When Justin, a fortnight later, heard the story of that afternoon, he was very angry with Laura. Letting his mother go alone! In that state of trouble! Why, a child might have known better!

“She wouldn’t let me, Justin! If you’d seen her! One couldn’t move her. She was like iron.”

“Mother! Like iron!” Justin was angry and pitiful at once. “You ought to have insisted,” he said shortly, and his tone added, “I thought I could have trusted you.”

She was miserable at his displeasure, although she did not resent it. She guessed that it must ease him to vent in any way his regret for his own absence; but she knew, too, that whatever he thought, she had not failed Mrs. Cloud.

“I think——You know, I’ve thought, Justin,” she tried to explain, “that she—she was afraid of what she might find. She didn’t want any one to see—to be able to think badly of him. I believe I’d have felt that way too.”

“All the same, you ought to have gone.” But he spoke more gently. Laura often thought of things that had not occurred to him. Then he went off at a tangent: “Think badly! What else can one think? Do you realize that he left Mother, without a line, twenty years—and living all the time within a railway journey of her? He’s my brother, and he’s dead—but I can’t forgive him. Never shall. The callousness! It’s—it’s inconceivable!”

“Why did he go—originally?”

“Some row with my father. A cheque. A beastly business. He bolted to America. But you’d think—later on—when he came back—when things had blown over—when he’d found his feet——”

“Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he was ashamed.”

“Then Coral should have made him. Any decent woman—but what can you expect?” And he looked with deep disfavour at the girl in showy mourning sitting with Mrs. Cloud at the other end of the lawn.

For Mrs. Cloud had not returned alone. In the dingy room to which they had carried John Cloud when his unsteady feet had been knocked from under him by a passing car, she had found a young woman with an old face, and a little big-eyed boy at sight of whom she caught her breath, not knowing for the moment whether it were John or Justin come back to her across the years. But his name, the mother told her, between sobs and business-like explanations of how she had found the address and what she had done about the funeral, was Timothy. She herself—she poured it all out with an utter frankness that touched Mrs. Cloud—was Coral, Johnnie’s wife. Married five years ago—Timothy was three—called after Johnnie’s father, Johnnie said—and things had just begun to look up—they had got a joint engagement—oh, yes, on the stage for years. She had got him his first job—and now—and now——No, he had never stirred after they brought him in.

So Mrs. Cloud, when she had seen her son and had buried him, gathered together all that he had left her and went back to her home. It was a nine-days-wonder for Brackenhurst, all eyes and ears and enquiries.

“Most charitable of poor Mrs. Cloud, most Christian—but, oh, my dear! have you seen the young woman? Handsome, of course—she would be. But the voice—the clothes—the style—(yes, we must call at once) unspeakable! Makes one so sorry for dear Mrs. Cloud!”

But Coral, who perhaps had not met with too much kindness in her life, revealed a gratefully truculent capacity for protecting not only herself but the mother-in-law who was good to her. Mrs. Cloud had to smile sometimes and come to the rescue with a “My dear!” that, though it checked her, never seemed to hurt Coral’s feelings. Brackenhurst, retiring in confusion, marvelled how well the two hit it off: was reduced to wondering what Mr. Justin Cloud—Mr. Cloud now, I suppose—would have to say to it all when he arrived.

Mr. Cloud, as you have heard, had a good deal to say, not to Brackenhurst or to his little worn mother, but to Laura. Justin, it may as well be admitted at once, justified Brackenhurst’s worst hopes. He did not get on with his sister-in-law.

Now of all Justin’s good qualities Laura most admired his broad-minded tolerance of every sin and foible of humanity that did not get on his nerves. To listen to him afterwards, when Brackenhurst had been to tea and gossip, divided her between intense admiration of his generosity and a guilty sense of her own meaner nature.

