Joan came home about seven o'clock that evening. Dinner was at half-past seven, and after dinner she was going to the Deanery to watch the Torchlight Procession from the Deanery garden. She had had the most wonderful afternoon. Mrs. Combermere, who had been very kind to her lately, had taken her up to the Flower Show in the Castle grounds, and there she had had the most marvellous and beautiful talk with Johnny. They had talked right under his mother's nose, so to speak, and had settled everything. Yes--simply everything! They had told one another that their love was immortal, that nothing could touch it, nor lessen it, nor twist it--nothing!

Joan, on her side, had stated that she would never be engaged to Johnny until his mother consented, and that until they were engaged they must behave exactly as though they were not engaged, that is, never see one another alone, never write letters that might not be read by any one; but she had also asserted that no representations on the part of anybody that she was ruining Johnny, or that she was a nasty little intriguer, or that nice girls didn't behave "so," would make the slightest difference to her; that she knew what she was and Johnny knew what he was, and that was enough for both of them.

Johnny on his side had said that he would be patient for a time under this arrangement, but that the time would not be a very long one, and that she couldn't object to accepting a little ring that he had bought for her, that she needn't wear it, but just keep it beside her to remind her of him.

But Joan had said that to take the ring would be as good as to be engaged, and that therefore she would not take it, but that he could keep it ready for the day of their betrothal.

She had come home, through the lovely evening, in such a state of happiness that she was forced to tell Mrs. Combermere all about it, and Mrs. Combermere had been a darling and assured her that she was quite right in all that she had done, and that it made her, Mrs. Combermere, feel quite young again, and that she would help them in every way that she could, and parting at the Arden Gate, she had kissed Joan just as though she were her very own daughter.

So Joan, shining with happiness, came back to the house. It seemed very quiet after the sun and glitter and laughter of the Flower Show. She went straight up to her room at the top of the house, washed her face and hands, brushed her hair and put on her white frock.

As she came downstairs the clock struck half-past seven. In the hall she met Gladys.

"Please, miss," said Gladys, "is dinner to be kept back?"

"Why," said Joan, "isn't mother in?"

"No, miss, she went out about six o'clock and she hasn't come in."

"Isn't father in?"

"No, miss."

"Did she say that she'd be late?"

"No, miss."

"Oh, well--we must wait until mother comes in."

"Yes, miss."

She saw then a letter on the hall-table. She picked it up. It was addressed to her father, a note left by somebody. She thought nothing of that--notes were so often left; the hand-writing was exactly like her mother's, but of course it could not be hers. She went into the drawing- room.

Here the silence was oppressive. She walked up and down, looking out of the long windows at the violet dusk. Gladys came in to draw the blinds.

"Didn't mother say anything about when she'd be in?"

"No, miss."

"She left no message for me?"

"No, miss. Your mother seemed in a hurry like."

"She didn't ask where I was?"

"No, miss."

"Did she go out with father?"

"No, miss--your father went out a quarter of an hour earlier."

Gladys coughed. "Please, miss, Cook and me's wanting to go out and see the Procession."

"Oh, of course you must. But that won't be until half-past nine. They come past here, you know."

"Yes, miss."

Joan picked up the new number of the Cornhill Magazine and tried to settle down. But she was restless. Her own happiness made her so. And then the house was "queer." It had the sense of itself waiting for some effort, and holding its breath in expectation.

As Joan sat there trying to read the Cornhill serial, and most sadly failing, it seemed to her stranger and stranger that her mother was not in. She had not been well lately; Joan had noticed how white she had looked; she had always a "headache" when you asked her how she was. Joan had fancied that she had never been the same since Falk had been away. She had a letter in her dress now from Falk. She took it out and read it over again. As to himself it had only good news; he was well and happy, Annie was "splendid." His work went on finely. His only sadness was his breach with his father; again and again he broke out about this, and begged, implored Joan to do something. If she did not, he said, he would soon come down himself and risk a row. There was one sentence towards the end of the letter which read oddly to Joan just now. "I suppose the old man's in his proper element over all the Jubilee celebrations. I can see him strutting up and down the Cathedral as though he owned every stone in it, bless his old heart! I tell you, Joan, I just ache to see him. I do really. Annie's father hasn't been near us since we came up here. Funny! I'd have thought he'd have bothered me long before this. I'm ready for him if he comes. By the way, if mother shows any signs of wanting to come up to town just now, do your best to prevent her. Father needs her, and it's her place to look after him. I've special reasons for saying this...."

What a funny thing for Falk to say! and the only allusion to his mother in the whole of the letter.

Joan smiled to herself as she read it. What did Falk think her power was? Why, her mother and father had never listened to her for a single moment, nor had he, Falk, when he had been at home. She had never counted at all-- to any one save Johnny. She put down the letter and tried to lose herself in the happy country of her own love, but she could not. Her honesty prevented her; its silence was now oppressive and heavy-weighted. Where could her mother be? And dinner already half an hour late in that so utterly punctual house! What had Falk meant about mother going to London? Of course she would not go to London--at any rate without father. How could Falk imagine such a thing? More than an hour passed.

She began to walk about the room, wondering what she should do about the dinner. She must give up the Sampsons, and she was very hungry. She had had no tea at the Flower Show and very little luncheon.

