Front matter (continued 2)

Roger relaxed his attitude of strained attention; he had caught something of the urgency of her preoccupation.

"I love Lynton," he said simply. "It will entirely change my life. You know I'm not very happy in my work and living like this, but I can be absolutely happy at Lynton, and I'll try to have things exactly as you would like them. It's absurd to thank you, Aunt Sarah; Lynton isn't a Christmas present, but I promise you I'll keep it up to standard."

"It does reassure me to hear you say that," Mrs. Greene answered happily, "I know you love it, Roger, and there will be enough money to keep it as it ought to be kept."

Her eyes were vague, her thoughts abstracted as she brooded over the years during which her life had been bound up with the life of Lynton.

"You know, I've lived there all my life," she went on, "except for the first three years after I married. There was never enough money when I was a girl; the house got shabbier and shabbier, and there were only two labourers for the gardens, and everything was over-grown; even the lawns had to be scythed and looked like rough meadows. And then I married Hugh and he loved it nearly as much as I did, and even during the three years when Mamma was still alive, he spent a little money here, and a little there, very secretly and carefully so that she shouldn't guess."

"Where were you living then, Aunt Sarah?" interrupted Roger.

"We had taken a house not far from Lynton. You know it surely; it's called Willowes, only about two miles the other side of Petworth. Of course Hugh came up to town during the week; he was very busy you know. Geoffrey had refused to go into his father's business, so Hugh stepped into old Mr. Greene's shoes when he died. I came up sometimes, but not very often. Then when Mamma died we went to live at Lynton of course, and Hugh gave me a free hand. I put the house right first; it was the easiest, but then it took a long time to work up the gardens, and the lawns didn't come right for years. And you see the tenants hadn't had anything done for them for a long time, so I had to be very judicious. The farms needed new roofs and some wanted new outbuildings, and the fences and gates were in a shocking state, but we improved it all slowly."

Mrs. Greene fell silent, thinking gratefully of all that her husband's money had been able to do for the place she loved.

"And now of course it's perfect," said Roger soberly.

She caught eagerly at the word.

"Yes, I think it is perfect, but you know it would go downhill at once if it wasn't looked after. And that's why I'm so glad to have told you all my affairs. You see dear, now I can go over everything with you, and give you all sorts of details that it would take you some time to find out for yourself, and so there need be no hitch later on when you take over."

Both were conscious that this was a reminder of the grim fact underlying the whole conversation, but to Mrs. Greene it seemed unimportant, and Roger was enough in tune with her to be able to concentrate on the one lovely aspect of the situation.

"I'd like to go with you to Lynton," he suggested.

"That's exactly what I want. I feel I must get back there at once dear. I can't stay on in town. But I don't want to hurt Mary's feelings, and I must come up again next week for Mrs. Rodney's party. What is the best thing to do?"

"Do you really want to go at once?"

"Yes, really at once. To-morrow if possible—I suppose I mean to-day———"

A sudden realisation of the time swept over Mrs. Greene.

The stars had faded and a pale dawn was creeping up the sky.

"It's cold," she said, "and it's some absurd hour in the morning. We must both go to bed. I don't know what we've been thinking of; this is all most unusual."

Roger smiled and stood up.

"I'm just going," he said, "but first about plans: We'll tell Mary that you feel it's too long to stay in town, and that you're going home to-day, and coming back next week. And I'll join you to-morrow, Saturday, and spend Sunday with you."

It was surprising that Roger should take the initiative to this extent; he seemed suddenly to have become more mature, more capable, and Sarah Greene found the effect very restful.

"Thank you, Roger dear, that will be the best possible plan," she said, enjoying to the full the rare sensation of being arranged for.

She stood up, shivering a little in the cold morning air.

"You've been the greatest comfort to me," she said, "and I don't want you to think of this talk as being at all sad. It isn't. Planning for the future is a very happy thing, and now I'm going to bed again."

Roger kissed her.

"Goodnight, my dear," he said. "Sleep well till breakfast, and rely on me. I'll take care of Lynton for you."

V

On Saturday morning a dense pearl-coloured mist rose about two feet above ground, so that walking along her familiar paths Sarah Greene experienced unfamiliar sensations. Trees and bushes seemed to balance lightly on the swimming vapour; the gentle slope up to the garden assumed a fiercer gradient; everything was wet to the touch, yet no rain fell.

At noon a watery sun gleamed fitfully through the stationary clouds, but at four o'clock when Roger drove along the beech avenue only occasional bare branches were dimly visible, and when the car turned the last corner he saw that the lovely sombre house was softly shrouded.

Mrs. Greene had spent the afternoon in a state of unreasonable disappointment. She knew that Roger had arrived at Lynton countless times in the full splendour of sunlight, but she had determined that this arrival, too, should have the benison of the sun. He was not coming this time only as Roger Dodds; he was coming as owner of Lynton who must also be lover of Lynton.

Proud and confident as she was of the irreproachable beauty of house and land, she had nevertheless set her heart on showing them off to their best advantage at this particular moment when Roger would be likely to see them from a new angle.

His first words dispelled her anxiety.

"Isn't this mist beautiful? I don't think I've ever seen the house look so lovely and mysterious."

"Does it really strike you like that? I've been feeling so cross with the weather all afternoon; I wanted sun for you, but it doesn't matter if you like this."

"I do. I think it's beautiful," repeated Roger emphatically.

"Come and have tea now," said Mrs. Greene, "and just tell me when you have to go back to town so that I can arrange everything to get the most value from your visit."

"I must go to-morrow evening about five, I'm afraid. There's a rotten slow train about then that'll do me quite well."

"Is Monday quite impossible?"

"I'm afraid it is, quite," Roger answered definitely.

"Very well, then," said Mrs. Greene. "After tea and this evening we'll devote to business. I'll get out the map of the estate and give you details about all the tenants and go over the books with you. That will leave us free really to enjoy to-morrow. I think it will be a lovely day; it often is after a mist like this, and we'll go for a long walk and have a late lunch.

"I'd like that immensely."

"We'll go down the grass walk to the lower fields where Lynton marches with Hurstfield and then home through the woods. And sometime I want you to talk to Hamilton. He's an excellent man and he can help you a great deal. I'm not quite satisfied with Parks, the second gardener. We'll ask Hamilton what he thinks of him."

"I've been thinking a lot about Lynton yesterday and to-day," said Roger, shyly, "and realising how much I like every detail. It's good the way the house stands four square to the winds, and I like the Portland stone it's built of. Really the exterior is a lovely combination of ornament and discretion. It's sound, don't you think?"

"That's exactly what your Uncle Hugh used to say," answered Mrs. Greene slowly. "Yes, it's sound. Houses are beautifully permanent, aren't they? I like to think that stone lasts, just as I like to remember that the beeches will be better for your son than they were for my grandfather. Lynton consolidates itself with every generation."

"It's a good point of view," said Roger soberly. "You know I like stability and soundness. I saw so much chaos in the war that I had a violent reaction in favour of settled traditional things. In fact I'm very conventional."

"You have to be conventional if you're going to be at all happy in the country," Mrs. Greene announced with decision. "I don't mean because of the people, though there's that too, of course. They are much more conventional than in town, and they'd be disappointed and puzzled if one didn't do certain conventional things. But I was thinking of Nature really. You'll find that the land and the woods and the gardens all proceed along the most orderly and conventional lines. Really, Roger, there are no surprises, except that every year I find the first tulips more lovely than I had remembered. But nothing bizarre ever happens. Things either go smoothly and the crops are good and the flowers do well, or else it's warm too early and we get frost in April and everything is nipped; but either way it goes by rote."

"Every word you say makes me like it all the more." Roger's face was serious. "You see I'm rather like that myself. I'm dull; I've no surprises."

Mrs. Greene attacked him hotly in his own defence.

"Really Roger, what nonsense you talk. It's ridiculous to say you're dull. I don't find you so at all, and you very often surprise me. I don't approve of your underrating yourself like that."

Roger laughed.

"I don't mean to underrate myself, but sometimes I feel I'm a dull dog."

"You never need feel that when you're with me, Roger," said Mrs. Greene, struggling to express an emotional fact in an unemotional manner. "You know how fond I am of you, my dear boy, and proud of you too. You touched me very much by what you said at dinner the other night about our friendship. I know it was quite true and genuine, and the more I think of it, the more I am glad to think of you and Mary living here."

She stood up abruptly.

"Come now, let's go and get out the books; I really have a great deal to tell you."

Late that night Sarah Greene drew back the curtains of her bedroom and looked out over the wide lawns to the formally cut box hedge beyond and to the meadows beyond that, sloping steeply up to the solitary woods.

A breeze had sprung up dispelling the mist, the heaped-up clouds were hurrying across the dark sky, and the young clear moon was unrimmed.

"To-morrow will be a wild and lovely day," she said softly, "Lynton will look its best for Roger."

Confident and contented she got into bed and slept till morning, when she wakened to just such a day as she had foretold. White clouds were still hurrying across the sky, but in between it was a deep and steady blue. Leaves were flying over the lawn; a branch had been blown off the lime tree near her window and lay untidily on the path below. Even the solid hedge yielded a little this way and that to the contrary wind.

