Chapter III: Part 3

She would not believe that he meant nothing—that their friendship had been just one of those war-time flirtations which must fade in the light of peace. It had lasted too long, for one thing—it had lasted a year. For a whole year they had loved each other, written to each other almost every day, hungered for meetings, and met with kisses and passionate playful words. It is true that he had never spoken to her of marriage except negatively, but she knew his views and had submitted if not agreed. All that was over now—he was no longer a soldier, holding his life on an uncertain lease; and more, he was now the heir—their prospects had improved from the material and practical point of view. He might, like so many men, have found it difficult to get back into business, recover his pre-war footing in the world; but there need be no concern for that now—he was not only the heir, but his father’s agent, already established with home and income, and his home that dearest of all places, Starvecrow....

She would not believe that he had been playing with her, that he had only taken her to pass the time, and now was looking for some decent pretext for letting her go. He was not that sort of man at all. Peter was loyal and honest right through. Besides, she saw no sign that his love had grown cold. She was sure that he loved her as much as ever, but more painfully, more doubtingly. Their meetings had lately been given over to a sorrowful silence. He had held her in his arms in silent, straining tenderness. He would not talk, he would not smile. What did he mean?

Probably his family was making trouble. She had been only once to Conster since she had dined there on Christmas Day, and it had struck her then that Doris and Lady Alard had both seemed a little unfriendly. Everyone in Leasan and Vinehall said that the Squire’s son would have to marry money if he meant to keep the property going. She had often heard people say that—but till now she had scarcely thought of it. The idea had seemed impossible, almost grotesque. But now it did not seem quite impossible—Peter’s behaviour, his family’s behaviour, all pointed to its being a factor in the situation; and since she could not refuse to see that something was keeping him silent when he ought to speak, it was easier to believe in a difficulty of this kind than in any commonplace cooling or change. Once she had thought that nothing, not even Alard, could come between them—now she must alter her faith to the extent of believing that nothing could come between them except Alard.

She could not help being a little angry with Peter for this discovery. It seemed to her a shameful thing that money should count against love. As for herself, she did not dare think what she would not sacrifice for love—for Peter if occasion arose. And he, apparently, would not sacrifice for her one acre of Conster, one tile of Starvecrow.... Was it the difference between men and women which made the difference here? If she was a man would she be able to see the importance of Peter’s family, the importance of keeping his property together even at the expense of happiness and faith? She wondered.... Meanwhile she was angry.

She wished he would have things out with her, try to explain. That he did not was probably due to the mixture of that male cowardice which dreads a “scene” with that male stupidity which imagines that nothing has been noticed which it has not chosen to reveal. But if he didn’t tell her soon she would ask him herself. She knew that such a step was not consistent with feminine dignity either ancient or modern. According to tradition she should have drooped to the masculine whim, according to fashion she should have asserted her indifference to it. But she could do neither. She could not bear her own uncertainty any longer—this fear of her hopes. Oh, she had planned so materially and wildly! She had planned the very furnishing of Starvecrow—which room was to be which—the dining-room, the best bedroom, the spare bedroom, Peter’s study ... cream distemper on the walls and for each room different colours ... and a kitchen furnished with natural oak and copper pots and pans....

The tears which up till now had only teased the back of her eyes, brimmed over at the thought of the kitchen. The dark January afternoon, clear under a sky full of unshed rain, was swallowed up in mist as Stella wept for her kitchen and copper pans.

She was still on the doorstep, where she had stood to see the last of Gervase, and even now that she was crying she did not turn into the house. The iron-black road was empty between its draggled hedges, and she found a certain kinship in the winter twilight, with its sharpness, its sighing of low, rain-burdened winds. After a few moments she dried her eyes and went down the steps to the gate. Thanks to Gervase, she had come home nearly an hour earlier than she need—she would go and sit for a few minutes in church. She found church a very good place for thinking her love affairs into their right proportion with all time.

The village of Vinehall was not like the village of Leasan, which straggled for nearly a mile each side of the high road. It was a large village, all pressed together like a little town. Above it soared the spire of Vinehall church, which, like many Sussex churches, stood in a farmyard. Its lovely image lay in the farmyard pond, streaked over with green scum and the little eddies that followed the ducks.

Stella carefully shut out a pursuing hen and went in by the tower door. The church was full of heavy darkness. The afternoon sun had left it a quarter of an hour ago, showing only its pale retreat through the slats of the clerestory windows, white overhead, and night lay already in the aisles. She groped her way to the east end, where the white star of a lamp flickered against a pillar guarding a shrine. She flopped down on the worn stones at the foot of the pillar, sitting back on her heels, her hands lying loosely and meekly in her lap.

She had no sense of loneliness or fear in the dark—the white lamp spoke to her of a presence which she could feel throughout the dark and empty church, a presence of living quiet, of glowing peace. Outside she could hear the fowls ducking in the yard, with every now and then the shrill gobble-gobble of a turkey. She loved these homely sounds, which for years had been the accompaniment of her prayers—her prayers which had no words, but seemed to move in her heart like flames. Oh, it was good to be here, to have this place to come to, this Presence to seek.

