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- float: left; - margin-right: 1em } - -.align-right { clear: right; - float: right; - margin-left: 1em } - -.align-center { margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto } - -div.shrinkwrap { display: table; } - -/* SECTIONS */ - -body { margin: 5% 10% 5% 10% } - -/* compact list items containing just one p */ -li p.pfirst { margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0 } - -.first { margin-top: 0 !important; - text-indent: 0 !important } -.last { margin-bottom: 0 !important } - -span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 } -img.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; max-width: 25% } -span.dropspan { font-variant: small-caps } - -.no-page-break { page-break-before: avoid !important } - -/* PAGINATION */ - -@media screen { - .coverpage, .frontispiece, .titlepage, .verso, .dedication, .plainpage - { margin: 10% 0; } - - div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage - { margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; } - - .vfill { margin: 5% 10% } -} - -@media print { - div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% } - div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% } - - .vfill { margin-top: 20% } - h2.title { margin-top: 20% } -} - -</style> -<title>THE GREEN BOUGH</title> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="The Green Bough" /> -<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" /> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="E. Temple Thurston" /> -<meta name="DC.Created" content="1921" /> -<meta name="PG.Id" content="41895" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2013-01-21" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="The Green Bough" /> - -<link href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" rel="schema.DCTERMS" /> -<link href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators" rel="schema.MARCREL" /> -<meta content="The Green Bough" name="DCTERMS.title" /> -<meta content="bough.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" /> -<meta content="en" scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" name="DCTERMS.language" /> -<meta content="2013-01-22T03:38:22.125712+00:00" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" name="DCTERMS.modified" /> -<meta content="Project Gutenberg" name="DCTERMS.publisher" /> -<meta content="Public Domain in the USA." name="DCTERMS.rights" /> -<link href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41895" rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" /> -<meta content="E. Temple Thurston" name="DCTERMS.creator" /> -<meta content="2013-01-21" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" name="DCTERMS.created" /> -<meta content="width=device-width" name="viewport" /> -<meta content="EpubMaker 0.3.20a5 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" name="generator" /> -<style type="text/css"> -.pageno { position: absolute; right: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.pageno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.lineno { position: absolute; left: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.lineno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.toc-pageref { float: right } -pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap } -</style> -</head> -<body> -<div class="document" id="the-green-bough"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">THE GREEN BOUGH</span></h1> - -<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet --> -<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats --> -<!-- default transition --> -<!-- default attribution --> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="clearpage"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="align-None container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> -included with this eBook or online at -</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<div class="align-None container" id="pg-machine-header"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: The Green Bough -<br /> -<br />Author: E. Temple Thurston -<br /> -<br />Release Date: January 21, 2013 [EBook #41895]<br /> -[Last updated: September 25, 2020] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>THE GREEN BOUGH</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p> -</div> -<div class="align-None container coverpage"> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 52%" id="figure-10"> -<span id="cover"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt="Cover" src="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">Cover</span></div> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container titlepage"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="x-large">THE GREEN BOUGH</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">BY -<br />E. TEMPLE THURSTON</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">AUTHOR OF "THE CITY OF BEAUTIFUL NONSENSE," -<br />"THE WORLD OF WONDERFUL REALITY," ETC.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">D. APPLETON AND COMPANY -<br />NEW YORK -<br />MCMXXI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container verso"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY -<br />D. APPLETON AND COMPANY</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container dedication"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">TO -<br />E. F. COWLIN</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="phase-i"><span class="x-large">PHASE I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The life of Mary Throgmorton, viewed as one -would scan the chronicles of history, impersonally, -without regard to the conventions, is -the life of a woman no more than fulfilled in the -elements of her being.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All women would be as Mary Throgmorton if they -dared. All women would love as Mary Throgmorton -loved--suffer as she suffered. Perhaps not all might -yield, as she yielded towards the end; not all might -make her sacrifices. But, in the latitudinous -perspective of Time where everything vanishes to the point -of due proportion, she must range with that vast army -of women who have hungered, loved, been fed and -paid the reckoning with the tears out of their eyes -and the very blood out of their hearts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is only when she comes to be observed in the -immediate and narrow surroundings of her circumstance -that her life stands out tragically apart. She -becomes then as a monument, set up on a high and -lonely hill amongst the many of those hills in drowsy -Devon, a monument, silently claiming the birthright -of all women which the laws men make by force have -so ungenerously circumscribed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There is no woman who could look at that -monument without secret emotions of a deep respect, while -there were many in her lifetime who spurned Mary -Throgmorton with tongue and with a glance of eye, -and still would spurn her to-day in the narrow streets -where it is their wont to walk.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The respect of one's neighbors is a comforting thing -to live with, but it is mostly the little people who earn -it and find the pleasure of its warmth. The respect of -the world is won often by suffering and in the wild -and open spaces of the earth. It was on Gethsemane -and not in Bethlehem that Christianity revealed its -light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In Bridnorth, the name of Mary Throgmorton was -a byword for many a day. They would have erased -her from their memory if they could. It was in the -hush of voices they spoke of her--that hush with -which women muffle and conceal the envy beneath their -spite.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No one woman in Bridnorth, unless it was Fanny -Throgmorton, the third of her three sisters, could have -had honesty enough in her heart to confess, even in -silence, her real regard for Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Who should blame them for this? The laws had -made them and what is made in a shapen mold can -bend neither to the left nor to the right. They were -too close to her to see her beauty; all too personally -involved to look dispassionately at the greatness of her -soul.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet there in spirit, as it were some graven monument -upon those hills of Devon, she stands, a figure of -tragic nobility. Had indeed they carved her in stone -and set her there upon the hills that overlooked the -sea, they would have recognized then in her broad -brow, in the straight direction of her eyes, the big, if -not beautiful then generous line of her lips, the full -firm curve of her breasts, how fine a mate she must -have made, how strong a mother even in the weakest -hour of her travail.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Stone truly would have been the medium for her. -It was not in color that she claimed the eye. The fair -hair, neither quite golden nor quite brown, that clear, -healthy skin, neither warmed with her blood nor -interestingly pale, these would have franked her passage -in a crowd and none might have noticed her go by.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There on the rising of that cliff in imagination is the -place to see her with the full sweep of Bridnorth bay -and that wide open sea below and all the heathered -stretches of the moors behind her. There, had they -carved a statue for her in rough stone, you must have -seen at once the beauty that she had.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But because it was in stone her beauty lay and not -in pink white flesh that makes a fool of many a man, -they had the less of mercy for her. Because it was in -stone, man found her cold of touch and stood away. -And yet again because it was in stone, once molten -with the heat of life, there was no hand in little -Bridnorth that could have stayed her fate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once stirred, the little pettiness of Bridnorth folk -charred all like shavings from the plane at touch of -her. Once stirred, she had in her passion to defy -them every one. Once stirred, herself could raise that -monument to the birthright of women which, in fancy, -as her tale is read, will be seen there over Bridnorth -on the high cliff's edge.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Hannah, Jane, Fanny and Mary, these -were the four sisters of the Throgmorton -family in the order of their respective ages. -A brother they had, but he comes into no part of this -history. The world had taken him when he was -twenty-three. He left Bridnorth, the mere speck upon -the map it was and, with the wide affairs of life at his -touch, the mere speck it became in his memory. -Stray letters reached Mary, his favorite sister. Read -aloud at the breakfast table, they came, bringing -strange odors of the world to those four girls. Vague -emotions they experienced as they heard these -infrequent accounts of where he was and what he did.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Silently Fanny's imagination would carry her to the -far places he wrote of. Into the big eyes she had -would rise a haze of distance across which an -untrained vision had power vaguely to transport her. -Hannah listened in a childish wonder. Jane made her -sharp comments. It was Mary who said--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why do men have the real best of it? He'll never -come back to Bridnorth again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He never did come back. From the time their -father and mother died they lived in Bridnorth alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Theirs was the square, white early Victorian house -in the middle of the village through which the coach -road runs from Abbotscombe to King's Tracey.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That early Victorian house, the furniture it -contained, the narrow strip of garden in front protected -from the road by low iron palings so that all who -passed could see in the front windows, the unusually -large garden at the back surrounded by a high brick -wall, all these composed the immediate atmosphere in -which Mary and her three sisters had been brought up -from childhood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It must be supposed that that condition of being -overlooked through the front windows was not without -its effect upon their lives. If it takes all sorts to -make a world, it is all the variety of conditions that go -to make such sorts as there are. For it was not only -the passers-by who looked in at the Throgmorton -windows and could have told to a fraction of time when -they had their meals, when Hannah was giving lessons -to the children she taught, those hours that Fanny was -sitting alone in her bedroom writing her verses of -poetry. Also it was the Throgmorton girls -themselves who preferred the occupation of the rooms -fronting the road to those whose windows overlooked -the shady and secluded garden at the back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was the attraction of the stream for those who -walk in quiet meadows. There on the banks you will -find the footpath of the many who have passed that -way. They sat at those front windows, sewing, -reading, often writing their letters on blotting pads upon -their laps, scarcely conscious that the little filtering -stream of life in Bridnorth drew them there. For -had they been questioned on these matters, one and all, -severally or together they would have laughed, saying -that for the greater half of the year there was no life -in Bridnorth to pass by, and certainly none that -concerned them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Nevertheless it was the stream, however lightly they -may have turned the suggestion away. The passing -of the postman, of the Vicar or the Vicar's wife, these -were the movements of life, such as you see in a -meadow stream and follow, dreaming in your mind, as -they catch in the eddies and are whirled and twisted -out of sight. So they had dreamt in their minds, in -Bridnorth, these Throgmorton girls. So Mary had -dreamed the twenty years and more that dreams had -come to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For the greater half of the year, they might have -said there was no life in Bridnorth. But from late -Spring through Summer to the Autumn months they -must have claimed with pride that their Devon village -had a life of its own. The old coach with its four -horses, beating out the journey from Abbotscombe to -King's Tracey, brought visitors from all parts; -generally the same every year. For a few months they -leased whatever furnished houses there were to be had, -coming regularly every season for the joy of that quiet -place by the sea where there was a sandy beach to -bathe on, and lonely cliffs on which to wander their -holidays away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So the Throgmorton girls made friends with some -whose lives lay far outside the meadows through which -the Bridnorth stream flowed peacefully between its -banks. To these friends sometimes they paid visits -when the Summer was passed. They went out of Bridnorth -themselves by the old coach, later returning, like -pigeons homing, with the wind of the outside world -still in their wing feathers, restless for days until the -dreams came back again. Then once more it seemed -a part of life to sit at the window sewing and watch -the postman go by.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were regular visitors who came every -summer, renewing their claim from year to year upon the -few houses that were to be let, so that there was little -available accommodation of that nature for any -outsiders. They called Bridnorth theirs, and kept it to -themselves. But every year, they had their different -friends to stay with them and always there was the -White Hart, where strangers could secure rooms by -the day or the week all through the season.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Bridnorth stream was in flood those days of -the late Spring where every afternoon the coach came -rumbling up the hill past the Throgmortons' house to -set down its passengers at the hotel only a little farther -up the road.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Like the Severn bore it was, for coming from -Abbotscombe down the winding road that had risen with -the eminence of the cliffs, the coach could be seen -descending by twists and turns and serpentine progressions -to the bottom of Bridnorth village, crossing the -bridge that spans the little river Watchett and climbing -again with the contour of the cliffs once more on its -way to King's Tracey.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Leaning far out of one of the upper windows of the -square, white house or standing even at the gate in the -iron paling, the little cloud of dust or, in rainy weather, -the black speck moving slowly like a fly crawling down -a suspended thread of cotton, could easily be seen two -miles away heralding the coming of the coach.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She who leant out of the window might certainly -retire, closing it slowly as the coach drew near. She -who stood at the gate in the iron palings might return -casually into the house. But once they were out of -sight of those on the other bank of the Bridnorth -stream, there would be voices crying through the rooms -that the coach was coming.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thus, as it passed, there might four figures be seen -at different windows, who, however engrossing their -occupations, would look out with confessions of mild -interest at the sound of the horses' hoofs on the stony -road, at the rattle of harness, the rumbling of wheels -and, casually, at the passengers come to Bridnorth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Any visitor catching sight of these temperate -glances from his box seat on the coach might have -supposed the eyes that offered them were so well-used to -that daily arrival as to find but little entertainment in -the event. From their apparent indifference, he would -never have believed that even their hearts had added a -pulse in the beating, or that to one at least that coach -was the vehicle of Fate which any day might bring the -burden of her destiny.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It is by the ages of these four they can most easily -and comprehensively be classified; yet the age of -one at least of them was never known, or ever -asked in Bridnorth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hannah might have been forty or more. She might -well have been less. But the hair was gray on her head -and she took no pains to conceal it. Hers, if any, was -the contented soul in that household. With her it was -not so much that she had given up the hope that every -woman has, as that before she knew what life might be, -that hope had passed her by. She was as one who -stands in a crowd to see the runners pass and, before -even she has raised herself on tiptoe to catch a glimpse -above the heads around her, is told that the race is over.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was Hannah, busying her life with the household -needs and, for interest, before all reward, teaching -the little children of friends in Bridnorth and the -neighborhood, teaching them their lessons every morning; -every morning kissing them when they came, every -morning kissing them when they left.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To her, the arrival of the coach was significant no -more than in the unaccustomed passage and hurry of -life it brought. To her it was a noise in a silent street. -She came to the windows as a child would come to see a -circus go by. She watched its passengers descend -outside the Royal George with the same light of childish -interest in her eyes. Nothing of what those passengers -were or what they meant reached the communicating -functions of her mind. They were no more than mere -performers in the circus ring. What their lives were -behind that flapping canvas of the tent, which is the veil -concealing the lives of all of us, she did not trouble to -ask herself. Like the circus performers, they would be -here to-day and to-morrow their goods and chattels -would be packed, the naphtha flares beneath whose light -they had for a moment appeared would be extinguished. -Only the bare ring over which their horses -had pranced would remain in Hannah's mind to show -where they had been. And in Hannah's mind the grass -would soon grow again to blot it out of sight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To Hannah Throgmorton, these advents and excursions -were no more than this.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Somehow they knew in Bridnorth that Jane -was thirty-six. She hid her gray beneath the -careful combing of her back hair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There is a different attitude of mind in the woman -who hides these things successfully and her who still -hides but knows that she fails. Sharp antagonism and -resentment, this is the mind of the latter. Not only -does she know that she fails. She knows how others -realize that she has tried. Yet something still urges in -her purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jane knew she failed. That was bitter enough. -But the greater bitterness lay in the knowledge that had -she succeeded it would have been of no avail. For -some years, unlike her sister Hannah, she had relinquished -hope, flung it aside in all consciousness of loss; -flung it aside and often looked her God in the face with -the accusing glances of unconcealed reproach.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To Jane that coming of the coach was the reminding -spur that pricked her memories to resentment. No -Destiny for her was to be found in the freight it -carried. For each passenger as they descended outside the -Royal George, she had her caustic comment. Hers -was the common but forgivably ungenerous spirit, of -the critic in whose breast the milk of human kindness -has grown sour from standing overlong in the idleness -of impotent ability.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet reminding spur that it was, and deeply as it hurt -her, her eyes were as swift and sharp as any to take -note of the new arrivals. Perhaps it was the very pain -that she cherished. Life is a texture of sensations, and -if only the thread of pain be left to keep the whole -together, there are many who welcome it rather than feel -the bare boards beneath their feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whenever a man, strange to them amongst the regular -visitors to Bridnorth, slipped off the coach at the -Royal George, she knew his arrival meant nothing in -Destiny to her. Yet often she would be the first to -pick him out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's new. Wonder if he's come with the Tollursts."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And having taken him in with a swiftness of -apprehension, her glances would shoot from Fanny to Mary -and back again as though she could steal the secrets of -Fate out of their eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was Fanny she read most easily of all; Fanny who -in such moments revealed to the shrewdness of her gaze -that faint acceleration of pulse, to the realization of -which nothing but the bitterness in her heart could have -sharpened her. It was upon Fanny then in these -moments her observation concentrated. Mary eluded her. -Indeed Mary, it seemed, was the calmest and serenest -of them all. Sometimes if she were engrossed in -reading she did not even come to the window, but -was content from her chair to hear what they had to report.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when there were no visitors descending from the -coach, in language their brother had long brought home -from school and left behind him in phrases when he -went, it was Jane, with a laugh, who turned upon those -other three and said--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a suck for everybody!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Then there was Fanny, whose age in -Bridnorth was variously guessed to be between -thirty and thirty-three. No one knew. Her -sisters never revealed it. Jane had her loyalties and -this was one.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only Fanny herself, in those quiet moments when a -woman is alone before the judgment of her own -mirror, knew that the gray hairs had begun to make their -appearance amidst the black. They were not even for -concealment yet. It was as though they tried to hide -themselves from the swift searching of her eyes. But -she had found them out. Each one as pensively she -rolled it round her fingers, hiding it away or burning -it in the fire, was a thorn that pricked and drew blood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hope had not yet been laid aside by her. In that -vivid if untrained imagination of hers, Romance still -offered her promise of the untold joys and ecstasies of -a woman's heart. She had not laid Hope aside, but -frettingly and constantly Hope was with her. She -was conscious of it, as of a hidden pain that warns of -some disease only the knife can cure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Always she was clutching it and only the writing of -her ill-measured verses of poetry could anesthetize her -knowledge of its presence. Then, when she was -beating out her fancies in those uncomely words of almost -childish verse, the pain of the hope she had would lie -still, soothed to sleepfulness by the soporific of her -wandering imagination.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What, can it be supposed, was the coming of the -coach to her?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The vehicle of Fate it has been said it was, bringing -a Destiny which for thirty years and more had lingered -on its journey, for never had it been set down at the -Royal George.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Already she knew that she was tired of waiting for -it. Often that tiredness overcame her. Through the -long winter months when the Bridnorth stream was -languid and shallow in its flow, she became listless -when she was not irritable, and the look of those -thirty-three years was added in their fullness in her -eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A visit into the world amongst those friends they -had, transitory though those visits may have been, -revived courage in her. And all through the Spring and -Summer season, she fought that fatigue as a woman -must and will so long as the hope of Romance has even -one red spark of fire in her heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not a man so much she wanted, as Romance. -She alone could have told what was meant by that. -The one man she had known had almost made her hate -his sex. It was not so much to her a stranger who -stepped down outside the Royal George and trod her -pulse to acceleration, as the urgent wonder of what -might happen in the weeks to come; of what might -happen to her in the very core of her being. He was -no more than a medium, an instrument to bring about -those happenings. She knew in herself what ecstasy -she could suffer, how her heart could throb behind her -wasted breast, how every vein threading her body -would become the channel for a warmer race of blood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not so much that she wanted a man to love as -to feel love itself with all its accompanying sensations -of fear and wonder, yet knowing all the time that -before these emotions could happen to her, she must -attract and be found acceptable, must in another waken -some strange need to be the kindling spark in her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only once had it seemed she had succeeded. There -had come a visitor to the Royal George with whom in -the ordinary course of the summer life of Bridnorth, -acquaintance had soon been made. None of them -were slow to realize the interest he had taken in Fanny. -Before he left they twice had walked over the moors -to where on the highest and loneliest point of the cliffs -you can see the whole sweep of Bridnorth bay and in -clear weather the first jutting headland on the Cornish -coast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Many a love match in Bridnorth had been made -about those heathered moors. It was no love match -he made with Fanny. What happened only Mary -knew. He had taken Fanny in his arms and he had -kissed her. For many months she had felt those -kisses, not in the touch of his lips so much as in waves -of emotion that tumbled in a riot through her veins and -left her trembling in the darkness of night. For he -had never told her that he loved her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In three weeks he had gone away having said no -word to bind her. In two months' time or little more, -she read of his marriage in the London papers and that -night stared and stared at her reflection in the mirror -when she went to bed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For in her heart and below the communicating -consciousness of her thoughts, she knew what had -happened. Never could she have told herself; far less -spoken of it to others. But while he had held her in -his arms, she had known even then. She had felt her -body thin and spare and meager against his. Something -unalluring in herself she had realized as his lips -touched the eagerness of her own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That strange need of which in experience she had -no knowledge, she knew in that instant had not -wakened in him as he held her. However passionate his -kisses in their strangeness had seemed, they lacked a -fire of which, knowing nothing, she yet knew all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still, nevertheless, she waited and the fatigue of that -waiting each year was added in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The coming of the coach to her was like that of a -ship, hard-beating into harbor with broken spars and -sails all rent. Yet with every coming, her heart lifted, -and with every new arrival, strange to Bridnorth, her -eyes would wear a brighter light, her laugh would catch -a brighter ring.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Really, you'd never think Fanny was thirty-three!" Hannah -once said on one of these occasions.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You wait for a week or two," retorted Jane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And in a week or two when the visitor had departed, -Jane would catch Hannah's eyes across the breakfast -table and direct them silently to Fanny sitting there. -There was no need to say--"I told you so." Jane -could convey all and more in her glance than that. She -took charge of Hannah's vision, as Hannah took charge -of her children. That was enough.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was to Mary Throgmorton in those days that -this coming of the Abbotscombe coach is most -elusive of all to define. So much less of the -emotions of hopefulness, of curiosity, or even of childish -interest did she betray, that there is little in action -or conduct to illuminate her state of mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In those days, which must be understood to mean -the beginning of this history, and in fact were the final -decade of the last century, Mary was twenty-nine.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That is a significant age and, to any more versed in -experience than she, must bring deep consideration -with it. By then a woman knows the transitoriness of -youth; she realizes how short is the span of time in -which a woman can control her destiny. She sees in -the eyes of others that life is slipping by her; she -discovers how those who were children about her in her -youth are gliding into the age of attractiveness, claiming -attention that is not so readily hers as it was or as -she imagines perhaps it might have been.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In such a state of mind must many a woman pause. -It is as though for one instant she had power to arrest -the traffic of time that she might take this crossing in -the streets of life with unhampered deliberation. For -here often she will choose her direction in the full -consciousness of thought. No longer dare she leave her -destiny to the hazard of chance. It has become, not -the Romance that will happen upon her in the glorious -and unexpected suddenness of ecstasy, but the Romance -she must find, eager in her searching, swift in her -choice lest life all go by and the traffic of time sweep -over her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This choice she must make or work must save her, -for life has become as vital to women as it is to men. -At twenty-nine this is many a woman's dilemma. Yet -at twenty-nine no such consciousness of the need of -deliberation had entered the mind of Mary Throgmorton. -Perhaps it was because there were no younger -creatures about her, growing up to the youth she was -leaving behind; perhaps because in the quietness of -seclusion, by that Bridnorth stream, the gentle, rippling -song of it had never wakened her to life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the height of its flood, that Bridnorth stream had -never a note to distress the placidity of her thoughts. -She had heard indeed the Niagara of life in London, -but as a tourist only, standing for a moment on its brink -with a guide shouting the mere material facts of -so-called interest in her ears. It was all too deafening -and astounding to be more than a passing wonder in -her mind. She would return to Bridnorth with its -thunder roaring in her ears, glad of the quiet stream -again and having gained no more experience of life -than does an American tourist of the life of London -when he counts the steps up to the dome of St. Paul's -Cathedral and hurries down to catch the train to the -birthplace of Shakespeare.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At twenty-nine, Mary Throgmorton was in many -respects still the same girl as when at the age of -eighteen she had first bound that fair hair upon her -head and looked with all the seriousness of her gray -eyes at the vision the reflecting mirror presented to her. -Scarcely had she noticed her growth into womanhood -for, as has been said, her beauty was not that of the -flesh that is pink and white. It was in stone her -beauty lay and even her own hands did not warm to -the touch of it. But where in Bridnorth was there -kindling enough to light so fierce a fire as she needed -to overwhelm her?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This is the tragedy of a thousand women who pass -through life and never touch its meaning; these -thousand women who one day will alter the force-made -laws for a world built nearer to the purpose of their -being; these thousand women to whom the figure of -Mary Throgmorton stands there by Bridnorth village -in her monument of stone upon the Devon cliffs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With all this unconsciousness of design in the -pattern of her life, the coming of the coach to Mary is -well-nigh too subtle to admit of capture in the rigid -medium of words. Truly enough, if deeply engaged -in one of the many books she read, there were times -and often when, from those front windows of the -square, white house, she would let her sisters report -upon the new or strange arrivals set down outside the -Royal George.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Even Jane, with her shrewdness of vision, was -misled by this into the belief that Mary cared less than -them all what interest the Abbotscombe coach might -bring for the moment into their lives.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder what his handicap is," she had said when -they had described a young man descending from the -box seat with a bag of golf clubs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Notwithstanding all Mary's undoubted excellence -at that game or indeed at any game to which she gave -her hand, Jane, disposed by nature to doubt, would -sharply look at her. But apparently there was no -intention to deceive. If the book was really engrossing, -she would return to its pages no sooner than the -remark was made, as though time would prove what sort -of performer he was, since all golfers who came to -Bridnorth found themselves glad to range their skill -against hers on the links.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when, as it happened, she joined them at those -front windows, consenting to their little deceptions of -casual interest in the midst of more important -occupations--for Jane would say, "Mary, you can't just -stare"--it was with no more than calculation as to -what amusement the visitors would provide that Mary -appeared to regard their arrival.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Not one of them, however, not even Fanny, knew -that there were days in those Spring and Summer -months, when Mary, setting forth with her strong -stride and walking alone up on to the heathered moors -would, with intention, seat herself in a spot where the -Abbotscombe coach could be seen winding its way -down the hill into Bridnorth. It was one spot alone -from which the full stretch of the road could be -observed. By accident one day she had found it, just at -that hour when the coach went by. She had known -and made use of it for six years and more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At first it was the mere interest of a moving thing -passing in the far line of vision to its determined -destination; the interest of that floating object the stream -catches in its eddies and carries in its flowing out of -sight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So it was at first, until in some subconscious way it -grew to hold for her a sense of mystery. She would -never have called it mystery herself--the attraction -had no name in her mind. No more did she do than -sit and watch its passage, dimly conscious that that -little moving speck upon the road, framed in its aura of -dust, was moving into the horizon of her life and as -soon would move out again, leaving her the same as she -was before.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Habit it was to think she would be left the same; -yet always whilst it was there in the line of her eyes, it -had seemed that something, having no word in her -consciousness, might happen to her with its passing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So vividly sometimes it appeared to be moving -directly into her life. So vividly sometimes, when it -had gone, it appeared to have left her behind. She -would have described it no more graphically or -consciously than that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For during those six years, nothing indeed had -happened to her. The passing of the coach along that -thread of road had remained a mystery. Companions -and acquaintances it had brought and often; women -with whom she had formed friendships, men with -whom she had played strenuously and enjoyably in -their games of golf.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Never had it brought her even such an experience as -her elder sister's. She had never wished it should. -There was no such readiness to yield in her as there -was in Fanny; no undisguised eagerness for life such -as might tempt the heartlessness of a man to a passing -flirtation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She treated all men the same with the frank candor -of her nature, which allowed no familiarity of -approach. Only with his heart could a man have reached -her, never with his arms or his lips as Fanny had been.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perhaps in those brief acquaintanceships, mainly -occupied with their games, there was no time for the -deeper emotions of a man's heart to be stirred. But -most potent reason of all, it was that she had none of -the superficial allurements of her sex. Strength was -the beauty of her. It was a common attitude of hers -to stand with legs apart set firmly on her feet as she -talked. Yet there was no masculinity she conveyed. -Only it was that so would a man find her if he sought -passion in her arms and perhaps they feared the -passion they might discover.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was the transitoriness not only of hers but of all -those women's touch with life that made the pattern of -their destiny. No man had stayed long enough in -Bridnorth to discover the tenderness and nobility of -Mary Throgmorton. In that cold quality of her -beauty they saw her remotely and only in the distances -in which she placed herself. None had come close -enough to observe that gentle smile the sculptor had -curved about her lips, the deep and tender softness of -her eyes. It was in outline only they beheld her, never -believing that beneath that firm full curve of her breast -there could beat a heart as wildly and as fearfully as -a netted bird's, or that once beating so, that heart would -beat for them forever.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was just the faint knowledge of this in herself -which made that passing coach a mystery to Mary. It -was not as with Fanny that she thought of it as a -vehicle of her Destiny, but that, as she sat there on the -moors above Bridnorth, it was a link with the world -she had so often read of in her books.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It came to her out of the blue over the hill, as a -pigeon come with a message under its wing. Detaching -that message again and again, she read it in a -whisper in her heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is life away there beyond the hill," it ran. -"There is life away there beyond the hill--and life -is pain as well as joy and life is sorrow as well as -happiness; but life is ours and we are here to live."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That message somewhere in the secrets of her heart -she kept and every time the coach passed by when she -was in the house the horses' hoofs on the village road -beat in her thoughts--"Life is ours, we are here to live."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Portraits in oil of Mr. and Mrs. Throgmorton -hung on the walls of the dining-room in -their square, white house. Though painted -by a local artist when Mary was quite a child, they had -one prominent virtue of execution. They were -arresting likenesses.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is open to question whether a man has a right to -impose his will when he is gone upon those who follow -after him. With Mr. and Mrs. Throgmorton it was -not so much an imposition of will. Their money had -been left without reservation to be divided equally -amongst the four girls. If any imposition there might -be, it was of their personality. Looking down at their -children from those two portraits on the wall, they still -controlled the spirit of that house as surely as when -they had been alive.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Every morning and evening, Hannah read the prayers -as her father had done before her. No more could -she have ceased from doing this than could any one of -them have removed his portrait from its exact place in -the dining-room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was the look in her father's and her mother's eyes -more than any comment of her sisters' that Fanny -feared to meet after her episode with the visitor to -Bridnorth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For in their lifetime, Mr. and Mrs. Throgmorton -had been parents of that rigid Victorian spirit. Love -they must have given their children or their influence -would never have survived. Love indeed they did -give, but it was a stern and passionless affection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Looking down upon their four daughters in those -days of the beginning of this story, they must have -been well satisfied that if not one of them had found -the sanctity of married life then at least not one of -them, unless perhaps it was Fanny, had known the -shame of an unhallowed passion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fanny they might have had their doubts about. After -that episode she often felt they had; often seemed to -detect a glance not so much of pity as of pain in her -mother's eyes. At her father, for some weeks after the -visitor's departure, she was almost afraid to look. In -his life he had been just. He would have been just in -his condemnation of her then. Self-control had been -the measure of all his actions. Of self-control in that -moment on the cliffs she knew she had had none. She -had leant herself into his arms because in the violent -beating of her breast it had seemed she had no strength -to do otherwise. And when he kissed her, it had felt -as though all the strength she had in her soul and body -had been taken from her into his.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Had her father known such sensations as that when -he talked of self-control?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Well indeed did she know what her mother would -have said. To all those four girls she had said the -same with parental regard; and to each one severally -as they had come to that age when she had felt it -expedient to enlighten them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"God knows," she had always begun, for the use of -the name of God hallowed such moments as these to -her and softened the terribleness of all she had to say, -"God knows, my dear, what future there is in store for -you. If it is His will you should never marry, you -will be spared much of the pain, much of the trouble -and the penalties of life. I love your father. No -woman could have loved him more. He is a fine and -a good man. But there are things a woman must -submit to in her married life--that is the cross she -must bear--which no words of mine can describe to -you. Nevertheless, don't think I complain. Don't -think I do not realize there is a blessed reward. Her -children are the light of life to her. Without them, I -dread to think what she must suffer at the hands of -Nature when the mercy of God has no recompense in -store. Eve was cursed with the bearing of children, -but they brought the mercy of God to her in their little -hands when once they were born."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This usually had been her concluding phrase. This -without variation she repeated to all of them. Of this -phrase, if vanity she had at all, she was greatly proud. -It seemed to her, in illuminating language to comprise -the whole meaning of her discourse.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hannah, Jane, Fanny, all in their turn had accepted -it in silence. It had been left to Mary to say--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It seems hard on a man that he should have to -suffer, because he doesn't get the reward of having -children like the woman does. Of course they're -his--but he doesn't bring them into the world."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At this issue, Mrs. Throgmorton had taken her -daughter's hands in hers and, in a tone of voice Mary -had never forgotten, she had replied--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never said, my dear, that the man did suffer. -He doesn't. If it were not for the sanctity of -marriage, it would have to be described as unholy pleasure -to him. That pleasure a woman must submit to. -That pleasure it is her bitter duty to give. That's why -I say I dread to think what she must suffer, as some -unfortunately do, when the mercy of God does not -recompense her with the gift of children."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Closely watching her daughter's face in the silence -that followed, Mrs. Throgmorton had known that -Mary's mind was not yet satisfied with the food for -thought and conduct she had given it. She became -conscious of a dread of what this youngest child of -hers would say next. And when Mary spoke at last, -her worst fears were realized.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can a woman," she said, "give pleasure to the -man she loves when all the time she is suffering shame -and agony herself? If he loves her, what pleasure -could it be to him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Throgmorton had closed her eyes and doubtless -in that moment of their closure she had prayed. -So confused had been her mind in face of this question -that for the instant she could do no more than say--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well--simply--" replied Mary in a childlike -innocence--"simply that it seems to me if a woman is -giving pleasure to a man she really loves, she must be -getting pleasure herself. If I give you a present at -Christmas and you like it and it gives you pleasure, -I'm not sure it doesn't give me more pleasure than you -to see you pleased, because--well, because I love you. -Why do you say 'It's more blessed to give than to -receive'?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That little touch of affection from her daughter had -stirred Mrs. Throgmorton's heart. Unable to restrain -herself, she had taken Mary's hands again with a closer -warmth in her own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, more blessed, dear--yes--there is of course -the pleasure of blessedness, the satisfaction of duty -uncomplainingly done. I have never denied that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had spoken this triumphantly, feeling that light -at last had been shown in answer to her prayer. Not -for a moment was she expectant of her daughter's -reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't mean that, mother," Mary had said. -"Satisfaction seems to me a thing you know in your -own heart. No one can share it with you. Of course -I don't know the feelings of a man, how could I? I'm -not married. But if I were a man it wouldn't give -me any pleasure to think that the woman I loved was -just satisfied because she'd done her duty. I should -want to share my pleasure with her, not look on at a -distance at her satisfaction. If a man ever loves me, -I believe I shall feel what he feels and if I do, I shall -be glad of it and make him glad too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had said it all without emotion, almost without -one note of feeling in her voice; but the mere words -themselves were sufficient to strike terror into -Mrs. Throgmorton's heart. That terror showed itself -undisguised in her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear--my dear--" she whispered--"I pray -God you never do feel so, or if it be His will you -should, that you will never forget your modesty or -your self-respect so much as to reveal it to any man -however much you may love him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To these four girls in that square, white house in -Bridnorth, this was such an influence as still reigned -in undisputed sway. The eyes of their parents from -those portraits still looked down upon them at their -prayers or at their meals. Still the voice of -Mrs. Throgmorton whispered in Mary's ears--"I pray -God you will never forget your modesty or your -self-respect." Still, even when she was twenty-nine, -Mary's eyes would lift to her father's face gazing down -from the wall upon her, wondering if he had ever -known the life she had suspicion of from the books -she read. Still she would glance at them both, -prepared to believe that, however dominant it was in their -home, the expression of their lives had been only the -husk of existence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then perhaps at that very moment the coach -might pass by on its way to the Royal George and the -horses' hoofs would sing as they beat upon the -road--"Life is ours--we are here to live--Life is -ours--we are here to live."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet there in Bridnorth at twenty-nine, no greater -impetus had come to her to live than the most vague -wonderings, the most transient of dreams.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was the Sunday before Christmas of the year -1894. No coach had come to Bridnorth for -three weeks. The snow which had fallen there -was still lying six inches deep all over the countryside -and on the roads where it had been beaten down at all, -was as hard as ice. Footmarks had mottled it. It -shone in the sun like the skin of a snow leopard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The hills around Bridnorth and all the fields as far -as eye could see were washed the purest white. Every -hedge had its mantle, every tree and every branch its -sleeves of snow. The whole world seemed buried. -Scarce one dark object was to be seen. Only the sea -stretched dark and gray like ice water, the little waves -in that still air there was, falling on the beach with the -brittle noises of breaking glass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only for this, a silence had fallen everywhere. -Footsteps made no sound. The birds were hidden in -the hearts of the hedges and even when hunger drew -them forth in search of berries, it was without noise -they went, in swift, dipping flights--a dark thing -flashing by, no more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Every one put on goloshes to climb or descend the -hill to church. The Vicar and his wife came stepping -over from the Vicarage close by like a pair of storks -and when the bell stopped ringing it was as though -another cloak of silence had been flung over Bridnorth -village. The Vicar felt that additional silence as -acutely as any one. It seemed to him it fell to -prepare the way for worship in the house of God and the -sermon he was about to preach.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The attendance that morning was no different from -what it would have been had the roads been clear. -Going to church in the country is a comfortable habit. -At their midday meal afterwards the subject of the -attendance would crop up at the Vicar's table as it -always did, ever full of interest as is the subject of the -booking-office returns to a theatrical manager. He -would congratulate himself upon the numbers he had -seen below him from that eminence of the pulpit and -would have been hurt beyond degree had any one -suggested it was largely habit that brought them there.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Throgmorton family would no more have -thought of staying away because of the weather than -they would have thought of turning the two portraits in -the dining-room with their faces to the wall.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They collected in the square hall of the square, white -house. They put on their gloves and their goloshes; -they held their prayer books in their hands; they each -looked for the last time to see that their threepenny -bits were safe in the palms of their gloves. Then they -set off.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The church in the country is a meeting place in a -sense other than that of worship. You may desire at -most times the quietness of your own home, but you -like to see the world about you in a public place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They worshipped God, those people in Bridnorth. -Who could hope to maintain that they did not? They -were close enough to Him in all conscience and fact on -those Devon hills. But that worship was more in the -silence of their own hearts, more on the floor at their -own bedside than ever it was at the service conducted -by the Vicar as so many services are conducted by so -many Vicars in so many parishes throughout the length -and breadth of the whole country.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The interest of seeing a fresh face, of even seeing an -old face if it be under a new hat; the mere interest of -human contact, of exchanging a word as they went in -or mildly criticizing as they came out; the mild -necessity of listening to what the Vicar said from the -pulpit, the sterner necessity of trying to understand what -he meant; the excitement of wearing a new frock, the -speculations upon the new frock worn by another, these -were more the causes of a good attendance in the worst -of weather, these and that same consciousness of being -overlooked, of having one's conduct under the gaze of -all who chose to satisfy themselves about it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As the Vicar climbed the pulpit steps, the congregation -settled themselves down with that moving in their -pews with all customary signs of that spirit of patience -every priest believes to be one of interest. Leaning -her square, strong shoulders against the upright back -of the Throgmorton pew, Mary composed her mind -with mild attention. Fanny shifted her hassock to the -most restful position for her feet. That sharp interrogative -look of criticism drew itself out in the line of -Jane's lips and steadied itself in her eyes. Hannah was -the only one upon whose face a rapt expression fell. -With all her gray hair and her forty years, she was -the youngest of them all, still cherishing her ideals of -the infallible priest in the man of cloth; still believing -that the voice of God could speak even through the -inferior brain of a country Vicar. Above all there were -her children who the next morning would ask her what -the sermon meant. It was necessary if only for their -sakes she should not lose a word that was said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After that pause on his knees when the Vicar's head -was bent in prayer, he rose to his feet and, as he spread -out the pages of his sermon before him, cast a -significant glance around the church. This was preliminary -to every sermon he preached. It was as though he -said--"I cannot have any signs of inattention. If -your minds have wandered at all during the service, -they must wander no more. I feel I have got -something to say which is vital to all of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All this happened that December morning, just as it -had occurred every morning for the twenty years he -had been the shepherd of their souls. It was almost as -long as Mary could remember.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Having cast that glance about him, he cleared his -throat--the same sounds as Jane once caustically -remarked they had heard one thousand times, allowing -two Sundays in the year for a </span><em class="italics">locum tenens</em><span>.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he gave out his text: "And the Angel said -unto her--'Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found favor -with God.'"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Perhaps it was the sound of her own name -there amongst all those people which stirred -her mind and added a quicker beat of the pulse -to Mary Throgmorton's heart. The full significance -of the text, the circumstance to which it referred, these -could not have reached her mind so swiftly, even -though Fanny with a sharp turn of the head had looked -at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found favor with God.