PART FOUR

1

SHE was ready for the picnic. She wore a yellow linen frock and a hat of brown straw, shaped like a poke bonnet and trimmed with a beautiful yellow ribbon. It was Mamma who tied the ribbon in a great bow: the loops fell in the nape of her neck and the ends ran down between her shoulder blades.

‘Lovely young creature,’ said Mamma dispassionately observing her.

Judith had been home more than a week, and Mamma was being charming. She had taken her to London to buy frocks. They had stayed at Jules for a couple of nights, and Mamma had ordered pretty clothes generously from her own dressmaker. She had said at last in her curious, harsh yet beautiful voice, with a shrug of her shoulders, as Judith paraded before her in the fifteenth model:

‘As you see, everything suits that child.’

And the dressmaker had solemnly agreed.

They had been together to a play, and to the opera; and every morning and every night Judith sat on Mamma’s bed and they chatted together with friendly politeness, almost with ease.

She was a woman exquisitely dressed, manicured, powdered and scented. Her face did not age, though the colourless cheeks were now a little hollowed, and the eyes sharper. Her eyes were like blue diamonds, and she had an unkind reddened mouth with long pointed corners. The bones of her face were strong and sharp and delicate, and something in the triangular outline, in the set of the eyes, the expression of the lips, made you think of a cat.

She was elegant in mind as well as in person, capable, quick-witted. Her conversation was acute and well-informed over a wide field,—and men admired and delighted in her. She had always, thought Judith, seemed to move surrounded by men who paid her compliments. She had no women friends that you could remember. She remarked, now and then, how much she disliked women; and Judith had felt herself included in the condemnation. She had never been pleased to have a daughter: only a handsome son would have been any good to her. Her daughter had discerned that far back in a childhood made overwise by adoration of her.

There was scarcely anything about Mamma to remember: nothing but a vague awestruck worshipful identification of her with angels and the Virgin Mary.

There was one night when she had come in, dressed for a dinner party, all in white, with something floating, rosy and iridescent about her. The dress had geraniums on it, at breast, waist and hem, a bunch on one shoulder, and flowing geranium-coloured ribbons. There were diamonds in her fair cloud of hair. She bent over the cot, smiling secretly with eyes and lips as if she were very pleased; and Judith hid her face from that angelic presence; and neither of them spoke a word. A man’s voice called: ‘Mildred!’ from the door: not Papa.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Here’s the child.’

Somebody tall and moustached came and stood beside Mamma and looked down, making jokes and asking silly questions, and laughing because she would neither answer nor look at him.

‘Don’t be silly, Judith,’ said Mamma.

‘She hasn’t a look of you,’ said the man.

‘No, nothing of me at all.’ Her voice sounded bored.

‘Are you sorry?’

‘Fred isn’t.’

They both laughed a little.

They stood leaning on the cot-rail in silence side by side, and Judith’s hand stole out unnoticed and touched a geranium. She gave it a little pull and it slipped out of the bunch into her hand.

‘Come then,’ said Mamma; and then over her shoulder: ‘Go to sleep, Judith.’

She would have been annoyed if she had noticed the geranium. It was not real after all: it was made of pink velvet. Judith hid it under her pillow.

Mamma slipped her hand into the man’s arm and floated away.

That was the only vivid recollection of her left. The children next door came close on the heels of the geranium-frock in memory; and after that they, and not Mamma, absorbed her passion. Mamma was more and more away, or busy; and more and more obviously not interested in her daughter. All life that was not playing next door, or alone in the garden, was lessons and governesses. Mamma and Papa were relentless about education.

They had dual personalities in Judith’s mind. There were Mamma and Papa who loved each other, of course, and loved their only daughter; and sometimes took her to the seaside, and now and then to London for the pantomime. Once or twice she went abroad with them; but on the many occasions when they left her behind, they wrote her affectionate letters which she dutifully replied to in French, so that they might see how her French was progressing; and they brought her back beautiful presents. Often when they were at home they read aloud to her in the evenings.

The three were blent in a relationship of a romantic and consoling sort,—an ideal relationship; but then Fred and Mildred would take the place of Mamma and Papa, and shatter the illusion. For they, alas, seemed made of stronger and more enduring fibre: they were real: and they were not often together: and when they were, there was often coldness and now and then quarrelling. Life with Fred and Mildred was neither comforting nor secure. Fred was quite an elderly man, and terrifyingly silent and pre-occupied. He read and wrote books, and had a few elderly friends. Sometimes these would pause for a moment between their long spaces of ignoring her; and, searching her face, would tell her she was growing up like her father. And, each time, their voices, their faces, their words made an unknown past spring up in her for a moment, rich with undreamed-of vanished graces—and she would go away with an ache of sadness. People loved Fred; Mildred they admired and deferred to, but did not love. That was clear at an early age, when Judith went walking with one or other of them past the row of cottages at the top of the garden, and they stopped to speak to the cottage people over the fences. The cottage people had one sort of voice, look, reply for Fred; and quite another for Mildred.

Judith grew up with a faint obscure resentment against Mildred for the way she treated Fred, for her competence—her dry, unmerciful, cynical success in dealing with the world. Fred was not at home in the world: even less at home, thought Judith, than she herself; but Mildred was steeped in its wise unkindnesses. She did not seem to realize that Fred needed to be looked after.

Then he died; and they became Mamma and Papa again. Mamma had been gentle, tired-looking, and pale in her black clothes, and dependent for a little while on Judith. She had not spoken much of Papa; but she seemed engrossed in sad contemplations, and her replies to letters spoke of him with tenderness and pride.

But all that had not lasted long. After the first six months she had not appeared to want Judith much during vacations. She was always visiting, always travelling, always surrounded by flattering talkative men and bridge-playing scented women; and she came only once for a few hours to College during the whole three years. She had a flat in Paris, with a little room for Judith; but she expected Judith to lead her own life and to stay with her own friends, or with the one aunt, Papa’s sister, for a part, at least, of every vacation. Reading-parties, short visits to friends’ homes, long visits to the old literary maiden aunt in Yorkshire, had absorbed the time. There had been one rapturous summer month alone with Jennifer in a cottage in Cornwall; but there had never been a visit to Jennifer’s home. Her parents, she said, were too unpleasant to be inflicted upon anybody except herself; and then only for brief spaces and at rare intervals. Like Roddy, she appeared and vanished again, without a background, blazing mysteriously into and out of ordinary life.

The hoped-for letter from Mariella, asking her to stay, had never come. She had not seen Mariella since the summer of Papa’s death; and had had no sign from her save one little ill-expressed conventional letter of sympathy, sent, so the writer said, from them all “to tell you how dreadfully we simpathise.” (But Martin had written a note on his own account.)

The wandering vacations abroad and in England had become a habit; and now, all at once, there was home again. Mamma had come home, out of pure kindness and consideration for Judith; for she did not love it, did not want to live there, found it a heavy expense; had had, so she said, several magnificent opportunities of selling it.

‘But it seemed only fair you should have it, this summer at any rate,’ she said. ‘I know you feel romantic about it.’ She added, ‘I see no reason why we shouldn’t spend a very pleasant summer together. You are very companionable—quite well-read now and quite intelligent; and extremely presentable, I will say. I do not intend you to stay with me permanently. I should find it extremely tiresome to be always dragging you about with me; and I daresay you’d dislike it too. We are quite unsuited to being together for long; we should only irritate each other. I thought you might have made up your mind what you wanted to do by now—’ (Mamma’s remarks had generally a faint sting in their tails)—, ‘however, since you haven’t, I look forward to having you with me, till the winter at least. You can decide then what you will do, and I will help you if I can. Does this arrangement suit you?’

The arrangement promised to work admirably. It was a step of considerable importance, thought Judith, that Mamma should want her at all. And even though they never spoke intimately, they were never at a loss for topics: there were books, people, plays, and clothes to discuss. And Mamma seemed happy in the garden, reading or wandering about; she admitted that she loved going out with a basket and a pair of scissors to cut flowers for all the rooms.

Surely it was going to be possible at last to establish a satisfactory relationship; to feel deep affection as well as interest, admiration, and that curious pang and thrill of the senses which her scent, her clothes, the texture of her skin and hair gave you and had given you from babyhood.

Mamma finished tying the bow, remarked: ‘Well—enjoy yourself,’ in a half-amused, half-mocking voice; and dismissed her to her picnic.

2

They were all collected at the front door as she came down the drive: all except Roddy. They had ceased to hold terror for her now, or anguish: she had grown up. She could observe the tall group they made without a tremor. What a way they had of all standing together, as if to prevent a stranger from breaking in among them! But that did not matter now. Since she had met them again, there had been no approach to intimacy on either side, no significant interchanges; and she had not minded, had not lain awake feverish with doubt and longing. She was equal to them now. Her heart was in a stupor or dead; and it seemed as if they were never going to disturb her any more.

Mariella, Julian, Martin; but no Roddy....

Julian had come down for the day. He was more cadaverous than ever. His face was composed of furrows, projections, and hollows, with eyes blazing far back in his head. A lock of his thick brown hair had turned white. He wore elegant white flannel trousers and an apricot-coloured shirt of softest silk; and he made Martin, in blue cotton shirt and old grey flannels, look rustic and unkempt.

‘Pile in,’ said Martin. ‘Mariella, I can’t let you drive my new car. You do understand, don’t you, angel?’

‘I’m not at all a good driver,’ said Mariella, smiling vaguely round upon them all. ‘I smashed Martin’s car to pieces last year, didn’t I, Martin? I ran it into a wall. He was awfully nice about it.’

‘He’s an awfully nice man,’ said Julian, putting his hand on Martin’s shoulder.

Martin was the only one who ever received obvious marks of affection from the rest. They all treated him in the same way—with a sort of teasing tenderness.

