Missing

by Mrs. Humphry Ward

CHAPTER VIII

It was a pale September day. In the country, among English woods and heaths the sun was still strong, and trees and bracken, withered heath, and reddening berries, burned and sparkled beneath it. But in the dingy bedroom of a dingy Bloomsbury hotel, with a film of fog over everything outside, there was no sun to be seen; the plane trees beyond the windows were nearly leafless; and the dead leaves scudding and whirling along the dusty, airless streets, under a light wind, gave the last dreary touch to the scene that Nelly Sarratt was looking at. She was standing at a window, listlessly staring at some houses opposite, and the unlovely strip of garden which lay between her and the houses. Bridget Cookson was sitting at a table a little way behind her, mending some gloves.

The sisters had been four days in London. For Nelly, life was just bearable up to five or six o'clock in the evening because of her morning and afternoon visits to the Enquiry Office in D—— Street, where everything that brains and pity could suggest was being done to trace the 'missing'; where sat also that kind, tired woman, at the table which Nelly by now knew so well, with her pitying eyes, and her soft voice, which never grew perfunctory or careless. 'I'm so sorry!—but there's no fresh news.' That had been the evening message; and now the day's hope was over, and the long night had to be got through.

That morning, however, there had been news—a letter from Sarratt's Colonel, enclosing letters from two privates, who had seen Sarratt go over the parapet in the great rush, and one of whom had passed him—wounded—on the ground and tried to stay by him. But 'Lieutenant Sarratt wouldn't allow it.' 'Never mind me, old chap'—one witness reported him as saying. 'Get on. They'll pick me up presently.' And there they had left him, and knew no more.

Several other men were named, who had also seen him fall, but they had not yet been traced. They might be in hospital badly wounded, or if Sarratt had been made prisoner, they had probably shared his fate. 'And if your husband has been taken prisoner, as we all hope,' said the gentle woman at the office—'it will be at least a fortnight before we can trace him. Meanwhile we are going on with all other possible enquiries.'

Nelly had those phrases by heart. The phrases too of that short letter—those few lines—the last she had ever received from George, written two days before the battle, which had reached her in Westmorland before her departure.

That letter lay now on her bosom, just inside the folds of her blouse, where her hand could rest upon it at any moment. How passionately she had hoped for another, a fragment perhaps torn from his notebook in the trenches, and sent back by some messenger at the last moment! She had heard of that happening to so many others. Why not to her!—oh, why not to her?

Her heart was dry with longing and grief; her eyes were red for want of sleep. There were strange numb moments when she felt nothing, and could hardly remember why she was in London. And then would come the sudden smart of reviving consciousness—the terrible returns of an anguish, under which her whole being trembled. And always, at the back of everything, the dull thought—'I always knew it—I knew he would die!'—recurring again and again; only to be dashed away by a protest no less persistent—'No, no! He is not dead!—not dead! In a fortnight—she said so—there'll be news—they'll have found him. Then he'll be recovering—and prisoners are allowed to write. Oh, my George!—my George!'

It was with a leap of ecstasy that yet was pain, that she imagined to herself the coming of the first word from him. Prisoners' letters came regularly—no doubt of that. Why, the landlady at the hotel had a son who was at Ruhleben, and she heard once a month. Nelly pictured the moment when the letter would be in her hand, and she would be looking at it. Oh, no doubt it wouldn't be addressed by him! By the nurse perhaps—a German nurse—or another patient. He mightn't be well enough. All the same, the dream filled her eyes with tears, that for a moment eased the burning within.

Her life was now made up of such moments and dreams. On the whole, what held her most was the fierce refusal to think of him as dead. That morning, in dressing, among the clothes they had hurriedly brought with them from Westmorland, she saw a thin black dress—a useful stand-by in the grime of London—and lifted her hands to take it from the peg on which it hung. Only to recoil from it with horror. That—never! And she had dressed herself with care in a coat and skirt of rough blue tweed that George had always liked; scrupulously putting on her little ornaments, and taking pains with her hair. And at every step of the process, she seemed to be repelling some attacking force; holding a door with all her feeble strength against some horror that threatened to come in.

The room in which she stood was small and cheerless; but it was all they could afford. Bridget frankly hated the ugliness and bareness of it; hated the dingy hotel, and the slatternly servants, hated the boredom of the long waiting for news to which apparently she was to be committed, if she stayed on with Nelly. She clearly saw that public opinion would expect her to stay on. And indeed she was not without some natural pity for her younger sister. There were moments when Nelly's state caused her extreme discomfort—even something more. But when they occurred, she banished them as soon as possible, and with a firm will, which grew the firmer with exercise. It was everybody's duty to keep up their spirits and not to be beaten down by this abominable war. And it was a special duty for those who hated the war, and would stop it at once if they could. Yet Bridget had entirely declined to join any 'Stop the War,' or pacifist societies. She had no sympathy with 'that sort of people.' Her real opinion about the war was that no cause could be worth such wretched inconvenience as the war caused to everyone. She hated to feel and know that probably the majority of decent people would say, if asked,—as Captain Marsworth had practically said—that she, Bridget Cookson, ought to be doing V.A.D. work, or relieving munition-workers at week-ends, instead of fiddling with an index to a text-book on 'The New Psychology.' The mere consciousness of that was already an attack on her personal freedom to do what she liked, which she hotly resented. And as to that conscription of women for war-work which was vaguely talked of, Bridget passionately felt that she would go to prison rather than submit to such a thing. For the war said nothing whatever to her heart or conscience. All the great tragic side of it—the side of death and wounds and tears—of high justice and ideal aims—she put away from her, as she always had put away such things, in peace. They did not concern her personally. Why make trouble for oneself?

And yet here was a sister whose husband was 'wounded and missing'—probably, as Bridget firmly believed, already dead. And the meaning of that fact—that possibility—was writ so large on Nelly's physical aspect, on Nelly's ways and plans, that there was really no getting away from it. Also—there were other people to be considered. Bridget did not at all want to offend or alienate Sir William Farrell—now less than ever. And she was quite aware that he would think badly of her, if he suspected she was not doing her best for Nelly.

The September light waned. The room grew so dark that Bridget turned on an electric light beside her, and by the help of it stole a long look at Nelly, who was still standing by the window. Would grieving—would the loss of George—take Nelly's prettiness away? She had certainly lost flesh during the preceding weeks and days. Her little chin was very sharp, as Bridget saw it against the window, and her hair seemed to have parted with its waves and curls, and to be hanging limp about her ears. Bridget felt a pang of annoyance that anything should spoil Nelly's good looks. It was altogether unnecessary and absurd.

Presently Nelly moved back towards her sister.

'I don't know how I shall get through the next fortnight,' she said in a low voice. 'I wonder what we had better do?'