It was a sparkling and exhilarating morning. Sarah Greene and Roger Dodds shared in its exhilaration as they started out before eleven. They had made no professions of pleasure beyond Roger's casual comment, "A lovely day, isn't it?" as he came in a little late and sat down to breakfast. But each was conscious of the other's happiness, and at times when Mrs. Greene caught Roger's eye, or saw him lift his head suddenly intent as a fiercer gust battered on the windows, she felt that they were conspirators who shared a secret too exquisite to be alluded to.

This feeling persisted. Never before had Roger seemed so responsive. As they walked at a good pace down the grass path, his hidden excitement communicated itself to her, and her delight was obvious to him.

I've never felt like this with anyone but Hugh, she thought. It's like a discovery. I've never really known Roger before, and now, just when Lynton and I need him, he suddenly unfolds. It's too surprising.

A small toad hopped clumsily across their path; his legs as he took off for each leap seemed incredibly long, and his protruding eyes were startled. They stopped to watch him, and laughed.

Roger, too, was conscious that a marked change had taken place in their relationship; it was more alive, and at the same time more comfortable. It struck neither of them as strange that this should be so; everything seemed perfectly natural to the ill-assorted pair; the small woman of seventy, pinched, sallow, dressed in nondescript clothes, but walking bravely in her sensible shoes, and the tall untidy young man, with his inexpressive body and face.

Mrs. Greene did not attempt to explain to herself this forward move in their intimacy. She accepted it as a belated discovery of Roger's real quality. But as they left the grass walk and trudged through the busy rustling woods, still not talking, Roger hit on a solution that satisfied him.

It's the link of succession, he decided; there must be a link of either love or hate between a person who is going to hand over the thing he values most highly to someone who values it too. And Aunt Sarah has neither hate nor resentment for me, so that this particular situation which might be painful is oddly enough quite easy.

"What are you thinking, Roger?" asked Mrs. Greene suddenly. He turned his head to smile down at her.

"I was thinking how very comfortable we were," he answered simply.

"I thought that a few minutes ago. I'm very comfortable altogether, Roger. Mary said to me the other day that she thought I had no worries, and really, you know, it's perfectly true."

"How big exactly is the estate?" asked Roger inconsequently.

"Two thousand, five hundred and thirty-four acres," Mrs. Greene answered precisely.

"That ought to provide you with a worry or two," suggested Roger.

"No, it doesn't. I have occasional anxieties but no real worries."

They walked on in silence till Roger said abruptly, "I hate London."

"Of course you do; everybody does really," answered Mrs. Greene inattentively.

Roger laughed and took her arm.

"No they don't," he said. "That's nonsense. They like it mostly. They feel safe living in a sort of rabbit warren. They'd be terrified if you set them down in a little cottage in an open space."

"I suppose that's true," answered Mrs. Greene, "but it seems incredible to me. Aren't the woods lovely, Roger?"

"They're perfectly lovely. You know I feel I ought to be asking you all sorts of things but instead I'm just enjoying myself."

"So am I. I'm very fond of this path; I often come down it."

No faintest tinge of sadness broke their even happiness though both were thinking of the many hundreds of times that Mrs. Greene had walked along the grass path, over the fields and through the woods, and of the very few more that would be added to the total.

"It's quite dense here, isn't it?" said Mrs. Greene, "and yet, you know, in a minute we'll be in the meadow with the house in front of us."

"I know; it always comes on you suddenly."

As Roger spoke, a turn in the path brought them out of the wood into full view of the house.

The sun streaming over Lynton turned its austere grey facade to a mottled richness, and the leaves of the Virginia creeper that was only allowed to climb at the south-east corner licked at the stone like little fiery tongues. The tall chimneys, the tall narrow windows, gave to the sober beauty of the house an airy effect of grace and lightness that did not mar its steadfast quality. Lynton was undoubtedly sound.

Mrs. Greene and Roger had stopped at the edge of the wood. For a moment the woman who was about to leave Lynton and the man who was about to enter it stood together on a little hill and gazed greedily at it over the intervening box hedge. Then they walked on, through an opening in the hedge, over the lawn, and in at a side door.

"I want to find Hamilton this afternoon," said Mrs. Greene after lunch. "He'll be in one of two places. He always is on Sunday afternoons; either in the wall-garden or the peach-house."

"Doesn't he ever take a day off."

"No, not really. Mrs. Hamilton is very bad-tempered; gardeners' wives are always shrews you'll find, and he never stays indoors if he can help it."

"I wonder if they're shrews because their husbands are so placid, or if the husbands have to be placid because the wives are shrews," mused Roger.

"I can tell you." Mrs. Greene spoke decisively. "All good gardeners have easy-going temperaments, so they have a fatal attraction for domineering women.-"

"I see. Hamilton is a good man, isn't he?"

"Excellent; patient and enterprising, the two best qualities in a gardener. If you're not tired we'll go up to the garden now and look for him."

"Surely it's you who should be tired after such a long walk?"

"Oh, no, I'm in quite good training for walking," answered Mrs. Greene serenely.

Hamilton was discovered in the garden, leaning with folded arms over the back of a seat, looking gloomily at the bare rose-bushes.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am, good afternoon sir," he said straightening up as Mrs. Greene and Roger approached. "This is a real untidy wind."

He frowned disapprovingly and relapsed again into brooding silence. Roger looking at the melancholy face above the white shirt with its dotted blue stripe and stiff white collar wondered if Mrs. Hamilton's tongue was the cause of so much sorrow, or if pessimism as well as placidity was inherent in the tribe of gardeners.

"I wanted to have a chat with you about Parks," Mrs. Greene was saying. "Do you feel quite satisfied with him, Hamilton?"

"He does his work well and thoroughly," answered Hamilton cautiously.

"But apart from that?" questioned Mrs. Greene.

Hamilton took off his cap and gently scratched his head before replying. Presently he replaced the cap and pronounced heavily:

"The flowers don't like him, Ma'am."

"That's what I was afraid of," said Mrs. Greene, "I don't think they grow for him."

Roger felt amazed. I have an awful lot to learn, he thought; I never realised that flowers only grew for people they liked. I expect Hamilton will heartily despise me. On an impulse of propitiation he ventured to remark:

"Surely it's very surprising that flowers should grow for one person and not another in the same garden, under the same conditions."

Hamilton smiled pityingly and addressed Mrs. Greene.

"It's well seen that Mr. Dodds is not a countryman," he said. Then turning to Roger he added, "Plants are like children, sir; they need handling. Ignorant persons or persons who don't care enough about them can't handle them proper."

Roger was crushed, and at the same time stimulated at the thought of what lay before him. The immediate future was depressing. He visualised the grimy badly-lit third-class carriage, the inexplicable delays characteristic of Sunday trains, the depressing arrival at Victoria. But soon there would be no Sunday journeys; he would come to Lynton to stay.

A poignant sorrow filled him at the thought that Aunt Sarah would not be there to enjoy it with him; but her calmness, her air of acceptance, had been infectious. Roger felt, as she did, that regrets would be out of place; that the rounding-off of her life, so nearly complete, was merely an incident in the continuity of Lynton.

She was still talking about Parks and his successor.

"We'll tell him to look around, then, for a month or two; there's no immediate hurry, though I'd like it settled soon. And in the meantime I'll ask Lady Langton about that man of hers who's leaving her."

"Parks'll be sorry to leave," said Hamilton slowly. "People get attached to Lynton. There's something about the place."

"There is," answered Mrs. Greene, "there certainly is. Well, we must get back to the house now. Mr. Dodds is going up to town this evening."

"That's a short visit this time, sir," said Hamilton. "But then London people move about more quickly than what we do."

"I don't want to go," said Roger, anxious to make it clear that not restlessness but sheer necessity drove him back to London. "I'd much rather stay on here, but I have to get back to work."

Hamilton became a little more cordial.

"Well, goodbye, sir," he said, "We'll hope to see you down again soon," and Roger felt childishly elated at having wiped out the bad impression made by his first comment.

"He crushed me utterly, Aunt Sarah," he said as soon as they were out of ear-shot.

Mrs. Greene laughed.

"My dear Roger, he's always like that. It's only his gloomy way of speaking, but I think he likes you; he often asks after you."

"I like him," said Roger, "but he alarms me."

"He won't when you know him better; he's really the mildest creature on the place. Now we must hurry back; I want you to have a cup of tea before you go."

"You'll come to us on Thursday, then?" asked Roger, as the car drove up to take him to the station.

"Yes, I'd like to do that, but I'll come back here on Saturday after Edith's party, and you and Mary will come soon for a long visit, won't you?"

"We'd like to," answered Roger soberly. "It would be good for Mary to be in the country just now, and I'd like to be with you."

"I know that, my dear boy—" Sarah Greene lifted her face to be kissed—"And I've had a delightful twenty-four hours with you."

She came to the door with him and stood at the top of the steps as he got into the car, one hand resting lightly on the stone balustrade.

At the turn of the drive, Roger looked back.

The light was failing, and rooks were flying over the chimneys to reach home before dusk fell. Sarah Greene had come down the steps and was standing, looking up at them with her head thrown back as they flew over her roof. She stood quite motionless and absorbed, and did not notice when the car turned the corner and was lost to sight.

MRS. RODNEY GREENE

MRS. RODNEY GREENE

I

The birth, growth and development of Edith Beckett was in the nature of a prolonged prelude to the life of Edith Greene.

She was brought up with but one ideal: to be a good wife and mother, and to set about being the first, at least, at as early an age as possible. This concentration on a single aim amply repaid itself.

