Chapter VI

MASTERSON was standing, a little before sunset, at the great west door of Hartley, nearly a month later, waiting for the arrival. His nose and mouth twitched a little, as his manner was, in apprehensive thought, and his eyes looked cross, as he stared out at the straight ribbon of road still empty of any vehicle. Behind him the house seemed as empty, and dead quiet. To right and left of him the shrub-beries stood like troops of watchers, russet behind, evergreen in front, and the whole arch of sky before and above him glowed with rose and amber.

The household had had time to assimilate the news by now. It had been delivered to them, with an appearance of miserable anger that had ended in choking emotion, by Mr. Masterson himself, three weeks ago, one day after dinner. On that day, at the moment when the six potentates of the servants' hall were accustomed to rise and file out, that they might partake of sweets in what was known as the steward's room, the three of them who were there sat still, all except Masterson, who rose to his feet, holding a letter in his hand.

Mrs. Fanning desires me to read you all this letter," he said, without comment or introduction. Then he had read it, from the heading Elisabeth Street down to Yours truly, Anna Fanning. He began, as has been said, with an air of wretched anger and sharpness; he ended with a number of curious sounds in his throat. Then the entire household had risen to its feet to speed the solemn line of three potentates who went out in silence.

An air of marked silence had deepened on the house. Even Jim had been subdued; he had said to Masterson one day in the pantry that he supposed it was not proper to ride on Charles' back just now. (Masterson had agreed, shortly.) He rode out on his pony every day, solemnly: he did his lessons with the governess from the Vicarage at unusual hours; he went to tea three or four times with Mr. Morpeth, and once at the Vicarage itself. He went to Mass on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and knelt all alone in the Hall pew, very grave and observant.

To those who truly love houses for themselves, it is perfectly evident that these have moods as marked as their personalities. Hartley was mourning; there could be no doubt about it — mourning in a manner altogether inexplicable on the grounds that its inhabitants were sorrowful. There was a silence in it, as of meditation. When Jim forgot himself and shrieked with the collies on the lawn, the house appeared to lift its eyelids for an instant and then drop them again. At night it seemed sleepless; during the day drowsy and thoughtful. The maids went swiftly and timidly along the gallery to open and shut the windows, as if fearing to disturb its deep contemplation; the gardeners looked up at it suddenly, as if it had sighed: but it only looked at them, as if brooding.

Masterson was not the man to analyse his sensations; but, as he stood here in the sunset light, he really did not know how to comport himself interiorly. Exteriorly, of course, all must be as usual: he must step forward and open the car-door when it came, with that indescribable inclination that asks for no acknowledgment: he must stand while the travellers went into the house, and then turn to the car to help Charleson with the rugs and the handbags. (The bigger luggage had arrived by train and waggonette nearly an hour ago.) He must then go back into the hall, and through it without a word. But his interior emotions were so mutually exclusive that he could make nothing of them at all. The master and mistress were coming back after a month's absence... and the master was coming back to die. Yet he would not be carried in like a dying man — (so much Masterson had learned from the maids) — he would be fully dressed, he could walk without support; he looked pulled-down, of course, yet convalescent. What, then, were the emotions suitable to such a bewildering situation? Masterson shook his head slowly. That was perhaps the inevitable, and the best, symbol. But his grief was genuine and deep. He was a very loving and faithful servant.

He suddenly straightened himself as he saw far away on the straight drive in front a black object approaching.

The actual arrival was completely devoid of any sensational element.

When the car was drawn up, and Masterson opened the door, Mrs. Fanning, who was sitting nearest to it, smiled and nodded and came out. She turned when she reached the ground, yet not fussily.

"How d'y do, Masterson? All well?" said Nevill as he came past. There was no more than that; Masterson said: " Yes, Sir Nevill": and the boy went into the house. He was in the grey suit in which he had gone away.