'Well, we can't stay here,' said Bridget sharply. 'It's too expensive, though it is such a poky hole. We can find a lodging, I suppose, and feed ourselves. Unless of course we went back to Westmorland. Why can't you? They can always telegraph.'

Nelly flushed. Her hand lying on the back of Bridget's chair shook.

'And if George sent for me,' she said, in the same low, strained voice, 'it would take eight hours longer to get to him than it would from here.'

Bridget said nothing. In her heart of hearts she felt perfectly certain that George never would send. She rose and put down her needlework.

'I must go and post a letter downstairs. I'll ask the woman in the office if she knows anything about lodgings.'

Nelly went back to her post by the window. Her mind was bruised between two conflicting feelings—a dumb longing for someone to caress and comfort her, someone who would meet her pain with a bearing less hard and wooden than Bridget's—and at the same time, a passionate shrinking from the bare idea of comfort and sympathy, as something not to be endured. She had had a kind letter from Sir William Farrell that morning. He had spoken of being soon in London. But she did not know that she could bear to see him—unless he could help—get something done!

Bridget descended to the ground floor, and had a conversation with the young lady in the office, which threw no light at all on the question of lodgings. The young lady in question seemed to be patting and pinning up her back hair all the time, besides carrying on another conversation with a second young lady in the background. Bridget was disgusted with her and was just going upstairs again, when the very shabby and partly deformed hall porter informed her that someone—a gentleman—was waiting to see her in the drawing-room.

A gentleman? Bridget hastened to the small and stuffy drawing-room, where the hall porter had just turned on the light, and there beheld a tall bearded man pacing up and down, who turned abruptly as she entered.

'How is she? Is there any news?'

Sir William Farrell hurriedly shook her offered hand, frowning a little at the sister who always seemed to him inadequate and ill-mannered.

'Thank you, Sir William; she is quite well. There is a little news—but nothing of any consequence.'

She repeated the contents of the hospital letter, with the comments on it of the lady they had seen at the office.

'We shan't hear anything more for a fortnight. They have written to
Geneva.'

'Then they think he's a prisoner?'

Bridget supposed so.

'At any rate they hope he is. Well, I'm thankful there's no worse news.
Poor thing—poor little thing! Is she bearing up—eating?—sleeping?'

He asked the questions peremptorily, yet with a real anxiety. Bridget vaguely resented the peremptoriness, but she answered the questions. It was very difficult to get Nelly to eat anything, and Bridget did not believe she slept much.

Farrell shook his head impatiently, with various protesting noises, while she spoke. Then drawing up suddenly, with his hands in his pockets, he looked round the room in which they stood.

'But why are you staying here? It's a dreadful hole! That porter gave me the creeps. And it's so far from everywhere.'

'There is a tube station close by. We stay here because it's cheap,' said Bridget, grimly.

Sir William walked up the room again, poking his nose into the moribund geranium that stood, flanked by some old railway guides, on the middle table, surveyed the dirty and ill-kept writing-table, the uncomfortable chairs, and finally went to look out of the window; after which he suddenly and unaccountably brightened up and turned with a smile to Bridget.

'Do you think you could persuade your sister to do something that would please me very much?'

'I'm sure I don't know, Sir William.'

'Well, it's this. Cicely and I have a flat in St. James' Square. I'm there very little just now, and she less. You know we're both awfully busy at Carton. We've had a rush of wounded the last few weeks. I must be up sometimes on business for the hospital, but I can always sleep at my club. So what I want to persuade you to do, Miss Cookson, is to get Mrs. Sarratt to accept the loan of our flat, for a few weeks while she's kept in town. It would be a real pleasure to us. We're awfully sorry for her!'

He beamed upon her, all his handsome face suffused with kindness and concern.

Bridget was amazed, but cautious.

'It's awfully good of you—but—shouldn't we have to get a servant? I couldn't do everything.'

Sir William laughed.

'Gracious—I should think not! There are always servants there—it's kept ready for us. I put in a discharged soldier—an army cook and his wife—a few months ago. They're capital people. I'm sure they'd look after you. Well now, will you suggest that to Mrs. Sarratt? Could I see her?'

Bridget hesitated. Some instinct told her that Nelly would not wish to accept this proposal. She said slowly—

'I'm afraid she's very tired to-night.'

'Oh, don't bother her then! But just try and persuade her—won't you—quietly? And send me a word to-night.'

He gave the address.

'If I hear that you'll come, I'll make all the arrangements to-morrow morning before I leave for Westmorland. You can just take her round in a taxi any time you like, and the servants will be quite ready for you. You'll be close to D—— Street—close to everything. Now do!'

He stood with his hands on his side looking down eagerly and a little sharply on the hard-featured woman before him.

'It's awfully good of you,' said Bridget again—'most awfully good. Of course I'll tell Nelly what you say.'

'And drop me a line to-night?'

'Yes, I'll write.'

Sir William took up his stick.

'Well, I shall put everything in train. Tell her, please, what a pleasure she'd give us. And she won't keep Cicely away. Cicely will be up next week. But there's plenty of room. She and her maid wouldn't make any difference to you. And please tell Mrs. Sarratt too, that if there's anything I can do—anything—she has only to let me know.'

* * * * *

Bridget went back to the room upstairs. As she opened the door she saw Nelly standing under the electric light—motionless. Something in her attitude startled Bridget.

She called—

'Nelly!'

Nelly turned slowly, and Bridget saw that she had a letter in her hand.
Bridget ran up to her.

'Have you heard anything?'

'He did write to me!—he did!—just the last minute—in the trench. I knew he must. He gave it to an engineer officer who was going back to Headquarters, to post. The officer was badly wounded as he went back. They've sent it me from France. The waiter brought me the letter just after you'd gone down.'

The words came in little panting gasps.

Then, suddenly, she slipped down beside the table at which Bridget had been working, and hid her face. She was crying. But it was very difficult weeping—with few tears. The slight frame shook from top to toe.

Bridget stood by her, not knowing what to do. But she was conscious of a certain annoyance that she couldn't begin at once on the subject of the flat. She put her hand awkwardly on her sister's shoulder.

'Don't cry so. What does he say?'

Nelly did not answer for a little. At last she said, her face still buried—

'It was only—to tell me—that he loved me—'

There was silence again. Then Nelly rose to her feet. She pressed her hair back from her white face.

'I don't want any supper, Bridget. I think—I should like to go to bed.'

Bridget helped her to undress. It was now nearly dark and she drew down the blinds. When she looked again at Nelly, she saw her lying white and still, her wide eyes fixed on vacancy.

'I found a visitor downstairs,' she said, abruptly. 'It was Sir William
Farrell.'

Nelly shewed no surprise, or interest. But she seemed to find some words mechanically.

'Why did he come?'

Bridget came to the bedside.