Now that she was here she could no longer feel angry with Peter, however stupid, obstinate and earthy he was. Poor Peter—choosing it for himself as well as for her ... she could not be angry with him, because she knew that if he pulled catastrophe down upon them, he of the two would suffer the most. Unlike her, he had no refuge, no Presence to seek, no unseen world that could become real at a thought.... His gods were dead Squires who had laid up wealth to be his poverty. Her God was a God who had beggared Himself, that she through His poverty might become rich.

This beggar and lover and prisoner, her God, was with her here in the darkness, telling her that if she too wished to be a lover she too must become a beggar and a prisoner. She would be Peter’s beggar, Peter’s slave. She would not let him go from her without pleading, without fighting, but if he really must go, if this half-known monster, Alard, was really strong enough to take him, he should not go wounded by her detaining clutch as well as by its claws. He should not go shamed and reproached, but with goodwill. If he really must go, and she could no longer hold him, she would make his going easy.... He should go in peace.... Poor Peter.

§ 19

At the end of January Mary left Conster. She could not in any spirit of decorum put off her return longer—her husband had wired to her to come home.

“Poor Julian,” said Lady Alard—“he must be missing you dreadfully. I really think you ought to go back, Mary, since he can’t manage to come here.”

Mary agreed without elaboration, and her lovely hats and shoes with the tea-gowns and dinner-frocks which had divided the family into camps of admiration and disapproval, were packed away by the careful, brisk Gisèle. The next day she was driven over to Ashford, with Jenny and Peter to see her off.

There had been no intimate talks between the sisters since the first night of her coming. Jenny was shy, and typically English in her dislike of the exposure of anything which seemed as if it ought to be hidden, and Mary either felt this attitude in her sister or else shrank from disillusioning her youth still further. They had arrived a little too early for the train, and stood together uneasily on the platform while Gisèle bought the tickets and superintended the luggage.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” said Jenny politely.

“So do I—but it couldn’t be helped after that telegram.”

“Julian sounded rather annoyed—I hope he won’t make a fuss when you get back.”

“I’m not going back.”

There was a heavy silence. Neither Peter nor Jenny thought they had quite understood.

“Wh-what do you mean?” stammered Jenny at last—“not going back to Chart? Isn’t Julian there?”

“Of course he’s there. That’s why I’m not going back. Gisèle is taking the tickets to London.”

“But”—It was Peter who said ‘But,’ and had apparently nothing else to say.

“Do you mean that you’re leaving him?” faltered Jenny.

“I’m not going to live with him any more. I’ve had enough.”

“But why didn’t you tell us?—tell the parents?”

“I’d rather not bring the family into it. It’s my own choice though Julian is sure to think you’ve been influencing me. I didn’t make up my mind till I got his telegram; then I saw quite plainly that I couldn’t go back to him.”

“You’re not going to that other fellow—what’s his name—Commander Smith?” cried Peter, finding his tongue rather jerkily.

“Oh, no. As I’ve told Jenny, making a mess of things with one man doesn’t necessarily encourage me to try my luck with another. Besides, I’m not fond of Charles—in that way. I shall probably stay at my Club for a bit, and then go abroad.... I don’t know.... All I know is that I’m not going back to Julian.”

“Shall you—can you divorce him?”

“No. He hasn’t been cruel or unfaithful, nor has he deserted me. I’m deserting him. It’s simply that I can’t live with him—he gets on my nerves—I can’t put up with either his love or his jealousy. I couldn’t bear the thought even of having dinner with him tonight ... and yet—” the calm voice suddenly broke—“and yet I married for love....”

Both the brother and sister were silent. Peter saw Gisèle coming up with a porter and the luggage, and went off like a coward to meet them. Jenny remained uneasily with Mary.

“I’m sorry to have had to do this,” continued the elder sister—“it’ll upset the parents, I know. They don’t like Julian, but they’ll like a scandal still less.”

“Do you think he’ll make a row?”

“I’m sure of it. For one thing, he’ll never think for a minute I haven’t left him for someone else—for Charles. He won’t be able to imagine that I’ve left a comfortable home and a rich husband without any counter attraction except my freedom. By the way, I shall be rather badly off—I’ll have only my settlements, and they won’t bring in much.”

“Oh, Mary—do you really think you’re wise?”

“Not wise, perhaps—nor good.” She pulled down her veil. “I feel that a better or a worse woman would have made a neater job of this. The worse would have found an easier way—the better would have stuck to the rough. But I—oh, I’m neither—I’m neither good nor bad. All I know is that I can’t go back to Julian, to put up with his fussing and his love and his suspicion—and, worse still, with my own shame because I don’t love him any more—because I’ve allowed myself to be driven out of love by tricks—by manner—by outside things.”

“—London train—Headcorn, Tonbridge and London train—”

The porter’s shouting was a welcome interruption, though it made Jenny realise with a blank feeling of anxiety and impotence that any time for persuasion was at an end.

“Do you want us to tell Father and Mother?” she asked as Mary got into the train.

“You needn’t if you’d rather not. I’ll write to them tonight.”