When, three minutes later, the butler went through the hall with the rugs and a bag, Mrs. Fanning called out and said they would have tea, here, at once. Nevill was sitting on the sofa, opening his letters, and his aunt standing by the fire, drawing off her gloves. It would all have been completely natural and ordinary, if only it had been possible for the butler to have said that he hoped Sir Nevill was well.... They were still in the same position when he brought in tea. Here, too, for the first time, Masterson saw the appearance of the boy's head....

When the butler had once more gone, Nevill looked up from opening his last letter:

" Where's Jim? " he asked.

" I arranged he should be out to tea with Mr. Morpeth, my dear," said Anna easily. " I thought perhaps you'd find him in the way for the first hour or two."

Nevill smiled, genuinely enough.

" This won't do one little bit, my dear. Remember what we agreed on Monday? We must make no difference at all — none at all. We won't have any more funerals till we've got to."

She glanced up, and down again: and he saw a sharp pain in her eyes.

" And you mustn't look like that," he said tranquilly...." Yes, please, two lumps as usual."

Aunt Anna was finding the situation hard in a completely unexpected way. She had arranged herself, of course, according to Mr. Morpeth's advice, and had determined that no weakness should come from her side: it was to be her part to accept things serenely, not to be sentimental and to support her nephew steadily in the same attitude. But on the second occasion on which she had been allowed to see him in the nursing-home, she had found him almost disconcertingly unsentimental himself. He had announced to her that he didn't want to talk about it any more at all, until it was absolutely necessary; that he had thought it all out; that he would talk necessary business later; that he was extraordinarily grateful for all her loving-kindness, and... and, would she be good enough to tell him when Charleson would be allowed to come up and give his clothes an overhauling? Since then he had talked with a geniality that very nearly amounted to hardness. It was disconcerting, she thought, when you have screwed yourself up to a difficult attitude in order to help someone else, to find that the someone else has already assumed that same attitude with hardly any difficulty at all. He had discussed with her what he would be allowed to do when he got back to Hartley; he had told her that Sir Arthur Handsworth had informed him that the headaches would recur within a couple of months, and that thence, until the end, there would have to be a good deal of morphia.... He had begun a few sentences as to the future of Hartley, and had broken off before finishing them. He had said that he very much wanted to see Mr. Morpeth as soon as it was convenient, after the return to Hartley. And he had done a little business with a typist whom he had caused to come in for an hour each morning, so soon as it was allowed.

He looked almost shockingly natural now, as he slipped his feet up on the sofa, after finishing his cup of tea, and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. Of course he did not look as he had looked six weeks ago: his tan was gone, and there was a certain gauntness about his temples and shoulders, as well as a few hollows and lines in his face. But she had seen him constantly, and these things were not startling. It appeared, then, almost shocking that he should look so nearly himSelf to one who knew what Aunt Anna knew.,

Presently he yawned.

" I'm dog-tired/' he observed. " Carriage-exercise, I suppose. Aunt Anna "

" Yes, my dear? "

" There are some things to be fetched from the station to-morrow, and a couple of workmen. Do you mind seeing that the dog-cart and the farm-cart go in to meet the ten-fourteen? "

" Why, yes, my dear, of course. But what "

" I'm not going to tell you," he said. " Wait till you see. And I want someone from the village who can build. Who is there? "

She mentioned a local workman.

" Then I want him too, at the same time.... No, really, I won't tell you. It's just something I want done in the garden. You'll approve, I think."

His eyes twinkled at her pleasantly. Then he yawned again.

" I want — I want — lots of things. Where's Father Richardson? And I want Jim; and Mr. Morpeth."

" I wrote to him two days ago. He'll be coming tomorrow morning, I expect."

" That's all right then, I'll see him, if I may, as soon as he comes. By the way, Aunt Anna "

"Yes?"

" Just say something to Masterson, will you? Tell him I mustn't have any scenes — that I want everything to be exactly as usual. As I said, I don't want any funerals at all just yet. There are some things we shall have to talk about, of course; but we'll do them by degrees. I think Father Richardson is the first."