'He wants us to go and stay at his flat—their flat. He and his sister have it together—in St. James' Square. He wants us to go to-morrow. He's going back to Carton. There are two servants there. We shouldn't have any trouble. And you'd be close to D—— Street. Any news they got they could send round directly.'

Nelly closed her eyes.

'I don't care where we go,' she said, under her breath.

'He wanted a line to-night,' said Bridget—'I can't hear of any lodgings. And the boarding-houses are all getting frightfully expensive—because food's going up so.'

'Not a boarding-house!' murmured Nelly. A shiver of repulsion ran through her. She was thinking of a boarding-house in one of the Bloomsbury streets where she and Bridget had once stayed before her marriage—the long tables full of strange faces—the drawing-room crowded with middle-aged women, who stared so.

'Well, I can write to him to-night then, and say we'll go to-morrow? We certainly can't stay here. The charges are abominable. If we go to their flat, for a few days, we can look round us and find something cheap.'

'Where is it?' said Nelly faintly.

'In St. James' Square.'

The address conveyed very little to Nelly. She knew hardly anything of London. Two visits—one to some cousins in West Kensington, another to a friend at Hampstead—together with the fortnight three years ago in the Bloomsbury boarding-house, when Bridget had had some grand scheme with a publisher which never came off, and Nelly had mostly stayed indoors with bad toothache:—her acquaintance with the great city had gone no further. Of its fashionable quarters both she and Bridget were entirely ignorant, though Bridget would not have admitted it.

Bridget got her writing-case out of her trunk and began to write to Sir William. Nelly watched her. At last she said slowly, as though she were becoming a little more conscious of the world around her:—

'It's awfully kind of them. But we needn't stay long.'

'Oh no, we needn't stay long.'

Bridget wrote the letter, and disappeared to post it. Nelly was left alone in darkness. The air about her seemed to be ringing with the words of her letter.

'MY OWN DARLING,—We are just going over. I have found a man going back to D.H.Q. who will post this—and I just want you to know that, whatever happens, you are my beloved, and our love can't die. God bless you, my dear, dear wife…. We are all in good spirits—everything ought to go well—and I will write the first moment possible.

'GEORGE.'

She seemed to see him, tearing the leaf from the little block she had given him, and standing in the trench, so slim and straight in his khaki. And then, what happened after? when the rush came? Would she never know? If he never came back to her, what was she going to do with her life? Waves of lonely terror went through her—terror of the long sorrow before her—terror of her own weakness.

And then again—reaction. She sat up in bed, angrily wrestling with her own lapse from hope. Of course it was all coming right! She turned on the light, with a small trembling hand, and tried to read a newspaper Bridget had brought in. But the words swam before her; the paper dropped from her grasp; and when Bridget came back, her face was hidden, she seemed to be asleep.

* * * * *

'Is this it?' said Nelly, looking in alarm at the new and splendid house before which the taxi had drawn up.

'Well, it's the right number!' And Bridget, rather flurried, looked at the piece of paper on which Farrell had written the address for her, the night before.

She jumped out of the taxi and ran up some marble steps towards a glass door covered with a lattice metal-work, beyond which a hall, a marble staircase and a lift shewed dimly. Inside, a porter in livery, at the first sight of the taxi, put down the newspaper he was reading, and hurried to the door.

'Is this Sir William Farrell's flat?' asked Bridget.

'It's all right, Miss. They're expecting you. Sir William went off this morning. I was to tell you he had to go down to Aldershot to-day on business, but he hoped to look in this evening, on his way to Euston, to see that you had everything comfortable.'

Reluctantly, and with a feeble step, Nelly descended, helped by the porter.

'Oh, Bridget, I wish we hadn't come!' She breathed it into her sister's ear, as they stood together in the hall, waiting for the lift which had been called. Bridget shut her lips tightly, and said nothing.

The lift carried them up to the third floor, and there at the top the ex-army cook and his wife were waiting, a pair of stout and comfortable people, all smiles and complaisance. The two small trunks were shouldered by the man, and the woman led the way.

'Lunch will be ready directly, Ma'am,' she said to Nelly, who followed her in bewilderment across a hall panelled in marble and carpeted with something red and soft.

'Sir William thought you would like it about one o'clock. And this is
your room, please, Ma'am—unless you would like anything different. It's
Miss Farrell's room. She always likes the quiet side. And I've put Miss
Cookson next door. I thought you'd wish to be together?'

Nelly entered a room furnished in white and pale green, luxurious in every detail, and hung with engravings after Watteau framed in white wood. Through an open door shewed another room a little smaller, but equally dainty and fresh in all its appointments. Bridget tripped briskly through the open door, looked around her and deposited her bag upon the bed. Nelly meanwhile was being shewn the green-tiled and marble-floored bathroom attached to her room, Mrs. Simpson chattering on the various improvements and subtleties, which 'Miss Cicely' had lately commanded there.

'But I'm sure you'll be wanting your lunch, Ma'am,' said the woman at last, venturing a compassionate glance at the pale young creature beside her. 'It'll be ready in five minutes. I'll tell Simpson he can serve it.'

She disappeared, and Nelly sank into a chair. Why had they come to this place? Her whole nature was in revolt. The gaiety and luxury of the flat seemed to rise up and reproach her. What was she doing in such surroundings?—when George—Oh, it was hateful—hateful! She thought with longing of the little bare room in the Rydal lodgings, where they had been happy together.

'Well, are you ready?' said Bridget, bustling in. 'Do take off your things. You look absolutely done up!'

Nelly rose slowly, but her face had flushed.

'I can't stay here, Bridget!' she said with energy—'I can't! I don't know why we came.'

'Because we were asked,' said Bridget calmly. 'We can stay, I think, for a couple of days, can't we, till we find something else? Where are your brushes?'

And she began vigorously unpacking for her sister, helplessly watched by Nelly. They had just come from D—— Street, where Nelly had been shewn various letters and telegrams; but nothing which promised any real further clue to George Sarratt's fate. He had been seen advancing—seen wounded—by at least a dozen men of the regiment, and a couple of officers, all of whom had now been communicated with. But the wave of the counter-attack—temporarily successful—had rushed over the same ground before the British gains had been finally consolidated, and from that fierce and confused fighting there came no further word of George Sarratt. It was supposed that in the final German retreat he had been swept up as a German prisoner. He was not among the dead found and buried by an English search party on the following day—so much had been definitely ascertained.

The friendly volunteer in D—— Street—whose name appeared to be Miss Eustace—had tried to insist with Nelly that on the whole, and so far, the news collected was not discouraging. At least there was no verification of death. And for the rest, there were always the letters from Geneva to wait for. 'One must be patient,' Miss Eustace had said finally. 'These things take so long! But everybody's doing their best.' And she had grasped Nelly's cold hands in hers, long and pityingly. Her own fine aquiline face seemed to have grown thinner and more strained even since Nelly had known it. She often worked in the office, she said, up to midnight.

