CHAPTER IIHER,HIM,THEM

CHAPTER IIHER,HIM,THEM“GOODmorning, mum.”“Grmn’, J’net.”And Janet, after putting the can of hot water in the basin behind the screen, went to the red curtains and pulled them back. The sunlight leapt, catching fire on her fuzzy hair, and the morning came freely in by the open windows. Mrs. Haye, in the right half of the double-bed, had such a lost look in the eyes which were usually so imperious that Janet shook her head sadly.She had had a bad night, the first since Portgammon over the fireplace there had fallen with her jumpin’ timber and had broken his back. She would get up immediately, it was no use stickin’ here in this ghastly bed. Pity she did not take her bath in the morning, a bath now would do her good. But there was more need for it in the evening.“Janet, I will get up and dress now.”“Now’m?”“Yes, now”Later: “Will you have the brown tweed or the green’m?”“The heather mixture. Janet, these stockings each have a hole in the heel. I wish you would not put me out stockings that are unfit to wear.”She was in one of her tempers to-day, and no wonder. But as the cook had said at supper last night, “No one to give notice till a year ’as passed by.”She was washing behind the screen, splashing and blowing. Then her teeth were being attacked. Work and forget, work and forget, till some plan emerged. She would send for Mabel Palmer and they would talk it out.She almost fell asleep while Janet was doing her hair.Diving upwards through the heather-mixture skirt, she said, “Tell William to ring up Mrs. Palmer, Norbury 27, you know, to ask her if she will come to tea to-day.”“Yes’m.”She struggled into the brown jumper and before the looking-glass put in the fox-head pin. There was old Pinch in the herbaceous border doing nothing already. She had never seen him about so early, it was really extraordinary. She looked a long time at Ralph in his photograph, but he was absolutely the same. His smile said nothing, gave her no advice, but only waited to be told what to do, just as he had been obeying the photographer then. He would have had more in common with the boy perhaps, would have been able to talk to him ofpig-sticking out in India in the old 10th days. She could do nothing to distract him. But then he didn’t hunt, he didn’t shoot, he only fished and that sitting down, and he couldn’t fish now. Perhaps it was just as well he had given up huntin’ it would have been terrible had that been taken away from her suddenly.How heavy her skirt felt, and she was stiff. She felt old to-day, really old: this terrible affair coming suddenly like this, just when the Nursing Association was beginning to go a little better, too. And she could do nothing for the poor boy, nothing. But something must be done, there must be some way out. Of course, he would never see again, it was terrible, she had seen that the first time the doctors saw her at the hospital, where the appalling woman was head nurse. She had not had a ward all through the war for nothing, she had seen at once. Some occupation must be found for him, it was the future one had to think about, and Mabel Palmer might know of something. Or his friends might—but then he hadn’t any, or at any rate she had never seen them. There it was, first Ralph falling down dead of his heart on the stairs, and now fifteen years after her boy was blinded, worse than being dead. What could one say to him? What could one do?She went downstairs. In the Oak Hall she found the dog, who rose slowly to greet her, looking awkwardly in her direction.“You, Ruffles? Why have they let you out so early? Poor blind old thing. Oh, so old.”She scratched his neck gently. Would it be better to have him destroyed? He was so old, he could hardly see any more, and it hurt him to bark. What enjoyment could he get out of life, lying there by the fire, asleep all day and hardly eating at all? Yet he had been such a good servant, for ten years he had barked faithfully at friends. And the only time he had not barked was when the burglars had come that once, when they had eaten the Christmas cake, and had left the silver. But it would be kinder to put him out of the way. One must be practical. But he was blind!William came in by the dining-room door carrying one of the silver inkstands as if it had been a chalice. His episcopal face was set in the same grave lines, his black tail-coat clung reverently to a body as if wasted by fasting, his eyes, faithfully sad, had the same expression of respectful aloofness. William, at least, never changed. She remembered so well old Lady Randolph, who had known him fifty years ago when he was at Greenham, saying, “I see no change in William.” But of course her eyesight had not been very grand, nevertheless William had shown distant pleasure when told. Still he was too aged, he could not do his share of the work, it must all fall on Robert; the boy was so lazy, though, that it would be good for him to do a little extra. But what could one do?He had served her for years, he had been a most conscientious servant, and it was only the night when the burglars did come that he had been asleep. However, they had only eaten the Christmas cake, they had left the silver.“William, I should like breakfast as soon as possible.”“Very well, madam.”And he was gone. Yes, it was convenient to have him about. He was quiet, he never exceeded himself, and he understood.Outside, on the little patch of lawn up to the drive, they were mowing already with the horse-mower. They had made a very early start. The same George, the same Henry, leading the pony which had carried John across the open country behind the hounds before he had given up, and which was still the same. It was only John who had changed.“George,” she cried, “George.”The pony halted by himself, the men listened.“George, see that no stones get in the blades, it ruins them. Henry, you must pick them up and throw them back on to the drive.”Both: “Yes’m.”And they went on mowing.Of course they were going to keep her waiting for her breakfast now. But no, William came in and gravely announced it.As she went in she looked gratefully at him, hewas a symbol. He had come to them directly after the honeymoon, prematurely white and sad. Ralph used to say that he was a marvellous valet. Thirty years ago. Then they had gone to India with the 10th. Ten years after they had come back, and had found William again. It was extraordinary, that, and Ralph had said then that he tasted comfort for the first time in ten years. At the funeral William had sent his own wreath, on it written in his copybook handwriting, “To his master respectfully from his valet.” It had not been tactful, she had had to thank him. He had exceeded himself. His only lapse.Nothing seemed worth while. Yesterday had tired her out utterly. First the doctors destroying her last bit of hope, and then her breaking it to him, which had been so terrible. She had gone up again after tea, and it had been frightful, his face underneath the bandages had been tortured, his mouth in a half-sneer. She had been frightened of him. And finally, as nicely as he could, he had asked her to leave him for the evening. The nurse had met her at the door and had whispered, “He is in rather a state,” as if she had not known that. The woman was a fool.This coffee was undrinkable. The cook had probably been gigglin’ again with Herbert. That affair! You could not drink it, absolutely undrinkable. She would make a row. But was it worth while? She felt so tired to-day. But the house must go on justas usual, there must be no giving way. She rang the bell. They must find some occupation for the boy, he could not be left there rankling. Making fancy baskets, or pen-wipers, all those things blinded soldiers did, something to do. William coughed.“William, this coffee is undrinkable. Will you tell the cook to find some occupation for . . . to find some . . . The roaster must be out of order. No, don’t take my cup away. I will drink it for this once.”Had he seen? At any rate he would not tell. She had not been able to give a simple order, it was terrible, without giving herself away. She must make inquiries about Braille books, and find someone to teach it to him. A knock.“Come in.”It was the nurse.“Good morning, Mrs. Haye. I came down because I wish you would come up to speak to John. He has refused to eat his breakfast, and there was a nice bit of bacon this morning. I am afraid he is taking it rather badly, he did not sleep much last night. But if you would come up and get him quieter.”What right had she to call him John? She must be changed. Oh, the misery of it, and the tortures he must be going through. She could do nothing, if she spoke to him she would only say the wrong thing.She rose from the table and looked at the coffee-pot.“I can do nothing with him, nurse. I think it would be better to leave him to himself, he always prefers that. He will be quieter this evening.”“Very good, Mrs. Haye; I dressed his wounds this morning, they are getting on nicely.”His wounds. The scars. And he would wear black spectacles. He had been so handsome. It would be better not to go up this morning, but let him quieten down.She sat down and looked out of the windows in the bay. The big lawn was before her, they would begin to mow it soon. Dotted over it were blackbirds and thrushes looking for worms, and in the longer grass at the bottom she could see the cock pheasant being very cautious. They were pretty things to look at, but he and his two wives did eat the bulbs so. She would have to send for Brown to come down and kill them. And what good was it keepin’ up the shootin’, now that all hope had gone of his ever holdin’ a gun? But nothing must change. The lower border was really looking very fine, the daffodils were doing splendidly. It was just the same, the garden, and how well it looked now. He hadn’t eaten his breakfast. No. Of course, once in a while a tree fell down and made a gap that would look awkward for a bit, but there were others growing and you became used to it. There went a pigeon, fine birds but a pest, they did more harm to the landthan the rooks. She ought never to have made that birthday promise to John, that the garden should be a sanctuary for them; but going out to watch them had made him very happy in the old days, and now? What would he do now?She got up heavily and left the dining-room. Going through the house she came to the sitting-room, which looked out on to the small rose garden surrounded by a high wall. It ought to look well this year, not that he would see it, though. She had a lot of things to do this morning, she would not let the thing come up and crush her. His was the sort of nature which needed to be left alone, so it was no use going up to see him. Plans must be made for when his new life would begin, and some idea might emerge out of her work. Being blind he could do work for the other blind, and so not feel solitary, but get the feeling of a regiment. Meanwhile there was the Nursing Association. She must write to his friends, too, they ought to know that he was blind. Would they really care? But of course anyone who knew John must care. Then their letters would come in return, shy and halting, with a whole flood of consolation from the neighbours, half of whom did not care in the least. She would have to answer them; but no, she couldn’t. Then they would say that the blow had aged her, she had said that so often herself. Their letters would be full of their own little griefs, a child who had a cold, a husband worried by his Indian fever,one who had been cut publicly by Mrs. So-and-So—but this wasn’t fair. They would write rather of someone of theirs who died recently or years and years ago, of the memory of their grief then, of what had helped them then, of prayer, of a wonderful sleeping draught. Not sleeping, that was what was so hard. And she would answer suitably, for of course by now one knew what to say, but it was hateful, people laying little private bits of themselves bare, and she being expected to do likewise. She could say everything to Mabel, but not to them. Still, it would be all over some day. Life would not be the same, it would go on differently, and yet really be just the same. But did that help? Could she say to the boy, “You will get used to it in time”? It was ridiculous. Could she preach religion at him when she was not quite sure herself? Something must be done.She took up the Nursing accounts. Five pounds in subscriptions, it was not bad. That Mrs. Binder. She would have to write her, it was ridiculous not to subscribe. She was the sort of woman to put spider webs on a cut. But they did not give their babies cider to drink any more as a substitute for mother’s milk, she had stopped that. Yet perhaps Mrs. Moon did, she would do anything, and her house was so filthy. The annual inspection had gone off so well, too, the Moon child had been the only one to have nits in her hair. What could one do? The house was filthy, the husband earned verylow wages, you could not turn them out for being insanitary, they would have nowhere to go. And the house was losing value every day. John must learn to care about these things.And her affairs were none too bright. It was as much as one could do to keep the house and the garden going, what with the income tax and the super-tax and everything. The car would have to go, and with it Evans. Harry could drive her about in the dog-cart, it would be like the old days again except when one of them passed her. It was terrible to see the country changing, the big houses being sold, everyone tightening the belt, with the frightful war to pay for. Now that he was blind there was no hope of his ever making any money. And the charities had not stopped. What would happen to John? Even if he hadn’t gone blind it would have been difficult enough. There were more charities now, if anything; they came by every post. Her letters, she had forgotten. She rang the bell. That Mrs. Walters had written for a subscription to a garden fête in aid of the local hospital. Of course she stole half the money you sent, but a little of it was fairly certain to be used by the hospital. The woman never kept accounts for those things, which was wicked. Then, again, Mrs. Andrew and her Parish Nurse, the effrontery of it when she did not subscribe to the Barwood one. What a fight it was. Were there any blind boys in Norbury of his own age, nice boys whom he could makefriends with? They could not afford to go to London where he might find some. They could, of course, if they sold Barwood. Sell Barwood!