‘Judith, will you come in front with me? And Mariella and Julian, you go there.... Yes, that’s right. Will you be comfortable? Are you all quite happy?’ Martin was terribly anxious lest there should be a hitch. Everyone had got to enjoy the picnic.

‘Is the food in? And the drink? Who’s got the opener? Oh, I have. Mariella, remember that this is Julian’s Day in the Country and don’t sit there and never open your mouth, but point out objects of interest as we go along, and any country sight or sound you happen to notice. Are we ready then? To Monk’s Water, isn’t it?’

The car swooped up the drive.

‘Is Martin safe?,’ cried Julian, clinging to Mariella. ‘I don’t believe he’s safe. If he goes fast I shall jump out. Oh, let’s stay at home and have a picnic in the garden. Don’t let’s go away from this nice house and see objects of interest. I didn’t mean it when I suggested it. I never wanted to. Oh, why can’t you ever see a joke any of you? Oh!...’

He subsided with a groan and shut his eyes as Martin swung round the corner and out on to the road. Mariella was giggling like a little girl, Martin was grinning, everybody was in the proper picnic mood. But where was Roddy?

‘Martin, what’s happened to Roddy?’

‘Oh, Roddy,’ said Martin. ‘Poor old Roddy’s got a headache.’

‘A headache?’ Something leapt painfully in her.

‘Yes. We left him lying down. The idiot would play tennis all yesterday in the broiling sun without a hat, and the consequence is a touch of the sun I suppose. He kept me awake most of the night shivering and warning me he was going to be sick. He looked awful at breakfast I must say,—bright yellow; so we gave him an aspirin and put him on the sofa and left him.’

‘Left him, Martin? But oughtn’t someone to have stayed with him?’

‘O Lord, no. He’ll sleep it off and be all right to-morrow. His temper was his worst trouble, so we thought we’d keep away.’

Martin laughed cheerfully, as if he were amused about Roddy’s headache. How cruel, how callous people were! They called themselves his friends and they left him ill and alone, and went off to enjoy themselves. He might get worse during the day: he might be sickening for a serious illness.

Roddy’s absence and his headache mattered terribly. She realized suddenly that it was chiefly because of seeing him that she had looked forward to the picnic; that she had hoped to watch him, to talk to him; that she had had a pang of dismay at his absence from the group by the door; that she had been secretly alert for his coming, in a fever for some mention of him until the very moment of starting; and that then a weight had descended; and that now the day was utterly ruined.

After all, was she going to be obliged to live, to feel, to want again?

Roddy was lying in the deserted house, on the red sitting-room sofa, with the blinds down. His forehead and closed eyes were contracted with his headache. He tossed his head and buried it in the cushions; and his hair got ruffled, and the cushions became more and more uncomfortable. He swore. You came in on tip-toe and knelt down beside him.

‘Roddy, I’ve come to see you,’ you whispered.

‘Oh, Judy, I’ve got such a headache and nobody cares.’

‘Darling, I care. I’m so terribly sorry. I’ve come to make it better.’

You stroked his forehead with cool fingers, smoothed his pillows, gave him a drink and told him to lie still.

‘That’s better. Thank you, Judy. Do stay with me.’

It was bliss looking after him. He had ceased to withdraw himself and be proud: he was utterly dependent. You bent and kissed his forehead....

Martin broke in upon her dream, saying: ‘Quite comfortable, Judith?’

And after he had adjusted the wind-screen, explained to her some of the devices on the dash-board, looked round to see that the others were all right, he addressed himself with satisfaction to his driving again, resuming his one-sided muttered conversations with his car and with passers-by.

‘Now, now, come along, old lady ... that’s right.... What’s the matter with you? Got a pain?... Well done, old girl....’ ‘Now, my dear sir, what are you up to?... Put out your hand, Madam, before you turn corners like that.... Look out, you little brutes, spinning tops in the road. Lucky for you I didn’t run you clear over.... Oh, so you think you can race me, do you? Well, try, that’s all.’

As a variant he read the signposts aloud.

Judith watched the deep-golden, dark-shadowed country slip by: its woods and fields wore a sullen empty look.

They reached their destination at tea-time, and walked down the steep slope to the edge of Monk’s Water.

Bracken and long grass came pouring from the top of the hill to the very bank of the stream; and the beech-trunks rose up from that soft, swirling blue-green cascade, up and up, as far as eye could see. They sprang up clear from their lovely symmetrical pattern of naked roots and climbed the air in one long pure lift and flow, or in a lightly twisting spiral. Ardently they soared, column after smooth grey-green column, lightly balancing on their roots, gathering their power, sweeping it upwards for the final high breaking of the boughs. The strong outflung whirl of the snaky boughs was lost at last in a fountain of foliage. The bright spray wove closely and shut out the sky; but the sun pierced it and lay beneath it in pools of dappled green light.

The smell of bracken was on the air, and the little Monk’s Water slipped past in front of them, brown and clear, singing over its shallows, hiding beneath its overhanging greenery.

‘This is where I once found a new kind of beetle,’ said Julian, looking round him with pleasure.

‘I shall bathe after tea,’ said Mariella. ‘Boys, we must all bathe. I rather wish I’d brought Peter now. Don’t you, Julian?’ She looked at him uncertainly.

‘Well, I told you to, didn’t I? You said he’d got to stay with his governess,’ he said, in an unkind voice.

‘Never mind, Mariella,’ said Martin quickly. ‘I think you were right not to bring him. He’d probably have found it very tiring, a long expedition like this.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, agreeing with a sort of pathetic childish complacence.

Judith remembered once again, with a pang of amazement, that Mariella was a mother.

‘What about tea?’ said Martin. ‘God, I do hope nothing’s been forgotten.’

He opened the picnic basket and searched eagerly among its contents until he found a napkinful of raw tomatoes and lettuce.

Judith smiled at him suddenly. Whoever changed, Martin remained unchanged. He had always been, was now, and would be till he died, kindly, greedy and comforting. He would always eat raw vegetables and smell very faintly of healthy sweat, and ask nothing much of life save that the people he was fond of should be cheerful.

He caught the smile and answered it swiftly, radiantly.

They ate sandwiches, fruit and cake; and the flies, gnats, mosquitoes and midges came in murmurous clouds around them; and Julian started to lose his temper.

‘Smoke, all of you, smoke! Don’t stop for a moment!’ he shouted. ‘My God, we shall all be devoured. Now you know what the Insect Age will be like. Now you see to what end you’ve been helping to produce the next generation, Mariella: to battle with insects and to be defeated.’

They lit cigarettes and frenziedly puffed smoke into the air until the main body of the cloud died away.

‘Now please may we go home?’ he said plaintively. And all at once Judith was reminded of Charlie as a small boy, difficult, petulant, imperious, and yet all the time half laughing at himself in a way that disarmed rebuke: as who should say: ‘I know I’m being a beast and I will be a beast, as long as I like; but you mustn’t mind and you mustn’t take me seriously.’

Julian went on:

‘Let’s all go home and have a nice quiet game of something in the billiard room. Oh, I do hate outdoors so. I do hate the country.’

Martin looked distressed.

‘You’re very ungrateful,’ said Mariella. ‘It was Martin’s treat for you.’ She took Martin’s hand and patted it.

‘Because you said you remembered coming here once when you were a boy and finding a new insect, and how you’d always wanted to come back,’ explained Martin.

‘Oh, my accursed sentimentality! I wanted to bring back the days when I was a carefree beetle-hunter. Weren’t there any flies then? Or didn’t one notice them?’

‘I remember one of the beetle-walks when I went with you,’ said Judith. ‘We came back with our legs and arms swollen up like balloons.’

‘Do you remember that?’ He sat up and smiled at her. ‘Did we go on beetle-walks together?’

‘Yes.’ She blushed. ‘Sometimes. I was very proud when you took me.’

He laughed delightedly.

‘I believe I remember. You were a peculiar child. What else did we do when we were young? Can you remember?’

‘I remember a lot.’

‘Oh, do tell us.’

She shook her head.

‘What were we like? Who was the nicest? Martin of course: you needn’t answer that. But who was the most attractive? Which did you like best?’

‘If you can’t remember I shan’t remind you.’

‘Oh, I believe it was me!’ cried Julian; ‘I’m almost sure it was. Haven’t I always been your favourite?’

She laughed teasingly in his face.

‘Well, I’m sure I deserved to be,’ he said. ‘You were my favourite anyway. Absolutely my favourite woman. You always have been.... Have we changed very much?’

‘No. Very little.’

‘Which of us has changed most?’

Judith paused a moment and then answered: ‘Mariella.’

And directly she had said it she realized afresh how true it was: too true to have been so lightly spoken. Mariella had changed indeed.

Her smile, and Julian’s, faded abruptly.

‘Oh, have I?’ she said, looking away embarrassed.

‘I don’t think Mariella’s changed a bit,’ said Martin with surprise.

‘Ah, well,’ said Julian, coming out of a deep musing, ‘I feel changed, Heaven knows.... Now I shall have a short sleep, my children, and then I am at your disposal for a jolly game of tag. Judith has, as usual, cured me of most of my bad temper, and slumber will complete the process. Judith, angel, you’ll stay by me, won’t you, and wave cigarettes?... Go away, chaps. Judith and I are going to converse until I fall asleep. Remember I haven’t seen her for three years.’

‘I’m going to look for a place to bathe,’ said Martin. ‘Mariella, will you come?’

‘Yes.’ She held out her hands to him, giving him her sweet, small smile of the lips. He pulled her up on to her feet and they started to walk away.

‘I’ll come and find you,’ called Judith. ‘I want to bathe too.’

Martin turned eagerly.

‘There are one or two pools somewhere down this way,’ he said. ‘Will you follow us?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

He waved and she waved back; and they were lost round the corner.