All these recollections and passing visualisations of words and faces, drawn from those busy rooms a few streets off, in which not only George Sarratt's fate, but her own, as it often seemed to Nelly, were being slowly and inexorably decided, passed endlessly through her brain, as she mechanically took off her things, and brushed her hair.

Presently she was following Bridget across the hall to the drawing-room. Bridget seemed already to know all about the flat. 'The dining-room opens out of the drawing-room. It's all Japanese,' she said complaisantly, turning back to her sister. 'Isn't it jolly? Miss Farrell furnished it. Sir William let her have it all her own way.'

Nelly looked vaguely round the drawing-room, which had a blue Persian carpet, pale purple walls, hung with Japanese colour prints, a few chairs, one comfortable sofa, a couple of Japanese cabinets, and pots of Japanese lilies in the corners. It was a room not meant for living in. There was not a book in it anywhere. It looked exactly what it was—a perching-place for rich people, who liked their own ways, and could not be bored with hotels.

The dining-room was equally bare, costly, and effective. Its only ornament was a Chinese Buddha, a great terra-cotta, marvellously alive, which had been looted from some Royal tomb, and now sat serenely out of place, looking over the dainty luncheon-table to the square outside, and wrapt in dreams older than Christianity.

The flat was nominally lent to 'Mrs. Sarratt,' but Bridget was managing everything, and had never felt so much in her element in her life. She sat at the head of the table, helped Nelly, gave all the orders, and was extraordinarily brisk and cheerful.

Nelly scarcely touched anything, and Mrs. Simpson who waited was much concerned.

'Perhaps you'd tell Simpson anything you could fancy, Madam,' she said anxiously in Nelly's ear, as she handed the fruit. Nelly must needs smile when anyone spoke kindly to her. She smiled now, though very wearily.

'Why, it's all beautiful, thank you. But I'm not hungry.'

'We'll have coffee in the drawing-room, please, Mrs. Simpson,' said Bridget rising—a tall masterful figure, in a black silk dress, which she kept for best occasions. 'Now Nelly, you must rest.'

Nelly let herself be put on the sofa in the drawing-room, and Bridget—after praising the coffee, the softness of the chairs, the beauty of the Japanese lilies, and much speculation on the value of the Persian carpet which, she finally decided, was old and priceless—announced that she was going for a walk.

'Why don't you come too, Nelly? Come and look at the shops. You shouldn't mope all day long. If they do send for you to nurse George, you won't have the strength of a cat.'

But Nelly had shrunk into herself. She said she would stay in and write a letter to Hester Martin. Presently she was left alone. Mrs. Simpson had cleared away, and shut all the doors between the sitting-rooms and the kitchen. Inside the flat nothing was to be heard but the clock ticking on the drawing-room mantelpiece. Outside, there were intermittent noises and rattles from the traffic in the square, and beyond that again the muffled insistent murmur which seemed to Nelly this afternoon—in her utter loneliness—the most desolate sound she had ever heard. The day had turned to rain and darkness, and the rapid closing of the October afternoon prophesied winter. Nelly could not rouse herself to write the letter to Miss Martin. She lay prone in a corner of the sofa, dreaming, as she had done all her life; save that the faculty—of setting in motion at will a stream of vivid and connected images—which had always been one of her chief pleasures, was now an obsession and a torment. How often, in her wakeful nights at Rydal, had she lived over again every moment in the walk to Blea Tarn, till at last, gathered once more on George's knees, and nestling to his breast, she had fallen asleep—comforted.

She went through it all, once more, in this strange room, as the darkness closed; only the vision ended now, not in a tender thrill—half conscious, fading into sleep—of remembered joy, but in an anguish of sobbing, the misery of the frail tormented creature, unable to bear its life.

Nevertheless sleep came. For nights she had scarcely slept, and in the silence immediately round her the distant sounds gradually lost their dreary note, and became a rhythmical and soothing influence. She fell into a deep unconsciousness.

* * * * *

An hour later, a tall man rang at the outer door of the flat. Mrs. Simpson obeyed the summons, and found Sir William Farrell on the threshold.

'Well, have they come?'

'Oh, yes, sir.' And Mrs. Simpson gave a rapid, sotto voce account of the visitors' arrival, their lunch, Mrs. Sarratt's sad looks—'poor little lady!'—and much else.

Sir William stepped in.

'Are they at home?'

Mrs. Simpson shook her head.

'They went out after lunch, Sir William, and I have not heard them come in.'

Which, of course, was a mistake on the part of Mrs. Simpson, who, hearing the front door close half an hour after luncheon and no subsequent movement in the flat, had supposed that the sisters had gone out together.

'All right. I'll wait for them. I want to see Mrs. Sarratt before I start. You may get me a cup of tea, if you like.'

Mrs. Simpson disappeared with alacrity, and Farrell crossed the hall to the drawing-room. He turned on the light as he opened the door, and was at once aware of Nelly's slight form on the sofa. She did not move, and something in her attitude—some rigidity that he fancied—alarmed him. He took a few steps, and then saw that there was no cause for alarm. She was only asleep, poor child, profoundly, pathetically asleep. Her utter unconsciousness, the delicate hand and arm lying over the edge of the sofa, and the gleam of her white forehead under its muffling cloud of hair, moved him strangely. He retreated as quietly as he could, and almost ran into Mrs. Simpson bringing a tray. He beckoned her into a small room which he used as his own den. But he had hardly explained the situation, before there were sounds in the drawing-room, and Nelly opened the door, which he had closed behind him. He had forgotten to turn out the light, and its glare had awakened her.

'Oh, Sir William—' she said, in bewilderment—'Did you come in just now?'

He explained his proceedings, retaining the hand she gave him, and looking down upon her with an impulsive and affectionate pity.

'You were asleep. I disturbed you,' he said, remorsefully.

'Oh no, do come in.'

She led the way into the drawing-room.

'I wanted—specially—to tell you some things I heard at Aldershot to-day, which I thought might cheer you,' said Farrell.

And sitting beside her, while Mrs. Simpson lit a fire and spread a white tea-table, he repeated various stories of the safe return of 'missing' men which he had collected for her that morning, including the narrative of an escaped prisoner, who, although badly wounded, had managed to find his way back, at night, from the neighbourhood of Brussels, through various hairbreadth adventures and disguises, and after many weeks to the British lines. He brought the tale to her, as an omen of hope, together with his other gleanings; and under the influence of his cheerful voice and manner, Nelly's aspect changed; the light came back into her eyes, which hung upon him, as Farrell talked on, persuading himself, as he persuaded her. So that presently, when tea came in, and the kettle boiled, she was quite ready to pour out for him, to ask him questions about his night journey, and thank him timidly for all his kindness.