When Edith married in 1900 she was equipped with a complete knowledge of the usual faults of the young married man, of the dangerous tendencies which must be nipped in the bud by his loving and protective wife, and of the special points which she must remember to keep always in mind when building up out of the faulty material to hand a perfect specimen of the genus "husband."

She realised beforehand that even on the honeymoon a young wife could not afford to be contented with any lapse from these high standards which it was her duty to impose upon the man whom she had honoured with her hand; one must begin as one meant to go on.

In this Spartan mood Edith Beckett steeled herself to marry Rodney Greene, and it is fair to say that never once did she fall into the pitiful weakness of condoning in silence any breach on Rodney's part, of manners, morals, or good behaviour.

II

Their wedding was a successful one. Edith's undeniable good looks showed to advantage in their conventional setting of Chilly white satin, stiffly wired orange blossom and floating veils.

It was generally understood that the young couple intended to spend their honeymoon on the Continent, staying the first night at Dover, but a proper atmosphere of mystification hid their actual destination.

After the last guest had departed, Mrs. Beckett, subsiding into the nearest chair, indulged in a few tears of mixed emotion and fatigue.

"Wasn't the dear child looking lovely?" she said. "I thought the way she looked up at Rodney when he put on the ring was just beautiful. I told her to be sure and look up just then so that everyone could see her profile, and even in the midst of all the excitement she didn't forget."

Mrs. Beckett sighed contentedly.

"Very nice indeed," answered Mr. Beckett. "In fact it all went very well. Plenty of champagne, wasn't there? I ordered an extra six dozen to be on the safe side."

"Well, well," said Mrs. Beckett inconsequently. "Our little Edith's gone now. They must be in the train. I just hope Rodney will be good enough to her and take care of her."

A glimpse into the carriage of the train, rushing through the flat fields of Kent, would have reassured Mrs. Beckett.

Edith was leaning back restfully, very calm, very pretty, while Rodney leaned forward from the seat opposite and kissed her hand devotedly in the intervals of conversation.

"I really think it was a very pretty wedding." She spoke with a satisfied intonation. "Everyone admired my dress and thought my spray of flowers much more original than a round bouquet."

"You were wonderful, my darling. When I put the ring on and you looked up at me my heart missed a beat."

"Dear Rodney," said Edith affectionately, but suddenly her face stiffened. Rodney had taken out his cigarette case and was actually lighting a cigarette.

"Surely you aren't going to smoke now, Rodney," she rebuked him.

"Would you rather I didn't?"

"Yes, much rather. I don't think this is the time for smoking."

Rodney threw away the cigarette.

"Oh, well," he said good-naturedly, "I expect I can manage to wait till we get to Dover."

"You're surely not dependent on a trivial thing like a cigarette are you?" asked Edith, in a slightly shocked voice.

"Of course I am; dreadfully dependent on all sorts of trivial things. Cigarettes and you and good cooking and a glass of port every night."

He smiled at her, but her answering smile was a little formal.

"Of course I know you're only teasing, Rodney, but still there is a certain amount of truth in what you say. I've noticed you are apt to rely too much on things like smoking and port and so on, and I've always been brought up to believe that as soon as you feel yourself becoming a slave to a habit you should drop it at once."

Rodney looked blank for a moment.

"Don't let's bother about that now," he said. "Bad habits are very pleasant after all, and you don't want to change me the minute you've married me, do you?"

He spoke lightly, but Edith answered in a serious vein.

"Not all at once, of course, dear, but I do hope I shall be able to influence you a great deal."

Rodney missed the austere note in her voice, and laughed.

"Of course you will," he said enthusiastically. "You shall influence me as much as you like, Mrs. Greene. I love you immensely and you shall do just what you please."

"No, but seriously, Rodney," persisted Edith. "It isn't a case of doing what I please; we must try to improve each other. A marriage where both people don't improve is a failure."

"Darling, you're quoting your mother, and anyhow it's nonsense," said Rodney. "Besides I want to kiss you."

The rest of the journey was tranquil, and in the bustle of sorting our their luggage at the Station, Rodney forgot to light a cigarette. It was with a genuine sigh of relief that he followed Edith into their bedroom at the hotel, strode over to the window, drew back the curtains to look out over the dark harbour and fumbled again for his cigarette case. Edith noticed the gesture. She came and stood beside him and gently took the case out of his hand.

"Darling Rodney," she said, "I know you like me always to say what I think, even if it's a little difficult."

She stopped and Rodney flung an arm round her and said encouragingly:

"What is it, dear?"

"I must say, Rodney, that it would seem to me quite wrong and not respectful, for you to smoke in my bedroom."

"But hang it, darling, it's my bedroom, too," Rodney expostulated.

Edith blushed deeply.

"Yes, of course," she murmured. "Yes, in a way it is, but still it wouldn't be quite nice for you to smoke in it."

Her confusion was attractive. Rodney felt an ecstatic thrill at the thought that this was the first time that they had shared a bedroom together, and he held her to him and kissed her passionately.

But all Edith's rebukes did not lead to kissing. When they returned from their honeymoon Rodney found himself enmeshed in a net of feminine dislikes, restrictions and vetoes.

The details of Edith's campaign for mutual improvement outlined themselves one by one; but it struck Rodney as a little hard that on his side the improvement was to be carried out by definite acts of self-denial, by giving up old habits and forming new ones, whereas on Edith's side apparently the foundation was perfectly sound, and all that was necessary was to cultivate virtues already in existence.

"You know, Edwin," he said to his brother one evening, a few months after his marriage and a few months before Edwin's, "there's a Hell of a lot of difference between being a bachelor and a married man. I never realised how much I'd have to change. I used to think I was pretty harmless, but according to Edith, I'm a mass of poisonous habits. Not that she isn't a wonderful woman," he added loyally, "clever and capable and all that. But she certainly has got a bee in her bonnet about drink and smoking and language."

"Women are like that," said Edwin gloomily. "You know it's funny how helpless and bullied Dora used to be, with old Mrs. Pilkington giving her no end of a bad time, but now they are running about together as thick as thieves, choosing the furniture, choosing the house, and if I happen to suggest anything you may be sure it doesn't fit in with their scheme."

"That's just it. They've always got a scheme. Now Edith's scheme is that I should gradually be weaned away from drink. You know how little I drink, Edwin; less than most of the men I know, but she thinks it's a habit and I'm a slave to it or something like that, and you know I believe she'd put one of those stinking pills they're always advertising into my coffee if she thought it would make me give up port."

Edwin laughed morosely.

"I can just see her dropping it in," he said. "All for your own good, you know, and it pains her more than you."

His face grew serious, and he added rather diffidently: "I say, Rodney, I haven't had an awful lot of experience, you know; you might just tell me, does Edith cry a lot?"

"Cry?" repeated Rodney, looking startled. "Oh, cry. No, she doesn't. Why, does Dora?"

"Well, yes she does, rather a lot. She bursts into tears pretty easily and takes offence, but then of course she's always had such a rotten time."

"Edith takes offence a good deal, but she doesn't cry. It makes her sort of cold and dignified. In fact I think she feels she's getting on with her self-improvement campaign when she just reasons gently with me instead of getting angry."

Rodney suddenly felt guilty of disloyalty to his good-looking and adequate wife. He adopted the hearty tone of the happily married man and clapped his brother on the shoulder.

"Edith's all right," he said, "and you'll find Dora'll be all right, too. Don't worry, Edwin; things settle themselves nicely."

That same evening he took a less optimistic view. He was undressing slowly, sitting in his shirt with one shoe in his hand, luxuriously enjoying a cigarette, when Edith came into his dressing-room.

"May I come in, darling?" she asked, shutting the door behind her without waiting for permission. Rodney looked with pleasure at the two long dark plaits falling over her pink dressing gown, and at the white swansdown lying softly at the base of her white throat.

"Do," he answered heartily. "Do come and sit down and talk to me; I know I'm being slow."

Edith bent to kiss him, but drew back with a look of disgust.

"Oh, Rodney," she said gently, "smoking again! I thought we had arranged that all the upper part of the house was to be kept free from the dirt and smell of your cigarettes."

"We never arranged anything of the sort. I don't bring the dirt and smell as you call it into your bedroom or the drawing-room, but damn it, I don't see why I shouldn't occasionally smoke a cigarette in my own dressing-room."

"Just as you please, of course," said Edith turning away.

"Don't go like that," urged Rodney, putting out the offending cigarette. "Surely it isn't worth quarrelling about.

"It isn't only that, Rodney," said Edith gravely. "It's much more serious and fundamental than that. Your language really horrifies me, it's so terribly coarse."

Rodney was aghast.

"Coarse," he repeated, "how do you mean, coarse?"

"Why, there you are, darling," said Edith more kindly. "You see you don't even know you've just sworn at me."

"I never meant to swear at you, Edith. I'm sorry if I did. But look here, dear, let's just talk out once and for all, this matter of not smoking upstairs. It really is nonsense that I shouldn't smoke in my own dressing-room."

Edith smiled tenderly on him and laid her hand over his mouth.

"Don't say any more," she urged, "I don't want you to have anything to be sorry for to-night, and I know that what I have to tell you will make you look at things from my point of view. Listen, dear; I came to tell you some wonderful news: I don't know whether you've looked ahead or not, and thought about all the responsibility of having a child, but you'll have to now, darling; you're going to be a father."

Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper as she added, "It's almost too marvellous to be true, isn't it, Rodney?"

Rodney's feelings were mixed. His genuine pleasure at the thought of having a child was impaired by Edith's manner of imparting the news to him. He perceived already that the child would be used as a goad to further Edith's schemes for a less easy-going, more disciplined, habit of life.

"I'm very glad," he said heavily. "Dear Edith." But even as he stood up on one stockinged foot, to kiss her, he thought gloomily that it was a little hard on him that an extraneous circumstance should step in and win Edith's battle for her.

"You're really pleased, aren't you?" she asked, and an unusual note of wistfulness in her voice banished his resentment.

"Of course I am, my darling," he said warmly. "I'm delighted. I'll toe the line all right from now onwards. You won't catch me smoking up here again I promise you."

Edith unbent completely. The opposition had wilted; she could afford to be generous.

"Dearest Rodney," she said affectionately, "you know how much I care for you. I only speak about these depressing things because I feel I ought to. And now I must go to bed."

She disengaged herself gently from his arms, and moved towards the door.

"You'll come at once, won't you?" she said. "I do get so tired of waiting while you loiter over your undressing. Don't be long, dear."

She shut the door quietly and Rodney hurried out of his clothes into pyjamas, determined not to risk another reproach merely for the pleasure of ending the day in that atmosphere of contented leisure which he found so congenial.

III

It was three years before Rodney fully appreciated the fact that providence would always win Edith's battles for her, and would moreover give such a twist to her victory that the loser was often obliged to admit that he had been wrong.

One year after their marriage, when their son Geoffrey was a few weeks old, Rodney was still fighting for supremacy in their common life.

Edith was slow in recovering her strength; she was at the stage of having breakfast in bed and a long rest in the afternoon, and the doctor advised her to go with the baby for a change of air. At this juncture a letter arrived from Rodney's mother inviting her daughter-in-law and her new grandson for a long visit, as soon as they were well enough to face the journey.

Rodney went cheerfully up to his wife's bedroom, carrying the letter, and sat down on the edge of her bed.

"Here's a letter from Mother," he said. "She wants you and the boy to go and stay for as long as you can, just as soon as you are able. Isn't that nice and convenient?"

"Well, I don't quite know," answered Edith slowly. "I wonder why she didn't write directly to me."

"Oh, no special reason; I suppose she just happened to be writing to me so she asked me to send you down to her for a bit, and really it fits in very well; the doctor seems to want you to go to the country for a week or two."

"Oh I see," said Edith, "it's quite a casual invitation, is it?"

"Well, I don't quite know what you mean by casual. You know Mother is awfully keen to see the baby, and you know she hasn't been well enough to come to town, so in the circumstances it seems to me very natural. Shall I write for you and say you'll be delighted to go next week?"

"No, don't do that, dear," said Edith firmly. "I'm not quite sure that it would be the wisest thing to do. As you say, your Mother hasn't been well, and I'm not very strong yet, so it would really be rather a houseful of invalids."

"I don't think you need worry about that. Mother's perfectly all right now; it was only a sort of serious chill, I believe, and I know she wants to see the little chap."

"Yes, of course she does," Edith's voice was rather noticeably patient. "But I'm really not convinced that it would be a good thing to go there now."

"Nonsense, Edith," said Rodney, "I don't know what all this fuss is about; of course it's the obvious thing to do, but we won't discuss it now. There's no need to write to Mother at once."

"Very well, Rodney dear," said Edith coldly and submissively, and the subject was temporarily closed.

That evening Edith developed, along with a severe headache, a slight rise in temperature.

"I think I'd like to ring up the doctor, Mr. Greene, if you don't mind," said the monthly nurse. "Of course baby is three weeks old and Mrs. Greene is really nearly well again, but still I don't like her temperature going up."

"Please do ring him up, Nurse," urged Rodney. "It's worrying; I can't think why she should get a feverish headache like this."

"I don't quite understand it either," admitted the nurse, "Mrs. Greene has been looking worried and not herself all day, but I know of nothing to account for it."

Rodney's heart sank. He was oppressed by grim forebodings, and it was no surprise to him when the doctor came downstairs after examining Edith and said to him:

"Well, there's nothing much wrong, Mr. Greene; only a nervous headache and a little fever, but I'm afraid you'll have to give up this plan of yours that Mrs. Greene is worrying herself into fits about."

"What plan?" asked Rodney dully.

"I understand from Mrs. Greene that you wanted to rush her down to the country to show the baby to its grandmother."

"That wasn't quite the idea," explained Rodney. "I understood on the other hand that you wanted my wife to have a change of air, and my Mother very kindly asked her to go down to their place for a bit."

"Oh yes, I see. But I'm afraid it won't quite do. Mrs. Greene has worked herself into a state of nervous excitement about it. But I shouldn't worry; there's very often a feeling of strain between a young woman and her mother-in-law that works itself out in time, and of course Mrs. Greene is sensitive and highly strung."

"Highly strung?" queried Rodney, "Edith you mean? But she's the calmest, most determined person I've ever seen."

The doctor was putting on his gloves.

"Quite so," he agreed. "A splendid patient; lots of self-control, but very sensitive none the less, and I think you'll be well advised to give way to her over this. Goodnight, Mr. Greene."

He hurried out, and Rodney sat down to write to his mother.

While Edith was at Bognor with the nurse and baby, Mrs. Greene had a second and more serious attack of pain which proved to be not a chill, but appendicitis, necessitating an immediate operation. Edith's first letter to her husband was full of sympathy for his anxiety; her second expressed pleasure at her mother-in-law's recovery; but on her return she could not refrain from saying: "And wasn't it a blessing, darling, that you finally abandoned your absurd plan of sending us to your Mother for a rest?"

To which Rodney could only answer lamely:

"Yes, as things turned out I suppose it was a good thing you didn't go."

Two years after their marriage he no longer attempted to impose his wishes on Edith, but he still fought to protect his own liberty of action. In the house, in all matters pertaining to it, and in the conduct of their joint life, he deferred to her completely. He still, however, insisted on an annual fishing holiday without her, he frequented his club in spite of her disapproval, and he was loyal to several friendships which she deplored.

It was over one of these that Providence again played a hand for Edith.

Her opening gambit was tentative. Rodney came home one evening with a healthy colour in his cheeks.

"There's spring in the air to-night," he said. "I walked all the way home and it was fine. By jove, I'll soon have to begin looking out my rods if I'm going to get ready for Easter."

"You're not going with Jim Turner again this year, are you?" asked Edith gravely.

"Well, I haven't said anything to him lately; I haven't seen him at the club as a matter of fact, but of course it's an understood thing between us that if we can get away, we go off together in April for a week or so."

"I don't think he can possibly expect your company this year," said Edith firmly.

Rodney looked at her cautiously.

"I don't know why you should say that," he said, "Of course Jim will be expecting me to join up with him."

Edith plunged into her subject.

"Have you considered at all that if you go away with him it will look as if you approved of his conduct these last few months."

"I don't know what you mean," mumbled Rodney, "I've known old Jim for years, and he's all right."

"But you must know that he's been making his wife very unhappy all this winter."

"I know she makes him pretty unhappy; she's a hard-mouthed, bitter-looking creature."

Edith's colour heightened.

"Really, Rodney," she said, "you force me to be indelicate, and to speak plainly. Do you not know that Jim Turner has been behaving disgracefully with an actress."

Rodney looked uncomfortable.

"I don't want to know anything about his private affairs," he said. "Jim's a jolly good sort anyhow, and, what's more, I'd like to know how you got hold of all this stuff about him and his actress."

"It's enough that I do know," said Edith seriously. "Women are loyal to each other, Rodney. I never can understand why people say we have no sense of honour. It's really most unfair. Women tell each other everything and help each other whenever they can."

"Well I hope to heaven nobody will go bleating to Mrs. Turner about Jenny Eaves, that's all," said Rodney. "Jim's got enough to put up with already, God knows."

Edith was quick to perceive his admission, but she let the subject drop for the moment. A few days later, having cogitated the matter from various angles, she asked Mrs. Turner to tea and added mysteriously to her note of invitation, "I'm anxious to have a little private talk with you. There is something I feel you ought to know, and though it is a difficult topic for me to touch on, I feel I must make the effort to do so."

In writing this note Edith was actuated by perfectly pure motives. Her own words as to the honourableness of her sex had resounded pleasantly in her ears. Thinking the matter over afterwards it seemed to her no less than her duty, if rumours were gathering unpleasantly round Jim Turner's name, to repeat them to his wife, in order that Mrs. Turner might scotch them by some decisive action.

Only one form of decisive action occurred to Edith. She assumed that Mrs. Turner would behave as she, Edith Greene, would behave in a similar predicament—though such a thing was almost unimaginable. She would deal summarily with her husband, pointing out where his duty lay, and emphasising the necessity for a clean break from temptation in the form of the actress, and she would then arrange to be seen about on good terms with her husband, in public and at the houses of their various friends. The whole thing would then blow over, and Edith Greene decided that in that case Rodney would not be condoning a moral wrong by going for his usual holiday with Jim Turner.

Mrs. Turner came to tea. She chatted pleasantly till she had drunk a cup of tea and eaten a sandwich, and then, laying down her cup, she came straight to the point.

"I think you wanted to speak to me about something," she said quietly.