Julian lay down in the shade of an elder bush, lit another cigarette, and looked at Judith with bright appraising eyes.

‘Well, Judith?’ he said, and smiled. And as of old the smile transfigured the whole harsh face with beauty.

‘Well, Julian? What have you been doing with yourself?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’

‘You’re happier than you were last time I saw you.’

‘What makes you say that?’

She hesitated.

‘Your—acting is much more natural.’

He laughed and made a face at her.

‘Doesn’t my elegant and elaborate window-dressing dazzle you? Well, never mind. It never did, did it? And I never minded. You’re the only woman I’ve never been able to deceive to whom I have remained consistently attached.’

‘Are there many you’ve been able to deceive, Julian?’

He paused.

‘There are some who have loved me,’ he said. ‘So they must have been deceived.’

‘You think if they hadn’t been they couldn’t have loved you?’

He nodded.

‘Ah, I don’t believe that. Nor do you.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a thing I never would have believed ... how one can go on loving a person one knows to be—cruel and selfish and indifferent.’

Whom did she have in mind,—she wondered as she said it. That was not Jennifer, surely: surely not Roddy?

‘Not,’ she added quickly, ‘that you’re any of those things. I can’t allow you the satisfaction of thinking so.’

‘I’m all of them,’ he said:

And that reminds me, Judy, I hear you acquitted yourself with supreme distinction in your tripos. I’m very glad—very proud to know you.’

‘It hasn’t given me much satisfaction.’

‘Now, now! Less of that.’

‘Oh, it’s true. I’m not being modest.’ She turned away from him and said: ‘I worked very very hard. I thought of nothing but work, because I didn’t have anything else—particularly pleasant—to think about. One doesn’t much value that sort of success.’

There was a silence.

‘And I suppose,’ said Julian, ‘that’s all I’m to be told about it.’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘Oh, there’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Just that.’

‘Nobody ever will confide in me,’ he complained. ‘I don’t know why. I’m quite madly interested—especially in love affairs. I suppose my face puts them off.’

She laughed.... No, nobody would confide in Julian. He would be too clear-sighted, too scientifically interested, too cold and reasonable. He would give such good advice and so much of it. People only wanted a muddle-headed outpouring of sympathy.

He went on:

‘It’s far too long since I last saw you. Why didn’t I come to see you at College? Or write to you? I meant to.’

‘Why not indeed?... Because you forgot about me.’

‘I never forgot about you, Judy. You were always in the back of my mind. But life was very full.... And I wanted to wait.’

He gave her a quick glance, whose meaning she did not pause to interpret. She said hurriedly:

‘I am glad life was full. You have been happy, haven’t you? Tell me about these three years.’

‘They haven’t been—outwardly—dramatic,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s been ill-health, and again ill-health for me.’

‘Oh, poor Julian!’ She took up his hand and pressed it for a moment; and her eyes started with tears. She had forgotten the asthma which had hollowed his always hollow cheeks, ploughed deeper the lines about the mouth, lifted and bowed the always high stooping shoulders.

‘It’s all right,’ he said rather awkwardly. ‘It’s given me a good excuse for never doing anything I didn’t want to do. These years since the war have been an uninterrupted succession of self-indulgences. I was happy in a way at Oxford. But I only stayed a year. It didn’t do really. The locust-eaten years behind me were too strong. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t play. I was too old altogether. But the gentleness of people, the peace, the beauty!—all that was very comforting. I took to my music again, a little.... But, as I say, it wasn’t any good trying to recapture what I had once found there. And then of course the climate did me in. So I came down,—a physical wreck, but more or less sane again. Since then I have been in France, Switzerland, Austria—all over Europe. I have composed a ballet which will never be performed. I have written three songs. I have contributed pseudo-highbrow criticism of modern music to several periodicals. I have listened—oh, listened very happily to a great deal of music in a great many countries. I have had a Russian mistress, and a French and an Austrian. I think that was all.’ He gave her a quick look as if to see what effect this announcement had upon her; but her face remained unmoved. Julian’s passions had always been an uninteresting if not distasteful subject for speculation. ‘And I got tired of them all and treated them monstrously and left them. They seemed to me quite insupportable after a bit—so stupid. I have tried in vain to be cured of asthma at the inept hands of countless doctors. I have read a lot—and talked more, as you may guess. I have spent and still spend much time looking for someone to whom I might attach myself permanently. But that of course is the most tiresome romantic folly. Nobody could love me for long: I know that well. And I daresay I myself am incapable of anything except a little passing lust. In short, Judy, you see in me what is known as a waster. It’s in the family I’m afraid. Roddy’s another. Charlie was designed for one from birth.... But he’d have been a happy one, poor boy.... Whereas my conscience pricks.’ He rolled over on the grass to look at Judith, lazily, laughingly. ‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

‘No, no. Go to sleep. I’ve nothing to tell you.’

‘The mosquitoes have all disappeared,’ he said. ‘Why? Perhaps I’d better take the opportunity—I shall be so charming when I wake up again. Thank you, Judith. You’ve done me good.’ He shut his eyes; and re-opened them to say: ‘I told you you were always in the back of my mind. It’s true. Always.’ He took her hand. ‘Judith, am I going to be allowed to know you at last?’

‘Oh yes, Julian, of course.’

‘Hum—I wonder.’

He was staring at her with intense inquiry and concentration; but she turned her eyes away. She could not feel that the matter was of much importance.

‘We’re going to see each other a lot?’

‘As much as you like.’

‘What are your plans?’

‘I’m here till the end of July. Then I go abroad with Mamma. To France. To Vichy part of the time. She will believe the cure does her good.’

‘I shall come and find you in France. I shall come to Vichy and take you away from Mamma. I do better in France. You might find me quite a pleasant companion. There’s so much I should like to show you—do with you. Shall I come?’

‘Oh yes, Julian. Do.’

‘And you’d talk to me?’

She nodded.

‘In the end,’ he said, watching her intently, ‘I believe you will.... I told you I could wait.’

He relinquished her hand, and shut his eyes.

She got up and sprang away from him down the bank.

The afternoon was breathless with a thundery heat. The fern-clad slopes were sculptured and glittering cascades. Monk’s Water hid between its shady banks. She followed its twisting course, looking ahead of her for the blue of Martin’s shirt, the white of Mariella’s linen frock.

Roddy was a waster.... It was in the family.... Roddy was no good, he was a waster. Perhaps, like Julian, he had mistresses: a French, an Austrian, a Russian—countless mistresses. Perhaps that was an integral part of being a waster....

She came round a sharp corner, and saw, through the elder bushes, a whitish form in the water. It straightened itself swiftly, alert at the sound of her footsteps.

‘Judy?’ called a voice uncertainly—Mariella’s voice.

Judith parted the elder bushes and looked through: and there was Mariella standing naked in midstream with clear brown water up to her knees.

‘Goodness, I’m glad it’s you!’ she cried happily. ‘I thought it might be someone else. Come on in, Judy. It’s so lovely.’

She stood in the full sunlight, her arms lifted and laid across her forehead to shade her eyes, her lips laughing. Her tall body glowed in the glowing air, narrow of hip, breastless almost, with faint, long young-looking curves; the whole outline smooth and very firm in spite of its slenderness. Her voice vibrated gaily, excitedly. She was happy.

‘We took off our shoes and stockings,’ she called, ‘and waded down till we found this pool. Martin said he thought he remembered a place where it got deeper, and he was right, wasn’t he? It’s not very deep, but still you can swim round. The water’s full of tiny trout. I’ve been watching them. Martin’s bathing a little further down in another pool. I’ve left my clothes under that bush. You leave yours there too and come on in.’

Judith stripped and waded out to join her.

‘This is the sort of bathing I love,’ she went on. ‘Nothing on and not very much water. You know, it’s funny, I never could learn to swim properly; I don’t know why. The boys used to laugh at me so because I always sank and had to be rescued. I gave it up in the end.’

It was the first time since childhood, thought Judith, that they two had been alone together. How deep was the difference in them? Mariella, naked, with her childish curly head and her unself-conscious body looked much the same now as she had looked that evening long ago when Judith had stayed the night with her, and they had had their evening bath together. And yet, a little while ago, it had seemed so certain that Mariella was profoundly changed: in the set of her face especially,—in the grown-up expression of reserve and sadness,—the whole look of a woman whose countenance has started to assume the cast it will wear in middle age. But now, alight and laughing in sun and water, it had once more the blank clearness and candour of her childhood.

Mariella splashed the water, hummed a little tuneless tune, laughed when a stone gave way beneath her foot and threw her headlong into the stream; and the bathing days with Jennifer returned to Judith with a pang. The body beside her now was like Jennifer’s in height, strength, firmness of mould: and yet how unlike! This body seemed as unimpassioned as the water which held it; and Jennifer’s had held in every curve a mystery which compelled the eyes and the imagination.

‘I really wish I’d brought Peter,’ said Mariella, stooping down to peer into the water. ‘He’d have been so excited about these little fishes. Martin and I have just made him a little aquarium and he’s so thrilled with it.’

‘What fun, Mariella! It must be fun having him to play with. He’s such a good age now.’

‘Well, he really likes playing by himself best,’ she said, looking faintly troubled. ‘He’s such a quiet queer little boy.’

‘Well, that’s much better for him than always having to be amused, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it is!’ She cheered up. ‘He—I s’pose it’s him being an only child and me being fairly busy—and then I do think it’s much better for a child to learn to play by himself, don’t you?’ She echoed Judith’s words complacently, as if they sprang from her own original and profound conviction.

After a pause she went on reflectively:

‘That governess of his is a very strict person. She says she must have entire charge of him.’

‘She’s new, isn’t she?’

‘Quite new.’ Then gravely, like a child pretending to be grown up: ‘I thought perhaps I might sack her. I’m not altogether satisfied with her.’

