It was somewhere about the second week in December that Trix became the recipient of another letter, a letter quite as amazing, perplexing, and extraordinary as that which she had perused in the summer-house at Llandrindod Wells. They had returned to London in October.

The letter was brought to her in the drawing-room one evening about nine o’clock. Mrs. Arbuthnot had gone out to a Bridge party.

Trix was engrossed in a rather exciting novel at the moment, a blazing fire and an exceedingly comfortable armchair adding to her blissful state of well-being. Barely raising her eyes from the book, she merely put out her hand and took the letter from the tray. It was not till she had come to the end of the chapter that she even glanced at the handwriting. Then she saw that the writing was Miss Tibbutt’s.

Now, a letter from Miss Tibbutt was of such extremely rare occurrence that Trix immediately leapt to the conclusion that Pia must be ill. It was therefore with a distinct pang of uneasiness that she broke the seal. This is what she read:

“My Dear Trix,—

“I have made rather an astounding discovery. At least I feel sure I’ve made it, I mean that I am right in what I think. I have no one in whom I can confide, as it certainly would not do to speak to Pia on the subject,—I feel sure she would rather I didn’t, so I am writing to you as I feel I must tell someone. My dear, it sounds too extraordinary for anything, and I can’t understand it myself, but it is this. Pia knows the under-gardener at the Hall, really knows him I mean, not merely who he is, and that he is one of the gardeners, and that he came to these parts last March, which, of course, we all know.

“I found this out quite by accident, and will explain the incident to you. You must forgive me if I am lengthy; but I can only write in my own way, dear Trix, and perhaps that will be a little long-winded.

“Yesterday afternoon, which was Saturday, Pia and I motored into Byestry, as she wanted to see Father Dormer about something. I went into the church, while she went to the presbytery. I noticed a man in the church as I went in, a man in workman’s clothes, but of course I did not pay any particular attention to him. I knelt down by one of the chairs near the door, and just beyond St. Peter’s statue. I suppose I must have been kneeling there about ten minutes when the man got up. He didn’t genuflect, and I glanced involuntarily at him. He didn’t notice me, because I was partly hidden by St. Peter’s statue. Then I saw it was the under-gardener,—Michael Field, I believe his name is.

“My dear, the man looked dreadfully ill, and so sad. It was the face of a man who had lost something or someone very dear to him. He went towards the porch, and just before he reached it, I heard the door open. Whoever was coming in must have met him just inside the church. There was a sound of steps as if the person had turned back into the porch with him. Then I heard Pia’s voice, speaking impulsively and almost involuntarily. At least I felt sure it was involuntarily. It sounded exactly as if she couldn’t help speaking.

“‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’ve been ill.’

“‘Nothing of any consequence, Madam,’ I heard the man’s voice answer.

“‘But it must have been of consequence,’ I heard Pia say. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

“‘There was no need,’ returned the man.

“Then I heard Pia’s voice, impulsive and a little bit impatient. She evidently had not seen me in the church, and thought no one was there.

“‘But there is need. Why don’t you go and see Doctor Hilary?’

“‘I am not ill enough to need doctors, Madam,’ returned the man.

“‘But you are,’ returned Pia, in the way that she insists when she is very anxious about anything.

“I heard the man give a little laugh.”

“‘It is exceedingly good of you to trouble concerning me,’ he said, ‘and I really don’t know why you should.’

“‘Oh,’ said Pia quickly, ‘you need not be afraid that I, personally, wish to interfere with you again. You made it quite plain to me months ago that you had no smallest wish for me to do so. But, speaking simply as one human being to another, as complete and entire strangers, even, I do ask you to see a doctor.’

“Then there was a moment’s silence.”

“‘I think not,’ I heard the man say presently. ‘I am really not sufficiently interested in myself. Though—’ and then, Trix dear, he half stopped, and his voice altered in the queerest way,—‘the fact that you have shown interest enough to ask me to do so, has, curiously enough, made me feel quite a good deal more important in my own eyes.’

“‘You refused my friendship,’ I heard Pia say, and her voice shook a little.

“‘I did,’ said the man in rather a stern voice.

“Again, Trix dear, there was a little silence. Then Pia said:

“‘I don’t intend again to offer a thing that has once been rejected. I shall never do that. But because we once were friends, or at all events, fancied ourselves friends, I do ask you to see Doctor Hilary. That is all.’

“She must have turned from him at once, because she came into the church, and went up the aisle to her own chair. She knelt down, and put her hands over her eyes; and, Trix dearest, she was crying. I am crying now when I think about it, so forgive the blots on the paper. A minute later I heard the door open and shut again, so I knew the man had gone. I got up as softly as I could, and slipped out of the church. It would never have done for Pia to see me, and I was so thankful to St. Peter for hiding me.

