CHAPTER XV I installed Peter behind a gorse-bush on the heath, instructing him how to find the house should I be away for more than a couple of hours. And then I started off. See Farm lies in a backwater of Hamston, down a road that cheats you for a few hundred yards into thinking you are in the country, until you find it melts drearily into some wasteland dug up for building and hideous with piles of crudely colored bricks. The road is shaded by elms instead of the ubiquitous plain trees of cities, and though dust-filmed it is true, pink, campion, and strong rank hemlock grow along the hedges.  And by this canal, the length of a field from the road, stands Secrecy Farm. As I drew near I saw that nailed to the palings was a notice board inscribed in big white letters on a black ground with these words, Secrecy Farm, this desirable freehold with four-and-a-half acres of land, to be sold, apply horton and janks, golders-green. My heart sank. It did not seem as though our cause would benefit much by this expedition. But I opened the gate and approached the house. It is a low white building, or rather, once was white. But now was defaced by long meandering green stains. Several panes of the small windows were broken. The woodwork, long unpainted, had turned a soft peacock blue color, and the weeds grew long and lank in the strip of ground between the house and the field. I walked round to the back where I knew the main door was. I was greeted by a perfect storm of barking from two dogs. One chained a little way down the garden and the other at the further end of the house. They tugged at their chains like demons, and I prayed the links might hold as I stood and surveyed the scene. Secrecy Farm had been ramshackle when I had first known it. It was far more so now. To the left of the door was a flight of wooden steps that led to a sort of little railed platform, on to which a French window opened. I remembered how incongruous that window had always struck me as being. It introduced what was, somehow, a sinister note of modernity. As I looked at it now I thought I saw a slight movement behind the curtained panes in the decrepit old house, and I turned towards the garden. That showed signs of fairly recent care, a tall row of scarlet runners lent from their supporting sticks. Beyond them I caught sight of a strip of cabbages, showing a cold blue-green beside the dark coppery red of some beetroot leaves. And that again, a rick of bell-sad-colored hay blocked any further view. Against it an elevator was leaning, and the wind rattled it in all its iron joints so that it sounded like the clanking of a ghostly chain. I turned to the house again and knocked with the ash-stick I carried against the door. At first nothing but the renewed fury of the dog's barking answered me. Then I heard an inner door open softly. I knocked again and this time a hesitating step shuffled down the passage. Then the door was opened a few inches, and I caught the gleam of an extraordinarily bright pair of eyes. Ah, it is you, Mrs. Murdock, I said. Don't you remember me? She opened at that, and Mrs. Murdock stood before me. She like the farm was very much as I remembered her, only more so. Her hair had gone very thin above her high forehead, which gave her something of a vulture look. Her yellow old face was extraordinarily wrinkled, but as she recognized me her smile made all the wrinkles break up and run into wide curves, like the circles made by a stone in a pool. By its misviv she exclaimed, and I thought I noted something besides pleasure in her voice—relief. I happened to be in London again, I said, and I thought I'd look you up. May I come in? Eh, what? She asked, leaning forward. I've gone very hard of hearing, my dear. I repeated my question with a shout. Why, well, yes, come in, dearie, she then answered. But indeed I had already stepped into the narrow passage. I saw the paper was peeling in damp patches off the wall, and the boards were bare. While Mrs. Murdock herself was wrapped in an old magenta shawl, that trailed in a mauve-eaten triangle from her back. Let me see, this was the sitting-room father and I used to have, I exclaimed, my hand on the door of the room which gave on to the little balcony. I must just look in, and before she could stop me I had turned the handle. Rather to my surprise it yielded, and I looked in, to see Edgar Murdock standing in the middle of the room, which was quite unfurnished save for the curtains over the window. That he was Mr. Murford I had no doubt, now I had set eyes on him again, in spite of the fact that he was wearing a dark pointed beard, which must, of course, be false. Why, how do you do, I exclaimed mechanically, holding out my hand. It was not until he had taken it, and I felt how cold his was, that the full realization of what I was doing flashed through me. This was Mrs. Murdock's son, and Mrs. Murdock had, in her queer brusque, half-shamed way, been very kind to father and myself in the old days. I had been counting on that old kindness of hers in coming there that afternoon, and I had been want to help Edgar to construe Marcus Aurelius in the original. Uncertain and devious as he was, in many disconcerting ways, he had a kind of brilliance, and now to track down Mrs. Murdock's son was impossible. I supposed the excitement of the thing, and the fact that Mrs. Murdock herself had not entered into my calculations, had prevented me seeing clearly before. Anyway, once having presented myself as a friend, and being welcomed as such, I had made myself powerless. After all, it was not my business how dishonest Edgar Murdock had been. And yet there on the heath was Peter, Peter who, if he could bring off this scoop, would be in a fair way to success in Fleet Street. I felt a profound distaste for the whole affair, and I wanted time to think. Mrs. Murdock broke in on the little silence. Well, since you've taken all the trouble to come out here, she said, in her still brisk and harsh old voice, that had alarmed me so at first as a child. You must take a cup of tea with us. Edgar's grown a rich man and respected. As I always knew he would. So you'll have no call to mind sitting down with him. Come into the kitchen. There's a bit of fire there. I followed her into the kitchen, which was empty, save for a few chairs, a table, and a large wooden case with a wire netting window, which stood against the blotched and discolored wall. Behind the netting two ghost-pale ferrets leapt up and down, up and down like wand reflections of the leaping firelight. You've only just caught us, went on Mrs. Murdock. We're flitting. I suppose you saw the notice on the gate. Are you going far away, I asked? Only to—she was beginning, when her son struck in with a stentorian shout of, There's no milk in the house, you no mother. Hadn't you better get some from the shop over the bridge? So I had, said Mrs. Murdock, not heeding my protestations. For to break bread with her was the last thing I wanted just then. You must take a bit of something with us, Miss Viv, said Mrs. Murdock firmly, and all the stocks sold off, unless you count the dogs and the ferrets. Thank ye, Eddie, for he had brought her a bonnet and a black cloth jacket, and was helping her into them. I don't let my gentleman son do my errands for me out of doors, so he pays his old mother out. By waiting on her in the house, she added, trying to disguise her pride in the gloomy-looking Edgar. She let herself out at the back, and Edgar Murdock, alias Mr. Murford, and I sat looking at each other from opposite sides of the hearth in the dim kitchen, where a twilight greenness reigned, owing to the great lilac and syringa bushes that had been allowed to grow up against the window. Finally Edgar cleared his throat and began to speak. Remember the old days, Miss Lovell? He began. How your father used to go off to the British Museum, and how you used to do little sketches about the place. I still have one you did of the old duck and her ducklings in the sunlight. And you used to help me with my reading. I nodded, but could find nothing to say. How do you think the old lady's looking, he asked suddenly? Oh, I should have known her anywhere. But I don't think she looks very well. She's dying, he said harshly. What do you mean? What I say the doctors give her a month or so at the outside. She's killed herself, for me. I'm taking her away, now I've found out. To look after her for the last time we'll have together. You must have thought us in a bad way when you saw the house all bare and neglected. But it's merely that everything's sold. Even our own things are packed ready except just what we need for one more night. As far as money goes it isn't a case of bad times, with her, thank goodness. And with you it is, I said, the words slipping out before I knew. What do you mean, he asked sharply. Then I made up my mind. It seemed that the chief thing was to help the Murdochs, and I knew Peter would understand. I mean I know you're Mr. Murford. But I don't know why you did it. Eddie, why did you? You're not naturally dishonest, I know. There must be something at the back of it. Why should I trust you, he asked sharply. No, I didn't mean that. But why are you here? I came because I recognized you in the papers.  