Second cups would be filling, as a rule, and cake plates emptying, and the Brackenhurst that had been invited would be discussing in detail the Brackenhurst that had not, before Justin would remember that it was tea-time and make his entrance. Laura loved his entrances. He would pause in the doorway to survey the room, his shy smile comically contradicted by his air (quite unconscious, to be sure) of well knowing that his arrival must always be an event, and, largely beaming, would await attention. That accorded, he would move forward with dignity and deliberation—he was always deliberate—and so achieve a seat. He would refuse food from any hand, which always embitters a woman; because he had come, not to enjoy himself, but to please his mother and help her with her tea-party. He did help her, too, as a son does by being a a son and good-looking and too big for the room, but on the whole he was perhaps more impressive than stimulating. Conversationally he needed room to turn in and when the room was full of Brackenhurst, petticoated Brackenhurst——You understand? He knew, at any rate, that his mother understood.

But he was quite ready to listen. He would sit back in his armchair, his grave attentive gaze fixed on each visitor as she spoke, not speaking himself, but, it could be felt, giving them their chance, dispassionately giving them their chance to live up to his standard.

They seldom did. But they talked, because he made them nervous, faster than ever and a little more shrilly and foolishly and indiscreetly than they would otherwise have done: and were vexed with themselves when they got home.

And Justin, looking more than ever like an intelligent little boy at a wedding, would ponder their alarums and excursions as he made up for his tea at dinner-time, and finally break out—

“What’s Mrs. Gedge got her knife into the Mouldes for? Quite harmless, aren’t they?”

“Oh, quite.” Mrs. Cloud would hesitate. “But, of course——Oh, well, you know, chapel people—and now Robin Gedge wants to marry Annabel. It’s rather hard on the vicarage.”

“Chapel! We’re not living in the ’fifties! What’s that got to do with it?”

“No, of course—but it isn’t only that. Annabel—I must say I’m disappointed in Annabel. Oh—no real harm, but—frivolous, you know, and such a crowd of boys about her. A girl shouldn’t make herself conspicuous. Mrs. Gedge only hinted that pale blue taffeta was not suitable for a Mothers’ Meeting, and Annabel was quite rude, I believe.”

“And a jolly good thing too! What has it got to do with Mrs. Gedge? I do think women are the limit, you know—not you, Mother, of course! But imagine any man—imagine me dictating to Laura what she’s to wear or not to wear! And ‘chapel people’! Isn’t it petty?” He turned to his Echo, who always stayed to dinner on party days.

“I thought you didn’t like Annabel?” Echo failed him for once.

“Like? Never see the girl. Don’t want to. Can’t stand her. It’s the principle. Chapel!! It’s a free country. What right have you or I, or Mrs. Gedge for that matter, to dictate to Annabel Moulde? If people are to set up their personal prejudices as a standard for their neighbours——D’you see what I mean?”

Laura quite saw what he meant; but she had also seen the taffeta frock. She could not help sympathizing with Mrs. Gedge and saying so. Laura was always finding herself put into the position of defending some one to whom she was indifferent: it was depressing.... She wished she had Justin’s ready tolerance....

She was so sure of this tolerance of his that she was the more distressed by his attitude to his sister-in-law. If Justin didn’t like her there must be something radically wrong with Coral, though she herself had not detected it. She couldn’t help, guiltily, being fascinated by the vulgar little body. She liked her brisk self-confidence, her free humour, her fund of anecdote. She even liked the accent, elusive yet undeniable, lingering in her decisive public voice. It suited Coral. But it made Justin shudder behind his coffee-cup in what had once been the cloistral and dedicate silence of the breakfast-room. The most unfortunate part of the whole unfortunate business was that Coral liked Justin, liked him very much, and said so repeatedly to Laura, to Mrs. Cloud, and to Justin himself, particularly to Justin himself. He found it trying.