She leaned back in the carriage, soft, elegant, perfumed, a little unreal, and yet conveying somehow a sense of desperate choice and mortal straits.

Peter and Jenny scarcely spoke till they were back in the car driving homewards. Then Jenny said with a little gasp—

“Isn’t it dreadful?”

“What?—her going away?”

“No, the fact that she married Julian for love.”

Peter said nothing.

“If she’d married out of vanity, or greed, or to please the family, it would have been better—one would have understood what’s happened now. But she married him for love.”

Peter still said nothing.

§ 20

He sat waiting at Starvecrow on an early day in February. Outside the rain kept the Feast of the Purification, washing down the gutters of Starvecrow’s mighty roof, lapping the edges of the pond into the yard, and further away transforming all the valley of the Tillingham into a lake—huge sheets and spreads of water, out of which the hills of Barline and Brede Eye stood like a coast. All the air was fresh and washed and tinkling with rain.

The fire was piled high with great logs and posts, burning with a blue flame, for they had been pulled out of the barns of Starvecrow, which like many in the district were built of ships’ timbers with the salt still in them. The sound of the fire was as loud as the sound of the rain. Both made a sorrowful music together in Peter’s head.

He sat with his hands folded together under his chin, his large light blue eyes staring without seeing into the grey dripping world framed by the window. The clock in the passage struck three. Stella would not come till a quarter past. He had arranged things purposely so that he should be alone for a bit at Starvecrow before meeting her, strengthening himself with the old loyalties to fight the brief, sweet faithfulness of a year.

He felt almost physically sick at the thought of what lay before him, but he had made up his mind to go through with it—it had got to be done; and it must be done in this way. Oh, how he had longed to send Stella a letter, telling her that they must never see each other again, begging her to go away and spare him! But he knew that was a coward’s escape—the least he owed her was an explanation face to face.... What a brute he had been to her! He had no right to have won her love if he did not mean to keep it—and though when he had first sought her he had thought himself free to do so, he had behaved badly in not telling her of the new difficulties created by his becoming the heir. It was not that he had meant to hide things from her, but he had simply shelved them in his own mind, hoping that “something would turn up,” that Alard’s plight would not be as bad as he had feared. Now he saw that it was infinitely worse—and he was driven to a definite choice between his people and Stella. If he married Stella he would have failed Alard—if he stood by Alard he would have failed Stella. It was a cruel choice—between the two things in the world that he loved best. But he must make it now—he could not keep Stella hanging on indefinitely any longer. Already he could see how uncertainty, anxiety and disappointment were telling on her. She was looking worn and dim. She had expected him, on his return home after the wars, to proclaim their love publicly, and he was still keeping it hidden, though the reasons he had first given her for doing so were at an end. She was wondering why he didn’t speak—she was hesitating whether she should speak herself.... He guessed her struggle and knew he must put an end to it.

Besides, now at last his choice was made. He no longer had any uncertainty, any coil of argument to encumber him. Mary’s words on Ashford platform had finally settled his difficulty—“And yet I married for love.” Seven years ago Mary had loved this man from whom she was now escaping, the very sight of whom in her home she could not bear. Love was as uncertain as everything else—it came and it was gone. Mary had once loved Julian as Peter now loved Stella—and look at her!... Oh, you could never be sure. And there was so much in Stella he was not sure of—and she might change—he might change; only places never changed—were always the same. Starvecrow would always be to him, whether at eighteen, thirty-eight or eighty, the same Starvecrow.... How could he fail the centuries behind him for what might not live more than a few years? How could he fail the faithful place for that which had change for its essence and death for its end?

Far away he could hear the purring of a car—it drew nearer, and Peter, clenching his hands, found the palms damp. All his skin was hot and moist—oh, God, what had he to face? The scene that was coming would be dreadful—he’d never get through it unless Stella helped him, and he’d no right to expect help from her. Here she was, driving in at the gate ... outside the door ... inside the room at last.

§ 21

He sought refuge in custom, and going up to her, laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her gravely. Then he began to loosen the fur buttons of her big collar, but she put up her hand and stopped him.

“No—I’ll keep it on. I can’t stop long. Father’s waiting for me at Barline.”

“It’s good of you to come—there’s something I’ve got to say.”

“You want to tell me we must end it.”

He had not expected her to help him so quickly. Then he suddenly realised that his letter had probably told her a lot—his trouble must have crept between the lines—into the lines ... he wasn’t good at hiding things.

“Oh, Stella.”

He stood a few paces from her, and noticed—now that his thoughts were less furiously concentrated on himself—that she was white, that all the warm, rich colour in her cheeks was gone. He pulled forward one of the office chairs, and she sank into it. He sat down opposite her, and took her hand, which she did not withdraw.

“Oh, Stella, my darling ... my precious child ... it’s all no use. I’ve hoped and I’ve tried, but it’s no good—I must let you go.”

“Why?”

The word came almost sharply—she wasn’t going to help him, then, so much.

“Darling, I know I’m a cad. I ought never to have told you I loved you, knowing that ... at least when Hugh died I should have told you straight out how things were. But I couldn’t—I let myself drift, hoping matters would improve ... and then there was the war....”