But I won't do anything that would hurt Mrs. Murdoch, if you'll tell me why I did it. You yourself have given the reason that's at the bottom of it all, when you say her name. And she'll be back in five minutes, he added, glancing nervously at his watch. Five minutes to make you see my point of view. I'm listening. He did not begin at once, but sat with his false beard sunk on his chest, and I gazed at it in idle fascination, wondering how he made it look so natural. Then, clasping the arms of his chair, he began, still looking into the fire. You remember how it was when I was a boy, how nothing was too good for me? Well the time came for me to go out into the world and begin all those wonders she believed in. I started at your job, journalism. The old lady nearly died of pride when I used to come home and show her my press cuttings. They were only the usual things, murder reports and such like. But I had to read them all to her, because she can't read, you know. She used to sit and finger them. Then I got the sack. I was no good at the job, really. My education. I'd spent so much on it, herself as well as her money. It was no good. Snippets here and there. I was more cultured, hateful word, than most of the men on my rag, but nothing I could turn to any use. I too had believed I was bound to do wonders. Getting the sack was a shock to me, but I told myself it must be that I was too good for them. But last I got on to another paper. I found it was a swindling sort of concern, flourishing chiefly by black mail. I'd begun to realize by then that I'd no talent. Just a drifter, with wants above my station, and no way, no honest way, of gratifying them. He paused then took his gaze from the fire and let it rest on me. I'm trying to be honest with you. I am being honest. It wasn't only wanting things for myself. I couldn't bear her to know I was a failure. That I was cut out on a pattern bound to fail. It was partly pride. I couldn't have stood the mortification of it. But it was more than that. It was that I knew it would break her up entirely. So I kept on on that paper. I always came down here to see her in a frock coat and a topper. She used to sit and just stroke that topper with the tips of her fingers as though it were a frightfully precious breed of Persian cat. She only lived for my visits and what I could tell her of myself.  She has never known any of her neighbors. Why do you think?  Think of the incredible strength of her to keep to that all these years. Then I got hold of a sum of money, a few hundreds. My paper was a dishonest affair enough but I cheated even my paper. I took the money to keep something out of it and didn't let it know. Then I cut loose from it and told myself I'd start again. But there seemed nothing I could do. I could get no references for a clerkship or anything of that kind. And my mother kept on asking how I was getting on. When I was going to marry a lady. Then I must have been a bit mad. I decided to have a splash on my money and see what it would do for me. A rich marriage, perhaps. Sounds low, but you see I'd got sort of used to taking everything from a woman. I went to Fengate. Everyone liked me. I'm a taking kind of fellow. He said it bitterly and I nodded for it was true. There was a kind of glamour and charm about him. And what made you leave? Plan all that sham accident affair, I asked. Did your money come to an end? No, I've got a hundred left, though of course I owe practically everything there. But I got worried about my mother. I'd sent her snapshots of me out hunting and all that kind of thing from the local papers. But it was no good writing, because she couldn't read it if I did. So every now and then I ran up to see her. She was taking bad fonts while I was here, and I made her have a doctor. It's her heart. And it can't last out for more than a month or so. So I chucked everything. I couldn't leave openly. I should have had all my creditors after me. So I thought I'd arrange it so that they'd think I was killed. I mismanaged it, owing to not knowing that little item about the tide. And there's a hewn cry after me. I should be safe enough staying here. But I find she's already knowing about her heart. She'd made the doctor tell her the truth. She's already sold the furniture and put the place in the hands of an agent. So that I shall have as much as possible coming to me at her death, with no need to give myself away by having to make the arrangements. She's thought even of that. She couldn't have done it more carefully if she'd known I was a guilty man trying to hide. She was going into lodgings by herself. Of course I put my foot down. Luckily I have that hundred. It'll be quite enough to last her time and impress her with my riches. She need never know, if only I'm not caught. At that moment we heard the sound of a key in the back door, and Edgar got up to meet his mother and relieve her of the milk and buns she carried. He had certainly shown me his point of view. There was no doubt about that, and shown it so that I had no course but to aid him. We all had tea together, and as I sat and munched I gazed at that indomitable old woman and marveled. If I had known everything then that I did after, known what a game of cross-purposes was being played in that kitchen, I should have marveled the more. Meanwhile I was anxious to get away. It was past five o'clock by now, and Peter must be wondering what had become of me. He might even now be prowling round the house, a thing to be avoided at all costs. I stood up to go. I noticed that while I was making my farewells to Mrs. Murdoch, her son had left the room. When he entered again he came towards me. I must see you alone for a minute, he said, too low for his mother's ears to catch. See me to the gate. No, I'd rather not let out my secrets in the garden. Come upstairs to her room when she thinks you're gone and I'll speak to you. There's something I want you to see there.  You've nothing you need go upstairs again for, have you? No, but there's no call for us to go till tomorrow, she protested. We weren't starting till tomorrow. I've changed my mind. I don't think it's good for you to be in this damp old house a day longer. You leave everything to me. I'm in charge now. He smiled at her, and she gave him her grim tender in spite of itself smile back again. And I took my leave. The kitchen door once shut behind us we crept silently, though owing to her extreme deafness there was no real need for caution up the stairs along the passage and into a room at the far end. I wished to goodness my mother knew everything he burst out. She's such a, such a man. If only she weren't in this condition. But I couldn't tell her. It's been going on too long.  He was by the door as he spoke. When he finished he walked out and shut it behind him. I heard the key turn in the lock. Edgar, Edgar I cried, and running to the door shook it violently. His voice low and hurried came from the other side. Read what I've left on the mantelpiece, he said urgently. Don't make a noise. She'll guess everything if she hears you. But she won't. It's no good making a noise. No one'll hear you till tomorrow when the workmen pass. I—but read what I've written.  I'm sorry if I'm wrong, but I dare not trust you. You yourself said you were after me for your paper. This'll give me time to get her away. If you really are playing the game by us and care what happens to her, you'll forgive me for this and won't let on. E.M. END OF CHAPTER XVI What I found under the pillow. My first thought was of Chloe and the Dats that night at which I was somehow to protect her from Morris Purvis. What would Joe think but that I had basely betrayed her trust in me? I read the little note over again, and my first anger and helplessness gave way to reason. After all there was Peter, who would free me easily enough. But I almost disparate of Edgar. It seemed that the fatal crook in him which enabled him to argue that black was white had never been more clearly shown. He was so crooked that he could not believe in the straightness of anyone else. I looked round the room which, facing northeast, was already grey with shadow. The big old four-poster bed was still there, ready for Mrs. Murdoch's occupation of it for one more night. Otherwise the room was bare except for a chest of drawers on which were a few rough washing requisites. In default of anything better to do, for I dared not whistle for Peter till I had heard Edgar take his mother away. I pulled out the drawers. They were all empty, but the last one stuck a little, and I found that a fold of paper was wedged behind, where it had probably fallen unnoticed from the drawer above. Smoothing out the paper I saw that it was the prospectus of a boarding-house. Illustrated with photographs, I turned the paper over idly at first, then a sudden idea flashed towards me. Was this the place where Eddie was taking his mother, and had he given her this so that she could see what it was like? Why else should it be there? I took it with me to the bed, and sat down, leaning on one hand. The hand, sliding under the edge of the pillow, touched something cold, and I drew forth a shiny-covered exercise book such as children use at school. Wondering whatever Mrs. Murdoch wanted with such a thing, I opened it. The first few pages were covered with laborious copies in pencil of printed characters. Then came whole words done by the same slow method. At first I stared uncomprehendingly. Then as I realized I felt the tears burn in my eyes. Mrs. Murdoch had been teaching herself to write by copying print. She had evidently begun with words of which she knew the meaning by hearsay. There was a reproduction, for instance, of the notice board outside. As she got on a little she had probably had a spelling book to help her, for there were columns of words printed one after the other. I turned on to the end of the book. There the pages were covered with disjointed scraps of writing. And slowly I made them out. I am getting on with my—here came a blank and I guessed the word writing had been too much for her. But I shall never know what I thought. Be a good companion for Eddie. I am too old to learn. I turned the page realizing, as I did so, the two reasons which had lain at the root of this attempt at self-education on the part of Mrs. Murdoch.  