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was at first the sound of her name, the more as -he repeated it. Listening to that habitual intonation -of the Vicar's voice, it meant nothing to her as yet that -Mary had found favor with her God. The only effect -it had was the more completely to arrest her mind in -a manner in which she had never been conscious of its -arrest before. She folded her hands in her lap. It -was a characteristic sign of attention in her. She -folded her hands and raised her eyes steadily to the pulpit.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There are some things," began the Vicar, "which -it is necessary for us to understand though they are -completely outside the range of our comprehension."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Involuntarily her interest was set back. It was the -delivery of such statements as these with which the -Vicar had fed the mind of his congregation for the -last twenty years. For how could one understand that -which was completely outside the range of comprehension? -Insensibly Mary's fingers relaxed as they lay in -her lap. She drew a long breath of disappointment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary," -he continued, "is one of those mysteries in the -teaching of the Church which passes comprehension but -which it is expedient for us to understand, lest we be -led away by it towards such false conceptions as are -held by the Church of Rome."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was scarcely a sermon he preached in which -the Vicar lost opportunity for such attacks as these. -He seemed to fear the Roman Catholic Church as a -man fears the alluring attractions of an unscrupulous -woman. From the eminence of his pulpit, he would -have cursed it if he could and, firmly as she had been -brought up to disapprove of the Romish doctrines, -Mary often found in her mind a wonder of this fear of -his, an inclination to suspect the power of the Roman -Catholic Church.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>From that moment, fully anticipating all they were -going to be told, her mind became listless. She looked -about her to see if the Mainwarings were in Church. -Often there were moments in the sermon when she -would catch the old General's eye which for her -appreciation would lift heavenwards with a solemn -expression of patient forbearance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They lived too far out of Bridnorth. It was not to -be expected they would have walked all that distance in -the snow. Her eyes had scarcely turned back from -their empty pew when the Vicar's words arrested her -again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because Mary was the sinless mother of Our -Lord," he was saying, "is no justification for us to -direct our prayers to her. For this is what it is -necessary for us to understand. It is necessary for us to -understand that Mary was the mother of Our Lord's -manhood. His divinity comes from God alone. -What is the Trinity to which we attach our faith? It -is the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, the three in -one. Mary, the Virgin, has no place here and it is -beyond this in our thoughts of worship we have no power -or authority to go.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Roman Catholic Church claims the mediation -of the Virgin Mary between the hearts of its people -and the divine throne of God. Lest we should drift -into such distress of error as that, let us understand the -mystery of the Immaculate Conception, however much -as a mystery we allow it to be beyond our comprehension. -Being the Son of God, Christ must have been -born without sin, yet being the Son of Man, He must, -with His manhood, have shared all the inheritance of -suffering which is the accompaniment of our earthly -life. How else could He have been tempted in the -Wilderness? How else could He have passed through -His agony on the Cross?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To what conclusion then are we thus led? It is to -the conclusion that Mary, the Mother of that manhood -in Christ, must have suffered as all women suffer. -She had found favor with God; but the Angel did not -say she had found immunity from that nature which, -being born in sin as are we all, was her inevitable portion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So, lest we fall into the temptation of raising her -in dignity to the very throne of God, lest we succumb -to the false teaching of those who would address their -prayers to her, it becomes incumbent upon us to see the -Virgin Mary in a clear and no uncertain light. -Mystery in her conception there must always be, but in -her giving birth in that manger of Bethlehem, it is as -Mary the wife of Joseph, the carpenter of Nazareth, we -must regard her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To all those present in the congregation this was no -more than one of the many tirades the Vicar had so -often preached against the Roman Catholic Church. -They listened as they had always listened before, with -patience but without interest. It was no real matter -of concern to them. They had no desire to be -converted. They had not in the silence of their homes -been reading the works of Roman Catholic authorities -as the Vicar had done. They did not entertain the -spirit of rivalry or feel the sense of competition as he -felt it. They listened because it was their duty to -listen and one and all of them except Mary, thinking of -their warm firesides, hoped that he would soon make an end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only Mary amongst them all sat now with heart and -mind attentive to what he said, pursuing not the -meaning he intended to convey, but a train of thought, the -sudden illumination of an idea which yet she dared not -find words in her consciousness to express.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We must think of her," the Vicar continued, "as -a woman passing through the hours of her travail. -We must think of her brought in secret haste by the -fear of consequence and the expedience of necessity to -that manger in Bethlehem, where, upon her bed of -straw, with the cattle all about her in their stalls, she -gave birth to a man child in all the suffering and all -the pain it is the lot of women to endure. For here -is the origin of that manhood in which we must place -our faith if we are to appreciate the fullness of -sacrifice our Savior made upon the Cross. It was a -woman, as any one of you, who was the mother of -Our Lord. A woman, blessed above all women to be -the link between the divinity of God the Father and -the manhood of God the Son. It was a woman who -had found favor in the eyes of her Creator, such favor -as had sought her out to be the instrument of the will -and mercy of God.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the Angel said unto her--'Fear not, Mary, -for thou hast found favor with God.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So often had Mary's name been repeated that by now -no association was left in Fanny's mind with her -sister. She turned and looked at her no more. But to -Mary herself, with this last reiteration of all, the sound -of it throbbed in every vein and beat in violent echoes -in her heart. For now no longer could she keep back -the conscious words that sought expression of those -thoughts in her mind. She knew beyond concealment -the idea which had forced itself in a suspicion upon her -acceptance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In all his eagerness to lead their minds away from -worship of the Virgin Mary, the Vicar had destroyed -for her every shred of that mystery it had been his -earnest intention to maintain. Now indeed it seemed -she did understand and nothing was left that lay -beyond her comprehension.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was the woman, as he had urged them, whom she -saw, the woman on her bed of straw, with that look in -the eyes, the look of a woman waiting for her hour -which often she had seen in the eyes of others it had -been her duty to visit in Bridnorth. It was the woman, -eager and suffering, with that eagerness she sometimes -had felt as though it were a vision seen within herself. -He had substituted a woman--just such a woman it -might be as herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And here it was then that the thought leapt upon her -like some ambushed thing, bearing her down beneath -its weight; beating at her heart, lacerating her mind -so that she knew she never in any time to come could -hide from herself the scars it made.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If she had suffered," Mary asked herself--"must -she not also have known?" And then, shaking her -with the terror of its blasphemy, there sprang upon her -mind the words--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who was the father of the Son of Man?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of -the Holy Ghost!" a voice intoned in a far distance and -with all the others she rose automatically to her feet. -Her eyes were glazed. She scarcely could see the -Vicar as he descended from the pulpit. Her heart -was thumping in her breast. She could hear only that.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">X</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>They walked home in groups and in couples -when the service was over. Only Fanny kept -alone. A verse of poetry was building itself -in her mind. One couplet already had formed a -rounded phrase. It had been revolving in her thoughts -all through the sermon. Round and about she had -beaten it as with a pestle in a mortar until she had -pounded it into shape.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Were all the trees as green to you</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>As they were green to me?"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was not so much what rhymed with "you" or -"me" that was troubling her as what more she could -continue to make the full matter of her verse. She -could think of no more. The whole substance of life -was summed up in those two lines to her. She walked -alone that morning, cutting words to a measure that -would not meet and had no meaning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary walked with Jane. The sound of the voice and -the laughter of others behind her in that sharp air -was like the breaking of china falling upon a floor as -hard as that beaten snow beneath their feet. She was -still in an amaze with the bewilderment of what she -had thought. Every long-trained sense in her was -horrified at the knowledge of its blasphemy. She -tried to believe she had never thought it. To induce -that belief, she would have persuaded herself if she -could that the Vicar had never preached his sermon, -that it was not to church they had been, that it was all -a dream, horrible and more vivid than life itself, but a -dream.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For life was peaceful and sweet enough there in -Bridnorth. Notwithstanding the song the hoofs of the -coach horses had always beaten out for her on the -roads, she had been well content with it. Often -doubtless the call of life had come to her there beyond the -hill; it came with its cry of pain and joy, its voice of -sorrow as well as happiness. But now, here amongst -the peace and the sweetness, where none of these vital -contrasts had ever existed, there had come something -more terrible than pain, more cruel and relentless than -sorrow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In moments she was astonished at herself that she -did not dismiss it all with one sweep of her mind, -dismiss it all as lies and blasphemy, as machinations of -the Devil himself. For what was the good just of -telling herself it was a dream, of pretending to hide -her thoughts from it as though it were not there? It -was there! She had thought it and so had the thought -come to her like a light suddenly in dark corners, that -she knew it was true. Never now could she cast out -its significance from the processes of her mind. In -the desperate fear that the very foundations of her -religious beliefs were shaken, she might buttress her -faith with the determined exclusion of all blasphemy -in her thoughts. Never again might she allow her -mind to dwell upon the origin of the manhood of that -figure of Christ, still dearer to her than life itself. -With persistent effort of will, she knew she could make -blind her vision of that scene in the manger at -Bethlehem which the Vicar in his ignorance and the -pettiness of his apprehensions had conjured forth so clearly -in her sight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All this she might do, clinging to the faith in which -she had been brought up; but never could she efface the -change which in those few moments had been made in -her. How could she know so soon what that change -might be? She knew only it was there. She was a -different being. Already she felt apart and aloof -from her sisters. Even Jane, walking there beside her, -appeared at a strange distance in which was a clearer -light for her to see by, a crystal atmosphere through -which she could distinguish nothing but the truth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly as they walked together, these two in -silence, Jane looked up and said--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish some one would kill that bee in the Vicar's -bonnet. As if there was the slightest chance of any of -us becoming Roman Catholics!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was like Jane, that remark. Suddenly Mary -knew how like it was. But more she knew in that -moment the change had not come to her sisters. They -had not seen what she had seen. No vision such as -hers had been vouchsafed to them. Still they were -happy, contented, and at peace in their garden of Eden. -It was she alone who had tasted of the fruit; she alone -who now had knowledge of good and evil.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Already she felt the edge of the sword of the angel -of God turned against her. The gates of that garden -they lived in were opened. In the deep consciousness -of her heart she felt she was being turned away. How -it would difference her life, where she should go now -that she had been driven forth, what even the world -outside those gates might be, she did not know.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All she realized was that for twenty-nine years a -Mary Throgmorton had been living in Bridnorth, that -now she had gone and another Mary Throgmorton had -taken her place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Looking down at Jane beside her when she spoke, -she saw for the first time a sad figure of a woman, -shrivelled and dried of heart, bitter and resentful of -mind. No longer was she the Jane who, with her -sharp tongue, had often made them laugh, who, with -her shrewd criticisms had often shown them their little -weaknesses and the pettiness of their thoughts. In -place of her she saw a woman wilted and seared, a -body parched with the need of the moisture of life; one -who had been cut from the tree to wither and decay, -one, the thought then sprang upon her, who had never -found favor with God or man.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">XI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>They came loitering to the square, white house, -pausing at the gate and talking to friends, -lingering over the removal of their goloshes -indoors. The crisp air was in their lungs. There -was the scent of cooking faintly in the hall. It rose -pleasantly in their nostrils. They laughed and chatted -like a nestful of starlings. Jane was more amusing -than usual. Her comments upon the hat bought by the -police sergeant's wife in Exeter and worn that Sunday -morning for the first time were shrewd and close of -observation; too close to be kind, yet so shrewd as to -prick even the soft heart of Hannah to laughter she -would have restrained if she could.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Even Fanny, with mind still beating out her meters, -lost that far-off look in her eyes and lingered in the -hall to listen to Jane's sallies, to every one of which -Hannah would murmur between her laughter--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jane! Jane--how can you? Fancy your noticing -that! Oh dear! we oughtn't to be laughing at all. -Poor thing! She can't help her eye or her figure."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I were fat," said Jane, "I wouldn't go in stripes. -You don't put hoops round a barrel to make it look thin."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Foolish though that might have sounded in London -drawing-rooms, it found a burst of laughter in the -square, white house.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On her knees above, upstairs in her bedroom, Mary -heard the noise of it. She could guess well the kind -of remark from Jane that had evoked it. Until those -moments Jane had been a source of amusement to her -as much as to any of them. She was a source of -amusement no longer. Even there on her knees with -the sound of their laughter far away in the distance of -the house, it was that sad figure of a woman, shrivelled -and dried, bitter with the need of sun to ripen her, that -came before her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then what were the others? With this new vision, -she dreaded to think that she in time must look -at them. What thoughts to have on one's knee! -What thoughts to bring into the sight and mind of God!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had come there alone to her bedroom to -pray--but what for? How could prayer help? Could she -by prayer make numb and dead the motion of her -mind? By prayer could she silence her thoughts, -inducing oblivion as a drug could induce sleep?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hastening away alone to her bedroom, she had hoped -she could. Even then she cherished the belief of all -she had been taught of the efficacy of prayer. But -having fallen upon her knees at her bedside, what could -she pray? Nothing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh--God, my heavenly Father," she began, and -staring before her with rigid eyes at the pillow on her -bed it became a twisted bundle of straw on which for -poor comfort rested the pale face of a woman patient -and enduring in her hour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How could prayer put away such visions as these? -With conscious muscular effort she closed her eyes -and began repeating in a voice her ears could -hear--"Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy -name."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So she would have decoyed herself into the attitude -of mind of prayer, but the sound of laughter in the -house broke in upon the midst of it. She saw that -thin, withered woman in whom the sap of life had -dried to pith, and, casting away the formula of -supplication, her voice had cried out for understanding of -it all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Something's all wrong!" she said aloud as though -one were there in the room beside her to hear and -oppose her accusations. "I don't know what it is. I've -never thought it was wrong before. And perhaps -after all it's I who am wrong."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She knew what she meant by that. Wrong she -might insist it was for her to have thought what she -thought in church. And yet some quality of deliberation -seemed necessary to compose the substance of evil. -What deliberation had there been in her? Out of the -even and placid monotony of life had shrilled this voice -into her heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who was the father of the Son of Man?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had not beckoned the voice. It had lifted out -of nowhere above the soulless intonation of the Vicar's -sermon. But what was more, now once she had heard -it, it appeared as though it long had been waiting to -cry its message in her ears. She wondered why she -had never heard it before. For twenty-nine years she -realized as she knelt there on her knees, she had been -little more than a child. Now in the lateness of the -day she was a woman, knowing more of the world than -ever she would have learnt by experience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The deeper purposes of life they were that had come -without seeking upon her imagination. It was not this -or that she knew about women, not this or that which -had come in revelation to her about men. Only that -there was a meaning within herself, pitiably and almost -shamefully unfulfilled. Something there was wrong--all -wrong. Half she suspected in herself what it -was. For those few moments as they walked back -from church, she had caught actual sight of it in her -sister Jane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Would she discern it in the others? Discovering it -in them would she know what it was in her? Why -was she on her knees for thoughts like this? This was -not prayer. She could not pray.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sound of the bell downstairs raised her slowly -to her feet. She took off her hat and laid it on the -bed. Automatically she crossed to the mirror and -began to tidy her hair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Was there anything in her face that made her heart -beat the faster? She stood looking at her reflection, -pondering that there was not. What beauty of color -was there in her cheeks? What line of beauty in her -lips? And why did she look for these things and why, -when behind her eyes she saw something in her mind -she dared not speak, did her heart set up a beating in -every pulse?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With a gesture of impatient self-rebuke, she turned -away and went downstairs.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">XII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Jane carved. As their father had always done, -she still gave them just portions of fat so that -the joint might evenly be consumed. There -was not the same necessity to eat it when it was hot as -there had been when Mr. Throgmorton was alive; yet -even still, Fanny with an unconquerable distaste for -it, did her best to leave a clean plate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Mary came in, they were already seated at the -table. Hannah had said grace. They all asked where -she had been.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tidying up," said she, and pulling out her chair, -sat down, beginning her meal at once with her eyes -steady upon her plate. Fanny was opposite to her. -Being the eldest, Hannah sat at the head of the table. -With the new vision of mind that had come to her, -there were long moments before Mary could determine -to raise her head and look at them. It was sufficient to -hear them talking. The subject of Christmas presents -was monopolizing the conversation. They were all -going in to Exeter for a day's shopping if the roads -permitted. Mary found herself caught in astonishment -at the apparent note of happiness in their voices.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Were they happy after all? Had she herself -become morbid and supersensitive with the sudden -unexpectedness of her revelation? Was it all a mood? -Would she wake on the morrow after a night of sleep, -finding the whole aspect of life set back again to its old -focus?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In a sudden hope and expectancy that it might be so, -she raised her head and looked across the table at Fanny -seated there with the full light of the window on her -face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a moment when, in a pause of the conversation, -Fanny's thoughts had slipped back to the labor of -her verses.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Were ever the trees so green to you</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>As they were green to me?"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The strained expression of fretted composition was -settled on her forehead. The far-off look of a -memory clutching at the past was a pain in her eyes. In -every outline and feature of her pale, thin face were -the unmistakable signs of the utter weariness of her soul.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In that one glance, Mary knew her vision was true. -It was no mood. All those signs of fatigue she had -seen in Fanny's face again and again. It was her -health, she had often said to herself. Fanny was not -strong. Ill-health it might have been, but the root of -the evil was in her spirit, not in her blood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sitting there opposite, as in all the countless times -from childhood upwards she had seen her, it was -another Fanny--the real Fanny--she beheld, just as -she knew now it was the real Jane. These three -sisters of hers, suddenly they had all become real. -Hannah with her heart more in the flow of the Bridnorth -stream, to the smooth round edges of contentment, -each one of them in her turn they were presented -with their new significance in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it was Fanny most of all in whom she felt full -sense of the tragedy of circumstance. That episode of -the visitor to Bridnorth came now with a fresh -meaning upon Mary's mind. They had all felt deeply sorry -for Fanny at the time, but one and all they had agreed -she had had a lucky escape.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Was it such a lucky escape after all? Did Fanny -regard it in that light? Could they be considered -fortunate who escaped from life however it might -wound and ill-treat them?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary realized as she sat there, fascinated by the -terribleness of her thoughts, that they all had escaped -from life. Not in one of them had there been the -moment's fulfillment of their being. They were women, -but it was not as women they had lived. One by one -the purpose of life was running slower in their veins. -She with the rest of them. Her turn would come. -First she would become a Fanny, tired with waiting. -That eager look of a spirit hunger would come into her -eyes, alternating as events came and passed her by -with those dull, dead shadows of fatigue. Hope she -would cling to as a blind man to the string that is -knotted to the collar of his dog. Hope, becoming -fainter and weaker year by year, would lead her until, -as with Jane, bitter and seared and dry of heart, she -sought its services no more. Still like the blind man -then she would beat with her stick up and down -the unchanging pavements of her life till at last -with Hannah she found a numbed contentment in her lot.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something indeed, as she had cried up there alone -in her room, something was wrong. She had come as -just a few women do to that conscious realization. -But her vision had not power to show her what it -was. In those moments it never occurred to her to -raise her eyes to the portrait of her father on the wall. -She was not didactic enough of mind to argue it with -herself or trace the origin of those conventions which -had bound and still were binding the lives of those -three women her eyes were watching.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something was wrong. Vaguely she sensed it was -the waste of life. It was beyond the function of her -mind to follow the reason of that wastage to its source. -Her process of thought could not seek out the social -laws that had woven themselves about the lives of -women until, so much were they the slaves of the law, -that they would preach it, earnestly, fervently, -believingly as her mother had done.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something was wrong. That was just all she knew; -but in those moments, she knew it well. There were -those three women about her to prove how wrong it -was. There was she herself nearing that phase when -the wrong would be done to her, and she would be -powerless as they had been to prevent it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fear not, Mary--" it was as though she heard a -voice beckoning within her--"Fear not, Mary, for -thou hast found favor with God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ever since they had come to an age of understanding, -their spirits had been warped and twisted with the -formalities of life. To fit the plan of those laws man -makes by force, they had been bent in their growing -to the pattern of his needs. It was those needs of his -that had invented the forced virtues of their modesty -and self-respect, beneath the pressure of which he kept -them as he required them, trained and set back to -fulfill the meaning of his self-centered purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Modesty and self-respect, surely these were qualities -of all, of men as well as women. By unnatural -temperatures to force them in their growth was to produce -exotic flowers having none of the simple sweetness of -sun-given odors in their scent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As life was meant, it grew in the open spaces; it was -an upright tree, spreading its green boughs under the -pure light of heaven. There was nothing artificial -about life. It was free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was the favor of God. That was the truth she -had come by and with her eyes marking that weary -look of resignation in Fanny's face, she knew she -would not fear it whenever or however it came.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was the seed, planted in the heart of Mary -Throgmorton, which in its season was to bring forth -and, for the life of the woman she was, bear the fruit -of her being.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="phase-ii"><span class="x-large">PHASE II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was in the summer of 1895 that Julius Liddiard -came to Bridnorth. He came alone, having -engaged rooms at the White Hart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>From the Throgmorton windows he was observed -descending at the George Hotel when, with a glance at -Mary, it was announced by Jane that he played golf. -As he slung a bulky satchel over his shoulder, Fanny -surmised him to be an artist, entertaining for a swift -moment as it sped across her mind, a vision of herself -sitting beside him, watching his sketches with -absorbing interest as they came to life beneath his brush.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It remained with Jane to make the final observation -as, accompanied by a man carrying his trunk, he passed -the windows on his way back to the White Hart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has his suit case polished," she said. "He's not -an artist. Paints for fun. Probably has a valet. -Too wealthy for the likes of Bridnorth. Comes here -to be alone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If judging the facts of appearance leads to a concept -of truth, these observations of Jane were shrewdly -accurate. Time, during the first week, proved the -soundness of their deduction.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was seen by Fanny on the cliff's edge above the -bay, painting with pleasing amateurish results and so -engrossed in his work as scarcely to notice her -presence. She had looked over his shoulder as she passed. -She was no critic but had, what is more common to -find, the candor of ill-formed opinion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was not bad," she said--"rather slobbery. It -was running all over the paper. P'r'aps he pulls it -together. Course I didn't stop."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jane's eyes narrowed. It was superfluous to say -she did not stop. That was one of Fanny's lies; one -of the lies all women tell which record their conscious -intentions while they belie the subconscious things -they do. She had not meant to stop. It was obvious -to Jane that she did. Her next words proved it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't understand," she said, "how any one can -become so engrossed, messing about with paints on a -piece of paper."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had stopped and he had not noticed her. -After a week had passed, Mary came back one -evening from the golf club. They were all having -tea.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"His name's Liddiard," she said casually in the -midst of a silence, and they all knew to whom she -alluded and what had occurred.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Questions poured upon her then from all but -Hannah, who went on eating her pieces of bread and -butter, letting her eyes wander from one to another as -they spoke.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She informed them of all she had gathered about him -during their game of golf, but gave her information -only under pressure of their questioning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ever since her eyes had penetrated the veil that for -so long had hidden her sisters from her, Mary had -resented, while so well she understood, their curiosity -about the visitors who came to Bridnorth. There -were times when it almost had a savor of indecency -to her; times when she felt her cheeks grow warm at -the ill-hidden purpose of their interest; times when it -seemed to her as though Fanny, revealing her soul, had -dressed it in diaphanous garments which almost were -immodest in their transparent flimsiness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She knew Fanny's soul now. She knew the souls -of all of them. She knew her own and often she -prayed that however Fate might treat her, even if as it -now treated them, she still would keep it secret and -hidden from eyes that were not meant to see.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He comes from Somerset," she told them. "He -has a large estate there. Something like two thousand -acres and I suppose a big house. No--does nothing. -I expect looking after a place like that is work enough. -Farms himself, I believe--the way he speaks about -it. Yes--married."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jane thought the annoyance with which she gave it -out was upon her own account. There was a smile in -her eyes when Mary admitted it, as though her -rejoinder might have been--"What a suck for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such good nature as she had kept the words from -utterance. But as well it was that Mary's annoyance -had really had nothing to do with herself. Their -question, chimed from Fanny and Jane together, had made -the blood tingle in her cheeks. Why did they expose -themselves like that? She would sooner have seen -them with too short a skirt or too low a bodice. -Scarcely conscious of this shame in Mary, it yet had -had power to hold back the words from Jane's lips. -Nevertheless she credited it to her virtue.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They say I'm bitter," she thought. "They don't -know how bitter I could be."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why isn't his wife with him?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary professed complete indifference and ignorance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you suppose I asked him?" she said. "Marriage -isn't a grazing in one field, is it? Life isn't one -acre to everybody."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How interestingly he must have talked about his -estate and farming. That came leaping at once into -Jane's mind. A grazing in one field--that was a -new-learnt phrase for Mary. There was little she knew -about grazing and could not tell an acre from a rood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How does he play golf?" she inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fairly well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How many strokes did he give you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"None--we played level."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What did he win by?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did--two and one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So you're going to play again?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, of course. It was a tight match."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jane rose from the table to go and make out the -linen for the laundry. Fanny sat staring at the tea -leaves in the bottom of her cup. Hannah inquired in -her gentle voice if any one wanted the last piece of -bread and butter.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was a closer observation than she knew when -Jane said that Julius Liddiard came to Bridnorth -to be alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was a lonely man. There is that condition of -loneliness more insuperable than others, the loneliness -of mind in a body surrounded by the evidences of -companionship. In this condition he suffered, unable -to explain, unable to express.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Much as he loved it, in his own home at times he -felt a stranger, whose presence within its walls was -largely upon sufferance. Mastery, he claimed, exacting -the purpose of his will, but in the very consciousness -that it must be forced upon those about him, he -felt his loneliness the more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Authority was not his conception of a home. He -had looked for unity, but could not find it. His wife -and her sister who lived with them, the frequent visits -of their friends and relations, these were the evidences -of a companionship that served merely to drive him -further and deeper into the lonely companionship of -himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had her right to life, he was forced in common -justice to tell himself, and if she chose the transitory -gayeties, finding more substance of life in a late night -in London than an early morning on Somersetshire -downs, that was her view of things to which she was -fully entitled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Of his own accord, he had invited her sister to live -with them, seeking to please her; hoping to please -himself. She made her home there. It was too late -actually to turn her away when he had discovered the -habit of her life was an incurable laziness which fretted -and jarred against the energies of his mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We make our lives," he said, enigmatically to -Mary, that first day when they were playing golf. -"Lord knows what powers direct us. I may make -the most perfect approach on to this green, but -nothing on earth can tell me exactly which way the ball is -going to kick."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had approached his life with all the precision of -which he was capable, but the kick had come and it -had come the wrong way. There was no accounting -for its direction. It was obvious to him he could not -see the world through his wife's eyes. After some -years it had become no less obvious that she could not -see it through his.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He wandered through the rooms of his own house, a -stranger to the sounds of meaningless laughter that -echoed there. He took his walking-stick, called a dog -and strode out on to the downs, glad to be in fact -alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Gradually such laughter as there was in him--he -had his full share of it--died out of him. Much as -he loved his wife, much as she loved him, he knew he -was becoming more and more of a disappointment to -her. In the keener moments of consciousness of his -loneliness, she found him morose, until, unable to -sing or laugh with the songs and laughter of that -house, he came at times to believe he was morose -himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's happening to me," he would say when he -was alone; "what's happening to me is that I'm losing -the joy of life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet the sight of the countryside at Springtime -seemed to himself to give him more sense of joy than -all the revels in London that made his wife's eyes dance -with youth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had laughed inordinately once; had won her -heart by the compound of his spirits, grave and gay. -It was quite true when she accused him of becoming -too serious-minded. He heard the absence of his -laughter and sometimes took himself away and alone -that she might notice it the less.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were times when it seemed she had lost all -touch with his mind that once had interested her. He -took his mind away and left his heart there at Wenlock -Hall behind him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What can happen with a man's mind when he holds -it alone in his keeping is what happened to Julius Liddiard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jane was more accurate than she knew when she -declared that he had come to Bridnorth to be alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was his intention to sketch and play golf with the -professional until such time as the longing for his -home again would urge him back with a mind ready -to ignore its disappointments in the joy of mating and -meeting with his heart again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Upon his first appearance on the golf links, the -professional had disappointed him. Mary Throgmorton -had stepped into the breach, recommended by the -secretary as being able to give him as good a game as -many of the members.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For the first half, they had played with little -interchange of conversation. As they left the ninth green, -she was two up. Then he had looked at her with an -increasing interest, seeing what most men saw, the -strong shoulders, the straight line of her back, the full -strength of her figure, the firm stance she took as she -played her game.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not until after the game was over and they -sat at tea in the Club Room, that he noticed her face -with any interest. Had this observation been denied -him, he would have gone away from Bridnorth, -describing her as a girl of the country, bred on sea air; -the type of mother for sons of Englishmen, if ever she -found her proper mate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But across that tea-table, his mind saw more. He -saw in flashes of expression out of the gray eyes that -faced him, that soul which Mary had only so lately -discovered in herself. He saw a range of emotion that -could touch in its flight the highest purpose; he heard -in her voice the laughter his mind could laugh with, -the thoughts his mind could think with.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, we've had a good game," he had said -steadily. "Do you think I've a chance of beating you -if we play again to-morrow?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like to win," said she, "if there's a chance of -being beaten. I expect you'll beat me next time. You -don't know the course yet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'll play to-morrow," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And it had been arranged.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>This time they played in the morning. They -had a simple lunch of boiled eggs such as the -Club provided. It was a common occurrence -for Mary to stay on the links all day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hannah thought nothing of her absence at the -mid-day meal. Fanny thought a great deal, but said no -word. Jane, thinking little, casually questioned why -it was always married men who came to Bridnorth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And invariably married men who play golf," she -added. Indeed in those days the younger men -somewhat left the game to their elders. "I believe Mary's -a bit of a fool," she went on. "If she really wanted -to marry, she'd play tennis or sit on the beach at -bathing time. That girl Hyland got married last year -throwing pebbles at an old bottle. We've all thought -marriage was a serious business. That was the way -they brought us up." She looked at her mother's -portrait. "That's what's been all wrong with us. It -isn't the one who sits quietest who's chosen. It's the -one who fusses about and chooses for herself. You've -got to be able to throw pebbles at glass bottles now. -Crochet hooks aren't any good. All our chances have -been lost in two purl and one plain. It's their fault, -both of them--it's their fault."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jane spoke so terribly near the truth sometimes that -it was agony for those others to listen to her. To -Hannah it was sacrilege almost, against the spirit of -those still ruling in that house. To Fanny it was no -sacrilege. She too knew it had been their fault. But -the truth of it was a whip, driving her, not that she -forgot her fatigue, but so as to urge her on, stumbling, -feeling the hope in her heart like harness wearing into -the flesh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Almost visibly she aged as she listened. Her -expression drooped. Her eyes fixed in a steady gaze -upon Jane's face while she was speaking as though the -weight of lead were holding them from movement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't speak like that, Jane!" Hannah exclaimed. -"How can you say it's their fault? They did the very -best they knew for us. Wouldn't you sooner be as -you are than like that girl Hyland?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's got a baby now," Jane replied imperturbably. -"She'll steady down. She's contributed more than we -have. It isn't much when all you can say is that you've -given a few old clothes to jumble sales."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know what Jane means," said Fanny. Her memory -had caught her back to that late evening on the -cliffs when she felt again, like an internal wound, -that spareness of her body in the arms which for those -few moments had held her close. "I know what Jane -means," she repeated, and rose from the table, leaving -the room, not waiting for her coffee.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At the Golf Club over their boiled eggs and the gritty -coffee while Liddiard smoked, they talked of Wenlock -Hall, the history of it, the farm and lands surrounding -it, the meaning that it had for him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How many children have you?" asked Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"None," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a question as to whether they should play -the final match that afternoon. Each had won a game.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why get through good things all at once?" said -he. "That's a sky for sketching--my sort of -amiable sketching. The view across the bay from that -Penlock hill will be wonderful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her readiness to part with his company for the -afternoon was simple and genuine.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course," she said, "you're here for a holiday. -I was getting selfish. I don't often get a good game, -you see. We've plenty of opportunity if, as you say, -you don't go till next week."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I meant you to come if you would," he -explained quickly. "Not much fun, I know. But -there's the walk out there and back and I like being -talked to while I'm painting. Not much of a -conversationalist then, I admit. I'm doing all the -selfishness--but one doesn't often get the chance of being talked -to--as you talk."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was the first time she had ever been told that any -power of interesting conversation was hers. She felt -a catch of excitement in her breath. When she -answered him, she could not quite summon her voice to -speak on a casual note. It sounded muffled and thick, -as though her heart were beating in her throat and she -had to speak through it. Yet she was not conscious -that it was.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll come if you really want me to," she said, and -her acceptance was neither eager nor restrained. She -went as freely as she walked and she walked with a -loose, swinging stride. It became a mental observation -with him as they climbed the cliff path, that their steps -fell together with even regularity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His sketch was a failure. The atmosphere defied -him, or the talk they made distracted his mind. He -threw the block face downwards on the grass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh! why do you do that?" she asked, regretting -consciously that which she did not know she was glad -of--"It looked as if it were going to be so nice."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It had got out of hand," said he. "They do, so -often. I know when I can't pull 'em together. -Besides, talking's better, isn't it? You can't give your -whole interest to two things at once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How long had they known each other? Two days--less! -He felt he had been talking to her constantly, -over a long period of time. She knew he felt that and -was kept in wonder as to what her interest could be to -him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once definitely having put his sketch out of his mind, -he lay back on the close, sharp-bitten grass, looking no -more across the bay, but talking to Mary about herself. -Tentative and restrained as his questions were, they -sought her out. She felt no desire for concealment, -but sat there, upright, as one would most times find -her, drawing a thread of sea grass backwards and -forwards through her fingers, answering the questions he -asked, sometimes briefly, sometimes with far excursion -into her mind, expressing thoughts she scarcely had -been conscious of till then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You make me a great egotist," she said presently, -with a laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't yours the age for egotism?" he answered. -"Why shouldn't you think about yourself when you're -young, and all's in front of you? When you come up -with it you'll have no time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When I'm young," she laughed. "You'd better -guess how old I am," and she laughed again, knowing -what Hannah or Jane would think to hear her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want to guess," said he. "Suppose you -were twenty-eight--or even thirty, I say all's in front -of you. That's your age. That's the impression you -give me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm twenty-nine," said she, and her eyebrow lifted -with suppressed laughter as he sat up in his surprise to -look at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Twenty-nine?" he repeated. "What have you -been doing with your life? Why are you here, -playing an occasional game of golf, attending mothers' -meetings, going to your little church every Sunday to -listen to that fool of a parson you have? It's -waste--waste--utter waste!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you ever thought how many women do waste -in the world?" she asked and then of a sudden felt the -hot sweep of blood into her face. How had it -happened she had come to talk to a man and a stranger like -this? Yet wasn't it true, and wasn't there some sort of -exciting satisfaction in saying it? She could not have -said that to Hannah, to Jane, not even to Fanny. -Why was it possible to exchange such intimate thoughts -with a man and he, an utter stranger she had met only -the day before?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly, in the speaking of that thought, she had -learnt something about herself and not herself only but -about all women and the whole of life. All that her -mother had taught her was wrong. Concealment, -deception, fraud, these were not the outward symbols of -modesty. Just as for the ailments of her body she -could not have gone to a woman doctor, so with the -smoldering fever of her inmost thoughts, it was only -to a man she could speak.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then did men understand? With the rest of her -sex she had always argued that they did not. If it -was not for understanding, then why had she spoken? -It must be that they understood; but not with their -minds, not cruelly, scorchingly, calculatingly, as women -did, judging shrewdly the relation between character -and the fact confided, but more spiritually than this; -the inner meaning, the deeper purpose, relating that -confidence to the soul of the woman who made it, -rather than to her conduct.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In that moment she had learnt the indefinable -complement between the sexes. In that moment, -Mary Throgmorton had for the first time in her -life answered to the cry of Nature calling mate to mate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The heat of the blood lifted in temperature in her -cheeks as she came upon her knowledge, but he said -nothing of the flush that lingered in them. A woman -would have noticed that and to her shrewd observation -they would have burnt the more. As he sat there, not -looking at her, but staring through the pine trees across -the bay, she found a feeling of comfort in being with -him as her cheeks grew cool again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Never looking at her, he asked if women were conscious -of that sense of waste, and the tone of his voice -was neither searching nor inquisitive. It had no -suggestion of personal curiosity behind it. He spoke -from inside himself, from inner purposes and from the -inner purposes within herself she answered him, -feeling no sense of restraint.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you imagine they wouldn't be?" she replied. -"Not perhaps in their everyday life, but in moments -in those days when even in a crowd you suddenly drop -out of existence, like a star falling, and find yourself -alone. Of course they feel it. Every energy of man -it seems to me has been to keep women from the touch -of life. But sometimes they find a loophole and get -out and find the sense of it, if it's only in the tips of -their fingers. They may be only moments, but every -woman has them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had never talked like this to any one before. -Had there been any one to talk to? Would she have -spoken to them in such a fashion if there had? It was -only since that sermon, the Christmas before, she had -been aware such thoughts were in the composition of -her mind and never had they expressed themselves so -definitely as this.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet her wonder was more of him than of herself. -Until that moment she could never have believed a -man could have understood. And it was not from -what he said that she felt he did. He was sitting -up now and he was nursing his knees as he gazed -out across the bay towards Kingsnorth. It was in -the abstract penetration of his gaze, the silence -about him as he listened that she sensed his understanding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet had she known it, he was thinking more of -himself than of her. Something echoed in him with all -she had said. It was not that he had never gained, but -that he had lost his touch with life. The spirit in him -was wandering and alone and it had chanced upon -hers, wandering also.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This sense of mutual understanding was merely the -call of Nature. The hazard of all things had tumbled -them together in the crowd of the world. Something -had touched. They knew it that second day. She -was answering some purpose in him--he in her. And -the explanation that Nature vouchsafed to her was that -he understood women; and the explanation that -Nature vouchsafed to him was that he was beginning to -understand himself, and that there was much in him -that needed much in her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was too soon to think that. It was too upheaving.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He rose quickly to his feet, saying, half under his -breath, but loud enough for her to hear, "It's -odd--it's all odd."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And she knew what he meant.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The bay at Bridnorth is inclosed by two -headlands of sandy stone. That to the east rises -irregularly with belts of pine wood and -sea-bent oaks, opening later in heathered moors that -stretch in broad plateaus, then sink to sheltered -hollows where one farm at least lies hidden in its clump -of trees.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is always a romantic world, that land which lies -to the cliff edge beside the sea. The man who farms -it is forever at close grips with the elements. He -wrestles with Nature as those inland with their -screening hedgerows have little knowledge of. The -hawthorn and the few scattered trees that grow, all are -trained by the prevailing winds into fantastic shapes -no hand of man can regulate. Sheep may do well upon -those windy pastures, but the cattle, ever at hiding in -the hollows, wear a weather-beaten look. Crops are -hazardous ventures and, like the sower, scattering his -grain, must plant their feet full firmly in the soil if -they would stand until their harvest time against the -winds that sweep up from the sea.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Up through the belt of pine wood and across the -heathered moors, Mary came often those days with her -friend. The views from countless places called for his -brush. Once she had brought him there to show him -her Devon, he sought the golf links no more. They -never played their final match.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On the first two occasions of their excursions beyond -Penlock Hill, he painted assiduously. Mary brought -a book and read. Long whiles between her reading -she watched him, smiling, when, with almost childish -distress, he assured her he had done pictures that at -least were worth glancing at in a portfolio, if not a -permanent frame.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For either it was, as in the first instance, that the -atmosphere of a strange country defeated him and -tricked his sense of color, or his mind was bent on -other things, but both days were fruitless of results. -On each of these occasions, as before, he threw the -sketches down, unfinished, and fretted at his lack of -skill.