a month, or even six months, such friendships had developed. Always, however, sooner or later, she behaved exactly as she had behaved to Nevill; once before she had been engaged to be married, and had broken it off in almost a precisely similar manner. Yet she always considered herself the innocent party; she always professed herself disappointed in her friends; she had begun, for the last year or two, to withdraw herself in a kind of despair from people's company, since she appeared, honestly, to be under the impression that it was these alienated friends who had behaved badly to herself. But, above all, it was in her behaviour to her mother that the egoism showed itself most cruelly of all. She insisted on going these rounds; she insisted on living in what she considered a "suitable" manner; — on having rooms in these hotels; on expensive isolation; on continual travelling. Yet, in private, she behaved to her mother with unrelenting cruelty: she continually told her not to talk so much; she reproached her; she sulked for days together in silence; she used her tongue like a whip. Yet, in public, she bore herself with dignity and serenity, and even with a superficial kind of affection. Nerves, no doubt, were responsible for such outbursts as that which Nevill had experienced; but the outbursts did no more than reveal that insanely selfish character which, beneath her calm and Her apparent detachment, brooded always within her.

Such, then, was the portrait indicated rather than executed by the woman in the black mantle and bonnet — the portrait that grew upon the air before Anna's eyes, and solved her last difficulties. For every line brought conviction — the jealousy she had suspected in her, the little flickers of abruptness, the sense of which she was aware that this was the very last girl in the world for Nevill, the broken little story which he himself had told — these things all fell into place and joined on with the lines of the character which the girl's mother herself now filled up.

" I could keep it to myself no longer, Mrs. Fanning," said the poor lady, trembling a little, with a large tear in the corner of each eye. " I feel you have a right to know. God forgive me if I am hard upon my own daughter! God knows how I have tried to think otherwise; but, as I have said, she behaves like that both to me and to others; ever since she was a little dot. She is very selfish — I am afraid there is no doubt about that, and thinks of no one but herself; and then she begins to find fault with first one and then another, until there is no one left." (Mrs. Bessington was repeating herself gallantly, without the least misgiving.) " And it has always been so from the first. She used to be the same with her father, too, who — who, well he had made his own way in the world, you know; and she did not like the way he used to pronounce words sometimes; and used to say so to him when we were alone together. But now I must bear with it as well as I can; because I am her mother; and I have never yet said a word to anyone except yourself. But as soon as your note came, and I could see what terrible harm she had done once more, I just slipped on my things and came away; and left a note saying that I was called away: she has shut herself up in her room ever since yesterday; and has never touched a morsel of food; but I did hope that this time would be the last, and that she had at last found in Sir Nevill the very man for her; and I am sure I do not know what we shall do next; or whether she will speak to me again for a while; for she is sure to say that it was all my fault for talking as much; and whatever will you think of me, Mrs. Fanning, for talking like that about my own "

The two tears rolled suddenly from her eyes, and fell on the black silk mantle. Aunt Anna sprang up and kissed her.

At half-past seven Aunt Anna stood at the door, watching the back of the carriage that took her guest off to the station.

Mrs. Bessington's conversation, at the early dinner that was served for her in the morning-room at seven o'clock, had been a very masterpiece.

Without the smallest softening again of that cast-iron exterior of conventionality, she had discoursed with amazing courage of the Academy exhibition, and Selva's acting, the comparative merits of English and Italian scene-painters, the dust on the roads, and her country cottage to which (she remarked unblenchingly in Masterson's presence) she supposed that Enid and herself would soon be going. In its way, it was the most gallant exhibition that Anna had ever witnessed. A quarter of an hour ago in the garden, the mask had been laid aside; and she had seen a woman whose heart must have been very nearly broken by the most unromantic and sordid pain that any woman can suffer — a pain that went on ceaselessly — the continual contempt and cruel hostility of her own daughter.... And now, here again sat the original Mrs. Bessington, as Masterson came in and out, with her features composed again into their smiling cast, and not one spark of feeling visible in her eyes: dining well and amply before returning to London to take up the torment again.

Meanwhile Anna had considered, in gusts of thought, what she must do when the other was gone.

She had again peeped into Nevill's room and he was still lying on his bed, apparently asleep. But what must be done when the guest was gone? She had decided not to tell him that she was here till afterwards. There was no purpose to be served: the thing was finished. Not for any consideration in the world, even had such a thing been possible, would Anna have lifted a finger to mend the breach. She thanked God, only, that the matter had been ended, at however dreadful a cost, before it was irremediable.

Here, then, she stood now, with the western sun in her eyes, watching the brougham's back diminish in the distance, as, with Jim and the collies, so short a while ago, she had seen Nevill's car go down the drive. (Masterson had gone back into the house, and she was alone.)

She appeared to herself to be in a strange kind of lull. Just as the poor soul there in the brougham was driving away to face so gallantly one kind of pain, so she, when she turned again into the house behind her, must face another. There seemed a lot of pain everywhere; and all so purposeless. It seemed a miserable sort of affair. That so much unhappiness could be caused by one person!...