'But this—this is too grand for us!'—she said, looking round her. 'We must find a lodging soon.'

He begged her earnestly to let the flat be of use to her, and she, embarrassed and unwilling, but dreading to hurt his feelings, was compelled at last to submit to a week's stay.

Then he got up to go; and she was very sorry to say good-bye to him. As for him, in her wistful and gracious charm, she had never seemed to him more lovely. How she became grief!—in her measure reserve!

He ran down the stairs of the mansion just as Bridget Cookson arrived with the lift at the third floor. She recognised the disappearing figure, and stood a moment at the door of the flat, looking after it, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

PART II

CHAPTER IX

'Is she out?'

The questioner was William Farrell, and the question was addressed to his cousin Hester, whom he had found sitting in the little upstairs drawing-room of the Rydal lodgings, partly knitting, but mostly thinking, to judge from her slowly moving needles, and her absent eyes fixed upon the garden outside the open window.

'She has gone down to the lake—it is good for her to be alone a bit.'

'You brought her up from Torquay?'

'I did. We slept in London, and arrived yesterday. Miss Cookson comes this evening.'

'Why doesn't she keep away?' said Farrell, impatiently.

He took a seat opposite his cousin. He was in riding-dress, and looked in splendid case. From his boyhood he had always been coupled in Hester's mind with the Biblical words—'ruddy and of a cheerful countenance'; and as he sat there flushed with air and exercise, they fitted him even better than usual. Yet there was modern subtlety too in his restless eyes, and mouth alternately sensitive and ironic.

Hester's needles began to ply a little faster. A spring wind came through the window, and stirred her grey hair.

'How did she get over it yesterday?' Farrell presently asked.

'Well, of course it was hard,' said Hester, quietly. 'I let her alone, poor child, and I told Mrs. Weston not to bother her. She came up to these rooms and shut herself up a little. I went over to my own cottage, and came back for supper. Then she had got it over—and I just kissed her and said nothing. It was much best.'

'Do you think she gives up hope?'

Hester shook her head.

'Not the least. You can see that.'

'What do you mean?'

'When she gives up hope, she will put on a black dress.'

Farrell gave an impatient sigh.

'You know there can't be the smallest doubt that Sarratt is dead! He died in some German hospital, and the news has never come through.'

'The Red Cross people at Geneva declare that if he had died in hospital they would know. The identification disks are returned to them—so they say—with remarkable care.'

'Well then, he died on the field, and the Germans buried him.'

'In which case the poor soul will know nothing—ever,' said Hester sadly. 'But, of course, she believes he is a prisoner.'

'My dear Hester, if he were, we should certainly have heard! Enquiries are now much more thorough, and the results much more accurate, than they were a year ago.'

'Loss of memory?—shell-shock?' said Hester vaguely.

'They don't do away with your disk, and your regimental marks, etc. Whatever may happen to a private, an officer doesn't slip through and vanish like this, if he is still alive. The thing is perfectly clear.'

Hester shook her head without speaking. She was just as thoroughly convinced as Farrell that Nelly was a widow; but she did not see how anybody could proclaim it before Nelly did.

'I wonder how long it will take to convince her,' said Farrell, after a pause.

'Well, I suppose when peace comes, if there's no news then, she will have to give it up. By the way, when may one—legally—presume that one's husband is dead?' asked Hester, suddenly lifting her shrewd grey eyes to the face of her visitor.

'It used to be seven years. But I believe now you can go to the
Courts—'

'If a woman wants to re-marry? Well that, of course, Nelly Sarratt will never do!'

'My dear Hester, what nonsense!' said Farrell, vehemently. 'Of course she'll marry again. What is she?—twenty-one? It would be a sin and a shame.'

'I only meant she would never take any steps of her own will to separate herself from Sarratt.'

'Women look at things far too sentimentally!' exclaimed Farrell, 'and they just spoil their lives. However, neither you nor I can prophesy anything. Time works wonders; and if he didn't, we should all be wrecks and lunatics!'

Hester said nothing. She was conscious of suppressed excitement in the man before her. Farrell watched her knitting fingers for a little, and then remarked:—

'But of course at present what has to be done, is to improve her health, and distract her thoughts.'

Hester's eyes lifted again.

'And you want to take it in hand?'

Her emphasis on the pronoun was rather sharp. Farrell's fair though sunburnt skin shewed a sudden redness.

'Yes, I do. Why shouldn't I?' His look met hers full.

'She's very lonely—very unprotected,' said Hester, slowly.

'You mean, you can't trust me?' he said, flushing deeper.

'No, Willy—no!' Hester's earnest, perplexed look appeased his rising anger. 'But it's a very difficult position, you must see for yourself. Ever since George Sarratt disappeared, you've been—what shall I say?—the poor child's earthly Providence. Her illness—her convalescence—you've done everything—you've provided everything—'

'With her sister's consent, remember!—and I promised Sarratt to look after them!'

Farrell's blue eyes were now bright and stubborn. Hester realised him as ready for an argument which both he and she had long foreseen. She and Farrell had always been rather intimate friends, and he had come to her for advice in some very critical moments of his life.

'Her sister!' repeated Hester, contemptuously. 'Yes, indeed, Bridget Cookson—in my opinion—is a great deal too ready to accept everything you do! But Nelly has fought it again and again. Only, in her weakness, with you on one side—and Bridget on the other—what could she do?'

She had taken the plunge now. Her own colour had risen—her hand shook a little on her needles. And she had clearly roused some strong emotion in Farrell. After a few moments' silence, he fell upon her, speaking rather huskily.

'You mean I have taken advantage of her?'

'I don't mean anything of the kind!' Hester's tone shewed her distress. 'I know that all you have done has been out of pure friendship and goodness—

He stopped her.

'Don't go on!' he said roughly. 'Whatever I am, I'm not a hypocrite. I worship the ground she treads on!'

There was silence. Hester bent again over her work. The thoughts of both flew back over the preceding six months. Nelly's utter collapse after five or six weeks in London, when the closest enquiries, backed by Farrell's intelligence, influence and money—he had himself sent out a special agent to Geneva—had failed to reveal the slightest trace of George Sarratt; her illness, pneumonia, the result of a slight chill affecting a general physical state depressed by grief and sleeplessness; her long and tedious convalescence; and that pitiful dumbness and inertia from which she had only just begun to emerge. Hester was thinking too of the nurses, the doctors, the lodgings at Torquay, the motor, the endless flowers and books!—all provided, practically, by Farrell, aided and abetted by Bridget's readiness—a discreditable readiness, in the eyes of a person of such Spartan standards as Hester Martin—to avail herself to any extent of other people's money. The patient was not to blame. Even in the worst times of her illness, Nelly had shewn signs of distress and revolt. But Bridget, instructed by Farrell, had talked vaguely of 'a loan from a friend'; and Nelly had been too ill, too physically weak, to urge enquiry further.