She called him ‘dear’ and took him for walks, and asked him to fasten her bracelets for her. She used strong scent. She got at his newspaper before he came down and told him all the news before he had time to read it for himself. He was politely conversational for the two first mornings, but by the third he was reduced to the acquiescive monosyllable which always meant, always had meant, as Mrs. Cloud or Laura could have told the woman, that he did not wish to be importuned. But Coral greeted the indication with a crow of laughter and told him that he did her good. He reminded her so of his brother. “Never saw such a likeness. It might be Johnnie himself—just like Johnnie after a night out. Grunts was all you could ever get out of Johnnie then—poor Johnnie!” And so, with the easy emotion of the profession, mopped her eyes with an imitation Brussels lace handkerchief in memory of Johnnie.

Justin looked round him with an almost passionate longing for Laura. But Laura, of course, was never at the Priory for breakfast.

Gentle Mrs. Cloud was unaccountably indifferent to Coral’s glaring misdemeanours. Mrs. Cloud, with her grandson on her knee, could forgive Coral her clothes and her manners, and—which was more—her matrimonial audacity itself: could listen with a kind of sorrowful content to the semi-cockney voice telling stories, the suitable stories—Coral was no fool—of poor Johnnie. Coral had been good to Johnnie and it had not been easy to be good to Johnnie: that appeared more clearly than Coral, so carefully no fool, could dream, or than Justin and Laura realized; though they, too, were alert, intent on shielding Mrs. Cloud from crudities. But Mrs. Cloud listened, and learned all that she was not meant to know, and was kind to Coral, and with that strange reticence of hers never said aloud: “But if he had written, if he had only written, to his own mother!” but instead, with her soft smile—

“I am glad he had you, my dear.”

“If I’d known——” began Coral once, and stopped herself. She intended saying that if she had known what a Mrs. Cloud could be she would have sent her husband to his home long ago. But she realized that even Mrs. Cloud would not bear the suggestion of her son returning to her by another woman’s good leave. And she had fallen in love, as every one fell in love, with quiet Mrs. Cloud.

But behold Coral now, the daughter-in-law, the wife picked up in the far country, installed at Brackenhurst and on her best behaviour; but dying for some one to talk to!

Of course there was Laura. There was always Laura. Justin interposed Laura between himself and his sister-in-law, much as you hold an umbrella slant-wise between you and the wind.

Coral did not object. Laura interested her. Coral, who did not know the meaning of the word reserve, except in the professional sense of keeping your salary to yourself, conquered Laura’s hesitancies and reticencies by ignoring them. She inveigled her into bedroom conclaves and long walks and talks: and Laura, intrigued, half hostile, found herself committed to intimacy, and found it pleasant. She had no women friends. Annabel and the vicar’s daughters she did not like, and the Cloud cousins, Rhoda and Lucy, had but just come home from school. Coral could not be called a kindred spirit, but she was shrewd and sociable: beneath her flagrancies Laura learned to like and respect her, and to think that in a month or two, when they got to know each other better——But Coral cut short the rest. Coral, by the end of the week, had laid all before her as far as her own private affairs and love affairs were concerned and was taking it for granted that Laura would respond.

And Laura, against her will and her dignity and her acute consciousness of what Justin would say if he knew, did respond. She did not know how it happened; but she found herself talking to Coral, talking about everything under the sun—and Justin. She had never discussed Justin with any one in all her life. It was a curious sensation, sacrilegious but enjoyable. She did not realize that it was Coral’s doing. But Coral had not been a week at Brackenhurst before she decided that Laura was in love with Justin and needed a little help. A born matchmaker, she had resolved to give it.

“You never thought of taking on my brother-in-law, I suppose?” she said one day to Laura. And then, impressively—“I believe you could get him if you tried.”

Laura looked puzzled.

“What do you mean, Coral—get him?”

“Marry him.”

“But of course. We’re engaged.”

“Engaged?” For once Coral had no words. Laura laughed.

“Didn’t you know? I thought you did. I suppose we took it for granted you knew. One does, somehow.”

“But you can’t be engaged.” Coral was quite annoyed.

“What d’you mean—can’t?” said Laura sharply. But as Coral hesitated, she added—“Oh, you mean I’m not good enough for him.” She flushed. “I know that. You needn’t rub it in.”