“Well, my dear Trix, wasn’t it amazing? And one of the most amazing things was that the man’s voice and way of speaking was quite educated, not the least as one would suppose a gardener would speak.

“I went to the post-office and bought some stamps, though I really had plenty at home, and loitered about for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then I thought I had better go and find Pia. I met her coming out of the church. She was very pale; but she smiled, and wanted to know where I’d been, and I told her to the post-office. And then we drove home together. Pia laughed and chatted all the way, while my heart was in a big lump in my throat, and I could hardly keep from crying, like the foolish old woman that I am. I ought to have been talking, and helping Pia to pretend.

“She has been quite gay all to-day, and oddly gentle too. But you know the kind of gayness. And to-night my heart feels like breaking for her, for there is some sad mystery I can’t fathom. So, Trix dearest, I have written to you, because I cannot keep it all to myself. And I am crying again now, though I know I oughtn’t to. So I am going to leave off, and say the rosary instead.

P.S. I wish you could come down here again. Can’t you?”

Trix leant back in her chair, and drew a long breath. The novel was utterly and entirely forgotten. So that was what Pia’s letter had meant. It was this man she had been thinking of all the time. A dozen little unanswered questions were answered now, a dozen queer little riddles solved.

Trix slid down off her chair on to the bear-skin rug in front of the fire. She leant her arms sideways on the chair, resting her chin upon them. Most assuredly she must place the whole matter clearly before her mind, in so far as possible. She gazed steadily at the glowing coals, ruminative, reflective.

And firstly it was presented to her mind as the paramount fact, that it was the mention of this man—this Michael Field, so-called—that had been the direct cause of Pia’s odd irritability, and not the indirect cause, as she most erroneously had imagined. Somehow, in some way, he had caused her such pain that the mere mention of his name had been like laying a hand roughly on a wound. Secondly, though Trix most promptly dismissed the memory, there was Pia’s hurting little speech, the speech which had followed on her—Trix’s—theories promulgated beneath the lime trees. In the light of Miss Tibbutt’s letter that speech was easy enough of explanation. Had not Pia had practical proof of the unworkableness of those theories? Proof which must have hurt her quite considerably. How utterly and entirely childish her words must have seemed to Pia,—Pia who knew, while she truly was merely surmising, setting forth ideas which assuredly she had never attempted to put into practice. Thirdly—Trix ticked off the facts on her fingers—there was the amazing little game of cross-questions. That too was entirely explained. How precisely it was explained she did not attempt to put into actual formulated words. Nevertheless she perceived quite clearly that it was explained. And lastly there was Pia’s letter to her, the letter which had vainly tried to hide the bitterness which had prompted it. Clear as daylight now was the explanation of that letter. Buoyed up by Trix’s advice, by Trix’s eloquence, she had once more attempted to put the high-sounding theories into practice. And it had proved a failure, an utter and complete failure.

All these things fell at once into place, fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle, an unfinished puzzle, nevertheless. The largest pieces were still scattered haphazard on the board, and there seemed extremely little prospect of fitting them into the rest. How had Pia ever met the man? What was he doing at Chorley Old Hall? And why was he pretending to be Michael Field, when she—Trix—now knew him to be Antony Gray? The last two proved the greatest difficulty, nor could Trix, for all her gazing into the fire, find the place they ought to occupy. She remembered, too, her own idea regarding the colour of that bubble. Was it possible that she had been right in her idea? Verily, if she had been, in the face of this new discovery, it opened up a yet more astounding problem. Pia actually and verily in love with the man, a man she believed to be under-gardener at the Hall,—Pia, the distant, the proud, the reserved Pia! It was amazing, unthinkable!

Trix heaved a sigh; it was all quite beyond her. One thing alone was obvious; she must go down to Woodleigh again as soon as possible. Certainly she had no very clear notion as to what precise good she could do by going, nevertheless she was entirely convinced that go she must. And then, having reached this point in her reflections, she returned once more to the beginning, and began all over again.

And suddenly another idea struck her, one which had been entirely omitted from her former train of thought. Was it possible that Mr. Danver knew of the identity of this Michael Field? Was it possible, was it conceivable that he held the key to those greatest riddles? Truly it would seem possible. His one big action had been so extraordinary, so mad even, that it would be quite justifiable to believe, or at least conjecture, that minor extraordinary actions might be mixed up with it.