"Do you want to see him? "

" I want," said Nevill quite deliberately, " to tell him in your presence that I'm sorry for the extraordinarily disagreeable way I behaved to him in the pavilion that day in the summer, you know; and that I behaved even more disagreeably about him after he'd gone "

" But, my dear "

" Don't be afraid, Aunt Anna, I'm not going to be melodramatic and Sunday-eveningish and have reconciliations and all that. And I'm not going to take back about his not running in here as he likes: that wouldn't be fair on you. But I must just say that, you know, and have done with it. Then I must see Cunningham about the estate. That'll take hours, I suppose. And then I want to have several long conversations with Jim. But I think we'll put that off for the present. I'm making Maresfield one of his trustees, you know, as I told you."

" Yes," she said. " I'm glad. I like him."

" Well," went on Nevill, " how about Father Richardson coming to dinner to-night? "

" But, my dear boy, I thought you were to go to bed early, and "

" After to-night I will. But I want to have one decent evening first. Let's pretend that I'm not going to die, for once."

She could not speak for a moment. It seemed to her that he was surely callous. Was he going, after all, to die defiantly? But he went on, as if he knew her thoughts:

" My dear; you must let me do it my way. Don't think me a brute. I'm not meaning to be."

Ill

It was with considerable inward apprehensiveness that Father Richardson, in his cassock and long French coat, stood and rang at the front-door bell at five minutes before eight that same evening.

He had had exactly the proper kind of letter from Mrs. Fanning, announcing the news, and had written exactly the proper kind of letter back in response. All was perfectly correct. Then he had heard scraps of information from time to time; and had at last heard, only this morning, that they were expected back that afternoon. Then, on his return from the village he had found Mrs. Fanning's note.

He was apprehensive first because he did not know in the least in what state he would find his host, and secondly because he did not know what to say to him. He was perfectly competent in the confessional; that is to say, he would always give the proper answer founded on the soundest principles; but this was not the same thing as to make suitable remarks under social circumstances. It was all the more impossible to decide upon what he should say, owing to his ignorance of how he should find his squire. It was a piece of information, at any rate, to know that Nevill would be at dinner.

But he was not prepared to be greeted by Nevill in the hall. At least he had pictured to himself an invalid's chair. Nevill certainly looked gaunt and thin; and the top of his head looked odd somehow — the priest could not see more than that) — but he was in evening clothes, and actually standing on the hearth as his guest came in. Mrs. Fanning was not there.

" How do you do, Father? So glad you could come in at such short notice.... Oh! here is Aunt Anna."

A rustle sounded overhead.

" We took nearly three hours to come down," he went on. " Can't bear speed just yet, you know.... Here's Father Richardson, Aunt Anna."

The two shook hands.

" And look here, Father/' proceeded Nevill, still standing with his back to the fire. "Business first; before we go in to dinner. I want just to apologise to you quite simply for my behaviour in the pavilion one day, soon after I came back from Rome. You remember, no doubt. Well; I shouldn't have spoken like that. I'm sorry. My aunt was there; so I wanted her to be here too, when I apologised. That's all. I'm sure you forgive me. Let's talk about something else."

The priest was taken completely aback. He had met with frankness from Nevill when he had first come to Hartley: slight constraint had followed gradually, and finally the little scene in the pavilion. From that time there had been courtesy, but nothing else. That frankness should ever again exist in their relations was an inconceivable thought. Certainly the priest could not have done it himself: but, beyond that, he could not imagine anyone else doing it. It will be remembered, possibly, that one of his principles was never to apologise.

" I am sure, Sir Nevill " he began.

" My dear Father, I know you forgive me. Probably you had forgotten it long ago. In any case let us forget it now. At least, I hope you will try to."

The priest opened his lips; and closed them again. And, simultaneously Masterson threw open the dining-room door and announced dinner.

Conversation was exceedingly difficult. So soon as they sat down, and the priest had said grace, he asked dutifully after his host's health.

" Thanks very much, Father. I'm first-rate," said Nevill shortly. " Got to lie up, you know, and take things easily. But I thought I'd have my own way to-night for once.... How perfectly charming the place is looking!"

