On no day of the year—spring, summer, autumn, or winter, did any inhabitant of Garth House rise before Rebekah. Grimly complete, starch and stiff and taciturn, she would be about the dim house, feeling nothing of the cold blackness of a winter morning, finding apparently no pleasure in the beauty of a summer dawn. Her business was with the House—human beings (yes, Trenchards as well as the rest) she despised—for Houses she could feel reverence ... they were stronger than she.

Upon the Sunday morning that followed the “Feast” at Rafiel, very early indeed, she was moving about the passages. Looking out on to the lawn and bushes, wet with mist, she knew that it would be a bad day.... Weather mattered to her nothing: people (although the Trenchards might think otherwise) mattered to her nothing. Her business was with the House....

That Sunday began badly for Aunt Aggie—and, therefore, for everyone else. Before she woke—in the dusty labyrinth of her half-waking dreams—she knew that her tooth was aching. In her dreams this tooth was of an enormous size, holding, although it was in form and figure a veritable tooth, a huge hammer that it brought down, with a regular beat, upon Aunt Aggie’s jaw. She screamed, struggled, fought, awoke—to find that the tooth had receded to its proper place and size, was still faintly beating, but not aching—only threatening. This threat was, in its way, more terrible than a savage ache. When would the ache begin? Ah, here it was!... no, only the throb.... Would hot or cold food irritate it? Would the wind?... She got out of bed and drew her blind. Her clock told her that the hour was seven. Why had Annie not called her? Annie had overslept herself—what was it to Annie if Aunt Aggie were late for Early Service? But it must be something to Annie. Annie must be warned. Annie ... Aunt Aggie was conscious that she had a headache, that the weather was abominable, and that crossing through the wood to the church would certainly start the tooth. But she was resolved. Very grimly, her mouth tightly closed, her heart beating because she was expecting that, at every moment, that tooth.... Aunt Aggie had her bath, dressed, informed Annie, who came, very greatly agitated, at half-past seven, that this would not be the last she heard of it, walked off to church. During the singing of the collection hymn her tooth leapt upon her.... It came to her like some malign and secret enemy, who would influence her not so deeply through actual pain as through his insistence on what, please God, he would do afterwards. She hurried home to breakfast through the wet, grey morning, saying to herself: “It shall not ache! I forbid it to ache! You hear me! You shall not!” and always that sinister whisper replied in her ear: “Wait. Just see what I’ll do to you in a moment.”

In her bedroom some iodine, which she applied to her gum, reduced the inside of her mouth to sawdust; through the dried discomfort of it all her enemy still beat at her heart ironically.

She was determined that the tooth should not alter her day. She knew how easily ordinary human beings succumbed—such weakness should not be hers. Nevertheless her love of honesty compelled her to admit that, this morning, the house looked horrible. It had, as she had often told Harriet, been always overcrowded with ‘things’—with mats and jars and pots and photographs, old books, magazines, ink-bottles, china ornaments, stones and shells, religious emblems, old calendars, and again photographs, photographs, photographs.... It was not that the house was definitely untidy, but that once a thing was there, there it remained. The place looked like home, because it was filled with properties that any newcomer would instantly discard. Everything was dim and faded—carpets, curtains, books, pictures; Katherine, Millie, Henry could remember how the water-colour of “Rafiel Beach,” the photograph of Trezent Head, the dining-room marble clock, surmounted by the Goddess Diana minus her right leg, the book-case in the drawing-room, with rows and rows of the novels of Anthony Trollope (each in three volumes), the cuckoo clock in the dark corner on the first landing, the glass case with sea shells in the hall near the hat-rack, the long row of faded Trenchard and Faunder photographs in the drawing-room, the little corner cupboard with the Sunday games in it—Bible Lotto, puzzle map of Palestine, Bible Questions and Bible Answers—all these things had been “first there” since the beginning of time, even as the oak on the lawn, the rough grass meadows that ran to the very posts of the house, the little wood and the tennis lawn with the brown hole in the middle of it had always been ‘there.’ Aunt Aggie herself had grown profoundly accustomed to it all—in her heart she would not have had a shell nor a photograph removed from its place. Nevertheless, upon this grey Sunday morning she was oppressed, almost triumphantly, about her sense of the dinginess and confusion of the house. It was as though she said to herself: “There! it’s not my tooth at all that makes me feel out of sorts with things. It’s simply Harriet’s inability to put things straight.” She found then that everyone was very quiet at breakfast—‘sulky’ one could be justified in calling it. Moreover, there were ‘sausages again!’ Harriet knew perfectly well that Aggie hated sausages—nevertheless she persisted, with the devotion of a blind slave to an august ritual, in having, always, sausages for Sunday breakfast. Aggie was, in spite of her tooth, hungry this morning, but when, with an unconscious self-consciousness, during a silence, she said: “No sausage for me, thanks. You know, Betty, that I never care for them.” No one said: “Have an egg, Aggie: it can be boiled in a moment.”

Only Harriet, with her attention obviously elsewhere, remarked carelessly: “We can have the ham in, Aggie, if you like”—to which Aggie could only reply: “You know I dislike cold ham, Harriet.”

But, indeed, Sunday breakfast was never a very jolly meal—how could it be? The hour was throbbing with a consciousness of the impending difficulties and problems of the day. There was Church, there was Sunday School, there were callers in the afternoon: there were meals, the very heavy midday meal with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, tea with a great deal of stiff conversation, something in the manner of Ollendorff, supper, when the chill on the food typified the exhausted spirits of the tired company. During too many years had Henry, Millie, Katherine, and still more Aggie, Betty and Mrs. Trenchard worn Sunday clothes, eaten Sunday meals, suffered Sunday restraint, known Sunday exhaustion for it to be possible for any of them to regard Sunday in a normal, easy fashion. Very right and proper that they should so regard it. I would only observe that if there is to be a thorough explosion of Trenchard, of Faunder tempers—if there is to be, in any kind of way, a “family scene” Sunday will be, almost certainly, the background selected for it. Aunt Aggie, looking around her, on this morning, at her assembled friends and relations, ‘thought them all very sulky indeed. Wrapped up entirely in their own selfish thoughts’.... The day began badly.

Half an hour before church Rachel Seddon and Uncle Tim were alone together in the drawing-room. She was standing, prepared and waiting, staring through the windows at the wild meadow that seemed now soaked with moisture, bent before the dripping wind. She was thinking very deeply. She did not at first hear Uncle Tim, and when, turning suddenly, she saw him, she thought how exactly he suited the day. By his appearance he instantly justified the atrocious weather: he was wearing a rough grey suit and a low flannel collar: his heard and hair glistened, as though the damp had soaked through them, he carried a muddy trowel in his hand. He came hurriedly into the room, as though he were searching for something. Then when he saw Rachel he stopped, put the trowel down on one of the drawing-room chairs, smiled at her, and came across to her. She had never known him very well, but she had always liked him—his genial aloofness, the sense that he always gave of absolute independence, cheerful but never dogmatic, pleased her. Now she was troubled, and felt that he could help her.

“What’s the matter with Katie?” she said, abruptly, looking at him with sharp but deeply honest eyes.

He felt in his tumbled pockets for his pipe and tobacco, then slowly said:

“I was just off for worms—I wanted Henry, but I suppose he’s going to church.... Katie?... Why?”

“I don’t know why. I want to know. It’s been these last few days—ever since—ever since—Saturday, Friday, Thursday—the day at Rafiel. She’s unhappy.”