The other, probably unknown to herself, was the imperative need for self-expression. With what must have been infinite labor she had jotted down a few sentences that revealed more than she had ever told any living soul. I wish Eddie could know I know, I read. I some time think it will kill me knowing he is not happy, and him not thinking I know. With the back of my mind I heard the house door closed behind Edgar and his mother, but I was too amazed by what I was reading to pay any heed to it. He has done something dreadful, was the next entry, and he think I don't know. I wish I could tell him I know, or I might help him, but he would not like to know I know. I have made it out in the papers. I wish he would not mind me knowing. Here evidently her thoughts and the passion of her had outrun her limited powers of transmission. And all that followed, written slanting-wise, as though in a gust of emotion, was—Eddie, Eddie, Eddie—the pencil had been driven deeply into the paper at the last repetition of her son's name.   And each thinking the other did not know, Eddie absorbed lest his mother should know her labor had been in vain, yet longing for the strengthened peace that would result if she only could have. Not sure that it would break her heart. She knowing and having known perhaps for years, and thinking he could not bear her knowledge. As I thought of it all, my eyes fell again on the boarding-house prospectus. It referred to a house in Buckinghamshire, a gabled, timbered, modern atrocity called the Croft, with a tennis-lawn and all the comforts for invalids. The combination made me smile even then. Guests could be quite private, the prospectus said. And there was a good doctor who always attended when required. This must be the place where Edgar was taking his mother. She had doubtless forgotten that that tell-tale book was left under her pillow. I could guess at her agony of mind when she found it was not in her luggage, that book that might give away her Eddie. Somehow I must get it to her as soon as possible, and I cast about for the best way. I could do nothing that night because of my promise to Joe, and I did not like to trust the book in the post, on the mere chats of that boarding-house being the place for which Edgar and his mother were bound. The only thing I could do was to use the rest of the editor's sovereign in going down next day. As I came to this decision I heard Peter whistling the humoresque, our signal, from below. And opening the window I called out that I was locked in, and he was to let me out at once. This he did by the simple expedient of breaking the French window and getting in by it, and then, as Edgar had left the key in the lock, my door was easily opened and I walked forth. We filled the dog's water-bowls and divided the remainder of the buns between them and the ferrets. And then, as we went back to St. John's Wood, I told Peter all about it as well as I could, though I felt it was a difficult thing to explain to him under the circumstances. However, Peter, being nothing if not feminine, understood. We arrived back at the Hencoupe in time not only for supper, but for me to assist the changeling with the great event of the day, little John's bath. As she lay back in it, her round head on my supporting palm, and her fat knees drawn upwards gurgling and chuckling at me, I realized more keenly than before how Mrs. Murdock must feel about Eddie, who for her, with all his years and sins, was still after all the baby who had lain and laughed up at her. The thought of her crude self-betrayal in that attempt at a journal was with me at the back of my mind all that evening, until Chloe's affairs drove everything else away. CHAPTER XVII Chloe had been delighted when she heard I was to be dressed like herself. I think she saw the possibility of tantalizing Morris Purvis. So helped us to dress, and when we were ready we stood side by side before the long glass, while she tied on our masks. We saw two figures in deep rose tulle, the short skirts powdered with black pom-poms standing straight out from our waists. Two long pairs of legs were attired in black silk stockings and satin slippers with scarlet heels. In our arms we wore black gloves and round our necks huge ruffs of frothing lawn. The curves of our two chins, just visible between the ruffs and the lace hanging from the masks, were decked with a black patch apiece. On our heads Napoleonic hats, with gilt tassels hanging from their points, were crammed down so that no pale gold or dull mouselocks were to be seen. Chloe laid hold of me and whirled me round. Give me the first dance, Viv, you must. We shall look simply adorable dancing together. Anything you like if you'll let me go now. Here's poor Joe all undone down the back. Joe, you're a genius to have got yourself up like that. Joe was dressed as a gypsy, and the tawny silks and dangling ear rings gave full value to her clear brown skin and splendid teeth.  In the daytime she is plain, for her figure is on the big scale that looks clumsy in a shirt and short skirt, but splendid in softer garments. Her face is of the Slav type, which, with the right lighting and shadows on it, is, to my mind, the most fascinating of all. Very broad across the low brow and prominent cheekbones, the mouth big and set a shade further in between the short, tipped, tilted nose and cup-shaped chin than is usual. It is a type in which the tameness of the even-colored skin and muddy brown eyes does not matter, because all the construction of the head is so sound, with every bone in its right place. I kissed the back of her short, strong neck as I finished pinning the kerchief down, and we all three went into the studio where Peter got up as a pickpocket, with a teaspoon poking out from the crown of his hat, and his pockets bulging with spoons and watches, was paring candle-ends over the floor and rubbing them in with a foot lost in the throes of a huge carpet slipper. Chloe took off her mask when the guests began to arrive, whispering in my ear. I'll put it on again after. There's someone I rather want to confuse. She broke off, and I knew without Joe's gentle pinch of my elbow, that the villain of the piece had made his entry. He came straight across to Chloe, and taking up her hand, kissed it. There was an audacity about the action, that was its own excuse. Then as he turned to Joe, he caught sight of me. I had my mask on, and for a moment he looked from me to Chloe. Then a light of pure enjoyment leapt into his eyes. Chloe slipped on her mask and came to stand beside me, saying demurely, VIV, let me introduce Mr. Purvis. My friend Miss Lovell. Mr.  He was dressed as a chauffeur, and I had to admit that the plain garb suited his bare, sleek good looks remarkably well. Anyone less like the conventional villain to look at than Morris Purvis, it would have been hard to find. He was inclined to be a shade too plump, and on the boyish pink and white of his face, the heavy wrinkles looked oddly out of place. His eyes shone blue and varied charming from their sagging lids.  