“Peter, I wish you would tell me things straight out—now’s better than never. And honestly I can’t understand why you’re not going to marry me.”

He was a little shocked. Tradition taught him that Stella would try to save her face, and he had half expected her to say that she had never thought of marrying him. After all, he had never definitely asked her, and she might claim that this was only one of those passionate friendships which had become so common during the war. If she had done so, he would have conceded her the consolation without argument—a girl ought to try and save her face; but Stella apparently did not care about her face at all.

“Why aren’t you going to marry me? You’ve never given me any real reason.”

“Surely you know”—his voice was a little cold.

“How can I know? I see you the heir of a huge estate, living in a big house with apparently lots of money. You tell me again and again that you love me—I’m your equal in birth and education. Why on earth should I ‘know’ that you can’t marry me?”

“Stella, we’re in an awful mess—all the family. The estate is mortgaged almost up to the last acre—we can hardly manage to pay the yearly interest, and owing to the slump in land we can’t sell.”

Stella stared at him woodenly.

“Can’t you understand?”

“No—” she said slowly—“I can’t. I’ve heard that the war has hit you—it’s hit all the big landowners; but you’re—good heavens! you’re not poor. Think of the servants you keep, and the motor-cars——”

“Oh, that’s my hopeless parents, who won’t give up anything they’ve been accustomed to, and who say that it’s not worth while making ourselves uncomfortable in small things when only something colossal can save us. If we moved into the Lodge tomorrow and lived on five hundred a year it would still take us more than a lifetime to scrape up enough to free the land.”

“Then what do you propose to do?”

“Well, don’t you see, if I live at home I can manage somehow to keep down expenses, so that the interest on the mortgages gets paid—and when Greening’s gone and I’m agent I can do a lot to improve the estate, and send the value up so that we can sell some of the outlying farms over by Stonelink and Guestling—that’ll bring in ready money, and then perhaps I’ll be able to pay off some of the mortgages.”

“But couldn’t you do all that if you married me?”

“No, because for one thing I shouldn’t be allowed to try. Father wouldn’t have me for agent.”

“Why?”

“Oh, Stella darling, don’t make it so difficult for me. It’s so hard for me to tell you ... can’t you see that my people want to get money above all things—lots of it? If I marry you it’ll be the end of all their hopes.”

“They want you to marry money.”

“They want us all to marry money. Oh, don’t think I’m going to do it—I couldn’t marry anyone I didn’t love. But I feel I’ve got my duty to them as well as to you ... and it’s not only to them ... oh, Stella sweetheart, don’t cry!”

“I—I can’t help it. Oh, Peter, it all sounds so—so dreadful, so sordid—and so—so cruel, to you as well as to me.”

He longed to take her in his arms, but dared not, partly for fear of his own weakness, partly for fear she would repulse him.

“Darling—I’m not explaining well; it’s so difficult. And I know it’s sordid, but not so sordid as you think. It’s simply that I feel I must stand by my family now—and I don’t mean just my people, you know; I mean all the Alards ... all that ever were. I can’t let the place be sold up, as it will have to be if I don’t save it. Think of it ... and the first part to be sold would have to be Starvecrow, because it’s the only free, unmortgaged land we’ve got. Oh, Stella, think of selling Starvycrow!”

She took away her hands and looked at him through her streaming tears.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that—don’t reproach me. What I’m doing is only half selfish—the other half is unselfish, it’s sacrifice.”

“But, Peter, what does it matter if the land is sold? What good is the land doing you?—what good will it ever do you, if it comes to that? Why should we suffer for the land?”

“I thought you’d have understood that better.”

“I don’t understand at all.”

“Not that I must stand by my people?”

“I don’t understand why your people can’t be happy without owning all the land in three parishes.”

“Oh, my dear....”

He tried to take her hand, but this time she pulled it away.

“It’s no good, Peter. I understand your selfish reason better than your unselfish one. I fail to see why you should sacrifice me and yourself to your family and their land. I can see much better how you can’t bear the thought of losing Starvecrow. I know how you love it, because I love it too-but much as I love it, I never could sacrifice you to it, my dear, nor any human soul.”

“I know—I know. I’m a beast, Stella—but it’s like this ... human beings change—even you may change—but places are always the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I love you now—but how do I know ... Mary married for love.”

“What’s Mary got to do with it?”

“She’s shown me that one can never be sure, even with love.”

“You mean to say you’re not sure if you’d be happy with me?”

“Darling, I’m as sure as I can ever be with any human being. But one never can be quite sure, that’s the terrible thing. And oh, it would be so ghastly if you changed—or I changed—and I had left the unchanging place for you.”

Stella rose quietly to her feet.

“I understand now, Peter.”

For a moment she stood motionless and silent, her mouth set, her eyes shining out beyond him. He wondered if she was praying.

“Stella—don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you—I love you. But I quite understand that you don’t love me. Your last words have shown me that. And your not loving me explains it all. If you really loved me all these difficulties, all these ambitions would be like—like chaff. But you don’t love me, at least not much; and I don’t want you, if you only love me a little. I’m relieved in a way—I think you’d be doing a dreadful thing if you gave me up while you really loved me. But you don’t really love me, so you’re quite right to give me up and stand by your family and Starvecrow. Oh, I know you love me enough to have married me if everything had been easy....”