“The lovers have had a quarrel.”

“If it were only that!... no, that’s not Katie, and you know it isn’t. Philip’s done something—told her something—”

“Ah, you think that because you dislike him.”

“I don’t know that I do—now. I certainly did at first, but now—here ... I don’t know. He’s so much younger than I’d expected, and he is really trying his best to suit himself to the family and the place. I’m sorry for him. I rather like him after all. But what is the matter with everyone? Why is the house so uncomfortable? Why can’t it all be just smooth and easy? Of course we all hated Katie being engaged at first—I suppose we thought that she might have done better. But now everyone ought to be used to it: instead of being used to it, it’s positively ‘nervy’ the atmosphere.”

“It’s simply,” said Uncle Tim, pressing down his tobacco into his pipe, “the attack by a Young Man with Imagination upon a family without any. The Young Man’s weak of course—people with imagination always are—he’s weak and impatient, and insists upon everything being perfect. All the family wants is to be let alone—but it will never be let alone again. The break-up is beginning.”

“The break-up?” said Rachel.

“It’s like this. If Harriet catches me smoking here in the morning there’ll be a row.” He picked up the trowel and waved it. “Nearly the whole of our class in England has, ever since the beginning of last century, been happily asleep. It isn’t good for people to have a woman on the throne for sixty years—bless her all the same, and her making a success of it. So we’ve slept and slept and slept. The Old Lady died. There was the Boer War: there were motorcars, flying machines, telephones. Suddenly England was an island no longer. She’s got to pay attention to other people, other ideas, other customs. She’s got to look out of her window instead of just snoozing on the sofa, surrounded by her mid-Victorian furniture. Everything’s cracking: new classes are coming up, old classes are going down. Birth is nothing: autocracies are anachronisms.... A volcano’s coming. Everything will be blown sky-high. Then the folk who are left will build a new city—as bad, as stupid, as selfish as the old one, perhaps—but different ... as different as Garth from China and China from Paradise.”

“And Katherine and Philip?” said Rachel.

“Oh, young Mark’s just one of the advance-guard. He’s smashing up the Trenchards with his hammer—the same way that all the families like us up and down England are being smashed up. If it isn’t a young man from abroad, it’s a letter or a book or a telephone number or a photograph or a suicide or a Lyceum melodrama. It doesn’t matter what it is. The good old backbone of England has got spine disease. When your good grandmother died your lot went; now our lot is going.... When I say going I mean changing.”

“There was a funny little man,” said Rachel, “whom Uncle John used to know. I forget his name, but he talked in the same way when grandmother died, and prophesied all kinds of things. The world hasn’t seemed very different since then, but grandmother was an impossible survival, and her lot went, all of them, long before she did. All the same, if you’ll forgive me, I don’t think that England and possible volcanoes are the point for the moment. It’s Katie I’m thinking about. If she’s unhappy now what will she be after she’s married to him?—If Katie were to make an unhappy marriage, I think it would be the greatest sorrow of my life. I know ... I’ve known ... how easily things can go wrong.”

“Ah, things won’t go wrong.” Uncle Tim smiled confidently. “Young Mark’s a good fellow. He’ll make Katherine happy all right. But she’ll have to change, and changing hurts. She’s been asleep like the others.... Oh, yes! she has! There’s no one loves her better than I, but she’s had, in the past, as much imagination as that trowel there. Perhaps now Philip will give her some. She’ll lose him if she doesn’t wake up. He’s restive now under the heavy hands of my dear relations—He’ll be gone one fine morning if they don’t take care. Katie must look out....” He waved his trowel in the direction of the garden. “All this is like a narcotic. It’s so safe and easy and ordered. Philip knows he oughtn’t to be comfortable here. Katie, Millie and Henry are beginning to know it. Even Harriet, Aggie, Betty, George will get a tiny glimmering of it one day. But they’re too old to change. That’s their tragedy. All the same, you see, before this time next year George will be proposing to take Harriet for a trip abroad—Italy probably—a thing he’s never done since the day of his marriage.”

And at that very moment George entered, very smart and big and red, with yellow gloves and a flower in his button-hole.

“What’s that?” he cried, with his usual roar of laughter. “Who says I’ll do what?”

“Take Harriet abroad before this time next year,” said Tim.

“I?... Not much!... We know better than that. England’s good enough for us. There isn’t a spot in the world to touch this place in the summer—so why should we stir? You’ll be saying we ought to go to Russia next, ... smoking your beastly pipe in here too. Why don’t you dress decently and go to church?”

A Church Invasion followed. The Invasion rustled and listened to the bell that called across the garden. ‘Com-ing?... Com-ing?... Com-ing?’... Then ‘Come! Come! Come!’ and said: “Where’s Katie?... It isn’t Litany to-day, so there’ll be time before lunch. Where’s Henry?... We’d better start, the bell’s stopping. Just hold my prayer-book a minute, Millie dear, whilst I do this....”

Finally the Invasion called: “Katie! Katie! Katherine!... We’re going!” and a voice, very far away answered:

“Yes.... I’ll catch you up! Go on!”

The Invasion left, followed by Uncle Tim, smiling to himself, the trowel in his hand. The house was very still then, relapsing with a little sigh of content into its Sunday quiet: a bird was chattering gently to itself in the wet garden.

Katherine hurried into the drawing-room, her cheeks flushed, buttoning her gloves, her prayer-book under her arm. Her black dress, a little open at the front, had a stiff black lace collar at the back, Elizabethan fashion; now, for the first time in her life, she was wearing something that she had herself thought about and planned. It was for Philip....

She looked about the empty drawing-room, then hurried away through the little wood. How unlike her to be late! She was always the first of the party. But to-day she had been dreaming in her bedroom, sitting, with her hands in her lap, looking out of the window, wondering, longing to know ... No, she was not jealous. Her curiosity had no tinge of jealousy in it. Why should she be jealous? Was not the thing over, closed? Had not the woman herself dismissed him? That strange figure in that strange country! The wild town, as he had described it, like a village with towers and towers, gold and green and blue, and the carts with painted roofs and the strange writing on the shop-walls ... and the woman standing there, in the middle of it. This woman, who had known Philip better than Katherine knew him, whom Philip had madly loved, who had borne Philip a son. She was still living there, loving, now, perhaps someone else, looking back perhaps with some scorn and some pity and some affection to the days when Philip had kissed her, to the hour when their son had died, to that first meeting in the strange country house, where everyone might come and go as they pleased. No, there was no jealousy; but Katherine wanted to have her there, standing in front of her, so that she might study her clothes, her hair, her eyes. Here was a woman whom Philip had madly loved—and he had ceased to love her. Well, he might also cease to love Katherine. But that other woman had dismissed him. Fancy dismissing him! When one had shared with him such experiences how could one ever let him go?... Ah, what, what was she like? Was her voice soft or harsh? How did she look when Philip made love to her? When Philip made love to her.... Yes, there was pain in that.

Katherine hurried under the low porch of the church. She could hear the voice: ‘Wherefore I pray and beseech you, as many as are here present, to accompany me with a pure heart....’

As the congregation knelt she slipped into a seat at the back of the church. She had always loved the shabby, ugly little place. It had, for one thing, nothing to boast about—had no fine carvings like the Rafiel Church, no splendid tombs like the two Dunstan St. Firths at Poloynt, no wonderful glass like the Porthcullin memorial window at Borhaze; frankly ugly, white-washed, with thin narrow grey glass in the side-walls and a hideous purple Transfiguration above the altar, with plain, ugly seats, a terrible modern lectern, a shabby nondescript pulpit, a font like an expensive white sweet, and the most shining and vulgar brass tablet commemorating the Garth heroes of the Boer War.