And then, from that, Trix turned to a somewhat more detailed consideration of Pia’s position. One point presented itself quite definitely and clearly to her. It was certainly evident from that memorable letter of Pia’s, that she did regard this man as a social inferior, from which fact it was entirely plain that she had no smallest notion of his real identity. Trix clasped her hands beneath her chin, shut her eyes, and plunged yet deeper into her reflections. They were becoming even more intricate.

Now, would it be a comfort to Pia to know that this man was by birth her social equal, or would it, in view of the fact that he had in some way shown her what she had called “a glimpse of the hairy hoof,” appear to her an added insult. Trix pondered the question deeply, turning it in her mind, and sighing prodigiously more than once in the process.

And then, all at once, she opened her eyes. Where, after all, was the use of troubling her head on that score. Comfort or not, who was to tell Pia? Most assuredly Trix couldn’t. She had considered that question already, weeks ago in fact, and answered it in the negative. Of course it was quite possible that she was being somewhat over-sensitive and ultra-scrupulous on the subject. But there it was. It was the way she regarded matters.

Trix sighed deeply. It was all terribly perplexing, and Tibby’s letter was quite horribly pathetic. Anyhow she would go down to Woodleigh as soon as she possibly could.

She had been so entirely engrossed with her reflections, that she had quite forgotten the passing of time. It was with a start of surprise, therefore, that she heard the door open. At the selfsame moment the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of midnight. Trix got to her feet.

“My dearest,” exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot, “not gone to bed yet! And all the beauty sleep before midnight, they tell us. Not that you need it except in the way of preservation, dearest. For I always did tell you, regardless of making you conceited which I do not think I do do, that I have admired you from the time you were in your cradle. Well, food is the next best thing to sleep, so come and have a sandwich and some sherry. I am famished, positively famished. And I ate an excellent dinner, I know; but Bridge is always hungry work. Bring the tray to the fire, dearest. I see James has put it all ready. And ham, which I adore. It may be indigestible, though I never believe it with things I like. Not merely because I like to think so, but because it is true. Nature knows best, as she knew when I was a child, and gave me a distaste for fat which always upset me, and a great appreciation for oranges which doctors are crying up tremendously nowadays.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot sank down in an armchair, and threw back her cloak. Trix brought the tray to a small table near her.

“And how have you been amusing yourself, dearest? Not dull, I hope? But the fire and a book are always the best of companions I think, to say nothing of one’s own thoughts, though some people do consider day-dreaming waste of time. So narrow-minded. They read novels which are only other people’s day-dreams, and their own less expensive, as saving library subscriptions and the buying of books, besides a certain superiority in feeling they are your own. On the whole more satisfactory, too. Even though you know the end before you come to it, it can always be arranged as you like, and sad or happy to suit your mood. Though for my part it should always be happy. If you’re happy you want it happy, and if you’re not, you still want it to make you. If it weren’t for the difficulty of dividing into chapters, I’d write my own day-dreams, and no doubt have a big sale. But publishers have an absurd prejudice in favour of chapters, and even headings, which means an average of thirty titles. Quite brain-racking. A dear friend of mine who wrote, told me she always thought the title the most difficult part of a book.”

She helped herself to a glass of sherry and two sandwiches as she concluded her speech.

“And did you really have a pleasant evening?” said Trix, politely interrogative.

Mrs. Arbuthnot surveyed her sandwich reflectively.

“Well, dearest, on the whole, yes. But unfortunately Mrs. Townsend was there. An excellent Bridge player, and I am always pleased to see her myself, but some people are so odd in their manner towards her. Quite embarrassing really, in fact awkward at times. Absurd, too, with so good a player. And though her father was a grocer it was in the wholesale line, which is different from the retail. Besides, she married well, and doesn’t drop her aitches.”

Trix’s chin went up. “I hate class distinctions being made so horribly obvious,” said she with fine scorn.

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked thoughtful.

“Well, dearest, in Mrs. Townsend’s case, perhaps. But not always. I remember a girl I knew married a farmer. Most foolish.”

“But why, if he was nice?” demanded Trix, exceedingly firmly.

“Oh, but dearest,” ejaculated Mrs. Arbuthnot, “it was so unsuitable. He wasn’t even a gentleman farmer. He had been a labourer.”

“He might have been a nice labourer,” contended Trix.

Mrs. Arbuthnot sighed. “In himself, possibly. But it wouldn’t do. The irritation afterwards. We are told to avoid occasions of sin, and it would not be avoiding occasions of ill-temper if you married a man like that. Beer and muddy boots, to say nothing of inferior tobacco. The glamour passed, though for my part I cannot see how there ever would be any glamour, probably infatuation, the boots—you know the kind, dearest, great nails and smelling of leather—the beer and the tobacco would be so terribly obvious. No, dearest, it doesn’t do.”

