The little star melody wailed on, rippled characteristically and died. Even then Nigel did not move, he sat with his hands dropped between his knees, still holding Janey's telegram. He seemed to be sitting alone, in a black corner of space, stricken, blank, forsaken.

Then suddenly he recovered himself. "Come at once." He must go at once. He sprang to his feet, pushed his way past one or two meaningless shadows who called after him meaningless words, and the next minute found himself in the passage behind the stage. Seizing his hat and overcoat from the wall, he hurried to the stage-door. The street outside was quiet, at either end were lights and commotion, but the street itself was plunged in echoing peace. A strange fear assaulted Nigel—he hurried into Oxford Street and hailed a taxi. Then he knew what he was afraid of—the opportunity to sit and think.

He tried not to think—he tried to find refuge from thought even in the words that had smitten him. "Come at once. Leonard is ill."—he repeated them over and over, striving for mere mechanical processes. The taxi threaded swiftly through the traffic, the lights swung past with the roar and the whistles. Luckily the streets were not much crowded at that hour—it was just before the closing of the theatres and the consequent rush....

He was at Victoria, and a porter had told him that the next train for East Grinstead did not start for half-an-hour. He paced miserably up and down, cursing the blank time, gnawed by conjectures. "Leonard is ill." Len was hardly ever ill, and it must be something serious, or Janey would not have said "Come at once." It must have been sudden too, for the two telegrams had been handed to him together. Perhaps there had been an accident. Perhaps Len was dead. Ice seemed to form suddenly on Nigel's heart—Janey might be trying to break the news gently by saying his brother was ill. No doubt Len was dead—— Oh, Lenny, Lenny!

A strange thing had happened. The dream in which he had lived and worked and slept and eaten for the last six months had suddenly fallen back from him, leaving him utterly alone with his brother and sister. His life in London, with all its struggle and ambition, was as something far off, unreal; no part of his life seemed real, except what he had spent with Len and Janey. After all did anything really matter as much as they? They had been with him always, and his dream had sustained him only a few months. He thought of their childhood together in the old Sussex house, of their adventures and scrapes and hide-and-seeks; he thought of their growing-up, of the wonderful discoveries they had made about themselves, and shared; he thought of their arrival at Sparrow Hall, full of pluck and plans, of the difficulties that had damped the one and dashed the other—of the awful disgrace that had separated the three Furlongers for damnable years. Len and Janey had been his pals, his comrades, his comforters before he had so much as heard of Tony. She was not dethroned, his dream was not dead, but the past which he had half impatiently thrust behind him was coming back to show that it, as well as the future, held treasures and the immortality of love.

The half-hour was nearly over, and the platform was dotted with men and women in evening dress, who had come up from the country to the theatres, and now were going home by the last train. Nigel shut himself into a third-class carriage. The train was not very crowded, and no one disturbed him. Almost mechanically he lighted a cigarette, then leaned back, closing his eyes.

The train began to move—it pulled itself together with a shudder, then slid slowly out of the station. Signal lights swept past, whistles wailed up out of the darkness and died away—suburban stations gleamed—then the train swung out into the night.

Both the windows were wide open, and the wind blew in on Nigel, but he did not notice it. His cigarette had gone out, but he still sucked and bit the end, filling his mouth with strings of tobacco, which he did not notice either, though every now and then he mechanically spat them out. All he was conscious of was the pungent smell of night, which invaded even the rushing train. He knew that the trees were heavy and the hedges tangled with their green—he tried to fling his imagination into some sheltered hollow by a wood, and find rest there. He tried to think of sheep and grass and flowers and watching stars. But it was no use—the night was full of the restlessness of the pulsing train, he could not escape from the train, which throbbed like his heart, and by its throbbing seemed to hold his heart a prisoner in it, as if some mysterious astral link connected the two pulses. The train was the heart of the night and darkness, pulsing in ceaseless despair, and he was the heart of the train, pulsing despairingly too, the very centre of sorrow. It was a definite strain for him to realise this, and yet somehow the sensation would not relax—it was infinite relief when at last the great, noisy heart, the heart of the train, stopped beating, though its silence brought with it a sudden wrench and shock, like death.

Nigel stumbled out on the East Grinstead platform, his limbs cramped, his head swimming. He thought of taking a cab, but by the time he had roused up the local livery stables and set off in one of their concerns he could almost have reached Sparrow Hall by the fields. A walk would do him good. The night was fine, though it smelled of rain.

He had soon left the town behind him, and struck across the fields by St. Margaret's convent. There was no moon, but the stars were unusually lustrous, and the distance was clear, Oxted chalk quarry showing a pale scar on the northern hills. Now and then dark sweeps of cloud passed swiftly overhead, and the wind came in sudden gusts, whistling over the fields, and throbbing through the woods with a great swish of leaves. Nigel had not seen the Three Counties since Easter, which had been early and bleak. The London months since then had to a certain extent denaturalised him, and he was conscious of a vague strangeness in the fields. It was, moreover, four years since he had seen them in their June lushness—the scent of grass was brought him pungently now and then, the scent of leaves, the scent of water.