No other church could ever mean so much to Katherine as this, her shabby friend. She was glad that it was no show place for inquisitive tourists to come tramping over with haughty eyes and scornful boasts. It was her own ... she loved it because strangers would always say: “How hideous!” because she could remember it on wonderful summer evenings when through the open doors the congregation could hear the tinkling sheep-bells and smell the pinks from the Rectory garden, on wild nights when the sea gales howled round its warm, happy security, on Christmases, on Easters, on Harvest Festivals: she loved it on the evenings when, with its lights covering its plainness, the Garth villagers would shout their souls away over “Onward, Christian soldiers” or “For all the Saints” or would sink into sentimental tenderness over “Abide with me” and “Saviour, again to Thy dear name”; she loved it because here she had been sad and happy, frightened and secure, proud and humble, victorious and defeated ... as this morning she sank on her knees, burying her face in her hands, she felt at first as though her Friend had found her, had encircled her with His arm, had drawn her into safety....

And yet, after a little while, her unrest returned. As Mr. Smart and the congregation hurried through the psalms for the day, trying, as it were, to beat one another in the friendly race, Katherine felt again that insistent pressure and pursuit. Her mind left the church: she was back again with Philip at Rafiel ... and now she was searching that mysterious town for that elusive, laughing figure. Katherine had in her mind a clear picture; she saw a woman, tall and thin, a dark face with black, ironical eyes, hair jet black, a figure alert, independent, sometimes scornful, never tragic or despairing. “If she knew me she would despise me” ... this thought came flashing like a sudden stream of light across the church. “If she knew me she’d despise me ... despise me for everything, even perhaps for loving Philip”—and yet she felt no hostility; of a certainty no jealousy, only a little pain at her heart and a strange conviction that the world was altered now simply because there was a new figure in it. And there were so many things that she wanted to know. Why had Anna dismissed Philip? Was it simply because she was tired of him? Was it perhaps for his own sake, because she thought that he was wasting his life and character there. No, Anna probably did not think about his character.... Did she still care for him and, now that he was gone, long for him? Well, Katherine had him now, and no one should take him.... Would she, perhaps, write to Philip and try to compel him to return? Did she think of the son who had died? Had she much heart or was she proud and indifferent?

“... grant that this day we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger: but that all our doings may be ordered by Thy governance to do that which is right....” Mr. Smart’s voice brought back the church, the choir with two girls in large flowered hats, the little boys, Mr. Hart, the butcher, and Mr. Swithan, the grocer, the broad backs in the family pew. Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, Henry, Mrs. Trenchard, Millie, Philip, George Trenchard, Rachel Seddon (the family pew was a hideous box with a door to it, and you could see only the top half of the Trenchards.... They, however, could see everything: Mrs. Trenchard could see the choir, and the choir knew it). Because Katherine was never late, therefore was she denied the opportunity of studying the Collective Trenchard Back. To-day she had it in front of her, and it seemed, suddenly, to be something with which she herself had no concern at all. For an amazing, blinding, and most desolating moment she viewed the Trenchards as a stranger might view them. Her loneliness was appalling. She belonged to no one. She had no place nor country: her mother and Philip had left her ... only a strange woman, watching her to see what she would do, laughed at her. As she stood up and Mr. Smart gave out the hymn, she saw that there was a hole in her glove. She felt shabby and hot, and covered the hole with her other hand, because during that moment she was positively, actively conscious of the other woman’s curious, hostile gaze; then, as the hymn began, security came back to her—her heart beat quietly again.

“Why were you late, dear?” said Aunt Aggie, walking back through the wood.

“I dawdled.”

“Dawdled! How unlike you, dear! I remember years ago when I dawdled one Sunday mother saying ... Oh, dear, there it begins again!”

“Is your tooth bad?”

“Never mind, dear, say nothing about it. The last thing I should wish for would be a fuss. I thought poor Mr. Smart at his very worst this morning. Since his last child was born he’s never preached a good sermon. Really, it’s difficult to be patient with him.”

“Have you done anything for it, Aunt Aggie?”

“Iodine. It comes and goes. If it were only steady....”

Katherine knew that it was of the utmost importance to be sympathetic, but all that she could think of in her head was, “How silly to worry about a tooth! How silly to worry about a tooth!...” She knew at once that Aunt Aggie saw that she was unsympathetic, and that she resented it deeply.

“Mind you say nothing, dear,” she said, as they crossed the lawn. “You know that I hate a fuss.” And Katherine, who had stopped on the grass and was staring at the horizon, did not even answer. Then Aunt Betty came up and said: “What a delightful sermon! Mr. Smart gets better and better.”

Aunt Aggie did not trust herself to speak.

Meanwhile Philip also had been unhappy. He did frankly hate an English Sunday, and to-day the damp-grey heaviness overwhelmed him, so that he was almost melodramatic in his resentment.

Four days now had passed since the “Feast”, and he thought that they had been the worst four days of his life. He, positively, had not slept: he had been driven by a wild, uncertain spirit, inspiring him now to this action and now to that, making him cry out in the middle of the night. “What is she thinking about it? Is it changing her love for me?... Perhaps she doesn’t love me any more, and is afraid to tell me. She didn’t seem angry then when I told her, but she may not have realised—now—” He wanted her to tell him everything, and he wanted her also never to allude to the affair again. He had confessed to her, and there was no more to be said—and yet she must say what now, after four days, she felt about it. Meanwhile she said nothing and he said nothing. There was constraint between them for the only time since their first meeting. He had thought that his confession would have smashed the cobwebs—it had only made them the more blinding.

Meanwhile it was all so desperately serious to him that he simply could not endure the watching and waiting family. His insistent desire that ‘things should be perfect’ had from the beginning been balked by the family’s presence, now his sense that they all wanted to take Katherine away from him awoke in him a real hysterical nightmare of baffled impotence. He would willingly have strangled Aunt Aggie, Henry and Mrs. Trenchard, and then set fire to the house and garden. Then, into the middle of it all, came this impossible Sunday.

He set his teeth over the roast beef, Aunt Aggie’s complaints and George Trenchard’s hearty commonplace; directly luncheon was over he seized Katherine.

“Look here! we must go for a walk—now—at once!”

“My dear Phil! I can’t—there’s my Sunday School at three. I haven’t looked at anything.”

“Sunday School! Oh, my God!... Sunday School! Look here, Katie, if you don’t walk with me first I shall go straight down to the village pond and drown myself.”

“No, you mustn’t do that.” She seemed quite grave about it. “All right—wait for me. I’ll be down in two minutes.”

They set off along the road to Pelynt Cross, the thin sea mist driving in their faces.

He broke out: “I must go away from here. To-morrow, at once—I simply can’t stand it any longer.”

“Can’t stand what?”

“Seeing you swallowed up by the family, who all hate me and want to get rid of me. You yourself are changing—you aren’t frank with me any longer. You don’t say what you think. What use am I here anyway? What good is it my hanging round doing nothing? I’m sick of it. I’m losing you—I’m miserable. A Sunday like this is enough to make one commit murder.”

She put her hand inside his arm and drew him closer to her.

“I know what it is,” she said. “You’ve been wondering why I haven’t spoken to you about what you told me the other day. You’ve been thinking that I ought to, haven’t you?”