—No, and he would appreciate still having it when he grew older. To be blind in one of those poky little suburban villas, with a wireless set, and with aeroplanes going overhead, and motor bikes and gramophones. No.William came in.What had she rung for? Blank.“It’s all right, William, I have found it now.”It was terrible, she could not even remember when she rang.No, everything must go on just the same, the garden would be still the best in twelve miles, even if all the world went blind. They must find a companion for the boy, Mabel would be able to help there. Someone who would spend his time with him, her time, that would be better. It was so terrible, he would never marry now, she would have no grandchildren. The place would be sold, the name would die, there was no one. Ralph had been the last. “Granny.” He would not meet any nice girls now, he could never marry. A girl would not want to marry a blind man. All her dreams were gone, of his marrying, of her going up to live in the Dower House—that was why the Evanses had it on a short lease. She would have made friends with his wife and would have shown her how to run everything. His wife would have made changes inthe house, of course, and it would have been sad seeing the place different; but then the grandchildren, and he would have made such a good father. Why was it taken away quite suddenly like this? But then they might still find some girl who had had a story, or who was unhappy at home, who would be glad, who would not be quite—but who would do. He must marry. All the bachelors one had known had been so womanish, old grandfathers without children. John Goe. She could not fill his life, there would have to be a wife. Mabel might know of someone. Perhaps they would not be happy, but they would be married. And she ought to be happy here, it was a wonderful place, so beautiful with the garden and the house. It had been her real life, this place; before she had married she had not counted, something had just been training her for this. And she had improved it, with the rock garden and the flowers. Mary Haye had not known one flower from another. And she had got the village straight, there had been no illegitimate children for two years, and they were all married. It would be a blow going, a bit of her cut off, but the Dower House was only a mile off, and right in the middle of the village. And now perhaps she would be able to live here till she died if he did not marry. But he must, for his happiness, if there was to be someone to look after him when she died. And she would have grandchildren after all, it might turn out all right, one never knew in thisworld; there had been Berty Askew. If everything failed he could have a housekeeper. Yes, it was immoral, but he must have love, and someone to look after him. After Grandmamma died the Grandparent had had one at Tarnarvaran. Argyll and the heather. . . . Really, now that this trouble was upon her, Edward might write. But it was for him to act first.She must order dinner. There was comfort in choosing his food, it was something to do for him. Going out she straightened a picture that was a little crooked. As she opened the door the sunlight invaded the passage beyond, and made a square of yellow on the parquet floor.In front of the swing door into the kitchen she halted. Honestly, one did not like to enter the kitchen now for fear of findin’ Mrs. Lane gigglin’ with Herbert. That affair. Well, if they brought things to a head and married, they would have to leave. She could not bear a married couple among the servants, they quarrelled so.Inside it was very clean, the deal tables were like butter, the grey-tiled floor, worn in places, shone almost. Along one wall was hung a museum of cooking utensils, every size of saucepan known to science, and sinister shapes. Mrs. Lane was waiting. Where was her smile? Oh, of course it was. How nice they all were. Mrs. Lane began talking at once.“I am sorry to say’m that Muriel has had somekittens in the night. We none of us suspected’m. In the potato box’m.”What again!“Tell Harry to drown ’em immediately.”One must be practical.“If I could find a home for them’m?”“Very well, Mrs. Lane, only I cannot have them here. What with the stable cat and the laundry cat there are too many of ’em about. What is there this morning?”“Very good’m. I’ve got a bit of cod for upstairs”—it was no use mentioning no name—“an’ would you like one of the rabbits Brown brought in yesterday, and the pigeon pie’m, with cherry tart for upstairs?”“That will do nicely.”“An’ for dinner I . . .” etc.As she was going out into the kitchen yard so as to gain the stables, Mrs. Lane ran after her to stop her. She spoke low and fast.“Madam, the nurse asked me this morning that she could ’ave ’er meals seprit. Didn’t like to take them in the servants’ ’all’m.”“If she wants to eat alone, Mrs. Lane, we had better humour her. Have them sent up to her room.”“Very good’m.”An’ who was to take ’em up to ’er, stuck-up thing?There, now there was going to be trouble about the nurse. Cook had been angry, although she hadtried not to show it. Really they might leave her alone and not bother her with their little quarrels. Somebody would be giving notice in a week. Still, Mrs. Lane would not go while Herbert was here.“Harry, Harry!”A sound of hissing came suddenly through an open window on the other side of the little yard. A head wobbled anxiously behind a steamy window further down. A hoof clanked.There was the stable cat. “Shoo!”“Harry!”“Yess’m.”She inspected the horses and went out.No, she would not go to the laundry this morning. The damp heat would be rather exhausting. Curry had been riding a nice bay last season which had looked up to her weight. She was getting rather tired of Jolly. She stopped, that had reminded her.“Harry, you can take them both out to exercise to-morrow, I shall not go out, of course.”“Very good’m.”He would never ride now, all her hopes of getting him back to the love of it were broken, and he could not even go on a lead, for that was so dangerous. What would he do?She went through the door in the wall into the kitchen garden. She called:“Weston, Weston!”There was Herbert pickin’ lettuces just for the chance of going to Mrs. Lane in the kitchen withthem. He raised his bent body and touched his cap. She nodded.Again she cried:“Weston!”A cry came from the other end, from the middle of the artichokes, the tops of which you could hardly see—it was a big kitchen garden. Weston appeared walking quickly. He took his cap off.“How are the peaches getting on?”Peaches were good for convalescents.“Very nicely’m. Going to be a good crop, and the apples too. Was among the artichokes’m. Fine crop this year. Never seen ’em so high.”“What beautiful cabbages, Weston.”He would eat them, as he could not see flowers.“Yes’m. Going to be a good crop.”“Yes; well, good morning, Weston.”“Good morning’m.”Into the garden. Pinch was still at the same spot on the border as he had been when she had looked out of her bedroom window. He was too old, but he was a faithful servant.Yes, his wife was going on as well as was to be hoped. Yes, it was bad weather for the farmers.Pinch was the same, so why hadhechanged? What was the matter with Pinch’s wife? Just age perhaps, any way they would be the next for the almshouses. When Mrs. Biggs died they could go in, and that should not be long now. This would leave vacant their cottage in Ploughman’s Lane,which that nice man from Huntly could have. How nice the trees were with their fresh green; whatever happened the seasons went round. If this warm weather went on he could get out to be on the lawn, but then you could never tell with the English spring. She would have to go in to write those letters, while it was so lovely out here. There was the moorhen starting her nest in the same place in the moat. Mrs. Trench’s baby would be due about now, her sixth, while that Jim Pender, earning excellent wages, only had his one girl, and she was five years old. It was ridiculous, she would have to speak to him about it, a great strong fellow like him with such a pretty wife. She must have some jelly and things sent up to Mrs. Trench. He must take an interest in the village now that he had nothing to do. He could start a club for the men and teach them something, he would do it very well, talking about art or books, or one of those things he was so interested in. That would do something to occupy his time. There was a daffodil out already, it had planted itself there, it looked so pretty against the bole of the tree. How good a garden was for one! She felt quieter after the ghastly night she had had. The only way out of trouble like this was to work for others till you forgot, when a plan would emerge quite suddenly, that was what life taught one, and Mabel was the same.Annie was weeding the gravel of the Yew Walk. In summer she weeded, in winter she swept leaves,and she picked up dead branches all the year round.“Good morning, Annie.”“Good morning’m.”She was not quite all there, poor thing, but there was nothing to be done for her, she would always be like that.The attendances at church were disgraceful again now, just as bad as when the Shame had had it. That had been the only time the village had been right and she wrong. No one had been able to persuade her till she had seen for herself. It was all part of this modern spirit, she had seen terrible dangers there for him, but now, poor boy, that he was blind she could at least keep him to herself away from those things that led nowhere. She ought to go back now to write those dreadful letters, but it was so lovely out here, with the sunlight. And it didn’t look as if it would last, there were clouds about. She had been right to put on thick clothes. How pretty the little stone Cupid was, king of his little garden of wallflowers walled in by yews, it would be a blaze of colour. Now that the flagstones were down you could see what a difference it made.She opened the door into Ralph’s old study. It would be his now, as she had always meant it to be. It got all the sun in the morning, and there were no awkward corners. He would have a hard time at first in getting about, but she would lead him and teach him where the furniture was and allthat, it was one of the things she could do for him.In the Oak Hall there was a note for her. The parson’s wife again. Oh, this time she wanted fifty cups and saucers for the Mothers’ Union tea. Well, she could have them. What, again? No, no, not another. Yes, in the P.S., “I am going to have another darling baby.” That was too much. Would they never stop? And they could not afford it with the covey they had already. All it meant was that Mrs. Crayshaw would not be able to do any visiting in the village for quite two months. Now there was another letter to write, of congratulation this time, and it was going to be hard to word. What did they call it, a quiver full? To-morrow and there would be another letter from her, she would have heard about him by then, it would be full of earnest stuff. And she did not want sympathy, she wanted practical advice.It was all so difficult. She had betrayed him this morning, she had not thought nearly enough about it all. She was beginning not to care already. This morning she had frittered away, excusing herself by saying that Mabel would think of something, while everyone knew that it was always she who talked while Mabel listened. Still, it was necessary to talk. But last night had been so dreadful, when she had lain in bed turning the thing over and over in her mind, and she had prayed too. She had thought of many ways to occupy his time, but they had all gone out of her head now. Those red curtainswere getting faded, but Skeam’s man had been insolent when last he came. That was what we were comin’ to, a decorator’s tout giving himself airs. Before all this she had meant to put John into a decorator’s business, he was so artistic that he would have done wonders, perhaps even made a little money. But there, it was no use thinkin’ of might-have-beens. He must marry, it was the only thing he could do. He must be a man, and not be left unfinished. They would have the marriage in the church, and a dinner for the tenants in the Great Hall. But he was so young. And she would spend the evenin’ of her days in the Dower House.She passed through the Great Hall. She buried her head violently into a pot of dead roses. In her room Ruffles was sleeping fitfully in his basket. She picked up a paper, glanced at the headlines, then put it aside. She sat in her armchair and looked vacantly at Greylock over the fireplace. Along the mantel-board were ranged a few cards to charities, to funerals, and to weddings. She picked up the paper again and looked through the Society column, and then the deaths and marriages, and then threw it onto the floor. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away in the pocket of her skirt. She rubbed her face slowly in her hands, when she stopped it was redder still. Then she sat for some time looking at nothing at all, thinking of nothing at all. The specks kept on rising in the sunlight.She got up. She rang the bell. She went to the writing-table and sat down. She opened the inkstand hoof, Choirboy’s hoof, and she looked at her pens. She dipped one into the ink, and she drew a bit of paper towards her. Then she looked out of the window on to the rose garden for some time.William came in.“William, Mrs. Crayshaw has written to say that she will want fifty cups and saucers. . . . No, on second thought . . . It is all right, William, I will go and tell cook myself. And—oh, William, the letters, please.”“Yes, madam.”William held the door open for her. Mrs. Lane might not like it from the butler. She would go up to see him after this. But you could not be too careful with servants nowadays, and . . .*****How did one pass the time when one was blind? Six days had gone by since she had told him, days filled with the echo of people round occupying themselves on his account. Mamma had had three long conferences with Mrs. Palmer, conferences which had reached him through vague references as to what he was going to do, with not a word as to what he was going to do now. Nan was struggling with an emotion already waning. Her long silences, in which she sent out waves of sentimentality, told that she was trying to freeze what was left into permanency.The nurse helped him grudgingly back to health, the new life was forming, and it was even more boring than the former. They read to him in turn for hours on end, Mamma talked of finding a professional reader. It was now so ordinary to be blind.He was in the long chair, under the cedar on the lawn. He felt the sky low and his bandages tight. The air nosed furtively through the branches and made the leaves whisper while it tickled his face. Pigeons were cooing, catching each other up, repeating, answering, as if all the world depended on their little loves. It was the sound he liked best about the garden; he yawned and began to doze.He was alone for the moment. Nan had left him to take a cup of tea. The nurse was taking the daily walk that was necessary to her trade union health, and Mrs. Haye had gone up to the village to console Mrs. Trench, whose week-old baby was dying. Herbert, leaning on the sill of the kitchen window, was making noises at Mrs. Lane while she toyed with a chopper, just out of his reach. Weston was lost in wonder, love and praise before the artichokes, he had a camera in his pocket and had taken a record of their splendour. Twenty years on and he would be showing it to his grandchildren, to prove how things did grow in the old days. Twenty years ago Pinch had seen better. Harry was hissing over a sporting paper; Doris in an attic was letting down her hair, she was about to plait the two soft pigtails.Jenny, the laundry cat, was very near the sparrow now, by the bramble in the left-hand corner of the drying ground.He roused himself—if he went to sleep it would only mean that he would lie awake all night. He fingered the letter that Nan had read to him from J. W. P., full of regret that he was not coming back next term, saying that he would get his leaving-book from the Headmaster for him. No more going back now, which was one good thing, and no more irritations with J. W. P. He had done a great deal of work, though, that last year; he had really worked quite hard at writing, and he would go on now, there was time when one was blind. J. W. P. had disapproved, of course, and had said that no one should write before he was twenty-one, but about that time he had come under the influence of the small master with spectacles, whose theory was that no boy should have any ideas before he had left school. Perhaps they were right, it was certainly easier to give oneself up to a physical existence. Healthy sanity. And here was weakness, in saying that they ever could be right. But he was in such an appalling desolation that anything might be right. Why had he taken that train?He felt himself sinking into a pit of darkness. At the top of the pit were figures, like dolls and like his friends, striking attitudes at a sun they had made for themselves, till sinking he lost sight of them, to find himself in the presence of other dollsin the light of a sun that others had made for them. Then it did not work, and he was back in the darkness, on the lawn again. Nothing seemed real.He said “tree” out loud and it was a word. He saw branches with vague substance blocked round them, he saw lawn, all green, and he built up a picture of lawn and tree, but there were gaps, and his brain reeled from the effort of filling them.He felt desperately at the deck-chair in which he was sitting. He felt the rough edges of the wood, which would be a buff colour, and he ran a splinter into his finger. He put his hand on the canvas, he knew that it was canvas, dirty white with two red stripes at each side. It felt rough and warm where his body had touched it. He felt for the red, it should have blared like a bugle. It did not; that would come later, perhaps.He felt the grass, but it was not the same as the grass he had seen.He lay back, his head hurting him. How much longer would he be there? The letter crinkled in his hands reminding him of its presence. He ran his fingers over the pages, but he could feel no trace of ink. He came upon the embossed address. It might have been anything. A fly buzzed suddenly. Even a fly could see.He was shut out, into himself, in the cold.So much of life had been made up of seeing things. The country he had always looked to for something. He had seen so much in line, so much incolour, so much in everything he had seen. And he had noticed more than anyone else, of course he had.But when he had seen, how much it had meant. Everything was abstract now, personality had gone. Flashes came back of things seen and remembered, but they were not clear-cut. Little bits in a wood, a pool in a hedge with red flowers everywhere, a red-coated man in the distance on a white horse galloping, the sea with violet patches over grey where the seaweed stained it, silver where the sun rays met it. A gull coming up from beneath a cliff. There was a certain comfort in remembering.This would have been a good fishing day. There was no sun, yet enough heat to draw the chub up to the surface. The boat would glide silently on the stream, the withies would droop quietly to dabble in the water. Where the two met the chub lay, waiting for something to eat. And he would prepare his rod and he would throw the bright speckled fly to alight gently on the water, and to swim on the current past mysterious doors in the bathing green. The boat floated gently too, a bird sang and then was silent, and he would watch the jaunty fly, watch for the white, greedy mouth that would come up, for the swirl when he would flick lightly, and the fight, with another panting, gleaming fish to be mired in struggles on the muddy floor of the boat.He would go down the river, catching fish. Theday would draw away as if sucked down in the east, where a little rose made as if to play with pearl and grey and blue. There were chub he had missed, four or five he would have caught, and more further on. A kingfisher might shoot out to dart down the river, a guilty thing in colours. More rarely a grey heron would raise himself painfully to flap awkwardly away. He would go on, casting his fly, placing it here or there, watching it always, and now and then, with little touches, steering it from floating leaves. And it would become more difficult to see, and the only sound would be the plops the fish made as they sent out rings in eating flies on the water. One last chub in the boat and he would turn to row back through the haze that was rising from the river. The water chattered at the prow, he would notice suddenly that the crows were no longer cawing in the trees on the hill, but had gone to sleep. He would yawn and begin to think of dinner. It was a long way back.He would come to the ferry, where the boats were tied up, where they huddled darkly together. There would be the rattle of the chain, and the feeling that something else was finished. Voices would come from behind the lighted blinds of the inn; a dog would bark, a laugh perhaps, while the other bank was thick with shadows. He would carry the oars and rowlocks to put them as always in the shed, and he would climb the gate, the rod tiresome, the creel heavy. A quick walk home acrossthe fields, for there was nothing to see in the dark. An owl perhaps and a bat or two.Or again, the river in the heat of an afternoon, stalking from the bank the chub that lay by the withies, and being careful with his shadow. He would wade slowly through the long grass with here and there a flower at random, or more often a bed of nettles. He would peer through the leaves that drooped in green plumes to where a chub cruised phantom-like in the cloudy onyx of the water. The sun made other smaller suns that would pierce his eyes and dazzling dance there. Bending low he would draw out as much line as he could. Stooping he would pitch his fly cunningly. The line might fall over the fin, and the fish would be gone.The chub were hard to catch from the bank, and often it was so hot that the only thing to do was to lie in the shade. There was an alder tree under which lived a rat. He would watch for it sometimes: if one kept still it would come out to play, or to teach a baby what to eat, or to wash in the water. The cattle, bored, might bestir themselves to come and look at him, blowing curiously. The flies would always be tiresome. The water slipped by.Why was it all over? But it wasn’t, he would cultivate his sense of hearing, he would listen to the water, and feel the alder, and the wind, and the flowers. Besides, there had only been about tenfishing days every summer, what with the prevailing wind, which was against the current, raising waves, and the rain in the hills which made mud of the water. There would be no more railing against the bad weather now, which had been half the joy of fishing.Sometimes, when he was rowing back in the dark after fishing over the sunset below, he had stopped by a withy that he could hardly see, to cast a white fly blindly into the pool of darkness beneath. He would strike by the ripple of light, he had caught two or three fish that way, and it was so mysterious in the twilight. Colours had been wonderful. But these were words only.What sense of beauty had others? Mamma never said any more than that a thing was pretty or jolly, and yet she loved this garden. She spent hours in weeding and in cutting off the heads of dead roses, and there were long talks with Weston when long names would come out of their mouths—why had some flowers nothing but an ugly Latin name? But you could not say that she had no sense of beauty.Harry looked upon the country from the hunting standpoint, whether there were many stiff fences and fox coverts. The Arts of Use. And there was Herbert, during the war, at Salonica. The only thing of interest he had remembered afterwards was that a certain flower, that they had here and that was incessantly nursed by Weston in the hot-house,grew wild and in profusion on the hills above the port. Egbert, the underkeeper, at Salonica also, had seen a colossal covey of partridges. That was all they remembered.In the country one lost all sense of proportion. Mamma used to become hysterical over some ridiculously small matter. Last Christmas it had been ludicrous, she had been so angry, and it had led to one of her outbursts about his not caring for the life here, he, who was to carry on the house and the traditions, and so on. It had been about the Church Parochial Council. She had asked that at matins on Christmas Day there might be music. Crayshaw had answered that there would be music at Holy Communion which took place before, but that as no one ever came to matins on Christmas Day—(And whose fault was that, my dear?) it was not worth while having music again. There had been a violent discussion, one would have given anything to be there, during which Mamma had said that if she was a child her Christmas would have been ruined with no music on Christmas Day. Crayshaw had replied that the children could come at six in the evening when everyone else came, and when there was