His tone did not encourage any further discussion of his health. They talked of this and that in the beautiful old room, about the round table. Nevill made some remarks about his pheasants. Aunt Anna, whenever a pause came, slipped in a small and appropriate topic; and Father Richardson did his best. But Nevill's health — even after the shocking announcement made by letter to the priest, by Mrs. Fanning, a month ago — never recurred.

Two alternative conclusions began to form themselves in Father Richardson's mind. The first was that the announcement had been gravely exaggerated; that Mrs. Fanning had written excitedly, and from imperfect information, and that the matter was not nearly so serious as had at first been thought; the second, that Nevill was so morbidly terrified of the prospect before him that he would allow no mention of it at all. These two conclusions came up before the priest's mind — now one, now the other — and he could not decide as to which was the more likely. But surely he must find out, he thought; for, plainly, it was his duty to be of service to this spiritual son of his! He did not relish the prospect; but he had that kind of courage which a conscientious and rather timid man can always summon up; and he determined to probe as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

It came immediately after Mrs. Fanning had left the dining-room. Nevill came back from closing the door after her; pushed the port across to the priest and sat down without speaking. (Certainly he looked extraordinarily tired; but not worse than the other had seen him before now.) Here then was his chance.

He helped himself to a glass of port.

"Sir Nevill/' he said. "May I say something?"

The other looked up quickly and almost sharply.

" Why, certainly, Father."

" Is it possible that Mrs. Fanning's report to me was exaggerated? You seem so much better than I could have imagined from what she said, that I hoped — I hoped "

Again the young man looked up. But he did not speak.

" — Well; I hoped perhaps that you might really be on the road to recovery."

He did not quite like the expression on his host's face. There was a curious musing look in his eyes that appeared to be considering the other's features. The priest told himself he must be courageous.

" If that is not so," he said, " I was wondering whether perhaps you would not care to have a talk with me? I — I have noticed "

" Yes, Father; what have you noticed? "

" Well, Sir Nevill. I am your parish priest, you know. And it is my duty "

" Father, I know that. Please tell me what you have noticed."

There was nothing in the least offensive or peremptory in the young man's tone. But the priest was conscious of a quickening of his pulses. It was really rather like the beginning of that unhappy little scene in the pavilion.

" I have noticed that you have not been to the Sacraments," he said bravely, " since — well, certainly not since last Easter. I suppose you went to Holy Communion then, as every Catholic is bound to do, but "

Nevill stood up; and the priest stopped short. He was certain a scene was coming. There was an air of tenseness in his host's face he did not like. He looked tactfully down at the tablecloth.

" Father, I must ask your pardon again. I — I am rather irritable, I am afraid, nowadays. You have done quite rightly in speaking to me. Well; I can reassure you. I went to the Sacraments on the day of my operation; and I have been every week since. I propose to go on with that, now that I am home again. Shall we go into the hall and have a cigarette? "

" And — and your health, Sir Nevill? I suppose from what you say "

" My health? Well: I shall certainly be dead before Easter; probably much earlier. You will pray for me, will you not? I think I hear coffee coming. Shall we have it in the hall? "

" My dear," said Nevill, as he took up his bedroom candlestick, " I very nearly lost my temper again. And I was really entirely wrong this time. I forgot that I was one of his sheep; and only remembered that I was entertaining him. But he's a good little man; and only did his duty."

A voice answered Masterson and bade him come in, at a quarter to eleven on the following morning.

" Good-morning, Masterson. Yes: I'm pretty fair, thanks. Have they come? "

" Yes, Sir Nevill. And I've had all the things taken out to where you told me last night."

" That's all right. Tell them to wait. I shan't be ten minutes. I've shaved and had my bath already."

He looked ghastly this morning, thought the old man. He was lying on his bed in a dressing-gown, with his head on the pillows. A breakfast tray still rested on the table by the bedside.

" Very good, Sir Nevill."

" Masterson."

"Yes, Sir Nevill."