“No, it’s only that I’ve wondered whether perhaps you’ve changed your mind since then. Then you didn’t seem to be angry, but, thinking about it afterwards—”

“Why, Phil,” she said, “how could there be anything different? It’s all gone, finished. You don’t suppose that I ever imagined that you’d never loved another woman before you met me. I’m interested, that’s all. You’ve told me so little about her. I’d like to know all sorts of things—even quite little unimportant things—”

“It would be much better,” he said slowly, “if we just left it and didn’t talk about it.”

“But I thought you wanted me to talk about it?” she cried. “How funny you are!”

“No, I didn’t want you to talk about it. It’s only that I didn’t like there being constraint—I don’t see why you should care. It’s like talking about someone who’s dead.”

“But she isn’t dead. Do you suppose, Phil—would she, do you think, like you to go back?”

“No, I’m sure she wouldn’t—at least I don’t think so.”

“Was she the kind of woman who forgets easily, who can put people out of her life just as she wants to?”

“Anna ...” His voice lingered over the name. “No, I don’t think she ever forgot. She was simply independent.”

“Would she think of your boy and want him back?”

“She might.” He suddenly stopped. “She might. That evening he was so ill she—”

Katherine looked across the fields to Pelynt Cross, dim and grey beneath the rain.

“She had a heart, then,” she said slowly.

He suddenly wheeled about with his face to Garth. He spoke sharply and roughly in a voice that she had never heard him use before.

“Don’t, Katie—leave her alone. What do you go on about her for?”

“But if it’s all dead?”

“Oh, drop it, I say! That’s enough.”

She knew that she was a fool, but something—or was it somebody?—drove her on.

“But you said just now that you wanted me to be frank.”

His voice was a cry.

“You’ll drive me mad, Katie. You don’t seem to have any conception—”

“Very well. I won’t say anything.”

They were quite silent after that: the silence swelled, like a rising cloud, between them: it became impossible to break it ... they were at Garth gates, and they had not spoken. She would have said something, but he turned abruptly off into the garden. She walked, with her head up, into the house.

She went up to her room, arranged her Sunday School books, felt suddenly a grinding, hammering fatigue, as though she had been walking all day; her knees were trembling and her throat was dry. She sat by her window, looking down on to the garden, where the sea mist drove in walls of thin rain against the horizon. Behind the mist the trees seemed to peer at her as though they were wondering who she was. “I don’t care,” she thought, “he shouldn’t have spoken to me like that.” But how had it happened? At one moment they had been so close together that no force, no power, would separate them—a word and they had been so far apart that they could not see one another’s eyes.

“I don’t care. He shouldn’t—”

She got up, rubbed her cheeks with her hand because they were burning, and, with a glance at Philip’s photograph (someone she had known years ago and would never know again), went out. The house was silent, and she met no one. As she crossed the lawn she thought: “How absurd! We’ve quarrelled—a real quarrel”—then—“It wasn’t my fault. He shouldn’t—” She held her head very high indeed as she walked down the road to the Bridge, but she saw no one, felt no rain upon her cheek, was not conscious that she was moving. At the door of the Schools she saw Mrs. Smart, and heard someone say quite sensibly and happily:

“We’re early. There won’t be many this afternoon, I expect.”

“Mrs. Douglas has told me that she won’t be able to come—I wonder, Katie, whether you’d mind taking—”

“Why, of course.”

Mrs. Smart was little and round and brown like a pippin. She was always breathless from having more to wrestle with than she could grasp. She was nervous, too, and short-sighted, and the one governing motive of her life was to bear her husband a son. She had now four daughters; she knew that her husband felt it very deeply. She had once unburdened herself to Katherine, but, after that, had been shyer with her than before. Katherine, against her will, had been often irritated by Mrs. Smart—she had wondered at her restlessness and incapacity to keep up with the business in hand, but to-day, out of the sinister gloom of that horrible afternoon, the little woman seemed to Katie suddenly sympathetic, eloquent, moving. Katie could hear her voice, rather husky, rather uncertain, on that afternoon of her confession: “... and we did really hope that Lucy would be a boy, we really did. He would have been called Edward. Harold has such plans for a son—we have often thought together what we would do ... and now, I’m afraid....”

Inside the schoolroom door Katie paused, looked at the room with the bare benches arranged in squares, the shining maps of the world and Europe, the case with beetles and butterflies, the hideous harmonium.

She suddenly caught Mrs. Smart’s hand and pressed it through the damp little glove. She knew that Mrs. Smart would be surprised—she had never been demonstrative to her before.... She moved to her part of the room, three only of her class were present, and to these were added two small boys from another division.

“Now, children,” said Mr. Smart’s cheerful voice (he always spoke to boys as though he were luring animals into a cage), “let us start with hymn No. 436, shall we?” After the hymn, a prayer, and then, for an hour that subdued, restrained hum which belongs to the Sunday School only; being religious as well as disciplined, persuasive as well as obedient. Katherine now was very proud—as she said: “Well, Robin, and what did Moses do then?” she was thinking—“But he must come to me—that’s fair. It was not my fault. He blamed me first for not speaking, and afterwards when I did speak.... Besides, if it’s all over and finished, why should he mind?” She looked very young as she sat there, her mouth hard and set and her eyes full of trouble. Her sensation was as though she had been suddenly marooned; the desolation, the terror, the awful loneliness came, as the evening fell, creeping up towards her. “Suppose he never makes it up—Suppose he goes away and leaves me.” She caught her hands tightly together on her lap and her breath suddenly left her.

“Yes, Johnny. His name was Aaron. That’s right.”

The ordeal was over; she was hurrying back through the dusk to the lighted house. She went up again to her room, and sat down again by the window. She listened. The house was very still, but she thought that, perhaps, he would guess that she was here, in her bedroom, and would come up. She wished that her heart would stop beating so that she might hear the better.

She listened to every sound, to distant voices, to the whimper of rain upon the window, to the sharp crack of some shutting door. Her whole mind now was concentrated upon his coming: her eyes left the window and turned to the door. She waited....

Quite suddenly, as though someone else had commanded her, she began to cry. She did not move her hands to her face, but little dry sobs shook her body. She hated herself for her weakness, and then that very contempt broke her down completely, so that with her hands pressed against her face, desolately and almost, it might seem, ironically, she wept. Through her crying she heard the door open, and, looking up, saw her mother there. Mrs. Trenchard closed the door very carefully. “Why, Katherine!” she said in a whisper, as though this were a matter simply between the two of them. “I came to see,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “whether you weren’t coming in to tea. The Drakes are here.”

It was no use to pretend that she had not been crying. She rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief, turning her back for a moment on her mother and gazing down on to the dark lawn that had all melted now into the rain. Then, when she had gained her control, she faced the room again.

“It’s nothing, mother. I’ve had a headache. It’s better. I’ll lie down a little and then come in. Is Agnes Drake here?”

“Yes. She wants to see you.”

“Well. I’ll come.”

But Mrs. Trenchard did not go away. Her large soft eyes never left her daughter’s face.

“What’s really the matter, dear?”

“Really—a headache. This weather and then Sunday School. I felt bad in church this morning.”

“You’ve been unlike yourself, dear, for some days.”

“No, mother—I’ve been just the same.”

“You’ve been unhappy.”

Katherine raised her head proudly and gave back her mother’s gaze.