"I do, Mrs. Turner," answered Edith. "It is extremely awkward for me to do so; I don't even know you very well, but it seemed to me that as an acquaintance I owed it to you to repeat to your face what people are saying behind your back."

Mrs. Turner stiffened.

"Indeed," she said. "And what are people saying behind my back?"

Edith answered courageously.

"There is a great deal of gossip centring round your husband's name," she said. "You probably know nothing about it; the wife is often the last person to hear of these things. People suspect him of having an affair with an actress; in fact it is more than a suspicion. He has been seen about everywhere with this Miss Eaves, and my husband says he never even sees him at lunch at the club nowadays."

Mrs. Turner rose. She was pale and her mouth was drawn into a thin line.

"I had no idea of this," she said. "Thank you, Mrs. Greene, for telling me so much; I shall find out the truth and take steps about it at once. Believe me, I am grateful to you."

"I'm so glad you take it like that," said Edith cordially. "It was a very painful thing to speak about, but I felt it was the best thing to do, so I just took my courage in both hands."

Mrs. Turner ceremoniously took her leave, and Edith was conscious of the pleasant feeling of having carried out well an unpleasant duty, but the steps taken by Mrs. Turner proved not to be what she had so confidently anticipated.

She heard the results of her well-meant interference a week later. Rodney came home looking depressed, and sat in a glum silence all evening.

"What's wrong, Rodney?" asked Edith finally.

"Well I saw Jim at the club to-day at lunch, and there's been a hellish bust up. It seems some woman went and told Mrs. Turner about that affair of his, and she went poking about a bit, and found out it had been pretty serious and so on, and now it's all up. She's left the house, and she's been to her solicitors and is going to divorce him. It's a sickening business; Jim is very cut up about it all."

Rodney smiled bleakly. "Anyhow you'll be pleased," he said. "It puts the lid on our holiday all right; I don't think I'll go myself now."

Edith's eyes had widened with dismay at his first words, and as he went on her breathing grew hurried and her lips parted in an expression of annoyance and perturbation. She was sincerely upset.

"My dear Rodney," she said, "I'm very sorry indeed about this, especially as I am the woman you refer to who spoke to Mrs. Turner."

"By God, Edith," said Rodney angrily. "What the devil did you do that for? You've made a frightful mess of things."

"Do be calm, Rodney," urged Edith, her self-possession returning as she prepared to justify herself. "I had no option but to speak to Mrs. Turner. After all I had heard it would have been utterly base to have let things slide when a word might have helped to mend them."

"I simply don't understand you Edith; you're talking like an imbecile. You've never liked Jim Turner; you didn't want me to go away with him; and now that you've succeeded in putting a spoke in his wheel, you say it would have been utterly base to do anything else; you're beyond my understanding."

Edith stood up indignantly.

"You entirely misjudge me," she said. "I acted from the purest motives in doing this very unpleasant thing, and indeed, Rodney, you ought to know me well enough to realise that a petty personal consideration like your going away with Mr. Turner against my wishes, would never have influenced me either way."

Rodney looked at her; she returned his gaze steadily, and he knew that she was convinced of her own sincerity.

"I'm sorry," he said heavily. "I think you were terribly wrong in what you did, but I know you meant well."

"Thank you, Rodney," she answered. "It's generous of you to admit that at least; and I should like to say that I'm sorry things have turned out as they have. But you know, dear, I can't help feeling that since Mr. Turner's affair had apparently gone to such a shocking length, it is perhaps only right that it should be exposed."

Rodney made no answer; he only shrugged his shoulders and sat staring in front of him, his drooping attitude indicating acute mental depression.

Edith drew up a low chair, sat down beside him, captured one of his hands and patted it gently.

"Don't worry, my dear," she said, "I have a delightful plan. Instead of going off by yourself, why not take me with you this year. I can leave Geoffrey with Nurse, and we would thoroughly enjoy our few days together, just you and I."

Her voice was persuasive, her expression appealing, and the flickering fire lit up her rich colouring and wide dark eyes. Looking at her clear dark beauty Rodney felt that he could certainly enjoy a holiday with her and he pushed away the thought of Jim's betrayal as he put his arms round her and said enthusiastically, "I'd like it immensely, darling; we'll go where you like and when you like."

Three years after their marriage he was surprised to find how easy it was to let Edith arrange their life and dispose of his leisure as she pleased. Her looks were a constant delight to him; her manner in general was restful, and their relationship was smooth and effortless so long as he never opposed her. On the rare occasions when he did, he always half expected some unforeseen hazard to intervene on Edith's behalf; he had ceased to expect a fair deal.

When in 1904 she expressed a desire to move to a larger house he demurred on the grounds of expense and ostentation.

"I think we owe it to ourselves to have a better setting now," said Edith. "And really dear, you must acknowledge that we can easily afford it."

"Well, I don't know about that. Business isn't bad of course, but a move is an expensive thing. I'd rather leave it for a year or two."

"Now darling, don't be difficult about it," said Edith playfully. "I'm quite determined to take the house in Sussex Square; it's just right in every way."

"So you've even found the house we're to go to have you?" asked Rodney a little bitterly.

Edith blushed. "I suppose it is rather tiresome of me to have chosen it myself, but I do like to save you worry, dear, and after all the house is my province and the business yours."

She smiled coaxingly, but Rodney shook his head.

"No Edith," he said, "I'm sorry, but I won't do it this year. Our income doesn't justify it, and we'll do very well as we are."

"Of course we will if you have quite decided against a move; you're sure you wouldn't just like to look at the Sussex Square house?"

"I'm quite sure," said Rodney emphatically, and Edith laughed good-humouredly and only answered, "Well, that settles it, of course."

But a few weeks later she came into his dressing-room one night and settled herself comfortably in an armchair.

"Rodney dear," she began, "I have something to tell you. We're going to have another child, and I think that really does mean we must move to the bigger house we were talking of the other day."

Rodney felt a definite sensation of shock as if some familiar string had been twanged in his brain. As he congratulated Edith and expressed his own gratification his thoughts were racing madly, but it was not till Edith left the room, looking back from the door to say with a plaintive accent, "Do hurry up, darling," that he remembered the incident of three years ago.

It was difficult to imagine that there had ever been a time when he had smoked upstairs, but for a moment the parallel stood out sharply; both occasions had been used by Edith to gain some small point, and to establish her ascendancy over him. As the recollection faded into dimness he smiled contentedly. Edith had consolidated her position as good wife and good mother, the naturally dominant factor in the home.

IV

The portrait entitled, "Mrs. Rodney Greene with Geoffrey, Lavinia and Hugh," exhibited in the Academy of 1910, was much admired by the public and favourably commented on by the Press. Edith herself, looking at it hung in her own dining-room after it had been returned from Burlington House, felt her eyelids prick with sudden tears at the revelation of her own triumphant motherhood.

She had been painted in a wine-red gown, sitting in a high-backed chair with her face turned a little sideways and downwards, brooding tenderly over Lavinia and Hugh who stood at her left knee, while her right arm was thrown affectionately round Geoffrey's shoulders, as if to compensate for the fact that she had turned away from where he stood on the right.

All three children were in white: Geoffrey and Hugh in sailor suits, Lavinia in a softly hanging silk dress. All three were upright and dark, with clear soft colour in their cheeks, but whereas both the boys were gazing out of the canvas, with serious dreaming faces, Lavinia had looked up at her mother, and her lips were parted in a smile over her small first teeth.

This happy, unstudied little pose was the starting point of all Edith's comments on the portrait, until the day when Mrs. Hugh Greene, her husband's aunt, came to tea and asked to have it shown to her.

"I only went once to the Academy this summer," she explained, "and though of course I saw the portrait and admired it very much, I should certainly like to see it again."

"It looks very nice in the dining-room," Edith answered as they went downstairs. "In fact we are extremely pleased with it, though I think perhaps it flatters me a little." She laughed deprecatingly.

"I didn't think that when I saw it," Mrs. Hugh answered simply. "You are very good-looking, my dear."

At thirty-one Edith Greene was strikingly handsome. Tall, robust, but not yet giving the impression of set solidity that increasingly marred her looks, she carried herself so well that the florid fashions of 1910 did not spoil the lines of her figure. Her colouring was lovely: dark hair and dark eyes deepened by the steady, warm glow in her cheeks; and her features were well marked but not heavy, though the mouth was set in lines of command and resolution.

Mrs. Hugh looking at the portrait of Edith and her children, and then turning to look at Edith standing by her side, noticed this accent of command, of over-emphasised self-confidence, but she only said, "Yes, I think it is an excellent piece of work."

"Of course Lavinia is really the keynote of the whole thing," Edith began eagerly. "You see how she's turned her little head to smile up at me, and how confident she looks. That was quite spontaneous. She was posed looking straight ahead like the boys, but at the second sitting she just put herself like that. It seemed almost a tribute to me, Aunt Sarah; it's wonderful when your child shows its confidence and love."

"Yes, I see," said Mrs. Hugh. "Lavinia is certainly a dear gay little creature."

"Would you call her expression gay?" asked Edith, disappointed. "It seems much more than that to me."

Mrs Hugh turned to Edith.

"My dear," she said, "I don't approve of interfering and giving advice, and I've got no children of my own, so I'm really not qualified to speak, but I've sometimes wondered if you're not perhaps a little greedy with your children."

She spoke gently, but the word struck Edith like a blow. Her face flushed deeply, but she answered coldly and politely:

"I don't think I quite understand you, Aunt Sarah."