Seeing that he was to blame, Farrell broke in upon Hester's recollections.

'You know very well'—he said vehemently—'that if anything less had been done for her, she would have died!'

Would she? It was the lavishness and costliness of Farrell's giving which had shocked Hester's sense of delicacy, and had given rise—she was certain—to gossip among the Farrell friends and kindred that could easily have been avoided. She looked at her companion steadily.

'Suppose we grant it, Willy. But now she's convalescent, she's going to get strong. Let her live her own life. You can't marry her—and'—she added it deliberately—'she is as much in love with her poor George as she ever was!'

Farrell moved restlessly in his chair. She saw him wince—and she had intended the blow.

'I can't marry her—yet—perhaps for years. But why can't I be her friend? Why can't I share with her the things that give me pleasure—books—art—and all the rest? Why should you condemn me to see her living on a pittance, with nobody but a sister who is as hard as nails to look after her?—lonely, and unhappy, and dull—when I know that I could help her, turn her mind away from her trouble—make her take some pleasure in life again? You talk, Hester, as though we had a dozen lives to play with, instead of this one rickety business!'

His resentment grew with the expression of it. But Hester met him unflinchingly.

'I'm anxious—because human nature is human nature—and risk is risk,' she said slowly.

He bent forward, his hands on his knees.

'I swear to you I will be honestly her friend! What do you take me for, Hester? You know very well that—I have had my adventures, and they're over. I'm not a boy. I can answer for myself.'

'All very well!—but suppose—suppose—before she felt herself free—and against her conscience—she were to fall in love with you?'

Farrell could not conceal the flash that the mere words, reluctantly as they were spoken, sent through his blue eyes. He laughed.

'Well—you're there! Act watch-dog as much as you please. Besides—we all know—you have just said so—that she does not believe in Sarratt's death, that she feels herself still his wife, and not his widow. That fact establishes the relation between her and me. And if the outlook changes—'

His voice dropped to a note of pleading—

'Let me, Hester!—let me!'

'As if I could prevent you!' said Hester, rather bitterly, bending again over her work.

'Yes, you could. You have such influence with her now, that you could banish me entirely if you pleased. A word from you would do it. But it would be hideously cruel of you—and abominally unjust! However, I know your power—over her—and so over me. And so I made up my mind it was no good trying to conceal anything from you. I've told you straight out. I love her—and because I love her—you may be perfectly certain I shall protect her!'

Silence again. Farrell had turned towards the open window. When Hester turned her eyes she saw his handsome profile, his Nibelung's head and beard against the stony side of the fell. A man with unfair advantages, it seemed to her, if he chose to put out his strength;—the looks of a king, a warm heart, a sympathetic charm, felt quite as much by men as by women, and ability which would have distinguished him in any career, if his wealth had not put the drag on industry. But at the moment he was not idle. He was more creditably and fully employed then she had ever known him. His hospital and his pride in it were in fact Nelly Sarratt's best safeguard. Whatever he wished, he could not possibly spend all his time at her feet.

Hester tried one more argument—the conventional.

'Have you ever really asked yourself, Willy, how it will look to the outside world—what people will think? It is all very well to scoff at Mrs. Grundy, but the poor child has no natural guardian. We both agree her sister is no use to her.'

'Let them think!'—he turned to her again with energy—'so long as you and I know. Besides—I shan't compromise her in any way. I shall be most careful not to do so.'

'Look at this room!' said Hester drily. She herself surveyed it.
Farrell's laugh had a touch of embarrassment.

'Well?—mayn't anyone give things to a sick child? Hush!—here she is!'

He drew further back into the room, and they both watched a little figure in a serge dress crossing the footbridge beyond the garden. Then she came into the garden, and up the sloping lawn, her hat dangling in her hand, and the spring sunshine upon her. Hester thought of the preceding June; of the little bride, with her springing step, and radiant eyes. Nelly, as she was now, seemed to her the typical figure—or rather, one of the two typical figures of the war—the man in action, the woman in bereavement. Sorrow had marked her; bitten into her youth, and blurred it. Yet it had also dignified and refined her. She was no less lovely.

As she approached, she saw them and waved to them. Farrell went to the sitting-room door to meet her, and it seemed both to him and Hester that in spite of her emaciation and her pallor, she brought the spring in with her. She had a bunch of willow catkins and primroses in her hand, and her face, for all its hollow cheeks and temples, shewed just a sparkle of returning health.

It was clear that she was pleased to see Farrell. But her manner of greeting him now was very different from what it had been in the days before her loss. It was much quieter and more assured. His seniority—there were nineteen years between them—his conspicuous place in the world, his knowledge and accomplishment, had evidently ceased to intimidate her. Something had equalised them.

But his kindness could still make her shy.

Half-way across the room, she caught sight of a picture, on an easel, both of which Farrell had brought with him.

'Oh!—-' she said, and stopped short, looking from it to him.

He enjoyed her surprise.

'Well? Do you remember admiring it at the cottage? I'm up to the neck in work. I never go there. I thought you and Hester might as well take care of it for a bit.'

Nelly approached it. It was one of the Turner water-colours which glorified the cottage; the most adorable, she thought, of all of them. It shewed a sea of downs, their grassy backs flowing away wave after wave, down to the real sea in the gleaming distance. Between the downs ran a long valley floor—cottages on it, woods and houses, farms and churches, strung on a silver river; under the mingled cloud and sunshine of an April day. It breathed the very soul of England,—of this sacred long-descended land of ours. Sarratt, who had stood beside her when she had first looked at it, had understood it so at once.

'Jolly well worth fighting for—this country! isn't it?' he had said to Farrell over her head, and once or twice afterwards he had spoken to her of the drawing with delight. 'I shall think of it—over there. It'll do one good.'

As she paused before it now, a sob rose in her throat. But she controlled herself quickly. Then something beyond the easel caught her eye—a mass of flowers, freesias, narcissus, tulips, tumbled on a table; then a pile of new books; and finally, a surprising piece of furniture.

'What have you been doing now?' she asked him, wondering, and, as Hester thought, shrinking back a little.

'It's from Cicely'—he said apologetically. 'She made me bring it. She declared she'd sampled the sofa here,—' he pointed to an ancient one in a corner—'and it would disgrace a dug-out. It's her affair—don't blame me!'

Nelly looked bewildered.

'But I'm not ill now. I'm getting well.'

'If you only knew what a ghost you look still,' he said vehemently, 'you'd let Cicely have her little plot. This used to stand in my mother's sitting-room. It was bought for her. Cicely had it put to rights.'

As he spoke, he made a hasty mental note that Cicely would have to be coached in her part.

Nelly examined the object. It was a luxurious adjustable couch, covered in flowery chintz, with a reading-desk, and well supplied with the softest cushions.