No, said Chloe, in reply to his request for the first dance. I'm having it with Miss Lovell. Come, Viv. I put my arm round her waist and swept her away, leaving Mr. Purvis rather sulkily dangling his program. If it had not been for my anxiety about Mrs. Murdock and Chloe, I should have enjoyed that evening. Joe, Peter, and I had to take it in turns at the piano, but he and I always danced together when she was playing, and all my other partners were good. Mr. Purvis claimed me for a waltz under the impression that I was Chloe, but I answered him in my natural voice to undeceive him. It would make my imitation of Chloe's tones the more convincing if I should have to try it. It must have been just before midnight, or the order to unmask had not yet come when Joe, Chloe, and two other girls who had been practicing it with them during the week, formed all the guests in lines behind them for the lighted torch dance. Everyone was provided with a torch of sorts, mostly candles in half-bottles, which make excellent draft-proof holders, some with Chinese lanterns. For the first three figures the processions kept themselves unmixed, and turned in and out, waving their lights and shouting. Then all became a scene of wild confusion. Each person stamping, yelling, and rushing about. Every now and then came a crash of breaking glass as something was swept down by the stampede. The floor shook and swayed, and little gusts of flame soon danced out, sprang up here and there where a lantern had swung from its owner's grasp. I rattled away energetically at the piano, and almost felt I had the best of it, for from the piled height of two-model thrones, where I and my instrument were perched, the whole affair looked splendid, a living medley of lights and streaming colors like some bright Bacchanalian orgy. I caught sight of Peter whose lantern had gone out, squishing it to and fro like a concertina as he pranced along. From his mouth four lighted cigarettes spread out fan-wise. Groups of three or four people linked arm in arm went swinging round, kicking wildly and giving short high whoops, while others, with a more deadly ingenuity, were aiming chocolates down the yawning jaws of the gramophone, which I may mention in passing has never been the same bright young creature since. After these energetic efforts comparative peace reigned while the dancers sat round on the floor in circles and began on the supper, I was tired after my long spell of playing, and also to tell the truth excessively sleepy, for I was beginning to feel the strain that the day had been. I refused Joe's and Peter's invitation to join them at their supper circle, because I saw Chloe and Mr. Purvis had slipped away out of the studio during the confusion. I went out to the head of the ladder-like stairs that led down from the hen-coupe into a confusion of harness and stable appurtenances. The Chinese lanterns had burned themselves out and the place was in darkness except for the moonlight that shone in through the open top half of the door below. I sat down on some sacks that had been comfortably arranged by the head of the stairs and, taking off my mask, fanned my hot face with it. At that moment I heard Chloe's voice from the foot of the ladder and her first words robbed me of any scruple in listening. "'Oh, Morris, I can't come, I daren't,' she said. And there was a thrill of excitement and longing in her hushed voice. My dear child, why ever not, can't I take my little friend Chloe for a spin in the moonlight without any harm?' I was down to Q to see the moon on the river and then back again. We should only be gone an hour or so. They won't break up here till four or five. We should be back before then. We can go just as we are, masks and all, and pretend we're highwaymen. Say yes, Chloe. Suppose we had a breakdown, objected Chloe. We couldn't have. I'd heaps of petrol, and the car's running like a bird. I thought you'd enjoy it. So I should, but—but what, Chloe, won't you think of me for wants? Just because I can't have what I want, may I have anything at all? Little Chloe, why are you afraid of our friendship? Nothing tells me it mayn't be quite that, on my side. Perhaps not. A man's a man, Chloe, but mayn't you be all the more sure, since there is that something else in my thoughts of you, that I wouldn't do anything to hurt or vex you?  What would Joe and Viv say, murmured Chloe? Miss Nash would be so pleased to see you coming back all the better for the fresh air that she wouldn't say anything. As for your little friend Viv, is she as puritanical as she looks? Viv? Oh, no, but she's odd. I mean she'd never think any harm of me, but she'd be furious with you. I think I can survive it, replied Mr. Purvis with a little laugh. And I swore to have his blood. There was a slight rustle at the foot of the stairs as the two conspirators stood up and I prepared to fly. In five minutes, then, I'll have the car just outside the yard gate. I'll run her out while the music's going, said Mr. Purvis. And I heard Chloe's voice, quite carefree by now, replied, Right, oh! I ran into Joe's and Chloe's room and stood thinking for a moment. Should I tell Chloe I had heard? Tell Joe? Speak to Morris Purvis himself. Chloe would probably turn obstinate, and Joe and I could hardly lock her up. As these thoughts flew through my head, I caught sight of a cluster of golden curls, lying on the dressing table, and an idea came to me. They were Chloe's curls. In fact, they had once grown on her head, and were the result of a year's comings, saved up in a pink shoe bag and then confided to the tender care of a hairdresser. Chloe had not needed them to-night under the Napoleonic hat. And when I had locked the bedroom door, I seized them and pinned them on behind one ear, pulling them forward so that they lay on my shoulder as though they had come down. Then I substituted for my cocked hat, a blue motorbond, waved in masses of blue-gray chiffon that I knew belonged to Chloe. And tying on my mask again, I slipped on the Big Fur coat Joe and Chloe shared between them. As I did so, I caught sight of Mrs. Murdoch's book on the Ottoman. I must have put it down there when I came straight into Joe's room on my return. Nothing would be more natural than for any one of our guests, who left their cloaks there to glance into it, and shocked at my own carelessness I stuffed it into the pocket of the Fur coat. I was ready, but at that moment the door handle was first turned, then vigorously rattled. "'Who's there?' I called. "'Oh, bother!' said a voice. Chloe's. "'What do you want?' I asked. "'I want to come in. What are you doing?' "'Me? Oh, I'm lying down. I've got a headache. Do you want me?' "'No, I want to get at some things of mine.' "'Can I find them for you?' "'Uh, no, you wouldn't know where they are.  Oh, Chloe, will you just find Peter and tell him I can't play any more tonight? There's an angel.' I waited till her footsteps died away, then turning out the lamp and putting the matches in my pocket to delay her yet further. I crept down the ladder. Across the yard I ran, keeping in the shadow of the house. And at the gate I found the car and Morris Purvis. "'Good girl,' he said. "'You're under the five minutes.' "'Quick,' I muttered, apparently very out of breath, as I took my place in the car, a low-grade touring car, with a torpedo body and bucket seats. With a throb of relief I saw by her steeply angled bonnet that she was a flag, the one make-of-car with which I am thoroughly at home. And the discovery made me feel less powerless. As Morris Purvis tucked the rug in round me, I leaned a little forward so that the fair curls caught the light from a street-lamp. He touched them gently. "'Golden locks,' he said. "'Idiot,' I thought. But all I did was to draw back petulantly as I knew Chloe would have done. For I was sure Morris Purvis had never touched her like that before. This was what her consent to his plan was already bringing to pass. He laughed a little, then took his place beside me. And I said to myself as I saw the movement of his foot that started us, that I might have caused to be glad that this car was fitted with a self-starting device. We were off, down the still road, where moonlight and lamp-light mingled together and shadows of varying degrees of darkness and semi-transparency lay across each other. Under each lamp the shadow of its own framework looked like a great motionless spider on the pavement. We swung round the corner and I went back and drew a deep sigh of relief. "'Glad to get away unchallenged,' said my companion, with a touch of triumph, very naturally misinterpreting the nature of my relief. I looked away from him and drew myself up a little as though a trifle offended, and he was quick to take his cue. I won't bother you with talk, Chloe, if you'd rather not. We'll just enjoy the moonlight and pretend things.   