“There’s been nothing—nothing at all—”

But Mrs. Trenchard’s eyes never faltered. She suddenly, with an action that was full of maternal love, but love restrained by fear of its rejection, love that had tenderness in its request to be accepted, raised her hands as though she would take her daughter, and hold her safe and never let her depart into danger again.

“Katie—” her voice was soft, and she let her hands fall again. “Give it up, dear. Break the engagement. Let him go.”

Katherine did not answer, but she raised her head higher than it had been before, and then, suddenly, as though the irony of her whole relationship with her mother, with Philip, with the very world itself, had driven in upon her, she smiled.

Mrs. Trenchard went on: “You aren’t happy, Katie, darling. We all notice it. It was so sudden, the engagement. You couldn’t tell at the time. But now—I’ve never said anything, have I? You’ve seen that I’ve been perfectly fair, but you know that I’ve never liked him—I said give it its chance. But now that he’s been down here, you can judge how different we all are—it’s plain that it won’t do. Of course you couldn’t tell at the time. But now—”

“Ah,” Katherine said quietly, “that’s why you asked him here. I wondered.”

At the sudden hostility in Katherine’s voice Mrs. Trenchard started. Then, quite timidly, as though she were asking some great favour, she said:

“You mustn’t be angry with me for that. I only care about your happiness. I’m older—If I think that you are not going to be happy I’m worried and distressed of course. What can he be to me compared with you? And lately you yourself have been different—different to all of us ... Yes ... You know that if I thought that he would make you happy....” Her voice was quickly sharp sounding on a trembling, quivering note. “Katie—give him up. Give him up. There’ll be somebody much better. There are all of us. Give him up, darling. Tell him that you don’t love him as you thought you did.”

“No, I don’t,” said Katherine, her voice low. “I love him more than ever I thought I could love anything or anyone. I love him more every day of my life. Why you—all of you—” She broke away from her fierceness. She was gentle, putting her hand against her mother’s cheek, then bending forward and kissing her.

“You don’t understand, mother. I don’t understand myself, I think. But it will be all right. I know that it will.... You must be patient with me. It’s hard for him as well as for you. But nothing—nothing—can change me. If I loved him before, I have twice as much reason to love him now.”

Mrs. Trenchard looked once more at Katherine, as though she were seeing her for the last time, then, with a little sigh, she went out, very carefully closing the door behind her.

Meanwhile, another member of the Trenchard family, namely Henry, had found this especial Sunday very difficult. He always hated Sunday because, having very little to do on ordinary days of the week, he had nothing at all to do on Sunday. Never, moreover, in all his life before had the passing of time been so intolerably slow as it had during these last weeks. The matter with him, quite simply, was that his imagination, which had been first stirred on that afternoon of Philip’s appearance, was now as lively and hungry as a starved beast in a jungle. Henry simply didn’t know what to do with himself. Miserably uncertain as to his right conduct in the matter of Philip and Katherine, speculating now continually about adventures and experiences in that wider world of which he had had a tiny glimpse, needing desperately some definite business of preparation for business that would fill his hours, and having nothing of the sort, he was left to read old novels, moon about the fields and roads, quarrel with Millie, gaze forebodingly at Katherine, scowl at Philip, have some moments of clumsy sentiment towards his mother, bite his nails and neglect his appearance. He began to write a novel, a romantic novel with three men asleep in a dark inn and a woman stealing up the ricketty stairs with a knife in her hand. That was all that he saw of the novel. He knew nothing at all about its time nor place, its continuation nor conclusion. But he heard the men breathing in their sleep, saw the moonshine on the stairs, smelt the close, nasty, beery smell of the tap-room below, saw the high cheek-bones and large nose of the woman and the gleaming shine of the knife in her hand.

He walked for many miles, to Rafiel, to St. Lowe, to Dumin Head, inland beyond Rasselas, to Pendennis Woods, to Polchester, to the further side of Pelynt—and always, as he walked with his head in the air, his Imagination ran before him like a leaping, towering flame. The visions before his soul were great visions, but he could do nothing with them. He thought that he would go forth and deliver the world, would love all men, prostitutes, lepers, debauchers (like Philip); he flung his arms about, tumbled over his untidy boot laces, saw life as a gorgeous-tinted plain, with fame and glory awaiting him—then returned to Garth, quarrelled with Millie, sulked and bit his nails.

This was a hard time for Henry.

He had determined that he would not present himself in the drawing-room at tea-time, but when half-past four arrived, the afternoon had already stretched to such ghastly lengths that something had to be done. He came slipping, stumbling downstairs, and found Philip, with a waterproof turned up over his ears and every sign of the challenger of wild weather, standing in the hall. Henry would have passed him in silence, but Philip stopped him.

“Look here,” he said, in a low mysterious voice, “will you do something for me?”

“What?” said Henry, suspiciously.

“I’m going out for a long walk. Shan’t be back until supper. Give this letter to Katherine, and tell her I want her to read it before I get back.”

“Why don’t you give it to her yourself? She’s up in her room.”

“Because I want you to.”

Henry took the letter, and Philip was gone, sending into the house a little gust of cold wind and rain as he plunged through the door. Henry looked after him, shook his head as though the destinies of the world were on his shoulders, put the letter into his pocket and went into the drawing-room. The Drake family was calling. There were Mrs. Drake, old and sharp and weather-beaten, like a sign post on the top of a hill; her son, Francis Drake, who, unlike his famous namesake, seemed unable to make up his mind about anything, was thin and weedy, with staring eyes, and continually trying to swallow his fist; and little Lettice Drake, aged seven, fifteen years younger than any other in the family; her parents had never entirely got over their surprise at her appearance: she was sharp and bony, like her mother. Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Aggie and Millie were entertaining; Great-Aunt Sarah was seated in state, in black silk and white cap, and her stern eye was fixed upon Mr. Drake, whose appearance she did not like. This made Mr. Drake very nervous.

Afternoon-tea on Sunday comes at the very moment when the day seems most unbearable—Later, at about six o’clock, Sunday fatigue will happily begin to descend and envelop its victims, but at half-past four one is only able to remember that it is a mistake to have so large a meal in the middle of the day, that Sunday clothes are chill and uncomfortable, and that all the people in whom one has the least interest in life will shortly make their appearance.

There is also the prospect of evening service, followed by cold supper: the earlier hours of the day stretch now behind one at so vast and unwieldy a length that it seems impossible that one will ever reach the end of the day alive. Aunt Aggie felt all this—she also hated the Drakes. She saw that Henry, moody in a corner by himself, regarded her with a cynical eye: her tooth, which had been quiet since luncheon, was throbbing again. She endeavoured to be pleasant to little Lettice, although she hated children, and she knew that children knew it.

“Wonderfully she’s grown!” she said, bending down towards the child, who watched her with cold curiosity. “And what’s your favourite game now, Lettice? Too old for dolls, I expect.”

There was no reply.

“Tell Miss Trenchard about your games, dear,” said Mrs. Drake.

There was no reply.

“You must come and play here one day, dear,” said Aunt Aggie. “Such a big room as we’ve got upstairs—and lots of toys. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

There was no reply.

“She’s shy, I expect,” said Mrs. Drake. “So many children are.”

Aunt Aggie drew nearer to Lettice.

“You mustn’t be shy with me, dear. I’m so proud of children. You shall have such a piece of cake in a minute!”