music. Mamma had said that it was the morning that mattered. Crayshaw had parried by saying that the children could come to Holy Communion. Mamma had not liked that, “it was bothering children’s heads with mysticism.” Finally they had voted, and Mamma had been defeatedbecause she had closed the public pathway at the bottom of the garden, a path which no one had used for nine years, and the gates were ugly and in the way. It had spoilt the drive, that wretched path. “The first time, John, that the village has not followed my lead. It is so discouraging.” Oh, it had been tragic.Behind the house a hen was taken with asthma over her newly-laid.A bee droned by to the accompaniment of flies. He glided down the hill of consciousness to the bottom, where he was aware only of wings buzzing, and of the sun, that poured down a beam to warm him, and of a wind that curled round. Only one pigeon cooed now, and he was tireless, emptying his sentiment into a void of unresponding laziness. He was singing everyone to sleep. How dreadful if a cuckoo were to come. The sky would have cleared, it would be a white-blue. It was hot.A woodpecker mocked.He leant down and his fingers hurried over the grass, here and there, looking for the cigarette-box. He found and opened it, taking out a cigarette. Again they set out to find the matches, which they found. He felt for the end that lit, he struck and heard the burst of flame. Fingers of the left hand groped down the cigarette in his mouth to the end, and he brought the match there. He puffed, he might have puffed anything then. He felt with a forefinger to see whether it was alight and heburned the tip. The match blew out with a shudder, and he threw it away.How intolerable not to be able to smoke, but people said that you came to appreciate it in time, and it was degrading to chew gum. Was it still alight? Again he burned his finger. He threw the cigarette away. Now it would be starting a fire; still he had thrown it out on the lawn. What was that? A tiny sound miles away, no one but a blind man could possibly have caught it. He sniffed, he could smell the fire, very small yet, but starting, just one flame, invisible in the sunlight, eating a pine-needle. What was to be done? To leave it was madness, but how to find it to put it out? Await developments, there was nothing probably. Stevenson’s last match.All the same the cigarette was not burning anything, it was an invention typical of the country. He was getting into the country state of mind already, with no sense of proportion, and always looking for trouble. And he would become more and more like that, when one was blind there was no escape. It was a wretched business. The life of the century was in the towns, he had meant to go there to write books, and now he was imprisoned in a rudimentary part of life. And the nurse was busy nursing him back to a state of health sufficient for him to be left to their all-enfolding embrace of fatuity. So that all he could do to keep his brain a little his own was to write short stories. Perhapsone on the nurse, with her love of white wards and of stiff flowers, they were sure to be stiff if she had any, and of a ghastly antiseptic sanity. With her love of pain and horrors, and of interesting cases, with her devastating knowledge of human anatomy. But that was rather cheap, for she wasn’t like that. She was merely dull, with a desire for something concrete and defined to hold on to. But she was dull.He would write a story, all about tulips. That time when Mamma had taken him one Easter holidays to Holland, when the tulips had been out all along the railway line. And the cows with blankets on in case it rained. But no, it would have to be in England, the tourist effect in stories was dreadful. It would be a Dutchman with a strange passion for tulips—that was rather beautiful, that idea. Yes, and he would have passed all his life in sending tulips over to England, till he had come to think that England must have been a carpet of them in spring—he would have to be uneducated and think that England was only a very tiny island. He would be just a little bit queer with lovely haunting ideas that drifted through his brain, and he would love his tulips! So that Holland in springtime would not have enough tulips for him, and he would sell the little he had so as to buy a passage, that he might feed his soul on his tulips in England. His place in the bulb farm would be to address the wrappers, and there would be an address in Cumberlandthat he was told to write to very often. Then there would be those hills to work into the story, and he would go on a bicycle, which he had bought with his last penny, and each hill would seem to hide his tulips, they might be there, just beyond, behind the next hill. Till he would fall down, dead, his heart broken! But perhaps that was a little flat. It must simmer over in his brain. He would be very queer, with little fragments of insanity here and there. It would work.The laziness of this afternoon.Mrs. Haye crushed grass on the way to Mrs. Trench. Herbert stretched out a hand and made clucking noises, while Mrs. Lane giggled. Weston shifted his feet slightly, and put his cap further back on his head, before the artichokes. Harry began hissing his way down another paragraph, and Doris was fondly tying a bow on the end of one pigtail. Jenny, the laundry cat, was two inches nearer the sparrow.Nan put down her cup with a sigh and folded her hands on her lap, while her eyes fixed on the fly-paper over the table.*****They were all standing round him on the lawn.“Seven days old. I said what I could to Mrs. Trench. A terrible affair. What can one do?”“Poor little mite.”“What was it, Mrs. Haye?”“Gastric pneumonia, I think, nurse. I am sure that Brodwell muddled the case.”“To think of it!”“Of course, Mrs. Haye, gastric pneumonia with a seven days’ child is very grave.”“Was it a boy or a little girl’m?”“A girl. How is he to-day, nurse?”“Oh, I’m all right.”“I think we are getting on very nicely, aren’t we?”“He has more colour to him to-day.”“Oh, Master John, you do look a heap better.”“Thanks, Nan, I’m sure I do.”“Yes, Mrs. Haye, he really has. In one or two days we shall be up and about again, shan’t we?”“I suppose so.”“Of course you will, dear.”“It did give me a fright.”“Well, there’s another fright over anyway, Nan.”“Dr. Mulligan is not coming again, is he, nurse?”“Only to-morrow, Mrs. Haye, for a final inspection. And I had perhaps be better getting ready to go back to town in a week or two, he is going on so quickly.”—Thank God, the woman was talkin’ about goin’.—Time she went, too, airified body.“Well, nurse, I think in about ten days’ time it will be safe for me to take over the dressings, and then there would be nothing left for you to doexcept teaching him how to get about and so on, and we can do that, can’t we, Jennings?”“We can do that’m.”Yes, they could do that. The nurse was intolerable, but at least she was alive, and now they were sending her away.“Then, Mrs. Haye, I can write up to town to tell them that I shall be free in, say, twelve days’ time? That will make the 24th, won’t it?”“Yes, shall we say the 24th? Why, it’s you, Ruffles. Oh, so old.”“Poor dog.”“How old is he, Mrs. Haye?”“Twelve years old. He ought to be destroyed. One must be practical.”“That’s right. Kill him.”“But, my dear, it is cruel to let him live.”“He is too old to be healthy, Mrs. Haye. They are germ traps.”Ruffles made confiding noises, wagging a patchy tail. An effluvia of decay arose.“Perhaps it would be best.”It was a pity to shoot him, after he had been so good. How sentimental dogs were. Nan would be having one of her waves of silent grief. Their breathing descended in a chorus to where he lay, hoarse, sibilant, and tired. Were they thinking of Ruffles? Did they all snore at night?The evening was falling away and the breeze haddropped. A midge bit him on the ankle and a drop of sweat tickled him by the bandages. The pigeons were all cooing together, there seemed to be no question and answer, they were in such a hurry to say everything that there wasn’t time. Birds twittered happily and senselessly all round. Through it and over it all there was the evening calm, the wet air heavy everywhere. The sky would be in great form, being crude and vulgar.They were silent because it was the evening, though they could not keep it up for long.“A pretty sunset.”“It’s that beautiful.”“I do love a sunset, Mrs. Haye, I think . . .”“A sunset, John”—the woman was intolerable.“Ah.”“Is it not becoming a little fresh for him out here, Mrs. Haye? We mustn’t catch a chill.”“Perhaps. Jennin’s, could you just go and tell William and Robert to come here to help Master John back.”“But I can walk by myself if one of you will give me their arm.”“I don’t think we are quite strong enough yet, Mrs. Haye.”She would write to-morrow to get her changed. It was too bad of them to send her this thing.God blast the woman, why was he always treated as a baby? Oh, how they loved it, now that he was helpless.“What time is it?”“Eight o’clock, dear. Time for dinner. Ah, here are William and Robert.”Ruffles licked his hand. My only friend. Oh, he was sick and tired of it all.“Now, dear, put your arm round William’s shoulder, and the other round Robert . . .”“Would it not be better, Mrs. Haye, if between them they carried the chair and him on it?”“Stairs—narrow. Now lift him. That’s right. You can get along like that with them on each side, can’t you, John?”The woman was insufferable.“Yes, I’m all right. Good-night, Ruffles.”“I’ll come up and see you after dinner, dear.”William breathed discreetly but heavily, Robert full of energy. William’s shoulders were thin.“Mind, Master John, here’s the step into the library.”The nurse walked quickly behind. Mrs. Haye was a fool, and with no medical training, even if she were an honourable. Of course it was bad for the patient to walk upstairs. If she had had her way, they would never have put him in a room two storeys up, even if he had been in it since childhood. These ex-V.A.D.’s who gave themselves such airs.Nan was drowned in a wave of silent grief.To see him supported between Mr. William and Robert with white bandages over his head and him so weak and feeble and who would never see again,and the nurse who was not fit to look after a sick boy she was that cantankerous.She trailed away to a cup o’ tea in the kitchen.Mrs. Haye went round to her sitting-room through the door in the wall of the rose garden. No solution yet, nothing found, nothing arranged. Only one or two letters of condolence left to answer. And the nurse was terrible. Terrible. The idea of carrying him up those narrow stairs. There might have been a nasty accident if the woman had had her way. And he was in such a difficult state of mind. You could not say a word to him without his taking it wrong. Really, the only thing to do was to watch him and await developments. And in two or three years’ time they would marry him to some nice girl, they would look out for one. There was—well, perhaps.She went upstairs to dress for dinner.He sat on a chair while the nurse got the bed ready. His head hurt him, the stairs must have done that. Poor Ruffles, it was too bad that he was finished. His head was throbbing; how he hated pain, and in the head it was unbearable. And this atmosphere of women. There was no male friend who would come to stay, he had always been too unpleasant, or had always tried to be clever, or in the movement. And now there was no escape, none. A long way away there might be a country of rest, made of ice, green in the depths, and ice that was not cold, a country to rest in. He would lie in thegrotto where it was cool and where his head would be clear and light, and where there was nothing in the future, and nothing in the past. He would lie on the grass that was soft, and that had no ants and no bugs, and there would be no flies in the air and no sun above his head, but only a grey clearness in the sky, that stretched to mountains blue against the distance, through the door of his ice-house. There would be pine trees in clumps or suddenly alone, and strange little mounds, one after the other, that grew and grew in height till they met the mountains that cut off the sky. A country of opera-bouffe. And little men in scarlet and orange would come to fight up and down the little hills, some carrying flags, others water pistols. There would be no wounded and no dead, but they would be very serious.Why couldn’t there be something really romantic and laughable in life? With sentimentality and tuppenny realism. Something to wake one out of an existence like this, where day would follow day with nothing to break the monotony, where meal followed meal and where people sat still between meals letting troubles fall into their lap. Nothing stirred.“There, it is ready now. Take off your dressing-gown and lean on my shoulder. There we are. Would you prefer to have your dressings renewed now, or after dinner?”“Oh, now, to get it over.”He hated pain. He only half saw how pain fitted in with the scheme of things, and it made him afraid.She was clinking bowls, and already the clean smell, far worse than any dung-heap, was all over the room.Fingers began to unpin and to remove his bandages. It was hurting less to-day. No, it wasn’t. Oh . . .