I gave a very good imitation of a gurgling sound with which Chloe expresses pleased agreement, and we sped on. I admit that if it had not been for worrying I should have enjoyed the ride very much. For in that clear night air, with the clean rush of it in one's face, Morris Purvis became a mere figurehead whose existence it would have been easy to forget. But I was somewhat perturbed, because though it is easy enough to take one's own adventures in a happy-go-lucky way, in fact that's the only way to take them. One can't extend the same carelessness to other people's affairs. Also I hate meddling in business where I don't belong to be. Giving advice is bad enough, but when it comes to doing things for a person without her knowledge or permission I confess I don't like it at all. And if it transpired that Mr. Purvis really had no idea in his head beyond an innocent run to queue and back, Chloe would quite justly be angry with me for having made a fool of her. Yet suppose there were more to it than that. Of deliberate badness I didn't suspect Morris Purvis, because men as a rule don't want to land themselves in a difficult position. But suppose with Chloe once under his care he lost his head and grew reckless. It would mean a terrible fright for Chloe, if not a silly scandal, which the knowledge Joe and I had of her innocence would not allay. It seemed to me I had done right, but by now I was almost too tired to think. And when, once past Shepherd's Bush, we had the road to ourselves and the car aided up at well over the legal speed, I lay back in drowsy silence. Past Turnham Green, where the church so curiously thin in quality by day as though made of pasteboard, attained a certain kind of Christmas card effectiveness in the moonlight, past the ugly basemented houses, past still unbuilt on nursery gardens and glasshouses that glimmered like water, and then past Q Bridge, leaving it on our left. I touched Morris Purvis' arm in protest, but he only put his foot on the accelerator. We made just as well go on for a bit this way. He said in my ear, We've taken less time than I thought we should, and it's a ripping run once through Brentford. We'll go round by Twickenham and Hampton Court and home through Richmond and Q. I sat back again, helpless rage in my heart, and we ran through the narrow high street of Brentford, where the air was laden with gas and the huge gas-ometers loomed up darkly through the night. Every now and then we passed a gap in the houses on our left and caught a glimpse of sparkling river with beds of rushes standing up into the moonlight, or willow branches drooping grayly. We rushed on over the canal bridges, just catching a glimpse of the great flat barges moored side by side. When and on we went, past Sion House, the lions straightly stuck out tail looking more unyielding than ever. And then we came to Bush Corner. And to my intense relief swung round it. My vague anxiety elade, I let myself give way to the sleepiness that was growing stronger and stronger. It was a mere film of sleep at first, through which I was conscious of outward things, of the great blocks of Isleworth infirmary, and more ranks of glass houses. Then my head nodded lower and lower, and I slept. We were running through open country and the dark glimmer of early dawn when I awoke. For the first moment or so I remembered nothing, and thought how pleasant it was to wake up in that rush of air, and with trees and sky around. Then as it all crowded back to me, I cried out in anger. Oh, what are you doing? Where are we going? I cried. On and on he replied, laughing. But there was a tenseness in his voice. Slowly little Chloe, when we started I did mean to take you back. But I can't. Where are we going? To the moon, to the edge of the world.  But both feelings were quickly swallowed up in sheer rage. To think that this man, this Londoner, so different from the only painters I had ever known, who were all straight, kindly country-folk, that he should dare to embroil me, Viv Lovell, in this kind of affair. Perhaps I was illogical, as I suppose the embroilment was my own doing. But that did not save him, who would have played this trick on Chloe any wrath of mine. That I, whose adventures had all been wholesome, and great fun when one had lived through them, should be plunged into any kind of affair with a being who was melodramatic and penny-novaletian. I took off my mask and folded back my chiffon veil. Since you are going in for heroics, Mr. Purvis said I, let me remark that this farce has gone on long enough. Unhand me. End of CHAPTER XVIII First Morris and then Edgar. Never have I seen a man so taken aback as Morris Purvis. The car swerved across the road and nearly took liberties with a gate-post before he brought it into the straight again. Then he lent over and tugged at the golden ringlets, which came away in his hand. At the sight of Chloe's curls and his hold, I lost my temper, and snatching them from him stuffed them into my pocket. That belongs to Chloe, and nothing of hers has anything to do with you, I said. Now, if you please, turn the car and take me straight back again. I'm damned if I do, said Mr. Purvis. Oh, Viv, you have been and gone and done it this time, I thought, and the car ran on. But at a slackening pace, presently a peculiar smell began to greet my nostrils. It grew stronger, and blue fumes wreathed up in our faces. We slowed down and then came to a standstill. And while I sat and looked on as though I did not know one end of a car from the other, Morris Purvis opened the bonnet and gazed despairingly in. As I guessed, and soon knew from his annoyed comments, there was no water left in the radiator. But when he looked round despairingly I came to his help with a suggestion. If it is water you need, I think there's a stream over there. I sit coldly, pointing to where a rancor growth of grass was visible at the far end of a field sloping away from the road. Then began the pilgrimages of Mr. Purvis. He went back and forth, back and forth between the stream and the car. While I, having dismounted, sat in the hedge and made no offer to help. Soon he flung his coat and cap into the car. At last he paused to rest. He also sat down in the hedge, and we looked at each other. I was gleefully conscious that I was not looking my best. I had taken off my bonnet and my hair was flat and blown about. And if I looked as pale as I felt, which I probably did in the dawn light and the pink frock, the result must have been unprepossessing.  Once in pockets I met the gaze of Mr. Purvis disgusted blue eyes with severity. He was even more like the morning after the night before than I. For his lids were red and puffy, and he looked unhealthy. Which I never have done in my life. One lock of fair hair clung desperately to his brow, robbing him of his quasi-intellectual air. And he was pale with temper. For a long moment we sat in silence. Then indignation gave me words.  I flared out. When I think that I might have been Chloe, I, I, I think you took a great deal on yourself when you did what you did, Miss Lovell, he retorted. You were taking rather more, weren't you? Not without the consent of the other party. That's not true. You know quite well that if Chloe'd known you meant this, she'd never have said yes. I didn't mean this, then, he said, flushing a little. Very likely not, but it's because I knew it might turn to this that I came instead. He stared at me with greater interest than he had shown before.  And I beg your pardon, believe me it slipped out more in admiration than in any wish to be rude. I think I would rather have rootness than admiration from you under the circumstances, Mr. Purvis. He looked at me again, and this time something leapt to life between his jaded lids. He ran his fingers through his hair and settled his shoulders with a little backward movement. At least I have not run away with any one dull, he remarked.  The man was incorrigible. He could flirt breakfastless in the pallor of the dawn and a damp hedge. He went on. I shouldn't be surprised, you apparently wise little folly, if you hadn't a cloven hoof tucked away in your satin slipper. If you have, it's a fawn's hoof, nothing worse than that. Or am I the goat-foot and you a nymph? I have not the smallest intention of flirting with you. Are you going to take me back? What will you give me if I do? A kiss? You needn't look so furious or so frightened. Yes, you're evidently a cross between a nymph and a nun and not a folly at all. But you might try to be just. Only think what a perfect thing we could make this chance day in a strange county. What a romantic snatch from the lap of God's kind of thing.  He had hit on the point that hurt me in the adventure. But it might, had things been otherwise, have been so perfect. If it had been Peter who had taken this freakish flight away from the town with me, what a day of cool grass and sweet sun, of milk and new bread, of streams wherein to paddle and trees whereon to climb it would have been. Still it was hardly fair to blame Mr. Purvis for not being the person I wanted, considering I was not one he had wished for either. I gave him one last chance in an appeal to his nicer side, which I presumed he kept concealed somewhere. Mr. Purvis, said I, I believe when you have fought it all over you'll be glad you haven't got Chloe into this scrape. Only think of the harm it would have done her. If you have any fondness for her you'd be sorry for that. And will you do the decent thing and take me back? For a moment he hesitated, then temper gained the day. No, I won't, he said. I had given him his chance, now I hardened my heart against him. If he had behaved decently I would have made up the quarrel as man to man. Now I determined to have no pity. My plan was a risky one, and I began to put it into execution. Well, if you won't, I said, shrugging my shoulders. There's no more to be said. But as I suppose you don't mean to remain here, hadn't you better go on filling up that tank thing? This moral duet he returned, appeased by my apparent nonchalance, and then will be in to Gloucester for breakfast.  