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This Devon of yours," said he, "has got more -color than I can get out of my box. What really is -the matter is that it has more color than I've got in my -eyes. If it's not in your eyes, it's not in your box. -You can't squeeze a green field out of a tube of oxide -of chromium. Paint's only the messenger between -you and Nature."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her sympathy was real. Notwithstanding that it -gave her more of his attention, she fretted for him too. -When the next day they met at the foot of Penlock -Hill and she found him without his satchel, she was -genuinely disappointed and unhappy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you sufficiently selfish," he asked, "to be -sensible of the obvious fact that I'd far sooner talk to -you than spend my time in useless efforts?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps it isn't in the nature of women to be really -selfish," she said, with a laugh to lighten her meaning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That set them at discussion upon the comparative -selfishness of the sexes as they mounted the hill and -took the beaten path across the heather.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a man, he had strange points of view to her. -With an honest bitterness, he complained about the -selfishness of men.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what else can we be?" said he. "As things -are, what else can we be? We run the world and this -civilization's our conception of the measures on which -it has to be run, and this civilization is built up on a -solid rock of egotism and selfishness, with brute force -to insist upon the upholding of the standard. I -wonder what would happen," he went on, "if fair women, -as Meredith visioned, rose in revolt. I wonder what -would happen if they suddenly combined to refuse to -give the world the material it builds its civilization with. -I wonder where our brute force would come in then. -What sort of children should we have if women had -to be taken by brute force? And should we so take -them if really they were to resist? Brute force has -been opposed only with brute force. Our highest -conception is that the strongest brute force wins. I -wonder what brute force would do if it were opposed with -the force of the spiritual ideals that women have and -scarcely are awake to even yet. Are you awake to -the spiritual ideals in you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at her suddenly as they walked and as -suddenly and as firmly she said--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "You're the first -woman I've ever met who would have answered as -straight and direct as that. All the rest would have -hedged and shilly-shallied. Some would have giggled. -Half of them would frankly not have known what I meant."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know very well what you mean," she replied. -"But if you're surprised at a woman knowing, I don't -think you're any more surprised than I am at a man -asking the question. How did you know to begin with -that women have spiritual ideals at all, strong enough -ever to think of their being ranged against brute force?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She paused, but it was so obvious she had still more -to say that he waited rather than interrupt the train of -her thought.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I expect your wife's a very wonderful woman," -she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In that pause she had wrestled with herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It had been the first time she had mentioned his -wife in all their conversation. Well she knew what -would be the effect of it. It would call her there -between them. Inevitably it would thrust him a -little away from her to give his wife room in their -minds.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It had been an irresistible thought, yet why should -she spoil the contact of mind between them by -speaking it? Was it incumbent upon her in any way to -remind him of his wife?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet partly she was curious to know, and wholly she -was honest to speak. There was his wife. Nothing -in Mary's thoughts would be reckoned without her. -Did he find a deep interest in speaking to her? She -believed he did, but there was his wife. She knew -there was no attraction of physical beauty in her, yet -had he not made it obvious in the last ten days that -still she had attraction for him? It seemed certain to -her that he had; but there was his wife.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At every turn in their conversation, at the end of -every steadied glance, this woman she had never seen -effected some intervention in thought or vision in -Mary's mind. More plainly a thousand times it seemed -she felt her presence than did he. There were -moments when enthusiasm caught him and it appeared he -had forgotten every one and everything but Mary there -before him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It became imperative then for her to summon that -vision before her mind. She did it with an effort. -But later, when alone at night before she turned to -sleep, it came without call, trembling her with -emotion at the thought that a moment might happen upon -them when they would both forget or come to memory -too late.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And what did she mean by that--too late? In all -frankness and honesty, she did not know. It were -better explained, she would not allow herself to know. -Reaching that issue in her conscious thought about it -all, emotion would sweep like a hot wind upon her. -She would lie, half trembling in the darkness, pressing -her hand upon her breast to frighten herself into some -sort of terrible joy at the rapid beating of her heart -and then, driving all conscious thought away from her, -she would straighten her limbs in the bed, exerting her -physical control, as when she nerved herself to play -her game, thus forcing herself to quietude and -ultimately to sleep.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So she came always consciously to a point of thought -which, bringing her the vision of his wife and the sense -of her own emotion, drifted her towards that -subconsciousness of being wherein the pattern of so many a -woman's life is made. She thought no more but, had -she permitted it, would have lain, silent-minded in an -ecstasy. It was no less than physical control, the -straightening of her limbs, the clenching of her hands, -the beating of her pillow into new resting places for -her head, that put the ecstasy away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here, in some likeness, was that same moment, in -the broad light of day with him beside her and the -crisp heather roots beneath their feet. It was almost -a physical effort in her throat that gave her strength -to say--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I expect your wife's a very wonderful woman."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She meant him to realize that in her thoughts it was -through his wife he had become possessed of such -knowledge about women; that there was his wife; that -she was there between them; that if he had for the -instant forgotten her, she had not. It was as though, -in a violent muscular effort, Mary had seized her by -the wrist and jerked her into step with them. Almost -was she catching for her breath when she had done it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My wife is a wonderful woman," said he quietly. -"She has as big a heart as all this stretch of acres and -that breadth of sea, but to-day is her to-morrow. I -didn't learn about the spiritual ideals of women from -her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where did you learn it then?" asked Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now you're asking me something I couldn't possibly -tell you," said he, and then he smiled. He had -seen the look leap slanting across her eyes as she -thought of the other woman who had taught him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because," he added--"I don't know."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>If it were Fanny who first had sense of what was -happening, it was Jane who, when she discovered -it, spoke out her mind about the matter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fanny knew by instinct, long before the first -suspicions had fermented her elder sister's thoughts. She -detected a sharper, brighter look in Mary's eyes; she -calculated a greater distance in Mary's meditative -glance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At first it was as subtle a detection as the record of -that weightless rider one straddles on the balance arm. -Faintly the scales of her suspecting answered to the -application of the signs which she observed. Faintly -the weight of a thought was registered upon her -consciousness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If it was not as yet that Mary was in love, at least -her mind was centering on that which any moment -might turn to burning thoughts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They occupied the same room together, these two. -This had been a habit from childhood. Since the death -of Mr. and Mrs. Throgmorton, the accommodation of -that house did not necessitate it. But they had grown -used to each other's company. They would have -missed the sound of each other's voices those moments -before the approach of sleep, the exchange of more -lucid conversation in the mornings as they dressed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was in unaccustomed pauses as she undressed at -night that Fanny's mind found the first whispers of -her instinct about Mary. It was not that she said to -herself--"I used to sit on my bed like that--I used -to stare at the wall--I can just remember what I used -to think about." Far more it was that, at the sight of -Mary doing these things, there came, like an echo into -Fanny's pulses, the old emotions through which she -had passed when she had been walking round those -cliff paths waiting for the destiny that should declare -itself for her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She watched her sister, even more closely than she -knew. It was emotional, not conscious observation. -Once the matter had fastened itself upon her imagination, -the whole spirit of it emotionalized her. She -noted all the indications of Mary's condition of mind, -without looking for them; almost without knowing she -had seen them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The processes of her thought during that first -fortnight when at the last Liddiard was meeting Mary -every day, were subtle, subliminal and beyond any -conscious intent. Often watching her sister as, regarding -herself in the mirror while she did her hair, with those -indefinite touches of greater care and more calculating -consideration, she found a pain fretting at her heart--a -hunger-pain as of one who is ill-nourished, keeping -life together but no more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In this it was as also in the choice of the skirts and -blouses Mary wore. It needed no great selection of -wardrobe to trace this to its source.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fanny could never have dreamt of expressing the -knowledge that women dress to the dictation of their -emotions even if it be something that is never revealed, -the color of a ribbon on their undergarments, even the -choice of those undergarments themselves. That -which touches their skin means insensibly something -to them when their emotions are astir. It was not -that Fanny had learnt this; she knew it. But it was -not that she could speak of her knowledge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All that happened with Fanny those days was that -the observation of these things in Mary emotionalized -her. Lying in bed there, watching her sister as she -dressed, she found her pulses beating more quickly. -She felt a restlessness of body as well as mind. She -threw the bedclothes from her and got up, not because -she wanted to be dressed herself, but because she -could not stay in bed any longer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then, when one morning, Mary said--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've been thinking, Fanny--why shouldn't I turn -that room looking over the garden into a bedroom? -We're awfully cramped here. It's just like us to go -on with the same arrangements, merely because we're -used to them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Fanny knew, and her knowledge was more of -an upheaval in her mind than any thought of this -revolution against the placid routine of their existence. -So much greater was it that she could not even bestir -herself to resentment against Mary for preferring to -be alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The thought crossed her mind--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do I interfere with her? It's awfully selfish -of her to want to be alone. It isn't as if we hadn't -shared the same room for years."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such thoughts as these would have been poignant at -any other time. Mary was prepared for the assertion -of them. But they seemed idle to Fanny then--foolish -and utterly devoid of purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She sat on the side of her bed, staring at Mary -busily engaged in doing her hair. And she knew so -well what the meaning of that centered occupation was. -Such a moment she would have chosen herself for an -announcement of that nature.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary was in love, and with a man who had a wife -already. She was surprised in her own soul at the -littleness of weight the second half of that realization -carried in her thoughts. She did not ask herself -what--this being so--Mary was going to do about it. -As a problem of impenetrable solution, it meant -scarcely anything to her. All that kept repeating itself -in her mind was just the knowledge that Mary was in -love--Mary was in love.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She felt a sickness in her throat. It was not of -fear. It was not exactly of joy. She might have been -seized of an ague, for she trembled. The sensation -was like waves breaking over her; as though she were -in water, fathoms deep, and were struggling to keep -her lips above the surface that she might breathe freely. -But she could not breathe; only in stolen moments, as -if breath were no longer hers to hold.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary was in love. She wanted that room by -herself so that at night she could lie alone with her -thoughts and none could touch or spoil them with their -presence. She wanted that room alone so that in the -morning she could wake with none but her thoughts -beside her. She was in love. Suddenly the world to -Fanny seemed bitter and black and cold. She was -out of it. It had gone by. She was left there on the -roadside--trembling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Love was the magic by which she herself could be -revealed to herself when, coming upon this sudden -knowledge of Mary, it was that she realized there was -no magic in the world for her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was alone, unloved, unloving. In that there -was merely consciousness, a staring, hungry consciousness -of herself. Only in the abandonment of generosity -that came with love could she find any meaning in -her soul. Only by giving could she gain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The tragedy of Fanny Throgmorton and the countless -women that are like her was that she had none to -whom she could give.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All this, without a word in her thoughts that could -have given it expression, was what she felt about Mary -as she sat on her bedside that morning and watched -her sister doing her hair.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Jane made the discovery for herself, but by -chance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One morning when Mary had gone out, indicating -the likelihood of her playing a game of golf, -Jane put on her oldest hat, took the path through the -marshes which avoided the necessity of going through -the village where she would be seen and criticized for -her clothes, and went alone up onto the cliffs beyond -Penlock.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>These were rare, but definite, occasions with her. -She felt the necessity of them at unexpected intervals -as a Catholic, apart from Saints' days and Holy days, -feels the necessity of confession and straightway, in -the midst of business hours or household duties, seeks -out the priest and speaks his mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To Jane, those lonely walks with the solemn solitude -of those cliffs, were confessional moments when, -setting herself at a distance which that wide environment -could lend her, she could look on at herself, could -calmly inspect and almost dispassionately criticize.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went without knowledge of her purposes. It -was just for a walk, she said, and if questioned why -she insisted upon going alone, she would find herself -becoming angry at their curiosity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mayn't I sometimes like my own company better -than anybody else's?" she would ask shortly and that -was about all she knew definitely of these confessional -calls. If she was aware of any mental exercise -during those walks, it was in momentary observations of -Nature, a lark soaring, a flight of gulls upon the water, -the life of that farm in the hollow above Penlock. Of -that inquisitorial examination of herself, practically -she knew nothing. It took place behind the bolts of -doors, all sound of it shut out, barring admittance to -her conscious self.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Coming back for the midday meal she would say to -Hannah across the table--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How you can stick in the house all day, one week -after another, beats me. It was perfectly lovely this -morning up there on the moors. We all make life so -automatic here that one might as well put a penny in -the slot and have finished with it. It's only a -pennyworth we get."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>From this they received the impression she had also -given to herself, that she had been drinking in the -beauties of the countryside. If she had, it was but a -sip of wine at the altar where she had been kneeling in -inmost meditation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This morning, feeling the sun too hot for energy, -she had found for herself a sheltered bed in the heather -where, through a gap in the jungle it became as she lay -in the midst of it, she could see the farm in its hollow, -the sea of cerulean beyond and, nearer in the -foreground, a belt of pine trees standing up amongst their -surrounding gorse and bracken.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was there upon a path leading through the bracken -to a gate in one of the farmer's hedges, she caught her -first glimpse of Mary and Liddiard. The mere fact of -her not being on the golf links as she had said drove -the suspicion hot, like a branding iron, on Jane's -thoughts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She watched them pass by below the hill on which -she had found her bed and her eyes followed them like -a bird's, alert and keen. When they stopped at the -gate and Liddiard seated himself on it with his feet -resting on the bar beneath while Mary stood below him, -Jane made for herself a window in that secreting wall -of heather and lay there, watching them, with all her -blood fermenting to a biting acid that tasted in her -mouth and smarted in her eyes, becoming even, as it -were, a self-righteous irritation beneath her skin.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To her it was obvious enough. Their Mary who -read so many books, who seemed to care so little what -destiny the fateful coach to Bridnorth brought her, -was sport of Fate and surely now. Their Mary was in -love.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jane angered at the realization of it to think what -a fool her sister was. It would be talked about the -whole village over, especially then, during the holidays -when the summer visitors were there. One visitor -there was in particular who came every year and spent -most of her mornings after bathing drying her hair on -the beach and talking scandal till hunger and the -mid-day meal called her homewards.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What a fool she was! This story of herself and -a married man would linger long whiles in Bridnorth. -They had not much to talk of. They preserved their -gossipings with assiduous care. Each year it would -be whispered about her and men would keep her at a -greater distance than ever.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They talked there together for an hour and more. -For an hour and more, Jane lay and watched them. -What were they talking of? Sometimes by the way he -spoke, leaning down and riveting each word upon -Mary's attention, it seemed as though their -conversation were of the most serious nature.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How could it be serious? What a fool she must be -if she thought it was! It was an idle flirtation with -him, a married man, alone on his holidays, amusing -himself with the most likely girl that offered herself. -Yet never with all her astuteness would Jane have -considered that Mary was the most likely. Always Mary -had seemed, except for her games, insensible to the -attractions of men. What had come over her? Fanny -was the one whom men with inclination for harmless -passing of their time had singled out for semi-serious -interchange of ideas. Fanny was romantic. Men -liked that when it did not become too serious to -interfere with the free pursuit of their enjoyments.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But this, as she watched them there through her -curtain of heather, looked more romantic than anything -she could ever have imagined about Fanny. Had they -been strangers and had she come across them thus she -would have felt herself in the presence of something -not meant for her to see and, passing them by, she -would have given all impression of looking the other -way, however covertly she might have observed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet here it was her own sister and, to herself, calling -it her duty, she watched them both with every sense -stretched forth to clutch each sign or movement that -might give evidence to her impulsive mind how far the -thing had gone between them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was not long in learning the utmost truth. -After a long silence, Liddiard slipped down off the gate -and stood in the bracken looking directly into Mary's -eyes. Jane felt that look. She held her breath as it -pierced into her own eyes. Then, when he laid his -hands upon Mary's shoulders and for an instant held -her so as he spoke, Jane swallowed in her throat and -against the roots of heather felt her heart beating like -a trapped bird in her breast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At that distance, more sure than Mary, she knew -what was going to happen. More sure than either of -them, she knew. When suddenly, as though some -leaping power had swept upon him unexpectedly, he took -her in his arms and their heads were one together, -linked with his kisses, Jane had known of it more surely -than he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Feeling those kisses on her own lips, on her eyes, her -throat, and like hammers beating in her heart, Jane -buried her face in the heather but did not know that -she moaned with pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When she looked up, they had gone.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>If those kisses were hurtful to Jane, they were a -sublime realization to Mary. In the rush of them -as they pressed against her lips, she felt a -consummation of all those forces of life which, with the -Bridnorth coach, had so often called to her as it came -and passed with its message out of the world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rightly or wrongly in the accepted standards of -morality, Mary felt such completed justification in -those moments as to be sensitive of the surging -intentions of life triumphing within her. This, she knew -then, was the fullness of meaning in a woman's life. -If it were pleasure, it was not the pleasure of sensation; -not even the pleasure of the promise of gratification. -None of the joys of amorous delay were mingled in -those kisses for her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What she felt in the rushing torrent in her veins -was all subsidiary to the overwhelming sense of fulfillment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He would have lingered there beside that gateway in -the bracken, would have dallied with the joy it was to -him to feel her whole being in response to his. But -Mary had no need of that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If this was what her mother had meant by concealment -of her own sensations, she surely had it then. -This was not an hour of dalliance in her life. It was -the deep-sounding prelude to the realization of the very -spiritual substance of her being.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At her dictation they left that place in the bracken. -In response to her wish they turned from the gateway -and sought the beaten path through the heather again. -In that moment she wanted no more of his kisses; -partly perhaps because in her emotions she could have -borne no more; but mostly it was that she wanted space -and freedom for her thoughts; to speak them to him -if need be, certainly to review them in her mind. It -was time she demanded--time to touch the wonder -that was coming to her, which, from the power of those -kisses, she somehow assumed could not be withheld -from her now.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I could not help that," he said almost apologetically -when she insisted upon their going on. "Somehow or -other--I don't know--honestly, I couldn't help it, -and I suppose I've offended you now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For one instant she turned her eyes upon him with -a searching glance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Offended?" she repeated. "Didn't you realize -that I let you kiss me--not once--but--" Suddenly -she realized in a swift vision the Mary Throgmorton -that was; the Mary Throgmorton of the square, white -Georgian house; the sister of Hannah and Jane and -Fanny, and she could not say how many times he had -kissed her. Her cheeks flamed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't talk about offense," said she almost hotly, -and walked on with him some time in silence, saying -no more, leaving him in an amaze of wondering what -her thoughts could be and whether that denial of -offense was not merely a screen to hide from him the -shame she felt at what had happened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Was she ashamed? It seemed to him then that she -was. That probably was the last time he would touch -her lips, yet having touched them and felt, not the -eagerness as with Fanny, but the sureness of their -response, there had been awakened in him the full -consciousness of desire to touch them with his lips again. -For now he felt, not master of her, but a servant. -At the mere utterance of her command, he must obey. -With all his eagerness to stay there longer at that -gate there was no power in him of conflict with her -wishes when she expressed the desire to go on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What was it she was thinking as she walked? Did -really she hate him for what he had done? The cry -her nature had made to his in those moments of the -closeness of their bodies had redoubled and redoubled -in its intensity. Yet he was less sure of her than he -had been before.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He felt like one struggling blindly through the -storm of his emotions, answering some call that was -not for help but of command. Was that the end of it -all? Would he never again hold her in his arms? -Tentatively he took her hand which did not resist his -holding as they walked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear," he said--almost below his breath--"I -suppose I've seemed weak--but--I love you. -It was not weakness. I can't explain it, but if you -knew, really it was strength."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please don't say any more--not now," said she -and lengthened her stride and threw back her head that -all the full sweep of the air might beat upon her face -and throat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It never consciously occurred to her that a woman's -throat and the fine column of her neck could express -her beauty to a man. Yet as they walked, she knew -that his eyes had seen such beauty in hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So it was, when Jane looked up again, they had -gone. For another half hour and more she sat there -in her bed in the heather, trying to appreciate all that -it meant. But again and again the sequence of her -conventional thoughts was disturbed by the vision of -those two as her eyes turned to the gateway in the -bracken and she saw them in her mind with lips touching -and heads close pressed together in that long embrace.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With that vision all conventionality slipped from -her control, even from the very substance of her -thoughts. Instinctively she knew she had been -witness of something she had neither power nor right to -judge when, forcing herself to regard it as all the -years of habit and custom would have her do, she -shut her eyes to the sight of them in that bracken and -called upon her judgment to dispassionate her mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That evening she contrived to be alone with Mary -after tea. They walked in the garden, round the -paths with their borders of thrift in heavy cushions -of growth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In a tone of casual unconcern, Jane asked her about -her game of golf.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her pause in answering was significant. In full -confidence, Jane expected the lie and understood her -sister still the less when, having weighed the truth -against expediency, she replied--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We didn't play golf. We went up onto the -moors above Penlock."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It gave Jane the opportunity she sought, but in the -frankness of giving confused her. So had her mind -forestalled all the progressions of that conversation, -that for a moment she was silent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What sort of woman was this Mary of theirs who -seemed to have no guiltiness of conscience, when -from childhood she had been trained to listen to the -still, small voice? Did she not realize the enormity -of what she was doing? Jane's lips set to their -thinnest line.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you think it's wise," she began, and in that -tone of voice which, with a sharp edge, cut the plain -pattern of her meaning--"Do you think it's wise to -go about so much with this man? Even if he weren't -married--do you think it's wise?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sharp glance which Jane stole at her sister then -revealed Mary possessed and unconcerned. So well -had she known what Jane was going to say that -surprise had no power to disconcert her. But beyond -that, there was in some chamber of her mind a certain -sureness of herself, a steadying confidence in all she -did. This it had also been even in the high torrent -of her emotion when she would have no more of his -kisses and seemed in that moment to him the -substance of unyielding stone his temperature of -passion had heated but a moment and no more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think," she replied, after a moment's silence; -"I think that this wisdom you talk about--worldly -wisdom--is a very over-rated virtue. I think we've -lost a lot--all of us--by cultivating it. I find -Mr. Liddiard much more interesting than any one -or any thing in Bridnorth. Life after all is short -enough--dull enough. Why shouldn't I take what -interest it offers when I can, while I can? He goes -in a few days. What's worldly wisdom to the -feeling that your mind is growing instead of stagnating? -If you mean you think I ought not to go out with him -again, I can't agree with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She spoke like a woman addressing a community -of women, not as one sister to another. There was a -note of detachment in her voice, Jane had never -heard before. In all that household, Jane always -assumed she had herself the final power of control. -She felt it no longer here. So long as Mary was -speaking, it appeared to her as though she were one -listening to some authority far superior to her own. -It was in Mary's voice and yet seemed outside and -beyond her as well. There was power behind it. -She could not sense the direction or origin of that -power, but it dominated her. She felt small beside -it, and feeling small and realizing that it was this -Mary, their youngest, who was the voice of it, she -grew angry. All control of that situation she had -intended to conduct left her. It left her fretting with -the sensation of her own impotence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't agree with me, can't you!" retorted -Jane hotly. "You wouldn't agree, I suppose, if I -said that, beside being unwise, I thought it beastly and -sinful and horrible altogether, to see a girl kissing a -married man, kissing him in a beastly way too?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Never, even from the first moment of her discovery, -had she ever meant to say this. This was not -Jane's method. What flood of emotion had borne her -thus far out of her course? Fully it had been her -intention to speak of Mary's friendship with Liddiard -as though it were a flippant and a passing thing; to -belittle it until, in its littleness, she had shown this -foolish sister of hers what folly it was.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How had it happened she had thus exaggerated its -importance by the heat of her words? Something -had pricked and spurred her. Something had driven -her beyond her control. Finding herself opposed by -a force so infinitely greater than her own, she had -struggled and fought. It had been a moment's -hysteria in the sudden consciousness of her impotence. -Then what power was it? Not merely Mary herself. -She could not submit her mind to that admission. It -was greater than Mary and yet, becoming the voice of -it, she felt that this sister of hers was greater than -herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To Mary, the shock of realization that Jane had -seen them that moment in the bracken was not one -that seemed to tremble or emotionalize her at all. If -she felt any anger at the thought that she had been -spied upon--for swiftly recalling the place of that -happening, she knew Jane must have been in hiding,--it -was an anger that burnt out, like ignited powder, -a flash, no more. It left no trace. All her -consciousness assembled in her mind to warn her that the -meaning of Life which had come in those last two -weeks to her was in jeopardy of being made meaningless. -It did not frighten her, but set the beating -of her heart to a slow and deliberate measure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whatever Jane knew and however she intended to -use her knowledge, Mary determined to fight for this -new-found purpose of her existence. If they were -fools, if theirs was the folly of waste, if they let all -life go by them to be worldly wise, she could not help -or wait for them now.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something had come with its promise of fulfillment -to her, her nature urged her not to ignore. What if -he was married? There had been moments in the -inception and growth of their relationship when she -had thought first of his wife. She thought first of -her no longer. She was stealing no intrinsic thing. -In a few days he would go back to his house in -Somerset and what he had given her of his mind, as she had -seen, had been his to give her; and, if he had kissed -her, what had she stolen from his wife in that? He -would still kiss his wife. She knew that. As plainly -as if they were there before her, she could see their -embrace. It meant nothing to her. They would not -be the same kisses he had given Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whatever had been the call of Nature to him in -that moment when passion had spoken out of his -lips, his eyes, the power she felt in his arms as they -crushed her, it had been not through the channel of -his body, but his mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Insensibly she was learning the multitudinous -courses by which Nature came to claim her own. -She was stealing nothing from his wife. All that -was coming to her was her own and with the sudden -realization of Jane's knowledge of what had happened, -her first sensation was a warning that her very -soul was in jeopardy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was nothing to be said then; no defense that -she could, or cared to, offer. She knew quite well -from those long years of knowledge, how horrible -their kisses must have seemed to Jane. Once upon a -time, she might have thought them horrible herself. -Now, there was nothing to be said that might serve in -her defense.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Taking a deep breath, she looked straight in Jane's -eyes and stood there, arresting their movement on -the garden path to paint the defiant attitude of her mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well--if you've seen," said she, "you've seen. -There's no more to be said about it. We've all lived -together so long, I suppose it's hard for any one of us -to realize that our lives are really all separate things. -You talk about it as being beastly. I can assure you -there was nothing beastly in our minds. However, -you must think whatever your mind suggests to you -to think, and you must start yourself all the talk about -us you say is bound to come when I'm seen about with -him, if you feel that way inclined. But I'll tell you -just one thing--you can't make me ashamed of -myself. I'm twenty-nine."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned away, walked with all the firmness of -her stride into the house and left Jane, standing there, -withered and dry between those borders of spreading -thrift and flowers all dropping their seed into the -mold that waited for them.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Liddiard was returning to Somerset in -three days' time. Before their parting that -day above Penlock, he had urged for their -next meeting as soon as she was free of household -duties the following day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Only three more chances," said he, "of being -with you, and when I thought most I understood you, -understood you so well that my arms seemed the only -place in which to hold you, I find I understand you -less than ever. You don't ask what it means. You -don't say "What are we going to do?" I've told -you I love you, but you don't appear to want to know -anything about the future. It seems to me that any -other girl would be wanting to know what was to -become of her. You're so quiet--so silent."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Climbing back down the cliffs, holding on to one -of the pine trees in her descent, Mary had turned and -smiled at him. It was an inscrutable smile to -Liddiard. It was not that he tried to understand it. It -was, as it penetrated his mind, that he knew it to be -quite impossible of comprehension. More it was as -if Nature had smiled upon him, than the mere bright -light of the parting of a woman's lips. In its -illumination it seemed to reveal to him the vision of -himself in a strange powerlessness. He felt like some -tool of a workman as it lies idle on the bench, waiting -the moment for those hands to pick it up and give it -purpose. So it appeared to him might a carpenter -have smiled with pleasure at the chisel he knew his -hands could wield for perfect work. All the more -that he had meant to say dried into silence on his lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want to know anything about the future," -said Mary as she walked on, "I know you love me -and I think I understand what you love and why you -love. I know I'm not sophisticated. I've no -experience of the world. I don't pretend to understand -these things in the light of experience. I haven't got -any wisdom about it, but I feel it's not unreal or -impossible for you to love me and love your wife as -well. I don't feel I want you to say you don't love -your wife in order to prove that you love me. I think -it would finish everything in my mind if you said you -didn't love her. I'm not thinking about the future, -because there is no future as you used the word. I -don't ask what we're going to do, because I know -what we're going to do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are we going to do?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In two days' time," she replied, "you're going -home to Somerset and I'm going to stay on here in -Bridnorth."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly she turned again swiftly and barred his -passage as he came along down the cliff path behind her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why don't you understand me?" she asked -abruptly. "It all seems so plain. Don't you realize -how I've been brought up? I know there's a certain -sacredness in marriage. I've been trained to regard -it as one of the most unbreakable ties in the world. -I wouldn't dream of expecting or claiming anything -from you, however much you said you loved me. -Whatever happened, I shouldn't dream of that. -You're half afraid of it. I can see you are. I don't -love you any the less because I see it. It seems -natural you should be afraid. It seems to me most men -would be with most women. But you needn't be."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had let him be drawn close to her again. He -put his hands on her shoulders and looked with all his -passion into her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's the first time you've said you loved," he -whispered. "Do you know what it sounded like to me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Like an organ playing in an empty church. My -God! You're wonderful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then she had let him kiss her again; again, -herself, being the one to draw away when emotion rose -to stifling in her throat. Again was he obedient to -her wishes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They had arranged to meet the next morning on -the cliffs. Liddiard had promised he would bring -lunch.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They'll think we're up at the Golf dub," he had -said, for already in their minds had appeared that -urgency for deception which should secure for them -the certainty of their meeting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the next morning, after her conversation with -Jane, Mary dispatched a note to Liddiard at the -White Hart Hotel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He tore it open with fingers that had dread in them.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Meet me on the beach at 11.30," she had written, -"near the bathing tents. Don't bother about lunch."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>With a sudden chill it struck him. It was all over. -The night had brought her calmer thoughts. Emotion -was steadied in her now. She was not going to -trust herself alone with him again. It was all -finished. On an impulse he took a piece of paper and -wrote on it--</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Have been called back to Somerset this morning; so -sorry I shall have no opportunity to say good-by."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>When he had written, he stared at it, reading it -again and again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Was not this the best? It was too wonderful to be -true; too wonderful to last. He knew himself well -enough to realize that any prolonged deception with -his wife would be impossible. He had the honesty -of his emotions; the courage of his thoughts. He -could not practice deception with any ease. -Wonderful as it was, could any wonder compensate for -the utter wrecking of his home? It was not as -though in the wonder that had come to her, she -refused to recognize his wife. That was what brought -him such amaze of her. Any other woman he would -have expected to be jealous, exacting, cruel. She -appeared to be none of these.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What, in the name of God, was it she wanted? -The sudden wish to understand, the sudden curiosity -to find out communicated with the energy in his -fingers. He tore up the note he had written and flung -the pieces away, sending back the messenger without -a reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was playing with life, a sport that in other men -earned for them his deepest contempt. It was playing -with life, yet the call to it was greater than he -could or cared to resist.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At half-past eleven, he went down to the beach -where all the inhabitants of Bridnorth sat and whiled -away their time till the midday meal, and there he -found her, dressed with more care and more effect -than she had ever been before. She was lying down -under the warm shade of a brilliantly colored -parasol and, as he approached her, it seemed to him that -there was a deeper beauty in her then than in any -other woman in the world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why this?" he said as he sat down. "Here of -all places? Do you know very nearly I didn't come?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I was afraid of that," she replied. "Afraid -for a moment. Not really afraid. But I couldn't -explain in my note."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We were seen yesterday."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who by?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My sister--Jane."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Seen where?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By that gate in the bracken."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He screwed up his mouth and bit at a piece of loose -skin on his lip.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's she going to do?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing. What can she do? No one must know -if we meet again--that's all. We must be more -careful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stared at her in bewildered astonishment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't understand you," he muttered. "Sometimes -you seem like adamant when your voice is softest -of all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked at him and with her eyes told him that -she loved him and with a little odd twist of her lips, -which scarcely she herself knew of, she kissed his lips -and at that distance at which he sat from her, he -felt the kiss like a leaf falling with a flutter to the -ground.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean--we must be more careful?" -he said thickly. "What do you mean by that? How -can we be more careful? Where else could we hope -to be more alone than on those -cliffs--unless--unless--" His breath clung in his throat. He -swallowed it back and went on in a hoarse -voice--"Unless it were the time we went there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What time?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Night," said he. "Midnight and all the hours -of early morning."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lay back on her cushion beneath the warm -shadow of her parasol and closed her eyes, saying -nothing while he sat staring at the curved line of her -throat.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was no difficult matter to rise unheard at -midnight in her room, unheard to creep quietly -downstairs, to open and close the kitchen door into the -yard. Having accomplished that, it was but a few -steps to the door through the wall into the road.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now that she slept alone in that room at the back -of the house, Mary had no fear of discovery. -Nevertheless her heart was beating, an even but heavy -throb, nor settling to the normal pulse, even when she -found herself out in the lane and turning towards -the path across the marshes by the mouth of the River -Watchett that leads a solitary way to Penlock Head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She questioned herself in nothing that she did. -Her mind was made. It was no moment for questioning. -All questions such as there had been, and -doubtless there were many, she had answered. It -was no habit of hers to look back over her shoulder. -She fixed her destination with firm resolve, and, once -the fear of immediate discovery was left behind, she -walked with a firm stride. Imagination played no -havoc with her nerves. Already her heart was in -their meeting place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A restive heart it was, all bounding at sudden -visions, leaping, shying; at moments in riot almost at -thought of lying in his arms. Sometimes even there -was fear, a fear, not of the thing she would fly; not -a fear that made the heart craven. Rather it was a -fear that steeled her courage to face whatever might -befall.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Some sense undoubted she had of the mad riot of -passion, that it could terrify, that it was frightening -like sudden thunder bursting. But just as she would -lie still in her bed at home through the fiercest storm, -so now she knew, however deep her fear, that she -would not complain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She walked that way through the marshes to their -meeting place at the foot of Penlock Hill like one, -firm in her step, who went to a glorious death. -Death was terrible, but in all the meaning it had, she -felt no fear of it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In such manner as this did Mary Throgmorton go -to the confirmation of her faith in Life, and behind -her, in the square, white house, she left one to the -bitterest of its realizations.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fanny could not sleep that night. Near midnight, -she lit a candle and began to read. But no reading -could still the unsettled temper of her mind. Again -and again her eyes lifted from the printed page, -seeking corners of the room where, in that candlelight, -the shadows gathered, harbor for the vague -wandering of her thoughts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Long after midnight, in the communicating silence -which falls about a sleeping house, she heard a sound -and sat up in bed. Some one had opened and shut -the gate into the lane. She got up and went to the -window. If any one passed into the road in front -of the house, she must see them. No one came. All -was silence again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet something within her insisted upon her -conviction that she had not been mistaken. Some one -had left the house and, if they had turned the other -way, could not possibly have been seen by her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In that midnight silence, the fantastic shapes the -beams of the candle cast, the heavy darkness of the -night outside, slight as the incident was, grossly -exaggerated it in her mind. She felt she must tell some -one. Jane was the person to tell. Jane's fancies were -slowly stirred. She might turn it all to ridicule, but -if anything were the matter, she would be practical at -least.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Slipping her arms into her dressing gown, she went -out onto the landing. The door of Jane's room was -at the further end. As she passed Mary's door on -her way, something came out of the recesses of her -mind and took her heart and held it fast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary's door was open. She stood there staring at -it while all the pulses in her body accelerated to the -stimulus of her imagination.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Always Mary slept with her door closed. It was -not to be understood how she had departed from that -habit now that she slept alone. Why had she chosen -to sleep alone? Was it more definite a reason than -Fanny had supposed? What more definite than -thoughts of love?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Scarcely aware of the change of her intentions or -that Jane for the instant had dropped completely out -of her thoughts, Fanny pushed open the door and -softly entered Mary's room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Just within the threshold, she stopped, half held by -darkness and whispered Mary's name.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mary--Mary--"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was no reply. There was no sound of -breathing. Never had the whole world seemed so -still. She was faintly conscious that her eyes were -staring wide in that darkness, staring to find softly -what she knew now the dazzling glitter of a light -would reveal to her in all its startling truth. All -beating of her heart appeared to be arrested as she -felt her way across the room to the bedside table where -she knew the box of matches lay. Something -fluttered in her thin breast, like a thing suspended in -mid-air, but it had no relation to the passage of the blood -through her veins. It seemed to need purchase, a -solid wall against it before it could beat again. Yet -no solid wall was there. Flesh and bones in all her -substance, Fanny felt as though in those moments her -body were a floating thing in an ether of sensation. -She found the matches. With fingers that were -damp and cold, she struck one. It flamed up with -blinding brightness into her staring eyes. She closed -them swiftly and then she looked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The bed was empty. Their Mary was away. -With trembling fingers, she lit the candle; then -gazed down at the crumpled bedclothes, the sheets -thrown back, the pillow tossed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With automatic calculation she leant down and -felt the bedclothes with her hand as one feels a thing -just dead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were warm--still warm. And where now -was the body that had warmed them?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With a sudden catch in her throat that was not a -sob and had no more moisture of tears in it than a -thing parched dry with the sun, she flung herself -down on the bed and leant her body against the warm -sheets and buried her head in the warm pillow, -fighting for her breath like some frightened beast that -has been driven to the last of all its hiding places.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">X</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>They met in silence on the worn path at the -foot of Penlock Hill; two black figures -joining in the darkness and, without word of -greeting, without question of the way, turning by -common consent towards the moors and vanishing -into the pine trees.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Never was their silence broken while they climbed -the hill. They had breath for that ascent, but no -more. Coming to a steep place, he offered his hand -to help her and then still held it till they reached the -moors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a late rising moon that crept up, shimmering -wet with its pale light out of the sea. They stood -with the heather about their knees and watched it, -hand in hand, still silent; but he felt her trembling -and she heard when he swallowed in his throat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It had to be a night like this," he said presently -when the moon at last rose clear and the light seemed -to fall from her in glittering drops that splashed like -pieces of silver into the sea. "I know this is the one -night of my life," he went on. "I know there'll -never be moments like it again as long as I live. -Perhaps you don't believe that. You'll think I've said -such things before; yet the whole of my existence, -past, present and future, is all crowded into this hour. -I know I shall realize it the more fully as I grow -older and Time wipes Time away."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She clung to his arm. It was now she was most -afraid. The moors were so still about them. Down -in its hollow amongst the firs and the misshapen oaks, -the farm lay silent and black. No light was there. -She thought of them asleep in their beds. So -sleeping, she thought of Hannah, Jane, and Fanny. Only -they two were awake in all the world it seemed. -Only for some vague yet impelling purpose did the -world exist at all and alone for them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not feel at his mercy. She was not afraid -of him. Indeed she clung to his arm as they stood -in the heather, clung to his arm, trembling, appealing -as though he alone were left between herself and -Fate to soften it; as though to less terrible a note, he -could still the sound of voices shouting in her ears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>These were sensations she had no words for.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You stand there trembling," he said in a whisper. -"What are you thinking of, my dear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's all so quiet," she whispered in reply, and a -short laugh with no mirth in it escaped from her -throat. "I don't know why I should expect or want -it to be anything else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And do you want it to be anything else?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose I must, or I shouldn't have said that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear, are you afraid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She jerked her head, reluctant to give assent to that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No wonder, he thought. My God, no wonder -women are afraid. If anything should happen, -she'll have the brunt of it. Wouldn't I be afraid if I -were her?