“Stella, don’t—It isn’t that I don’t love you; it’s only that I can’t feel sure of the future with you—I mean, there are so many things about you I can’t understand—your way of looking at life and things....”

“Oh, I know, my dear—don’t trouble to explain to me. And don’t think I’m angry, Peter—only sick—sick—sick. I don’t want to argue with you any more—it’s over. And I’ll make things as easy for you as I can, and for myself too. I’ll go away—I’ll have to. I couldn’t bear meeting you after this—or seeing Starvecrow....”

She went to the door, and he hoped she would go straight out, but on the threshold she suddenly turned——

“I’m not angry, Peter—I’m not angry. I was, but I’m not now ... I’m only miserable. But I’ll be all right ... if I go away. And some day we’ll be friends again....”

The door crashed behind her. She was gone.

INTERLUDE

§ 1

May 29, 1919.

Conster Manor,
Leasan,
Sussex.

_My dear Stella_,

I hope you won’t think it awful cheek of me to write to you, but I’ve been thinking of doing so for a long time—ever since you left, in fact. I felt so very sorry that just after I’d begun to know you again you should go away. You see I’m rather odd-man-out in the family, for though Jenny and I have always been pals, she’s frightfully preoccupied with things just now, and I get back so late and start off again so early next morning that I see very little of people at home. The same fact makes it difficult for me to keep up with the people I knew at school—I can’t have them at Conster, anyway. And at the works—oh, Gee! I can’t think where they come from. Either they’re of quite a bit different class, which I can get on with, though I don’t think I could ever make a friend of it, or else they’re a type of man I’ve never struck before, the kind that’s always talking of horses and girls, and the way he talks it’s rather difficult to tell ’tother from which. So may I—now it’s coming out!—may I write to you now and then? It would make such a difference to me, and you needn’t answer—at least, not so often as I write. I’d never dare ask you this to your face, but I can write things I can’t say. So please let me—it would be such a relief, and I’d be so grateful. I don’t pretend for a minute that it’ll be entertaining for you—I’ll simply be getting things off my chest. You see, I do such a frightful lot of thinking on the way to and from Ashford and you’ve done a lot of thinking too—I’m sure of it—so perhaps you’ll understand my thoughts, though I can tell you some of ’em are precious silly. This letter is a pretty fair specimen of what you’d have to expect, so if you don’t like it, squash me at once, for I’d hate to be a nuisance to you.

I hope you’re still liking the clinic. Your father told us about it last Sunday. I expect he’s given you all the Leasan and Vinehall news. He’ll have told you about Dolly Hurst’s wedding, anyhow. It was a simply terrible affair. I had to go, because they heartlessly chose a Saturday afternoon, and I was nearly stifled with the show. The church reeked of flowers and money and Israelites. In spite of my decided views on the filthiness of lucre, I can’t help thinking it a waste that a rich Gentile should marry a rich Jew when there are plenty of poor Gentiles in the neighbourhood. However, the bridegroom looks a decent fellow, and not so violently a son of Abraham. He had three sisters who were bridesmaids, and all treats, as we say at the shop. Forgive these vulgar musings on a solemn subject, but the occasion provokes them—and anyhow write and tell me if I may write again.

Yours in hope and fear,
GERVASE ALARD.

June 3.

15, Mortimer Street,
Birmingham.

_My dear Gervase_,

Very many thanks for your letter. Of course go on writing—I shall love hearing from you, though please don’t think I’m clever and “do a lot of thinking”—because I don’t. And I’m glad you say you won’t be exacting in the way of answers for I’m frightfully busy here. I have to be at the clinic at nine every morning, and often don’t get away till after six. I do all the dispensary work, weigh babies, etc.—it’s all most amusing, and I love it, and would be ever so happy if I felt Father was getting on all right without me. Now you might help me here and tell me what you think of Miss Gregory. Father of course makes out that he’s perfectly satisfied, but I feel that may be only because he doesn’t want me to worry or think I ought to come back. So you tell me if you think she’s a dud, though of course I don’t expect you’ll have much opportunity for finding out.

Yes, Father told me about the Hurst wedding, and I had a letter too from Mrs. George Alard. It seems to have been a regular Durbar. I’m rather surprised they found it possible to get married in church, the bridegroom not being a Christian. But perhaps he’s Jewish only by race. I hope so, because Mrs. George said Peter seemed very much smitten with his sister, who was chief bridesmaid. Of course this may be only her imagination. I wonder if you noticed anything. I suppose Peter’s living at Starvecrow now. I hope so much he’ll be able to do all he wanted for the estate.

Excuse more, but I’m frightfully busy this week, as there are one or two cases of smallpox in the city and a lot of vaccination being done.

Yours,
STELLA MOUNT.

§ 2

Nov. 16.

Hollingrove,
Vinehall,
Sussex.