“GOODmorning, mum.”

“Grmn’, J’net.”

And Janet, after putting the can of hot water in the basin behind the screen, went to the red curtains and pulled them back. The sunlight leapt, catching fire on her fuzzy hair, and the morning came freely in by the open windows. Mrs. Haye, in the right half of the double-bed, had such a lost look in the eyes which were usually so imperious that Janet shook her head sadly.

She had had a bad night, the first since Portgammon over the fireplace there had fallen with her jumpin’ timber and had broken his back. She would get up immediately, it was no use stickin’ here in this ghastly bed. Pity she did not take her bath in the morning, a bath now would do her good. But there was more need for it in the evening.

“Janet, I will get up and dress now.”

“Now’m?”

“Yes, now”

Later: “Will you have the brown tweed or the green’m?”

“The heather mixture. Janet, these stockings each have a hole in the heel. I wish you would not put me out stockings that are unfit to wear.”

She was in one of her tempers to-day, and no wonder. But as the cook had said at supper last night, “No one to give notice till a year ’as passed by.”

She was washing behind the screen, splashing and blowing. Then her teeth were being attacked. Work and forget, work and forget, till some plan emerged. She would send for Mabel Palmer and they would talk it out.

She almost fell asleep while Janet was doing her hair.

Diving upwards through the heather-mixture skirt, she said, “Tell William to ring up Mrs. Palmer, Norbury 27, you know, to ask her if she will come to tea to-day.”

“Yes’m.”

She struggled into the brown jumper and before the looking-glass put in the fox-head pin. There was old Pinch in the herbaceous border doing nothing already. She had never seen him about so early, it was really extraordinary. She looked a long time at Ralph in his photograph, but he was absolutely the same. His smile said nothing, gave her no advice, but only waited to be told what to do, just as he had been obeying the photographer then. He would have had more in common with the boy perhaps, would have been able to talk to him ofpig-sticking out in India in the old 10th days. She could do nothing to distract him. But then he didn’t hunt, he didn’t shoot, he only fished and that sitting down, and he couldn’t fish now. Perhaps it was just as well he had given up huntin’ it would have been terrible had that been taken away from her suddenly.

How heavy her skirt felt, and she was stiff. She felt old to-day, really old: this terrible affair coming suddenly like this, just when the Nursing Association was beginning to go a little better, too. And she could do nothing for the poor boy, nothing. But something must be done, there must be some way out. Of course, he would never see again, it was terrible, she had seen that the first time the doctors saw her at the hospital, where the appalling woman was head nurse. She had not had a ward all through the war for nothing, she had seen at once. Some occupation must be found for him, it was the future one had to think about, and Mabel Palmer might know of something. Or his friends might—but then he hadn’t any, or at any rate she had never seen them. There it was, first Ralph falling down dead of his heart on the stairs, and now fifteen years after her boy was blinded, worse than being dead. What could one say to him? What could one do?

She went downstairs. In the Oak Hall she found the dog, who rose slowly to greet her, looking awkwardly in her direction.

“You, Ruffles? Why have they let you out so early? Poor blind old thing. Oh, so old.”

She scratched his neck gently. Would it be better to have him destroyed? He was so old, he could hardly see any more, and it hurt him to bark. What enjoyment could he get out of life, lying there by the fire, asleep all day and hardly eating at all? Yet he had been such a good servant, for ten years he had barked faithfully at friends. And the only time he had not barked was when the burglars had come that once, when they had eaten the Christmas cake, and had left the silver. But it would be kinder to put him out of the way. One must be practical. But he was blind!