He crossed from Sussex into Surrey at Hackenden, then plunged through Ashplats Wood into the Wilderwick road. His footsteps were like shadows on the awful silence that filled the night. The stars were flashing from a coal-black sky—between the high hedges only a wisp of the great waste was visible with its dazzle of constellations. Nigel saw Cancer burning his lamps in the west, while straight above him hung the sign of Libra, brilliant, cold, unearthly. Surely the stars were larger and brighter to-night than was normal, than was good. He wished he was at Sparrow Hall. It could not be that he was frightened of the stars, and yet somehow they seemed part of an evil dream. Perhaps he would wake to find himself in his Notting Hill lodgings—perhaps his dream would go on for ever, eternal, malevolent, but still a dream—he would lie on in his bed at Notting Hill, and people would shake him and try to wake him, and, when they could not wake him, take him and bury him—and he would lie in the earth, deep, with a stone over him—but still with his awful dream of night and high hedges, terror and stars....

He had come to Sparrow Hall. He saw the tall, black chimney against a mass of stars—it seemed to be canting a little, perhaps that was part of the dream. There was a light in Len's room, and the next moment some one moved between it and the window.

"Janey ..." called Nigel softly.

His voice rose with the scents of the garden, in the hush of the night. The next minute there were footsteps on the stairs, then the door flew open, and Janey was in Nigel's arms.

They clung together for several moments. The door had slammed in the draught, and the darkness crept softly round them like an embrace. The dream slipped from Nigel—his silly and hideous nightmare of stars. This quivering, tear-stained woman in his arms had brought him into the reality of sorrow.

"Where is he?—what's happened?" he asked, still holding Janey.

"He's upstairs in bed—he's very ill, Nigel."

"But he's not dead?"

"Not yet."

"Is there any hope?"

"Not much—he's got pneumonia. It's dreadful."

"Has the doctor seen him?"

"Yes—he's been gone only an hour. He said you were to be sent for at once. Oh, Nigel, Nigel, it's my fault!"

"What d'you mean?"

"I was wretched and selfish—he'd been queer all the afternoon, and I didn't notice it. I thought only of myself. Then he went out while I was asleep, and when he came back.... Oh, Nigel!... the doctor says he practically did for himself by going out then."

Nigel did not understand, but his mind made no effort to grasp at details.

"I'd better go at once," he said; "is he conscious?"

"Yes—but he says funny things sometimes."

She led the way upstairs, and the next minute they were in Leonard's room. It was a queer little room, extremely low, with bulging walls, sagging beams and an uneven floor. Len lay propped very high with pillows. His face was drawn and feverish—he was literally fighting for his breath, and his lips were blue.

He smiled when he saw Nigel.

"Hullo, old man!... good of you to come.... Lord!"—as he saw his clothes—"put me among the nuts."

"Don't talk," said his brother sharply.

"Your hair ..." panted Len.

"Shut up!"

Len pointed to a glass of water by the bed. Janey gave him a drink. He began to cough violently, and his face became purple. Nigel felt sick.

"I—I'm better," gasped Leonard. "I—I had ... a beastly stitch ... but it's gone."

"When's the doctor coming again?" Nigel asked Janet.

"The first thing to-morrow."

"He ought to have a nurse."

"Oh, no!" cried Len; "you and Janey can manage me ... between you ... I'll soon be all right ... I don't want any little Tottie Coughdrop fussing round."

"He's dreadful," said Janey, "he will talk."

"How long has he been like this?"

"As I tell you, he'd been feeling queer all the afternoon. Then I crocked up for some silly reason, and instead of being properly attended to, he had to look after me"—a sob broke into her voice, and she pulled Nigel aside. "The doctor says it's a frightfully acute case," she whispered.

"But ... but" interrupted Len, "Nigel hasn't told us ... about the concert ... where's the laurel crown?... left it in the train?"

"Oh, do shut up! I'll tell you anything you like if you'll hold your tongue."

"Tell him while I'm giving him his milk," said Janey; "the doctor ordered him milk every two hours, but he simply won't take it."

"I'll make him," said his brother grimly.

"I'll go and fetch it—you stay with him, Nigel."

She left the room, and Len lay silent a moment, looking out at the stars.

"Old man," he whispered suddenly, "while Janey's away ... I want to tell you something."

"What is it?—can't it wait till you're better?"

"No.... It's this.... She ... she's in ... infernal trouble."

Nigel quailed.

"What is it, Len?"

"She'd rather tell you herself ... she's going to ... all I want to say is ... when you hear, just remember that ... she's our Janey."