I waited till he was at the further end of the sloping field. Then I wandered up to the car. And with my back to him, screwed on the top of the radiator. Then, thankful I had not to draw attention to my proceedings by winding a handle, I jumped into the car and started her. The danger lay in turning. At the sound of the engine he looked round and stood trans-fixed for a moment, while I backed the car into the hedge. Then he began to run. He was half way up the field as I got her going forwards.  But as he flung himself over it, I was off down the road, and never looked back till the speedometer was marking thirty-five. And then Morris Purvis was a small dot in the distance. Oh, that drive! I fled along the clean morning roads across the shortening shadows, with a lovely engine purring before me and the tug of the wheel at my hands. Sometimes I ran through lanes where the cobwebs on the brambles hung like little sacks full of dew. Sometimes I passed fields where the silvery ribbons of New Mone Hay lay across the greener stubble. Before I dropped down hill-roads that lay between great beach-copes, where the unripe nuts showed a vivid emerald. And last year's leaves made a coppery carpet that the flecks of the sun turned to fire. Through sleepy Abington, with its quiet-faced Georgian houses shuttered to the dawn, through ugly little Oxfordshire villages with their box-like buildings of new brick, and so into bucks. Often as I found by after-study of the map, losing my way rather. But by one, at least, of these digressions I was the richer, for I went through a patch of good-chocked country where the white and shining soil was quarried in smooth great flanks overhanging the road on one side, and dropping away half-failed with the copes of young saplings on the other. On the chalk the little shadow of every blade and pebble lay soft and blue, and the sunlight refracted off each pearly surface. And always as I went my heart sang with pleasure at this way which had befallen me, so to speak, of killing the two proverbial birds with one motor-car. Or instead of going straight home I would use Mara's Purvis car to take me to the Croft, and see if my guess as to its being the destination of the Murdochs was justified. Presently I came to the sign-post I sought, and then, running through a trim, rather villa-ish street, I saw a large white gate with the Croft painted on it, standing invitingly open. Somehow as I saw the smoke beginning to rise up from the house I sought, I had no doubt that Mrs. Murdoch and her son were there, and that all would yet be as well as it could be, considering. And I was right. Edgar had hired a luxurious motor and driven his mother gently down on the preceding evening. I saw him alone, told him what I thought of him for his behaviour to me, and then handed him his mother's exercise-book. I went out into the garden through the long window while he read it. When I came back the room was empty, but presently a maid servant came and asked me to step upstairs. She showed me the room and I went in, after a quick wrap. Edgar Murdoch, alias Mr. Murford, was kneeling on the floor with his head on his mother's lap, and his false beard lay beside him on the carpet. She the wonderful old woman had as little sentiment as ever. She bad him put on his beard again for safety's sake, as an ordinary mother may bid her child wear a red flannel chest protector. But something of the expression which she generally kept for him only was in her eyes as she looked at me. She permitted herself to kiss me, then apologised for taking liberties out of her station. We all had breakfast together in Mrs. Murdoch's room because of the peculiarity of my attire when the fur coat was discarded, and then, feeling a new man, I started for home. Then I came to Gerard's Cross and the Curse of the Weekend Cottage, and thus into London by a route I well knew, through Uxbridge and Hillingdon, and then through Hanwell, where I caught a glimpse of Haggitt's Imperial Theatre, from the far end of the bit of Wasteland. And so, as peeps would say, to St. John's Wood, where I arrived with the midday milk. I had changed the better-to-escape observation into Mr. Purvis' coat and cap, and it was thus attired I burst upon the anxious gaze of Joe and Peter, who were standing on the Hencoop steps. I took off the cap and waved it at them, when I had brought the car to a standstill in the yard. Viv, thank heaven, cried Joe, and Peter was at the step lifting me out. I was so tired I staggered against him, and he caught me by the rough. What have you done with Morris Purvis, cried Joe, as nearly hysterical as I have ever seen her? He is in a hedge at the far end of Oxfordshire. Joe, for goodness sake, don't expect me to talk. Let me to bed. Peter half-carried me upstairs and made some milk hot for me in the studio, while Joe took off my strange medley of clothes, and I slept till tea-time. Then I joined Joe and Peter, and told them all about it, and they told me what had happened in my absence. Chloe, not unnaturally, had at first proclaimed me a spoilsport, and defended herself against Joe's horror when she heard of the scheme. Then when the hours went on, and we did not come back, she grew uneasy, and began to think I had had cause for my interference. Joe roused at last, had now packed her off to relations in the country for a week, in which she was to play with nice-boyed cousins and forget Morris Purvis. That gentleman had not yet appeared to claim his car, and indeed he only sent his chauffeur for it next day. But by all reports he was an oddly chastened man for some time to come, and left the inmates of the Hencoupe alone. As to Chloe, I think it was not so very many weeks after that Joe said something about hoping she didn't miss Morris Purvis. said Chloe, with a stare of absolutely unfeigned innocence. Why should I? He's rather boring, if you see too much of him. Joe, I wish you'd lend me your new veil, Mr.—and here she named whoever the youth of the moment chanced to be—is coming to take me to the RA. And the youth in question, being one of the eminently harmless creatures usually indulged in by Chloe, I don't doubt Joe lent her the veil and thanked Heaven for her peculiarly elastic temperament. On this evening at the Hencoupe that was yet in the future, though a knowledge of our Chloe helped us to forecast it. What we talked about chiefly was Mrs. Murdock and her son. Oh, I do hope it'll be all right, I said. That no one will find out, and Mrs. Murdock can die there happily. And then Edgar will be able to put things right and pay what he owes. For there's four and a half acres to secrecy farm, and land there is at seven hundred and fifty pounds an acre. One comfort is he'll have to pay his debts as you have the whip hand of him, said Peter. But I doubt his ever running straight. By the way, we owe the editor of the weekly drum that sovereign. I know, I feel the time has come to pawn the watch. So we disposed of what we thought was a mere episode, and finished at that, little guessing how I was to hear of Edgar Murdock again. That night, when Peter stood up to go, suddenly he burst out laughing. By Jove Viv, he said, I believe you've done what is called compounding a felony. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of The Milky Way The sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. The Milky Way by F. Tennyson Jesse Chapter 19 My Four Houses Two days later I went down to Cornwall. Since the only way towards journalism that had been open for me was now closed, and since I could not go on living on Joe any longer, there seemed nothing else to be done, and the letter from Evadney Culver, saying they were out of a model, seemed providential. Chloe was expected back in a few days. Emily and Glittle John I had perforced to leave behind, and Peter also was staying in town. Therefore it was entirely on my own that I embarked on the profession of model. Head and hands, and perhaps a little foot or so, as Joe expressed it. My memories of Evadney Culver and her brother Ted were a trifle sketchy, as in Paris, when we had all been studying at colorosses together. They had never seemed to count. In other words, they had not been in our set, which was young, eager, foolish, very earnest, and very irresponsible. Ted and Evadney represented the type of which, for some perversity, the men are long-haired and the women wear their locks cut short, a type that really died somewhere in the seventies and only survives, save for a few isolated exceptions like the Culver's, in the imagination of the British public. And now, apparently, having gathered together a few other choice souls, Ted and Evadney were doing a series of what they called Nature Vibration Pictures at Land's End. I hope they won't paint very vibratory pictures of me, I remarked to Peter, who was seeing me off at Paddington. It would make me feel so like a cinematograph film. Oh, Peter, I do hope you and the changeling and little John will be all right. I wish we had some idea of what you are going to do next. I wish I weren't going. What, not though it's to the country? Oh, well, the country! And despite myself I felt a beam of joy spreading over my countenance and the light on Peter's dying away before it. I have always wished I had my face more in hand. Oh, there's the whistle and the guards losing control over his little green flag, I said. Peter, good-bye, and mind you write and tell me when you get anything to do.  