She seemed to be waiting to be encouraged in her desperate plan.

‘But why, Mariella?’

She hesitated, flushing.

‘Well, she’s so frightfully superior,’ she said at last, looking apologetic, a little sheepish. ‘I do hate bossy people, do you?’ Her eyes sought Judith’s with a flicker of appeal.

‘I should think I do.’

‘Well, that’s what it is,’ she said with relief.

Judith took her arm and patted it, saying laughingly: ‘Mariella, you’re afraid of her, I do believe! You know you’d never dare sack her. Shall I come and do it for you?’

‘Well’—Mariella dropped her voice and said in an embarrassed confiding way, ‘She simply doesn’t take any notice of me—absolutely none. His own mother! I really sometimes wonder if.... Do you suppose——’ She stopped, and a faint flush suffused her whole face.

‘What, Mariella?’ said Judith softly.

‘Well, I sometimes wonder if Julian could possibly have told her I—I don’t know how to look after him.’

She stooped again over the water, and her curls fell forward, hiding her face.

‘Oh no, Mariella! He couldn’t.... He’d never do a thing like that.’

But was it not more than possible?

‘Well p’raps not.... But he might, you know....’ She picked pebbles out of the water, her face still hidden. ‘He never did think I was much good at looking after Peter. You see, the thing is I ought to be very grateful to him really....’

‘Why, Mariella?’ asked Judith. To herself she said: ‘In another minute I shall get to know Mariella:’ and she almost held her breath to listen, waiting for the moment of revelation, and fearful lest a word or movement of hers should alarm the speaker, close her lips suddenly, and for ever.

‘Well, he’s very helpful about Peter.’ Still she picked pebbles from the stream and threw them away again. She went on as if with an effort: ‘The thing is, you see, he got that governess for Peter, interviewed her and everything. Isn’t he funny? He said poor old Pinkey—you remember her—wasn’t good for him and he must have somebody more suitable for his nervous temperament. I’m afraid he has got a very nervous temperament. I s’pose it’s being musical.... He took simply terrific trouble to find that governess. I daresay she does manage nervous children well. Peter seems very cheerful with her I must say.... And he doesn’t wake up with one of his screaming fits nearly so often.... So I can’t say anything, can I? Julian always will think he knows best. He always was an awful boss, wasn’t he?’ She raised her face to smile with a suspicion of roguishness.

‘Yes, always, Mariella.’ Judith smiled back, eager to encourage Mariella with a sense of shared amusement.

The stratagem was successful. Mariella swam a few strokes to the bank, sat down there, splashing the water with her feet, and said, more cheerfully: ‘Of course it’s very nice he takes such an interest.’

Judith came and sat beside her on the bank, and continued: ‘Where shall you send Peter to school?’

Her face clouded over again, troubled and alarmed.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t thought. I’m not very good at that sort of thing. He’s so delicate and ... I suppose Julian will see about it.... I think he’s got some plans.... Of course Peter isn’t quite like other children because he’s so musical, Julian says....’

There was a long silence. The sun had dried their wet bodies, and they leisurely dressed again and continued to sit on the bank side by side, watching the flow of the water. The faintest ruffle of breeze had sprung up, and the sculptured fern cascades were coming to life, stirring now and then. The golden light on the beeches had become richer and more tender.

‘It must be very interesting to have a child,’ said Judith at last.

‘Oh, do you think so? Do you want one?’

Judith nodded.

‘I never wanted one.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I always thought puppies so much nicer than babies.’

‘But what did you feel when your baby was born, Mariella?’

She shook her head.

‘I can’t remember.’ Her lip quivered. ‘I didn’t feel much. I was awfully ill and—there seemed so many bothers going on. I didn’t see him for quite a long time and then—Oh, I don’t know! He was such an ugly miserable little baby and I simply couldn’t believe he was mine. It didn’t seem as if it could possibly be true that I had a baby. I just kept on thinking: What on earth am I to do with him? Then the doctor told me he might not live. And then I s’pose I suddenly wanted him to live.’

‘Yes. You loved him.’

‘I s’pose so.... I began to think of names for him.... And I thought after all it might be nice if he grew up and—and stopped being pale and thin. But he never has. Still we’re all more or less pasty faced, aren’t we? Then there was Julian ... and I thought—Oh, I don’t know.... Poor Grannie was dying and I took him to see her. She was so happy because he’d been born; because you know she absolutely adored——’ She stopped, her high unnatural little narrative voice failing abruptly.

The simplicity, the pathos, the unreality of her life!... Judith felt the tears burn her lids as she remembered that strange marriage, the deaths of Charlie and of the grandmother—the only woman who had ever in all her life protected, cared for and advised her—and realized in what child-like bewilderment and dismay she had borne her child.

She had never talked at such length or with so obvious a satisfaction in talking. For once, Mariella had things she needed to say.

Judith put a hand lightly on hers as it lay on the grass. It quivered a moment, startled, then lay still, and Mariella turned her amazing eyes full on Judith. Sun and sky were mirrored in them so that they swam with more than their usual blind radiance, but the expression of her lips was tremulously pleased and grateful. Soon she sighed and said:

‘I s’pose he’d have adored Peter too. He and Julian were like that about children. I s’pose he’d have done everything for him. He was looking forward awfully.... It’s a pity really Peter’s not more like him—in looks I mean—not in——’ She checked herself.

Mariella was talking of Charlie: in a small, shy but unreluctant voice, she was talking of him: she was preparing to say the things which it had seemed never could be said. In another few moments it would be possible to say gently: ‘Mariella, why did you marry him?’

She leaned her cheek on her elbow and continued:

‘I don’t really understand children.’

‘But later on, Mariella, when he’s older you’ll be so happy with him,—doing things together. You’ll be such a marvellously young mother for him.’

‘Oh, later on!’ was all she said; and added: ‘I don’t believe boys care much anyway about their mothers being young.’

If Julian had heard her say that, so shrewdly, would he not have been disconcerted?

Judith turned to her, opened her mouth to speak.

But then, as on another occasion, Martin burst in upon the pregnant moment—coming round the corner with a loud ‘Hullo!’—fresh, pink and cheerful from his bathe; and Mariella rose from Judith’s side, her lips lifted lightly to smile him an agreeable welcome, her whole customary manner enfolding her in one instant.

‘Hullo!’ she called back. ‘Did you have a nice bathe? We did, didn’t we, Judy?’ Empty little voice, with perhaps a trace of relief in it.... It was all over.

They went back to find Julian.

They slipped back towards home along the chalky roads in an evening heavy with dark shadows.

Martin drove in silence, and Judith sat beside him. Perhaps she would tell him to drive straight home without bothering to drop her; and then they might invite her to come in for a moment, and she would see Roddy—see for herself how ill he was.

Martin turned and looked at her suddenly, and said with a nervous twitch of his mouth:

‘It is such fun seeing you again.’

‘Such fun, Martin.’

‘At Cambridge——’ He stopped.

‘Yes, Martin?’

‘It was ghastly not seeing you oftener at Cambridge.’

‘I know, Martin. It seemed so difficult with those disgusting rules. It was hopeless trying to see one’s friends.’

‘It wasn’t my fault we didn’t meet oftener,’ he stammered out. ‘I wanted to. I thought you were fed up with me, so I kept away.’

‘What made you think such a silly thing, Martin?’

He hesitated, and flushed.

‘Because I—didn’t get on—with your friends.’

She sighed.

‘You mean Jennifer?’

‘Well—yes.’

‘You didn’t like her, did you?’

Jennifer had always been at her worst when Martin was there.

‘I—I couldn’t hit it off.... I—of course I could see she was—very nice ... I could understand why you—were so fond of her....’ He floundered on, his eyes fixed on the road in front of him, his foot gradually forgetting to press the accelerator. ‘But you seemed—quite different when she was there ... at least you were different to me. It felt as if we were strangers.’

She sighed again, and said patiently:

‘I’m sorry, Martin.’

Impossible to try to explain to him. What he said was all so true. Let him think what he liked: she was not responsible to him for her behaviour, not obliged, as he seemed to think, to treat him with consideration. Dull, dull, tiresome Martin. No wonder he had roused a devil in Jennifer.

‘Oh!’ he said, overcome. ‘Good heavens, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I wasn’t meaning to accuse you.’

‘It sounded as if you were,’ she said in an aggrieved voice. It was an easy game, upsetting Martin.

‘Oh, Judy, you know I wasn’t,’ he said unhappily; and in his agitation he completely forgot to accelerate, and the car slowed down till she scarcely crawled.

‘Hey, sir!’ shouted Julian from the back. ‘May I ask what you are up to, sir? Does the road belong to you, sir, or does it not?’

Martin made a grimace over his shoulder and drove on.

‘All I meant,’ he said presently, very quietly, ‘was that I’d missed you awfully, and that I’m terribly glad I’ve—I’ve met you again.’

‘So am I, Martin. Honestly I am.’

She was remorseful.

‘I’m going away to-morrow—must get back to the farm.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I wonder if—I’d awfully like you to meet my mother. Would it bore you frightfully to come and stay?’

‘It wouldn’t bore me one little bit. I’d love to meet your mother.’

‘Oh, good!’ He beamed. ‘I’d love to show you my home. It’s rather nice.’

Mariella leaned over his shoulder to say:

‘Drive straight to the station, Martin. Julian will miss his train if we don’t hurry.’

In another ten minutes they were at the station.

‘We’ll come and see you off, Julian,’ said Mariella.

‘I mustn’t wait,’ said Judith. ‘Mamma’s having supper early. I promised I’d be back. Good-bye and thank you all very very much. Good-bye, Julian.’

She held out her hand to him. He took it and elegantly kissed it.

‘Au revoir, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Nous nous reverrons au mois d’Août. Sans faute, n’est ce pas?’

She nodded.

‘Alors au plaisir....’