William came in by the dining-room door carrying one of the silver inkstands as if it had been a chalice. His episcopal face was set in the same grave lines, his black tail-coat clung reverently to a body as if wasted by fasting, his eyes, faithfully sad, had the same expression of respectful aloofness. William, at least, never changed. She remembered so well old Lady Randolph, who had known him fifty years ago when he was at Greenham, saying, “I see no change in William.” But of course her eyesight had not been very grand, nevertheless William had shown distant pleasure when told. Still he was too aged, he could not do his share of the work, it must all fall on Robert; the boy was so lazy, though, that it would be good for him to do a little extra. But what could one do?He had served her for years, he had been a most conscientious servant, and it was only the night when the burglars did come that he had been asleep. However, they had only eaten the Christmas cake, they had left the silver.

“William, I should like breakfast as soon as possible.”

“Very well, madam.”

And he was gone. Yes, it was convenient to have him about. He was quiet, he never exceeded himself, and he understood.

Outside, on the little patch of lawn up to the drive, they were mowing already with the horse-mower. They had made a very early start. The same George, the same Henry, leading the pony which had carried John across the open country behind the hounds before he had given up, and which was still the same. It was only John who had changed.

“George,” she cried, “George.”

The pony halted by himself, the men listened.

“George, see that no stones get in the blades, it ruins them. Henry, you must pick them up and throw them back on to the drive.”

Both: “Yes’m.”

And they went on mowing.

Of course they were going to keep her waiting for her breakfast now. But no, William came in and gravely announced it.

As she went in she looked gratefully at him, hewas a symbol. He had come to them directly after the honeymoon, prematurely white and sad. Ralph used to say that he was a marvellous valet. Thirty years ago. Then they had gone to India with the 10th. Ten years after they had come back, and had found William again. It was extraordinary, that, and Ralph had said then that he tasted comfort for the first time in ten years. At the funeral William had sent his own wreath, on it written in his copybook handwriting, “To his master respectfully from his valet.” It had not been tactful, she had had to thank him. He had exceeded himself. His only lapse.

Nothing seemed worth while. Yesterday had tired her out utterly. First the doctors destroying her last bit of hope, and then her breaking it to him, which had been so terrible. She had gone up again after tea, and it had been frightful, his face underneath the bandages had been tortured, his mouth in a half-sneer. She had been frightened of him. And finally, as nicely as he could, he had asked her to leave him for the evening. The nurse had met her at the door and had whispered, “He is in rather a state,” as if she had not known that. The woman was a fool.

This coffee was undrinkable. The cook had probably been gigglin’ again with Herbert. That affair! You could not drink it, absolutely undrinkable. She would make a row. But was it worth while? She felt so tired to-day. But the house must go on justas usual, there must be no giving way. She rang the bell. They must find some occupation for the boy, he could not be left there rankling. Making fancy baskets, or pen-wipers, all those things blinded soldiers did, something to do. William coughed.

“William, this coffee is undrinkable. Will you tell the cook to find some occupation for . . . to find some . . . The roaster must be out of order. No, don’t take my cup away. I will drink it for this once.”

Had he seen? At any rate he would not tell. She had not been able to give a simple order, it was terrible, without giving herself away. She must make inquiries about Braille books, and find someone to teach it to him. A knock.

“Come in.”

It was the nurse.

“Good morning, Mrs. Haye. I came down because I wish you would come up to speak to John. He has refused to eat his breakfast, and there was a nice bit of bacon this morning. I am afraid he is taking it rather badly, he did not sleep much last night. But if you would come up and get him quieter.”

What right had she to call him John? She must be changed. Oh, the misery of it, and the tortures he must be going through. She could do nothing, if she spoke to him she would only say the wrong thing.

She rose from the table and looked at the coffee-pot.

“I can do nothing with him, nurse. I think it would be better to leave him to himself, he always prefers that. He will be quieter this evening.”

“Very good, Mrs. Haye; I dressed his wounds this morning, they are getting on nicely.”

His wounds. The scars. And he would wear black spectacles. He had been so handsome. It would be better not to go up this morning, but let him quieten down.

She sat down and looked out of the windows in the bay. The big lawn was before her, they would begin to mow it soon. Dotted over it were blackbirds and thrushes looking for worms, and in the longer grass at the bottom she could see the cock pheasant being very cautious. They were pretty things to look at, but he and his two wives did eat the bulbs so. She would have to send for Brown to come down and kill them. And what good was it keepin’ up the shootin’, now that all hope had gone of his ever holdin’ a gun? But nothing must change. The lower border was really looking very fine, the daffodils were doing splendidly. It was just the same, the garden, and how well it looked now. He hadn’t eaten his breakfast. No. Of course, once in a while a tree fell down and made a gap that would look awkward for a bit, but there were others growing and you became used to it. There went a pigeon, fine birds but a pest, they did more harm to the landthan the rooks. She ought never to have made that birthday promise to John, that the garden should be a sanctuary for them; but going out to watch them had made him very happy in the old days, and now? What would he do now?

She got up heavily and left the dining-room. Going through the house she came to the sitting-room, which looked out on to the small rose garden surrounded by a high wall. It ought to look well this year, not that he would see it, though. She had a lot of things to do this morning, she would not let the thing come up and crush her. His was the sort of nature which needed to be left alone, so it was no use going up to see him. Plans must be made for when his new life would begin, and some idea might emerge out of her work. Being blind he could do work for the other blind, and so not feel solitary, but get the feeling of a regiment. Meanwhile there was the Nursing Association. She must write to his friends, too, they ought to know that he was blind. Would they really care? But of course anyone who knew John must care. Then their letters would come in return, shy and halting, with a whole flood of consolation from the neighbours, half of whom did not care in the least. She would have to answer them; but no, she couldn’t. Then they would say that the blow had aged her, she had said that so often herself. Their letters would be full of their own little griefs, a child who had a cold, a husband worried by his Indian fever,one who had been cut publicly by Mrs. So-and-So—but this wasn’t fair. They would write rather of someone of theirs who died recently or years and years ago, of the memory of their grief then, of what had helped them then, of prayer, of a wonderful sleeping draught. Not sleeping, that was what was so hard. And she would answer suitably, for of course by now one knew what to say, but it was hateful, people laying little private bits of themselves bare, and she being expected to do likewise. She could say everything to Mabel, but not to them. Still, it would be all over some day. Life would not be the same, it would go on differently, and yet really be just the same. But did that help? Could she say to the boy, “You will get used to it in time”? It was ridiculous. Could she preach religion at him when she was not quite sure herself? Something must be done.

She took up the Nursing accounts. Five pounds in subscriptions, it was not bad. That Mrs. Binder. She would have to write her, it was ridiculous not to subscribe. She was the sort of woman to put spider webs on a cut. But they did not give their babies cider to drink any more as a substitute for mother’s milk, she had stopped that. Yet perhaps Mrs. Moon did, she would do anything, and her house was so filthy. The annual inspection had gone off so well, too, the Moon child had been the only one to have nits in her hair. What could one do? The house was filthy, the husband earned verylow wages, you could not turn them out for being insanitary, they would have nowhere to go. And the house was losing value every day. John must learn to care about these things.

And her affairs were none too bright. It was as much as one could do to keep the house and the garden going, what with the income tax and the super-tax and everything. The car would have to go, and with it Evans. Harry could drive her about in the dog-cart, it would be like the old days again except when one of them passed her. It was terrible to see the country changing, the big houses being sold, everyone tightening the belt, with the frightful war to pay for. Now that he was blind there was no hope of his ever making any money. And the charities had not stopped. What would happen to John? Even if he hadn’t gone blind it would have been difficult enough. There were more charities now, if anything; they came by every post. Her letters, she had forgotten. She rang the bell. That Mrs. Walters had written for a subscription to a garden fête in aid of the local hospital. Of course she stole half the money you sent, but a little of it was fairly certain to be used by the hospital. The woman never kept accounts for those things, which was wicked. Then, again, Mrs. Andrew and her Parish Nurse, the effrontery of it when she did not subscribe to the Barwood one. What a fight it was. Were there any blind boys in Norbury of his own age, nice boys whom he could makefriends with? They could not afford to go to London where he might find some. They could, of course, if they sold Barwood. Sell Barwood!—No, and he would appreciate still having it when he grew older. To be blind in one of those poky little suburban villas, with a wireless set, and with aeroplanes going overhead, and motor bikes and gramophones. No.

William came in.

What had she rung for? Blank.

“It’s all right, William, I have found it now.”

It was terrible, she could not even remember when she rang.

No, everything must go on just the same, the garden would be still the best in twelve miles, even if all the world went blind. They must find a companion for the boy, Mabel would be able to help there. Someone who would spend his time with him, her time, that would be better. It was so terrible, he would never marry now, she would have no grandchildren. The place would be sold, the name would die, there was no one. Ralph had been the last. “Granny.” He would not meet any nice girls now, he could never marry. A girl would not want to marry a blind man. All her dreams were gone, of his marrying, of her going up to live in the Dower House—that was why the Evanses had it on a short lease. She would have made friends with his wife and would have shown her how to run everything. His wife would have made changes inthe house, of course, and it would have been sad seeing the place different; but then the grandchildren, and he would have made such a good father. Why was it taken away quite suddenly like this? But then they might still find some girl who had had a story, or who was unhappy at home, who would be glad, who would not be quite—but who would do. He must marry. All the bachelors one had known had been so womanish, old grandfathers without children. John Goe. She could not fill his life, there would have to be a wife. Mabel might know of someone. Perhaps they would not be happy, but they would be married. And she ought to be happy here, it was a wonderful place, so beautiful with the garden and the house. It had been her real life, this place; before she had married she had not counted, something had just been training her for this. And she had improved it, with the rock garden and the flowers. Mary Haye had not known one flower from another. And she had got the village straight, there had been no illegitimate children for two years, and they were all married. It would be a blow going, a bit of her cut off, but the Dower House was only a mile off, and right in the middle of the village. And now perhaps she would be able to live here till she died if he did not marry. But he must, for his happiness, if there was to be someone to look after him when she died. And she would have grandchildren after all, it might turn out all right, one never knew in thisworld; there had been Berty Askew. If everything failed he could have a housekeeper. Yes, it was immoral, but he must have love, and someone to look after him. After Grandmamma died the Grandparent had had one at Tarnarvaran. Argyll and the heather. . . . Really, now that this trouble was upon her, Edward might write. But it was for him to act first.