" Mrs. Fanning spoke to you no doubt. Well; I want to say something too. It's this. I'm going to die, you know. There's no doubt whatever about that. But I don't want to make a fuss. Just let everyone know that I want things as usual — that I want everything to go on as it always has as long as it can. It isn't that I'm not grateful to everyone. I am. And — and very much to you, Masterson.... That's all."

The butler turned without a word, and groped his way back to the door.

Jim and the collies were, of course, making excursions in all directions on the lawn, circling back, as to a centre, to where four or five workmen and a large flat article, shrouded in sacking and straw, about four feet in height with a semicircular top and a flat base, waited at the river-wall about thirty yards to the left of the water gate. Mrs. Fanning was in the pavilion, ready to be called as soon as her nephew came out. She had no more idea than anyone else what in the world was forward, nor why the workmen were here, nor what it was that they had brought. A short inspection of the shrouded object told her nothing; and she did not ask.

Now and again, as she sat there, her eyes wandered out over the park, as well as towards the house. She had written to Mr. Morpeth a couple of days ago, as she had told Nevill last night, suggesting he might come and see her as soon as they got back. She wondered whether he might not come this morning. Then, as she turned once more, she saw Nevill coming down the steps, and got up to meet him.

Certainly he looked gaunt and shrunken — even more so than last night. It was seeing him here, she thought, in the morning October sunshine, coming across the familiar lawn which seemed to her a kind of natural background for him, that made her notice it. Jim was already with him, she saw, and Jill was becoming hysterical.

" So here we all are," he said as he saw her coming down the steps. " Yes, you come too, Jim. I want your criticism."

"My what?"

" I want to know what you think of it when you see it."

"See what, Cousin Nevill?"

" It," said Nevill.

The workmen saluted as the three came up. Nevill wore a soft summer hat pulled rather forward to hide his scars. He returned their salute.

" Thirty yards from the water-gate and thirty from that tree," he said, pointing. " Oh! I see you've marked the place. That's all right. Why; here's Mr. Morpeth."

That unromantic figure was just coming up from the garden-gate that opened on to the park.

" Look here," said Nevill to the men. " You understand the idea, don't you? It's the number three drawing I'll have — the one I sent back marked. I want the bottom edge of the — the relief to rest just on the edge of the wall; and the shallow arch to be built over it."

He gave one or two further directions, and answered a few questions. Then he turned with Anna to meet Mr. Morpeth.

" And you might just unwrap the thing," he said over his shoulder. " I want to see it before you actually put it up. Yes, Jim; you stop and help them. Aunt Anna, you might as well stop too, won't you? I want to talk to Mr. Morpeth alone."

" I'm going into the house directly/' she said, " you can have the pavilion to yourselves."

As she sat in the morning-room, looking out over the garden, and trying in the intervals to add up accounts, once more she was aware that she was disconcerted.

Somehow the whole matter was not happening in the least as she had rehearsed it in her own mind.

She had had her agony all alone, first in the drawing-room of the Nursing Home, when the news had been told to her; then for nearly thirty-six hours, in Elizabeth Street; and this had culminated, and, more or less, ended its acute stage, as she told Nevill that he could not live. From that agony she had viewed and mapped out the prospect before her, and her first little shock was Nevill's manner of receiving the news. She remembered the silence that had followed her announcement, and the sentence or two in which he had told her that he understood. His manner had been unexpectedly composed, and she had thought it to be that perhaps he did not realise it altogether.

But the next time, and the time after that, he had seen her, he had made it even plainer than before that she was not to be of service to him in the way she had hoped. She had thought that he would need helping and encouraging; and he did not seem to need it at all. He had, certainly with complete tenderness, told her that he understood that she cared very much, that he was grateful, and that he could not forget that; but he had also told her, with what seemed rather like heartlessness, that he must do it his own way, and that his own way was not to talk much. Since then he had been as if nothing were the matter. Again she had thought that even now he did not realise what death meant, nor, perhaps, that it was so near him. But he had maintained that attitude resolutely: they had talked scarcely at all of the future: she had been distressed that he had asked for a typist instead of employing herself to do his letters. She felt that somehow she was excluded from his intimacy instead of being, as she had thought it would be, admitted to it even more completely; and it had all been emphasised and driven home by the fact that he had kept up his secretiveness even after reaching Hartley; she did not understand his apology to Father Richardson: she thought it unnecessary and even rather unnatural; she did not like his keeping from her the affair for which the workmen had been engaged in the garden.