He gave her one searching look, waved his hand and disappeared into the booking-office.

Mariella, following him, turned back for a moment to say in a small voice:

‘Good-bye, Judith. I’ll see you again, shan’t I?’

Her face was for once without its little smile. It was composed and—yes—quite grown up: yes, it had turned into one of those unnumbered women’s faces, masked with a faint fixed perplexity and sadness: and, behind the mask, not alive at all.

She turned to Martin who still lingered beside her.

‘Then—if my mother writes to you?—’ he said.

‘Yes, Martin. I’ll come.’

‘You must come.’

‘I’d love to.’

To see one of the circle detached and against a separate background of home and parents would be interesting: though, alas, Martin’s father had died. It was he who had been brother to Mariella’s mother, and to the father of Julian and Charlie, and of Roddy. Martin’s mother was quite external.... Still, there might be portraits, photographs, all sorts of family things....

She detached her hand from his, and started to run.

The train was not even signalled yet. In five minutes she could be with Roddy. She would make some excuse—say she had left something. She could reckon on a clear quarter of an hour at least in which to see him, tell him she was sorry, tell him ... and quickly go away again.

She knocked on the sitting-room door.

‘Come in,’ said a cross voice.

‘Roddy,’ she said timidly, standing at the door. ‘I’ve come to see you. Just to ask how you are. Only for a minute. Am I disturbing you?’

‘Oh, come in, Judy.’ His voice was polite and surprised.

He was sitting at the writing-table. He wore no tie, and his shirt was open at the neck; his sleeves were rolled up and his hair was standing on end. He looked tired: his face was more sallow than usual, and his lips drooped. The sunlight came into the room through the lowered red blinds, heavy and dark, and as if with a sinister watchfulness. Values were not normal in this queer house light. It altered the character of the friendly and familiar room, and gave to the lonely-looking figure of Roddy an unreal significance and remoteness; gave it terror, almost, and strangeness. The living light seemed to make the blood beat in time with its own dark-blooded feverish pulse.

‘Nice of you to come, Judy.’ His voice made him utterly unapproachable. ‘How cool you look. Did you enjoy your picnic? I should have thought it was much too hot to be comfortable anywhere.’

‘It was horrid without you, Roddy.’

‘Nonsense. You didn’t miss me at all.’ His smile was bland and cold.

‘Didn’t I? Didn’t I? Roddy—it was all spoilt for me when they told me you weren’t well. I couldn’t bear to think of you alone with a headache on a day like this.’

‘Oh, the headache’s gone. It wasn’t much. My own stupid fault.’

‘Are you sure it’s gone? You don’t look very well.’

He laughed.

‘I’m all right. I can’t think why you should be so concerned about me.’

He was not going to allow you the satisfaction of sympathising with him.

‘Then there’s nothing I can do for you?’

‘Nothing at all, thank you, Judith.’

He still sat in front of the writing-table, leaning his head on his hand and looking at her with a curious hard expression. Presently he rubbed his eyes with an impatient gesture, as if they hurt him; bent his head rather drearily and started to draw figures on the blotter.

‘You oughtn’t to try to write if your eyes hurt you. You ought to rest.’

‘I have been resting.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the old capacious nursery sofa, whose tumbled cushions still bore the impress of his body. ‘I got sick of it. I had some letters to write, so I thought I’d better get them done. I’m going away to-morrow or the day after.’

‘Back to Paris?’

‘No. To Scotland with my mother.’ His eyes twinkled for a minute. ‘She thinks I need a holiday.’

To Scotland with his mother. Why did not he say, like Martin: ‘I want you to meet her?’

She came and stood beside him.

‘Well, I must go now.’ She could not keep the utter wretchedness out of her voice. ‘I only came to see how you were.’

‘It was very sweet of you, Judy.’

His voice was all at once gentle and caressing. He took her hand up lightly, and played with the fingers; and she felt the old helplessness start to drown her.

‘Well, it’s good-bye, I suppose, Roddy,’ she said very low.

‘It looks like it, Judy.’

‘Always, always going away. Aren’t you?’

He smiled at her.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen more of you, Judy. We haven’t had any of our serious conversations this time, have we?’

Oh, the charming mockery and indifference!... She took her hand away and said briefly:

‘No, we haven’t.’

This time there would be nothing new and delightful to remember. Save for this present vain exchange of words, they had scarcely spoken to one another. The evening when they had all bathed together, the afternoon she had played tennis with them, neither eyes nor voices had encountered each other secretly, alone together. She had seen him watching her now and then: that was all.

‘Last time we met,’ he said, his eyes on her, ‘we had a very serious conversation.’

‘Ah, I thought you’d forgotten that.’

She felt herself tremble slightly.

‘No. No.’ His fixed gaze never wavered from her face; and she could not move. She looked down and saw, on the writing-table, a white square and the name Anthony Baring, Esq., on it. Roddy had a delicate and graceful hand-writing.

‘There’s the car,’ he whispered.

‘Oh, I must go.’

‘Come this way, through the garden door.’

He got up and put his arm round her and led her towards the door, clasping her close to him. The reddish light pressed, whispering and furtive.

‘You kissed me last time,’ he murmured. ‘Will you kiss me again?’

She swiftly kissed his cheek.

He laughed; then drew his breath in suddenly and stopped laughing. Down came his stranger’s face to hers. She felt his mouth hard, and her own terribly soft and yielding. The pressure of his lips was painful, alarming,—a contact never dreamed of. She drew back and saw, in the mirror opposite, her own white-faced reflection, one hand to its mouth.

‘To-night,’ he said very low, ‘shall I come and fetch you in the canoe? We’ll go down, down,—to the islands. Just us two. Shall I come?’

She nodded, speechless.

‘Late. Be waiting for me about eleven.’ He added, in his usual, careless voice: ‘Not unless it’s fine, of course. There may be a thunderstorm.’

She went out of the room, into gold deeps of light and the evening shadows.

She came back into her own garden. The sinking sun flooded the lawn. Its radiance was slit with long narrow shades, and the great chestnut trees piled themselves above it in massed somnolence. The roses were open to the very heart, fainting in their own fragrance; and around them the dim lavender-hedges still bore white butterflies upon their spear-tips. The weeping beech flowed downwards, a full green fountain, whispering silkily. Forms, lights, colours vibrated, burned, ached, leapt with excess of life. The house was wide open at every door and window; and Mamma, going up the steps with a basket of flowers, paused and drew up the striped Venetian blind.

3

For hours, it seemed, they had not spoken a word. The paddle fell now and again upon the water with a light musical clash, like the sound of the shattering of thinnest crystal. Now and again the moving blade woke the water to a rich and secret murmur; as if a voice half woke out of sleep to speak a tender word; then swooned into sleep again.

She saw his arm move and glimmer; his form was just discernible in the stern of the boat, shoulders bowed forward, head motionless. Once or twice he started to whistle a fragment of tune, and then was silent again.

She lay among cushions in the bows, and watched the dark yellow moon rise, bare of clouds, behind the poplar trees. The night was heavy and still.

The canoe slipped down towards the islands. Then she would move, if her limbs still remembered how to move: he would give her a hand to help her out and they would stand among the little willows and whisper together.

Mamma was fast asleep at home, her alien spirit lapped in unconsciousness. Her dreams would not divine that her daughter had stolen out to meet a lover.

And next door also they slept unawares, while one of them broke from the circle and came alone to clasp a stranger.

The boat hissed suddenly among willows, and came to rest against a shallow bank. The clustering thin light blades of the willow-leaves fell over them as they stepped out, bit them with infinitesimal teeth.

She followed him without will, or conscious movement, through nettles and long grass, to a clearing among the bushes, in the middle of the leafy little mound which was the island. In the old days they had often picnicked here, and thought the minute patch of earth a whole world and made themselves kings and queens of it. They had gathered blackberries from these low bushes in the hot sun; and come home again with purple mouths and fingers.

Now the little boy Roddy was this tall man whose shoulder touching hers was more bewildering than the moon-rise; whose head above hers was a barrier blocking out the world.

They stood side by side. He turned to her and whispered:

‘Well, Judy?’

‘Oh, Roddy!...’

‘Judy, I’m going to say good-bye to you here.’ His voice was low, grave, distinct.

‘For a long time, Roddy?’

She saw him nod his head; and she bowed her own and began to sob, but without tears.

He murmured some low inarticulate exclamation, and took her gently in his arms.

‘Don’t cry, Judy. Don’t cry.... Darling, don’t.’

The tenderness of his voice checked her in an instant. His hand moved up and down her bare arm, lingering over its curves, tracing the outline with a touch that made her shiver.

‘Lovely smooth arm,’ he whispered. ‘You are so lovely.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. I think so. I’ve always thought so.’

‘As long as you think so, then—that’s all I care about. You—can have it all.’

‘Oh, Judy!’

Now the moon rose, clear at last above the tree tops, and gleamed strangely into the eyes bent upon her face. His lips were smiling a faint fixed smile. His teeth glinted. The two faces gazed at one another, floating wan upon darkness.

The web had broken. Roddy had shaken himself free and come close at last. The whole of their past lives had led them inevitably to this hour.

‘Oh, Roddy, I love your hair....’ Her hand went up and stroked it; and he shut his eyes. ‘I love your eyes.’

‘I love you all—every bit of you.’

Breathless, sure of him at last, with a delicious last-minute postponement of his embrace she moved away, softly laughing.

‘Roddy, how much do you like me? This much?’

She held out her hands, parting them slowly.

‘More than that.’

‘This much?’

He copied her, laughing eagerly but silently.

‘This much?’

He held his arms out wide. She hesitated a moment and then came into them; and he was not laughing any more, but covering her face and neck with kisses.