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such thoughts as these caught him to hesitation a -moment stronger than the urging passion in his blood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Was it fair to her? This girl, who in that stagnating -corner of the world knew so little, was it fair? -Hadn't he strength to resist it even now; to turn their -steps back; to let her go, the great-hearted thing she -was, as he had found her? If it might be the one -moment in his life to him, would it be the less for -letting it pass by? Would realization make it the -greater? Might it not make it the less?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A surging desire to be master of himself swept over -him. A rushing inclination to protect her from the -forces of Nature in himself took louder voice than all -his needs. She was too wonderful to spoil with the -things that might happen in a sordid world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For what would they say and think, those sisters of -hers, and what sort of hell would life become for -her in those narrow streets of little Bridnorth?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was no good saying things might not happen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What right had he to subject her to chance? She -was too fine, too great of heart for that. With all -the generosity of her soul she had placed herself in -his hands, it was for him to save her even now, before -it was too late. She was afraid. Then if there were -a God who gave men strength, he could be strong -enough to let her go.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He held her even the tighter with his fingers as in -his mind he set her free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mary," he said, "I told you it was strength, not -weakness that made me kiss you. I expect you didn't -believe that. It was true. And I feel stronger now -than then. We're going back again, my dear, now, -without waiting, I couldn't stay here longer. We're -going back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She said it in her breath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Back to Bridnorth--to our beds. I love you, -my dear, that's why we're going back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She felt a sudden chill and shivered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Back?" she whispered. No other word but that -could her mind grasp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As swiftly then the chill blew by. She felt as -though she stood in scorching flames, as if the very -heather were alight about her. There was pain and -it gave her a fierce power she never thought she had -possessed. It brought her anger to think she could -suffer so much for such return.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Back? They could not go back! Not now! She -had been through it all. This that must happen was -just a moment. It was nothing to the hours her mind -had lived till then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She took off her hat and flung it down beside her in -the heather.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's stifling, this heat," she muttered. "Everything -seems burning."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He saw her throw down her hat. He heard what -she said. The blood that had been strong like a -courageous wine, turned all to water in his veins. He -felt his limbs trembling. Something in her was -stronger than the greatest purpose he had ever had -in his life. It was a purpose he felt might be even -stronger than she, yet knew he could not make it so.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It occurred to him, with an ironical laugh in the -thought, that she was master of their moments and -not he. And yet not she herself. Men were the -stronger sex. That was an inherent thought, -whatever might be said in abstract argument. Coming to -such a moment in life as this, it was the man who must -direct. With all the violence of his passions, he -could still control.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This, with a loud voice, he told himself in his mind. -Yet there was her hat lying in the heather and there -in his ears were the sounds of her breathing as she -stood beside him. His eyes fell upon her breast that -rose and fell as her heart beat beneath it and he knew -the current he had breasted with such confidence of -power was bearing him back. In all his bodily -consciousness then, it was as though his will were failing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One last effort he made. Stooping, he picked up -her hat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall we go now?" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She swung in an instant's unsteadiness as she stood -before him, but made no movement otherwise. One -fear had gone in her, thrusting another in its place. -Something terrified her now, a fear in her heart that -over-rode all bodily fear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If he should win in purpose now, the world were -such an empty mockery of life as she well knew she -had no strength to face. Hannah, Jane, Fanny, they -might have survived the hollow meaninglessness of it -all. They might have taken place in the senseless -procession of Time, puppets of women, wasted lives in the -thrusting crowd. Never could she fall in with them now.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet what was it she was struggling against? -Something that had its purpose as well as she? -Somehow she sensed it was the laws that men had -made for the best of women to live by. He was -attempting the best that was in him. But she had no -pity for that. If love and contempt, passion and -disgust can link in one, they met together in her then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She never knew she thought all this. It was not in -words she thought it. But those laws were wrong--all -wrong. Possession was the very texture of them -and all through the intricate fabric of life, she knew -possession did not count. In instinct, reaching back, -beyond the most distant consciousness of mind, she -felt there was no possession in the world. No more -would she belong to him than he to her. It was he -who must give that which she most needed to take. -And why had it resolved itself into this struggle, -when all she had ever heard or known of men was -nothing but the eagerness of passion to express desire?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>These were not thoughts. Through all her -substance they swept, a stream of voiceless impulses that -had more power than words.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're not going now," she said in a strange -quietness. "We didn't come here to go back. Not as we -came."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly she put her hands upon his shoulders. -He could feel her breath warm and though her voice -was so close, it came from far away like the voices -of the sirens calling which he knew would always call -and which he knew a man must stop his ears and bind -his limbs to resist.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you want me to say it?" she whispered. -"I'm yours--this moment I'm yours. For God's -sake take me now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It all was darkness then. The moon had no light -for them. The very stars were blotted out and far -away across the moors, with its insistent note, a -night-jar whistled to its mate.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="phase-iii"><span class="x-large">PHASE III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Many times Fanny tried to speak of that -night and of the night that followed before -Liddiard went away, but there was a -strange serenity in Mary's face in those days which -suppressed all Fanny's emotions of sympathy, -confidence and vital curiosity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were times when she hoped Mary might -speak herself, if not of what actually had happened, -at least in some measure of Liddiard and herself. -Ever since their youth, being much of an age -together, sharing the same room, they had had few -secrets from each other. If she were to ask no more -than Fanny's opinion of Liddiard, it would have -afforded loophole for confidence. One discussion -would have led to another. If necessary, Fanny -would even have revived in her memory all that she -had told Mary about her own little tragedy on those -cliffs. To have gained that confidence every sense -in her needed so much, she would have suffered the -crudest flagellation of memory; the more cruel it -was, the more exquisite would have been her pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But never had Mary been more aloof. Never had -she been more distant and reserved. To Hannah -perhaps, if to any, she showed an even closer -affection, sometimes helping her with the teaching of her -children and every day spending an hour and even -more in their prattling company.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For long walks she went alone. Frequently at -night, when she had retired to her room and Fanny -on some feminine pretext came to her door, she found -it locked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it?" asked Mary from within.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just Fanny."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh--nothing! I wondered if you'd finished -with that book." Such as this might be her excuse.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I have. I left it downstairs in the dining-room."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well--good-night, Mary."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-night, Fanny."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No more than this. That locked door seemed -symbolical of Mary in those days. So had she barred all -entrance to her soul from them and like the Holy of -Holies behind the locked gates of the Temple was -inapproachable to their unsanctified feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And all this seeming was no less than the actual -truth. To Mary her body had indeed become the -sanctuary, the very chalice of the Host of sacred -things. She knew she was going to have a child. -Such knowledge was pure folly and had no foundation -upon fact. It lay only in her imagination.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet lying awake at night and waking early in the -mornings with the first light the sun cast into her -room, she had sensations, inventions only of the -fancy, that were unmistakable to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Already she was conscious of the dual life of her -being. Such had happened to her as indeed had -separated her in difference from them all in that house.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her thoughts of Liddiard were glowing thoughts. -Sometimes as she lay, half sleeping in her bed, she felt -him there beside her. But in all her fully conscious -moments, she had no need of his return.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Their meetings upon the cliffs those two nights -before he had gone from Bridnorth, had left her calm -rather than excited. Almost she would have resented -his actual presence in her life just then. In the -distance which separated them, she felt the warm sense -of that part of her being he had become; but his -absence was not fretting her with the need of his -embraces. No furnace of sexual inclination had there -been set alight in her. In this respect he had not -differenced her. She was the same Mary Throgmorton -of outwardly passionless stone, only the hidden -flame he had set light within her was that, unquenchable, -which the stress of circumstance in time would -burn with such a fervid purpose as none of them could -stay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Behind that locked door of her bedroom the night -after his departure, she sat and wrote to him. A -short letter it was, free of restraint, as though across -some narrow space dividing them, she had just called -out of her heart to him and laughed.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I love you," she wrote. "Don't let it interfere with -life. You have given some greater thing than you could -ever dream of, and need not think of breaking hearts or -things that do not happen in a healthy world. I am not -thinking of the future. For just these few moments, the -present is wonderful enough. Just because I belong to -you, I sign myself--YOUR MARY."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Herself, with jealous hands, that morning she -posted it and when she came back to the house a -letter from him was awaiting her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Both Jane and Fanny watched her as, with an -amazing calmness, she picked it up and put it in her -lap.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Both, knowing what they knew, were swift to ask -themselves again, was this their Mary who had grown -so confident with love.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A smile of expectation twitched about Jane's lips -as Hannah, simple as a child, inquired who it was -had written.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This would confuse her, Jane thought, and almost -with the eagerness of spite, she waited for the -flaming cheeks, for all the discomfort of her lip and eye.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary looked up quietly from her plate. Almost -she felt sorry for them then that they were ignorant -of all she knew. What was there to hide in telling -them that? She realized Jane knew. She felt her -waiting for those signs of the distressing confusion -of a guilty heart. She had no guilt in her heart. -She was not ashamed. They had no power to shame her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's from Mr. Liddiard," she replied openly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Liddiard!" repeated Hannah. "What's he -writing to you about?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall know when I read the letter," replied Mary -quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder how you can manage to wait till then," -said Jane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't suppose it's very important," said -Hannah, and Jane laughed, but Fanny could bear it no -longer. None of them knew what she knew. She -left the room.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Alone to her room, Mary brought her -letter. That room had become the chapel of -her most sacred thoughts. There, in that -house, she was alone. There, as though it were the -very script of her faith, she brought her letter and, -locking the door, took it across to her chair by the -window and sat down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was something she needed in this message -from him. Courage had not failed her. No pricks -of conscience fretted her peace of mind. More it was -that in the conventional outlook of that house, in the -atmosphere indeed of all Bridnorth, she felt set aside. -Nor did she fear to be thus separated. Only it was -at moments that it was chill. At times she shivered -as though the cold edge of a draught through -unsuspected chinks had found her out and for the moment -set back the temperature of her courage.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Merely momentary were these misgivings. With -a shaking of her shoulders, she could dispel them. -The touch of his hand across that distance which -separated them, the sound of his voice, all to be contained -in her letter, these would drive them utterly away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Alone there in that house, she needed her letter and -her fingers were warm and her heart was beating with -a quiet assurance as she tore open the envelope.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mary--" it began. She liked that. Her heart -answered to it. It was not the passionate embrace -she sought; rather it was the firm touch of a hand -in her own. This simple use of her name fully gave -it her.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Mary--I have been wanting to write to you, my dear, -ever since I came home. I even tried in the train coming -back when, not only my hand on the paper, but it seemed -my mind as well, were so jolted about that I gave it up -as a bad job.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want you to believe, my dear, that I know my own -weakness, but only for your sake do I honestly regret it. -For myself, I have no real regrets at all. Knowing you, -as I have done, has made a greater fullness in my life. -Knowing me, as you have done, can only have brought -bitterness and, I am ashamed to think of it, perhaps shame -to yours."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Mary laid the letter down in her lap. Fingers of -ice were touching on her heart. He thought he had -brought her shame. Shame? What shame? If -with his wife it were greater fullness to him, what -fullness must it not be to her with none other than -him beside her? She picked up the letter and the -pupils of her eyes as she read on were sharpened to -the finest pinpoints.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I blame myself utterly and I blame myself alone. -Life was all new to you. It was not new to me. I should -have had the courage of my experience. If my character -had been worth anything at all, I ought to have had the -will of restraint even to the last. I wonder will you ever -forgive me, for believe me, my dear, it is a great wish in -my heart, always to be thought well of by you. I suppose -thoughts are prayers and if they are, then you do not -know how often I pray that nothing may happen to you. -But if my thoughts are not answered and you have to -suffer, for my weakness, you may know I will do all I -can. None need ever know. With care that could be -achieved, but we will not talk of that yet, or will I think -of it if I can help it until you let me know for certain. -Not once did you mention it, even after the first time we -were alone in the wonderful still night on those cliffs. -So many another woman would. So many another would -have reckoned the cost before she knew the full account. -You said nothing. You are wonderful, Mary, and if -any woman deserves to escape the consequences of -passion, it is you."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Again she laid the letter down. For a while she -could read no more. The consequences of passion! -Reckoned the cost! The full account! God! Was -that the little mind her own had met with?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>None need ever know! With care that could be -achieved! She started to her feet in sudden impulse -of feeling that her body held a hateful thing. -Instinctively she turned to the mirror on her dressing -table, standing there some moments and looking at -her reflection, as though in her face she might find -truly whether it were hateful or not.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Seemingly she found her answer, for as she stood -there, without the effort of speech or conscious -motion of the muscles of her throat, the words came -between her lips--"Fear not, Mary--" Scarcely did -she know she had said them, yet, nevertheless, they -were the voice of something more deep and less -approachable than the mere thoughts of her mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not hateful. There was all of wonder and -something more beautiful about it than she could -express.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Had she been told she was to receive such a letter, -she would have feared to open it lest it should destroy -courage and make hideous the very sight of life. But -in trust and confidence having opened it, and in -gradual realization having read, its effect upon her had -been utterly different from what she might have -anticipated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such an effect as this upon any other woman it -might have had. But this Mary Throgmorton was -of imperishable stone, set, not in sheltered places, or -protected from the winds of ill-repute, but apart and -open for all the storms of heaven to beat upon with -failing purpose to destroy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It may have alienated her that letter. Indeed it -cut off and put her consciously alone. She knew in -that moment she no longer loved. She knew how in -the deepest recesses of her soul there did not live a -father to her child. It was hers. It was hers alone. -If this was a man, then men were nothing to women. -Two nights of burning passion he had been with her -and for those moments they had been inseparably -one. But now he had gone as though the whole world -divided them. The future was hers, not his. With -that letter he had cancelled all existence in the -meaning of life. There was no meaning in him. A mere -shell of empty substance had fallen from her. To -herself she seemed as though she were looking from a -great height down which that hollow thing fluttered -into the nothingness of space, leaving her in a radiant -ether that none could enter or disturb.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then of a sudden and in all consciousness now, -there came with rushing memory into her mind, the -thought of that sermon at Christmas time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found favor with God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She repeated the words aloud; hearing them now -as she spoke them in her throat and knowing, with all -the fullness of its meaning to her, the realization it -gave expression to when she voiced the thought which -that day in church had followed it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who was the father of the Son of Man?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Might there not indeed, as here with her, have been -no father at all? The mere servant of Nature, -whipped with passion to her purpose, then feared by -the laws he and his like had made to construct a world; -feared by them, disemboweled by them and by Nature -herself driven out and cast aside.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not that these ideas had any definite -substance of thought in her mind. Those few words she -repeated aloud. The rest had merely stirred in her -like some nebulous form of life, having neither shape -nor power of volition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not know to what plane of thought she had -raised herself. She did not appreciate any distinct -purpose that it brought. All she knew and in a form -of vision, was that she was alone; that it was not a -hateful thing her body held; that she was possessed of -something no power but tragic Fate could despoil her -of; that it was something over which she had direct -power of perfecting in creation; that in the essence of -her womanhood, she was greater than he who at the -hands of Nature had been driven to her arms and -left them, clasping that air which, in her ears, was -full of the voices of life, full of the greatest meaning -of existence.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>For three days she left this letter unanswered, -tempted at moments to misgiving about -herself and the future that spread before her, -yet always in ultimate confidence, rising above the -mood that assailed her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On the third day, receiving another letter of the -same remorseful nature, begging her to write and say -she was not in her silence thinking the worst of him, -she sent her reply. To the sure dictation of her -heart, she wrote--</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I have never thought about forgiveness, not once. I -can scarcely believe you wrote these two letters which I -have received. Do you remember once we talked about -women wasting their lives beneath the burden of -prejudice? You were the one man I had ever met, you were -the one man, I thought, in all the world, who understood -the truth about women. But I suppose there is something -in the very nature of men that makes it impossible for -them to realize the simple forces that make us what we -are. All they see are the thousand conventionalities they -have set about us to complicate us. We are not -complicated. It is only the laws that make us appear so.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That first of our two nights on the cliffs, did you find -me complicated or difficult of understanding? I showed, -as well as gave you myself and this is how you have -treated that revelation. I will not let it make me unhappy. -It could so deeply if I allowed it to get the upper hand. -If I need anything now, now that I know I am going to -have a child--don't be frightened yet, I only feel it in -my heart--do you think it is help or advice for -concealment? Do you think it is any assistance to me to -know that all the world will be ashamed of me, but only -you are not?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why do you even hint about shame to me? Did you -think I shared what you call your weakness? Did you -think for those moments that, as you say of yourself, I -forgot or lost restraint?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never write to me again. Unfortunately for me, it is -you most of all who could succeed in making me feel -ashamed and I will not be ashamed. What lies before me -is not to be endured but to be made wonderful. Will -shame help me to do that?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps you think I am an extraordinary woman. -You say to yourself, 'Well, if that's her nature, it can't be -helped, we've got to go through with it.' You would not -believe me if I told you that all women in their essence -are the same. It is only with so many that the prize of -self-advancement, the hollow dignity of social position, -the chimera--I don't know if I've spelt it right--of -good repute, all of which you offer them if they obey the -laws you have made to protect your property, are more -attractive and alluring than the pain and discomfort and -difficulty of bringing children into a competitive world. -But you call this the line of least resistance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because you find the majority of women so ready to -be slaves to your laws do you imagine that they are not in -essence the same as me? But starve one of those women -as I and my sisters have been starved by circumstance, -deny to her the first function which justifies her existence -by the side of men with their work, as thousands and -thousands are denied, taking in the end any husband who -will fulfill their needs of life, and you will find her -behave as I behaved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have to thank you for one thing. Since I met you, -my mind has opened out and in a lot of things, such as -these which I am writing, I can think in words what a lot -of women only feel but cannot express. I have to thank -you too, that for those moments I loved. So many women -don't even do that, not as they understand love.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All that time together, playing golf, walking and talking -on the cliffs, I felt our minds were at one. That with -a woman is the beginning of love. All unities follow -inevitably after that. It is not so with men. Your letters -prove it to me. Perhaps this is why the formality of -marriage is so necessary to make a screen for shame. I -wonder if you realize in how many married women it is -a screen and no more. I know now that to my own -mother it was no more than that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had no shame then. I loved. Loving no longer, I -still now have no shame because, and believe me it is not -in anger, we have no cause to meet again. I know I am -going to have a child. I know he is going to be wonderful -if I can make him so. I shall get my love from him as he -grows in years and I am sure there is only one love. -Passion is only an expression of it. My life will be fuller -than yours with all the possessions you have. Bringing -him up into the world will absorb the whole heart of me.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, my dear--I feel a great moment of pain to think -what we have lost and truly I do not forget my gratitude -for what I have gained. Never worry yourself in your -thoughts by what you imagine I shall have to face. I -know what my sisters will say, but what they will say -will be no expression of the envy they will feel. I am -quite human enough to find much courage in that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When it comes, I expect I shall leave Bridnorth. I -confess I am not a Bombastes. I shall hide my shoes in -my cupboard, but none shall step into them, nevertheless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hate to say this and do not say it in any backbiting -spirit. I know you will think you have to support me. -You have not. Fortunately my share of what we girls -have is enough to support me and enable me to bring him -up as I mean him to be brought up. So please send me -nothing. It would hurt me to hurt you by returning it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do not think I can say any more. I count them up--six -sheets of paper. Yet I believe you will read them all.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><span>"Good-by."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>In the appointed time, Mary knew that the reality -of her life had come to her. At the first -opportunity after the sureness of her knowledge, -she attended Holy Communion in Bridnorth church. -It was not so much to pray she went, as to wait in -that silence which falls, even upon the unimaginative -mind, during the elevation of the host and all the -accompanying ceremony of the rubric.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She asked no favor of her God. She waited. She -said no prayers. She listened. It was a spiritual -communion, beyond the need of symbols, above the -necessity of words. Psychology has no function to -describe it. It was her first absolute submission of -both mind and body to the mystery of life. Here -consciously, she felt she could do nothing. Here, as -it might be, was the instant of conception. Whatever -it was, whether it were God or Nature, this was the -moment in which she held herself in suspension, -feeling she had no conscious part to play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When she rose from her knees, it was with an inner -and hidden knowledge of satisfaction that she had -passed successfully through some ordeal of her soul; -that whatever it was within her, it had not failed in -the supreme test of her being; that, in a word, she -was a woman at last and that life had justified itself -in her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If such a moment there be as this instant of -conception; if in her soul where no words conceal and no -thoughts have substance, a woman can spiritually be -aware of it, such an instant this was in the life of -Mary Throgmorton.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>From this moment onward, she set her mind upon -definite things. In two months' time she had planned -everything that she was to do.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Passing once through Warwickshire lanes one summer -when she had been staying with friends in Henley-in-Arden, -a storm of rain had driven them for shelter. -They had come to the towpath of the canal near by -where it flows into the lock at Lonesome Ford when -the clouds that had been threatening all day heaped -up to thunder and broke above them with a sudden -deluge of rain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sharply from the towpath where they walked, the -ground rose in high banks of apple orchard, through -the trees of which, on the top of the hill, could just -be seen the half-timbered gables of an old farmhouse.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Taking a gap in the hedge and climbing the -orchard hill, they had hastened there for shelter. It -was close upon tea-time. The farmer's wife had let -them in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was a sour-visaged woman, slow and sparing of -speech, yet in the silent, considerate way she gave -them welcome and tended to their wants, there had -been something intangible yet inviting that attracted -Mary to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With an expression upon her long, thin and deeply -lined face that suggested resentment to them all, she -showed them into the best parlor, the room that had -its black horsehaired sofa, its antimacassars on all -the chairs, its glass cases containing, one a stuffed -white owl, the other a stuffed jay; the room where the -family Bible lay on a home-worked mat reposing on -a small round table; the room that had nothing to do -with their lives, but was an outward symbol of them -as God-fearing and cleanly people.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In time Mary came to learn that with those who -work upon the land, there are no spare moments; that -the duties and demands of the earth know no Sabbath -day of rest. That afternoon, she pictured them on -Sundays in that room, with hands folded in their laps, -reading perhaps with quaint intonations and -inflections from the massive volume on its crocheted mat. -It was never as thus she saw them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As they went by, catching a glimpse of the parlor -kitchen with its heavy beams of oak in the ceiling, -she had wished they might have had their tea there. -But the old lady was too unapproachable for her to -ask such a favor then. In the best parlor they sat, -eating the bread and butter and homemade bullace -jam which she had brought them, commenting upon -the enlarged photographs in their gilt frames on the -walls.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One picture there was of a young girl, a very early -photograph which had suffered sadly from unskillful -process of enlargement. Yet unskillful though it -had been, the photograph had not been able to destroy -its certain beauty. Mary had called her friends' -attention to it, but it seemed they could not detect the -beauty that she saw.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think a long face like that is beautiful in -a woman," one of them had said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't mean the features," replied Mary. -"She looks--"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stopped, words came in no measure with her -thoughts in those days. But when the farmer's wife -had returned later to inquire if they wanted any more -bread and butter cut, she questioned her with an -interest none could have resented as to who the girl -might be.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is she a daughter of yours?" asked Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Darter?" She shook her head and where -another woman might have smiled at the compliment of -Mary's interest, she merely turned her eyes upon the -portrait as though she looked across the years at some -one who had gone away. "That was me," said she. -"It was took of me three days afore I was married. -My old man had it out a few years ago and got it -made big like that. Waste of money I told him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And with that, having learnt their needs, she went -out of the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was later, when they had finished tea, and the sun -was striking through the lace curtains into that room, -almost obliterating its artificialities, when indeed they -knew the storm was over, they left the parlor and -finding the farmer with his wife in the kitchen, came -there asking what they must pay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We beant settin' out to provide teas," she replied -with no gratuity of manner in her voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I guess you didn't come lookin' for tea," said the -farmer, who had evidently talked it over with her and -decided what they should do and say--"The storm -drove 'ee."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>While her friends stood arguing upon the issue, -Mary had looked about her, observing the warm color -of the brick-paved floor, the homely sense of confidence -in the open chimney with its seats at either side, -the jar of wild flowers, all mingled, that stood upon -the window sill, the farmer's gun on its rest over the -mantel-shelf; then the farmer and his wife themselves.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once having seen that enlarged portrait, she knew -well what it was that attracted her to the sour visage, -the uninviting expression and the attenuated features -of the farmer's wife. The girl she had been, the -wistful creature she had set out for company with through -life, somewhere, lurking, was in company with her -still. She needed the finding, that was all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Waste of money," she had told him. There lay -much behind that accusation; much that Mary if she -had had time would have liked to find out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The farmer himself, at first glance, would have -taken the heart of any one. He smiled at them as he -spoke with an ingenuous twinkle of good humor in -his eyes. A mere child he was; a child of the land. -Such wisdom as he had, of the land it was. The -world had nothing of it. His thoughts, his emotions, -they were in the soil itself. Adam he was, turned -out of his garden, scarce conscious of the flaming -sword that had driven him from the fruitful places, -but seeking the first implement his hands could find -to toil with and bring the earth to good account.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Unable to persuade these two that they should give -any return for the meal they had had, they expressed -their gratitude as best they could and went away. It -was not until they had come back through the sloping -orchard and were again upon the towing path of the -canal, that Mary thought of the possibility of -returning there at some other time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The simplicity of the life of those two, the sense -she had had of that nearness to the earth they lived -on had touched her imagination deeper than she knew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just wait for me a moment," said she. "I must -go back--" when, before they could ask her reason, -she had left them and was running back through the -orchard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The door which led into the parlor kitchen was -opened to her knocking by the farmer's wife. Face -to face with her purpose, she stammered in confusion -as she spoke.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know you don't think of supplying teas or -anything like that," she said awkwardly--"but I do so -like your--your farm, your house here, that I -wondered if there'd ever be any chance of coming back -again for a little while; staying here I mean. I -wondered if you would let me a room and--if there'd be -any trouble about providing me with meals, then let -me get them for myself. I should like to come here -so much that I had to come back, just to ask."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With no change of expression, no sign of pleasure -at Mary's appreciation of their home, the farmer's -wife looked round at her husband still seated at his -tea and said,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well--what do 'ee think, Mr. Peverell?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His mouth was full. He passed the back of his -hand across it in the effort of swallowing to make -way for words and then, as best he could, he mumbled,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Tis for you to say, Missis. 'Twon't stop me -milking cows or cuttin' barley."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned to Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee'd have a mighty lot to do for 'eeself," she had -said--"If 'ee come, 'twould be no grand lodging. -'Ee'd be one of us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What better, she had thought. To be one of them -was to be one with everything about them, the fruit -trees in the orchards, the dead leaves and the new. -Even then, although she never knew it clearly, the -fruitful scents of the earth had entered and for long -were to linger in her nostrils.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not that she had any knowledge of the soil, -or could have explained to herself how one crop should -follow another. She knew nothing of the laws a -farmer lives by, the servant of Nature that he is, or -the very earth he grows to be a part of and learns -to finger as it were the very ingredient of his being.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had not been trained to reason. All that she -felt of the attraction of that place did not suggest -itself in the direct progression of purposes to her -mind. There were the odors of life in the air. She -took them in through her senses alone. Through her -senses alone she knew their fecundity. That fruitfulness -it was which filtered like drops of some magic -elixir into her blood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It had been two years since she went that day to -Yarningdale Farm, yet the odors still lingered, calling -some sense and purpose in her soul which, until the -sermon at that Christmas-time and following her -meeting with Liddiard, had been all vague, illusive and -intangible.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now, with more assurance, she knew. In that old -farmhouse, if they would have her, she was going to -bring her child into the world. There, in what seemed -not the long but the speedy months to her, she was -going to breathe in the scents of the earth, absorbing -the clean purposes of life as they are set forth in the -tilling of the soil, the sowing of the seed, the reaping -of the harvest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was to be close to the very earth itself she needed. -There is no clear line of argument to trace in a -woman's mind. Her marriage bed had been the -heathered moors. The scent of the earth had been -all about her as she lay in Liddiard's arms. No soft -or spotless pillows had there been for her head to -rest on. In no garments had she decked herself for -his embrace. No ceremony had there been, no -formalities observed. There was nothing that had -happened to associate it in her mind with the conventional -wedding night, blessed by the church, approved of by all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If blessing there had been, and truly she felt there -had, then the stars had blessed them, the soft wind -from off the sea across the heather roots had touched -her with its fingers; the dark night with all its -silence had been full approval in her heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And he who was to come out of such a union as -that, what else could he be but a wild, uncultivated -thing? A seed falling from the tree, not sowed by -the hand of man in exotic places; a young shoot -finding its soil in the rotting fibers of earth that only -Nature had prepared; a green bough that Nature only -in her wildest could train, fighting its way upwards -through the forest shades to the clear brilliance of the -eternal light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such she felt he was. As such she meant him to -be. There was no science in her purpose, no clear -argument of thought. No reason other than this first -impression she had had can be traced to justify the -determination to which she came.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To Mrs. Peverell she wrote asking if they could let -her have their little room beneath the eaves of the -thatch when, hearing it was vacant, she replied that -she would come down for a day or two and see them -first.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But before she went, one thing had she set herself -to perform. Now her sisters must know. Her mind -was prepared. It was Hannah she determined to tell.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was a morning in the middle of the week, after -the children's lessons were over. With eyes -that recorded intangible impressions to her mind, -Mary watched her eldest sister kissing each one as they -went. With each one, it was not merely a disposal, -but a parting; not a formality but an act, an act that -had its meaning, however far removed it might have -been from Hannah's appreciation of it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you feel about those children?" she -asked her, suddenly and unexpectedly when the last -one had gone and the door had closed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Feel about them?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hannah looked up in surprised bewilderment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've never thought what I felt," she added. -"They're darlings--is that what you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No--that's not quite what I mean. Of course -they're darlings. Do you ever think what you feel, -Hannah?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never think in words--all higgledy-piggledy -and upside-down, of course--but words that explain -to you, even if they couldn't explain to anybody else?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't believe any of us have ever done that," -Mary continued--"unless perhaps Jane. She -thinks in words sometimes, I believe, but I'm sure they -hurt her when she does, so she probably does it as -little as possible. Just to say they're darlings doesn't -convey what you feel. You don't know what you do -really feel--do you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No--I suppose I don't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I expect that's why, when you have to deal with -real things where words only can explain, they come -like claps of thunder and are all frightening. I've -got something to tell you that will frighten you, -Hannah. But it wouldn't have frightened you so much if -you'd ever thought about those children in words. I -don't believe it would frighten Jane. It would only -make her angry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it?" asked Hannah. She was not frightened -as yet. Mary's voice was so quiet, her manner -so undisturbed and assured, that as yet no faint -suspicion of what she was to hear was troubling her mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let's come out into the garden," said Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Even there, with that issue, she felt she wanted the -light of open air, the growing things about her, the -environment her whole body now was tuned to. That -room was confined, and suffocating to her. There -were the two portraits on the wall, who never, with -all their love, would be able to understand what she -had to tell. There were the echoes of countless -family prayers that had had no meaning. There was -all the atmosphere of conventional formality in which -she felt neither she nor her child had any place. It -was of him she was going to tell. She could not tell -it there.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come out into the garden," she repeated and -herself led the way, when there being something to hear -which already Mary had wrapped in this mystery of -introduction, Hannah could do no less than follow -with obedience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was between those borders, now massed white -with double pinks, softening the air with the scent of -them as they breathed it in, that they walked, just as -Jane and she had done before.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you ever wish you'd had a child, Hannah?" -Mary asked presently, and Hannah replied--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think I've ever really wanted to be married."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So much was it an answer that would have satisfied -her once, that Mary smiled to think how different she -had become. Not for one moment had it been her -meaning that Hannah should see that smile. Not for -one moment would she have understood it. Yet she -saw. The sudden seizing of her fingers on Mary's -arm almost frightened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You smiled," she whispered--"Why did you smile?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The honest simplicity of her brought Mary to a -sudden confusion. She could not answer. Seeing -that smile, Hannah had caught her unawares in her -thoughts. She knew then she was going to hurt this -gentle creature with her simple view of life and her -infinite forbearance of the world's treatment of her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here was the first moment when truly she felt -afraid. Here was the first time she realized that -pain is the inevitable accompaniment of life. She -tried to begin what she had to say, but fear dried up -the words. She moistened her lips, but could not -speak.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me why you smiled," repeated Hannah -importunately. "What is it you've got to say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary had thought it would be easy. So proud, so -sure she was, that abruptness had seemed as though -it must serve her mood. She tried to be abrupt, but -failed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Hannah, I've got such a lot to say," she -began, and with an impulse took her sister's arm and -of a sudden felt this gentle, gray-haired woman might -be as a mother to her when all the world, as now she -was realizing with her first confession of it, would be -turned against her. "I don't know how to begin. -I know you must understand, and I think I want you -to understand, more than anybody else. No one else -will. Of course I can be sure of that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had succeeded, as well she knew she would, in -frightening Hannah now. She was trembling. -Leaning on her arm, Mary could feel those vibrations -of fear. So unused to all but the even flow of life, -and finding herself thus suddenly in a morass of -apprehension, the poor creature's mind was floundering -helplessly. One step of speculation after another only -left her the more deeply embedded in her fears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me what it is," she whispered--"Tell me -quickly. Was it that Mr. Liddiard?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How surely she had sensed the one thing terrible -in her life a woman can have to tell. Never having -known the first thrilling thoughts of love, her mind -had reached at once to this. Countless little incidents -during the time that Liddiard was in Bridnorth, -incidents that had attracted her notice but which she -had never observed, had come now swiftly together -as the filings of iron are drawn to a magnet's point. -The times they were together, the letters she had -received, sometimes a look in Jane's face when she -spoke of him, sometimes a look in Fanny's when she -was silent. One by one but with terrible acceleration, -they heaped up in her mind to the pinnacle of -vague but certain conclusion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Was it that Mr. Liddiard?" she repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I felt it was. I felt it was. Don't say you're -in love with him--a married man--Oh, Mary, that -would be terrible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not in love," said Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The deep sigh that drew through Hannah's lips -made her afraid the more. How could she tell her? -Every moment it was becoming harder. Every -moment the pride she felt was not so much leaving her -as being crowded into the back of her mind by these -conventional instincts, the habit of affection for her -family, the certain knowledge of their shame, the -disproportionate value of their thoughts of her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A few hours before she had asked herself what -mattered it if they thought the very worst, if they -had no sympathy, if with their contempt of her they -turned her from the house. In any case she was -going. Never could she stay there. Never could this -child of hers breathe first the stifling air that she had -breathed so long.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet now when her moment of confession was upon -her, pride seemed a little thing to help her through. -The piteous fear in Hannah weakened it to water in -her blood. She felt sorry for her sister who had -done nothing to deserve the shame she was sure to -feel. Conscious of that sorrow, she almost was -ashamed of herself. Nothing was there as yet to -whip her pride to life again. With mighty efforts of -thought, she tried to revive it, but it lay still in her -heart. This fear of Hannah's, her deep relief when -the worst she could think of proved untrue, kept it -low. With all the strength she had, Mary could not -resuscitate her pride.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it then?" Hannah continued less -tremulously--"What is it if you're not in love? Was he -a brute? Did he make love to you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With all the knowledge she had gained, Mary now -found herself amazed at this simplicity of mind which -once quite well she knew had been her own. For an -instant it gave her courage. For an instant it set -up this new antagonism she had found against the -laws that kept her sex in the bondage of servitude to -the needs of man. So in that instant and with that -courage, she spoke it out, abruptly, sharply as she had -known she must. The swift, the sudden blow, it -made the cleanest wound.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm going to have a child, Hannah," she said, and -in a moment that garden seemed full of a surging joy -to her that now they knew; and in a moment that -garden seemed to Hannah a place all horrible with -evil growing things that twined about her heart and -brought their heavy, nauseating perfume, pungent -and overbearing to her nostrils.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She dropped Mary's arm that held her own. With -lips already trembling to the inevitable tears, she stood -still on the path between those rows of double pinks, -now bearing up an evil, heavy scent to her, as she -stared before her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It could not be true! How could it be true? She -fought with that, the refusal to believe its truth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He was only here a fortnight," she muttered -oddly. "You didn't know him. You'd never met -him before. You only played golf with him, or you -walked on the cliffs. You didn't know him. How -can you expect me to believe it happened--in a -fortnight? Mother was engaged to father for two years. -I--I wasn't born till fourteen months after they'd -been married!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed--a thin crackle of laughter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're a fool, Mary. You don't know what -you're talking about. He was only here a fortnight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's quite true, Hannah," said Mary quietly. -"I'm going to have a child."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her heart was beating evenly now. They knew. -Pride was returning with warming blood through her -veins. Less and less she felt the chill of fear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Swiftly Hannah turned upon her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you said you weren't in love!" she exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How quickly she was learning! Already love -might have explained, excused, extenuated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not in love," said Mary--"I know now I'm -not in love. I was at the time. At least I know -what love is. The thing you love doesn't destroy -love when it goes. Once you love, you can't stop -loving. The object may alter. Your love doesn't. -If there's no object then your love just goes on -eating your heart away. But it's there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, my God!" cried Hannah--"Where did you -learn all this--you! Mary! The youngest of all -of us! Whom do you love then if you don't love -him? Oh, it's horrible! Is your heart eating itself -away?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then what? What is it? I don't understand! -How could I understand? I am an old woman now. -Somehow you seem to make me know I'm an old -woman. What is it? What do you love?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told you I'm going to have a child," whispered -Mary--"Isn't that something to love? It's here -with us as I'm talking now. There are three of us, -Hannah, not two. Isn't that something to love?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a long moment, Hannah gazed at her, then, -suddenly clasping her hands about her face she turned -and with swift steps ran, almost, down the path and -disappeared into the house. It was as she watched -her going, that Mary had a flash of knowledge how -deep the wound had gone.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Now this much was accomplished in the -schedule of her mind. They would all -know. She left it to Hannah to tell them. -The next day after this confession to her sister, she -went to Yarningdale Farm, having made all arrangements -to stay there two or three days and complete her -plans for the future.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It had been a difficult moment to tell Hannah. She -had not quite realized beforehand how difficult it -would be. Pride she had calculated would have -helped her from the first; pride of the very purposes -of life that had passed her sisters by. But pride had -not been so ready to her thoughts when the actual -moment of contact had come. The habitual instincts -of convention had intervened. Pride, when it had -come to her aid, had not been pride of herself. It was -proud she was of her sex when in the abruptness of -that instant she had flung her confession before Hannah.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There would be no question of pride; no support -could it give her when she came to tell Mrs. Peverell. -To that simple farmer's wife it could only seem that -here was one, pursued by the error of her ways, -seeking sanctuary and hiding her shame in the remotest -corner she could find.