_My dear Little Girl_,

When we were together in the summer you told me you had quite “got over” Peter Alard, and I was so glad. All the same I want to send you the enclosed newspaper cutting before you have a chance of hearing the news from any other source—I feel it might still be a shock. I wish I had been less of a dull fellow and had my suspicions beforehand—then I might have prepared you—but I assure you I never thought of it. He met her for the first time at her brother’s wedding to Miss Hurst in May—she was one of the bridesmaids—and I’m told now that she stayed at Conster for a fortnight while we were away in August. She was down again this last week and I met her once or twice—she seems a very nice girl, quiet and well-bred and decidedly above the average in brains, I should think. Lady Alard told me she is writing a book. I was asked up to dinner last night, and Sir John announced the engagement, and this morning it was in the _Times_, so I’m writing off to you at once. My darling, you know how sorry I am that things did not turn out as we had both so fondly hoped. But I think that what has happened may be a comfort to you in many ways, as you were so afraid he would marry Dolly Hurst to please his family and we both agreed she could never make him happy. Miss Asher seems much more likely to be the kind of wife he wants—she is not so cold and intellectual, but seems warm-hearted and friendly, though as I’ve told you she’s decidedly clever. Peter seemed extremely happy when I congratulated him—it’s so nice to think that I can tell you this, and that your love was always of a kind which wanted his happiness more than its own. But I’m afraid this will be a blow to you, dear; in spite of what you have told me, and I heard Mass this morning with a special intention for you. I will write again in a day or two and tell you how the Elphicks are getting on and the rest of the news, but I must stop now as I hear Miss Gregory trying to crank up the car. It’s funny how she never seems able to manage it when the engine’s cold, while a little bit of a thing like you never failed to get it started. Goodbye, my darling, and God bless you.

Your loving father,
HORACE J. MOUNT.

Cutting from the _Times_ of Nov. 16, 1919:

Mr. P. J. Alard and Miss V. L. I. Asher.

A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Peter John Alard, eldest son of Sir John and Lady Alard of Conster Manor, Leasan, Sussex, and Vera Lorna Isabel, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Asher of 91, Orme Square, Bayswater.

NOV. 20.

15, Mortimer Street,
Birmingham.

_Dearest Father_,

Thank you so much for writing to me the way you did, because in spite
of what I said at Grasmere I think it would have been rather a shock
if I’d seen it in the paper. Of course I have “got over” Peter in a
way, but, oh, dear, it always gives one rather a pang to see one’s old
love marrying—you remember all the lovely things he said to _you_, and
you wonder if he’s now saying just the same to the other girl. I’m
afraid this sounds rather cynical and sad, and a bit selfish, because
I had definitely broken off with Peter, and since he can’t have really
and truly loved me I ought to be glad he’s found someone he can really
and truly love. Oh, I do hope he really and truly loves her, but one’s
always afraid in a case like this when there’s money. It may have
influenced him unconsciously, though I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have
married her if he hadn’t been fond of her as well. Still “fond of”
isn’t enough—oh, it would be dreadful to think he’d given me up and
then married another woman whom he didn’t love even as much as he
loved me. But do believe me, Father dear, I’m being sensible.
Yesterday I went to confession and this morning I went to the Altar,
and I feel ever so much better than I did at first. Of course, after
what I said it seems ridiculous to mind so much, but it’s only when a
thing is utterly finished that one realises how one has been stupidly
hoping against hope the whole time.

I had a letter from Gervase yesterday, telling me a lot about Vera
Lorna Isabel. I think she sounds nice, though rather brainy for old
Peter. She and Dolly Hurst were both in a sort of literary set up in
London and have met lots of authors and authoresses. Gervase says she
has read them some of her book, and it’s frightfully clever, but he
doesn’t think she’ll finish it now she’s engaged. I still hear
regularly from Gervase; he writes once a week and I write once a
fortnight, which sounds unfair, but you know how busy I am—though, for
the matter of that, so is he. I think he’s an awfully nice boy, and I
admire him for breaking free from the family tradition and striking
out a line of his own.

Really Miss Gregory’s an awful ass if she can’t crank up the car—I
never knew a car start easier, even on a cold morning. Father, when
Peter’s safely married I think I’ll come home. I can’t bear being away
from you, and I know nobody looks after you as well as I do (said she
modestly). It’ll be quite all right—I came away partly for Peter’s
sake as well as my own—I thought it would help the thing to die
easier—but really I’d be a hopeless fool if I could never bear to meet
him again, and whatever would become of you without me? How good of
you to hear Mass for me. How is Father Luce? Please give him my love,
though I don’t suppose he wants it. Does he talk any more now? I wish
he’d be a more entertaining companion for you on Sunday evenings.

Lots of love and kisses and thanks and bless-yous from

STELLA.

_PART II_
LEASAN PARSONAGE

§ 1

February was nearly over when Peter came back from his Algerian honeymoon, and found Starvecrow waiting to receive him. It was the mild end of a rainy day, with the air full of yellow sunshine, which was reflected in the floods of the Tillingham marshes. The house was faintly bloomed with it, and its windows shone like golden pools. Peter caught his first glimpse from the top of Brede Eye hill, and his heart grew warm in the chill English dusk as no African sun had made it. “Look!” he said to Vera, and pointed over the top of Conster’s firs at the grey and golden house with its smoking chimneys—for the first time the smoke of his own fires was going up from Starvecrow.