It was a quivering darkness of all the senses, warm, melting, relentless, tender. This stranger was draining her of power; but underneath, the springs of life welled up and up with a strong new beat. He clung to her with all his force as if he could never let her go. He was a stranger, but she knew him and had known him always. She took his caressing hands and held them on her breast. In that moment he was her child; and she longed to lay his head where his hands quietly lay. He drew deep breaths, and now and then his rich voice murmured a broken word or two.

She raised her head from his shoulder and gazed in passionate detail at his face.

‘Speak, Roddy, speak.’

He shook his head and smiled—a ghost of his former smile, flickering on his lips alone. His half-shut eyes glittered as if with tears. In the moonlight she worshipped his dark head and moon-blanched features. Gradually he loosened his hold, threw his head back, and stood motionless, arms hanging at his sides, his face an unconscious, sleeping mask. If Roddy were to die young, this was how he would look.

‘Roddy—Roddy—Roddy—I love you—I love you—I love you.’

No answer. He stooped his head and fell to closer kissing.

‘Roddy—say——’

‘What do you want me to say?’ he whispered. Again the flickering smile.

‘I love you, Roddy.’

Ah, if he would whisper back those few words, there would be peace for ever.

She laid her cheek against his, murmuring endearments.

‘My dear, my darling, my little one, I love you. My dear, I’ve always loved you. Did you know it?’

He shook his head faintly.

‘I love you too much, I’m afraid.’

Oh, far too much, if she was to wait in vain for any response save kisses....

‘No, Judy, no.’ The words broke from him painfully. ‘You must forget about me now. Kiss me and say good-bye.’

‘Why, oh, why?’ She clutched him desperately.

‘I’m going away,’ he whispered.

‘But you’ll come back? You’ll come back, Roddy?’

He was silent, utterly silent.

‘I can’t. I can’t,’ he said at last.

‘I’ll wait, Roddy. I don’t care how long I wait. I shall never want anyone else. I’ll wait years.’ There was no answer; and after a while she added in a small laboured whisper: ‘If you love me a little.’

‘Oh!’ He threw up his head with a sort of groan. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

‘You love me?’

He must, he must say it.

‘Yes, I love you.’ The words came out on a groaning breath. She put her lips on his, and stood silent, drinking in her bliss.

He tossed his head suddenly, as if waking up.

‘Oh, Judy, we must go back, we must go back.’

He sighed and sighed.

‘No. A little longer. We’ll talk a little before we go. We must talk.’

He laughed—a normal teasing laugh.

‘A little conversation,’ he said. ‘You’re a tiger for conversation, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t mind your laughing at me.’

They were going to laugh gaily at each other, with each other, for ever.

He put his hand beneath her chin and turned her face up to his.

‘Lovely Judy. Lovely dark eyes.... Oh, your mouth. I’ve wanted to kiss it for years.’

‘Oh, Roddy, you can kiss it whenever you want to. I love you to kiss me. All of me belongs to you.’

He muttered a brief ‘Oh!’ beneath his breath, and seized her, clasped her wildly. She could neither move nor breathe; her long hair broke from its last pins and fell down her back, and he lifted her up and carried her beneath the unstirring willow-trees.

He had brought her back home. Languorous and bemused she stepped out upon the bank in the breaking dawn, and turned to look at him beneath her heavy lids. She could not see him clearly, he seemed blurred, far away.

‘Good-bye,’ he said briefly.

‘I’ll see you before you go,’ she said mechanically.

Not that it really mattered now. Time was not any more and he would be with her for ever.

He nodded; and then abruptly turned the canoe down stream again: looked at her once, faintly smiled, waved his hand an instant and went on.

She walked through the waiting, clear pale-coloured garden, into the house, up to her bedroom; stared in the dim glass at her strange face; sank into bed at last.

4

It was on the next evening that she awoke to the realization that Roddy had not come—might not—certainly would not now. He was going away. He, who always found self-expression, explanations, so difficult, would be at a loss to know what to say when he too woke up. He who never made plans would be helpless when it came to making any which should include her too in the future. Last night he had been dumb, he had sighed and sighed, whispered inarticulately: he would find it hard to be the first to break silence, to endeavour to re-establish the balance of real life between them. She would write him a letter, tell him all; yes, she would tell him all. Her love for him need no longer be like a half-shameful secret. If she posted a letter to-night, he would get it to-morrow morning, just before he left.

She wrote:

Roddy, this is to say good-bye once more and to send you all my love till we meet again. I do love you, indeed, in every sort of way, and to any degree you can possibly imagine; and beyond that more, more, more, unimaginably. The more my love for you annihilates me, the more it becomes a sense of inexhaustible power.

Do you love me, Roddy? Tell me again that you do; and don’t think me importunate.

I am so wrapped round and rich in my thoughts of you that at the moment I feel I can endure your absence. I almost welcome it because it will give me time to sit alone, and begin to realise my happiness. So that when you come back—Oh, Roddy, come back soon!

I have loved you ever since I first saw you when we were little, I suppose,—only you, always you. I’m not likely ever to stop loving you. Thank God I can tell you so at last. Will you go on loving me? Am I to go on loving you? Oh, but you won’t say no, after last night. If you don’t want to be tied quite yet, I shall understand. I can wait years quite happily, if you love me. Roddy, I am yours. Last night I gave you what has always belonged to you. But I can’t think about last night yet. It is too close and tremendous and shattering. I gasp and nearly faint when I try to recall it. I dissolve.

When I came back to my room in the dawn I stared and stared at my face in the glass, wondering how it was I could recognize it. How is it I look the same, and move, eat, speak, much as usual?

Ought I to have been more coy, more reluctant last night? Would it have been more fitting—would you have respected me more? Was I too bold? Oh, this is foolishness: I had no will but yours. But because I love you so much I am a little fearful. So write to me quickly and tell me what to think, feel, do. I shall dream till then.

There is so much more to tell you, and yet it is all the same really. My darling, I love you!

Judy.

She posted it. Next morning she hurriedly dressed and ran downstairs in the sudden expectation of finding a letter from him; but there was none.

Now he would have got hers.... Now he would have read it.... Now he would be walking to the station....

She heard the train steam out; and doubt and sorrow came like a cloud upon her; but only for a little while.

In the cool of the evening she wandered down to the river and sat beside it dreaming. She dreamt happily of Jennifer. She would be able to love Jennifer peacefully now, think of her without that ache, see her again, perhaps, with all the old restlessness assuaged. Jennifer’s letter would surely come soon now....

If Roddy were to ask her to come away with him at once, for ever, she would take just the copper bowl from her table and spring to him, and leave all the rest of the past without a pang.

Perhaps Roddy had written her a letter just before he had gone away; and if so it might have come by the evening post. She left the river and went to seek it.

Who could it be coming towards her down the little pathway which led from the station to the bottom of the garden and then on to the blue gate in the wall of the garden next door? She stood still under the overhanging lilacs and may-trees, her heart pounding, her limbs melting. It was Roddy, in a white shirt and white flannels,—coming from the station. He caught sight of her, seemed to hesitate, came on till he was close to her; and she had the strangest feeling that he intended to pass right by her as if he did not see her.... What was the word for his face? Smooth: yes, smooth as a stone. She had never before noticed what a smooth face he had; but she could not see him clearly because of the beating of her pulses.

‘Roddy!’

He lifted his eyebrows.

‘Oh, hullo, Judith.’

‘I thought you’d gone away.’

‘I’m going to-morrow. A girl I know rang up this morning to suggest coming down for the day, so I waited. I’ve just seen her off.’

A girl he knew.... Roddy had always had this curious facility in the dealing of verbal wounds.

‘I see.... How nice.’

A face smooth and cold as a stone. Not the faintest expression in it. Had he bidden the girl he knew good-bye with a face like this? No, it had certainly been twinkling and teasing then.

‘Well, I must get on.’ He looked up the path as if meditating immediate escape; then said, without looking at her, and in a frozen voice: ‘I got a letter from you this morning.’

‘Oh, you did get it?’

There could never have been a more foolish-sounding bleat. In the ensuing silence she added feebly: ‘Shall you—answer it—some time?’

‘I thought the best thing I could do was to leave it unanswered.’

‘Oh....’

Because of course it had been so improper, so altogether monstrous to write like that....

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I thought.... I’m sorry.’

She ought to apologise to him, because he had meant to go away without saying anything, and she had come on him unawares and spoilt his escape.

‘I was very much surprised at the way you wrote,’ he said.

‘How do you mean, surprised, Roddy?’ she said timidly.

She had known all along in the deepest layer of her consciousness that something like this would happen. Permanent happiness had never been for her.

It was not much of a shock. In a moment that night was a far, unreal memory.

‘Well’—he hesitated. ‘If a man wants to ask a girl to—marry him he generally asks her himself—do you see?’

‘You mean—it was outrageous of me not to wait—to write like that?’

‘I thought it a little odd.’

‘Oh, but Roddy, surely—surely that’s one of those worn-out conventions.... Surely a woman has a perfect right to say she—loves a man—if she wants to—it’s simply a question of having the courage.... I can’t see why not.... I’ve always believed one should....’

It was no good trying to expostulate, to bluff like that, with his dead face confronting her. He would not be taken in by any such lying gallantries. How did one combat people whose features never gave way by so much as a quiver? She leaned against the wooden fence and tried to fix her eyes upon the may-tree opposite. Very far, but clear, she heard her mother at the other end of the garden, calling her name: but that was another Judith.

‘I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me,’ he said.

‘Yes. I’ve misunderstood you. You see—this sort of thing has never happened to me before and I thought ... when a person said.... Why did you say.... I didn’t know people said that without meaning it.... I suppose we must mean different things by it. That’s what it is. Well....’ Her voice was terrible: a little panting whine.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Probably that was true: he had forgotten he had ever said: ‘I love you.’ She could not remind him; for in any case he would not be affected. What were three little words?... And after all, she had probably more or less forced him to say them: she had wanted to hear them so much, she had driven him to say them. Yes, he had groaned, and quickly repeated them to keep her quiet, stop her mouth so that he could go on kissing her. She said:

‘But why, Roddy, why did you take me out ... behave as you did ... kiss me so—so.... I don’t understand why you bothered ... why you seemed....’