She must order dinner. There was comfort in choosing his food, it was something to do for him. Going out she straightened a picture that was a little crooked. As she opened the door the sunlight invaded the passage beyond, and made a square of yellow on the parquet floor.

In front of the swing door into the kitchen she halted. Honestly, one did not like to enter the kitchen now for fear of findin’ Mrs. Lane gigglin’ with Herbert. That affair. Well, if they brought things to a head and married, they would have to leave. She could not bear a married couple among the servants, they quarrelled so.

Inside it was very clean, the deal tables were like butter, the grey-tiled floor, worn in places, shone almost. Along one wall was hung a museum of cooking utensils, every size of saucepan known to science, and sinister shapes. Mrs. Lane was waiting. Where was her smile? Oh, of course it was. How nice they all were. Mrs. Lane began talking at once.

“I am sorry to say’m that Muriel has had somekittens in the night. We none of us suspected’m. In the potato box’m.”

What again!

“Tell Harry to drown ’em immediately.”

One must be practical.

“If I could find a home for them’m?”

“Very well, Mrs. Lane, only I cannot have them here. What with the stable cat and the laundry cat there are too many of ’em about. What is there this morning?”

“Very good’m. I’ve got a bit of cod for upstairs”—it was no use mentioning no name—“an’ would you like one of the rabbits Brown brought in yesterday, and the pigeon pie’m, with cherry tart for upstairs?”

“That will do nicely.”

“An’ for dinner I . . .” etc.

As she was going out into the kitchen yard so as to gain the stables, Mrs. Lane ran after her to stop her. She spoke low and fast.

“Madam, the nurse asked me this morning that she could ’ave ’er meals seprit. Didn’t like to take them in the servants’ ’all’m.”

“If she wants to eat alone, Mrs. Lane, we had better humour her. Have them sent up to her room.”

“Very good’m.”

An’ who was to take ’em up to ’er, stuck-up thing?

There, now there was going to be trouble about the nurse. Cook had been angry, although she hadtried not to show it. Really they might leave her alone and not bother her with their little quarrels. Somebody would be giving notice in a week. Still, Mrs. Lane would not go while Herbert was here.

“Harry, Harry!”

A sound of hissing came suddenly through an open window on the other side of the little yard. A head wobbled anxiously behind a steamy window further down. A hoof clanked.

There was the stable cat. “Shoo!”

“Harry!”

“Yess’m.”

She inspected the horses and went out.

No, she would not go to the laundry this morning. The damp heat would be rather exhausting. Curry had been riding a nice bay last season which had looked up to her weight. She was getting rather tired of Jolly. She stopped, that had reminded her.

“Harry, you can take them both out to exercise to-morrow, I shall not go out, of course.”

“Very good’m.”

He would never ride now, all her hopes of getting him back to the love of it were broken, and he could not even go on a lead, for that was so dangerous. What would he do?

She went through the door in the wall into the kitchen garden. She called:

“Weston, Weston!”

There was Herbert pickin’ lettuces just for the chance of going to Mrs. Lane in the kitchen withthem. He raised his bent body and touched his cap. She nodded.

Again she cried:

“Weston!”

A cry came from the other end, from the middle of the artichokes, the tops of which you could hardly see—it was a big kitchen garden. Weston appeared walking quickly. He took his cap off.

“How are the peaches getting on?”

Peaches were good for convalescents.

“Very nicely’m. Going to be a good crop, and the apples too. Was among the artichokes’m. Fine crop this year. Never seen ’em so high.”

“What beautiful cabbages, Weston.”

He would eat them, as he could not see flowers.

“Yes’m. Going to be a good crop.”

“Yes; well, good morning, Weston.”

“Good morning’m.”

Into the garden. Pinch was still at the same spot on the border as he had been when she had looked out of her bedroom window. He was too old, but he was a faithful servant.

Yes, his wife was going on as well as was to be hoped. Yes, it was bad weather for the farmers.

Pinch was the same, so why hadhechanged? What was the matter with Pinch’s wife? Just age perhaps, any way they would be the next for the almshouses. When Mrs. Biggs died they could go in, and that should not be long now. This would leave vacant their cottage in Ploughman’s Lane,which that nice man from Huntly could have. How nice the trees were with their fresh green; whatever happened the seasons went round. If this warm weather went on he could get out to be on the lawn, but then you could never tell with the English spring. She would have to go in to write those letters, while it was so lovely out here. There was the moorhen starting her nest in the same place in the moat. Mrs. Trench’s baby would be due about now, her sixth, while that Jim Pender, earning excellent wages, only had his one girl, and she was five years old. It was ridiculous, she would have to speak to him about it, a great strong fellow like him with such a pretty wife. She must have some jelly and things sent up to Mrs. Trench. He must take an interest in the village now that he had nothing to do. He could start a club for the men and teach them something, he would do it very well, talking about art or books, or one of those things he was so interested in. That would do something to occupy his time. There was a daffodil out already, it had planted itself there, it looked so pretty against the bole of the tree. How good a garden was for one! She felt quieter after the ghastly night she had had. The only way out of trouble like this was to work for others till you forgot, when a plan would emerge quite suddenly, that was what life taught one, and Mabel was the same.

Annie was weeding the gravel of the Yew Walk. In summer she weeded, in winter she swept leaves,and she picked up dead branches all the year round.

“Good morning, Annie.”

“Good morning’m.”

She was not quite all there, poor thing, but there was nothing to be done for her, she would always be like that.

The attendances at church were disgraceful again now, just as bad as when the Shame had had it. That had been the only time the village had been right and she wrong. No one had been able to persuade her till she had seen for herself. It was all part of this modern spirit, she had seen terrible dangers there for him, but now, poor boy, that he was blind she could at least keep him to herself away from those things that led nowhere. She ought to go back now to write those dreadful letters, but it was so lovely out here, with the sunlight. And it didn’t look as if it would last, there were clouds about. She had been right to put on thick clothes. How pretty the little stone Cupid was, king of his little garden of wallflowers walled in by yews, it would be a blaze of colour. Now that the flagstones were down you could see what a difference it made.

She opened the door into Ralph’s old study. It would be his now, as she had always meant it to be. It got all the sun in the morning, and there were no awkward corners. He would have a hard time at first in getting about, but she would lead him and teach him where the furniture was and allthat, it was one of the things she could do for him.

In the Oak Hall there was a note for her. The parson’s wife again. Oh, this time she wanted fifty cups and saucers for the Mothers’ Union tea. Well, she could have them. What, again? No, no, not another. Yes, in the P.S., “I am going to have another darling baby.” That was too much. Would they never stop? And they could not afford it with the covey they had already. All it meant was that Mrs. Crayshaw would not be able to do any visiting in the village for quite two months. Now there was another letter to write, of congratulation this time, and it was going to be hard to word. What did they call it, a quiver full? To-morrow and there would be another letter from her, she would have heard about him by then, it would be full of earnest stuff. And she did not want sympathy, she wanted practical advice.

It was all so difficult. She had betrayed him this morning, she had not thought nearly enough about it all. She was beginning not to care already. This morning she had frittered away, excusing herself by saying that Mabel would think of something, while everyone knew that it was always she who talked while Mabel listened. Still, it was necessary to talk. But last night had been so dreadful, when she had lain in bed turning the thing over and over in her mind, and she had prayed too. She had thought of many ways to occupy his time, but they had all gone out of her head now. Those red curtainswere getting faded, but Skeam’s man had been insolent when last he came. That was what we were comin’ to, a decorator’s tout giving himself airs. Before all this she had meant to put John into a decorator’s business, he was so artistic that he would have done wonders, perhaps even made a little money. But there, it was no use thinkin’ of might-have-beens. He must marry, it was the only thing he could do. He must be a man, and not be left unfinished. They would have the marriage in the church, and a dinner for the tenants in the Great Hall. But he was so young. And she would spend the evenin’ of her days in the Dower House.

She passed through the Great Hall. She buried her head violently into a pot of dead roses. In her room Ruffles was sleeping fitfully in his basket. She picked up a paper, glanced at the headlines, then put it aside. She sat in her armchair and looked vacantly at Greylock over the fireplace. Along the mantel-board were ranged a few cards to charities, to funerals, and to weddings. She picked up the paper again and looked through the Society column, and then the deaths and marriages, and then threw it onto the floor. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away in the pocket of her skirt. She rubbed her face slowly in her hands, when she stopped it was redder still. Then she sat for some time looking at nothing at all, thinking of nothing at all. The specks kept on rising in the sunlight.