I say, Vibh, but the train bore me away too fast for his running feet. By the time Saltash was reached the fine weather had turned to misting, but my soul felt the old up leaping at the crossing of the tamer, and as the splendidly desolate country, with its deserted mineshafts stark against the swollen clouds, opened out before me with that fan-like movement which is the effect of the foreground slipping past more rapidly than the distance. I went into the corridor to be more alone with my pleasure. And at last, just upon five in the afternoon, I saw again the glimmering marshes of Marazion, saw the misty mount, a fairy castle on a phantom hill, and heard the rush of the high tide as it surged up on my left, its creaming edge almost to the railway track. A minute more and the train ran in under the glass roof of Penzant's station, and I saw Avadney Culver awaiting me on the platform, very much as I remembered her, dark, eager and decided-looking, and wearing a ponsne attached to a black silk ribbon. When our greetings over and my scanty luggage found, we were driving along in the high-market gig. Avadney told me about the nature of vibrationists. "'People must learn to see that it's the spirit that matters,' she announced. "'I suppose you still stick to the old way of trying to express what you see before you.' We think it more important to paint the inner meaning of the things seen, in such a way that the color waves will arrive in their right shape to the person who looks at the picture. We must convert you. Of course you are not to tire yourself out posing. You must paint when you want to.' This was very good of Avadney, for it meant I should be able to do a series of little sketches, that with any luck I might excel when I was back in town, and I thanked her warmly. "'There's only one thing troubling me,' said Avadney, and that's where you're to sleep. Our cottage is full, and all the farmhouse lodgings are let this time of year. So I do hope you won't mind. We've put up a bed in four empty houses for you.' "'In four, but my dear Avadney.' "'Oh, well, it's four cottages that have been knocked into one and are standing empty. It's Clonance. Do you know it?' "'Did I know it? It was our old family place, the small but adorable manner of Lovell, or Lavellis, as the name had originally been. It had long passed out of our empty hands, and the present owner, a rich grocer from Truro, had turned it into four tenement cottages. A painter had then taken them and knocked a hole in each of the dividing walls that had been put up inside. Now he too had left, and Avadney had placed the necessaries of life in the room I was to have. After supper with the culvers at their cottage I departed to my four houses, escorted by Ted, bearing a lantern, that the last quarter of the July moon made futile. It had quite left off misting, and the air was soft as milk. Clonance lies on a plateau halfway up the hill that slopes from the Seaward Valley, within five minutes of the culver's house. Ted and I walked up the rutted cart track, where the moon, shining through the elms and sycamores, made a marbled pattern, and shone on the whitewashed lintel of the house itself, at one side of whose gray granite front showed the ruins of the banqueting hall, delicate pointed arches and carved capitals, standing up pale and clear cut in the moonlight. I fitted the rusty key into the lock of the big nail-studded door, a superfluous action, since it was not locked, owing to constitutional defects. I then lifted the latch instead and opened the door. You're sure you're not nervous, asked Ted, as he took farewell of me in the dark doorway, the glare from the lantern shining on his long throat, with its tremulous Adam's apple, and on his retreating chin and big amiable mouth. Only across the upper part of his face lay a bar of shadow, so that he seemed to be wearing a mask, from which the lenses of his ponsne gleamed anxiously forth. Not in the least I answered, and I shall expect Saineth at seven with my hot water, for it was arranged that the culver's little maid was to call me with my bath-water, which she was to bear from their house to mine. Ted said good night and departed, and I went all over the house of my ancestors, lantern in hand, and up all three flights of modern deal stairs, and the one old one of stone, where each step was worn crescent-wise. It was quite a small house, and its charm lay in the fact that it was like a reproduction in miniature of a lorgley mansion. Everything built round a little square cobbled courtyard, guarded by a granite gateway with a big stone ball on either post. The windows were deep-set in heavy mullions, and here and there a pane of bottle-glass showed like a round, watery eye. The only furniture in the house consisted of a kettle that lay sideways, gaping at me, by the soft pile of feathery ash on the hearthstone of the hall. And the things of Adney had placed in my room a narrow bed that stood island-like in the middle of the bare boards on which a pale bright square of moonlight was the only carpet, and a wash-stand surmounted by a distant, certain dimpled mirror. Below my window the evening primroses and fuchsias stood erect in what seemed palpably silver air, and the shadows clung together under the tangled stems. There was not a sound to be heard beyond the whirring of an insistent cricket from without, and the occasional scamper of the rats over the beamed ceiling. While the absolute aloneness was as perfect as I had thought it would be, I felt too happy to go to bed at once, and when I was undressed I took my candle down into the hall again to say good night to a certain little lady in pearl-colored satin. She lived in a sunk panel over the mantelpiece, which was doubtless the reason why she had been left there undisturbed. Had she been in a movable frame she would, despite her lack of any particular intrinsic value, have been dispatched long ago to a sail-room by the aforementioned grocer. As matters were she still graced the lonely hall and gazed down with that eternal little half-mocking smile of hers at her descendant. I had, of course, greeted her on my entry, but nevertheless I now felt drawn down to her once more. I remembered her very well from a former visit. When father had taken me by the shoulders and stood me beneath her, looking from one to the other of us, by Jove, except that your hair's darker, you might be a reincarnation, Viv, he had said. And indeed the likeness was so strong I could see it myself. Instead of my dull, mouse-colored hair she had pale flaxen locks, which she wore in little flat rings that looked as though they had been damped and then pressed round her forehead. Her small pale face with its squareness at the level of the jaw, and its sharp pointing to the short chin, was I knew, like mine. So were the round, non-descript gray eyes under brows as straight as though they had been drawn with a ruler. So was the funny little nose that was far from being straight at all. She wore a string of pearls round her small throat and her frock of pearl-colored slipping off one thin childish shoulder was kept up by a modest bit-ringed hand poised against a knot of blue ribbon at her breast. The painting was dry and uninspired in manner, and yet the artist had caught that something which gives life to a picture. Some hint of the eternal papos of the young sitter, who will be dust and ashes so many hundred years before the painted presentment has ceased to stare with the curious inward gaze that portraits have from the darkening canvas. I stayed and talked with her a little, silently, before a sudden yawn on my part sent me up the stairs to my room again, and even there I felt her friendly little presence following me. With her I soon fell into a dreamless sleep. End of Chapter 19 CHAPTER XX What I told the accountless leaf, I was awakened by a strange feeling that the pearly lady's presence had fled before other and more tangible ones. The moon had set and it still wanted a couple of hours to dawn. I lit my candle and slipped out of bed and into a big coat. Then I opened my door and listened. A murmur of voices seemed to come from below, and I crept downstairs, lantern in hand, and into the square stone-paved hall. The first thing I saw was a man in convict's dress bending over the hearth.  