Then, as she stared at nothing — for the brougham was gone — she began to realise that her attitude towards pain was not as it used to be — not even as so short a while ago as a few weeks. It was no longer to be feared, as once she had feared it, especially that subtle and exquisite kind that arises from watching that of another. There was not that thrill of terror which she would have felt a while ago, as she contemplated in her imagination what she must now witness in Nevill — that dreadful helpless simplicity as of a child. She had no idea of what would happen next — of how she would find him: he must have slept now for at least three or four hours: obviously he had not slept at all last night. Above all, what would he be a few days hence when the lashes his soul had received had passed from numbness to pain once more?...

She turned as a step sounded behind her.

" I beg your pardon, ma'am," said the discreet voice of Charleson, " but Sir Nevill seemed unwell when I took up his hot water for dressing."

At ten o'clock that night, Nevill turned to her and opened his eyes. Then he sat up, rubbing them.

"Why; that's much better/' he said. "Was that ten which struck? "

She had been with him for the last two hours.

She had found him nearly speechless with pain, when she had run up with Charleson. His face was ground down into the pillow; he was still in the suit in which he arrived. He had turned, when she had spoken to him, and said something about " horses galloping "; and she had thought him delirious, until he had said that it was just one of his abominable headaches. The little village doctor had arrived ten minutes later; and had ordered him to bed.

While Charleson was with him, she and the doctor had talked in the morning-room; and she had told him that Sir Nevill had had a very heavy shock, in London — (she did not at present specify more than this) — and had probably not slept at all the night before. The doctor had nodded wisely, and talked about overstrained nerves. He had also asked her what the specialist had said a few months before, whom Nevill, at his advice, had gone up to consult. Anna said that she scarcely knew; that Sir Nevill was very secretive about such matters and hated to have his health spoken of; but that she understood he had given the young man some medicine and told him first to avoid worry, and next to come again. Again the doctor had nodded two or three times, and demanded to see the prescription. Anna fetched this from her own room and showed it him. He had said nothing. Then, when the doctor had seen him again, and departed, she had gone back, and sat with the young man in silence, watching him, with Charleson sitting within call in the bathroom next door. She had given him his medicine once or twice and his soup when it came up; but nothing else had happened. She had heard the tick of the big hall-clock behind; and the chimes from the stable. That was all. Nevill kept his face turned from her.

Certainly, he looked more like himself now. His eyes were bright and restless; but the peculiar filmy look they had had this afternoon was gone again.

" Yes; that was ten," she said. " Your headache's gone? "

" Well; very nearly. Oh! yes. Very nearly indeed — and I can see again all right. That was Mrs. Bessington, wasn't it — with you in the pavilion? "

She did not show her surprise.-

" Yes. I sent for her."

" I saw her from the window," said the young man, lying back again on his pillows — " Why, you aren't dressed for dinner, Aunt Anna! "

" I shall have something presently/' she said.

" And you've been with me all this time. What a beast I am!... Aunt Anna."

"Yes?"

" I don't want to hear a single word of what she said. She's a good woman — but "

She waited.

" It's finished. I know that. I didn't understand, you see. But "

Again he hesitated; and again she waited. She must just be perfectly steady: she knew that. What was that which Mr. Morpeth had said about not " softening him "? She must show no emotionalism.

" Well; what I wanted to say was this. Do you think I've been such a — such an offensive brute as all that — as she told me? "

She clenched her teeth once, just to make certain that the muscles of her throat were under control. There seemed a strange contracted kind of pain in them.

" No, my dear; you've not been an offensive brute at all. You've been all that is considerate and good. She doesn't understand; that is all."

" You really think that? "

" I am quite certain of it."

His eyes wandered vaguely round the room. The marks of his suffering were very plain in his face, even under that carefully shaded light.

" Well; I'm glad you think that. I didn't mean to be, anyhow. By the way "

"Yes?"

" I want to move into the West Bedroom, when it's convenient. I don't mean to-night; but in a day or two."

In spite of her resolution her heart sickened. But she crushed it down. She had conquered herself in that matter. Was she not to allow him to conquer too?

" Very well, my dear. The house is yours, you know."

He smiled; and then grew grave again.

" Oh! no: it is ours: really ours once more. It must remain ours, now."

" My dear; you've talked enough. Do you think you can go to sleep now, if I leave you? "

" Oh! I daresay. Jim all right? "

" Jim's very much all right. He's been out nearly all day."

" That's first-rate. We must bathe together again."

" My dear boy: you must go to sleep. Shall I call Charleson? "

" Yes: you may as well, if you don't mind.... Then we'll begin again, and try to do better. Won't we, Aunt Anna?"

This time she could not speak. She stood up, leaned forward, and kissed him gently on his forehead, as her custom was. Certainly he was doing as Mr. Morpeth had thought he would.

" Good-night, Aunt Anna."

" Good-night, my boy."