Coral was genuinely shocked.

“Not good enough? What utter rot! As if I ever dreamed of such a thing! As if a woman weren’t always too good for a man. It’s Justin who’s lucky, I should say!”

Laura put aside the grossness of that insincerity with a polite smile.

“What did you mean then, that we couldn’t be engaged?”

“Only that you don’t behave as if you were. When I think of me and Johnnie, let alone my best boys—goodness me!”

Laura thought that she ought to be offended; but she could not be. Coral’s views were too interesting and she was too obviously unconscious that her interest could be unwelcome.

“Well, we are, anyway——”

Coral enveloped her in an embrace. She looked genuinely delighted.

“Good business, dearie! But I say, I must chaff Justin for not telling me!”

“Oh Coral, don’t! You’ll make him squirm. Haven’t you noticed how he hates—fuss?” she ended delicately, afraid of offending Coral. But Coral did not seem disturbed.

“Yes. Aren’t men quaint? I had a lot of trouble before I cured Johnnie. Justin does remind me so of Johnnie sometimes. That type needs a heap of managing. When I marry again——”

“Again?”

Coral bridled, up in arms in an instant.

“How old d’you think I am then? Sixty?”

“Oh, no! oh, no!” Laura, perplexed, tried to smooth down the angry little woman. But Coral, touched on a tender spot, was not to be pacified.

“Fifty? Forty? I tell you—I’ll tell you—I’m thirty. That’s what I am. Not a day more. And Tim was accidental. Quite. If I’d had my way——Of course a child takes it out of you—and touring on the top! I played Aladdin at the time I was nursing him. It wasn’t as easy as you’d think either. My word, how that kid used to howl! My dressing-room was star, you see—right off the stage. We used to have to arrange with the conductor for incidental music whenever he woke up. Can’t trust land-ladies—will give ’em gin when your back’s turned. Well, as I say—I may be thirty and there’s Tim and the mourning; but made-up I don’t look a day over twenty, I give you my word. Why shouldn’t I get married again?”

Laura fidgeted, and Coral reddened anew. She had a terrible trick of accusing you of thinking that which, as a matter of inconvenient fact, you had been thinking.

“If you think I wasn’t fond of poor old John—well, you’re wrong. But he’s dead and I’m alive. And once you’ve had a husband, you know——”

Laura obviously didn’t.

“Well—mind, I’m not saying it’s only habit—but a man’s like a fur coat. Not absolutely necessary, but once you’ve had one you can’t get on without. You feel lost. You want some one to look after. I’d never go wrong, you know. I’m not that sort. A girl who can’t control herself makes me sick. I’ve seen too much of it. And they call it love! But give me a husband! Not that I’d live on a man even if he were my husband. I own myself, you know. I pay my way. Why—I’ve earned my keep ever since I was twelve. Up to six-ten a week I’ve been, and down to eighteen bob and provide your shoes and gloves. But I’ve always kept myself—and John too sometimes; though he hated it, poor Johnnie. But there it was, you see. I could play anything from Little Eva to The Worst Woman in London. But, John, he wasn’t much good. He could act straight parts all right, and of course I always got him cast for earls when I knew the management; but he wasn’t much use for anything else. Too much the gentleman, you know. And a joint engagement—it’s cheaper one way—living together; but they beat you down. Still, it’s better than living alone. It’s hell, living alone——”

That was always the burden of the conversations with which she beguiled their long hours together. For Mrs. Cloud was pathetically absorbed in Timothy, and Justin had grown adroit in calculating and evading his sister-in-law’s whereabouts. Laura, as Mrs. Cloud told Aunt Adela in an apologetic call, was invaluable. She got on so well with Coral. Indeed, as she said one day to her son, she was doing Coral good. Hadn’t Justin noticed how much quieter poor dear Coral had grown in manner?