The car—the splendid Sunbeam which Vera’s parents had given as their wedding-present—swept down into the valley, over the Tillingham bridge, and up Starvecrow’s twisting drive, reflecting the rushing hazels and apple-trees in the mirror of its polished sides. Without noise or jar it stopped outside the porch—“Wait for the man, dear,” said Vera, but Peter was out, staring enraptured at his own front door. He had a foolish, ridiculous feeling that he wanted to carry her across the threshold, but was deterred by the appearance of a smart parlourmaid, also by Vera’s obvious unpreparedness for so primitive an entrance.

So he contented himself with kissing her in the delightful drawing-room that led out of the hall. A large wood fire burned in the open fireplace, and bright cretonnes were in rather sophisticated contrast to oak beams and pure white walls. The house had been thoroughly overhauled, and amazing treasures had come to light in the way of Tudor fireplaces and old oak. It seemed to Peter that it was now more like a small country house than the farmhouse of his love and memory, but certainly these things were more appropriate than the Greenings’ rather ramshackle furniture, Victorian wallpapers and blackleaded grates.

“Isn’t it lovely?” breathed Vera, crouching down by the fire and warming her delicate hands.

“Yes, it is,” said Peter—“and so are you.”

He put his hand on her little close-fitting hat and tilted back her head till her full, rather oriental lips were under his. He loved her long, satisfying kisses, so unlike the uneasy ones of most English girls—he told himself that it was this Eastern quality in her love, inherited through the Jewish blood of her fathers, which had made the last few weeks so wonderful.

A minute later the parlourmaid brought in tea, and they had it together beside the singing hearth. There was no light in the room except the dancing glow on beams and walls, the reflections from polished silver and lustre-ware. Vera did not talk much, for she was tired, and after tea she said she would like to go up to her room and lie down before dinner. Peter offered to go with her and read her to sleep—he could not bear to be away from her very long—but Vera said she would rather be quiet, in which no doubt she was wise, for the gods had not given Peter the gift of reading aloud.

Well, perhaps it was all to the good that she did not want him, because he would have to go up to Conster some time this evening, and he would rather go now than after dinner, when he could be sitting on the hearthrug at Vera’s feet keeping their first watch together by their own fire. So though he was feeling a bit fagged himself after the journey, he put on his overcoat again and went out into the early darkness which was thick with a new drizzle.

Starvecrow was lost in the night, except for a golden square which was Vera’s room, and the distant sulky glow of a lantern among the barns. Only a gleaming of puddles and the water in the ruts showed him the farm drive—which had remained a farm-drive in spite of the Asher’s wish that it should become an avenue; for, as he pointed out to them, his traffic of wagons would do for nothing more genteel. As he reached the bottom, the distant murmur of a car, far away in the network of lanes between Starvecrow and Vinehall, made him unaccountably think of Stella. Queer ... it must be just a year since he had seen her last. How many things had happened since then, and how seldom he thought of her now—poor little girl!... And yet he had loved her—there was no good making out that he hadn’t—and he had been grief-stricken when she had gone away—thought a dozen times of calling her back and letting Starvecrow and the rest go hang.... It merely showed that Mary was right, and love, like everything else, could die. Would his love for Vera die?—why not, since his love for Stella had died?—But his love for Vera was so warm and alive—So had his love for Stella been once. Oh, damn! he was getting into a melancholy mood—it must be the effect of the journey. Thank God! here he was at Conster and wouldn’t have much more time for the blues, though the thought of seeing his family again did not give him any overwhelming pleasure.

§ 2

He found his father and mother and two sisters in the drawing-room, and it seemed to him that their greeting had a queer, uneasy quality about it, a kind of abstraction—as if their thoughts were centred on something more engrossing than his return. When he had gone his round of kisses and handshakes, Lady Alard seemed suddenly to express the real interest of the party by crying in a heartbroken voice——

“Peter! what _do_ you think has happened?”

“What?” cried Peter sharply. He had a vision of a foreclosing mortgagee.

“It’s Mary!” wailed Lady Alard—“Julian is divorcing her.”

“Mary!”

Peter was genuinely shocked—the Alards did not appear in the divorce court; also his imagination was staggered at the thought of Mary, the fastidious, the pure, the intense, being caught in the coarse machinery of the state marriage laws.

“Yes—isn’t it utterly dreadful? It appears he’s had her watched by detectives ever since she left him, and now they’ve found something against her—at least they think they have. It was that time she went abroad with Meg Sellons, and Charles joined them at Bordighera—which I always said was unwise. But the worst of all, Peter, is that she says she won’t defend herself—she says that she’s done nothing wrong, but she won’t defend herself—she’ll let Julian put her away, and everyone will think she’s—oh, Peter, this will finish me—it really will. When I got Mary’s letter I had the worst attack I’ve had for years—we had to send for Dr. Mount in the middle of the night. I really thought——”

Sir John interrupted her——

“You’d better let me finish, Lucy. The subject is legal, not medical. Mary has behaved like a fool and run her head into Julian’s trap. I don’t know how much there is in it, but from what she says I doubt if he has much of a case. If she’ll defend it, she’ll probably be able to clear herself, and what’s more I bet she could bring a counter-petition.”