But with a little movement of her bony fingers Lettice Drake, in a voice of chill detachment, said:

“You’ve got a thpot on your faith,” referring to a little black mole on Aunt Aggie’s right cheek. The voice was so chill, the indifference so complete that the failure of Aunt Aggie’s tactics was obvious to the dullest onlooker. Unfortunately Henry laughed; he had not intended to laugh: he did not feel at all in a humorous mood—but he laughed from nervousness, discomfort and disgust. He knew that Aunt Aggie would not forgive this ... he hated quarrels with Aunt Aggie. She did not look at him, but her back told him what she was thinking. He wished, bitterly, that he had more self-control; he knew that, of all possible insults, Aunt Aggie would regard most bitterly a mock at her appearance in a public place. The Drakes might be considered a public place.

Mrs. Trenchard said: “Where’s Katie? You’d like to see her, Agnes, I’m sure. Perhaps she doesn’t know you’re here. I’ll see. I know you’d like to see her.” Mrs. Trenchard went away. Then Aunt Sarah, who had been hitherto absolutely silent, began, her eye never leaving Mrs. Drake’s face.

“You’re the daughter of Aggie Mummings, whom I used to know. You must be. Poor Aggie ... I remember your mother quite well—a feeble thing always, never knowing her mind and always wanted people’s advice. I used to say to her: ‘Aggie, if you let men see how feeble you are you’ll never get married’—but she did after all—which shows you never can tell—I think, Millie, I’ll have some more hot in this ... yes, I remember your mother very well, poor thing.”

“I’ve heard her speak of you, Miss Trenchard,” said Mrs. Drake.

Mr. Drake suddenly attacked Millie.

“Well now—about Paris—you know—very different from this hole, ain’t it?”

“Very different,” said Millie. “But I don’t consider this ‘a hole’.”

“Don’t you now? Well—that’s very interesting. Don’t you?... I do.”

Millie had nothing to say.

“It’s slow, you know—horrid slow—just weather, I call it. Whether it’s raining or not, you know—. Yes ... I wonder you don’t find it slow after Paris.”

“I was at school there, you see,” said Millie. “It’s different when you’re at school.”

“I suppose it is. Yes, I s’pose so.” He began to cram his fist into his mouth, was surprised at its boniness, regarded it gravely, said: “Well, yes ... I s’pose so ... Yes ... Well ...” and was silent.

Then Mrs. Trenchard at last returned: Katherine was with her. Henry at once saw that Katherine had been crying. The effect of this discovery upon Henry was elemental in its force. He had, during all his life, regarded Katherine as almost omnipotent in her strength and wisdom. He had, moreover, always thought to himself: “One day she will have her reward,” and his vision of Katherine’s future happiness and glory had been one of his favourite dreams. Now that cad had been making her cry.... He was, at that moment, on the very edge of making a scene ... he would fling Philip’s letter down there, in front of them, Drakes and all. He would cry: “There! that’s from the beast who’s been making her cry—and I tell you he’s a cad. He had a woman for years in Russia and had a son too—that’s the kind of fellow he is.” But Katherine was smiling and laughing. The Drakes certainly would not see that she had been crying: even Millie did not, apparently, notice it; Millie, having done her duty by the Drakes, was going upstairs to write letters. She said good-bye and left the room ... two minutes later Henry slipped out after her.

He caught her at the top of the stairs.

“I say,” he said. “Come into my room for a minute. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Oh, bother,” answered Millie. “I want to write letters.”

“Never mind. You must. It’s important.”

“Aren’t the Drakes awful?” she said, standing inside his door and observing the disorder of his room with a scornful lip.

“Yes, they are,” said Henry. “Wasn’t Aunt Aggie angry when I laughed?”

“A silly sort of thing to do anyway. What a room! You might put those clothes away, and why can’t you have another shelf for the books? That table—”

“Oh, rot! Dry up!” Henry moved about uneasily, kicking a book along the floor. “I’ve got something I want to—I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”

“What is it? About Philip and Katie?”

“No, not about Katie. At least—not unless he’s told her. It’s about Philip.”

“What is it?” Millie said again.

“He’s the most awful cad—an absolute outsider. I’ve known it for weeks, only I haven’t decided what to do.”

“I don’t believe it,” Millie said, slowly. “You don’t know enough about men to tell whether a man’s an outsider or not.... What’s he done?”

“In Russia—in Moscow—he had a mistress for years—and they had a son. He’s never said anything about it, but it’s true. They say he had an awful reputation in Moscow.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” said Millie, slowly. The colour mounted into her cheeks.

“A man I know—a friend of Seymour’s. Oh! I know it’s true. There isn’t any sort of doubt about it.”

“I daresay it is. Men are like that,” Millie said, with profundity.

“Decent men aren’t. Not the sort of man who will marry Katie.”

Millie said nothing, and there was a long silence in the room. Then, with a deep sigh, Millie said:

“If it is true what does it matter if it’s all over?”

“Perhaps it isn’t. Besides, if he’s that kind of man he’ll do it again. And anyway, if Katie were to know—”

“Ah! if Katie were to know—”

They stood there, young (very young) defenders of Katherine. They would both of them, always, afterwards remember that moment, that hour, that Sunday. There came for both of them, suddenly, an active, urgent demand on their participation in a sudden adventure, a real, serious adventure, and they simply did not know what to do with it. With neither of them was their apprehension, disgust, dismay so great as their curiosity. The first thing, after the pause, that Millie said was:

“I wonder what she’s like, that other woman I mean.”

Henry had been wondering for weeks. He now produced his conclusions.

“It’s my idea,” he said, “that she was simply bored with him, couldn’t endure him any longer. I expect they had awful rows—Russians do, you know, and Philip’s got a temper I should think. Then he came home, and—sort of to save his pride because the other woman had kicked him out—made love to the first woman he saw. Katherine was the first, you know.”

Millie felt a momentary surprise at her brother’s unexpected cleverness. Then she shook her head: “No, I’m sure it’s not that. He loves Katherine, I know, anyone can see it.”

“Well, then,” said Henry, with sudden volcanic happiness, “he’s making her awfully miserable. She was crying this afternoon, and I’ve got a letter in my pocket now that he told me to give to her for her to read while he was out.... They’ve had a quarrel.”

“Perhaps he’s told her.”

“If he’s making her unhappy—”

“I wonder what she thinks about it—”

Henry’s thought, with all the simplicity that was in his real nature, was only of Katherine. Millie, although she loved her sister, was absorbed by the vision of life—dramatic, tragic, gay, sinister, rapturous—that was slowly being unfolded before her. What she would have liked would have been for both Philip and Katherine to have told her, minutely and precisely, how the affair appeared to them. How she could listen to them if they made her their confidante! Meanwhile she must content herself with Henry.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Do!... There are things I can do,” he hinted darkly. “Meanwhile, you just keep your eyes open and see whether he’s bad to Katherine. If he is we must stop it. That’s all that matters.”

“I wonder what she was like—that other woman,” Millie said, not looking at Henry, but at her own reflection in his looking-glass, then, without another word to him, she turned and left the room.

After she had gone he wondered whether he’d been wise to tell her. She had offered no advice, she had not even, he thought, been immensely interested, she had certainly been, in no way, shocked.

“Girls are queer” was his final reflection. When the bell began to ring, with its strange little questioning invitation, he suddenly thought that he would go to church. He sometimes found evening service, with its candles and old familiar tunes and star-lit sky, romantic and moving: to-night he felt that his restlessness and indecision must be influenced. He came downstairs, and found Katherine standing and staring through the little window to the left of the hall door. She started when she heard his voice, as though she had been lost in her own company.