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Giving no reason to Jane or Fanny, but only to -Hannah for her sudden departure, she went the next -day into Warwickshire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can tell them when I'm away," she said to -Hannah. "It's no good thinking you needn't tell -them. Hiding it won't conceal. They must know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With an impulsive gesture she laid her hands on -Hannah's shoulders and looked into those eyes that -indeed, as she had said, even in those few short hours -of knowledge, had grown conscious that she was old.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know how much you hate me for bringing -all this trouble on you. It shan't be much trouble, -I promise you. No one need know why I've gone -away. But I sort of feel sure of this, Hannah, you -don't hate me for the thing itself--not so much as -you might have thought you would have done."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hannah tried to meet the gaze of Mary's eyes. -Her own held fast a moment, then faltered and fell. -Something in Mary's glance seemed to have tracked -down something in her. The one with her child -had glimpsed into the heart of her who had none. -It had been like a shaft of light, slanting into a cellar, -some chamber underground that for long had been -locked, the bolts on whose door were rusty and past -all use, the floor of which was no longer paved for -feet to walk upon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For so many years untenanted had that underground -chamber been that, as has been said, Hannah -had forgotten its existence. Content had come to her -with the house of life she lived in and now by the -illumination of this ray of light, shooting through -cellar windows, lighting up the very foundations of -the structure of her being, she had been made aware, -when it was all too late, of the solid and real -substance upon which Nature had built the wasted thing -she had become.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't!" she muttered. "Don't--don't!" and -almost in shame it might have been she hung her head -as though it were Mary who might accuse, as though -Mary it were who rose in judgment above her then.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Mr. Peverell in a spring cart from the nearest -station brought Mary to Yarningdale Farm. She had -no need to touch Henley-in-Arden. There was no -likelihood that whilst there she would ever come across -her friends. They had walked many miles that day. -It was the highest improbability they would ever -walk that way again; and certainly not to visit the -farm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It happen be a quiet day," he said as he gathered -up the reins, "or I couldn't have come for 'ee with -the spring cart. No--I couldn't have come for 'ee -with the spring cart if it didn't happen to be a quiet -day. I got the machine ready last night and we be -cuttin' hay to-morrow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Cutting hay!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"May I help?" she asked with an impulsive -eagerness. He looked down at her on the lower seat -beside him and his eyes were twinkling with a kindly -amusement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee can help," said he, "but hay-makin' ain't -'helpin'--it's work. When they cut the grass over -at Stapeley--Lord Orford's place there over--there's -some of the ladies puts on them dimity-like -sunbonnets and come and help. But then you see -there's plenty to do the work." His eyes twinkled -again. "We've only got hundred and thirteen acres -and there's me and the carter and a boy. My missis -comes out. So does the carter's wife. But 'tain't -helpin'. 'Tis work. We can't 'ford amusements -like helpin' each other. We have to work--if you -understand what I mean."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I mean that too," she said quickly. "I -meant to work. Of course I don't know anything -about it; but couldn't I really do something?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'll be beginning half-past five to-morrow -morning," he said and she felt he was chuckling in his -heart. She felt that all who did not know the land -as he knew it were mere children to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't I get up at half-past five?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can 'ee?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course I can. I want to work. Do you know -that's one of the things I want to come here for. -When I come and stay--that's what I've come to -arrange with Mrs. Peverell--when I come and stay, I -want to work. I can do what I'm told."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's few as can," said he. "Them things -we're told to do, get mighty slow in doin'. Could 'ee -drive a horse rake?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can drive a horse."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He whipped up the old mare and said no more until -she asked him why they had not cut the grass that -day. It was so fine, she said, and fine weather she -thought was what they wanted first of all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There be plenty of fine days when the grass is -green," said he. "'Twill be fine now a few days, -time we'd be gettin' it in. We'd a shower yesterday--a -nice drop of rain it was. Sun to-day and they -trefolium'll have their seed just right and nigh to -droppin'. 'Ee want the seed ripe in the stack. -'Tain't no good leavin' it in the bottom of the wagon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She let him talk on. She did not know what -trefolium was. He needed a listener, no more. -Questions would not have pleased his ear. All the way -back he talked about the land and as to one who -understood every word he said. There was his heart -and there he spoke it as a lover might who needed no -more than a listener to hear the charms of his -mistress. The mere sound of his voice, the ring it had of -vital energy, these were enough to make that talking -a thrilling song to her. It echoed to something in -her. She did not know what it was. Scarce a word -of it did she understand; yet not a word of it would -she have lost.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This something that there was in him, was something -also in her. Indistinctly she knew it was that -which she must feed and stimulate to make her child. -As little would he have understood that as she had -comprehension of his talk of crops and soil. Their -language might not be the same, but the same urging -force was there to give them speech and thought. -Just as he spoke of the land though never of himself -or his part with it, so she thought of her child, a -thing that needed soil to grow in. No haphazard -chance of circumstance did she feel it to be. Tilling -must she do and cleansing of the earth, before her -harvest could be reaped. Her night would come, -that night before, that night when all was ready, that -night after rain and sun when the seed was ripe and -must be gathered in the stack and none be wasted -on the wagon floor.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee understand what I'm sayin'," she suddenly -heard him interpose between the level of her thoughts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes--I understand," said she. "And you -don't know how interesting it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned the mare into the farm gate and tossed the -reins on to her back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's a knowsome girl," he said that night as he -lay beside his wife. "She's a knowsome girl. -'Twon't rain to-morrow. There was no rain in they -clouds."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The next evening it was, after the first day in -the hayfield and while Mr. Peverell in the big -barn was sharpening the knives of the mowing -machine, that Mary set herself to the task of telling his -wife why she wanted to come to the farm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hard as she knew it would be, so much the harder it -became when alone she found herself watching that -sallow face with its sunken and lusterless eyes, the -thin, unforgiving line of lip, the chin set square, -obediently to turn the other cheek to the smiting hand of -Fate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Peverell was knitting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A woolly vest," said she--"for the old man, come -next winter. Time they leaves be off the apple trees, -the wind ain't long afindin' we'd be here top of the -hill."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a while Mary sat in silence counting her -stitches--two purl, two plain, two purl, two plain. The -needles clicked. The knotted knuckles turned and -twisted, catching the light with rhythmic precision. -And all the time she kept saying to herself--"Soon -he'll come back from the barn and I shan't have said -it. Soon he'll come back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you make all your children's things for -them?" she asked with sudden inspiration, striking the -note to key her thoughts when she could speak them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The needles clicked on. The knotted knuckles -twisted and turned as though she had never heard. -The head was bent, the eyes fastened upon her stitches.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thinking she had not heard, Mary was about to -repeat her question when suddenly she looked. Stone -her eyes were, even and gray. Through years, each -one of which was notched upon her memory, she looked -at Mary across the dim light of their parlor kitchen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had no children," she said hardly; "all the -stitches I've ever gathered was for my man."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her gaze upon Mary continued for a long silence -then, as though her needles had called them, her eyes -withdrew to her knitting. Saying no more, she -continued her occupation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To Mary could she have said less? There was the -gap filled in between that winsome creature whose -portrait hung upon the wall in the other room and this -woman, sour of countenance, whose blood had turned -to vinegar in her heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Many another woman would have been still more -afraid, possessed of such knowledge as that. With a -heart that swelled in her to pity, Mary found her fear -had gone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Somewhere in that forbidding exterior, she knew -she could find the response of heart she needed. Even -Nature, with her crudest whip, could not drive out the -deeper kindliness of the soul. It was only the body -she could dry up and wither, with the persisting -ferment of discontent; only the external woman she could -embitter with her disregard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For here was one whom circumstance had offered -and Nature had flung aside. Great as the tragedy of -her sisters' lives might be, Mary knew how much -greater a tragedy was this. Here there was no remedy, -no fear of convention to make excuse, no want of -courage to justify. Like a leper she was outcast amongst -women. The knowledge of it was all in her face. -And such tragedy as this, though it might wither the -body and turn sour the heart, could only make the soul -great that suffered it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary's fear was gone. At sight of the unforgiving -line of lip and square set chin to meet adversity, she -knew a great soul was hidden behind that sallow mask.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The long silence that had followed Mrs. Peverell's -admission added a fullness of meaning to Mary's words.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It'd sound foolish and empty if I said I was -sorry," she said quietly, "but I know what you must -feel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The lusterless eyes shot up quickly from their -hollows. Almost a light was kindling in them now.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee bain't a married girl," she said, "Miss Throgmorton -or what 'ee call it, that's how I wrote my letter -to 'ee."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How could 'ee know things I'd feel?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How old are 'ee?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thirty next September."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why haven't 'ee married?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I haven't been asked. Look at me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But look at me well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Peverell stared into her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have three sisters older than me," Mary went on. -"Four girls--four women. We're none of us married. -None of us was ever as pretty or sweet as you -were when that photograph was taken of you in the -other room."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The silence that fell between them then as Mrs. Peverell -gazed at her was more significant than words. -For all they said, once understanding, they did not need -words. Indications of speech sufficed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did any of 'ee want to be married?" asked the -farmer's wife. "Did you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you?" replied Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wanted a good man," said she, "and I got him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, but looking back on it now--all these years--back -to that photograph in there, was that what you wanted?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All this time Mrs. Peverell had been holding her -needles as though at any moment the conversation -might command her full attention no longer and she -would return to her knitting. Definitely, at last she -laid it in her lap and, leaning forward, she set her -eyes, now lit indeed, upon Mary's face before her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee know so much," said she slowly. "How did -'ee learn? What is it 'ee have to tell me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Without fear, Mary met her gaze. Long it was and -keen but she met it full, nor turned, nor dropped her -eyes. Brimmed and overflowing that silence was as -they sat there. Words would have been empty sounds -had they been spoken. Then, but not until it had -expressed all their thoughts, Mrs. Peverell's lips parted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's sin," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it?" replied Mary, and, so still her voice was -that it made no vibrations to disturb the deeper meaning -she implied. In their following silence, that deeper -meaning filtered slowly but inevitably through the -strata of Mrs. Peverell's mind, till drop by drop it fell -into the core of her being. In the far hidden soul of -her, she knew it was no sin. She knew moreover that -Mary had full realization of her knowledge. Too far -the silence had gone for her to deny it now. Whatever -were the years between them, in those moments they -were just women between whom no screen was set to -hide their shame. They had no shame. All that they -thought and had no words for was pure as the clearest -water in the deepest well.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was at this moment as they sat there, still, without -speech, that the door opened and Mr. Peverell entered. -Swiftly his wife turned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee'll not be wanted here awhile," she said sharply. -"Go and sit in the parlor, or back to the barn, or get -to bed maybe. The hay'll make without talking."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Obediently, like a child, he went out at once and -closed the door. It was not things they talked of that -he might not hear. Not even was it things they talked -of that he might not understand. Here it was that no -man had place or meaning; in that region their minds -were wandering in, no laws existed but those of -Nature. They walked in a world where women are alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The opening of that door as he came in, the closing -of it as obediently he went out, seemed to make definite -the thoughts they had. At the sound of his footsteps -departing, Mrs. Peverell turned to Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Say all 'ee've got to say," she muttered. "I'm -listenin'."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And as definitely Mary replied--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm going to have a baby. Seven months from -now. I don't want you to think I'm hiding here. I -could take refuge anywhere. I'm not ashamed. But -there are seven months. They won't be long to me. -Indeed they'll be all too short. Children aren't just -born. They're made. Thousands are born, I know. -I don't want just to bear mine. When I came here -that day, two years ago, I felt something about this -place. You'll think nothing of this. You live here. -It's so much part of your life that you don't know what -it means. But you're close to the earth--you're all -one with growing things. You touch Nature at every -turn. Oh--do you understand what I'm saying?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't understand," said Mrs. Peverell, "but I'm -listenin' and I beant too old to feel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary sped on with the words that now were rushing -in her thoughts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well--all that means such a lot to me. That's -how I want to make my child, as you make your lives -here. No cheating. You can't cheat Nature. No -pretence--no shame. There's nothing so flagrant or -unashamed as Nature when she brings forth. Out -there in the world, there where I live, they'd do all they -could to make me ashamed. At every turn they'd -shriek at me it was a sin. The laws would urge them -to it, just as for that one moment they urged you. It's -not a sin. It's not a shame. It's the most wonderful -thing in the world. Do you think if women had the -making of the laws that rule them, they'd ever have -made of it the shame it is out there? When I knew -that this was going to happen to me, I remembered -my impressions of this place two years ago, and I -knew it was here I would make him, month by month, -while he's leaning in me to make him. Oh--I know -I must be talking strangely to you; that half of what -I say sounds feather-brained nonsense, but--don't you -know it's true, don't you feel it's true?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With an impulsive gesture when words had failed, -she leant forward and caught the knotted knuckles in -her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Peverell glanced up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In that room there," said she, pointing in the -direction of the parlor sitting room, "there's a girt Bible -lies heavy on a mat. We bought it marriage time to -write the names of those we had."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I saw it," said Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Tis clean paper lies on front of it," she went on. -"It shan't be clean for long. We'll write his name -there."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The moment Mary entered the square, white -house on her return to Bridnorth, she was -aware that both Jane and Fanny knew. The -coach had set her down outside the Royal George, but -no faces had been at the windows as she went by. No -servant had been sent up the road to carry back her bag. -Outwardly she smiled. Her disgrace had begun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was the end of Bridnorth life for her. Here -was to begin a new phase wherein she had none but -herself to lean upon; wherein the whole world was -against her and in that substance of stone already -hardening in her spirit, she must stand alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The whole house seemed empty as she came in. She -went to her room without meeting any one. They -could not long have finished tea. She looked into the -drawing-room as she went by. No tea had been left -out for her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her bed was prepared to sleep in. There were clean -towels and a clean mat on the dressing table; but the -sign by which they always welcomed each other's -return after absence was missing. There were no -flowers in the room. The garden was full-yielding. -Flowers in profusion were withering in the beds. -There was no bowl of them in her room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was here, indeed it was everywhere, she felt the -presence of Jane. It was not Hannah, now that she -had time to think it out, it was not Fanny, but Jane -she had come back to meet. Jane with the unyielding -spirit of those laws Mary had found consciousness of, -against which she set herself in no less unyielding -antagonism.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was bitterness, as it is with so many, that had -ranged Jane in battle against her sex. She made no -allowances. Almost with a fierce joy, she kept to the -very letter of the law. Hers was the justice of revenge -and there are no circumstances can mitigate one woman -in another's eyes when she transgresses as Mary had done.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In her room she waited, unpacking her things, then -sitting and looking out into the garden until the bell -rang for their evening meal. With sensations divided -between a high temper of courage and a feeling of -being outcast in that house she had known so long as -home, she went down to the dining-room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were already seated. Jane was carving the -joint. She did not look up. Fanny raised her eyes -in silence. The wish to give her welcome was -overawed by wonder of curiosity. It was Hannah who -said--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You told us in your letter you were coming back -by this afternoon's coach, but we weren't quite sure."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Caught in an instant's impulse, with an effort Mary -controlled herself from saying--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Didn't you do what Jane told you to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She held her tongue and sat down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a strange and oppressive silence that fell upon -them during that meal. Oppressive it was, but -electrical as well. Vivid, vital forces were at work in all -their minds. Storms were gathering they all knew -must burst at last. Something there was that had -power to gather those forces to their utmost before -they broke and were dispersed in speech.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There they were, four unmarried women, seated -about that table with the two portraits looking down -upon them in their silence. So they had occupied their -allotted positions year by year--year by year. Often -there had been quarrelings between them. Often they -had not been on speaking terms. Winds of disagreement -had fretted the peaceful surface of that house -again and again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But this which was upon them now was unlike any -silence that had fallen upon them before. Then they -had kept silent because they would. It was now they -kept silent because they must. The pervading presence -of something about them was tying their tongues from -speech. Without the courage to tell themselves what -it was, they knew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was another in their midst. Those four -women, they were not alone. It was not as it had been -for so many years. They knew it could never be so -again. Something had happened to one of them that -set her apart. Each in the variety of her imagination -was picturing what that something was. Hannah it -frightened. Jane it enraged. Fanny it stirred so -deeply that many times through the terribleness of that -meal, she thought she must faint.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One and all they might have spoken, had it been no -more than this. But that presence in the midst of -them kept their tongues to stillness. Life was springing -up, where for so long there had been all the silence -of a barren field. They could hear it in their hearts. -Almost it was a thunder rolling that awed and overwhelmed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sound of their knives and forks, even the -swallowing of their food hammered across that distant -thunder to their conscious ears. Each one knew it was -becoming more and more unendurable. Each one -knew the moment must come when she could bear it -no longer. It was Mary who reached that moment first.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Laying down her knife and fork and pushing away -her plate unfinished, she flung back her head with eyes -that gathered their eyes to hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why don't you speak?" she cried to them. -"Why can't you say what you're all wanting to -say--what's got to be said sooner or later? I know you -know--all of you. Hannah's told you. And you've -thought it all out, as much as it can be thought out. I -don't want any favors from you. This has been my -home. I'm quite ready for it to be my home no -longer. In any case I'm going away. There's no -question, if you're afraid of that, of my appealing to -you for pity or generosity. It's only a question of the -spirit in which I go and the spirit of what I leave -behind. That's all. And why can't you say it? Why -can't you tell me what it is? You, Jane! Why don't -you speak? You're the one who has anything to say. -You told them not to meet the coach. You told them -not to put any flowers in my room. If it's something -really to fight about, let's fight now. I'm not going -to fight again. I'm going away where my child will -be born with all the best that I can give it, but I'll hear -what you've got to say now, only for God's sake say it!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>None of them knew their Mary like this. -Until that moment scarcely in such fashion had -she known herself. New instincts had risen -in her blood. Already the creative force was striking -a dominant note in her voice, setting to fire a light in -her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They felt that evening she had gained power that -would never be theirs. Hannah fell obedient to it as -one who humbles herself before mighty things; Fanny -fell to fear, awed by this note of battle that rang like a -challenge in her voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Jane alone it was who stood out away from them -and, from amidst the ranks of that army of women -who acknowledge the oath of convention, offering both -heart and blood in its service, accepted the call to -combat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You talk," she said, with her voice rising swiftly to -the pitch of conflict; "you talk as though there were -two ways of looking at what you've done. You talk -as though there were something fine and splendid in it, -but were not quite sure whether we were fine or splendid -enough to see it. I never heard anything so arrogant -in all my life. You seem to think it's a concession -on your part to say you're going away. Of course -you're going away. We've lived decently and cleanly -in this place all these years. They've had no reason -to be ashamed of us," her eyes flashed to the portraits -and back to Mary, "not till now. Do you think we're -going to flaunt our shame in their faces!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Catching a look of pain in Hannah's eyes, as though -that last blow had been too searching and too keen, -she struck it home again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is shame!" she said. "I'm not so different -from all of you. I feel ashamed and so do they. -What else can we possibly feel--a married man--a -man you don't even love. It's filthy! And if you -want to find another word for it than that, it's because -you've even come to be ashamed of the truth. There's -something in decency; there's something in modesty and -cleanliness. They taught us it. The whole of their -lives they taught us that. They brought us up to be -proud of the class we belong to, not to behave like -servant girls snatching kisses that don't belong to us with -any man who comes along and likes to make a fool of us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fanny, who up to that moment had been gazing at -her sister, caught in a wonder at this flow of speech, -now of a sudden dropped her eyes, twining and -untwining the fingers in her lap. How could Mary answer -that? Cruel as it was, it had the sting of truth. She -dared not look at her and could only wait in trembling -for her reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She might have gained courage had she looked. -Those blows had not beaten Mary to her knees. With -her head thrown back, she waited for the last word, as -though, now they had come to it, there were rules to be -observed and pride in her own strength put aside all -need to ignore them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you anything more to say?" she asked with a -clear voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you want any more than that?" retorted Jane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't mind how much more there is," replied -Mary quietly, "we're saying all we feel. We aren't -mincing things. I'm going to say what I feel. I'm -going to hit and hurt as hard as you, so go on if you -want to. This isn't a squabble. I don't want to -bicker or cavil or interrupt. We're not just cats -fighting now, we're women and we'll try and talk fair. Say -anything more you've got to say."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, if that's not enough for you," continued Jane, -"if it is not enough to allude to what I saw with my -own eyes, or to tell you there are servant girls who -could behave better than that, then I'll talk of what, -thank God, I didn't see and I'll tell you it's worse than -shame what you have done and not even the excuse of -being betrayed by love that you have to offer for it. -I'll say it, Mary, and I don't care now because you've -asked for it. You must be a bad woman in your -heart, there must be something vile about you that -makes you not fit to touch us or be in the same house -with us. You've asked for that and you've got it. -You've wanted every word there is to say. I should -have left that unspoken if you hadn't asked for it. -But that's what I feel. If you were a woman off the -streets in London and sitting there at our table, I -couldn't feel more sick or ashamed at the sight of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jane!" cried Hannah. "Oh, don't say anything -so horrible or terrible as that!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's terrible about it? What's horrible about -it?" asked Mary. "It isn't true. Jane knows it isn't -true. When a woman's fighting for the conventions -Jane's fighting for, she doesn't use the truth--she's -incapable of using it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is the truth then?" exclaimed Jane. "If -you've satisfied yourself you know, if you've invented -anything truer than what I've said to make an excuse -for yourself, let's hear what it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, you shall hear it," said Mary, and a deep -breath she drew to steady the torrent of words that was -surging in her mind. "First of all it's not true that I -didn't love. I did. She's perverted the truth there. -I did love. I'm not going to tear my heart open and -show you how much. I don't love any longer. That's -what Jane has made use of--the best she could. But -what I feel now has nothing to do with it. What I feel -now is the result of circumstances it won't help any -way to explain. What happened that makes the -vileness she talks about, happened when I was in love, as -deeply in love as any woman can be, and as I never -expect to be again. But it's not because of love that -I'm going to defend myself. It's not because of love -that I show this arrogance, as you call it. That's not -the truth I've found or invented for myself. Love's -only half the truth when you come to value and add up -the things that count in a woman's life. Of all the -married people we know, how many women who have -found completion and justification for their existence -really love their husbands? Love! Oh, I don't know! -Love's an ecstasy that gives you a divine impetus -towards the great purposes of life. I don't want to talk -as though I'd been reading things out of a book. That -almost sounds like it. But you can't imagine I haven't -been thinking. These two months, these last six -months, ever since something that happened last Christmas -time, I have. And thinking's like reading, I suppose. -It's reading your own thoughts."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A smile of security twitched at Jane's lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, is this the wonderful truth?" she asked. -"Are we to sit and listen to you, the youngest of us, -telling us that love's an ecstasy? Because if you're -going to give us a lecture about love, perhaps you'd like -a glass of water beside you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, that's not the wonderful truth," she replied -quietly. She felt Jane could not sting her to anger and -somehow she smiled. "The truth is this, which they -up there had never learnt and no one seems to know. -Life's not for wasting, but what have been our lives -here, we four girls--girls! Women now! What -has it been? Waste--waste--nothing but waste. -Why has Hannah's hair gone gray? Why are you, -Jane, bitter and sour and dry in your heart? Why's -Fanny drawn and tired and thin and spare? Why do -I look older than I am? Because we're waste--because -Life's discarded us and thrown us on one side, -because for a long time now there's been nothing in the -world for us to do but sit in this room with those -portraits looking down on our heads and just wait till we -filter out like streams that have no flood of purpose to -carry them to the sea. Our lives have only been a -ditch, for water to stagnate in. We find nothing. We -can't even find ourselves. Fanny there, grows thinner -every year. And who's to blame for it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her eyes shot up to the portraits on the wall and -half furtively all their eyes followed hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They're to blame, but not first of all they aren't. -What makes it possible that Jane can speak as she does, -talking about what has happened to me as the vilest of -all vile things? Men have made it possible, because -men have needed children for one reason and one reason -only. Possession, inheritance and all the traditions -of family and estate. These are the things men have -wanted children for and so they made the social laws -to meet their needs. But there are more things in the -world to inherit than a pile of bricks and a handful of -acres. Do you think I want my child to have no more -inheritance than that? I tell you almost I'm glad he -has no father! I'm glad he won't possess. There are -things more wonderful than bricks and acres that are -going to be his if I have the power to show them to him. -There are things in the world more wonderful than -those which you can just call your own. And it's those -laws of possession and inheritance we have to thank for -the idleness our lives have been set in. Jane thinks -herself a true woman just because she's clung to -modesty and chastity and a fierce reserve, but those things -are of true value only when they're needed, and what -man has needed them of us? Who cares at all whether -we've been chaste and pure? None but ourselves! -And what's made us care but these false values that -make Jane's shame of me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With flashing eyes she turned to Jane.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've asked for the truth," she cried now. -"Well, you shall have it as you thought you gave it to -me. You're not really ashamed of me. You're envious, -jealous, and you're stung with spite. Calling me -a servant girl or a woman of the streets only feeds your -spite, it doesn't satisfy your heart. You'd give all you -know to have what I have, but having allowed yourself -to be a slave to the law all you have left is to take a -pride in your slavery and deck it out with the pale -flowers of modesty and self-respect."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stood up suddenly from her chair and walked -to the door. An instant there, she turned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As soon as I can get my things together," she said, -"I'm going to a place in Warwickshire. If Hannah -wants to know my plans afterwards I'll write and tell -her. Don't think I'm not quite aware of being turned -out. That's quite as it ought to be from Jane's point -of view. You'd dismiss a servant at once. But don't -think you've made me ashamed. I only want you to -remember I went as proud, prouder than you stayed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was the real moment of Mary Throgmorton's -departure from the square, white house in Bridnorth. -When a few days later she left in the old coach that -wound its way over the crest of the hill on which so -often she had watched it, it was the mere anticlimax -of her going and to all who saw that departure must -have seemed but a simple happening in her life.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="phase-iv"><span class="x-large">PHASE IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The hay was made and stacked when Mary -returned to Yarningdale Farm. They were -thatching the day she arrived, wherefore there -was none to meet her. The old fly with its faded -green and musty cushions brought her over from the -station. Those were long moments for contemplation -as they trundled down the country roads and turned -into the lanes that led ultimately to the farm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The train had been too swift for arrested concentration -of thought. In the train she had not been alone. -Here, as the iron-rimmed wheels rumbled beneath her, -crunching the grit upon the road with their unvarying -monotonous note, she felt at last she had come into her -haven and could turn without distraction into the -thoughts of her being.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Had ever that old vehicle carried such burden before? -With the things Jane had said still beating up and down -in the cage of memory, she pictured some weeping -servant girl dismissed her place, carrying her burden away -with her in shame and fearfulness to find a hiding place -in a staring, watchful world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Looking out upon the fields as they passed, knowing -them as property, to whoever they might belong, again -she felt how the right of possession amongst men it -was that had made shame of the right of creation -amongst women.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Trespassers will be prosecuted," she read on a -passing board that stood out conspicuously in the hedge as -they rolled by.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There it was! That was the law! Trespassers upon -the rights of man! The law would descend with all its -force upon their heads. But had they not trespassed -upon the rights of women? Which was the greater? -To inherit and possess? To conceive and create? -Did not the world reach the utmost marches of its -limitations in that grasping passion to possess? Was -that not the root of the evil of war, the ugliness of -crime, the stagnation of ideals? To possess and to -increase his possessions, to number Israel and to keep -all he had got, were not these the very letters of the -law that held the world in slavery; were not these the -chains in which, like bondwomen, she and her sisters -had walked wearily through the years of their life?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The last lane they passed along led through a heavily -timbered wood before they reached the farm. Some -children there were gathering fagots into their aprons. -She leant out of the window to watch them, her mind -set free for that moment of the encompassing sense of -possession.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That was the spirit that should rule the world. She -knew how hopeless it was to think that it could be so. -It was the spur of possession that urged men to -competition. The whip of competition in turn it was that -drove out idleness from the hearts of men. And yet, -if women had the forming of ideals in the children -that were theirs, might they not conceive some higher -and more altruistic plane than this? Giving, not -keeping, might not this be the deep source of a new -civilization other than that which drove the whole world with -the stinging lash of distrust?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was going to bring a child into the world that -would have nothing it could call its own, not even a -name. The fagots of life it must gather. The berries -on the hedgerows which belong to all would be its food. -So she would train its heart to wish for only those -things that belonged to all. Never should it know the -fretting passion of possession. Work was man's -justification, not ownership, and a workman he should be; -one who gave with the sweat of his brow and who, by -the heart to give which she would stir in him, would -covet of none the things they called their own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In this spirit--and little more it was in a grasping -world than an ecstasy of thought--Mary Throgmorton -came to Yarningdale Farm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She knew it was a dream she had had; a dream -induced in her by the heat of the day, the monotonous -vibrations of that old vehicle she had ridden in, the -still quiet of the countryside through which she had -passed. Yet, nevertheless, for all its ecstasy, for all -the dream it might be, such a dream it was as any -woman must surely have, so circumstanced as she; so -driven to rely upon what she alone could give her child -for walking staff to serve him on his journey. -Knowing it was a dream, it seemed no less real to -her. Lying that night on the hard-mattressed bed, in -her little room beneath the eaves of the thatch, she took -the dream in purpose into her very soul. Give she -must, and all she had, and what else had she to give but -this? For that moment and for all the months to -follow it could be given in the utmost fullness of her -mind. Was it not now and most of all when he was -closer to her being than ever it should so chance again, -that she could give out of her heart the spirit that -should go to make him strong to face the world that -lay before him?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dreams they might be, but such thoughts would she -hold with all the tenacity of her mind until, through -external means alone, she was compelled to feed him. -For all those seven months to come, she herself would -work--work in the fields as he must work. The sweat -should be on her brow as it should be on his. Her -limbs should ache as one day his in happy fatigue of -labor should ache as well.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was thus she would make him while yet the time -of creation was all her own and then, when out of her -breast he was to take his feed of life, there would be -ways by which she alone could train him to his purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So still she lay, thinking it all out with thoughts that -knew no words to hamper them, that when at last she -fell asleep, it was as one passing through the hanging -of a curtain that just fell into its concealing folds -behind her as she went.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I've told the old man," Mrs. Peverell informed -Mary the next morning. "Not all of it, I -haven't. Men don't understand what beant -just so. He can't abide what's dropped in the -farmyard comin' up. ''Tis wheat,' I tell 'en. ''Tain't -crops,' says he. ''Twill make a bag of seed,' I says. -'The ground weren't prepared for it,' says he. That's -men. Mebbe they're right. 'Nature may have her -plan,' I tell 'en, 'but God have his accidents.' 'I can't -grow nawthing by accident,' says he. 'You can't,' -says I, 'but afore you came, that's the very way they -did grow and I guess there's as much rule about -accidents as there is of following peas with wheat.' He -looks at me then and he says no more, which is good -as sayin'--'You women be daft things,' for he picks up -his hat and goes out and the understandin' doant come -back into his eyes afore he feels the tilled earth under -his feet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So Mr. Peverell knew that in certain time Mary was -going to have a baby. He looked at her shyly when -next they met. It was in the orchard sloping down the -hill that drops to the towpath of the canal. He was -calculating the yield of apples, just showing their green -and red, and she had come to tell him that the midday -meal was ready.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you, ma'am," said he, when he had always -called her "Miss" before. This was the hedge, the -boundary of that tilled and cultivated field his mind -had placed her in. Beyond that limit, as Mrs. Peverell -had said, he would not understand. With a childish -simplicity he had accepted all that his wife had told him. -She had appeased his need for understanding. -Perfectly satisfied, he asked for no more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you going to give me work to do?" she asked -as they walked back together to the house. "Real -work, I mean. I can work and I'm so interested."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Work won't be easy for the likes of you," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, but there are things I could do. Things that -aren't quite so laborious as others. I could milk the -cows, couldn't I? If once I got the trick of it, it would -be easy enough, wouldn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Women beant bad milkers," he agreed with -encouragement. "There's no harm in 'ee tryin'."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When could I begin?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee could try a hand this evenin' when our lad -brings the cows in. They be fair easy--them's we've -got now. Easy quarters they all of them have and -they stand quiet enough wi' a bit of coaxin'. I dessay -'ee could coax 'em well enough. 'Ee've a softy voice -to listen to when 'ee's wantin' a thing and means to get it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't know I had," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No? Women doant know nawthin', seems to me. -'Mazin' 'tis to me how well they manages along."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went into the cow sheds that evening and had her -first lesson. It was tiring and trying and unsuccessful -and her back ached. But in the last few minutes, just -when she was giving up all hope of ever being able to -do it and the strain of trying had relaxed in her fingers, -a stream of milk shot forth from the quarter she held -in response to the simplest pressure of her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's it! That's it!" exclaimed the boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doant 'ee get into the way of strippin' 'em with 'ee's -fingers, not till they've got to be stripped and 'twon't -come t'other way."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She rose the next morning early when through her -window she heard the cows coming into the yard and -slipping on her clothes without thought of how she -looked, she went down to the shed and tried again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In three days' time she had mastered it and gave an -exhibition of her skill to Mr. Peverell who stood by -with smiles suffusing his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That'll do," said he. "The lad couldn't do no -better'n that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, can't I look after the cows altogether?" she -begged. "Drive them in and out and feed and milk -them? Then you can have the boy for other work."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a samesome job," he warned her. "There's -clockwork inside them cows' udders and 'tain't always -convenient to a lady like yourself to go by it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't you believe me," she exclaimed, "when I -tell you I don't consider myself a lady, any more than -Mrs. Peverell wastes her time in doing? I'm just a -woman like she is and I want to work, not -spasmodically, not just here and there, but all the time. Do you -remember what you said about helping?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've no recollection," he replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you said it wasn't help was wanted in a -hay-field, 'twas work. I want to make something of myself -while I'm here. I don't just want to think I'm -making something. Can't you trust me to do it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Peverell looked with a smile at his wife who -had come out to witness the exhibition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you think, mother?" said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think women knows a lot more'n what you -understand, Mr. Peverell. You can understand all what -you can handle and if you could handle her mind, you'd -know well enough she could do it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So be," said he obediently and he turned to the -boy. "You can take cartin' that grass out 'long them -hedges this afternoon," he said. "There woant be no -cows for 'ee to spend 'ee time milkin'. We've got a -milkmaid come to Yarningdale. They'll think I be -doin' mighty well with my crops come I tell 'em next -market I've got a milkmaid well as a boy."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The life of Mary Throgmorton during those -months while she worked at Yarningdale -Farm was a succession of days so full of -peace, so instinct with the real beauties which enter the -blood, suffuse the heart, and beat through all the veins, -that her soul, as she had meant it should be, was -attuned by them to minister to its purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At six every morning she descended from her little -room beneath the thatched eaves. At that hour the air -was still. The chill of the dew that had fallen was -yet in it. The grass as she walked through the -meadows was always wet underfoot. Mist of heat on the -fine days was lingering over the fields. Out of it the -cows lifted their heads in a welcome following their -curiosity as she came to drive them back into the farm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When once they had come to know her voice, when -once they had come to recognize that straight figure in -the cotton frocks she wore, no further need there was -for her but to reach the gate and open it, calling a name -she knew one by. They ceased their grazing at once -and turned towards her. One by one they trooped -through into the lane that led to the farm. One after -another, she had a name to murmur as they went by.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No moment in all that labor there was but had its -freedom for contemplation. As she walked through -the meadows to gather them; as she followed them -down the lanes; as against the flanks of them she leant -her cheek, cool with that morning air, stealing their -warmth, there ever was opportunity for her thoughts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It soon became automatic that process of milking. -Only at the last moment when the hot stream of milk -began to be flagging in its flow, did she have to detach -her thoughts from the purpose that governed her, and -concentrate her mind upon the necessary measure of -stripping them to the last drop.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But for these moments, her thoughts were never -absent from that sacred freight she carried to its -journey's end. The very occupation she had chosen all -contributed to such meditation as her mind had need of. -The milk she wet her fingers with as she settled down -upon the stool before each patient beast, hot with the -temperature of its blood, was stream of the very -fountain of life her thoughts were built on. The rhythmic, -sibilant note as it hissed into the pail between her knees, -became motif for the melody of her contemplation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She whispered to them sometimes as she milked. -Whisperings they were that defy the capture of -expression. No words could voice them as she voiced -them with the murmur on her lips. Sometimes it was -she whispered to the quiet beast against whose velvet -flank her cheek was warming. Sometimes she whispered -to her child as though his cheek were there fast -pressed against her and his lips were drawing the -stream of life out of her breast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It cannot be wondered that she thought often of these -things while she was milkmaid at Yarningdale Farm. -In any environment the mind of a woman at such a -time must seek them out, stealing pictures of the future -to feed her imagination upon. But there, in those -surroundings, Mary Throgmorton was close upon her -very purpose as the days turned from morn to evening -and the weeks slipped by towards the hour for which -she waited.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But deeper than all such thoughts as these, there had -entered her soul the wider and fuller conceptions of -life. Subconsciously she realized the cycle it was, the -endless revolving of the circle of design that had no -beginning and no end but was forever emerging from -and entering into itself in its eternal revolutions, -always creating some surplus of the divine essence of -energy, always discharging it in thought, in word and -deed; flung from it, as drops of water are flung from -the speed of the mill wheel while it turns to the -ceaseless flowing of the stream.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What else could she see with a heart for seeing, -what else, so close to Nature as she was, could she see -but this? Every day, every night, the cattle ate their -fill of the grass that had grown in their pastures. -Every morning, every evening, they gave their yield of -all they had consumed. It was no definite and -conscious observation that brought to her eyes those vivid -and luxuriant patches of green in the fields where the -cows had manured the grass; it was no determined -deduction that conveyed to her the realization how a field -must be grazed, must be eaten away and consumed to -increase it in the virtue of its bearing. It was no -mechanical process of mind which led her to the -understanding of how when the field was cut for hay and -stacked within the yard to feed the cattle through the -winter months, still it returned in its inevitable cycle -to the fields to feed the flow of life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Through the winter months the cows were stalled -and kept in their pound. In that pound they trod to -manure the straw the fields had grown and back again -it would come in the early spring to lie once more upon -the fields that had given it; so ever and ever in its -ceaseless procession, some surplus of the energy that -was created would be set free. A calf would go out -of the farm and be sold at the nearest market. For -three days its mother would cry through the fields, hurt -with her loss, grudging her milk, but in the end Nature -would assert itself. She would be caught back into -the impetus of the everlasting cycle of progression, -fulfilling the purpose of life, contributing to the creation -of that energy which was to find its expression in the -sons of men.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All this without knowing it she learnt in the fields -and under the thatch of Yarningdale Farm. All this, -as she had meant to do, she assimilated into her being -to feed that which she herself, in her own purpose, was -creating.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So her son should live, if it were a boy she bore. -So she planned for him a life that had none of the -limitations of possession, but must give back again -all that it took with interest compounded of noblest -purpose. This alone should be his inheritance, this -generosity of heart and soul and being that knew no -other impulse than to give the whole and more than it -had received.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Not one of these impressions came with set outline -of idea to the mind of Mary Throgmorton. In the -evenings as she sat in the kitchen parlor, sewing the -tiny garments she would need and listening to -Mr. Peverell talking as he always did about the land, it was -thus she absorbed them. Drawn in with her breath -they were, as though the mere act of breathing assimilated -them rather than a precise effort of receptivity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The same it was in the fields where she walked, in -the stalls where she milked her cows. Each breath -she took was deep. It was as if the scent of those -stalls, the air about the meadows, the lights of morning -and evening all taught her that which she wished to -learn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her mind was relaxed and just floating upon life -those days. It is not to be understood where she learnt -that this must be so. It is not to be conceived how, -with her utter inexperience, she knew that no determined -effort to create her child could serve the purpose -that she had. In through the pores of her being, as it -became the very air her lungs inhaled, she took the -sensations which day by day were borne upon her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were times when, after the first physical -consciousness of her condition, she forgot she was going -to bear a child. There were times when the knowledge -of it seemed so distant, that it was as though she -walked and lived in a dream, a sensuous dream, where -there was no pain, no suffering of mind, but things -were and were not, just as they happened like clouds -to pass before her vision.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were times when she knew so well all that -there lay before her. Then pain seemed almost -welcome to her mind. Then she would promise herself -with a fierce joy she would not submit to any of the -subterfuges of skill to ease her of it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll know he's being born," she would say aloud. -"I'll know every moment to keep for memory. Why -should I hide away from life, or lose an instant because -it comes with pain?