“That would be a nasty mess, wouldn’t it, Sir?” said Peter.

“Not such a nasty mess as my daughter being held up in all the newspapers as an adulteress!”

“Oh, John!” cried Lady Alard—“what a dreadful thing to say before the girls!”

“Doris is old enough to hear the word now if she’s never heard it before, and Jenny—she’s Emancipated, and a great deal older than you and me. I tell you I object to my daughter being placarded in the penny papers as an adulteress, and I’d much rather she proved Julian an adulterer.”

“Is that possible, sir?” asked Peter.

“Of course it is—the man’s been on the loose for a year.”

“If that’s all your evidence——”

“Well, I haven’t had him followed by detectives, but I can turn a few on now, and——”

“Really, Sir, I do agree with Mary that it would be better to leave the matter alone. An undefended case can be slipped through the papers with very little fuss, while if you have a defence, to say nothing of a cross-petition ... it isn’t as if she particularly wanted to keep Julian as a husband—I expect she’s glad to have the chance of getting rid of him so easily.”

“I daresay she is. I daresay she wants to marry that old ass Charles Smith. But what about her reputation?—what about ours? I tell you I’m not going to stand still and have filth thrown at me by the press. I’m proud of my name if you aren’t.”

“It really seems to me that the matter rests with Mary—if she doesn’t want to defend herself....”

“Mary must think of her family—it ought to come before her private feelings.”

The words seemed an echo of a far-back argument—they reminded Peter dimly of his own straits last year. The family must come first.... That time it was money, now it was reputation. After all, why not? There was no good holding to the one and letting the other go. But he was sorry for Mary all the same.

“Well, I can’t stay any longer now. I must be getting back to dinner. I’ll bring Vera up tomorrow morning.”

“Mary’s coming down in the afternoon.”

“Oh, is she?”

“Yes—I’ve wired for her. I insist on her listening to reason.”

So Mary would have to face Peter’s choice—family duty against personal inclination.... Well, after all he hadn’t made such a bad thing of it.... He thought of Vera waiting for him at Starvecrow, and in spite of the fret of the last half-hour a smile of childlike satisfaction was on his face as he went home.

§ 3

Peter was out early the next morning, when the first pale sunshine was stealing up the valley of the Tillingham, flooding all the world in a gleam of watery gold. He had awoken to the music of his farm, to the crowing of his cocks, to the stamping of his cattle in their stalls, to the clattering of his workmen’s feet on the cobbles of the yard. Starvecrow was his home, his place for waking up and falling asleep, for eating his food and warming himself at his fire, for finding his wife at the end of the day, for the birth of his children.... He had, as he stood that morning in the yard, a feeling both of proud ownership and proud adoption.

The whole farm, house and buildings, looked tidy and prosperous. It had lost that rather dilapidated, if homely, air it had worn before his marriage. Though the Ashers might have neither enough capital nor inclination to pay off the debts of their son-in-law’s family, they had certainly been generous in the matter of their daughter’s home. But for them the place could never have been what it was now—trimmings and clippings, furnishings and restorings had been their willingly paid price for Alard blood. The whole farm had been repaired, replanted and restocked. Indeed Starvecrow was now not so much a farm as a little manor, a rival to Conster up on the hill. Was this exactly what Peter had intended for it?—he did not stop to probe. No doubt his imagination had never held anything so solid and so trim, but that might have been only because his imagination had planned strictly for the possible, and all that had been possible up to his falling in love with Vera was just the shelter of that big kindly roof, the simplicity of those common farmhouse rooms, with the hope and labour of slow achievement and slow restoration.

Still, he was proud of the place, and looked round him with satisfaction as he walked down the bricked garden path, beside the well-raked herbaceous border. He went into the yard where his men were at work—he now employed two extra hands, and his staff consisted of a stockman, a shepherd, a ploughman, and two odd men, as well as the shepherd’s wife, who looked after the chickens and calves.

Going into the cowhouse he found Jim Lambard milking the last of the long string of Sussex cows. He greeted his master with a grin and a “good marnun, sur”—it was good to hear the slurry Sussex speech again. Peter walked to the end of the shed where two straw-coloured Jerseys were tethered—one of them, Flora, was due to calve shortly, and after inspecting her, he went out to interview the stockman. John Elias had held office not only in Greening’s time, but in the days before him when Starvecrow was worked by a tenant farmer—he was an oldish man who combined deep experience and real practical knowledge with certain old-fashioned obstinacies. Peter sometimes found him irritating to an intense degree, but clung to him, knowing that the old obstinacies are better than the new where farm-work is concerned, and that the man who insists on doing his work according to the rules of 1770 is really of more practical value than the man who does it according to the rules of the Agricultural Labourers’ Union. Elias had now been up a couple of nights with the Jersey, and his keen blue eye was a trifle dim from anxiety and want of sleep. Peter told him to get off to bed for a few hours, promising to have him sent for if anything should happen.