She laughed, but there was rather a flutter in her laugh.

'It's awfully kind of Cicely. But you know—'

Her eyes turned on Farrell with a sudden insistence. Hester had just left the room, and her distant voice—with other voices—could be heard in the garden.

'—You know you mustn't—all of you—spoil me so, any more. I've got my life to face. You mean it so kindly—but—'

She sank into a chair by the window that Farrell had placed for her, and her aspect struck him painfully. There was so much weakness in it; and yet a touch of fierceness.

'I've got my life to face,' she repeated—'and you mustn't, Sir
William—you mustn't let me get too dependent on you—and Cicely—and
Hester. Be my friend—my true friend—and help me—'

She bent forward, and her pale lips just breathed the rest—

'Help me—to endure hardness! That's what I want—for George's sake—and my own. I must find some work to do. In a few months perhaps I might be able to teach—but there are plenty of things I could do now. I want to be just—neglected a little—treated as a normal person!'

She smiled faintly at him as he stood beside her. He felt himself rebuked—abashed—as though he had been in some sort an intruder on her spiritual freedom; had tried to purchase her dependence by a kindness she did not want. That was not in her mind, he knew. But it was in Hester's. And there was not wanting a certain guilty consciousness in his own.

But he threw it off. Absurdity! She did need his friendship; and he had done what he had done without the shadow of a corrupt motive—en tout bien, tout honneur.

It was intolerable to him to think of her as poor and resourceless—left to that disagreeable sister and her own melancholy thoughts. Still the first need of all was that she should trust him—as a good friend, who had slipped by force of circumstances into a kind of guardian's position. Accordingly he applied himself to the kind of persuasion that befits seniority and experience. She had asked to be treated as a normal person. He proved to her, gently laughing at her, that the claim was preposterous. Ask her doctor!—ask Hester! As for teaching, time enough to talk about that when she had a little flesh on her bones, a little strength in her limbs. She might read, of course; that was what the couch was for. Lying there by the window she might become as learned as she liked, and get strong at the same time. He would keep her stocked with books. The library at Carton was going mouldy for lack of use. And as for her drawing, he had hoped—perhaps—she might some time take a lesson—

Then he saw a little shiver run through her.

'Could I?' she said in a low voice, turning her face away. And he perceived that the bare idea of resuming old pleasures—the pleasures of her happy, her unwidowed time—was still a shock to her.

'I'm sure it would help'—he said, persevering. 'You have a real turn for water-colour. You should cultivate it—you should really. In my belief you might do a great deal better with it than with teaching.'

That roused her. She sat up, her eyes brightening.

'If I worked—you really think? And then,' her voice dropped—'if
George came back—'

'Exactly,' he said gravely—'it might be of great use. Didn't you wish for something normal to do? Well, here's the chance. I can supply you with endless subjects to copy. There are more in the cottage than you would get through in six months. And I could send you over portfolios of my own studies and académies, done at Paris, and in the Slade, which would help you—and sometimes we could take some work out of doors.'

She said nothing, but her sad puzzled eyes, as they wandered over the garden and the lake, shewed that she was considering it.

Then suddenly her expression changed.

'Isn't that Cicely's voice?' She motioned towards the garden.

'I daresay. I sent on the motor to meet her at Windermere. She's been in town for two or three weeks, selling at Red Cross Bazaars and things. And by George!—isn't that Marsworth?'

He sprang up to look, and verified his guess. The tall figure on the lawn with Cicely and Hester was certainly Marsworth. He and Nelly looked at each other, and Nelly smiled.

'You know Cicely and I have become great friends?' she said shyly. 'It's so odd that I should call her Cicely—but she makes me.'

'She treats you nicely?—at last?'

'She's awfully good to me,' said Nelly, with emphasis. 'I used to be so afraid of her.'

'What wrought the miracle?'

But Nelly shook her head, and would not tell.

'I had a letter from Marsworth a week ago,' said Farrell reflecting—'asking how and where we all were. I told him I was tied and bound to Carton—no chance of getting away for ages—but that Cicely had kicked over the traces and gone up to London for a month. Then he sent a post-card to say that he was coming up for a fortnight's treatment, and would go to his old quarters at the Rectory. Ah!—'

He paused, grinning. The same thought occurred to both of them. Marsworth was still suffering very much at times from his neuralgia in the arm, and had a great belief in one of the Carton surgeons, who, with Farrell's aid, had now installed one of the most complete electrical and gymnastic apparatus in the kingdom, at the Carton hospital. Once, during an earlier absence of Cicely's before Christmas, he had suddenly appeared at the Rectory, for ten days' treatment; and now—again! Farrell laughed.

'As for Cicely, you can never count on her for a week together. She got home-sick, and wired to me that she was coming to-night. I forgot all about Marsworth. I expect they met at the station; and quarrelled all the way here. What on earth is Cicely after in that direction! You say you've made friends with her. Do you know?'

Nelly looked conscious.

'I—I guess something,' she said.

'But you mustn't tell?'

She nodded, smiling. Farrell shrugged his shoulders.

'Well, am I to encourage Marsworth—supposing he comes to me for advice—to go and propose to the Rector's granddaughter?'

'Certainly not!' said Nelly, opening a pair of astonished eyes.

'Aha, I've caught you! You've given the show away. But you know'—his tone grew serious—'it's not at all impossible that he may. She torments him too much.'

'He must do nothing of the kind,' said Nelly, with decision.

'Well, you tell him so. I wash my hands of them. I can't fathom either of them. Here they are!'

Voices ascending the stairs announced the party. Cicely came in first; tired and travel-stained, and apparently in the worst of tempers. But she seemed glad to see Nelly Sarratt, whom she kissed, to the astonishment of her Cousin Hester, who was not as yet aware of the new relations between the two. And then, flinging herself into a chair beside Nelly, she declared that she was dead-beat, that the train had been intolerably full of khaki, and that soldiers ought to have trains to themselves.

'Thank your stars, Cicely, that you are allowed to travel at all,' said
Farrell. 'No civilian nowadays matters a hap'orth.'

'And then we talk about Prussian Militarism!' cried Cicely. And she went off at score describing the invasion of her compartment at Rugby by a crowd of young officers, whose manners were 'atrocious.'

'What was their crime?' asked Marsworth, quietly. He sat in the background, cigarette in hand, a strong figure, rather harshly drawn, black hair slightly grizzled, a black moustache, civilian clothes. He had filled out since the preceding summer and looked much better in health. But his left arm was still generally in its sling.

'They had every crime!' said Cicely impatiently. 'It isn't worth discriminating.'

Marsworth raised his eyebrows.

'Poor boys!'

Cicely flushed.

'You think, of course, I have no right to criticise anything in khaki!'

'Not at all. Criticism is the salt of life.' His eyes twinkled.