But neither Mrs. Cloud nor Justin noticed how much good Coral was doing Laura. For Laura, doing her duty with wide eyes and ears and mouth, drank in knowledge that had never before come her way: was introduced to facts—facts as crude and obvious as bread-and-cheese—and that, often enough, in a fashion that would have appalled Aunt Adela and would have been incomprehensible to Mrs. Cloud.

For Coral, inevitably, sprinkled her conversation with tales of the trade, occasionally funny, invariably coarse—tales so complicatedly Rabelaisian that Laura, that seeker after knowledge, would wrinkle her brows and ask questions, and Coral would double up with laughter and sometimes explain. But the explanations were even more extraordinary than the stories. Now and then she carried a perplexity to Justin. He, in his sensible fashion, always explained the point that would have horrified Aunt Adela, and, though he laughed, agreed with her that it was not really funny. Laura was satisfied. She liked Justin. She knew where she was with Justin. He never left his sentences unfinished. She was superior one day when Coral began, as usual, to tease her.

“Oh, I understand that now. I asked Justin.”

“You didn’t! You haven’t? Really, Laura!” For once Coral was shocked. “I never heard of such a thing! Haven’t you any sense of decency? To ask a man——! I wonder you’re not ashamed.” And then, with a giggle, “What did he say?”

“Oh, he just told me,” said Laura, puzzled at Coral’s heat.

“Didn’t you fall through the floor? My dear, you mustn’t! I can’t tell you things if you——Oh, really, Laura, you’re the limit!” Coral was divided between laughter and real annoyance.

“But I always ask Justin everything,” Laura remonstrated. “Why shouldn’t I? Of course I shouldn’t dream of telling Aunt Adela. But Justin!”

And Coral, that typical stage mixture of frankness and prudery, was forced to realize that she was entirely and unsuspiciously sincere.

“D’you tell him anything?” she gasped.

“Well, who else can I ask? He was at Oxford, you know. He knows an awful lot.”

“He must be a decent sort! My word!” Coral was impressed for once.

“He’s Justin,” said Laura placidly.

And Coral, the married woman, the woman of her world, admitted to herself, with a laugh and a touch of envy, that there were things in Brackenhurst undreamed of in her philosophy, and that their names were Laura Valentine and Henry Justin Cloud. Also, with admirable wisdom, that she had much better leave them to work out their own salvation in their own amazing way.

But you don’t suppose that she did? Surely the resolve was enough to stamp her an unusual woman. You cannot expect her to abide by it.

Such a fascinating pie as she had found, too, at Brackenhurst and so badly in need of a stir: and she born with the very finger for it, the crooked, enquiring, blunt-tipped finger of the artist in such cookery! And Brackenhurst, save for this godsend of a pie, was such a dull place to be resting in, though she owed Johnnie’s folk the visit and it was doing Timothy good—that, with an ache at her heart, she realized. She asked herself sometimes if she should ever dare take Timothy from this, so obviously his own place. His cheeks were so rosy, and his nurse so competent, and his poor little manners so much improved that she felt at times half afraid of him—or herself. She could not see this new Timothy with her any more in lodgings and dressing-rooms and trains. And yet, how could she stay on indefinitely at the Priory? She who was homesick already for her own familiar world of bustle and bright lights, and scent, and dirt, and chocolate, and men, and overwork. Brackenhurst for a week-end was as good as a picture palace; but she had been there a month now and there was nothing in the world to do but talk to Laura.

She thanked her stars for Laura. She admired Laura, would have given her an introduction to a manager with hearty goodwill. It amused her to shock Laura, and yet Laura’s wondering eyes could hurt her. She had a queer tenderness for her, as for a child: and yet she did not spare her. She told herself that it did Laura good to jump. And the relief of reckless speech was great.

“What a queer mark!” said Laura to her one day. Coral had slipped off her blouse and was trying on a half-made bodice. Laura, hovering round her with pins and scissors, had noticed a white three-cornered scar on Coral’s bare shoulder.