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So Mary Throgmorton traversed the months that -brought her to fulfillment; so time slipped by with its -clear mornings and the dropping lights of evening till -winter came and still, with the nearing approach of her -hour, she continued milking the cows for Mr. Peverell. -Not all the persuasion they offered could make her -cease from her duties.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm milkmaid here," she said. "Any farm girl -would keep on to the last. There'll be some days yet -for my hands to lie in my lap. Let them touch -something till then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They let her have her way. Only the carter and the -boy were there about the place to see her. She had no -sense of shyness with them. Every now and again -some cow was taken to a farm near by to profit. It was -common talk, unhampered by any reticence, to comment -upon the condition of each beast as she neared -her calving time. The functions and operations of -Nature were part of the vast plan of that ever-revolving -cycle to them. They knew no coarseness in their -attitude of mind; they knew no preciousness of modesty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Before she had been at Yarningdale for long, Mary -realized with the greater fullness of perception how vast -a degree of false modesty there was in the world as -people congregated in the cities and with brick walls -and plaster shut themselves out from the sight of -Nature.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It had all been false, that modesty which their mother -had taught them. Love, pleasure and passion, if -these were the fruits of the soul man had won for -himself, what shame could there be in permitting them -their just expression? Love was uplifting and in the -ecstasy it brought were not the drops flung farther, -higher from the wheel in the acceleration of its -revolutions? Was not the stream in flood, those moments -when love came in its torrent to the heart of a man? -Once for a moment she had loved and knew now that -ecstasy could never come to her again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Pleasure, it was true, she had never known, but the -deep passion of motherhood none could rob her of. -All those days and weeks and months were hours of -passionate joy to her. Never was she idle. Never -was her passion still.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That moment, one night it was with the moonlight -falling on her bed, when first she felt the movement of -her child within her, was so passionate a joy of physical -realization that she sat up in her bed and, with the -pale light on her face, the tears swelled to overflowing -in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What should I have done, what should I have -been," she whispered to herself, "if this had never -happened to me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Occasionally during those seven months there were -letters reaching her from Bridnorth. Fanny wrote and -Hannah wrote. Never was there a letter from Jane. -At first they asked if they might come and see her, but -when she replied she was happier alone, that seeing -her as she was, they might the less be able to -understand her happiness, they asked no more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In further letters they wrote giving her Bridnorth -news, the people who had come down that summer, the -comments that were made upon her absence and later, -when the actual truth leaked out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"People have been very kind on the whole," wrote -Hannah in a subsequent letter. "I think they are -really sorry. Only yesterday the Vicar said, 'God has -strange ways of visiting us with trouble. We must -take it that He means it for the best, impossible though -it is for us to see what good can come of it.' I had -never realized," was Hannah's comment, "that he was -as broad-minded as this, and it has given me much help. -I hope you are taking every care of yourself and that -the old farmer's wife is competent to give you good -advice upon what you ought to do. You say you are -still working on the farm. Is that wise? Mother used -to go to bed every day for an hour or so before you -were born. I remember it so well. Oh, Mary, why -did you ever let it happen?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Why? Why? Why had God ever found such -favor in her in preference to them? That was all she -asked herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One day a letter lay on her plate at breakfast. It -was readdressed from Bridnorth and was in Liddiard's -handwriting. For long she debated whether she would -open it or not. What memories might it not revive? -What wound might it not open, even the scar of which -she could hardly trace by now?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her child had no father. Touch with Liddiard's -mind again in those moments might make her wish he -had; might make her wish she had a hand to hold -when her hour should come; might make her need -the presence of some one close that she might not feel -so completely alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet even nursing these thoughts, her fingers had -torn the envelope without volition; her eyes had turned -to the paper without intent.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I have heard from your sister Jane," he wrote. "She -tells me she thinks I ought to know what is happening to -you. She writes bitterly in every word as though I had -cast you off to bear the burden of this alone. God knows -that is not true. In the first letter I wrote you after I -left Bridnorth, if you have kept it, you will find how -earnestly I assured you I would, in such an event, do all -I could. Where are you and why have you never -appealed to me? Surely I could have helped and so -willingly I would. Wherever you are, won't you let me come -and see you? One of these days, of course without -mentioning your name, I shall tell my wife everything. I -have some feeling in my heart she will understand."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>That same day, Mary answered his letter.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Please take no notice of my sister Jane. She would -punish you as she has punished me. That is her view of -what has happened. I know you would do all you could. -It hurts me a little to hear you think I should doubt it. -Do not worry about me. I am away in the country and -intensely happy. Never was I so happy. Never I -expect will I be quite so happy again. You have nothing -to fret yourself about. It would cast some kind of -shadow over all this happiness if I thought you were. -You have no cause for it. I shall always be grateful to -you. I do not put my address at the head of this letter, -because somehow I fear you would come to see me, -however strong my wishes were that you should not."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"'Ee's thoughtful, Maidy," Mrs. Peverell said to her -when she returned from posting her letter in Lonesome -Ford.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee've had a letter from him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How did you know?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do my Peverell know there'd be rain acomin'? -He says he feels it in his bones. Men's bones and -women's hearts be peculiarsome things."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was a boy. Full in the month of March he -came, with a storm rushing across the fields where -the rooks already were gathering in the elm -trees and the first, dull red of blossom was flushing the -winter black of the branches against the clouds of -thunder blue.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>High as was the cry of that southwest wind, -sweeping the trees and rattling the windows in their -casements, his first cry beneath the thatch of Yarningdale -Farm uplifted above every other sound in the ears of -Mrs. Peverell and Mary as they heard it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The doctor who attended her from Henley-in-Arden -had proposed an anæsthetic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your first child," he said. "It'll just make things -easier."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Had her pain been less she would have spoken for -herself. Had she spoken, a cry might have escaped -with the words between her lips. She looked across at -Mrs. Peverell who knew her mind and she shook her -head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She wants it just natural," said the farmer's wife.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee can see for 'eeself she's strong. 'Tain't no hide -and seek affair with her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's going to be a bit worse than she thinks," -muttered the doctor.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't be worse'n a woman thinks," retorted -Mrs. Peverell. "Let 'ee mind as carefully as 'ee can what -she feels--what she thinks'll be beyond 'ee or me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Peverell came back from plowing at midday with -the clods of earth on his boots.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come there be no rain to-night," said he. "I'll -have that corn sown in to-morrow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have our harvest in upstairs a'ready," said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He wheeled round in his chair with his eyes wide -upon her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Damn it!" he exclaimed. "I'd complete forgot -our maidy on her birth-bed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gazed at him a moment in silence, with words -unspoken in her glance he had uncomfortable -consciousness of, yet did not know one instant all they -meant. It left him with a disagreeable sense of -inferiority, just when he had been congratulating -himself on a piece of work well done.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee won't forget when 'ee sows the seed to-morrow -in that field," said she quietly. "Come time 'ee has it -broadcast sown, the sweat'll be on thy brow, an' 'ee -limbs be aching." She lifted the corner of her apron -significantly. "I've wiped the sweat off her brow and -laid her body comfortable in the bed and now I'll get -the meat to put in 'ee stomach."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He knew he had made some grievous error somewhere. -Forgetting their maidy and her babe upstairs -no doubt. He ate the food she brought him in silence, -like a child aware of disgrace; but why it should be so, -just because he had forgotten about a woman having -a baby was more than he could account for. It was -not as if it had been a slack day or a Sabbath. That -ground was just nice and ready for the wheat to go in. -Still, it was no good saying anything. He had hurt -her feelings some way and there was an end of it. He -knew well that steady look in the sunken eyes, the set -line, a little tighter drawn in the thin lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It worried him as he ate his meal. It always -worried him. Somehow it seemed to make the food taste -dry in his mouth. It had no such succulence as when -all was just right, and he had come in for his dinner -after a hard morning's work. For never by conscious -word had he hurt her. Never, in all the thirty-seven -years they had been married, had there been an -instant's intent in him to make her suffer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was in these unaccountable ways, in chance words, -harmless enough in all conscience to him, in little things -he did and little things he left undone, that this look -she had, came in these sudden moments into her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Women be queer cattle," he would say to himself. -"There be no ways treatin' 'em alike. 'Ee might think -'ee'd got 'em goin' one way when round they'll come -and go t'other."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As a rule this silent summary of the whole sex would -satisfy him in regard to the one in particular he had in -mind. With a sweep of his hand across his mouth -after his meal was over, he would go back to his work -and once his feet felt the fields beneath them, he would -forget all about it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Somehow this time he seemed to know there was -little hope of forgetting. Whether it was his food -tasted drier than usual; whether some meaning of -what she had said about the sweat on his brow and the -sweat of her who labored upstairs there with her child -had reached with faint rays of illumination to his -appreciative mind, whatever it was, the fields called in -vain to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was restless, uneasy. Without cause he knew -of, he felt a little ashamed. Rising from the table, he -moved about the room lighting his pipe. He felt like -some child with a lie or a theft upon his conscience. -When his pipe was well lit and hard rammed down, -finding he had no patience to sit awhile as was his -custom, he went in search of his wife.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>From something she had said about making as little -noise as possible, he knew she was not upstairs with -her patient. If he asked her straight out, perhaps she -would tell him what was the matter, what he had said, -what possibly he had done.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was not in the scullery. Softly he opened the -door of the larder and looked in. She was not there. -With his heart beating in unaccustomed pulses he crept -upstairs to their bedroom, thinking to himself, -"Plowed fields be better walking for the likes of -me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother," he whispered, and opened the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was not there.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In despair he turned to the stairs again, drawing -a deep breath when he reached the bottom. Only the -parlor was left, unless she were out of the house -altogether. He looked in. It was empty. He was -turning away when there caught his attention the unusual -sight of the big Bible lying open on the table. He -crossed the room to look at it. Was it so bad she'd -had to be reading some of that?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was opened at the first, clean page. No printing -was on it, but there in ink, still wet, was written in -her handwriting--"John Throgmorton, at Yarningdale, -March 17th, 1896."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Some idea flashed out from that page as he leant -over it. It reached some hitherto unused function of -perception in his brain. He knew now why that look -had come into her eyes. He knew even what it was -he had said, or rather what he had forgotten to say -that had hurt her. All this was reminding her how she -wanted a child of her own. But had he not wanted -one too? Was not the loss as much his that he had no -son to take the handles of the plow when his hands -had ceased to hold them?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned as she entered the room with a piece of -blotting paper she had fetched from his desk in the -kitchen where he wrote out his accounts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother," he said, and he fidgeted with his hands, -"I know what's worryin' 'ee. I ought t'have thought -of it afore now, but we been past it these many years, -it had gone out o' my head for the moment. B'lieve -me I've wanted one same as 'ee."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She knew he was a good man as she looked at him, -but could not think of that then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've wanted 'ee to have fair crops," said she, "but -it's only been disappointment to me when they've -failed. Yet I've seen it make 'ee feel 'ee was not man -enough for the task God had set 'ee."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With a steady hand, she blotted the page and shut -the book, then taking him by the arm, she led him out -of the room and closed the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's one of them young black minorcas has the -croup," said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They be plaguy things," he replied.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Talking of the future one day with Mrs. Peverell, -Mary had said that if it were a boy, -his name must be John. So definite had she -been in her decision about this, that without further -question the good woman had written it in the big -Bible.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"John's a man's name," Mary had said; "there's -work in it." Then, dismissing her smile and speaking -still more earnestly, she had continued, "If anything -were to happen to me, I should leave him to you. -Would you take him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sunken eyes were quite steady before the gaze -they met.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How could we give 'en the bringin' up?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He shall have no bringing up but this," Mary had -replied. "I told you first of all I didn't come here to -hide. I chose this place because I knew I could touch -life here and make him all I wanted him to be. This -is what I want him, a good man and a true man and a -real one, like your husband. I want him to know that -he owes all to the earth he works in. What money I -have shall be yours to keep and clothe him. Indeed I -hope nothing will happen for I know so well what I -want him to be. I've always known it, it seems to me -now. I've only realized it these last few months. -Milking these cows, walking in the meadows, living -here on this farm, I've learnt to realize it. Giving is -life. We can't all give the same thing, but it is in the -moment of giving that most we feel alive. Acquiring, -possessing, putting a value on things and hoarding -them by, there's only a living death, a stagnant despair -and discontent in that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee's talkin' beyond me," said Mrs. Peverell watching -her. "'Ee's well taught at school and 'ee's talkin' -beyond me. I never had no learnin' what I got of -use to me out of books. But come one day an' -another, I've learnt that wantin' things may help 'ee -gettin' 'em, but it stales 'em when they come. All I could -have given my man, ain't there for givin'. God knows -best why. Most willing would I have gone wi'out life -to give 'en a child to patter its feet on these bricks. He -doant know that. I wouldn't tell 'en. He'd say -there warn't no sense in my talkin' that way. Men -want life to live by, but it seems to me sometimes -death's an easy thing to a woman when it comes that -way. I s'pose it's what 'ee'd call the moment of givin' -and doant seem like death to her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary had leant forward, stretching out her hand and -taking the knotted knuckles in her fingers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You haven't lost much," she had said, "by not -having my advantage of education. What you've just -said is bigger than any learning could make it. I don't -think we speak any more of truth because we have -more words to express it with. I'm sure we think less. -Do you think I could find any one better to teach -him than you? It is women who teach. Your -husband will show him the way, but you will give him -that idea in his heart to take it. I long so much to give -it to him myself that I haven't your courage. -Sometimes I'm afraid I may die. I don't let it have any -power over me but sometimes I confess I'm afraid, -because you see I want to give him more than his -life. I want to give him his ideals. Perhaps that's -because I've no one else to give him to. My life won't -seem complete unless I can live beyond that. Anyhow -I wanted to say this. If I have to give him, I want -it to be to you and I want you to know that that is -how I wish him to be brought up. If he has big -things in life to give, he'll find them out. He'll leave -the farm. Perhaps he'll break your heart in -leaving--perhaps he'll break mine if I live, but I want him -first to learn from the earth itself the life there is in -giving and then, let it be what it may, for him to give -his best."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Peverell nodded her head to imply understanding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's them as doant suffer can talk about sin," she -had said, which by no means was Mary's train of -thought, though her words had somehow suggested it -to Mrs. Peverell's range of comprehension. "I should -have called all this sin years ago. Didn't I say 'twas -sin when first 'ee told me? Well, it beats me what sin -is. 'Tain't what I thought it. We be born with it, -they say. Well, if the babes I seen be born with sin, -'tain't what any one thinks it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was obvious Mrs. Peverell had not followed her -in the flight of her hopes and purposes. The right and -the wrong of it, the pain and the joy of it, these were all -that her mind grasped. But these she grasped with a -clearness of vision that assured Mary's heart of a safe -guardianship if ill should befall her. Such a clearness -of vision it was as set her high above many of the -women she had known.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How was that? What was it about women that so -few of them had any vision at all? To how many she -knew would she entrust her child? Often she had -listened in amazement to Hannah instructing the children -at home. She remembered the mistresses where she -had been at school herself. She recalled her mother's -advice to her when she had left school. Everywhere it -was the same.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only here and there where a woman had suffered at -the hands of life did vision seem to be awakened in -her. Many were worldly, many were shrewd and -clever enough in their dealings with circumstance. But -how few there were who knew of any purpose in their -souls beyond that of dressing their bodies for honest -vanity's sake, or marrying suitably for decent -comfort's sake.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here, was it again the force-made laws, the laws by -which men set a paled and barbed fence about the -possessions they had won? Were all these women their -possessions too, as little capable of freedom of thought -as were of action their dogs, their horses, the cattle on -their hedged-in fields?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had heard of votes for women in those days. -In Bridnorth as in most places it was a jest. What -would they do with the vote when they had it? They -laughed with the rest. Women in Parliament! They -would only make fools of themselves with their -trembling voices raised in a company of men.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She could not herself quite see all that the vote might -mean. Little may that be wondered at, seeing that -when they obtained it, there would be countless among -them who still would be ignorant of its worth and -power. Whatever it might mean, she knew in those -days that her sex had little of the vision of the ideal; -she knew it was little aware of the true values and -meanings of life, that thousands of her sisters wasted -out their days in ceaseless pandering to the acquisitive -passions of men.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Ee's thinkin' long and deep, maidy," Mrs. Peverell -had said when the silence after her last remarks had -closed about them. "Are 'ee wonderin' after all this -time what the sin of it might be? Are 'ee thinkin' -what the Vicar'll say when 'ee has to explain it all to 'en."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why must I tell him?" asked Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't 'ee want the child baptized?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With all the thoughts she had had, with all the -preparation she had made, she had not thought of this. -The habit of her religion was about her still. Every -Sunday morning she had sat with the Peverells in the -pew it was their custom to occupy. Something there -was in religion no clearness of vision seemed able to -destroy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He must be baptized," she had said and turned in -their mind to face once more the difficulties with which -the world beset her.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The upbringing of John Throgmorton at -Yarningdale Farm has more of the nature of an -idyll in it than one is wont to ask for in a -modern world, where idylls are out of fashion and -it has become the habit to set one's teeth at life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still continuing, as soon as she was strong again, to -fulfill the duties of milkmaid for Mr. Peverell, Mary -spent all her spare time with her child. No fretting -mother she was, but calm and serene in all her doings. -He took no fever of spirit from her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Seems as if the milk she give him must almost be -cool," said Mrs. Peverell to her husband, who now, -since the registration of John's birth had had to be told -the truth--that there was no father--that Mary was -one of those women who had gone astray.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fair, she beats me," he replied. "Ain't there no -shame to her? Not that I want to see her shamed. -But it 'mazes me seein' her calm and easy like this. -Keep them cows quiet, I told her when she 'gan -amilkin'--keep 'em easy. Don't fret 'em. They'll give 'ee -half as much milk again if 'ee don't fret 'em. And -when the flies were at 'en last summer, dommed if she -didn't get more milk than that lad could have got. -That's where she's learnt it. She ain't frettin' herself -when most women 'ud be hangin' their heads and -turnin' the milk to water in their breasts wi' shame. I -doant make her out and that's the truth of it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet he had made her out far better than he knew. -That was where she had learnt the secret, as she had -intended she should learn all the secrets it was possible -to know. On sunny days she took her baby with her -into the fields where the cows were grazing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One by one on the first of these occasions, solemnly -she showed them the treasure she brought. Sponsors, -they were, she told them, having had recent acquaintance -with that word. One by one they stared with -velvet eyes at the bundle that was presented to them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When that ceremony was over, solemnly proclaimed -with words the written word can give no meaning to, -she found for herself a sheltered corner in the -hedgerow, there unfastening her dress and with cool fingers -lifting her breast for his lips to suckle where none could -watch her. The warm spring air on those sunny days -was no less food for him than the milk she gave. With -gurgling noises he drew it in. With round, dark eyes, -set fast with the purposes of life, he took his fill as she -gazed upon him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That there was nothing more wonderful to a woman -than this, Mary knew in all the certainty of her heart. -There alone with her baby, she wanted no other -passion, no other love, no other company. This for a -woman was the completeness of fulfillment. Yet this -it was that men denied to so many.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She knew then in those moments that no shame -would be too great to bear with patience for such -realization of life as this. Realization it was and, to fail -in knowing it, was like a fallow field to have yielded -naught but a harvest of weeds in which there was -shame indeed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Often in the previous summer she had heard -Mr. Peverell bitterly accusing himself for the bare and -weedy patches in his crops. Twice since she had been -there on the farm had a barren cow been sent to market -for sale because it was of no use to them. They had -been cows she herself had named. She had fretted -when they were driven away and had taken herself far -from the yard when it came to the moment of their -departure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet no word of pleading had she said to Mr. Peverell -on such occasions. Receive and give, these were the -laws she recognized and found no power of sentiment -strong enough in her to make her seek or need to -disobey them. Gain and keep--against such principles -as these her soul had caparisoned and armed itself, -clearly knowing how all laws in the operation must -carry with them the savor of injustice, uncomplaining -if that injustice should be measured for her portion. -For never so great an injustice could it be as that which -men in their ideals of possession and inheritance had -meted out to women. Living there at Yarningdale -Farm so close to the land, she had found a greater -beneficence in Nature than in all the organized charity -of mankind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On the second occasion when the barren cow had -been sent to market some delay had been made in her -departure and Mary had returned to the house just as -the flurried beast had been driven out of the yard. -With head averted, she had quickened her steps into -the house, finding Mrs. Peverell looking out of the -window in the parlor kitchen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why are they drivin' that cow to market?" she -asked. "He said naught to me 'bout sellin' a cow -to-day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's barren," said Mary. "They sent her four -times to the bull. I've milked her nearly dry now. It -does seem hard, doesn't it? She was so quiet. But -I'm afraid she's no good to us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had been taking off her hat as she spoke, never -appreciating the significance of what she said when, in -a moment, she became conscious of Mrs. Peverell's -silence and swiftly turned round.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was standing quite motionless with one hand -resting on the back of a chair, staring out of the -window at the departing beast, yet seeing nothing, for, -with a searching steadfastness, her eyes were looking -inwards.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a moment Mary's presence of mind had left -her. She had swayed in movement, half coming -forward when indecision had arrested her. It might not -be that her thoughts were what Mary supposed. To -comfort her for them if they were not there was only -to put them in her mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you thinking of?" she inquired tentatively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I be thinkin'," said Mrs. Peverell, "if he gets a -good price for that cow we'd have a new lot o' bricks -laid down in that wash-house. There be holes there a -body might fall over in the dark."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A thousand times more bitter was this than the truth, -for still she stood staring inwards with her thoughts -and still standing there, with her hand on the back of -the chair and her eyes gazing through the window, -Mary had left her and gone upstairs.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Soon after John was born, there had come a -letter from Hannah saying that she and Fanny -were going to stay with friends in Yorkshire -and on their way intended to visit her whether she -liked it or not.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Every one knows we're going to Yorkshire," she -had written, "so they won't guess we've broken the -journey."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary smiled. Almost it was unbelievable to her -now that once she herself had thought like that. -Absolutely and actually unreal it seemed to her now that the -human body could so be led and persuaded by the -thoughts of its mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come," she wrote back. "We shall be proud to see you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Proud!" said Hannah, reading that. "It almost -seems as if she meant to say she was proud of herself. -I know she's not ashamed--but proud?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"P'r'aps that's what she does mean," said Fanny. -"Though without love, it doesn't seem to me she's got -anything to be proud about."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sharply Hannah looked at Fanny, for since these -events had happened in the square, white house, there -had grown a keener glance in the quiet nature of -Hannah's eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't tell me, Fanny," she whispered, "don't tell -me you'd go and do the same?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd do anything for love!" exclaimed Fanny -hysterically. "Anything I'd do--but it would have to -be for love."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hannah went away to her room to pack, considering -how swiftly the rupture of the moral code can break -down the power of principle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fanny was never like that before," she muttered -as she gathered her things. "At least she would never -have said it. Mary's done more harm than ever she -knows. Poor Mary! She can't really be proud--that's -only her pride."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet proud indeed they found she was. At the end -of the red brick path leading up to the house between -the beds now filled with wallflowers, she greeted them -with her baby in her arms. This was her challenge. -So they must accept her. It was not to be first herself -as though nothing had happened and then her child as -though what must be, must be borne with. It was -they two or never, sisters though they might be, would -she wish to see them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her first thought, as they stepped out of the village -fly that brought them, was how old and pinched and -worn they looked. For youth now had come back to -her with the youth she carried in her arms. Thirty -she was then, yet felt a child beside them. For one -instant at the sight of her her heart ached for Fanny. -Fanny, she knew, was the one whom the sight of her -child would hurt the most. But the contact of -greeting, the lending him to them for their arms to hold, -deep though her heart was filled with pity for them, in -that moment there was yet the deeper welling of her -pride.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He won them, as well she knew he would. In Hannah's -arms, he looked up with his deep, black eyes into -hers and made bubbles with his lips. No woman could -have resisted him and she, who never would have child -of her own, clung to him in a piteous weakness of emotion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fanny stood by, with jerking laughter to hide her -eagerness, muttering--"Let me have him, Hannah. -Let me take him a moment now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And when in turn she held him, then above Mary's -pride that already had had its fill, there rose the -consciousness of all her sister was suffering. Twitching -with emotion were Fanny's lips as she kissed him. -Against that thin breast of hers she held him fast as -though she felt for him to give her the sense of life. -Not even a foolish word such as Hannah had murmured -in his ears was there in her heart to say to him. -It was life she was holding so close; life that had never -been given her to touch; life, even borrowed like this, -that had the power to swell the sluggish race of her -blood to flooding; life that stung and hurt and smarted -in her eyes, yet made her feel she was a woman -in whom the purpose of being might yet be fulfilled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Unable any longer to bear the sight of that, Mary -turned away into the house to prepare their coming. -John, she left in Fanny's arms, having no heart to rob -her of him then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They've come," she whispered to Mrs. Peverell. -"They've come."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" she inquired. "Was it to shame 'ee?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For answer Mary took her by the arm and led her -to the window.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look," she said, and pointed out over the bowl of -daffodils on the window sill, down the red brick path -to the gate in the oak palings. And that which -Mrs. Peverell beheld was the sight of two women, no longer -young, lost to all sense of foolishness in their behavior, -emotionalized beyond control, swept beyond self-criticism -by a thing, all young with life, that kicked its bare -legs and crowed and bubbled at its lips, then lying still, -lay looking at them with great eyes of wisdom as -though in wonder at their folly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They stayed till later that afternoon, then caught an -evening train to Manchester. Mary travelled a mile -with them in the old fly, then set out to walk home -alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't tire yourself," said Hannah, leaning out of -the window, as they drove away. "You must still -take care."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tire myself?" Mary cried back. "I don't feel as -if I could ever be tired again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And still leaning out of the window, watching her -with her firm stride as she disappeared into the wood, -Hannah knew their sister had found a nearer stream -to the heart of life than ever that which flowed through -Bridnorth.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Days, months and years went by and with -each moment of them, Mary gave out of -herself the light of her ideals for that green -bough to grow in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still as ever, she continued with her work on the -farm, one indeed of them now, and when he could -walk, took John with her to fetch the cows, exacting -patience from him while he sat there in the stalls beside -her watching her milk.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have to work, John," she said. "You and I -have to work. I shall never disturb you when you're -plowing or dropping the seeds in the ground. Work's -a holy thing, John. Do you know that? You -wouldn't come and disturb me while I was saying my -prayers, would you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Solemnly John shook his head. He knew too well -he always held his breath, because then she had told -him God was in the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is God in the shed here now, while you're -milking?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She nodded an affirmative to give him the impression -that so close God was she dared not speak aloud.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does He get thirsty when He sees all that milk in -the pail?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She bit her lips from laughter and shook her head -again. That was a moment when many a mother -would have taken him in her arms for the charm he -had. She would not spoil him so. She would not -let him think he said quaint things and so for quaintness' -sake or the attention he won by them, set out his -childish wits to gain approval. Nothing should he -wish to gain. All that he gave of himself he must -give without thought of its reward.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"God's never hungry or thirsty, except through us," -she said. "God is in pain when we're in pain. He's -happy when we're happy. Everything we feel is what -God is feeling because He's everywhere and close to -all of us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>John's eyes cast downwards to the bucket where the -milk was frothing white.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's feeling thirsty now then," said he meditatively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've no doubt He is," said Mary. "But He -knows the milk doesn't belong to Him. He knows the -milk belongs to Mr. Peverell and Mrs. Peverell will -give Him some at tea-time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a long while John thought over this. The milk -hissed into the pail as Mary watched him with her -cheek against the still, warm flank.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it, John?" she asked presently. "What -are you thinking?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I feel so sorry for God," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Always feel that," she whispered, seizing eagerly -the odd turn of his mind. "He wants your pity as -well as your love, little John. He wants the best you -have. He's always in you. He's never far away. -And if sometimes it seems that He is, then come and -give your best to me. I promise you I'll give it back -to Him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tenderly, by his heart she led him, bringing him -ever on tiptoe to every wonder in life, whilst all in -Nature he found wonderful through her eyes. Supplying -herself with everything in literature she could find -on subjects of natural history, recalling thereby such -memories as she had of bird's nesting and woodland -adventures with her brother, it was these books she -read now. They held her interest as never a storybook -had held it those days in Bridnorth when the old coach -rumbled up the cobbled street. John caught the vital -energy of her excitement whenever in the fields and -hedges she discovered the very documents of Nature -she had read of on the printed page.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No eggs were allowed to be taken from the nests. -No collection of things was made.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They're all ours where they are," she would say. -"Men who study these things to write about them in -the books I read, they're the only ones who can -take them. They give them all back again in their -books."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not understand this, but learnt obedience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Time came when he himself could climb a tree and -peer within a nest. Down on the ground below, Mary -would stand with heart dry on her lips, yet bidding him -no more than care of the places where he put his feet. -Never should he know fear, she determined, never -through her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So she brought him up and to the life of the farm -as well. With Mr. Peverell he spent many of his days. -In the hayfields and at harvest time, the measure of -his joys was full. He knew the scent of good hay -from bad before ever he could handle a rake to gather -it. He saw the crops thrashed. He saw them sown. -In all the procession of those years, the coming and -going, the sowing and harvest, the receiving and the -giving of life became the statutory values of his world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And there beside him, ever at his listening ear, was -Mary to give him the simple purpose of his young -ideals.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He never knew he learnt. He never realized the soil -he grew in. Up to the light he came, the light she -gave him from the emotion of her own ideals; up to -the light like a sapling tree, well planted in the wood, -with space and air to stretch its branches to the sun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mummy, what's death?" he asked her one day as -he sat with her while she milked the cows. "What's -death?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a long time she continued with her milking in -silence. She had taught him never to bother for an -answer to his questions and only to ask again when he -made sure his question had not been heard. Now he -leant up against the stall waiting in patience, watching -her face. Peeping at her then when making sure she -had not heard, he asked once more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mummy, what's death? Is that too soon?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled and pressed his hand with her own that -was warm and wet with milk.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why do you ask that, John?" she inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There were two moles got chopped with the hay -knives. I saw them. They were lying in a lump and -all bloody and still. Is that death? Mr. Peverell said -they was quite dead. Is death being quite dead?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head and went back to her milking; -still for a while in silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>These were moments she feared, yet had no real -dread of, seeing they had to be. Here was a young -twig seeking to the light, a young twig that one day -would become a branch and must be set in surest purpose -or in the full growth, sooner or later, would reveal -its stunted lines and the need there had been for vision -in its training.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Death's not the same as being dead," she said -presently. "Nothing is quite dead." She stripped her -cow, the last that evening and, putting the pail aside -from long habits of precaution, she turned and took -both his hands in hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know what a difficult question you've asked -me, John?" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have, and awfully badly I want to answer it. -I could quite easily if you were a little bit older. I'm -so afraid I can't make it simple enough for you to -understand now. And if I told you something you -didn't understand, you'd make your own understanding -of it and it might be all wrong."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Only want to know about the moles," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I know. But what's happened to the moles -happens to people."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, all sorts of times. They get caught in the -mowing knives."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But can't they tie themselves up with bits of rag -and make it all right and stop the blooding?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not when it cuts into their hearts, they can't. -Even a whole tablecloth couldn't stop the bleeding -then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What happens then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They get all still like the moles."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And are they dead then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, that's where it's so difficult to explain. If I -were to say--that's death, but they're not dead--how -could you understand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Couldn't," he agreed, and leant his head up -against her cheek, sympathizing with her difficulties. -"I've always thought death was being quite dead."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing's quite dead," she repeated, half to -herself, as though by the reiteration of that she might -capture out of the void the inspiration for what she -wanted to say.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you remember what I told you about God?" -she asked suddenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, when things go quite still, they've gone back -to God. They can't feel thirsty then, or tired or -unhappy. They haven't got any bodies to feel tired or -thirsty with."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what does God do with all the dead things and -people?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary clasped her courage and went on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He just lets them rest," she said, "rest till they're -ready to bear being thirsty and tired again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Were the moles so thirsty or so tired that they -couldn't bear it any more?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They may have been. You can never know when -God chooses to take you back again. Life, the thing -that makes you move about and laugh and run, the -thing that makes you able to bear being thirsty, -you can give that back to God just when you feel -strongest."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What would you give it back for?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Something that was worth while. Suppose you -and I were out for a walk together and I fell in the -river and I couldn't swim and I was nearly going to be -drowned and be quite still, because when you're under -the water you can't breathe and that's another thing -that makes you go quite still, what would you do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd jump in and I'd swim and I'd take you in my -arms and I'd swim with my legs and I'd get to the bank -and then I'd pull you out and I'd call to Mr. Peverell."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He felt the tightening of her arm about him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But supposing I was too heavy and yet you still -held on and I dragged you down under the water with -me and you couldn't breathe and became quite still--then -you'd have given the thing that had made you run -to the bank and jump into the water, you'd have given -it back to God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That would have been worth while, Mummy," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would it, John?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, what would have been the good of going on -looking for birds' eggs or making the hay or getting up -in the morning if you'd been quite still?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So I fill your life, do I?" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No fun if you were like the moles," said he without -sentiment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And this, she thought of a sudden, is what so many -women are denied, this actual virtue of being the very -essence of the whole world to one little, living body -that had not a lover's sentiments and passions to urge -upon its mind, but stood alone absorbed, contained in -its beliefs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, then, if you gave it back to God for something -like that that seemed worth while, it would not -be because you were tired then--would it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No--I shouldn't want no rest. Shouldn't want -to be quite still for long."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lifted him up swiftly into her arms, a sudden -sight of him quite still chilling through her blood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you gave it back, generously, like that, my -darling," she whispered, "He might accept it like -Mr. Peverell always does when you give him an apple out -of his own orchard. You always find it on your plate -again next morning."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has God a beard like Mr. Peverell?" he asked.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was when John came to the age of eleven that -Mary first learnt the pangs of jealousy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A neighboring farm came into the market one -Michaelmas and was bought by a young farmer bringing -a wife and three children to the house that lay in -the trees at the bottom of the Highfield meadow. No -one knew why it was called Highfield, that meadow. -It had been so called for centuries, yet it lay low. A -brook ran through it. Some winters it lay under -water. A kind of rush grew thick in the grass in one -corner under the poplar trees. Every year it was put -down for hay. Every year, so damp the soil, it grew -a generous crop.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Farms so close together as Mr. Kemp's and Mr. Peverell's -lend each other a helping hand. There is -only a friendly rivalry between those whose hearts are -in the soil. The spirit of giving maintains if it does -not rule. Mr. Peverell's crops were generally better to -his way of thinking than any one else's. But he loved -the sight of a well grown field nevertheless. He wished -no harm but the best to any man who tilled and cleansed -his land.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Cultivation," he said, "that's taking side wi' -Nature. Weeds is folly and Nature can't abide that. A -field run fallow makes my stomach turn."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was at the haymaking in the Highfield meadow, -when the womenfolk, and at lifting time the men as -well, came in to help, that John first met Lucy Kemp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was a year younger than he; dark haired with -solemn, wondering eyes that gazed with steady glances -at the world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the midst of his frolics in the new cut hay, John -came suddenly before those eyes, not knowing what he -saw, ceased from his antics in a swift arrest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you looking at?" he asked with -unceremonious directness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Looking at you," said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He glanced down at his clothes to see if anything -was wrong.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter with me?" he inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like you," she replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Cos you can stop playing all quick, like this, when -you play."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She must have had some vague conception of what -she meant. He must have had some vague conception -of what he understood. It was the first time it had -ever been made apparent to him that any one could like -him as well as his mother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you going to play?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've got a headache," she replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A pain--all over here!" She laid her hands -across her forehead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does it hurt?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He gave sympathy in his voice at once.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Keeps on frobbing," said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let God feel it frob and come and play," he -suggested with greater wisdom than he knew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That had to be explained to her. They sat down in -the hay, the first man in him explaining the mysteries -of life to the first woman in her. Mary found them, -fast friends, sitting together behind a high cock of hay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought I'd lost you, John," she said, and when -he did not look up on the instant, knew she had indeed -lost something of him she could never find again. No -longer was she the only woman in his world. In a -strange and unexpected moment he had found some -one he could turn to to hide his pain if she became -quite still like the moles.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They met often after that day. In a little while they -became inseparable.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Young things must have young things to play -with," Mary told herself. It was Nature. They never -reared young calves alone on the farm. Always they -had companions.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They grows better," said Mr. Peverell. "Young -and young. It comes that way."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So she stilled her heart from painful beating. But -one day Mrs. Peverell pointed out those two together in -the fields and said--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A love child they say takes easy to love. If that -doant please 'ee, 'ee must stop it soon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why shouldn't it please me?" she asked and her -heart was trembling in swift flutterings that were not -pulses in her breast, but were like wings beating, -disturbing the air she breathed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, she be just an ordinary child, like one of us, -and if John stays on the farm and one day takes it -after Mr. Peverell, as I doant mind tellin' 'ee -Mr. Peverell means 'en to take it if he likes the work, then -he'll wed wi' her, you mark my words for it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary took the hand with its knuckles far more -knotted now and held it for comfort against her breast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have been good to me," she muttered thickly. -"I have never thought till now he could mean to leave -the farm to John."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"His name's in the Bible," said Mrs. Peverell.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes, my dear, I know what that means to you. -But I never thought you meant it so practically as that. -If John does take on the farm, why shouldn't he marry -Lucy? Wouldn't that be right? Wouldn't that be -the very best?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought by the way 'ee looked at them 'ee mind -was all against it. I thought 'ee'd got greater prospects -for him than that. She's only an ordinary child, -I says, and that's all she is. I thought it 'ud upset 'ee -plans for 'en."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My plans," said Mary. "They're only for his -happiness and the best that's in him. I can't have him -always, can I? Not always to myself?" She turned -her eyes across the field to where they stood together.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's come--with her big eyes," she whispered -and she walked away.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="phase-v"><span class="x-large">PHASE V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">I</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was a still hot day at the end of the month of -July in the following year. Vast mountain -ranges of cumulus clouds too heavy on the -horizon to sweep across the sky with the storm they -promised hung sullen and low in masses of pale purple -rimmed with golden pink. Rain was sadly wanted all -the country round. Only the Highfield meadow at -Yarningdale was lush and green. The cows were there -grazing on the aftermath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With her sewing, Mary had come down to the field -an hour or more before there was need to drive them -in. John was playing with Lucy down the stream. -She could hear their voices in and out of the willows. -They were like dryad and faun, laughing together. -His voice was as a lute to Mary. She listened to it -and to the very words he said, as she would have -listened to a faun playing on his pipe, half bewitched by -it, half tricked to laughter and to joy that was scarcely -of this world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I'm the captain," she heard him saying, "you -have to dance whether you like it or not."