She was thinking over these things again, even while she worked at the household books. She finished them at last, and leaned back; and, as she did so, saw the group gathered about the workmen break up, and Mr. Morpeth's solid figure turn towards the house. Nevill, she saw, went back with Jim towards the pavilion. She stood up at once. Mr. Morpeth was coming to see her. Well, she would talk to him frankly. Was it possible, after all, that Nevill was not taking it right? Yet she almost hated herself for the doubt.

She met the old gentleman in the hall looking, of course, exactly as usual. He made his stiff little inclination and bade her good-morning once more.

" Do come in," she said. " I'm so very glad you came."

He followed her in without speaking again; and she set him on the sofa that ran out at right angles from the window. She sat in her writing-chair, turned towards him.

" I'm glad you've come," she said again. " You know your letters were no good at all. Why wouldn't you say more? "

He regarded her placidly.

" Because I did not know what to say until I had seen both Sir Nevill and yourself. And I do not quite know even now whether I can be of any service."

" But of course you can/' she said, with a touch of impatience. " I have been following your advice absolutely. And I don't think it has answered very well. But perhaps I'm wrong."

Mr. Morpeth put his hat carefully beside him on the sofa, his gloves on the top of his hat, and his stick on the floor. Then he folded his hands. He resembled a stockbroker who composes himself to listen to a client.

" Will you be good enough to tell me what you think is unsatisfactory? "

And then, without warning, her emotion rose and gripped her, in the presence of this man who had been a kind of herald and interpreter of every grief that had come on her during the last six months. Up to now she had followed his advice, she thought, punctiliously; she had driven down every wave of emotionalism; she had striven to bear herself in Nevill's presence, and not only there but, largely, even when she was by herself, with the kind of stoicism that this old man had recommended. And, amazing as it seemed to her now, she had (she thought) succeeded.

But the result had been miserable: she felt more oppressed than ever. Sentimentalism, certainly, might be one evil; but surely heartlessness was a greater. After the Enid incident Nevill had seemed, at least for a little while, to turn to her for comfort: she did not forget how he had said that the house was " theirs " again. But he had hardened steadily, it seemed; even the approach of death itself had not softened him as she wished, or sent him to her for comfort as she had hoped. He did not want her, after all. The bitterness rose in her like a swift tide.

She leaned back a little, and gripped the arms of her chair, looking out of the window as she talked.

" It is all as miserable as it can be," she said in a rapid low voice. " Certainly it has succeeded in one way. He... he seems to care nothing at all. He will scarcely speak of it, even now. Perhaps he is stunned. I don't know. But I know that I am of no use to him; and I thought you promised that I should be. He does things without me. It's all very well to talk of not ' softening ' him; but I never dreamed he could be hard like this.... And — and I hate myself for thinking it all. He — he is perfectly splendid in one way. But it's unreal: I know it's unreal. How can he keep it up? And even if he can — what's the use? What's the use of anything? Does he really not feel? "

She was beyond tears. It appeared to her that she had driven these down so far into her soul that they could never rise again. She had cried at night, again and again; and morning by morning she had awakened to dry tragedy. But she had not understood till this moment that it was actually with Nevill that she was angry.

" I see," said the old gentleman.

She wheeled on him.