He was silent. O God! If only he would wound and wound with clean thrusts of truth, instead of standing there mute, deaf.

‘Roddy, after all these years, these years we’ve known each other, can’t you tell me the truth? We were good friends once, weren’t we?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Oh, I see! I see! And you could never feel like being—more than that.’

He shook his head.

‘I see, Roddy.’ The pain was sharp now, hard to fight down. ‘I see. And you thought there had better be an end ... because you were never going to love me: and I obviously—was it obviously?—was becoming more and more—foolish—and tiresome. So you thought—you’d say good-bye—like that—and then go away for good. Was that it!’

He passed a hand across his forehead: his first gesture. Then he too was feeling, however slightly.

‘I thought that was what you wanted: what you were asking for,’ he said.

‘Oh, so you thought you’d oblige——’ No, no, not sarcasm. She waited a moment and added: ‘I see. You misunderstood me. I daresay it was quite natural. You thought I wanted what you wanted—just a little—a little passion—to round off a flirtation—and be done with it. Well....’

The lane was so still that she could hear the dull beat of oars in passing boats on the other side of the fence. The evening had become very cold.

She gave a little laugh and said:

‘I really am very sorry to make this fuss. It’s too laughable that I should—I! ... I suppose you never dreamed I—wasn’t used to this sort of thing—from men?’

‘I thought you knew pretty well what you were about.’

‘And I didn’t! I didn’t! I was being deceived—like any.... Oh, it’s so vulgar!’ She shut her eyes, laughing weakly. ‘That’s why you didn’t make your meaning plainer, I suppose. You thought I was quite used to—that sort of thing—kissing—just for a lark. Just for a lark, Roddy—that was it, wasn’t it? And I got serious, and tried to—to let you in for more.... I tried to catch you. Poor Roddy! But you’d never get let in, would you? You know your own mind. You’re cautious. You’ll see—,’ she waved her hand slightly, ‘I’m not dangerous. I’ll never bother you any more. And I’m very very sorry.’ She broke down with a gasp, but did not weep.

‘I’m sorry, Judith. I apologise. I——’ His voice had now the faintest trace of emotion.

‘Oh!’ She controlled herself. ‘Apologise! Have I accused you? This is just another damned muddle. I’m only trying to understand it.’

‘I really think I had better go,’ he said.

‘No!’ She put out a hand and clutched his arm in desperate protest. ‘Not yet, Roddy. Not for a moment. Can’t we—O God! I wish I’d never written that letter. Then there’d have been no need for all this.... You’d have gone away and said nothing—and gradually I’d have understood. I should have seen it all in its proper light. Things would have somehow come right again, perhaps. And now I suppose they never can.... Can they, Roddy, can they? Oh, if they could!’

How he was hating this scene! It was a shame to prolong it. He swallowed hard and said, rather nervously:

‘Do you suppose you really meant—all you said in your letter?’

It was her chance. She must say it was all nonsense, that letter, that it was written in a moment of madness; that she did not mean it now. Then they might somehow manage to laugh together and part friends. He was such a good laugher! She could go away and bury her disappointment; and next time they met, be to him what he wanted: a light flame of passion, blown out, relit again. He had given her the taste for his kisses. She would miss them, and desire them painfully. If she could act her part skilfully now, she need not be for ever without them.

But it was no good: the thing would not be lied about.

She nodded, gazing at him in utter despair. She went on nodding and nodding, asserting the truth in silence and with all her force, compelling him to believe it. She saw him flush faintly beneath his sallow skin.

‘I’m very sorry then,’ he said, in his frozen voice.

She cried out:

‘Oh, Roddy! Did you never like me? Didn’t you even like me? All these years! It seemed as if you did.... I couldn’t have grown to—like you so much if you hadn’t given me a little—a little return....’

‘Of course I liked you very much,’ he said. ‘I always thought you were extremely attractive.’

‘Attractive!’ She bowed her face in her hands. ‘Yes. I was attractive to you. And so.... That you should have treated me so lightly, Roddy! Oh, did I really, really deserve that?’

He was silent.

‘If you’d warned me, Roddy ... given me some hint. I was so romantic and idealistic about you—you’ve no idea.... I thought you must think of me in the same sort of way I thought about you.... Couldn’t you have warned me?’

He said in a voice choked with exasperation:

‘I did try to shew you, I tell you. I should have thought I’d shewn you often enough. Didn’t I say I was never to be taken seriously?’

She sighed and nodded her head drearily. She was beaten.

‘Yes. Yes, you did. I wouldn’t be warned, I was such a fool. Oh, it’s all my fault. A good sell for me.’

‘Well, I’d better go now,’ he said after a pause.

He took a step or two and then turned back. She still leaned against the wall, and something in her attitude or expression seemed suddenly to move him. He lingered, hesitated. His face shewed a little trouble and confusion.

‘I suppose you’re all right?’ he said.

‘Oh, I shall be quite all right.’

‘Please forget all about me.’

‘I shan’t forget about you. But I shall forget all this—if you will do the same. We will meet in the future, Roddy, won’t we?—just as usual,—with all the others?’

‘I think it would be better not to. I think we’d better not write to each other or ever meet again.’

‘Not ever meet again, Roddy?’ How did he come to be master of such cold decisions? She felt like a child in futile conflict with the fixed and unalterable will of a grown-up person. ‘Why? Why? Why? Please do let me. Please do. I won’t ever be a nuisance again, I promise. You’ve said you liked me. Oh, I must see you! If I can’t see you, I can’t ever see any of them again. Don’t you see? And then I’d have nothing.... You wouldn’t tell them, would you, Roddy? Please let me see you again.’

It had lasted too long. In another moment she would be on her knees to him, hysterical, loathsome.

A nervous quiver of his lips checked her suddenly and made her quiet. In some obscure way he was suffering too. He looked like the little boy whose face had implored her not to cry that time of the rabbit’s death. Yes, the spectacle of other people’s pain had always affected him unpleasantly.

‘It’s all right, Roddy,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll get on without you.’

‘I’m not worth wasting one moment’s regret on,’ he said, almost earnestly. ‘Believe me, Judith. It’s true.’ He looked at her for the last time. ‘I can only say again I’m very sorry and ask you to forget all about it.’

She took a deep breath.

‘One thing more,’ she said. ‘I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in loving a person and saying so.’

It was not true. The shame of her surrender, her letter, her unrequited love would go on gnawing, burning, till the end of her life.

He left her, walking away from her with a graceful and noiseless tread.

After all, it did not seem to hurt much: certainly not more than could be borne in secret, without a sign.

It had all been experience, and that was a salutary thing.

You might write a book now, and make him one of the characters; or take up music seriously; or kill yourself.

It was all so extraordinary.... That night had seemed to Roddy so insignificant that instead of hurrying away quickly when he got that letter, he had had a girl he knew down for the day: and that was how he had spoilt his own escape.

Shut the door on Roddy and turn the key and never open that room again. Surely it would be quite easy. She saw herself as a tiny person walking firmly away and not once looking back. There were plenty of other things to think about.... What was there, safe and simple, to think about?

Strawberries and cream for supper. Good. Two new frocks: but he was to have admired her in them.... A visit to London next week, and a play.

She noticed suddenly that her hands were bleeding from slight abrasions. How had that happened? Best to go in now and arrange her face a little. This shivering had been going on for a long time.

5

Three weeks later she stepped out of the train at a little country station in Hampshire; and was there met by a beaming Martin, and conveyed swiftly in his car to his home.

The long drive wound through shrubbery and great beech trees, and opened in a wide sweep before the long low many-windowed house-front. It was an old manor, built of exquisitely time-tempered brick. The great porch was covered with clematis and jasmine; and here and there climbing bushes of yellow or white roses wove their way up the walls and coiled around the window-frames. Beyond it and on each side of it she caught or imagined glimpses of a rich old garden, lawns and a herbaceous border, cedar trees, yew hedges, and an espalier of peach-trees along a high wall.

A butler appeared, took her suitcase and slid away again.

Martin led the way through the oak-panelled hall into a large bright flowery chintz drawing-room. All the colours were blue and pink and white; and there were photographs everywhere, and vases full of delphiniums, roses and lilies. The French windows opened on to the sunny lawn, and, set in front of them, the tea-table shone with blue and white china, and silver, and glass jars of honey and jam. Behind the tea-table sat Martin’s mother, smiling.

She was as clean and fresh, as white and pink and blue as her drawing-room. Her erect and trim little figure was crowned with white hair; her blue rather prominent eyes held the wistful appeal of the short-sighted as she looked into Judith’s face to greet her. Her thin mouth smiled and went on smiling, happily, vaguely, with a kind of sweet and weak persistence. All the lines in her face ran upwards as if she had spent her life smiling. She had a white skin with a clear rose flush over each cheekbone. She was really very pretty in her white lace dress and fleecy pale blue wrap: a mother to take out to dine in her best black frock and all her diamonds and feel proud of.

‘So this is Judith that I’ve heard so much about,’ she said charmingly; and put a hand on her arm to lead her to the tea-table.

Three black spaniels begged and adored at her feet; or rolled over, waving limp self-conscious devotional paws.

Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of Martin’s dead father. He had been Governor of somewhere: an important man. He looked reliable and kindly, with Martin’s brown eyes and untidy features.