"You're an excellent mother, I know," said Mrs. Hugh, "And you must just forgive me for criticising you, but my dear, I think perhaps you enjoy too much the mere fact of being a mother, and that is apt to make you expect too much from your children; not too much affection of course, but too much faith and admiration."

"I think it only natural to encourage my children to have faith in me."

"Of course you do, but let them know you're fallible, Edith. It only makes for unhappiness to bring them up to believe you are always right. It isn't natural."

"I would think it more unnatural if they didn't trust their mother, Aunt Sarah."

"My dear Edith, you don't quite understand me. I'm only hoping that on the one hand you'll let them develop along their own lines, and that on the other hand you won't take their natural love for you as anything so important as a tribute; I think that was the word you used."

"Perhaps it isn't quite easy for us to understand each other on the subject of my feelings for my children. Shall we go upstairs now?"

Edith's voice was icy, but Mrs. Hugh was not daunted by her niece's obvious, though controlled annoyance.

"No," she said briskly, "I'm going now. I suppose it's only natural you should resent what I've said, but think it over, Edith; there's something in it."

Mrs. Hugh retired in good trim, but Edith was unable to sooth the sting left by her criticism.

"By the way, Rodney," she began at dinner, "Aunt Sarah was at tea to-day, and I thought her manner most odd."

"How do you mean, 'odd'? She always seems to me to be full of common sense."

"Well, first of all she asked to see the portrait, and then quite suddenly she attacked me about putting myself on a pedestal and expecting too much from them."

"That sounds very unlike her; she doesn't often butt in."

"I certainly consider that she did to-day. And as a matter of fact, Rodney, I've thought once or twice that she and your mother are both a little sneering and contemptuous about the way I bring up the children."

"Absolute rot I call that. Mother's simply devoted to all three of them."

"Yes, but that's not the point," objected Edith. "I know she likes the children, but I'm not sure that she approves of my attitude to them."

"I don't know anything about that," said Rodney uncomfortably.

"No, but don't you see it's a little hard on me? I have always had such a high ideal of motherhood. I've always tried to live up to it, and I do feel I'm justified so far by the results, but neither your mother nor your Aunt Sarah looks at is quite fairly."

"I think it's a bit difficult for them to appreciate all you do for the kids. Outsiders can only see that you do rather expect all three of them to bow down and worship you, don't you Edith?"

Rodney's words were softened by his smile, but Edith's calm was shattered.

"You're most unjust," she said hotly and confusedly. "I've never had any idea of such a thing. It's a ridiculous phrase to use to me, simply because I hope for a little love and faith from my children, and because I try to influence them in what I think is the right direction. But you will never take it seriously enough, Rodney; it's a constant grief to me that you take their upbringing so lightly."

"Now that is unfair, Edith. I think a lot about their education, but while they are still in the nursery they are in your hands. However, now the point has arisen I might as well say that I do think it would be better if you left them alone a bit more."

"Rodney!" Edith's voice was trembling with anger. "What do you mean?"

"I think they ought to be allowed to think things out for themselves sometimes, and not have to tell you everything and have you discuss it with them. Geoffrey especially; he's quite a big fellow now, he oughtn't to be tied to your apron-strings any longer."

Edith rose and pushed back her chair.

"This is really too much," she said passionately. "First Aunt Sarah, and now you, attacking the things I hold most dear. You must excuse me if I go upstairs; I'm too upset to eat any more dinner."

She left the room, her head held high, and went up to the day nursery, where Geoffrey was having his supper, with a book propped up in front of him.

"Darling," she said sweeping in, her pale frock trailing, "shall I come and sit with you for a little, while you finish your supper?"

As Geoffrey pushed the book away and edged his cocoa forward, she frowned.

"You're not supposed to read at meals, not even at supper," she said sharply. "I've told you that before, haven't I, Geoffrey?"

He did not answer.

"Darling," she went on, unconsciously introducing a grieved note into her voice, "you don't like to vex me I know, but it does vex me when you go against my wishes, and still more when you won't admit to me that you are wrong."

"I like reading," said Geoffrey rebelliously, "and it's only a few minutes anyhow."

"But that doesn't make it any less wrong. You know that, Geoffrey."

Again there was no answer, and Edith sighed.

"I don't know what makes you so unresponsive," she reproached him. "It's only this last few months that you've persistently opposed me. You used to confide in me and trust me, like Hugh and Lavinia."

"They're only babies," muttered Geoffrey, awkward and embarrassed.

"Do you mean that because you're a big boy and go to school you feel you can't be open with me any longer?"

"I don't know," said Geoffrey wearily.

"My dearest boy, it's all so simple," Edith spoke persuasively. "I must be the judge of what is best for you; you must remember I'm your mother." She drew herself up with dignity, and went on, "You can surely understand, dear, that I must know all that my children are doing and thinking so that I can guide them. Now tell me you were wrong, Geoffrey, and hurry into bed."

"I'm sorry," said Geoffrey. "Good-night, Mother." He raised his face to be kissed, but she knew that he had not capitulated; he had merely eluded her.

So far the nursery had not proved as soothing as she had hoped. She went into the night nursery where Lavinia and Hugh were sleeping, and turned on the light. Everything was in order. A little pile of clothes was neatly folded on the rush-bottomed, white-painted chair beside each small bed; the curtains were undrawn; the window open just enough to make the room fresh and sweet. Edith's forehead smoothed itself as she looked about and was satisfied. The small sleepers never stirred; they lay hygienically without pillows, breathing quite correctly through their noses.

Edith felt reassured and quieted. She remembered how difficult it had been for nearly a year to induce Lavinia to go to sleep without sucking a thumb, and how she, alone, had persevered in the attempt to break this habit which nurse was confident would cure itself in time.

This small fact led to a train of thought that restored her shattered prestige. She remembered numberless instances when she had been obliged to exercise tact and perseverance to eradicate some budding trait in one or other of the children. She had noticed Hugh's adenoids before the possibility of trouble in the nose had occurred to nurse. It was she, and not Rodney who dealt with Geoffrey's tendency to deceit and subterfuge, and who was always called upon to arbitrate in any childish difficulty.

Turning off the light she went back to the day nursery where nurse was sitting darning.

"Nurse," she said firmly, "I've said before that Geoffrey is not to read at supper and to-night again I found him with a book."

"Well he only had one page to finish the book, Mrs. Greene, so I thought it wouldn't matter for once."

"I don't believe in that, Nurse," said Edith serenely. "If I make a rule then it is a rule, and there should be no exceptional cases when you allow it to be broken."

"I'm sorry," said Nurse stiffly, and Edith went down to the drawing-room where Rodney was sitting, holding a paper, but looking guiltily over the top of it at the door, evidently expecting her entrance.

"My dear Rodney," she said, "I have been very foolish. It was absurd of me to let myself be vexed by what you said. I know very well that it is only because you cannot possibly enter into my feelings, that you misunderstand and misrepresent me."

Rodney was at a loss. He had been prepared to retract his words but there appeared to be no need to do so. They had already been discounted. He cleared his throat, trying to think of an appropriate and inoffensive reply, but Edith continued her elaborate little speech.

"I ought to realise by now that nobody can share in a mother's responsibility to her children; nobody can appreciate her ideals."

"Well that's putting it a bit strong, you know; after all even a mother is a human being," Rodney spoke with an accent of faint bitterness, but Edith was unperturbed.

"Dear Rodney," she said, "we are a very happy and united family aren't we? I've just been up to the three little people—Hugh and Lavinia sleeping so sweetly—and I feel I need no reward for all I do for them except the consciousness that I mean everything to them. That," she ended nobly, "is all that is necessary to a good mother."

V

As her three children grew older, Edith consciously and tactfully modified her attitude towards them. They had been so accustomed to deferring to her judgment, they had seen their father so constantly adopting her views, and praises of their wonderful mother had rung so continually in their ears that when Geoffrey was eighteen, Lavinia sixteen, and Hugh fifteen, they still kept up the habits of childhood in never opposing her.

She could afford by that time to make a show of consulting them, to appear to ask their advice, safe in the conviction that her choice would ultimately be theirs also.

Geoffrey had certainly come through a period of alienation from her, which had shown itself in subterranean rebelliousness, and surface rudeness, but he had not been proof against her two weapons: the deadly use of personal sorrow, and a skilful trick of light ridicule.

She had seldom been angry with any of the children; it had been enough to induce into her face an expression of pain, into her voice a deep note of suffering, as she said, "Lavinia, dear," or "Hugh, dear" as the case might be, "I'm sure you don't realise how you've wounded me, but we won't talk of it any more; have it your own way."

Hugh and Lavinia desperately conscious of having estranged a mother so beneficent that she would withhold her power and suffer silently, almost invariably gave in immediately for the pure pleasure of sunning themselves once again in her favour. With Geoffrey during what she called "his difficult years," it was otherwise. Sentiment did not move him, but he could not stand up to her gentle, unerring sarcasm, her faculty of being always in the right, and smiling at him as he found himself put in the wrong over some point on which he was convinced he had justice on his side.

There was one occasion on which Geoffrey appealed to his father, but Rodney's reply was final: "Your mother's wishes must be considered, Geoffrey; I could not go against them and I can't imagine that you would care to."