" You do not see," she cried. " You do not see one hundredth part. I wrote to you from London again and again; and you hardly answered me. I don't think you see anything at all — nor feel it.... Don't you understand?... He cannot live more than three or four months. His pain may begin at any moment. He will not say a word to me.... You're not a woman: you don't understand me: you look on us all as machines.... Or think we ought to be. It may be all very splendid; but it isn't Christian, or human. And he's just the same. And I never suspected it.... Have you been writing to him too, in the same way? He's a different person — simply different "

She found herself walking up and down to the window and back, without any consciousness of having risen. All the emotional side of her that she thought to have crushed down had risen and taken possession. She felt miserable as never before, even in her agony in London; she felt humiliated and vindictive. As she wheeled at each turn, she glanced at her visitor. He was sitting in the same attitude, with his eyes cast down. And at the third look at him, again her anger and wretchedness broke out.

" The whole thing is spoilt," she said. " And it might have been so — so beautiful. It isn't death that I fear for him now. I had thought that to be the worst of evils. But it's this — this dry heartlessness. He's building a new summer-house in the garden; at least, it's something like that. And he's not told me a word about it. He behaves as if nothing was the matter at all. He won't let me do anything. He wouldn't let me come up while he had breakfast this morning. He would only see me once a day in London. He's dying like "... (her voice shook violently)— " like a dog."

"Have you spoken to him like this?" came the dry voice from the sofa, yet not unkindly.

She was in her chair again now, without any conscious volition.

" Of course I haven't," she said.

" He has been to the Sacraments," observed the dry voice after a pause.

She was up again, restless and unhappy; and yet, before she had finished, again she was back in her chair.

" Yes; he has been to the Sacraments. I suppose I ought to be glad. But it's all wrong. He's not right, somehow. I don't know what's wrong. He's behaving like a machine, not like a human being. And — and "

She could not go on. Those tears which she had thought dried for ever came welling up from her soul, and burst in a great sob. Her throat was contracted as if gripped from without. The brutal tragedy which she had tried so gallantly to meet, with the hardness that had been advised to her, melted and broke in pathos. In that moment she saw herself and the lad she loved, from without instead of from within: he was dying, and there had risen between herself and him an impalpable hedge of misunderstanding that had sprung from no root that she could discern. They were alienated; and it was the shadow of death that had done it — the very shadow in which all hearts ought to meet and be at one. She threw her face down on her arm and sobbed.

Then she heard the voice beginning, as she grew quieter.

" Mrs. Fanning," it said, " I am going to commit a great indiscretion. I am going to betray a confidence. But that will come presently. May I ask you first of all whether you wish me to speak what is in my mind; or to say the... the usual things? "

" Go on," she sobbed. " It's no use."

" I take it that you wish me to speak my mind? Very good. The first thing that I wish to say is that I think you have behaved magnificently. You have done the hardest thing any human being can do. You have acted and spoken contrary to your heart, because you saw it to be right."

She shook her head, as she felt for her handkerchief. But she could not speak.

" That is all the praise I have to give. I am speaking to you now, Mrs. Fanning, as I have never spoken to you before. You wish to know, no doubt, why it seems to you that our plan has failed. As a matter of fact it has not failed, as I shall endeavour to show you presently. But you think it has failed because you are giving way to jealousy again."

It was like a dash of cold water on her soul. She had spoken to him of her jealousy before, when Enid was concerned: but it seemed to her a kind of outrage that he should dare to speak of it now. She sat up, white and trembling. His eyes were still cast down; but he raised them as she stared. She dropped her own. Jealous? How could that be? Of whom was she jealous?

" Just at present," went on the unrelenting voice, " you are hardly thinking of your nephew at all. You are thinking of yourself. You complain that he is hardened. You mean by that, that he turns to God and to the Eternal Verities for comfort instead of to you. You are jealous of God."

(A very curious little ring came into the old man's voice.)