On the opposite wall hung a sentimental pastel portrait, life-size, of Martin at the age of three: golden-brown curls, pink cheeks, a white silk blouse with a frilly collar. There were some books in glass-fronted book-cases, some goodish furniture and china; one or two good water-colours and some indifferent ones; abundant plump cushions in broad soft chairs and couches. It was a house that shewed in every detail the honourable, conventional, deeply-rooted English traditions of Martin’s people.

And yet not they, with their sober steadfastness, but that wild sister, the disgrace, Mariella’s mother, had prepared, it seemed, the strange mould for the next generations: for all, that is, save Martin himself.

He was in high spirits. He smiled with all his white teeth, and threw sandwiches to the dogs, and teased his mother, and stared in a sort of delighted astonishment to see her actually sitting at tea with him in his home. He looked almost handsome in his bright blue shirt, open to shew a white strong well-modeled throat rising cleanly from the broad shoulders.

He did not know that Judith was dead: that a dummy was sitting beside him. He had declared several times how well she was looking.

He said suddenly:

‘Heard from Roddy, Judith?’

She was not prepared for that name; and she felt a faintness sweep over her.

‘No, Martin, I haven’t.’

‘I had a letter from him this morning. It’s pure agony for Roddy to answer an invitation, even, so I was flattered. He and I and one or two other chaps are going to do some sailing next month, off the Isle of Wight, and he actually wrote to make arrangements.’

‘What fun that will be, Martin.’

She bowed her head over the plate in her lap, crumbling a scone to fragments.

‘Why don’t you come too, Judith? Do! It’d be perfectly proper wouldn’t it, Mummie? We’re her bachelor uncles.’

It was precisely at those words, at the unexpected recalling of all that light-heartedness, that happiest day of all, that the thing leapt to life within her, and fiercely, horribly pressed towards birth. Oh, now there was no hope. Roddy had arisen all in a moment from his false burial.

With a vast effort she prevented her eyes from closing quite; but to speak was impossible.

‘Roddy says——’ began Martin, glanced across at her, and stopped uncertainly, startled. He was silent, and then said:

‘Tired, Judith?’

‘A bit—after my journey—it’s so hot to travel. Isn’t it?’ She turned to his mother.

‘Yes, my dear, it is,’ she said cooingly. ‘Come, I’ll take you to your room and you shall rest till dinner.’

Martin had got up and was hovering over her, anxious and despondent. But she could smile at him now, and she said:

‘I’d rather go out if I may, and get cool. The garden looks so lovely.’

‘That’s right then,’ said Martin’s mother encouragingly. ‘Take her out, Martin darling, and shew her the rock-garden. Martin and I have been making a rock-garden, Judith—I may call you Judith, mayn’t I?’ She laid a hand again on Judith’s arm. ‘It’s such fun. Martin and I are both ridiculous potterers and experimenters. Are you like that?’

‘Not practically, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, well, it’s a delightful hobby. It keeps me busy and healthy, doesn’t it, Martin?’ She looked up into his face, and he put a large hand upon her little shoulder. ‘There,’ she added, ‘Run along now. Don’t let Martin take you in the fields or up to his precious farm: you’ll spoil your pretty shoes. Aren’t they darling shoes, Martin? And such a pretty frock.’

With little pats and handwavings and vague benevolence she saw them out of the French windows down the steps into the garden.

Martin said:

‘Wait. I’ll take a gun. We’re simply tripping over rabbits this year. It’s awful.’

She did not hear properly; nor, when Martin came back to her, did she grasp the significance of the gun over his shoulder.

He led her out of the garden by a wooden bridge over a stream half-hidden in forget-me-nots, kingcups and iris plants; through the meadow where grazed the pedigree cows which, so he said, were his mother’s pride; over a stile and up on to the chalky rabbit-pitted hillside.

She was standing among the willow trees, and out of the moonlight a voice was saying in a low hurry: ‘I love you’—and saying another thing damnably characteristic: ‘Lovely Judy! Lovely dark eyes!’ His teeth gleamed as he smiled in the moonlight.... He closed his eyes.... It was all in such bad taste, in such bad taste....

Martin was pointing out the marches of the estate. There were beech copses and farms and two gentle folds of sun-drenched sheep-strewn hill between them and its final hedgerows.

‘You know I do love it,’ said Martin shyly. ‘I worship the soil.’ He hesitated and then said with a laugh: ‘Funny: Sometimes I absolutely wish I were dead so that I could be buried in it and have it all over me and inside me for ever and ever.... Look at the way those slopes overlap....’ His eyes fastened on them, with a hungry expression.

Then this was Martin’s secret bread. It was his land that nourished him at the source, and made of him this man with an individual dignity and simplicity at the core of his ordinariness. She made an effort to come nearer to him in mind.

‘Yes ... I know Martin.’

He turned joyfully.

‘I always tell you everything, Judith. I suppose it’s because I know you’ll understand.’

‘Which bit do you want to be buried in, Martin?’

‘I don’t care—as long as I’m well inside it.’

‘Would you ever commit suicide?’

‘Would I what?’

‘Commit suicide. To—to get there quicker.’

He laughed and said comfortably:

‘Well, I’ve never been tempted to so far....’

‘It’s an old family place is it, Martin?’

‘Oh, yes. My father was born here, and all the others. Roddy’s father and Julian’s, and the only sister—Mariella’s mother. She was very beautiful you know—and absolutely wild—almost mad I should think. She ran away from her husband and goodness knows what sort of life she led. I believe it simply broke my grandfather’s heart. He died, and then Grannie—you remember Grannie?—couldn’t bear to go on living here alone. All the children were scattered or married or dead. So she moved to the little place on the river—next door to you.... Poor old lady, she didn’t have much of a time. She outlived all her children except Roddy’s father: and he was never much use to her. He quarrelled with his father when he was quite a boy and left home. I don’t know what about. Grandpapa was a terrible martinet.... Yes, they were an unlucky family.’

‘And they all died young, Martin?’

‘More or less. But we none of us ever live to be old,’ he said cheerfully.

They had reached the top of the hill; and, suddenly, up went Martin’s gun. Then, with an exclamation of disgust, he lowered it again.

‘Wasn’t ready for him. Once they get into that bracken——’

‘What’s that, Martin?’

‘Rabbit. Didn’t you see? Beastly vermin.... Never saw anything like them. Much as we can do to keep pace with them.’

He was muttering to himself in an annoyed way.

‘But, Martin—do you mean to shoot them?’

‘Shoot them? I should say I do, if I get the chance.’

‘I never have been able to understand how people can bear to shoot rabbits.’

‘Hum,’ said Martin, grim and indifferent. ‘You mustn’t expect me to be sentimental about ’em.’

His eyes roved round alertly; his gun was ready to go up in a trice. He was not giving a thought now to Judith walking beside him.

Just over the crest of the hill came a sudden small kicking and flurry. A tiny pair of fur legs started away into the bracken, the white scut glancing and bobbing. But the bracken thinned away to nothing here: the small form was bound to emerge again in a moment.

There was a sharp crack.

‘Aha!’ said Martin; and he went forward to where something flipped in the air and fell back again, horribly twitching in a mechanical and aimless motion.

‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ She stood rooted where he had left her, aghast.

He was stooping to examine it....

She knew how it was looking—laid on its flat side and shewing the tender and vulnerable whiteness beneath its frail stiff paws. He was stooping just as a figure had stooped above that other rabbit.... What years ago!... Roddy’s rabbit whose death and burial had started this awful loving. Who was it devilish enough to prepare these deliberate traps for memory, these malicious repetitions and agonizing contrasts?

Oh, this world!... No hope, no meaning in it; nothing but perversities, cruelties indulged in for sport, lickings of lips over helpless victims. Men treated each other just as Martin treated small animals. The most you could hope for was a little false security: they gave you that to sharpen their pleasure in the blow they were preparing: even the ones that looked kind: Martin for instance. As for Roddy—Roddy liked experimenting. He chose girls sometimes: that was more voluptuous. She saw his face, pallid and grinning, crowds of leering faces, all his. The hillside darkened. She sank on her knees, shaking and perspiring.

He was striding back.

‘I buried it,’ he called. ‘It was a little smashed about the head.’

She had to lift her face towards him; but she made it blind. He came and stood beside her—he dared to, red-handed as he was.

‘I’m afraid it wasn’t one of the cleanest shots,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I got him at too long a range. Still,—that’s one less.... Come on.’

Her mind would frame only one sentence; and she tried over and over again to say it.

‘I will not be a witness of your butcheries. I will not be a witness of your butcheries.’

But he would not understand. Perhaps it did not make sense anyway.

‘Oh dear!’ She sat there, tearing up turf with shaking cold wet hands, face averted, eyes staring, mouth open and out of shape, impossible to control. ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!’ The repetition was a sort of whine or mew.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said sharply. He sank down beside her, and his astounded face came round her shoulder.

‘Oh, the poor little thing, the poor little thing!...’

‘Do you mean the rabbit?’

She nodded.

‘But, Judith—good heavens! A rabbit.... Judith. I’d never have shot it if I’d dreamed you’d mind.’

She went on staring and pulling up the grass.

‘Oh, this world!’

‘Judith....’ He was silent, completely at a loss.

‘Still—it can’t be helped.... I suppose one gets accustomed....’

Her mind grew black again with formless and colossal conceptions of torture, murder, lust: and Roddy’s face went on grinning among them. All was lost, lost.

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Martin helplessly.

‘Oh, I don’t blame....’

‘It didn’t suffer you know. Did you think it had? That kicking didn’t mean anything: it was simply reflex action.’ He thought he had found the clue; and added cheerfully: ‘You’d do the same if I shot you dead at the back of the head.’

‘I wish you had.’

She wept.

‘Good God! Really, Judith.... I’ve said I’m sorry. I can’t go on saying it, can I? I didn’t know you were so—you oughtn’t to be so—easily upset. Rabbits have to be kept down, you know. They destroy everything. Ask my mother.’