“I’ve got a letter for you,” he said, roughly. “From Philip. He’s gone out for a long walk until supper, and he said you were to read it before he came back.”

He gave it her. She said nothing. He turned abruptly away, and faced his mother.

She had on her black Sunday hat and was buttoning her gloves.

“I’m going to church.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “I think we shall be the only ones. Unless Katherine’s coming.”

“No, I’m not coming,” said Katherine.

He walked away with his mother, feeling self-conscious with her, as he always did, but to-night, whether from some especial sense of gloom, of dripping, wet trees, of wind and rain, or from some real perception of agitation in his mother, he felt a strong impulse of protection towards her. He would have liked to have put his arm through hers, to have defied the world to harm her, to run and fetch and carry for her, to help her in any possible way. He had felt this before, but he had never known how to begin, and he knew that any demonstration of any kind would embarrass them both terribly.

Mrs. Trenchard said things like:

“Those two shirts of yours, Henry—those last two blue ones—have shrunk terribly. I’ll never go to that place in Oxford Street again. They’ve shrunk so dreadfully,” or “If you think you’d rather have those thicker socks next time you must tell me.... Do you like them better?”

Henry was always vexed by such questions. He thought that he should have been managing his own clothes at his age, and he also could not be bothered to give his mind seriously to socks.

“I don’t know, mother.”

“But you must care for one or the other.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I think the thick ones are better. They don’t feel quite so comfortable perhaps.... Ah! there’s the bell stopping. We shall be late.”

In church, influenced by the flickering candles, the familiar chants, the sense of a cosy and intimate trust in a Power who would see one safely through the night, just as one’s burning night-light had guarded one when one had been very small, Henry became sentimental and happy. He looked out of the corner of his eye at his mother, at the so familiar wave of her hair, the colour and shape of her cheek, the solid comfort of her figure, and suddenly thought how old she was looking. This came as a revelation to him: he fancied that even in the last week there had been a little change. He moved closer to her: then he saw that her eye was fixed upon a small choir-boy who had been eating sweets. The eye was stern and so full of command and assurance that Henry’s sentiment suddenly shrivelled into nothing. His mother wanted nobody’s help—he sighed and thought about other things. Soon he was singing “Abide with me” in his ugly, untuneful voice, pleased that the choir lingered over it in an abominable fashion, trying now and then to sing ‘second’, and miserably failing.

But, although he did not know it, Mrs. Trenchard had realised her son’s mood....

So, at last, tired, a little hysterical, feeling as though heavy steam rollers had, during the day, passed over their bodies, they were all assembled for supper. Sunday supper should be surely a meal very hot and very quickly over: instead it is, in all really proper English families, very cold and quite interminable. There were, to-night, seated round the enormous table Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Betty, Aunt Aggie, Katherine, Millie and Henry. George Trenchard and Rachel Seddon were spending the evening with Timothy Faunder: Philip had not yet returned from his walk. A tremendous piece of cold roast beef was in front of Mrs. Trenchard; in front of Henry were two cold chickens. There was a salad in a huge glass dish, it looked very cold indeed. There was a smaller glass dish with beetroot. There was a large apple-tart, a white blancmange, with little “dobs” of raspberry jam round the side of the dish. There was a plate of stiff and unfriendly celery—item a gorgonzola cheese, item a family of little woolly biscuits, clustered together for warmth, item a large “bought” cake that had not been cut yet and was grimly determined that it never should be, item what was known as “Toasted Water” (a grim family mixture of no colour and a faded, melancholy taste) in a vast jug, item, silver, white table-cloth, napkin-rings quite without end. Everything seemed to shiver as they sat down.

Aunt Aggie, as she saw the blancmange shaking its sides at her, thought that she would have been wiser to have gone straight upstairs instead of coming in to supper. She knew that her tooth would begin again as soon as she saw this food. She had had a wretched day. Katherine, before luncheon, had been utterly unsympathetic, Henry at tea-time had laughed at her.... At any rate, in a minute, there would be soup. On Sunday evening, in order to give the servants freedom, they waited upon themselves, but soup was the one concession to comfort. Aunt Aggie thought she would have her soup and then go up quietly to bed. One eye was upon the door, looking for Rocket. Her tooth seemed to promise her: “If you give me soup I won’t ache.”

“Beef, Aggie—or chicken,” said Mrs. Trenchard. “No soup to-night, I’m afraid. They’ve all got leave to-night, even Rocket and Rebekah. There’s a meeting at the Chapel that seemed important ... yes ... beef or chicken, Aggie?”

Aunt Aggie, pulling all her self-control together, said: “Beef, please.” Her tooth, savage at so direct an insult, leapt upon her.

Aunt Betty, in her pleasant voice, began a story. “I must say I call it strange. In the ‘Church Times’ for this week there’s a letter about ‘Church-Kneelers’ by ‘A Vicar’—complaining, you know ... Well—”

“Beef or chicken, Millie?” said Mrs. Trenchard.

“Chicken, please,” said Millie. “Shall I cut the bread?”

“White, please,” said Henry.

“Well—” went on Aunt Betty. “As I was saying, on ‘Church-Kneelers’ signed by ‘A Vicar’. Well, it’s a very curious thing, but you remember, Harriet, that nice Mr. Redpath—”

“One moment, Betty, please,” said Mrs. Trenchard.

“Not so much as that, Harry. Simply the leg. Thank you, dear. Simply the leg. That nice Mr. Redpath—with the nice wife and so many dear little children—he was curate to Mr. Williams of St. Clemens for years. Harriet, you’ll remember—one year all the children had scarlet fever together, and two of the poor little things died, although I couldn’t help thinking that really it was rather a mercy—”

“Mustard, please,” said Henry.

“More beef, Aggie?” said Mrs. Trenchard.

“No, thank you,” said Aggie, snapping her teeth upon a piece of bread. She was thinking: “How selfish they all are! They can’t see how I’m suffering!”

“Well, that Mr. Redpath—You must remember him, Harriet, because he had a red moustache and a rather fine white forehead—when he left Mr. Williams got a living somewhere in Yorkshire, near York, I think, or was it Scarborough? Scarborough, because I remember when I wrote to congratulate him he answered me in such a nice letter, and said that it would be just the place for the children. You remember, Katherine, I showed it you.”

“Yes,” said Katherine.

Henry, hearing her voice, looked across at her and then dropped his eyes upon his plate.

She seemed herself again. Had her letter made her happy? With a sudden start he realised that Millie also was watching her....

“Well, it must have been about 1900 that Mr. Redpath went to Scarborough. I remember it was the year before that dreadful wet school treat here, when we didn’t know where to put all the children. I know the year after he went there poor Mrs. Redpath died and left him with all those little children—”

Just at that moment Philip came in. He came with the spray of the sea still wet upon his cheeks, his hair shining with it. His colour flaming, his eyes on fire. He had been, in the wind and darkness, down the Rafiel Road to the point above Tredden Cove where the sea broke inland. Here, deafened by the wind, blinded by the night, the sea-mist, now lashing his face, now stroking it softly with gentle fingers, he had stood on the edge of the world and heard the waters that are beyond the world exult in their freedom and scorn for men. He, too, standing there, had had scorn for himself. He had seen Katherine’s eyes as she turned from him in the garden, he had seen his own wretched impatience and temper and selfishness. “By heaven,” he thought, as he strode back, “I’ll never be so contemptible again. I’ll make them all trust me and like me. As for Katherine ...” and so he burst in upon them, without even brushing his hair first. Also, the only vacant chair was next to Aunt Aggie....