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Claude Duval and Treasure Island! Both flung -together in the melting pot of his fancy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She peered down the field through the trunks of the -pollarded willows and saw a dryad dancing before a -faun sitting cross-legged in the grass. A fay-looking -sight it was in the hazy mist of that sunshine. With -unsteady balance, Lucy swayed in and out of the tree -shadows, alternately a thing of darkness and a thing of -light. And there below her in the grass he sat, with -his mop of hair and his profile cut sharp against the -dark trunk of a willow tree, looking to Mary who saw -him with the mist in his eyes like pagan Nature, back -to the times of Pan. Herself as well, as there she -watched, she felt she could have danced for him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Was that what love was--the thing that she had -never known? Could this be it, this godlike power -that Nature lent to man to make a woman dance for -him, and, as she danced, trick all his senses till he was -no more than man, when Nature snatched her loan -away and with Pan's laughter caught the woman in -her arms and vanished in the trees and hid herself?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That moment then she seemed to see it so and with a -later vision beheld the woman stepping out from -underneath the shadows of the wood, leading a faun, so -young his feet seemed scarcely touching the grass he -walked upon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her sewing fluttered to her lap. In that midsummer -heat, her eyes half closed, then opened, startled at the -sound of solid footsteps by her side. She looked up -and there stood Liddiard, his hat in his hand, a nervous -smile upon his lips. She was too taken unawares to -fathom them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I dreaming?" she muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were asleep," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But this isn't dreaming?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No--you're awake now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why--? What is it? Why have you come here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To see you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"After all these years?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Twelve of them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He sat down on the grass a little apart from her, -watching her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You look very little older, Mary. There isn't a -gray hair in your head. I've plenty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My hair's nondescript," she replied, still in an -amaze. "It takes a long time to go gray. Why have -you come here? Did they tell you at Bridnorth where -I was?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then why have you come?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told you, to see you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what about?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled again as he watched her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You haven't changed at all, Mary. The same -directness; the same unimpressionable woman, the same -insensitiveness to the delicate word. Does it give you -no pleasure at all to think I should come back after all -these years to see you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Was I unimpressionable once?" she asked quietly, -and took no notice of the latter part of his sentence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked away across the Highfield meadow and -there between the willow trees he saw the mop of hair, -the sharp cut profile, the little figure half hidden by the -grass, looking as though he grew out and was part of -the very earth itself he sat on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Liddiard looked back at Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that him?" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She nodded her head and then of a sudden a fear, -nameless and unreasonable, shook her through all her -body.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You came to see him," she whispered. "You -came because of him. Didn't you? Didn't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How did you know?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How did I know?" Her throat gave out a sound -like laughter; a mirthless sound that frightened her and -awed him. "Shouldn't I know, better than him; -better even than you? Wouldn't I know everything that -touches him, touches him near and touches him far -away? What do you want to see him for? He's -nothing to do with you--nothing!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know that, Mary. He's yours. He's nothing to -do with me; but mightn't I have something to do with him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fear sickened in her throat. She wet her lips and -gathered her sewing from her lap as though she might -run away; then laid it down again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Say what you mean," she said quickly. "I don't -want delicate words. You're right. I never did. -They break against me and in their pieces mean -nothing. I want the words I can understand. What do -you mean you might be something to him? What -could you be? He's mine, all mine! I made him--not -you. I know I made him. I meant to. Every -moment I meant to. It was just a moment of passion -to you, a release of your emotions. It was ease it gave -you--I can't help how I speak now--it was ease! -It brought me the most wonderful pain in the world. -You didn't want him! In that letter you wrote you -talked about the consequences of passion! -Consequences! My God! Is he no more than a -consequence! A thing to be avoided! A thing, as you -suggested, to be hidden away! I made him, I tell -you--I meant to make him! I gave every thought in my -mind and every pulse in my body to make him what he -is while you were scheming in yours how the -consequences of passion might be averted. What is the -something you could be to him now after all these -years? Where is the something any man can be to -the child a woman brings into the world? Show me -the man who, in such relationship as ours, will long -for his child to be born, will give his passion, not for -relief, but in full intent to make that child his own. -Show me the man outside the convenience of the laws -that he has made who will face the shame and ignominy -he has made for himself and before all the world claim -in his arms the thing he meant to create--then I'll -admit he has something to do with the child he was the -father of. Father! What delicate word that is! -There's a word that breaks into a thousand little pieces -against my heart. I don't know it! I don't -understand it! I pick up the pieces and look at them and -they mean nothing! Have you come after all these -years to tell me you're his father, because if you have, -you're talking empty words to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A little shout of laughter fluttered down to them -through the still air. She never heard it. The beating -of her heart was all too loud. Scarcely knowing what -she did, she picked up her sewing and went on with -her work, while Liddiard stared before him down the -field.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose you imagine," he said presently, "I suppose -you imagine I don't feel the justice of every word -you've said. You think I'm incapable of it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She made no reply and he continued.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know what you say is quite true. I haven't come -here to tell you I'm his father. I scarcely feel that I -am. If I did, I wouldn't thrust it on you. But there's -one thing you don't count in all you've said."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's that?" she sharply asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For all that you made him, for all the thoughts and -pulses that you gave, he stands alone. He is himself, -apart from you or me. The world is in front of him -whilst it's dropping behind us two."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Again she laid her sewing down. A deeper terror he -had struck into her heart by that. That was true. -She knew it was true. The coming of Lucy into that -hayfield only the summer before was proof that it was -true. He stood alone. She had said as much to -Mrs. Peverell herself. "He'll give the best he has," she -had said in effect. "Perhaps he'll leave the farm and -break your heart. Perhaps if I live, he'll break -mine." This was true. Whole-heartedly she hated Liddiard -for saying it. When all her claims were added up, -John still stood by himself--alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on," she whispered with intense quietness. -"Say everything you've got to say. I'm listening."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked about him for reassurance, doubtful and -ill at ease because of the note in her voice, yet set of -purpose upon that for which he had come.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have told my wife everything," he began and -paused. She bowed her head as he waited for a sign -that she had heard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told her a week ago to-day. My wife is now -forty-seven. We have no children. We can have -none. A week ago to-day we were discussing that; -that I had no one, no one directly to whom I could -leave Wenlock Hall. She knows what that place -means to me. I think you know too. It was my -father's and his father's. Well, it has been in the -family for seven generations now. Each one of us -has done something to it to improve it. In the Stuart -period one of my ancestors built a chapel. Before -then a wonderful tithe barn was built. It's one of the -finest in England. The date is on one of the -beams--1618. The eldest son has always inherited. We've -never broken the line. We were talking about it the -other night. I was an only son. The property is not -entailed. The next of kin is a cousin. He's the only -male Liddiard. I'm not particularly fond of him, but -he's the only Liddiard. I should leave it to him. My -wife was saying what a pity it was. She wondered -whose fault it could be. 'I believe it must be mine,' -she said, 'and if it is, what can I do?'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He paused again and looked long at Mary whose -needle still with the finest of precision was passing in -and out of the material in her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told her what she could do," he added and met -Mary's eyes as they looked up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What was that?" she asked quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told her she could give our child a home and a -name," said he, "if you would consent to let him go."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">II</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was in Mary's sensations as though, all -unprepared, she had turned a sudden corner and found -herself looking into an abyss, the darkness and -depth of which was unfathomable. All sense of -balance and equilibrium seemed to leave her. She reeled -and was giddy in her mind. She could have laughed -aloud. Her mental stance upon the plane of thought -became a negation. Her grip was gone. She was -floating, nebulously, foolishly, without power of volition -to gravitate herself to a solid conception of anything.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He proposed to take John away from her. He was -suggesting to her by every word he said that it was -her duty to John to let him go. Not only could she -laugh at the thought of it--she did. After all these -twelve years when the whole of her life and John's too -were planned out like a design upon a loom, needing -only the spinning, she was to tear the whole fabric into -shreds and fling it away! It was preposterous, -unbelievable that he could have thought it worth while to -come to her with such a suggestion. Yet she laughed, -not because it was so ludicrous as to be unbelievable, -but because Fate had so ordered it that, in a depth of -her consciousness, she knew he could have done nothing else.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>From the world's point of view it was the natural -and inevitable sequence in an extraordinary chain of -events. Many a woman would be glad of such an -advancement for her son. Most conceivable it was that -a man should desire his own flesh and blood to inherit -and carry on in his name that of which the generations -had made him proud. All this she realized. All this -was the darkness and depth of the abyss into which she -looked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But then the sound of her laughter in her ears gave -her hold again. More real than all worldly -considerations became the cruelty it was to her. More real -even than that was the destruction of the ideal she had -cherished in her heart and nurtured and fed in John's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His education was to have been the earth, the very -soil his feet trod, not the riches that came out of that -earth and more than the soft wet clay, soiled the hands -of him who touched them. It was to give, not to -enjoy; to labor, not to possess with which she had hedged -him in upon his road to happiness and fulfillment. -These were the realizations which, with the sound of -her laughter, gave her hold again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw the depth and darkness of that abyss, but -shut her eyes to it. In full possession of herself, -having gained equilibrium once more, she turned upon -Liddiard with a scorn he had never seen in her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm forty now," she said, "and I don't think you'll -deny that I have found and faced the world. In your -sheltered place down there in Somerset, you can't -maintain that you have met the world--as I've met it. -The real things have never threatened you to crush -your spirit or break your courage as they have mine. -Setting up a chapel or building a tithe barn aren't the -real things of life. Keeping your lawns cut and your -borders trimmed won't make England great or set in -order the vast forces of life that govern us. Inheriting -isn't creating, possession isn't power. You want -to train my son to the thought that it is. For twelve -years I've trained his little mind to the knowledge that -it isn't. You want him to possess and enjoy. I want -him to labor and live. You want him to inherit your -pride. I want him to create his own. Doesn't it ever -occur to you that since your family established itself -in its possessions in Somersetshire, it's been decaying -in purpose, decaying in spirit, decaying in power? -Doesn't it ever occur to you that you're making no -surplus of energy in that house of Liddiard, but by means -of the laws of inheritance are living upon a little circle -of energy that goes round and round, always dissipating -itself with every generation, always becoming the -lesser instead of the greater; creating no energy that -is new, only using up that which is old; setting up -chapels for itself and building itself tithe barns, always -for itself, never making that energy really free for -the whole world to profit by?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Liddiard stood staring at her in amazement. She -was not talking with the words of a woman. She was -talking with the words of a force, a new force; -something, coming up against which he felt himself puny -and small and well-nigh impotent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You think I'm talking like a street orator," she -said, justly reading that look. "Very probably I am -to you. I know nothing of the social science, none of -the facts for what I'm saying. I've never even said -things like this before. I'm not picking my words. -I'm only saying what I feel, what I believe all women -are feeling in their hearts. One and all, if their -thoughts were known, I believe they know they have -contributed long enough to the possessive passions of -men. Long enough they've been through the pains of -birth and the greater pain of disappointment in their -sons in order to give men children to inherit the -possessions that are theirs. Long enough they've been -servants, slaves even, to the ideals of men. The laws -have been constructed to make and keep them so. The -civilization of the world has been built up on the -principle of 'get by force and keep by servitude.' The -women who marry into royalty must breed or they are -put away. That's what we do with the cows here on -this farm. If they don't have calves and give milk, -they're sent away to the market and they're sold. But -do you really think you can keep women upon that -plane of life forever? Here, at Yarningdale, I set my -teeth and close my eyes when the cow is driven away. -But do you suppose women are getting for themselves -no more soul than that beast has? Do you think -they're always quietly going to be driven away? Do -you think they merely want to be stalled and well-fed -for their efficient service? Do you think with men as -they are, making love and passion a horror to some -women they marry, that we are forever going to believe -they are fathers of our children and have supreme -power to teach them none but their own ideals?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She came a little closer to him as now they stood out -there in the Highfield meadow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm outside your laws," she said. "You can't -touch me. I believe there are countless women who -would be as I am, if they dared. I believe there are -countless women who would give all they know to be -able to train their sons to their own ideals as I can train -mine. We don't know anything about government or -the forces that drive nations in peace and in war; but -we do know that the real peace is not in possession, -the real war is not in physical force and bloodshed to -keep what you have got, or win a little more. One -day there'll come a time when women won't give their -sons for that, when they'll train themselves and train -them to higher conceptions than you men have had."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Of a sudden she turned from the reason in her mind -to the emotion in her breast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You shan't have my John!" she cried. "You -shan't have him! I made him, as every woman could -make her child if once she thought it was worth while. -Well--I've thought it worth while, as now I think it -worth while to fight for him and keep him. When -you made your laws about illegitimacy and gave the -woman the right in her child, it was because you -considered that some men were fools and all women were -cowards and that the one must be punished for his -folly no less than the other for her fear. But what -would you do if in the end that law turned round -against you? What would you do if all women chose -to do as I have done and refused to bind themselves in -matrimony to the man who gave them a child? Men -would still be fools, you may be sure of that. Nature -relies upon their folly, while they have thought that -what she relied upon was their power. Power it may -be with the few, the few that can inspire real love; but -folly it is with the most of men; folly and greed which -causes them to make so many women scoff at and hate -the thought of love. Yes--hate the thought of love, -some women do. Every young girl shrinks at the -thought of physical contact. Many a young woman -goes to her marriage with terror in her heart and with -many that terror becomes horror when she knows. -Even we become the possession you take to yourselves. -What most of you call love--is that. But I'm going -to teach my John better things. When he comes to -love, he shall come awed, as a woman comes, not -tramping with the pride of victory and possession. -When he comes to love, it shall be to make her find it -as wonderful as now she falsely dreams it is. You -can't prevent me. I don't belong to you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still it was a force that spoke in her, a force before -which, with character alone, he felt he had no power -to oppose. She was not even speaking as one amongst -the countless women she had called upon, but as -woman, setting herself up in conflict against man. -This was real war. He had sensed well enough what -she meant by that. Yet in the habit of his mind, with -power or no power to oppose, he took such weapons as -he could lay his hands upon and struck back at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't let's stand here, like this," said he. "Can't -we sit down on the grass and talk it out?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She sat down and, as her body touched the ground, -discovered that she was trembling in every limb.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're an extraordinary woman, Mary," he began. -"The most extraordinary woman I've ever known. -You talk with your heart and yet you make me feel all -the time as though your heart were unapproachable. -I've never touched it. I know that. I never touched -it even those two nights in Bridnorth. I thought I -had, but your letter afterwards soon proved to me I -hadn't. Some man could, I suppose, but as you talk, -I can't conceive the type he'd be. You know you -frighten me and you'd terrify most men. I don't say -it in any uncomplimentary fashion, but most men, -hearing what you've said just now, would go to the ends -of the earth rather than make love to or marry you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You needn't talk about lack of compliment," she -said with a wry smile. "I'm quite aware of it. -Women like me don't attract men. They say we're not -natural. They like natural women and by that they -mean they like women who are submissive. But if they -think that's the natural woman, their conception of -women has stopped with the animals. We aren't -passive. We're coming to know that we're a force. -Look at the way this talk of the enfranchisement of -women is growing. Who'd have listened to it twenty -years ago? I don't profess to know what it means. -I don't profess to conjecture what it's coming to. But -it's growing; you can't deny it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She must have thought she had won her way. -Passing like this to abstract and speculative things, -she must have believed he had no more to say; that -question no longer existed about her keeping John. It -only proved the want of knowledge of facts she -admitted and it was inevitable she must have. She had -spent all the force of the vital energy of her defense, -but she had not subdued the man in him. Right as he -knew in his heart she was, there was yet all the reserve -of reason in his mind. The generations of years of -precedent were all behind him. She had not subdued -him merely by victory over his emotions. The force -she had was young and ill-tried. She had set it up -against convention and triumphed for all these years. -She did not realize now what weight of pressing power -there was behind it, the overbearing numbers that must -tell in the end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was only waiting for this moment; this moment -when in the flush of seeming victory she was weakest -of all; this moment when in confidence her mind -relaxed from its purpose and, as was always happening -with his sex and hers, he could take her unawares. -None of this conscious intent there was in him. He -was merely articulating in his mind in obedience to the -common instinct which through all the years of habit -and custom and use have become the nature of man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, that idea about the enfranchisement of women -is growing," he admitted generously, "but I quite -agree we can none of us know what it'll come to. It -can't alter one thing, Mary."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In a moment alert with the unyielding note in his -voice, she inquired what that might be.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It can't alter the fact that each one of us, child, of -whatever enfranchisement we may be, stands utterly -and completely alone, encouraged or hampered in our -fulfillment by the circumstances of birth that are made -for us. It happens that men are more equipped for -the making of those circumstances than women are. -It happens that men are more capable of wrestling -with and overcoming the difficulties of environment, -well, in other words, of providing the encouragement -of circumstance. I don't think you can get away from -that. I don't think you can get away from the fact -that in this short life we don't want to waste our -youth in making a suitable environment whenever it's -possible to start so much ahead and conserve our -energies for the best that's in us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned quickly as he sat and looked at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What have you called him?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"John," she replied. "He's John Throgmorton."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, do you think you're giving him the best -chance of trying his soul with the biggest things? -Whatever ideals you have for him, he stands alone with -the circumstances of life in which you place him. Do -you think he's going to do the best with them here? -Do you believe when he grows up, he'll live to bless you -for the chances of life you threw away for him to-day? -Do you think, if he has ambition, he'll be thankful that -he started life as a farmer's boy with scarcely any -education and but small prospects, when he could have -been a master of men with a big estate and no need to -consider the hampering necessity of making ends meet? -Do you think if he's ambitious, he'll be thankful to you -for that? Ask any one who has the widest and most -generous experience of the world what they imagine -will be his state of mind when, with ambition -awakening, he comes to learn that he started with that -handicap. Your ideals and ideas may be perfect in theory. -How do you think they'll come out in practice? Ideas -are nothing unless they can stand against the melting -flames of fact. The experience of every one would go -to tell you that in a practical world, which this is, you -were wrong. Can you prove you will be right? Can -you prove that when John grows up and ambition lights -in him, he'll thank you for your choice to-day?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She sat in silence, listening to every word; every -word that beat with the mechanical insistence of a -hammer stroke against her brain. They were all -arguments she would have expected any one to use in -such a case. They were all the very forces against -which she had fought for so long. Yet hearing them -now with this added element of emotion concerning -John, which drove them not only into her brain, but -beating up against her heart as well, she realized how -unanswerable they sounded in--he had said it---in a -practical world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Supposing John did come to reproach her when he -learnt the opportunity of life she had refused for him? -Her heart shrank and sickened from the thought of it. -If it were for herself alone, how easy it would be to -refuse; how easy to stand by the principles and ideals -she knew in her soul were true.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But why should he ever know? Who would there -ever be here in Yarningdale to tell him? For one -instant that thought consoled and the next assailed her -with venomous accusations. Was it not the -self-confession of weakness to hope for concealment and -deception to save her from retribution? The very -realization of it shook her faith. To be true, to be worthy, -to endure, ideals must be able to face the fiercest light; -must live, be tried, be nailed to the cross if necessary. -Only through such a test could they outlive the -mockery of those who railed at and spat on them. She -knew she could face the contempt of the whole world. -In her own world had she not faced it already? But -could she endure the recriminations of him whose -whole life was so inextricably woven with her own?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found favor with God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Those words came to her, a beacon across the heads -of all the years; but it seemed very far away to her -then. The light of it flickered an instant bringing -courage to her heart and then died out again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did fear now. More than anything she had -feared in her life, did she shrink from the reproach of -John when he should come to years of appreciation. -Her heart was here involved. Too shrewdly had -Liddiard struck home at her weakest point.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you think he'll live to bless you for the chances -in life you threw away for him to-day?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But why should it be to-day? Why in a sudden -moment should this situation be thrust upon her? Why -should she be harassed like this to say what she would -do?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't expect me to give you a decision about -this all at once," she said, and there were rough edges -to her voice. These were not the smooth words of an -easy mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He heard each note. He knew she was swaying -from her purpose. He realized the approach of what -he had come there determined to secure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't wish you to give a decision to-day," he -replied. "Of course I couldn't expect you to. Do you -think I don't realize what I'm asking you--however -much it may be for his sake."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No--but I don't mean to-day or this year or the -next," she went on in her distress. "Can't you wait -until it can be put to him, until he's old enough to -judge for himself; until he's learnt something of all -I want to teach him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Liddiard put out his hand. She did not see it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear Mary," he said, as he withdrew it again, -"wonderful as your ideals are, you have the fault of -all idealists. You don't equip them to meet the facts -of life. They're like flowers planted on a highway. -You don't reckon on the traffic of the world that will -break them down. Whatever your dreams may be, -they cannot stop that traffic. The carts must go by. -You can't prevent a man from setting out on his -journeys. You can only hinder him from reaching his -destination by the beast you give him to draw the -vehicle of his ambitions, by the sound of the ramshackle -vehicle itself which you provide him with to reach his -journey's end. John couldn't come to Wenlock Hall -with the education of a farmer's boy. That would be -too cruel. That would hamper him at every turn. -The springs of his cart would be creaking. It would -be like asking him to drive down Rotten Row in a -muck cart. Do you think he'd find that fair? He -must go to school. He must go to the University. -He must learn the things that it is necessary he should -know to fill a position like that. You can't send him. -It must be me. I don't want your decision at once. -I can wait a week, a month, more. But you must see -yourself it can't be years. It can't be till he's able to -choose for himself. That is the unpractical side of -your ideals. You don't realize it would be too late then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary sat with her elbows resting on her knees, her -face locked and hidden in her hands. It was an abyss -which, round that unexpected corner, she had seen -yawning at her feet. It was deep. It was dark. -Nothing so dark or deep or fathomless had presented -itself to her in her life before. She felt herself falling, -falling, falling into the bottomless pit of it and not one -hand was there in all the world that stretched itself out -to save her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had come so far, knowing at every turn that, -for all the rough and broken surfaces, her road was -right; thinking, however hard or merciless to her feet, -it yet would lead to sweet and quiet places. Courage -she had had and fear she had known along the whole -way. Still she had striven on as one, bearing a heavy -burden, who knows there is release and rest at her -journey's end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But before the chasm of this abyss that fronted her, -it was not so much courage she lost as the vital essence -of volition. For herself she did not feel afraid. -Whatever destruction might be awaiting her in those -depths, she did not shrink from it. Eagerly, willingly, -she would have sacrificed herself, but had no strength -to take the hazard of what might chance and sacrifice him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was little need for Liddiard to tell her how -every precedent in life opposed the thing she had set -herself to do. And once John had come in contact with -life itself, how could she be sure the pressure of his -thoughts would not be tinctured with regret. What -more bitter inheritance, what more accusing testimony -of her failure than that?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Not always a faun could she keep him. Not always -with a dryad could he play in happy meadows. The -world it seemed had grown too old, too worn, for that. -Something must happen to stir human nature to its -depths and rearrange the threadbare and accepted values -before it could ever be young again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here she knew she was but dreaming dreams. -There lay the abyss before her. Nothing in the wildest -flights of her imagination she could conceive was able -to fill its depths or make a bridge, however treacherous, -to span it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had said it. These things were unanswerable in -a practical world; and in a practical world there was -no true sense of vision. The possessions of men -had become their limitations. Beyond them and the -ease they brought to the few years that were theirs, -they could not see.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The vision she had had was but a glimpse; a world -beyond, not a world about her. As Liddiard watched -her, she sank her head upon her knees. He thought -she had turned to tears. But a heart, breaking, turns -to that water that does not flow out of the eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He thought she had turned to weeping and in genuine -sympathy laid his hand gently on her arm. And this -was the spear thrust that set free the water from the -gash his touching hand made in her side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She drew away and lifted her head and looked at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're strangling all the joy in the world," she said.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">III</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>There came the sound of a voice through the -willow trees, across the other side of the -stream. It was a sturdy voice, high and -ringing with encouragement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bear up--be brave," it said. "We're coming to -the ford. Once the river's crossed there are only a few -more miles to go before we're safe."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The smile that rose into Mary's eyes found no place -to linger there. She turned with Liddiard at the sound -to see, a faun no longer, a faun transformed to stalwart -man, bearing a distressed maiden in his arms--a -knight errant shouldering the precious burden of -outraged womanhood and bringing her to safety.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Again the smile crept back into Mary's eyes. Again -it crept away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has Lucy hurt herself?" she asked. "What's -the matter with her?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There were two terrible robbers in the wood," said -he as he strode with his burden into the stream. -"They had tied her to a tree. She was all naked when -I found her. I've killed them both--she's--" Then -seeing Liddiard for the first time, he stopped. -Astonishment leapt into his eyes. He set his Lucy down and -stood staring.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"John," said Mary, "this is a friend of mine, a -Mr. Liddiard." She turned to Liddiard. "This is my -John," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They met and solemnly shook hands. With eyes -that sought for subtlest meanings and hidden things, -Mary watched them, the touching of their hands, the -look of the eyes. So surely she knew, across the -unmeasured distance between them, Liddiard was casting -the javelin of his soul to pierce John's heart. In that -silence as he stood holding John's hand, she knew he -was eagerly, determinedly, poignantly conscious of -being father of her child and in that silence was straining -to project his consciousness into the very soul of John. -Would he respond? She watched them both, but -closest by far, her John. Was there some voice in life -between father and child which all the years and all -their silence could not still? With almost a jealous -dread she stood before that moment swift in her mind -to see the faintest sign. Would he respond?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a while John's hand lay in Liddiard's, then of -himself he took it away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can we go on playing, Mummy?" he asked. -When she knew there had been no answer to Liddiard's -call; when, sure in her heart he know none but -her, she knelt down on the grass at his side and took -his cool cheeks in her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you'll kiss me," said she, "if you'll kiss me first."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He framed his lips and kissed her eyes and stood -back laughing. He framed his lips again and kissed -her mouth, then laughed again and lastly, flinging his -arms about her neck, he poured his kisses like a song -into her ears, then, shouting to his Lucy, ran away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In a long silence, Liddiard turned and watched them, -faun and dryad once more, spirits of that sunshine and -those deep green shades of the trees. He looked back -at Mary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've made a sturdy, splendid thing of him, -Mary," he said emotionally. "You've made him fit -for the very best."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She closed her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who's the little girl?" he asked presently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lucy--Lucy Kemp. She's the daughter of a -farmer who lives over there. They're great friends." She -half smiled. "I was jealous at first. I know now -these things must be. Boy and girl, why shouldn't -they begin that way? It's grown to be the sweetest of -wooings to me. They're becoming like two young -shoots together. One day their roots will twine."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He put on his hat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't be sure of that," said he. "One day -perhaps he'll need his own. I know you think, living -here, that class means nothing. You rule out heredity -altogether. But it comes out. He might be content. -Do you think a girl like that could ever make him -realize the fullness of life?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fear sprang back into her heart again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, why did you ever come?" she said. "We -were all so happy here!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IV</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Mary stayed on at Yarningdale when John -was taken away to school. Had she had -fear of the pain it was, she would still have -remained. Mr. and Mrs. Peverell were getting old -and so close by this was her life now knit with theirs, -she knew her absence would have made too deep a void -were she to leave them then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The natural milkmaid she had become, so skillful, so -acknowledgable and conscientious in her work, that -Mr. Peverell had increased his activities in this -direction. Where at first there had been but nine milking -cows, there now were fourteen. All through the -summer months, he supplied thirty gallons of milk a day. -Filled in the churns, Mary drove with it every evening -in the spring cart to the station. At her suggestion -and by means of her labor he undertook the rearing of -his own calves and the ultimate introduction of them -into the milking herd. Whenever good fortune -brought them a promising heifer calf, it was given into -Mary's charge. It became an interest deeper and more -exacting than she knew to wean and rear it for the herd. -So they were able to know the character and history of -each beast as it came into service, its milking qualities, -its temper, the stock from which it sprang.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As thus, having weaned him towards the vision -of life she had, Mary would have reared her John.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why--why did 'ee let 'en go, Maidy?" Mrs. Peverell -had cried to her the night after John's -departure when she lay stretched upon her bed, staring, -staring, staring at the paper on the wall.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd taught him to give," she muttered. "How -would he believe what I'd said one day, when he learnt -that I'd kept back? How can you teach another how -to live if you don't know how, yourself? There's only -one way of knowing the truth about life--living it. -I shan't lose him. I know deep and deep and deep in -my heart, I shan't. He's gone, but he'll come back. -Should I really have believed if I hadn't let him go? -The belief that's really in the spirit comes out in the -flesh. It must! It must! Or soul and body are -never one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was to herself she had spoken. Never her hopes, -ambitions or faith for John had she attempted to -explain to Mrs. Peverell. None but the simplest issues -of life could that good woman appreciate. Right or -wrong things were with her. No other texture but -this they had. In fullest conviction she knew that -Mary had been right in everything she had done. So -close in sympathy with their Maidy was she now that -even in this parting with John, that well-nigh broke -her heart, she felt Mary must be right.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall I cross his name out of the book, Maidy?" -she had asked as she was leaving the room. "'Twon't -be nothing to him, this place, when he comes into his -big estate."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sitting up in the bed, Mary had called Mrs. Peverell -to her, clutching her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never do that!" she cried. "That was his -birthright. He was born here. I made him here. -Promise me, don't do that. If you did that, I should feel -I'd lost him forever!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>For the first half of every holiday at school John -came back to his mother at Yarningdale. The -remainder of his time he spent in Somerset. How closely -she watched him it is not difficult to suppose. Every -term that passed brought him to her again with -something she had taught him gone, with something they -had taught him in its place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To the outward observer, he was the same John. -All his love he gave her, teasing her with it as he grew -older, playing the lover to her shyness when she found -him turning from boy to man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They spoke little of Liddiard or the life in Somerset -for the first year. All invitations to Wenlock Hall -though freely offered, she refused.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I appreciate your wife's generosity of wish to meet -me; don't think me seeking to make difficulties; really I -am trying to avoid them," she wrote.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>In fact it was that Yarningdale was her home and -still, pursuant of her purpose, she would not allow John -to associate her in his mind with any other place. -Within a year they had made him feel the substance of -his inheritance. He spoke of Wenlock Hall, knowing -it would be his. Inevitably he made comparisons -between their lives and hers, but it was not until after his -first term at Oxford that openly he questioned her -wisdom in staying on the farm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They both want you down there, Mater, at Wenlock -Hall. And after all, this is a poky little place, -isn't it? Of course the farm's not bad, but it's a bit -ramshackle and sometimes I hate to think of you still -milking the cows in those dingy old stalls. We've -got lovely sheds at Wenlock Hall, asphalt floor, beautifully -drained, plenty of light and as clean as a new pin."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked at him steadily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For nearly eighteen years, John, I've been milking -the cows in those stalls. Until two weeks before you -were born, I sat there milking them. As soon as I was -well again I went back. You've got your little private -chapel at Wenlock Hall. Those stalls are my chapel. -That little window hung with cobwebs through which -I've seen the sunset--oh, so many times, I don't want -any more wonderful an altar than that. In those stalls -I've had thoughts no light through stained glass -windows could ever have brought to me. Do you remember -sitting beside me there while I milked, oh, heaps of -times, but one time particularly when you asked me -about God?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He thought an instant and then burst into shouts of -laughter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What, that time I asked you if God had a beard -like old Peverell?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She tried to laugh with him, just as, at the time, she -had tried to control her laughter. This was the -difference between John, then and now; was it not indeed -the difference in all of her life?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was the end," said she, "that was the last -question you asked. We had said a lot before that. -Don't you remember?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was just a kid then," said he. "I suppose I was -always asking questions."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't you now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, not so much, why should I? Mater, you -don't expect me always to be a silly little fool, do you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The breath was deep she drew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were far from being a silly little fool then, -John. Those questions were all wonderful to me, even -the last one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laid both his hands upon her shoulders and looked -far into her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You take life so seriously, Mater," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Only when it loses its seriousness, John," she -replied. "I was full of the joy of it in those days when -always you were flinging your earnest little questions -at me. It's now when it seems to me sometimes you -want to play with life that I take it seriously. It's -now, when sometimes you give me the impression you -just want to enjoy life, that all the joy goes out of it. -I wonder would you understand, my dearest," she -slipped her arm about his neck, "if I told you you -were more of a man to me then than often you are now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, dash it, Mater, I can't help it. We don't go -mooching about the 'Varsity with long faces wondering -about God. Every chap enjoys himself as much as he -can and that all depends on the allowance he gets from -his people. They're jolly decent to me that way. I've -a good deal more than most fellows. Why, I have a -corking time up there and why shouldn't I? I shall -be young only once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You might always be young," she whispered. -"They're teaching you that youth's a thing to spend, -like money when you have it. I know it's all the -training, my dear. I ought never to have let you go. I'd -never have taught you that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shouldn't have got much joy out of working on -this bally old farm, should I?" he retaliated. "The -Pater's busy enough down at Wenlock Hall, but he -doesn't actually do manual work. He's always going -round the place. I don't suppose it pays, real profits, -I mean, like old Peverell makes this pay, but it gives -plenty of employment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pater? Is that what you call him now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After the sound of that word, she had heard no -more. It rang with countless echoes in her brain. -What a sound it might have had if ever she had loved. -Was it as hollow to other women as it was to her now?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He asked me to, this year," said John. "Just -before I went up to the 'Varsity. I couldn't refuse, -could I? After all, he is my father. Lots of people -say I'm awfully like him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary turned away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must go out and fetch the cows now," she said. -"Would you like to come?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He showed an instant's pause. Before it had -passed, swiftly that instant her pride arrested it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps you were going to do something else," -said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, as a matter of fact, I was going to take old -Peverell's gun round by the wood. It's alive with -rabbits. He says they're spoiling his mangolds."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All right, my dear. I'll see you at supper-time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She drove the cows into the shed. One by one they -filed into their accustomed stalls. Mechanically she -fastened the chains about their necks and took down -her stool and brought her pail. Leaning her cheek as -so many times she had done against the first warm -flank, she looked up. The setting sun was shining -through the window.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">V</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>This and many other such conversations -revealed in time to Mary that which she had -both known and feared. John was changing. -Every fresh occasion of their meeting he was altered -a little more. The possessive passion, inherent in the -very nature of his sex, was stirring in him. -Gradually but inevitably they were wakening in him the -pride of inheritance. Less and less did it seem to her -he was creating his own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was all too subtle to arrest, too elusive to oppose. -Still, as always, he had his charm. Both Peverell and -his wife found him altered, it was true, but improved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There be gettin' the grand manner of the squire -about 'en," Peverell said one day when he went back -to Somerset before returning to Oxford. "How many -acres is it coming to 'en? Two thousand! Well! A -young man needs his head set right way on to let none -o' that go wastin'."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Not even did Mary let Mrs. Peverell see the wound -she had. Scarcely herself did she realize how deep it -had gone. But more than in his manner and the things -he said, it was in his attitude to Lucy she was made -most conscious of his change.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>During his first holidays, they had played together -as though no difference had entered their lives to -separate them. The next time they were more reserved. -A shyness had come over them which partly Mary -justified to herself, ascribing it to that awkwardness -of the schoolboy who, if he is not playing some manly -game or doing some manly thing, is ever ready to -fear the accusation of ridiculousness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it was before he went to Oxford, while he was -yet at school that the change in him became more than -that merely of confusion. It was plain to be seen that -he avoided her then. A solitary figure, wandering in -the Highfield meadow where first they had met, where, -most likely it was, they still would meet whenever he -was at Yarningdale, showed to Mary the patient heart -that watched and waited for him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sometimes at Mary's invitation she joined and -walked with them. Often it was no more than a -shouted greeting from John, flung into the wind over -his shoulder, after which the little figure would -disappear through the willow trees and for the rest of those -holidays perhaps be seen no more, or ever be -mentioned by John.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you lost all interest in Lucy?" Mary asked -him straightly once when, at the end of his time at -Yarningdale, he was packing up his things for the rest -of his holiday in Somerset.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked up, at first surprised and then with color -rising in his cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean by interest?" he asked. "I -like her very much. If you mean I haven't seen her -these holidays, I can't go hunting her out, can I?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't you? You used to once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I was a kid then. So was she. She's nearly -seventeen now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doesn't it all come back to a matter of interest -though? You can't be interested, of course, if you're -not. I'm not suggesting that you're being willfully -unkind to her. I don't think you'd be willfully unkind -to any one; but do you know what will happen as soon -as you've gone?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She'll come round here on some pretext. She'll -contrive to seek me out and gradually we shall begin -to talk about you and then, most cunningly it will seem -to herself she is doing it, she'll ask whether you said -anything about her while you were here and if you did -what it was and how you said it or what I think you -meant by it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>John flung the things into his bag.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish you wouldn't encourage her, Mater," he -exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She came across the room to him. She took his -hands that clumsily were folding some garment before -he could pack it. She forced him to turn his face to -hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's just as much that she encourages me," she said. -"Do you know I was jealous of her once?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He guffawed with laughter and took her face in his -hands and kissed her between the eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was," she whispered, her voice made more than -tender with that kiss. "When she first took your -thoughts a moment from me, that day you met her -when we were making hay in the Highfield meadow, I -was jealous then. Now we have one thing, so closely -in common that, though she's only sixteen and I'm -forty-seven we've become inseparable friends."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean, one thing in common?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The old John."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For an instant she gave lease to her emotion and -gently clung to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was the young John," she added in a whisper, -"the little boy with the mop of hair who was a pirate -captain and a Claude Duval and a hundred sturdy men -all contained, John, in the simplest, sweetest mind that -held one thought. It was to be a man like Mr. Peverell -and till the soil with labor from sunrise to the sunset, -a man like Mr. Peverell who owed no thanks to any, -but out of his own heart and with his own energy made -his pride, a man like Mr. Peverell who gave all that he -had to the earth which gave all back again to him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her voice was almost trembling now. Chance of -circumstance had placed this moment in her hands. -She knew she was fighting for her ideals, perhaps with -the last opportunity that would ever be given her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Would he respond? Her heart fluttered in her -breast with fear. Had this opportunity come too late? -Was he past answering to it now? She hung upon -the moment with catching breath, scarce daring to -watch his eyes, lest she should know too soon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Feeling his arm slip round her shoulder, finding his -lips against her cheek, she could have cried aloud for -joy, yet all in strange perversity kept the stiller in his -arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was response. The touch of her mind had not -yet gone from his. He had emotions yet that answered -to her own. The possessive passion had not won him -wholly for its own. A heart he had that still could -beat with hers, that still could urge the love in him to -take her in his arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She knew he was going to speak and waited, saying -no more herself to prompt the answer he might give, -but laying her cheek against his lips, hearing the breath -he drew as he replied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't feel that I've changed, Mater," he -murmured to her. "I'm a bit older, that's all. Being up -at Oxford makes you see things differently, and it's -awfully different at Wenlock Hall from what it is here. -You get out of the way of doing things for yourself, -there are so many people to do them for you. Why -don't you come down there? It's awfully jolly. -They'd give you an awfully good time. I know they -would. Let me send a wire and say you're coming -these holidays, with me, now? Do! Will you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head. He did not know what -temptation he offered. But there, in Yarningdale was the -citadel of her faith. Deeply as she longed always to -be with him, she dared not sally forth on such -adventure as that. Only her faith was there to be its -garrison. Only by setting her standard there upon its walls -did she feel she could defend the fortress of her ideals.