“That?” Coral laughed. “Johnnie did that. Poor Johnnie! How upset he was next day!”

“How did it happen?” said Laura. “It’s quite a bad mark. Keep still.”

“Chair-leg,” said Coral, without emotion.

“What?” Laura’s pins dropped from her hands. She stared at Coral with wide, incredulous eyes.

Coral looked at her with curious, amused detachment.

“Do you mean to say,” she drawled, “that you didn’t know what was wrong with Johnnie?”

“Oh, Coral!” Laura’s great eyes were eloquent. But Coral shrugged off the idea of sympathy. She was quite genuinely matter-of-fact.

“My dear, he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t help it. They’re not themselves, you know. They don’t know what they’re doing. Johnnie was like a mad bull sometimes—poor Johnnie!”

“But—but—he was a gentleman!” cried Laura, in spite of herself.

“A gentleman’s just a man when he’s drunk,” said Coral shrewdly, “same as most other times—swears the same and smells the same.”

“But a gentleman doesn’t get drunk,” protested Laura. “At least——”

Coral laughed.

“Well, I’m perfectly certain Justin never has.”

“No, he looks as if he hadn’t. I’d think more of him if he had. He looks as if he’d never been drunk in his life—or kissed either. Except you.” She laughed again. “And that doesn’t count. You don’t count, you know.” She glanced sideways at Laura as she slipped off the bodice and turned to her own work again.

In silence Laura cut and threaded and knotted a length of cotton. They were sitting at their needlework. Coral, in search of amusement, no reader, but as expert a needle-woman as ever wasted exquisite stitchery on bad material, had insisted on inspecting Laura’s bottom drawer, had cried out against the serviceable longcloths and calico buttons, and had at last, with peremptory good nature, declared that she would attend to Laura’s trousseau herself. Laura must send to some pet shop of Coral’s for patterns, “the best value in London, dirt cheap, you couldn’t tell their lace from real!” And while Laura thanked her, but was firm against Tubbin and Spinks and coloured underclothes, Mrs. Cloud had slipped away in her mouse-like fashion (indeed, they had not known that she was with them or listening) and had come back again from a rummage of her stores to appease them with a roll of finest lawn, smelling of orris-root, and little bundles of lace from Italy. After that the trousseau increased on the filmiest of lines and apace. Sometimes, as they sat working, they even talked about the wedding-dress. But then Coral would talk about anything!... There was never any holding Coral.... A baffling woman, Coral.... She would chatter strange things till Laura was restless and excited, and then, with a word, a stray phrase, she would be a cold wind, bursting all the many-coloured bubbles she had blown for Laura, permitting herself some such kindly insolence as now, when she said—

“You! But you don’t count, you know!”

And, as I tell you, it took Laura those long minutes to adjust her needle and thread before she answered—

“It’s you who don’t understand. Justin and I aren’t like that. We—we don’t care about that sort of thing. It’s silly!”

Coral surveyed her, made up her mind about her at last.

“Poor old Laura!” she said deliberately.

Laura flushed angrily. She stared at Coral, chin lifted, with half-shut, indifferent eyes—the look that was her shield in danger.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Laura icily.

“Don’t you?” Coral bent placidly over her embroidery frame. In the pause her needle made tiny, explosive sounds as it popped in and out of the taut silk. She looked up at last to find that Laura had risen, was standing over her. Behind her fierceness she had a curious air of alarm.

“Well?” said Coral, with lazy amusement.

And then Laura’s haughtiness melted rather pitifully into childish, bewildered anger.

“You talk so! I hate the way you talk. About us. You hint——You’re always hinting! What is it you mean? Do you think——? Do you imagine——?” She drew a difficult breath. “Oh, I think you’re a perfect beast!” cried Laura fiercely.

She flamed out of the room: and, for the rest of the day, would not look at her, would not speak to her.

And Coral, who liked her, watched her with those two shrewd, bright blue eyes of hers and laughed a little and shook her head and said to herself once again—

“Poor old Laura!”