Aunt Betty, who thought that Philip’s entry had been a little violent and abrupt, felt that she had better cover it with the continuation of her story.

“And so the next year Mr. Redpath married again—quite a young woman. I never saw her, but Nelly Hickling knew her quite well. She always said that she reminded her of Clara Foster. You know, Harriet, the younger one with the dark hair and pretty eyes.”

But Philip had looked across at Katherine, her eyes had met his, and very faintly, as it were secretly, she smiled: the whirl of that encounter had hidden Aunt Betty’s voice from him. He did not know that he was interrupting her.

“It was a good walk, and it’s raining like anything. The sea was coming in over the Cove like thunder.”

No one answered him, and he realised suddenly that all the food was cold. No matter: he was used to Sunday supper by this time, and he was of a ferocious hunger. “Lots of beef, please,” he said, with a laugh.

Aunt Aggie shuddered. Her tooth was in her eye and her toes at the same moment; Annie had forgotten to call her, there had been no eggs for breakfast, Katherine at luncheon had been unsympathetic, at tea, before strangers (or nearly strangers), Henry had laughed at her, at supper there had been no soup, Betty, who in the morning had been idiotic enough to think Mr. Smart’s sermon a good one, in the evening had been idiotic enough to commence one of her interminable stories, the day had as usual been dreary and heavy and slow, and now that terrible young man, whom she had always hated, must come in, late and dripping, without even washing his hands, makes no apologies, demands food as though he were a butcher, smiles upon everyone with perfect complacency, is not apparently in the least aware of other people’s feelings—this horrible young man, who had already made everyone about him miserable and cross and restless: no, deeply though Aunt Aggie had always disliked Philip, she had never really hated him until this evening.

Although he was sitting next to her, he could not possibly have been more unconscious of her....

“You are interrupting my sister,” she said.

He started and flushed. “Oh! I beg your pardon,” he stammered.

“No, please, it’s nothing,” said Aunt Betty.

“You were saying something about Mr. Williams, Betty dear,” said Mrs. Trenchard.

“No, please, it’s nothing,” said Aunt Betty.

There was silence after that. Philip waited, and then, feeling that something must be done, said: “Well, Henry, I wish you’d been out with me. You’d have loved it. Why didn’t you come?”

“I’m sure he was better at church,” said Aunt Aggie. Her tooth said to her: “Go for him! Go for him! Go for him!”

Philip realised then her hostility. His face hardened. What a tiresome old woman she was, always cross and restless and wanting attention! He kept silent. That annoyed her: he seemed so big and overbearing when he sat so close to her.

“And I don’t know,” she went on, “whether you are really the best companion for Henry.”

Everyone looked up then at the bitterness in Aunt Aggie’s voice; no one heard Mrs. Trenchard say:

“Do have some tart, Henry.”

“What do you mean?” said Philip sharply. His proximity to her made in some way the anger between them absurd: they were so close that they could not look at one another.

“Oh, nothing ... nothing....” She closed her lips.

“Please ...” Philip insisted. “Why am I a bad companion for Henry?”

“Because you make him drink ... disgusting!” she brought out furiously: when she had spoken her eyes went to Katherine’s face—then, as she saw Katherine’s eyes fixed on Philip’s, her face hardened. “Yes. You know it’s true,” she repeated.

Henry broke in. “What do you say, Aunt Aggie? What do you mean? Drink—I—what?”

“You know that it’s true, Henry. That night that you dined with Philip in London—You came back—disgraceful. Philip had to carry you. You fell on the top of the stairs. He had to lift you up and carry you into your room. I watched it all. Well—I didn’t mean to say anything. I’m sorry, Harriet, if I—perhaps not quite the right time—but I—I—”

Her voice sank to muttering; her hands shook like leaves on the table-cloth and her tooth was saying: “Go for him! Go for him! Go for him!”

And for Philip it was as though, after all these weeks of waiting, not only the family but the whole place had at last broken into its definite challenge.

Beyond the room he could feel the garden, the lawn, the oak, the sea-road, the moor, even Rafiel itself, with its little square window-pane harbour, crowding up to the window, listening, crying to him: “You’ve got to be broken! You’ve got to go or be broken!...” The definite moment had come at last.

His eyes never left Katherine’s face as he answered:

“It’s perfectly true. I don’t know how it happened, but we had been having supper quite soberly together, and then Henry was suddenly drunk. I swear he’d had simply nothing to drink. He was quite suddenly drunk, all in a moment. I was never more surprised in my life. I suppose I should have prevented it, but I swear to you it would have surprised anyone—really, you would have been surprised, Mrs. Trenchard.”

Henry, whose face was first flaming, then white, said, sulkily: “It wasn’t Philip’s fault.... I wasn’t used to it. Anyway, I don’t see why there need be such a fuss about it. What Aunt Aggie wants to drag it in now for just when everyone’s tired after Sunday. It isn’t as though I were always drunk—just once—everyone’s drunk sometime.”

“I’ve never said anything,” Aunt Aggie began.

“No, that’s just it,” Philip broke in, suddenly flashing round upon her. “That’s just it. You’ve never said anything until now. Why haven’t you? Why, all this time, have you kept it, hugging it to yourself?... That’s what you’ve all been doing. You never tell me anything. You never treat me really frankly, but if you’ve got something you think will do damage you keep it carefully until the best moment for letting it go off. You’re all as secret with me as though I were a criminal. You ask me down here, and then keep me out of everything. I know you dislike me and think I oughtn’t to marry Katherine—but why can’t you say so instead of keeping so quiet! You think I shouldn’t have Katherine—but you can’t stop it, and you know you can’t.... I’m sorry.” He was conscious of the silence and many pairs of eyes and of much quivering cold food and the ticking of a large grandfather’s clock saying: ‘You are rude. You are rude—You shouldn’t—do it—You shouldn’t—do it.’

But he was also conscious of a quivering life that ran, like quicksilver, through the world outside, through all the streams, woods, paths, into the very heart of the sea. His eyes were on Mrs. Trenchard’s face.

“I apologise if I’ve been rude, but to-day—a day like this—awful—” He broke off abruptly, and moved as though he would get up. It was then that the Dreadful Thing occurred.

He pushed his chair, and it knocked against Aunt Aggie’s, jolting her. She, conscious that she was responsible for an abominable scene, conscious that she had lost all that fine dignity and self-command in which, through her lifetime, she had seen herself arrayed, conscious of her tooth, of a horrible Sunday, of many Sundays in front of her equally horrible (conscious, above all, of some doubt as to whether she were a fine figure, whether the world would be very different without her, conscious of the menace of her own cherished personal allusion), driven forward, moreover, by the individual experiences that Mrs. Trenchard, Millie, Henry, Katherine had had that day (because all their experiences were now in the room, crowding and pressing against their victims), seeing simply Philip, an abominable intrusion into what had formerly been a peaceful and honourable life, Philip, now and always her enemy ... at the impact of his chair against hers, her tooth said “Go!”

She raised her thin hand and slapped him. Her two rings cut his cheek.

When the House was finally quiet and dark again, Rebekah alone was left. Stiff, solemn, slow, she searched the rooms, tried the doors, fastened the windows, marched with her candle up the back stairs into the heart of the house.

It had been a dull, uneventful Sunday. Nothing had occurred.