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If she could but keep his love, as now in his arms -she felt she had it sure, then always there was hope -she might draw him back to the life that she had -planned for him. A brave hope it was while she rested -there in his arms. For one moment it soared high -indeed; the next it fluttered like a shot bird to the earth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't ask me about Lucy," he said as still he held -her to him. "You can't expect me to feel the same -about her, or that it should grow into anything more -than it was. After all, she's only Kemp's daughter."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked away. Her hold of him loosened. -Scarcely realizing it, she had slipped from his arms and -was standing alone.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was just before the summer vacation, when John -was eighteen, that he had written to Mary, saying--</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I've got special leave to come down next Friday and -I want to ask you something. There's a girl I've got to -know, well, she's twenty-five and I want you to meet her -first before they do at Wenlock Hall."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>She had come then and so soon. The first woman -of John's own choosing now he was become a man. -The jealousy she had known concerning Lucy was as -nothing to this she felt with a sickness of apprehension -in her now. Fate, circumstance, the mere happenings -of life, these had brought him his Lucy. But here was -one his heart must have sought out, his soul had chosen. -She seemed to know there was no chance, but something -selective about this. Here the nature that was in him -had been called upon. For the first time, with no -uncertainty, she was to learn what that nature was.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Peverell indeed had spoken true when she had -called him a love-child. His response to passion had -been swift and soon. And was he coming, awed to -love as once she had said she would teach him to come? -Or was he tramping with the pride of victory and -possession? The moment she saw this girl, she -would know. The world was full of women who -asked for no more; who judged the affections of their -men by just that measure of animal passion which in -their hearts and often upon their tongues they -professed to despise.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only the few there were who, never asking but waiting -for the love that she had wished to teach him, -inspired it. Had his heart sought out one of these? -With fear and trembling she read on.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I can't explain in writing," the letter continued, "but -you must see her before any one else."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The degree of her gratitude for that for a moment -drove away all fear, but not for long.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I've told her everything about myself," she read on. -"She's wonderful. She doesn't mind a bit. I want you -to let me bring her down to Yarningdale. She can have -my room and I'll doss out at the Inn. I know you'll like -her. You must. She's splendid. I've warned her what -the farm is like, that it's a bit rough, but she doesn't care -and she's longing to meet you."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>All Mary's intuitive impressions of her who did not -mind when she had heard about her John, she put away -from her and, harnessing the light horse in the spring -cart, drove down that Friday to the station.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was characteristic of John's letters that he had not -mentioned her name. Many of his friends at the -'Varsity she knew well by his accounts of them, having -no more classification for them in her mind than the -nicknames they went by.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>John was leaning out of the carriage window as the -train drew in. Swift enough she noted the look of -eager excitement in his eyes; but it was that figure in -the pale blue frock behind him she saw. As they came -down the platform towards her, John first with his -bounding stride, still it was the figure behind him her -heart was watching, notwithstanding that she gave her -eyes to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here's Dorothy Fielding, Mater," he said, scarcely -with pause to exchange their kiss of meeting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned with the smile that hid her hurt to meet -those eyes her John had chosen to look into.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a quiet woman this Dorothy saw, so calm and -serene as made her realize how all those subtle -preparations she had made for this meeting were wasted here. -That she was well gowned, well shod, that her hair was -neither too carefully dressed nor untidy in its effect, -that her hat showed confidence in her taste, all these -preparations over which she had taken such care she -knew could not avail here in the judgment of those -eyes that met hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was not just a woman she had to please and -satisfy; it was something like an element, like fire or -like rushing water her soul must meet, all bare and -stripped of the disguising superficialities of life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is the first time I've heard your name," said -Mary with that smile she gave her. "John never -mentioned it in his letter. But then I don't suppose he's -ever told you what I was like."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mater! I've told Dorothy everything, haven't I, -Dee? Described every little detail about you, rather!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary's hands stretched out and held his. Her eyes -she kept for Dorothy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I hope you're not disappointed," she said, -"because I'm not a bit like it--am I?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She knew so soon, at once. So far beyond the reach -of conscious comprehension had been Dorothy's -surprise that now it came rushing to the surface of her -mind with Mary's detection of it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On the contrary," she replied, "I think I'd have -known you anywhere."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then from that moment they knew they shared no -thought in common. That first lie was the sound of -their challenge. Each for their separate purposes they -were at enmity in their claim of John. He stood -beside them, there upon the platform, supremely -unconscious of the forces he had set free, sublimely happy in -his achievement of bringing them together.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were two women, dearer to him at that -moment than any two other people in the world and all -he saw was the smiles they gave each other. The -spiritual and the material need of him they had, for -which already they had cried the challenge to battle, this -came no more even to the threshold of his mind than -came to his ears, intent on all they said, the short, sharp -whistle of the departing train.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Each in that first moment had set up her standard. -His soul was the sepulchre for which Mary fought. -There between those two, lay John's ideals and visions -of life. It was they who had the power to make them -what they should be. Through them he was to find -stimulus for the emotions that should govern all he -did. Still was he for molding, still the plastic spirit -needing the highest emotion of the highest ideal to give -it noblest purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And here, as ever, his mother was she who in that -malleable phase set first the welfare of his soul. No -conception or consideration of inheritance was there -to hinder her. It was not to a man fit for the world -she saw him grow, but to equip him for life she gave -the essence of her being.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This from the very first, before ever that cry of his -lifted above the wind in the elm trees, had been her -sure and certain purpose. No possessions in life there -were but him to limit the perspective of her vision; and -such a possession was he as for whom, if need be, she -could make absolute sacrifice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Already she had done so. Already once she had -given her heart for breaking to let him go. Fear there -was in her now she had not had courage enough in her -purpose. Fear there was she had not trusted enough -to faith.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Would he have lived to rebuke her for the opportunity -she had thrown away? Might he not have lived, -as she would have taught him, to thank her for the -sense of life she had given him in exchange for the -world that now was at his feet?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once she had given her heart for breaking and it had -healed in the patient endurance of her soul. She had -no thought to give it here. Here in that moment as -they met upon the platform, she knew she must fight to -the last. Men might make the world, but it was women -who created life. Between those two women, laughing -like a schoolboy, he stood for his life to be shaped and -fashioned and all that appeared upon the surface of -things to him was that the world was a happy place.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It would be a false conception of Mary -Throgmorton in this phase of her being to picture her -as consenting to the common wiles of women.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She fought her battle for her John with weapons the -stress of circumstances made ready for her hand. All -men have done the same. Guile there may seem to -have been in her, but none greater than that which in -some one form or another is called forth from all -human nature in any conflict. The smiles with which -Dorothy greeted her had to be met with smiles; the -delicate word she so despised demanded no other than -the delicate word from her. To have used blunter, -heavier weapons than these might indeed have routed -her opponent, yet to have won in such a case would -have been worse than loss.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here was war in the true sense as she knew it; -not the flinging of a greater force against a lesser, -winning on the field of battle and in the very boastful pride -of victory, losing in the field of life. It was not to -confound her enemy she sought but to win that issue -upon which the full justice of her hope was set. Not -for herself to gain or keep it had she made her heart -of tempered steel, but for another to find the liberty -his soul had need of.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was for John she fought and none of his pity -dared she awaken for his Dorothy, well knowing that -though by Nature victors themselves, there was little -love in the hearts of men for a triumphant woman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If this was guile, it was such as life demanded of her -then. With all nobility of character to criticize -herself, she did not pause here for sentiment. If the -weapons she must use were not to her liking, necessity -yet fitted them readily to her hold.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Never had John seen his mother so gentle or so kind. -For the first time in his conscious mind he appreciated -the pain of jealousy he knew must be pricking at her -heart. For in some sense it was her defeat it seemed -to him he witnessed; a brave defeat with head high in -pride and eyes that sadness touched but left no tears. -He came to realize the ache of loneliness she felt -whenever in the fields, about the farm or through the woods -he went with Dorothy alone. After a few days, it was -he, unprompted, who asked her to accompany them, -and Mary whose wisdom it was so readily to find some -duty about the house or with the cows that prevented -her acceptance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Gradually she permitted him to come upon suspicion -that these excuses were often invented. Gradually she -brought him to consciousness of the sacrifice she made. -He found he learnt it with effort or intent and -appreciated in himself the breadth of vision his heart had -come by.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you realize," he said one day to Dorothy in -the woods, "that the Mater just invented that excuse -not to come with us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He found amaze at that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She did," said he. "Those cow stalls don't want -whitewashing again. They're a bit ramshackle -compared with ours at Wenlock Hall, but they're as clean -as a new pin. Old Peverell told me the inspector said -they'd never been so clean before. She invented it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly he took Dorothy's arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know you've done that for me?" he whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Done what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Given me a wider view of things, taught me to -realize other people's feelings as well as my own, -shown me what she suffers when she sees me go off to -Wenlock, what she suffers when I bring you down here -and go out with you every day, leaving her alone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But why should she suffer?" asked Dorothy. -"She's your mother, she must love you. She must -want to see you happy. She must be glad you're going -to come into that beautiful place in Somersetshire."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He fell to silence, having no answer to that, yet -feeling she somehow had not understood what he had meant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That night he came to Mary's room to say good-night -before he went down to the bedroom he had taken -at the Crooked Billet. Always hitherto it had been a -knock upon the door, a call of good-night and then her -listening to the sound of his footsteps down the thinly -carpeted stairs. This time he asked if he might come in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By the light of her candle, Mary was lying in her -bed reading one of the books from a little shelf at her -bedside. More than she knew, this request of his -startled yet spurred her no less to the swift -expediency of what she must do.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just one moment," she called back, steadying the -note in her voice. Quickly then she slipped from her -bed, arranging her hair as best she could before the -mirror; with a fever almost of speed, changing her -night attire for a garment the best she had, fresh with -the scent of the lavender she kept with all her things. -Not once did her fingers fumble in their haste. -Another moment she was back in bed again, her book -put back upon the shelf and another, one of those -Nature books she used to read when he was a little boy, -taken in its place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come in," she said and, because her voice was so -low with her control of eagerness, she had to repeat -her summons.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was as the door opened and he entered that she -felt like a mistress receiving her lover. Her heart was -beating in her throat. Even John found her eyes more -bright than he had ever seen them before.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All love of women in that moment she knew was -the same. For sons or lovers, if it were their hearts -beat too high for the material judgments in a material -world, what did that matter if so high they beat as to -lift the hearts of men to nobler than material things? -This, she realized it, was her function; this the power -so many women were denied, having no vision of it in -themselves because men did not grant it license in their -needs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Not to give him possession as a lover did she admit -him then, but in the sacrifice of her love and of herself -to lift him through emotion to the most spiritual -conceptions of life that were eternal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Never in all that relationship between herself and -John had she felt the moment so surely placed within -her hands as then.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it?" she asked, so gently in her voice that -she could have laughed aloud at her own self-possession.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just came in to say good-night," said he with an -attempt at ease, and came across to the bed and leant -over it to kiss her cheek, uplifted to meet his, and found -that clean scent of lavender in his nostrils when, before -he had really learnt his purpose, he sat down upon the -bed at her side and remained there, gazing into her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you reading?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned the book round for him to see, making -no comment; allowing the memories of childhood to -waken in him of their own volition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shut the book up, contriving to let his hand find -hers as she contrived to let it stay there without -seeming of intent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it, John?" she whispered again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing except just what I said. I wanted to say -good-night." Yet he still lingered; still, without -keeping it, his hand remained in hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For some while he stayed there, sitting on her bed, -saying nothing, playing only with his fingers that held -her hand. With a supreme patience she waited in -silence, knowing no words were needed there, her heart -throbbing with an expectant pulse that rose to riot as -suddenly he slipped on to his knees on the floor and -leant his head against her breast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want her, Mater," he whispered. "Haven't you -guessed that? I'm terribly in love."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Had she guessed that? Indeed! But had she ever -dreamt or hoped for this, that his first love-making -would be through her? This was the first love scene, -the first passion in the drama of his life and in awe of -what it was, he had chosen her to play it with.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Emotions such as were triumphant in Mary -Throgmorton then cannot easily be captured. Here in -certain fact was the first hour of love her heart had surely -known; an hour, albeit not her own, which for the rest -of her life was to remain with its burning embers in -her memory.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With deep breaths she lay for a moment still, -holding him in her arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Haven't you told her, John?" she asked presently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head against her breast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know. I can't just tell her I love her. It's -more than that. She wouldn't understand. If she -did, she might hate me for it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It might have been youth and the utter lack of his -experience. He was only just eighteen. But Mary -found in it more than that. In the first great emotion -in his life, when he was stirred so deep as to touch -those very first impressions she had given him in his -childhood, he was setting on one side himself and the -demands that Nature made on him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How little his Dorothy would appreciate that, Mary -had made certain estimate the first moment they had -met. No awe of love was there in her; no vision his -need of her could ever destroy. She, with the many -others, was amongst those women who, bowing herself -to the possessive passions of men, would sell her soul in -slavery to share them if she could.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whatever of her training it was they had bereft him -of at Wenlock, however out of the true line they had -bent that green bough her hands had fashioned, still in -the vital elements of his being, he sought the clear light -above the forest trees about him. In this swift rush -of love, a storm that beat and shook him with the force -of it, some spiritual impulse still remained. He felt -his Dorothy was some sacred thing, too sweet to touch -with hands all fierce as his.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How long would that remain with him? In the -materialism of his new environment would they let -him keep it for long? Another day and drawn by the -shrilling call of Nature into the arms of Dorothy, -might he not lose it even so soon as that?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not know how true he spoke when he had -said she would not understand. A product of the laws -of man she was, eager and passionate to submit, needing -that trampling spirit of possession to give her sense -of life, caring little how soon love trod itself into the -habit of familiar touch.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No emotion of ideals would she have with which -to set her children forth upon their journeys. Into -an old and tired world they would be ushered with -grudging of the pain they brought and fretting -complaint of ugly circumstance. Consequences of passion -they would be, no more, with nothing but the magic of -youth to give them laughter in their playgrounds.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So well did Mary know that night as he lay there -against her breast, John would not keep his spirit long -untouched when other arms than hers had held him. -Too soon had they taken her from him. Too soon, in -that moment's want of faith, had she let him go. -Possession of the earth already had brought him scorn of -it. Again and again had she seen that in the change -of his mind towards their simple life at Yarningdale.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The earth she would have had him labor in, was -such as now would soil his hands. It was enjoyment -he sought, she knew it well, not life. With that poison -of inheritance they had instilled into his blood, fast he -was becoming an echo, not a voice. The message of -all ideals was being stilled to silence in him. They -were teaching him to say what the Liddiards had said -one generation upon another--gain and keep, gain -and keep--it would be folly to give away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only in this, this love that stirred him to the very -essence of his being, was he recalling the years of -emotion she had given to the fashioning of his soul. Here -for that moment as he lay in her arms, he was the man -her heart had meant to make him, awed by love, made -timorous almost by the power of his passion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But how long would it survive its contact with that -casual materialism his Dorothy would blend it with? -How soon before she made his love that habit of the -sexes which bore no more than drifting consequences -upon its stream?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Neither long would it be, nor had she power now to -intervene. Clasping her arm more tightly round him, -already she felt him slipping from her, the more -because in that brief moment he was so much her own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dearest, need you tell her yet?" she asked. "I -know you feel a man, but you're still so young. You're -only eighteen, you couldn't marry yet. Liddiard -wouldn't want you to marry. Need you tell her yet?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must," he muttered. "Not for a little while yet -perhaps. I've told you. That was a help. I don't -feel so much of a brute as I did. But sooner or later I -shall have to. I can't help being young and I'm not -inventing what I feel. Other chaps feel it too, quite -decent fellows, but somehow or other I can't do what -they do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do they do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Frankly she would have admitted that was curiosity, -but curious only was she to know what he did not do -rather than what they did.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do they do, John?" she repeated as he lay -there, silent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, they go up to London when they get the chance. -There are women, you wouldn't understand that, Mater. -Probably you've never known there were women like -that. How could you have known down here? My -God! Fancy one of those women in the fields! She'd -drop down in the grass and she'd hide her face. -Anyhow in streets they keep their heads up. They look -at you in the streets."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you couldn't do that, John?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No--I tried. I went up to London once. We -went to a night-club. All sorts of them were dancing -there. I just couldn't, that's all. The fellow I was -with, he went away with one of them. I envied him -and I hated him. I don't know what I felt. I -couldn't. It didn't make me feel sick of it all. I don't -think I felt afraid. You kept on coming into my mind, -but just you wouldn't have stopped me if I'd really -wanted to. I did want to. I had wanted to. That's -what we meant to do. But when I got there to that -place, and one of those women kissed me, I felt there -was something else I wanted more. I think I nearly -went mad that night. I had a little bed in a stuffy -little room in a poky little hotel. I couldn't sleep. I -never slept a wink. I nearly went mad calling myself -a fool for not doing what I'd wanted to do. There -I'd have done it. Then I didn't care what I did. But -it was too late then. I'd lost my chance. I was sorry -I'd lost it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He raised his head and looked at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not sorry now, Mater. I wasn't sorry for -long. Aren't men beasts?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear--my dear," she whispered. "If they -were all like you, what a world love could make for us -to live in. Oh, keep it all, my dear. Never be sorry. -It isn't the right or the wrong of it, John. It's the pity -of it. If women had men like you to love them, think -what their children would be! Don't tell her yet, John. -Wait a little longer if you can."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't!" he moaned. "I can't wait. She knows -I care for her. I'm sure she does. I must tell her -everything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If only it had been Lucy he had shrunk from telling, -then fear would have met with fear and mingled into -love. It was not fear he would meet with in Dorothy. -Too wise perhaps she might be to laugh at his -timorousness, but swift enough would she turn it to the -passion to possess.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>That night as John lay in Mary's arms, there -reposed with simple state in the Government House at -Sarajevo, the two dead bodies of a man and a woman -who had found rest in the shadow of the greatest -turmoil the world had ever known, which through the -minds of millions in central Europe were ringing the -words--</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The great questions are to be settled--not by -speeches and majority resolutions, but by blood and iron."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">VIII</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>John waited a little as he had said he would. -Two days later, keeping his silence, he returned -to Oxford. In her first encounter with Mary, -Dorothy knew that she had lost. She was no equal, -she realized it, to that serene and quiet woman who -gave her smile for smile and in whose eyes the smile -still lingered when in her own it had faded away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not before the latter end of July that the first -whisper of war came to Yarningdale. Conflagrations -might burst forth in Europe; the world might be set -alight. It mattered little to them at Yarningdale farm. -Whatever might happen, the cows had still to be milked, -the crops to be gathered, the stacks to be built. How -did it effect them what an Emperor might say, or a -little gathering of men elect to do? They could not -stop the wheat from ripening. They could not stop -the earth from giving back a thousandfold that which -man had given to the earth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"War!" exclaimed Mr. Peverell. "Men beant -such fools as that! 'Tis all a lot of talk to make the -likes of us think mighty fine of them that says they -stopped it. We'm have taxes to pay and if those what -are in the Government doant make a noise about -something, we might begin awonderin' what they did to -earn 'em."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was all very well to talk like that and likely enough -it sounded in their parlor kitchen at Yarningdale. But -there were other thoughts than these in Mary's mind -and not all the confident beliefs of peace amongst -those who had nothing to gain and all to lose, could -shake her from them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When once it had become a daily topic of speculation -and newspapers in Yarningdale were being read every -morning, she formed her own opinions as to what -would happen out of the subconscious impulses of her mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Deep in her heart, she knew there would be war, a -mighty war, a devastating war. Something the spirit -of her being had sense of revealed to her that this was -the inevitable fruit of that tree of civilization men had -trained to the hour of bearing. This was its season. -War was its yield. With blood and iron the crop of -men's lives must be gathered. Inevitably must the -possessive passion turn upon itself and rend the very -structure it had made. The homes that had been built -with greed, by greed must be destroyed. This, as they -had made it, was the everlasting cycle Nature demanded -of life. Energy must be consumed to give out energy. -To inherit and possess was not enough. It was no -more than weeds accumulating and clogging in the -mill-wheel. If man had no ambition other than to -possess; if in his spirit it was not the emotion of the -earth to give, then the great plow of war must drive its -furrow through the lives of all of them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In some untraceable fashion, Mary felt that the -whole of her life had been building up to this. -Somehow it seemed the consummation of all she had tried -and failed to do. At the supreme moment of her life, -she had been lacking in faith of her ideals. She had -lost the clear sight of her vision. The whole world -had done that and now it was faced with the stern -justice of retribution.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There must be war. She knew there must. Men -and women, all of them had failed. What could there -be but the devastating horror of war to cleanse the evil -and rid of the folly of weeds the idle fallows of their -lives?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, if it is to be war," said the Vicar one day, -having tea with Mary and Mrs. Peverell in the parlor -kitchen, "Germany's not the nation of shrewd men -we've thought her. If she insists upon it," he added, -his spirit rising from meekness with a glitter in his eye, -"she'll have forgotten we're the richest nation in the -world. On the British possessions the sun never sets. -She'll have forgotten to take that into account."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Every man was talking in this fashion. She read -the papers. It was there as well. Long articles -appeared describing the wealth of the German colonies -and what their acquisition would mean to England if -she were victorious on the sea. Extracts were printed -from the German papers exposing her lust and greed -because, with envious eyes upon the British Colonies -she was already counting the spoils of victory.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There in the quiet and the seclusion at Yarningdale, -Mary with many another woman those days, not -conscious enough of vision to speak their thoughts, saw -the world gone mad in its passion to possess.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It seemed to matter little to her at whose door the -iniquity of lighting the firebrand lay. War had been -inevitable whoever had declared it. The cry of broken -treaties and sullied honor stirred but little in her heart -as she heard it. What mattered it if a man was true -to his word when all through the years he had been -false to the very earth he dwelt on?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That cry of sullied honor through the land was as -unreal to her as was the cry of sullied virtue that ever -had conscripted women to the needs of men. The -principles of possession could never be established -with honor, the functions of life could never be -circumscribed by virtue. It was not honorable to gain -and keep. It was not virtuous to waste and wither.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>War was inevitable. By the limitations of their own -vision men had made it so. There was horror but no -revolt in her mind when, on the morning of that fourth -of August, she read the text of the British Ultimatum.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They must give back now," she muttered to herself -as she stood by her dressing table gazing down at -a photograph of John in its frame. "They must all -give back, sons, homes--everything. They've kept -too long. It had to come."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A few days passed and then three letters came for -her, one swift upon another. Each one as she -received it, so certain had her subconscious knowledge -been, she read almost without emotion. The announcement -of war had not staggered her. She felt the ache -of pain, as when the barren cows were driven out of -the farmyard to go to the market, but since she had -been at Yarningdale, knew well enough the unerring -and merciless power of retribution in Nature upon -those who clogged the mill-wheel of life, who broke -the impetus of its ceaseless revolutions whereby no -speed was left to fling off the water drops of created -energy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Each letter as she received it, she divined its -contents. The first was from John.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"DEAR OLD MATER--"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>She heard the ring of vitality in that.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"They're all going from here. If I cock on a year or -two, they'll take me. I sort of know you'd like me to. -Do you know why? Do you remember once my asking -you something about a couple of moles the hay knives had -chopped? I was thinking of it yesterday, I don't know -why, and that made me realize you'd understand. Do -you remember what you said about Death, that sometimes -it was just a gift when things were worth while? -Well--good Lord! It's worth while now, not that the blighters -are going to kill me. I've got as much chance as any -one of getting through. But you are glad I'm going, -aren't you? You're not going to try to stop me. They -say the Army's big enough with the French on one side -and the Russians on the other to knock Germany into a -cocked hat in three months. But I must get out and -have one pot at 'em."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>All this she had divined as her fingers tore open the -envelope, but never had she dared to hope that the -impulse of it would have come from his memory of -what she had said to him those days when he was in -the fashioning of her hands. This, she had made him. -She clutched the letter in her hands and held it against -her face and thanked God she had not wholly failed. -The next two letters came together by the same post -on the following day. She knew their handwriting. -No envelope could have concealed their contents from -her eyes. Liddiard's she opened first.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"MY DEAR MARY--"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose John has written to you of this preposterous -suggestion of his that he should volunteer, and I know -you will do all you can to prevent it. To begin with he -is not of age. He will have to lie about it before they -can accept him and, secondly, War is a job for soldiers -and the Army is there to see it through. If they rush -him out without proper training as I hear it is likely they -may do, it's unfair on him; it's unfair on all of us. We've -paid for our Army as a nation and now it's got its work -to do. Calling for recruits now as they did in the South -African war is not fair to the country. These young -boys will go because they're hysterical with excitement for -adventure, but where will the country be if they don't come -back?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I rely on you, my dear Mary, to do all you can to -dissuade him from this mad project of his. With all the -knowledge that one day he is to be master of Wenlock, I -know he still looks reliantly towards you in that little -farmhouse. Do all you can, my dear. We cannot lose -him, neither you nor I."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>With a hard line about her lips which, had she seen -it, would have reminded her of her sister Jane, she -laid the letter down and picked up that from Dorothy.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Please--please don't let him go," it cried out from -the written page to her. "I can't stop him. I've tried. -He won't listen to me. I learnt those few days while I -stayed at Yarningdale how he will listen to you. He -belongs to me. He told me so. Please--please don't let -him go."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>She picked up the other letter and stood looking at -them together, side by side, then dropped them from -her hand and from the bosom of her dress drew out -the slip of paper John had written on and pressed it -once more against her cheek.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Downstairs in the parlor kitchen with the pen and -ink that Mr. Peverell used when he kept his farm -accounts, Mary sat down and wrote to Liddiard.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"If I could do everything, I would do nothing," she -wrote. "This is what I made him. I would not -unmake him if I could. You must give. I must give. We -must all give now. We've kept too long. Don't you -know what this war is? It's not England fighting for her -rights or Germany for her needs. It's Nature revolting -against man. You've made your chapels and your tithe -barns for yourselves. The earth is going to shake them -into the dust again. If I could do everything, I would -do nothing. He takes my heart with him when he goes. -But there is nothing I can do. We must all give now--at -last--women as well as men. These things that -happen now--these are the consequences of passion."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">IX</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>To Mary Throgmorton, tending and milking -Mr. Peverell's cows at Yarningdale Farm, -those first few weeks of the Great War were -as the resultant dream that shadows the apprehensive mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Every morning after her work was done, she would -retire to her room with her newspapers, therein to read -the countless conflicting reports which they contained. -The feverish desire to give active help or be amongst -the first of those personally to contribute to the cause -found her calm and self-possessed. She had her work -to do. So long as the cows were there in Mr. Peverell's -meadows, they had to be milked. Her duty it -had been for the last eighteen years to milk them. Her -duty it seemed to her to continue.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>From all the villages round about them, the young -men were going up to join the colors. Little -processions of them accompanied by their mothers and -sweethearts passed along the roads to the station, going to -the nearest recruiting office. Most of them had flowers -in their caps and went singing on their way, lifting -their voices to a cheer at sight of any whom they passed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whenever she met them, Mary cheered in fervent -response; but looking back over her shoulder when they -had gone by, there were tears, hot and stinging in her -eyes, so that always their departure to her was through -a mist. They vanished, nebulous, like spirits, out of -her sight. She looked till she could see no longer. -The vision of them trembled as the air trembles over -the scorching earth on a summer's day. She felt it was -the last vision she would ever have of them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only their mothers and their sweethearts came back, -little weeping groups of them, along the same road. -Whenever she saw these approaching her, she would -break her way into the fields or the woods rather than -pass them by. For more than the boys themselves -with the high light of a strange laughter in their eyes, -it was the faces of the mothers as they all went by -together, that had dragged, like the warning pains of -child-birth, at her heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Pale beneath the wind-burnt ruddy skins they were. -It was pallor of anger; anger of soul at the senseless -waste. The cry of England for her sons was loud -indeed. In countless hearts the note of it was -shrilling without need of proclamation. These boys had -heard it and heard no more. Their mothers had heard -it too. No less had it rung its cry in Mary's ears. -But deeper and further-reaching was the hearing of -the women in those early days of war.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Later, doubtless, their senses became almost numb -to the true meaning of that voice flung far across the -land. Even the vitality of despair grew still in their -breasts. The horrors of war sickened, choked, -asphyxiated them. They gave their sons like animals going -to the slaughter house with eyes that were staring and -wide, and in whose nostrils the heavy smell of blood -had acted as a soporific on the brain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But at first, Mary had little doubt of the look she -saw in those mothers' eyes. They were giving up, not -what they had got, but what they had made. The -created thing they were sacrificing; the thing which in -love and pain and energy of soul they had offered out -of themselves to give life to. There was little of the -fervor of patriotism about them. To those country -railway stations they marched with their pale faces, -their set lips, the aching pain in their eyes. Each for -her son's sake smiled as he looked at her; each for her -son's sake smiled as she waved farewell. But on the -hollow mask she wore, that smile was but a painted -thing. He looked to his sweetheart or he laughed to -his companions and it died away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Somewhere in their buried and inarticulate -consciousness, those mothers knew that wrong was being -done to them. Vaguely they knew it was man with his -laws of force and his passion of possession who had -done that wrong; vaguely they knew it, but had no -clear vision in their hearts to give them voice to revile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such an one Mary came upon, a day when rain had -driven her to take shelter and she came back by a -foot-path across the fields. On the smooth rail of a -well-worn stile the woman was seated, her feet resting for -support on the step below, her body faintly swinging -to and fro, not for comfort but as though she rocked -sorrow like a suffering babe in her arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At sound, then sight of Mary who must cross the -stile if she passed that way, the woman sat erect and -took her feet down from their resting-place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once having seen her, she looked no more at Mary as -she approached, but set her face outwards with a steady -gaze in her eyes. In an impetus of memory, Mary -recognized her as one of a little band she had seen -marching to the station earlier in the day. She had -been alone with her son. No sweetheart was there to -share their parting. Alone she had bid farewell to -him. Alone she returned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Had there been others with her, Mary might have -turned back; at least she would have hurried by. Now, -coming to the stile, she stopped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you lost your way?" she inquired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, thank you, Miss."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was only I saw you coming by the road this -morning and this footpath doesn't lead to Lonesome Ford."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We came by the road because all the boys were -going that way. They take it easier when they go all -together. Seems they laugh in a crowd. What we -have acomin' back seems best alone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary made gentle inquiries, what recruiting office -her son had gone to--what regiment he hoped to -join--his age--his trade--what other sons she had.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's my only--" she replied steadily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Had she broken into weeping, Mary would have -comforted and left her. Tears are their own solace -and need no company. But there were no tears here. -She sat upon the top rail of the stile, her head high -above Mary, her features sharp and almost hard -against the sky, her eyes set fast across the rolling fields -that dipped and lifted, with elm-treed hollows and -uplands all spread gold with corn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have one only," said Mary quietly. "He's in -training now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That made them one, but the calm voice of her who -had spoken made the other lean towards that unity for -dependence. Impulsively she stretched out her hand -and straight and firmly Mary took it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know who you are, Ma'am," she said with -words her emotion quickened on her lips. "I'm more -or less of a stranger to these parts. You may be a -grand lady for all I know and judging by your voice, -but the way you spoke and all that's happening these -days, seems to me we're all just women now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All just women," said Mary softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She responded eagerly to the gentle encouragement -and went swiftly on as though no interruption had -been made.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What I mean," she said, "we've both just parted -from what's dearest to us in life--that makes us one. -You might be a lord's lady and I just one of common -folk--no less, we're one. Something's happened to -us that's made us look up like and see each other--it's -made you put out your hand to me and what I want -to know is what it is that's happened, because with all -these talks of England in danger and hatred of those -beasts of Germans, there seems something else and I -can't get it right. I know, now it's come to it, my -son's got to go out and fight. I wouldn't stop him. -But I don't think I'd have brought him into the world -if I'd known. There are some as like fighting. He -doesn't. He cried in my lap last night, but not because -he couldn't make up his mind to go. He knew he was -going this morning, but he cried in my lap and I heard -him say, 'I know I shall fight and hate and go mad -with the rest of them when it comes to the time.' I -don't rightly know what he meant by that. I hope he -does hate but it seemed to me as if it was that he feared most."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps he saw himself mad and drunk with -blood," said Mary. "Can't you imagine he'd loathe -the sight of that? Have you ever seen a woman -intoxicated with drink?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Once I did--no--twice I did."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you like to think of yourself like that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She bent her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've made that plain," she muttered. "I didn't -care asking him at the time. Seemed he just wanted to -go talking on with no questions. There'll be -hundreds like him, I suppose, thousands perhaps and some -as like fighting. 'Twill be an adventure to them, but -hell it'll be to him. P'r'aps that's as it must be. The -world's all sorts. But I can't help thinking the world's -wrong for us women. Be they the fighting kind or -not, we didn't bring 'em into the world for this -wasting. They say that thousands of our boys were lost -during that first retreat from 'Mons' I think they call -it. If you saw the thousands of mothers they belong -to all come together in a crowd like the boys marching -and they had some one to lead 'em, what would they -do to them as have made this war? They'd tear them -limb from limb. That's what they'd do. I used to -think the world was a fair and sweet enough place -once. They told us there, those people up in London -in the Government there could be no war. The papers -said it. Up to the last they said it. Every man said -it to you, too. There can't be no war, they said, not -a big European war, they said, the world 'd stop still -in a month, they said, there'd be no trade. Seems to -me men go sweating in labor and toiling with work and -half the time they don't know what they're making."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary let her talk on. So plain it was to be seen that -it gave her ease; so plain that this was the accumulation -of her thoughts, flowing over from the full vessel -of her heart that could hold no more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's all this," she continued, "all this they've -been saying about treaties and what they call -International Law? Seems to me we've let men make the -world long enough. They've made hell of it. How -could there be peace with them making all those guns -and ships and weapons which was only invented to -destroy peace? I don't believe nothing's made to waste -in this world. If you make a thing it'll get itself used -somehow and if it don't and goes to rust, then -something's wrong in the minds of them as wasted their time -on it. If my man had told me before we married I'd -got to give him a son as one day would be crying in my -lap because he found life horrible, do you think I'd -have married him? No--he told me the little home -we was going to have and all the things he'd give me -to put in it and how when I was going to have a child -he'd work so hard as we could afford to get a girl in -to help. That's what he told me those evenings we -walked up and down the lanes courting, and that's what -it seems to me men in high places who make the -Government have been telling those thousands of mothers -that have their hearts broken now this very hour. -Men want to get hold of things in this world. -Grasping always they are. And nations are like men, -because men have had the making of them. And the -nation that has the most men has the most power to grasp, -and the more they grasp, the more will others get -jealous of them, and the more they get jealous, the -more they'll need to fight. But who gives them the -power they have? Who gives them the sons they ask -for? And what I want to know is why do we go on -giving for them to spoil?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary watched her as the last rush of her words lit -up her eyes to a sullen anger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Countless women will think like you," she said -quietly, "when this war's over. They won't listen any -more when men tell them there's honor in their slavery -or pride in the service that they give. We shall bring -children into the world on our own conditions, not on -theirs. To our own ideals we shall train them; not -to the ideals of men. You're not the first who's -thought these things. I've thought them too and hundreds -of others are thinking them and we shan't be the last."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stretched out her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's a new world to be made," she said with a -thrill in her voice. "Men have had their vision. We -can't deny they've had that. Without their vision -would they ever have been able to persuade us as they -have? They've had their vision while we've had none. -They've had their vision and it's brought us so far. -When women find a vision of their own; when once -they see in a clear picture the thoughts that are aching -in their hearts now, nothing will stop them. You see -and I see, but we are powerless by ourselves. I know -just how powerless we are, even to have faith in our -own sight. I thought I had faith once--enough faith -to carry me right through--but I hadn't. At the -crucial moment that faith failed me. I had trained my -son so far in the light of the vision I had and then they -came and with all the threats they made of the good -things he was losing in life, my courage failed me. I -let them have him for their own and little by little I've -watched him drift away from me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know," she added, coming to a swift -realization as she spoke, "do you know I'm almost glad -of this War. He volunteered at once, though he's only -eighteen. He volunteered against his father's wishes. -This war's going to stop him drifting. It's going to -stop thousands from drifting as they were. They'll -see there's something wrong with the civilization they -have built up, that it's an earthquake, a volcano, a -state of being which any moment may tumble or burst -into flame about their heads. For that, I'm not sorry -for the War. We couldn't have shown men how -wrong they were without it. It'll be to their mothers -they'll go--these boys--when they come back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She took her hand away and climbed over the stile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You'll have him back," she said. "One of these -days you'll have his head in your lap again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For one moment they looked in each other's eyes. -There was a compact in that look. In purpose they had -found sympathy. Out of the deep bitterness of life -they had found a meaning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once, as she walked away, Mary looked over her -shoulder. The woman still sat there on the stile, still -with her features cut sharp in profile against the sky, -still gazing across the elm-treed hollows and the -uplands all spread with gold of corn.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>On Sunday night, October the fourth, in a little force -of naval reserves, John marched from Ostend to his -battle position on the Nethe.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary did not know where he had gone. He had not -known himself. In the midst of his training, the order -had come for his departure. Two hours he had had -with her at Yarningdale; no more. All that time he -had laughed and talked in the highest spirits. -Constrained to laugh with him, her eyes had been bright, -her courage wonderful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not until she drove back alone in the spring -cart from the station, that she knew the brightness in -her eyes had sunk as in those other women's eyes to the -sullen light of anger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh--the waste--the senseless waste of it!" she -had muttered that night as she lay waiting for the relief -of sleep.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The next five days had passed in silence. She went -about her duties as usual, but none seeing her dared -speak about the War. It was whispered only in that -parlor kitchen; whispers that fell with sibilant noises -into silence whenever she came into the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Each morning, as always, she took her papers away -to her room to read. Nothing of that which she -yearned to know could they tell her. On the ninth of -October Antwerp had fallen. Amongst all the strongholds -that were crumbling beneath the weight of the -German guns, this meant nothing to her. She laid -the paper down and went out into the fields.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was the evening of three days later when she was -milking the cows in their stalls, that Mrs. Peverell -came, bringing her a telegram into the shed. Her -hands were wet with milk as they took it. They slipped -on the shiny envelope as, without hesitation, she broke -it open.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When she had read it, she looked up, handing it in -silence to Mrs. Peverell, then turned with the sense of -habit alone remaining in her fingers and continued -with her milking.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">THE END</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">Books By E. Temple Thurston</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>The Green Bough -<br />The City of Beautiful Nonsense -<br />The World of Wonderful Reality -<br />Enchantment -<br />The Five-Barred Gate -<br />The Passionate Crime -<br />Achievement -<br />Richard Furlong -<br />The Antagonists -<br />The Open Window -<br />The Apple of Eden -<br />Traffic -<br />The Realist -<br />The Evolution of Katherine -<br />Mirage -<br />Sally Bishop -<br />The Greatest Wish in the World -<br />The Patchwork Papers -<br />The Garden of Resurrection -<br />The Flower of Gloster -<br />Thirteen</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="backmatter"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>THE GREEN BOUGH</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="cleardoublepage"> -</div> -<div class="language-en level-2 pgfooter section" id="a-word-from-project-gutenberg" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<span id="pg-footer"></span><h2 class="level-2 pfirst section-title title"><span>A Word from Project Gutenberg</span></h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span>We will update this book if we find any errors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This book can be found under: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41895"><span>http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41895</span></a></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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