'That I entirely deny!' said Cicely, firmly. She made a fantastic but agreeable figure as she sat near the window in the full golden light of the March evening. Above her black toque there soared a feather which almost touched the ceiling of the low room—a panache, nodding defiance; while her short grey skirts shewed her shapely ankles and feet, clothed in grey gaiters and high boots of the very latest perfection.

'What do you deny, Cicely?' asked her brother, absently, conscious always, through all the swaying of talk, of the slight childish form of Nelly Sarratt beneath him, in her deep chair; and of the eyes and mouth, which after the few passing smiles he had struck from them, were veiled again in their habitual sadness. 'Here I and sorrow sit.' The words ran through his mind, only to be passionately rejected. She was young!—and life was long. Forget she would, and must.

At her brother's question, Cicely merely shrugged her shoulders.

'Your sister was critical,' said Marsworth, laughing,—'and then denies the uses of criticism.'

'As some people employ it!' said Cicely, pointedly.

Marsworth's mouth twitched—but he said nothing.

Then Hester, perceiving that the atmosphere was stormy, started some of the usual subjects that relieve tension; the weather—the possibility of a rush of Easter tourists to the Lakes—the daffodils that were beginning to make beauty in some sheltered places. Marsworth assisted her; while Cicely took a chair beside Nelly, and talked exclusively to her, in a low voice. Presently Hester saw their hands slip together—Cicely's long and vigorous fingers enfolding Nelly's thin ones. How had two such opposites ever come to make friends? The kindly old maid was very conscious of cross currents in the spiritual air, as she chatted to Marsworth. She was keenly aware of Farrell, and could not keep the remembrance of what he had said to her out of her mind. Nelly's face and form, also, as the twilight veiled them, were charged for Hester with pitiful meaning. While at the back of her thoughts there was an expectation, a constant and agitating expectation, of another arrival. Bridget Cookson might be upon them at any moment. To Hester Martin she was rapidly becoming a disquieting and sinister element in this group of people. Yet why, Hester could not really have explained.

The afternoon was rapidly drawing in, and Farrell was just beginning to take out his watch, and talk of starting home, when the usual clatter of wheels and hoofs announced the arrival of the evening coach. Nelly sat up, looking very white and weary.

'I am expecting my sister,' she said to Farrell. 'She has no doubt come by this coach.'

And in a few more minutes, Bridget was in the room, distributing to everybody there the careless staccato greetings which were her way of protecting herself against the world. Her entrance and her manner had always a disintegrating effect upon other human beings; and Bridget had no sooner shaken hands with the Farrells than everybody—save Nelly—was upon their feet and ready to move. One of Bridget's most curious and marked characteristics was an unerring instinct for whatever news might be disagreeable to the company in which she found herself; and on this occasion she brought some bad war news—a German advance at Verdun, with corresponding French losses—and delivered it with the emphasis of one to whom it was not really unwelcome. Cicely, to whom, flourishing her evening paper, she had mainly addressed herself, listened with the haughty and casual air she generally put on for Bridget Cookson. She had succumbed for her own reasons to the charm of Nelly. She was only the more inclined to be rude to Bridget. Accordingly she professed complete incredulity on the subject of the news. 'Invented,'—she supposed—'to sell some halfpenny rag or other. It would all be contradicted to-morrow.' Then when Bridget, smarting under so much scepticism, attempted to support her tale by the testimony of various stale morsels of military gossip, current in a certain pessimist and pacifist household she had been visiting in Manchester, as to the unfavourable situation in France, and the dead certainty of the loss of Verdun; passing glibly on to the 'bad staff work' on the British side, and the 'poor quality of the new officers compared to the old,' etc.—Cicely visibly turned up her nose, and with a few deft, cat-like strokes put a raw provincial in her place. She, Cicely, of course—she made it plain, by a casual hint or two—had just come from the very centre of things; from living on a social diet of nothing less choice than Cabinet Ministers and leading Generals—Bonar Law, Asquith, Curzon, Briand, Lloyd George, Thomas, the great Joffre himself. Bridget began to scowl a little, and had it been anyone else than Cicely Farrell who was thus chastising her, would soon have turned her back upon them. For she was no indiscriminate respecter of persons, and cared nothing at all about rank or social prestige. But from a Farrell she took all things patiently; till Cicely, suddenly discovering that her victim was giving her no sport, called peremptorily to 'Willy' to help her put on her cloak. But Farrell was having some last words with Nelly, and Marsworth came forward—

'Let me—'

'Oh thank you!' said Cicely carelessly, 'I can manage it myself.' And she did not allow him to touch it.

Marsworth retreated, and Hester, who had seen the little incident, whispered indignantly in her cousin's ear—

'Cicely!—you are a wicked little wretch!'

But Cicely only laughed, and her feather made defiant nods and flourishes all the way downstairs.

'Come along Marsworth, my boy,' said Farrell when the good-byes were said, and Hester stood watching their departure, while Cicely chattered from the motor, where she sat wrapped in furs against a rising east wind. 'Outside—or inside?' He pointed to the car.

'Outside, thank you,' said Marsworth, with decision. He promptly took his place beside the chauffeur, and Farrell and his sister were left to each other's company. Farrell had seldom known his companion more cross and provoking than she was during the long motor ride home; and on their arrival at Carton she jumped out of the car, and with barely a nod to Marsworth, vanished into the house.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Nelly had let Hester install her on the Carton couch, and lay there well shawled, beside the window, her delicate face turned to the lake and the mountains. Bridget was unpacking, and Hester was just departing to her own house. Nelly could hardly let her go. For a month now, Hester had been with her at Torquay, while Bridget was pursuing some fresh 'work' in London. And Nelly's desolate heart had found both calm and bracing in Hester's tenderness. For the plain shapeless spinster was one of those rare beings who in the Lampadephoria of life, hand on the Lamp of Love, pure and undefiled, as they received it from men and women, like themselves, now dead.

But Hester went at last, and Nelly was alone. The lake lay steeped in a rich twilight, into which the stars were rising. The purple breast of Silver How across the water breathed of shelter, of rest, of things ineffable. Nelly's eyes were full of tears, and her hands clasped on her breast scarcely kept down the sobbing. There, under the hands, was the letter which George had written to her, the night before he left her. She had been told of its existence within a few days of his disappearance; and though she longed for it, a stubborn instinct had bade her refuse to have it, refuse to open it. 'No!—I was only to open it, if George was dead. And he is not dead!' And as time went on, it had seemed to her for months, as if to open it, would be in some mysterious way to seal his fate. But at last she had sent for it—at last she had read it—with bitter tears.

She would wear no black for him—her lost lover. She told herself to hope still. But she was, in truth, beginning to despair. And into her veins, all unconsciously, as into those of the old brown earth, the tides of youth, the will to live, were slowly, slowly, surging back.