I shall never forget my surprise when I recognized William Penrose. William Penrose was the largest landowner thereabouts and lived at Boscar with his mother. Father and I had often stayed with them. The last time, shortly before father died, was when I was a long-legged creature of fifteen, and William a-stayed important youth of twenty-two. Therefore he must now be twenty-eight, but he looked very much the same. He had been a neat, correct-looking boy, and such was the atmosphere of neatness and correctness he bore with him, that it made me for a moment forget the broad arrows decorating his person. One could picture him groan portly in a tweed knickerbocker suit at just the right stage of shabbiness and fawn-colored spats. His bare mustache gone white in a trifle fierce, striding across stubble fields. I stood and stared at him, and he stared at me with his pale blue rather prominent eyes. I, too, impeached bloom pajamas and a blanket coat, with my straight hair raining down over my shoulders, must have looked somewhat odd. Why, William, Mr. Penrose, I said, don't you remember me? I'm Vivian Lovell. Vivian Lovell, remember you. Why, of course. Only, well, I didn't know anyone was living here, and I thought you must be a ghost. Here he glanced down at himself and broke into a laugh. And you, I suppose, must have thought I was fleeing from justice. But I must introduce you, and he turned to a shadowy form which I now saw for the first time sitting on the floor by the wall. I advanced my candle and saw what, to my first bewilderment, seemed to be the little pearl-colored lady from the wall. There were the same wide eyes, though brown instead of gray, and small pathetic face, the same shimmer of satin gown. But then I saw that the hair arranged in little clinging ringlets like those in the picture was brown instead of flaxen. And there was that subtle air of modernity which always pervades the copy of antiquity. Miss Clarissa Lanine, Miss Lovell, said William, who never forgot the courtesies of life. I had often heard of Clarissa Lanine, commonly called Kissa, the daughter of a neighbouring vicar. But whenever I had been at Boscarn, she had always been away at school. I was pleased to meet her at last, and said so. How do you do? answered a forlorn voice, as a cold little hand slid into mine. Oh, what are we to do? Isn't it dreadful? Well, you see, said I, I don't know what it's all about yet. Of course not.  It's this way. I've been taking part in some beastly theatricles. And then there was a fancy dress dance after. And then I said I'd drive Miss Lanine and the doctor and his wife home in my dog-cart. It's all on my way. We dropped the other two all right, and then the mayor elected to go lame.  I thought I'd put the mayor in the empty stable here for the night, and Kissa must need slip on a rut and sprain her ankle. And I don't know what to do. It's two miles still to the vicarage, and three to my place. But now you're here, it's all right. You'll look after her while I go on and tell her people. And I can send over for the mayor and her in the morning. Dear me, thought I, it's plain to see you two were practically brought up together and haven't got over it yet. Allowed, I said, I'd better look at the ankle first in case it needs a doctor. You had better carry her up to my room. I'll lead the way. We processed solemnly upstairs, and there I made a cold water compress for the ankle, which proved all those swollen and painful to be merely strained. Then I accompanied William to the front door. He stood looking at me for a moment, still embarrassed by my attire, though he had forgotten his own. Do you mean to say you're all alone in this house, he asked? Yes, there were no lodgings to be had. I'm posing to the culvers. You know them, don't you? You've let them a cottage. Oh yes, I know them, he said, chuckling, as if the thought of them amused him. Jolly good of you to sit for them, he added. And already, in his tone, was a shade of disapproval. I was Viv Lovell, a friend of his mother's, with whom I had often stayed. Why should I be so much too kind as to pose for the culvers? Oh no, it's good of them not me, I replied quickly. They pay me. I'm here as a professional model. That must be stopped, of course. You must come and stay with us, said William decidedly. A flush had actually risen to his face, and I could metaphorically have fallen on his neck and embraced him. I had so long been with people who thought of me as a matter of course as a worker. And now I felt again my kinship with William Penrose and his kind. Dull, boring as I might find them for long at a time, as my father had before me. Yet these were my people, not the culvers of the world. As I refused his suggestion I was aware of a glow of pleasure. My mother will call on you at once, said William, sticking his jaw out. I'm afraid I'm not very callable on, I answered. I only sleep here you see. But I'll come and see her if I may. Dull, said William, she often talks of you and Mr. Lovell. I'm awfully sorry about your father, I mean. I had an enormous admiration for him, you know. When I was a boy I thought him the cleverest man I'd ever met, and still do, though I'm not a bit clever myself, you know. I'm awfully glad to have met you again. We shook hands and he set off a sinister looking figure enough in his suggestive costume. And I went upstairs to kiss her. She had nearly finished undressing, so I brushed out her soft hair, the color of a dead leaf, and tucked her up in bed. Then folded with an odd feeling that it ought to be mine, the soft, pearly frock she had copied from that of my ancestors.  This is your bed. The excitement of meeting a convict and a damsel in distress has quite waked me up, I assured her. I couldn't sleep, not if it was ever so.  She did so, but opening them again asked anxiously. Do you think William was very annoyed with me about my ankle? He says women are always doing silly things like that, especially me. Of course he wasn't annoyed. It was just his anxiety about you made him seem so. Now go to sleep. I watched her for a little while, till I was sure she was sleeping soundly. A slight flush on her cheeks, her sweet, sturdy profile, with its delicately tilted little nose and round, rather prominent chin, pressed against the pillow. Then in the first gray of the dawning I went out across the courtyard and round to the back of the house. We're standing out to one side for the ruins of the banqueting hall and chapel, both much older than the house itself, which only dated from the restoration. The clumps of ivy over which a light breeze was sending ripples of movement, so that they seemed to be drawing quick breaths, showed dark against the pallor of the shattered, ruthless walls and slim pillars. A great white sow, Juan gray in the dawn light, a mere ghost pig, was lying among a rubble of fallen stones and nettles inside the chapel. I shot a pebble at her and she lumbered angrily past me, snorting as she went. I climbed up what was left of the stairway in the banqueting hall, and crawling along the edge of the wall sat down. My legs dangling and one arm clasped for security round the pointed arch of the doorway. Away from me the hillside sloped to the valley bed. Among the brambles and gorse bushes pockets of water glimmered pearl-like. At the mouth of the valley, about a mile to the left, the dawn was kindling over the brightening sea. I was perched so high that the dark bosses of treetops showed as islands above the golden mist that filled the valley, enrolling clouds like smoke. The birds began to chirp, and from the hedge just below, a yellow hammer set bowing at me and uttering his run of melancholy notes. A rabbit, its done fur matted into little points with dew, ran across the path. The cows scrambling up from the places they had kept dry with their own bodies, tore at the long grass till such time as the farm lads should come and drive them to the milking. Sitting there I remembered when Father and I, long ago, had made a pilgrimage to Clonan's. How he had shown me that the iron field gates were swung between carved pillars that had once graced the chapel and how the wind-spark horse of an old gable was built into the pig-sties. If my grandfather had stuck to farming down west instead of going to races up-country, this would be mine now and yours after me, he had said. I daresay I shouldn't have stayed in it, but the rolling stone would have liked a parent wall to roll back to in its old age. As I thought of his words I understood them far better than I had at the time, and I too felt some influences from the old place tugging at my heart. I was very happy sitting there, but there was more to it than that. It was the fact that this was my own place where my own people had lived before me that tingled through me like wine, that someone else was in legal possession was really neither here nor there. These stones could never be flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone as they were of mine. Not for him would the pearly lady shimmer at the bend of the stairs, rustle in the passages and fill the house with a presence as sweet and elusive as the scent of dried lavender. As I felt the call of the place, that imperative demand for actual stone and soil of one's own, which is a thing one can only understand if it is born in one. I vowed to buy Clonance back again some day. True, I had only about a pound in the world at the moment, but who could tell what might not happen? Before I swung myself down to go and meet the water-bearing Senef, I laid my cheek against the curve of the cold arch and whispered my vow into the ear of the acanthus leaf on the capital.