That ended the matter. Geoffrey recognised that his mother had absolute authority over the household, and as he matured he gradually grew to recognise too that after all, even if she were inexorable and unassailable, still, life went smoothly, and so long as her sway was unquestioned the family atmosphere was an entirely happy one.

He came near to understanding her attitude the year he left school and was about to go up to the University. It had always been an understood thing that on leaving Oxford, Geoffrey should join his father in the engineering works founded originally by his great-grandfather, and carried on by his great-uncle Hugh. A few months before his first term began Hugh Greene died suddenly and Rodney Greene asked his son to enter the firm at once.

This was a great delight to Edith.

"My dear boy," she said, "I can't tell you how happy I am that you'll be at home with me now for a few years. I know it's a disappointment to you, but it is a pleasure to your mother."

"Didn't you want me to go up to Oxford, then?" Geoffrey asked.

"Of course I did in one way, but now I feel I'll have three extra years of you, and then later on when you marry, as I expect you will, I shall still have Lavinia and Hugh, but now while they are both away at school I'd have been very lonely."

"I never really thought of that."

"Of course you didn't," Edith patted his hand. "One's children never do, you know, and mothers learn to be put on one side without any fuss."

"You know, Mother, sometimes you talk as if we were frightfully important to you. Are we really?"

Edith looked astounded.

"My dearest Geoffrey," she said at last, "Your father and you three are all I care about in life; all I work for and plan for. Since I married, my one thought has been to be a good wife and mother and I think I can say I've succeeded."

She paused, but Geoffrey did not pay her the expected compliment. He was frowning over his thoughts.

"It doesn't seem quite sound to me; tell me, Mother, haven't you ever had anything of your own in your life?"

"But, darling, what could be more my own than my dear husband and children?"

"I don't mean quite like that. Father is different, of course, but take the three of us. After all, we've our own lives to lead. There are all sorts of things ahead of us, belonging only to us. I really meant, haven't you any interests of your own, intellectual or social or something quite apart from us?"

Edith shook her head.

"No," she said gravely, "I've never been either a bluestocking or a frivolous woman. I can truthfully say that all my interests are wrapped up in you four."

"It sounds dangerous to me," was Geoffrey's abrupt comment.

"Dangerous, Geoffrey? My dear boy, you're all at sea. When you talk of having things in the future belonging only to you, it just shows me how little you understand. Listen, dear. You're all three part of me; I've thought about you and loved you since you were tiny, helpless babies. I've watched your characters unfold and guided you this way and that, and whatever you do in the future will always belong, in part, to me. So long as I live you'll be my little son, and I'll be sharing your life."

"I see," said Geoffrey, "It's difficult to understand how you can feel like that about us, but anyhow I do see that you feel it."

"Wait a few years," Edith smiled. "When you're a father you'll understand me better, though of course," she added, "a mother's claim is always the greatest."

This conversation made a deep impression on Geoffrey. He was surprised to find how repugnant to him was the idea that his life was inseparably bound up with his mother's, entangled in her cloying web of affection, hopes and expectations. But he realised that he could never make his feelings clear to her; no words, however brutal, could establish him as a separate and independent entity; she would only suffer a little at the thought that Geoffrey was going through another of his "difficult times."

Determined to spare himself and her that awkwardness, Geoffrey no longer rebelled against her gentle interference, but accepted it pleasantly and then quietly pursued his own ideas.

Lavinia, vivid, sensitive, and almost always amenable, was the only one who after reaching years of discretion flamed into open defiance, and tried to express some of the dumb imprisoned resentment, that all three felt. Providence, however, stepped in once more, and won for Edith so pretty a victory, that in retrospect the battle-field seemed like a daisied meadow.

Lavinia was nineteen, and had been at home for a year. The whole affair blew up out of a chance invitation to a dance, which Edith was anxious for Lavinia to accept.

"I really don't want to go, Mother," she said. "I don't know them at all, or any of their friends, and I'll have a rotten time. They haven't even asked me to take a partner."

"Well, they did ask Geoffrey; it really is very unfortunate that he has to be away that night. But Lavinia dear, you really needn't worry; I know Lady Olivia quite well, even though you don't know the family, and I'm perfectly sure she will see that you have lots of partners. Besides it's a nice house for you to go to."

"You don't understand in the least, Mother," Lavinia expostulated, "One doesn't go to dances like that nowadays, to be handed over like a brown paper parcel, to a different man for every dance. If you do go to a party out of your own set, you must at least take a partner."

"You know, dear, you're being a little unreasonable. I like Lady Olivia and I think this habit of always dancing with the same few men is being overdone: I don't approve of it at all. Now say no more like a good child, I know you'll enjoy yourself."

"I really can't go," repeated Lavinia obstinately.

"Very well, dear," said Edith, turning away.

The subject was not reopened till the evening of the dance when Lavinia going up to dress for dinner found her white chiffon frock and her white brocade cloak laid out on her bed. She rang for the maid whose services she shared with her mother.

"What are these things for, Stacy?" she asked.

"Mrs. Greene told me you would want your white dress to-night for the dance, Miss Lavinia."

"What dance, did Mrs. Greene say?"

"I think she said it was Lady Olivia Yorke's, Miss, but I'm not sure."

"Oh I see, thank you, that's all right, then."

Lavinia's cheeks were scarlet, but her eyes were stony. She stood for a moment clutching the frock in her hot hand, then laid it carefully back on the bed and went downstairs.

On the way she met Rayner, the butler who had been with them for the last ten years, coming up.

"Would you tell me what time you will need the car, Miss Lavinia? Mrs. Greene said you were going out this evening."

"I'm not quite sure, Rayner," Lavinia spoke steadily, "I'll tell you at dinner. Has Mother gone up to dress, yet?"

"No Miss, not yet."

"Thank you, Rayner," Lavinia went into the library where Edith was sitting at her desk, and quietly closed the door.

"Mother," she said seriously, "did you refuse that invitation for me for Lady Olivia's dance?"

"No dear, I accepted it."

There was a moment's silence then Lavinia burst out, "But how could you, Mother? I said I wouldn't go. I told you why; that it would be hateful and I wouldn't know anyone, and you said you'd refuse it."

"Lavinia dear, I said no such thing." Edith's voice was calm. "I told you I wanted you to go to it, and you said you were unwilling, but I explained my reasons, and that surely ended the matter."

She took up her pen again, but Lavinia interrupted.

"It didn't end the matter," she said. "Surely I have some say in my own life. It's perfectly ridiculous, Mother; this isn't the nineteenth century, and there isn't another girl I know who can't refuse an invitation if she wants to. It's mad, and antediluvian to behave as if I were two."

"You don't know what you're saying," Edith answered sternly. "You're speaking rudely and thoughtlessly. I expect you to fall in with my wishes, and I'm very disappointed at this attitude you've taken up. Perhaps I've been too indulgent with you and given way too much."

Lavinia laughed wildly. "Given way," she repeated, "Oh, no, Mother, you never give way. The boys and Father and I all knuckle under in everything; I've never seen it so clearly before, but it's true what I say, that we aren't allowed to call our souls our own."

"You've said quite enough, Lavinia; I think you'd better ring up Lady Olivia and say you aren't very well and had better be at home to-night."

"No, I'll go. I never wanted to go, but I will. And I'll never be able to forgive you for having cheated me. You made me think you had refused, and all the time you had planned for me to go."

Dinner was a miserable meal. When Lavinia had gone to the dance, Rodney came over and sat on the sofa beside Edith who looked tired and worn.

"What's wrong, Edith?" he asked. "What's worrying you?"

"I'm desperately worried, Rodney. It's Lavinia. I do everything I can to amuse the child, I arrange parties for her, and welcome her friends here, and now to-night she doesn't feel quite happy about a dance she is going to, and she accused me of interfering and deceiving her, and I don't know what else."

"She's spoiled I expect," suggested Rodney comfortably. "She's pretty and she's having a good time and people running after her and her head is a bit turned, don't you think? It's natural to kick over the traces now and again."

"No, Rodney, it isn't natural for any child to speak to her mother as Lavinia spoke to me to-night. I was only acting for the best when I accepted this invitation for her; I like her to get all the fun she can, but it clashed with some idea she has in her head, and she simply turned on me."

"She'll be sorry when she cools down. She's devoted to you, you know, Edith."

"I can't believe it now. I don't feel things will ever be the same again. I really am utterly wretched; in fact I think I'll go up to bed now if you don't mind."

Some hours later Edith was wakened by a gentle touch.

A finger of moonlight lying across the floor, showed Lavinia in white frock and cloak, standing by the bed.

"Mother," she said urgently, "I'm so sorry for what I said; I'm glad now that I went, terribly glad."

Edith's sensibilities were fully roused by the deep, excited note in Lavinia's voice.

"Your father's asleep," she whispered. "I'll slip out and come up to your room for a minute or two."

Lavinia stole quietly away, and Edith followed her up to her own bedroom where she found her sitting on the bed in the dark.

"Don't put the light on, Mother," she said. "I'd rather talk in the dark, and there's a lovely moon. You sit down in my chair and I'll curl up on the bed."

"Lavinia dear," said Edith, "I've had a most miserable evening. You hurt me very cruelly; I almost began to feel I had failed with you."

"I know, Mother; I'm so sorry." Lavinia's voice was dreamy. "I didn't really mean it, and it all seems years ago anyhow. It was wonderful to-night at the dance. There was a man there—" She stopped, "his name was Martin Peile," she added in a whisper.