She was about to go and speak to Gladys when she heard the hall door open. It closed. Something--some unexpressed fear or foreboding--kept her where she was. Steps were in the hall, but they were not her father's; he always moved with determined stride to his study or the stairs. These steps hesitated and faltered as though some one were there who did not know the house.

At last she went into the hall and saw that it was indeed her father now going slowly upstairs.

"Father!" she cried; "I'm so glad you're in. Dinner's been waiting for hours. Shall I tell them to send it up?"

He did not answer nor look back. She went to the bottom of the stairs and said again:

"Shall I, father?"

But still he did not answer. She heard him close his door behind him.

She went back into the drawing-room terribly frightened. There was something in the bowed head and slow steps that terrified her, and suddenly she was aware that she had been frightened for many weeks past, but that she had never owned to herself that it was so.

She waited for a long time wondering what she should do. At last, calling her courage, she climbed the stairs, waited, and then, as though compelled by the overhanging silence of the house, knocked on his dressing-room door.

"Father, what shall we do about dinner? Mother hasn't come in yet." There was no answer.

"Will you have dinner now?" she asked again.

A voice suddenly answered her as though he were listening on the other side of the door. "No, no. I want no dinner."

She went down again, told Gladys that she would eat something, then sat in the lonely dining-room swallowing her soup and cutlet in the utmost haste.

Something was terribly wrong. Her father was covering all the rest of her view--the Jubilee, her mother, even Johnny. He was in great trouble, and she must help him, but she felt desperately her youth, her inexperience, her inadequacy.

She waited again, when she had finished her meal, wondering what she had better do. Oh! how stupid not to know instantly the right thing and to feel this fear when it was her own father!

She went half-way upstairs, and then stood listening. No sound. Again she waited outside his door. With trembling hand she turned the handle. He faced her, staring at her. On his left temple was a big black bruise, on his forehead a cut, and on his left cheek a thin red mark that looked like a scratch.

"Father, you're hurt!"

"Yes, I fell down--stumbled over something, coming up from the river." He looked at her impatiently. "Well, well, what is it?"

"Nothing, father--only they're still keeping some dinner--"

"I don't want anything. Where is your mother?"

"She hasn't come back."

"Not come back? Why, where did she go to?"

"I don't know. Gladys says she went out about six."

He pushed past her into the passage. He went down into the hall; she followed him timidly. From the bottom of the stairs he saw the letter on the table, and he went straight to it. He tore open the envelope and read:

I have left you for ever. All that I told you on Sunday night was true, and you may use that information as you please. Whatever may come to me, at least I know that I am never to live under the same roof with you again, and that is happiness enough for me, whatever other misery there may be in store for me. Now, at last, perhaps, you will realise that loneliness is worse than any other hell, and that's the hell you've made me suffer for twenty years. Look around you and see what your selfishness has done for you. It will be useless to try to persuade me to return to you. I hope to God that I shall never see you again.

AMY.

He turned and said in his ordinary voice, "Your mother has left me."

He came across to her, suddenly caught her by the shoulders, and said: "Now, you'd better go, do you hear? They've all left me, your mother, Falk, all of them. They've fallen on me and beaten me. They've kicked me. They've spied on me and mocked me. Well, then, you join them. Do you hear? What do you stay for? Why do you remain with me? Do you hear? Do you hear?"

She understood nothing. Her terror caught her like the wind. She crouched back against the bannisters, covering her face with her hand.

"Don't hit me, father. Please, please don't hit me."

He stood over her, staring down at her.

"It's a plot, and you must be in it with the others.... Well, go and tell them they've won. Tell them to come and kick me again. I'm down now. I'm beaten; go and tell them to come in--to come and take my house and my clothes. Your mother's gone--follow her to London, then."

He turned. She heard him go into the drawing-room.

Suddenly, although she still did not understand what had happened, she knew that she must follow him and care for him. He had pulled the curtains aside and thrown up the windows.

"Let them come in! Let them come in! I--I----"

Suddenly he turned towards her and held out his arms.

"I can't--I can't bear any more." He fell on his knees, burying his face in the shoulder of the chair. Then he cried:

"Oh, God, spare me now, spare me! I cannot bear any more. Thou hast chastised me enough. Oh, God, don't take my sanity from me--leave me that. Oh, God, leave me that! Thou hast taken everything else. I have been beaten and betrayed and deserted. I confess my wickedness, my arrogance, my pride, but it was in Thy service. Leave me my mind. Oh, God, spare me, spare me, and forgive her who has sinned so grievously against Thy laws. Oh, God, God, save me from madness, save me from madness."

In that moment Joan became a woman. Her love, her own life, she threw everything away.

She went over to him, put her arms around his neck, kissed tim, fondled him, pressing her cheek against his.

"Dear, dear father. I love you so. I love you so. No one shall hurt you. Father dear, father darling."

Suddenly the room was blazing with light. The Torchlight Procession tumbled into the Precincts. The Cathedral sprang into light; on all the hills the bonfires were blazing.

Black figures scattered like dwarfs, pigmies, giants about the grass. The torches tossed and whirled and danced.

The Cathedral rose from the darkness, triumphant in gold and fire.

Book IV