Trix was silent. After all wasn’t she again arguing on a point regarding which she had had no real experience? Pia had tried the experiment, and declared it didn’t work; and that, in the case of a man who was of gentle birth, though posing as a labourer. In her own mind she felt it ought to work,—of course under certain circumstances. It was not the birth, but the mind that mattered. And, if there were the right kind of mind, there most certainly would not be the boots, the beer, and the tobacco. Trix was perfectly sure there wouldn’t be. But it evidently was no atom of good trying to explain to other people what she meant, because they entirely failed to understand, and she was not certain that she could explain very well to herself even what she did mean.

It was not in the least that she had ever had the smallest desire to run counter to these conventions in any really important way, but she did hate hard and fast rules. Why should people lay down laws, as rigid as the laws of the Medes and Persians on matters that did not involve actual questions of right and wrong! There were enough of those to observe, without inventing others which were not in the least necessary.

It was all horribly muddling, and rather depressing, she decided. She finished her sandwich and glass of sherry, swallowing a little lump in her throat at the same time. Then she spoke.

“Aunt Lilla,” she said impulsively, “I want to go down to Woodleigh.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked up.

“Woodleigh, dearest. You were there only a little time ago, weren’t you?”

“It was in August,” said Trix. “And, anyhow, I want to go again. You don’t mind, do you?”

Mrs. Arbuthnot took another sandwich.

“That’s the fifth,” she said. “Disgraceful, but all the fault of Bridge. Why, of course not, if you want to go. But what made you think of it to-night?”

Trix leant back in her chair. “I had a letter from Miss Tibbutt,” she said.

Mrs. Arbuthnot laid down her sandwich. She regarded Trix with anxious and almost reproachful eyes.

“Oh, my dearest, nothing wrong I hope? So inconsiderate of me to talk of Bridge. I saw a letter in your hand, but no black edge. Unless there is a black edge, one does not readily imagine bad news. Not like telegrams. They send my heart to my mouth, and generally nothing but a Bridge postponement. So trivial. But it is the colour of the envelope, and the possibility. Ill news flies apace, and telegrams the quickest mode of communicating it. Except the telephone. And that is expensive at any distance.” Mrs. Arbuthnot paused, and took up her sandwich once more.

“Oh, no,” responded Trix, answering the first sentence of the speech. Experience, long experience had taught her to seize upon the first half-dozen words of her aunt’s discourses, and cling to them, allowing the remainder to float harmlessly into thin air. Later there might be the necessity to clutch at a few more, but generally the first half-dozen sufficed. “Oh, no; no bad news. But Miss Tibbutt is not quite satisfied about Pia.”

That was true, at all events.

Mrs. Arbuthnot made a little clicking sound with her tongue, expressive of sympathy.

“Oh, my dearest, I know that term ‘not quite satisfied.’ So vague. It may mean nothing, or it may mean a good deal. And we always think it means a good deal, when it is probably only influenza. Depressing, but not at all serious if taken in time. And ammoniated quinine the best thing possible. Not bitter, either, if taken in capsule form. But I quite feel with you, and go-by all means if you wish. And take eucalyptus, with you to avoid catching it yourself. So infectious, they say, but not to be shirked if one is needed. I would never stand in the light of duty. The corporal works of mercy, inconvenient at times, and I have never been to see a prisoner in my life, but perhaps easier than the spiritual, except the three last. You always run the risk of interference with the first of the spiritual, so wiser to leave them entirely to priests. When do you want to go, dearest?”

Trix came to herself with a little start. She had lost the thread of Mrs. Arbuthnot’s discourse.

“The day after to-morrow, I think,” she said, reflectively. “I can wire to-morrow and get a reply.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot got up.

“Then that’s settled. Don’t look anxious, dearest, because there is probably no cause for it. Though I know how easy it is to give advice, and how difficult to take it, even when it is oneself. Though perhaps that is really harder, being often half-hearted. And now we will go to bed, and things will look brighter in the morning, especially if it is fine. And the glass going up as I came through the hall. Quite time it did. I always had sympathy with the boy in the poem—Jane and Anne Taylor, wasn’t it?—who smashed the glass in the holidays because it wouldn’t go up. It always seems as if it were its fault. Though I know it’s foolish to think so. And there is the clock striking one, and I shall eat more sandwiches if I stay, so let us put out the light, and go to bed.”