"My dearest," began Edith, but Lavinia's soft voice hurried on.

"Lady Olivia introduced him to me at the very beginning; there were programmes, and he asked for the third dance, and then after that we didn't dance with anyone else; we sat out together in the little garden. It wasn't very cold, and then at the end we danced again together. I've fallen in love with him, and he has, too, with me." She leaned forward and caught her mother's hand. "Isn't it lucky he did," she said fervently. "I couldn't have borne to live another week if he hadn't."

"Lavinia, what are you telling me? My brain's reeling. Do you mean what you say?"

"Oh I know it's fearfully sudden. I didn't mean to fall in love for years and years. I know I'm only nineteen and it must be a shock to you and all that, but Mother, it really has happened; I'm engaged to him."

"You can't be engaged," said Edith, utterly bewildered. "Who is he? We don't know him or anything about him. You're quite wild and unlike yourself Lavinia, my child."

"I know I am; I've never been in love before, you see."

"But really darling, you're going much too fast. Things can't be done all in a hurry like this."

Lavinia did not seem to hear.

"It's too amazing," she said. "Mother, I'll never be able to thank you enough for sending me to the dance. I might easily never have met him. It's terrible to think I might have gone on for years and never known Martin. He says so too. He says we'll never be able to be grateful enough to you. I told him how dreadful I'd been, and he is longing to meet you. In fact he's coming to-morrow morning. But really Mother, I do thank you."

Shattered as she was by the thought of the stranger who had so suddenly entered Lavinia's life and so entirely absorbed it, Edith nevertheless tasted to the full the sweetness of her child's gratitude.

"My darling," she said tenderly, "we really mustn't go too fast, but I want you to know one thing: Everything I've done has always been in the hope of giving you happiness, and if this turns out satisfactorily it will be the most beautiful thing for me to know that it was I who brought it about."

Lavinia's voice rang with assurance.

"It will turn out all right, Mother, there can't be a hitch or a flaw. You'll see to-morrow."

"Yes, I'll see to-morrow," said Edith. "And now, dear child, I must go back to your father. Sleep quietly and well, and don't be excited."

She kissed Lavinia and held her face for a moment between her hands.

"I'm a very happy mother," she said, "and a very proud one, too, to think I've been able to give you what may very well prove to be the best thing in your life. Good-night, and God bless you."

MRS. EDWIN GREENE

MRS. EDWIN GREENE

I

There hung about Dora Greene an atmosphere of moribundity and stagnation that inevitably led her relations and acquaintances to classify her as a bore.

Her conversation was monotonous, self-centred, and wound its interminable way in and out among the intricacies of her numerous afflictions. The neglect from which she was convinced she suffered, the slights she so patiently endured, and the difficulty of making ends meet on a reduced income formed the dim tapestry of her life.

The genuinely tragic accident which had robbed her of her son, lost most of its poignancy by being endlessly referred to in this ignoble context, and the one consistently vivid emotion in her life was her passionate unsleeping jealousy of her sister-in-law, Mrs. Rodney Greene. Apart from this and from the frequent scenes which it occasioned—scenes of hysterical reproaches met reasonably though unsympathetically—Dora Greene fumbled her way through each day, accumulating new grievances and brooding over old ones.

Nevertheless, three times in her life she had lived purposely and intensely: for half an hour before her first and only proposal; during the few months that her husband was at the front; and for a moment when her son was dying.

II

Dora Pilkington at twenty-four had been that pitiful thing, the victim of an ill-natured mother. Mrs. Pilkington was obsessed by social ambitions which had been persistently thwarted; some at their tenderest stage of growth; some more cruelly, when they held out promise of fulfilment.

There had been a bazaar; the celebrity who was to open it failed to arrive. The committee approached Mrs. Pilkington, the vicar's wife, and had in fact asked her to perform the ceremony, when another member hurrying up had announced the appearance of a certain lady, wife of a commercial knight well established in the county. With murmurs of "Thank you so much," and "Then we needn't trouble you now," the anxious ladies had fluttered away, intent on higher prey, and the vicar's wife was left with her words of acceptance bitter on her lips.

Of the multitude of obstacles which nullified her social projects, the most permanent and unsurmountable were her own over-zealous opportunism, her daughter's inertia, and her husband's earnest single-mindedness. The Reverend Edward Pilkington was a man of limited outlook but sincere purpose. The country parish in which he worked, not cognisant of his limitations, appreciated his sincerity, enjoyed his ministrations, and made endless demands on his time and sympathy.

For the most part, enjoying his work as he did and capable of estimating its usefulness, Edward Pilkington was a happy man. His home certainly lacked serenity, but he asked little of life, and if he was sometimes shamed by his wife's scornful refusal of invitations, and even more shamed by her gushing acceptances, still she was an admirable housewife, and there was always some sick parishioner to provide a ready means of escape from her tongue. When she saw him adjusting his old scarf, and searching helplessly for a pair of gloves, Mrs. Pilkington would raise her eyebrows and enquire acidly: "What! Am I to be left again this evening?" To which Mr. Pilkington contented himself by replying vaguely and apologetically:

"I'm afraid so my dear. You know a clergyman's time is not his own."

Dora had no means of escape. She returned at eighteen from the rather cheap boarding school where she had spent the last four years, with a vague idea of helping her mother, being useful to her father, and ultimately marrying some delightful and desirable young man. In point of fact neither parent required her assistance, and her mother who had hoped with an almost savage intensity for a daughter pretty and clever enough to make a place for herself in the county, was disappointed by Dora's uncertain looks and complete lack of initiative. Gradually Mrs. Pilkington became so embittered by her daughter's inadequacy that a stumbling reply, any manifestation of the gaucherie natural to unsophisticated eighteen was enough to provoke an outburst of taunts and ridicule.

The reason for this was incomprehensible to Dora. She knew only that she was a failure, and having tried the effect of an incipient rebellion against her mother in the form of a muddled and consequently fruitless appeal to her father, she sank little by little into a state of apathy.

It was in the spring of 1900 when Dora was twenty-four, that Mrs. Pilkington's hitherto diffused and generalised unkindness crystallised into a passionate desire to marry her daughter with whatever difficulty, to any man, however unsuitable. It was intolerable to her to be the only woman for miles around with a marriageable and unmarried daughter. Dora by this time was conscious of but one wish; to escape as much as possible from her mother's criticism. With this object it was her custom to absent herself for the greater part of the day on long rambling walks. On her return she was always sharply questioned as to where she had been and whom she had seen, and the replies, nearly always unsatisfactory, were greeted with derision and annoyance.

"You've just been wandering about, have you? You didn't see anyone but old Mr. Crowther and you didn't speak to him. I wonder what good that will do. You know, Dora, it's all very well to idle about, but a girl with no looks and no money can't afford to pick and choose. You're not getting any younger, are you?"

There was no answer to this type of question. Dora would mumble something about there being no one to marry anyhow, and her mother would take her up. "Well, there's young Mr. Lawson at the Bank. I don't say he's anything very much, but what do you expect?"

"You know he's utterly impossible, Mother," replied Dora, her face scarlet with indignation and embarrassment.

"Well, Dora, I don't really see why you should look for anything better, and you may as well know that I'm tired to death of having you always hanging round the house."

"Father doesn't feel like that anyhow," retorted Dora, with some courage which was quelled by her mother's reply.

"Your father agrees with me that is a great pity you are never likely to attract any young man whom we could welcome as a son-in-law."

There were many such conversations, always ending in a decisive victory for the mother, and in the daughter's abandonment to resentful tears.

In May when Mrs. Pilkington heard that The Hall, the only large house in their parish, had been taken by a Mr. and Mrs. Greene with two grown-up sons, she felt that at last her efforts must be crowned with success. The further discovery that both sons were unmarried lashed her to an unprecedented exhibition of vulgarity.

"That doubles your chances, Dora," she said triumphantly.

Later, when the news filtered through that the elder son was engaged to a Miss Beckett and would be married in the autumn, she was wrought to a pitch of nervous exacerbation that found vent in threats.

"Well, this is the end, Dora. Unless you manage to get engaged this summer, something will have to be done about you in the autumn."

Part of Dora's brain registered quite accurately the baselessness of these threats; she knew there was nothing that could be done about her, she knew that her father cared for her, but something in her cringed at the scope that would be added to Mrs. Pilkington's insults after a summer during which she would certainly be thrown into continual companionship with the younger Greene boy.

Shortly after the Greenes' arrival at the end of June, Mrs. Pilkington, unaccompanied by Dora, went up to call at The Hall in order to review the position. She found it eminently satisfactory. Mrs. Greene was unmistakably a gentlewoman, and both sons, who appeared at tea, were good-looking and well-mannered. Edwin, the younger, was charmingly diffident, but his face lit up ingenuously when Mrs. Pilkington replied to a remark of his as to the scarcity of young people in the neighbourhood:

"Why, that's what my young daughter is always complaining about. You must meet and have a good grumble together."

"It's selfish of you to complain, Edwin," Mrs. Greene interposed briskly. "You know we've come here in the hope of your father being able to get a little peace to finish his book."

"Is Mr. Greene an author then?" asked Mrs. Pilkington, delighted to find that he belonged to a profession so distinguished, and still more delighted when she elicited the fact that he was the Geoffrey Greene whose literary public consisted of a small but solid body of good opinion, ready to welcome anything from his pen.