" I will show you presently that that is so. But you might have guessed it. At least, you ought to have assumed it, now that he has come back to the Sacraments. But in your heart you have been thinking of yourself. In words and actions, as I have said, you have been magnificent; since you have acted contrary to your jealousy: but, within you have not really conquered jealousy at all. First you grudged your nephew to a woman who might, for all you knew at first, have been worthy of him in every way; and now you are grudging him to God. You want him for yourself. He is not naturally a stoic nor heartless, You ought to have recognised that. Then how can he appear so?... You had not thought of that, had you? "

She was feeling with every word that he spoke, not its truth so much as its inevitability. He did not seem to her so much to be a person saying true things, as a voice revealing the obvious. He appeared entirely dispassionate; she could not even resent what he said. Her own tension had been too great during these past weeks for her to understand the truth for herself. Now it was unrolling before her as if mechanically.

" I said two things just now," he continued. " The first was that I must betray a confidence; and the second that I would prove to you that our plan had not failed. The two are one."

She watched him, as a dreamer looks on his vision, as he drew out of the breast-pocket of his grey buttoned coat, a pocket-book, and out of the pocket-book three or four sheets of paper.

" Here are two or three letters Sir Nevill wrote to me from the nursing-home. I will read to you a few extracts."

He turned the pages, searching for what he wanted.

" Here is the first — " he said. " Listen, please, Mrs. Fanning.

" ' It is quite impossible/ " he began to read, " ' to describe the change that has come to me. I want to talk to you about that later. But I feel a completely different person. I used to fear death, and hate it. Well, one part of me fears and hates it now; but that part is not myself any more. I suppose it's the physical side only. Myself does not fear it at all. I am doing exactly what you wrote to me. I am not talking to my Aunt about it more than I am obliged. She seems to understand perfectly, without that. I suppose it is Pain that has done this in us both. She has been splendid — first about my trouble in the summer, and now about this. I suppose she has known the truth of things all along.' "

(He paused; put away that sheet and turned another — all with an astonishing deliberateness.) " Here again," he said. ' ' I know I can keep it up now. I feel at present that I could keep it up for ever; but I suppose that is not so. But at any rate I can do it for three or four months; and I shan't need to more than that, Handsworth tells me. Of course, I have bad times; when I am terrified; when I want to run to my aunt like a child. But I know I should be ashamed afterwards. Death seems to me now the greatest thing in the whole world. As I said in my other letter, myself knows that perfectly well. I can't form any kind of picture of what happens after death; and I have given up trying. The main outlines of course are all right — Purgatory and so on: but I can't even begin to imagine what it will seem like.' "...

(Again he paused and turned a page.)

' The bad times I spoke of are simply physical. I recognise that now. But I see that they are not myself. They are rather like the bad times I had in the West Bedroom when I first moved in, as you advised. I see one has got to get through them before one can do anything; and that one can only get through them by accepting — and not either resisting or yielding to — the thing that's behind. I am putting it very badly; but I hope you will know what I mean. I must thank you ' "

He stopped.

" And there is one more passage about you, Mrs. Fanning— Ah! here it is.

' ' I can see that my aunt has her bad times too. But she is quite splendid. Yesterday I very nearly gave in. I had had a bad night; and I think she must have had one too. But I remembered what you said, and held tight. I could only do it by playing the fool rather; and I think she must have thought me rather heartless. I am sorry if she does. She manages to keep steady without anything of that sort. Well, I can't always.' I think that's all I need read, Mrs. Fanning."

He folded the sheets and put them carefully away again in his pocket-book. She sat motionless.

" I kept these," he said, " in case they were needed. I thought perhaps they might be, from the tone of your letters. And I brought them with me this morning for the same reason. I need not say that your nephew has no idea in his mind that I could ever betray his confidence. Well; I have done so."

She passed the tip of her tongue over her lips before she tried to speak.

" Nevill wrote that? " she said.

" Sir Nevill wrote that. But that is not all. If you will look out of the window, Mrs. Fanning, you will understand even better."

She rose without a word and looked out. The lawn was not fifty yards across, and she could make out well enough what it was that the workmen had uncovered at last. Nevill, on the terrace, was leaning on his stick, with his back nearly turned to her, and Jim, by his side, was holding his hand. They were both looking at the great arched relief in blue and white that leaned against the wall.

She turned back from the window, and with tearless eyes saw that the old man was smiling.