She got up. She rang the bell. She went to the writing-table and sat down. She opened the inkstand hoof, Choirboy’s hoof, and she looked at her pens. She dipped one into the ink, and she drew a bit of paper towards her. Then she looked out of the window on to the rose garden for some time.

William came in.

“William, Mrs. Crayshaw has written to say that she will want fifty cups and saucers. . . . No, on second thought . . . It is all right, William, I will go and tell cook myself. And—oh, William, the letters, please.”

“Yes, madam.”

William held the door open for her. Mrs. Lane might not like it from the butler. She would go up to see him after this. But you could not be too careful with servants nowadays, and . . .

*****

How did one pass the time when one was blind? Six days had gone by since she had told him, days filled with the echo of people round occupying themselves on his account. Mamma had had three long conferences with Mrs. Palmer, conferences which had reached him through vague references as to what he was going to do, with not a word as to what he was going to do now. Nan was struggling with an emotion already waning. Her long silences, in which she sent out waves of sentimentality, told that she was trying to freeze what was left into permanency.The nurse helped him grudgingly back to health, the new life was forming, and it was even more boring than the former. They read to him in turn for hours on end, Mamma talked of finding a professional reader. It was now so ordinary to be blind.

He was in the long chair, under the cedar on the lawn. He felt the sky low and his bandages tight. The air nosed furtively through the branches and made the leaves whisper while it tickled his face. Pigeons were cooing, catching each other up, repeating, answering, as if all the world depended on their little loves. It was the sound he liked best about the garden; he yawned and began to doze.

He was alone for the moment. Nan had left him to take a cup of tea. The nurse was taking the daily walk that was necessary to her trade union health, and Mrs. Haye had gone up to the village to console Mrs. Trench, whose week-old baby was dying. Herbert, leaning on the sill of the kitchen window, was making noises at Mrs. Lane while she toyed with a chopper, just out of his reach. Weston was lost in wonder, love and praise before the artichokes, he had a camera in his pocket and had taken a record of their splendour. Twenty years on and he would be showing it to his grandchildren, to prove how things did grow in the old days. Twenty years ago Pinch had seen better. Harry was hissing over a sporting paper; Doris in an attic was letting down her hair, she was about to plait the two soft pigtails.Jenny, the laundry cat, was very near the sparrow now, by the bramble in the left-hand corner of the drying ground.

He roused himself—if he went to sleep it would only mean that he would lie awake all night. He fingered the letter that Nan had read to him from J. W. P., full of regret that he was not coming back next term, saying that he would get his leaving-book from the Headmaster for him. No more going back now, which was one good thing, and no more irritations with J. W. P. He had done a great deal of work, though, that last year; he had really worked quite hard at writing, and he would go on now, there was time when one was blind. J. W. P. had disapproved, of course, and had said that no one should write before he was twenty-one, but about that time he had come under the influence of the small master with spectacles, whose theory was that no boy should have any ideas before he had left school. Perhaps they were right, it was certainly easier to give oneself up to a physical existence. Healthy sanity. And here was weakness, in saying that they ever could be right. But he was in such an appalling desolation that anything might be right. Why had he taken that train?

He felt himself sinking into a pit of darkness. At the top of the pit were figures, like dolls and like his friends, striking attitudes at a sun they had made for themselves, till sinking he lost sight of them, to find himself in the presence of other dollsin the light of a sun that others had made for them. Then it did not work, and he was back in the darkness, on the lawn again. Nothing seemed real.

He said “tree” out loud and it was a word. He saw branches with vague substance blocked round them, he saw lawn, all green, and he built up a picture of lawn and tree, but there were gaps, and his brain reeled from the effort of filling them.

He felt desperately at the deck-chair in which he was sitting. He felt the rough edges of the wood, which would be a buff colour, and he ran a splinter into his finger. He put his hand on the canvas, he knew that it was canvas, dirty white with two red stripes at each side. It felt rough and warm where his body had touched it. He felt for the red, it should have blared like a bugle. It did not; that would come later, perhaps.

He felt the grass, but it was not the same as the grass he had seen.

He lay back, his head hurting him. How much longer would he be there? The letter crinkled in his hands reminding him of its presence. He ran his fingers over the pages, but he could feel no trace of ink. He came upon the embossed address. It might have been anything. A fly buzzed suddenly. Even a fly could see.

He was shut out, into himself, in the cold.

So much of life had been made up of seeing things. The country he had always looked to for something. He had seen so much in line, so much incolour, so much in everything he had seen. And he had noticed more than anyone else, of course he had.

But when he had seen, how much it had meant. Everything was abstract now, personality had gone. Flashes came back of things seen and remembered, but they were not clear-cut. Little bits in a wood, a pool in a hedge with red flowers everywhere, a red-coated man in the distance on a white horse galloping, the sea with violet patches over grey where the seaweed stained it, silver where the sun rays met it. A gull coming up from beneath a cliff. There was a certain comfort in remembering.

This would have been a good fishing day. There was no sun, yet enough heat to draw the chub up to the surface. The boat would glide silently on the stream, the withies would droop quietly to dabble in the water. Where the two met the chub lay, waiting for something to eat. And he would prepare his rod and he would throw the bright speckled fly to alight gently on the water, and to swim on the current past mysterious doors in the bathing green. The boat floated gently too, a bird sang and then was silent, and he would watch the jaunty fly, watch for the white, greedy mouth that would come up, for the swirl when he would flick lightly, and the fight, with another panting, gleaming fish to be mired in struggles on the muddy floor of the boat.

He would go down the river, catching fish. Theday would draw away as if sucked down in the east, where a little rose made as if to play with pearl and grey and blue. There were chub he had missed, four or five he would have caught, and more further on. A kingfisher might shoot out to dart down the river, a guilty thing in colours. More rarely a grey heron would raise himself painfully to flap awkwardly away. He would go on, casting his fly, placing it here or there, watching it always, and now and then, with little touches, steering it from floating leaves. And it would become more difficult to see, and the only sound would be the plops the fish made as they sent out rings in eating flies on the water. One last chub in the boat and he would turn to row back through the haze that was rising from the river. The water chattered at the prow, he would notice suddenly that the crows were no longer cawing in the trees on the hill, but had gone to sleep. He would yawn and begin to think of dinner. It was a long way back.

He would come to the ferry, where the boats were tied up, where they huddled darkly together. There would be the rattle of the chain, and the feeling that something else was finished. Voices would come from behind the lighted blinds of the inn; a dog would bark, a laugh perhaps, while the other bank was thick with shadows. He would carry the oars and rowlocks to put them as always in the shed, and he would climb the gate, the rod tiresome, the creel heavy. A quick walk home acrossthe fields, for there was nothing to see in the dark. An owl perhaps and a bat or two.

Or again, the river in the heat of an afternoon, stalking from the bank the chub that lay by the withies, and being careful with his shadow. He would wade slowly through the long grass with here and there a flower at random, or more often a bed of nettles. He would peer through the leaves that drooped in green plumes to where a chub cruised phantom-like in the cloudy onyx of the water. The sun made other smaller suns that would pierce his eyes and dazzling dance there. Bending low he would draw out as much line as he could. Stooping he would pitch his fly cunningly. The line might fall over the fin, and the fish would be gone.

The chub were hard to catch from the bank, and often it was so hot that the only thing to do was to lie in the shade. There was an alder tree under which lived a rat. He would watch for it sometimes: if one kept still it would come out to play, or to teach a baby what to eat, or to wash in the water. The cattle, bored, might bestir themselves to come and look at him, blowing curiously. The flies would always be tiresome. The water slipped by.

Why was it all over? But it wasn’t, he would cultivate his sense of hearing, he would listen to the water, and feel the alder, and the wind, and the flowers. Besides, there had only been about tenfishing days every summer, what with the prevailing wind, which was against the current, raising waves, and the rain in the hills which made mud of the water. There would be no more railing against the bad weather now, which had been half the joy of fishing.

Sometimes, when he was rowing back in the dark after fishing over the sunset below, he had stopped by a withy that he could hardly see, to cast a white fly blindly into the pool of darkness beneath. He would strike by the ripple of light, he had caught two or three fish that way, and it was so mysterious in the twilight. Colours had been wonderful. But these were words only.

What sense of beauty had others? Mamma never said any more than that a thing was pretty or jolly, and yet she loved this garden. She spent hours in weeding and in cutting off the heads of dead roses, and there were long talks with Weston when long names would come out of their mouths—why had some flowers nothing but an ugly Latin name? But you could not say that she had no sense of beauty.

Harry looked upon the country from the hunting standpoint, whether there were many stiff fences and fox coverts. The Arts of Use. And there was Herbert, during the war, at Salonica. The only thing of interest he had remembered afterwards was that a certain flower, that they had here and that was incessantly nursed by Weston in the hot-house,grew wild and in profusion on the hills above the port. Egbert, the underkeeper, at Salonica also, had seen a colossal covey of partridges. That was all they remembered.

In the country one lost all sense of proportion. Mamma used to become hysterical over some ridiculously small matter. Last Christmas it had been ludicrous, she had been so angry, and it had led to one of her outbursts about his not caring for the life here, he, who was to carry on the house and the traditions, and so on. It had been about the Church Parochial Council. She had asked that at matins on Christmas Day there might be music. Crayshaw had answered that there would be music at Holy Communion which took place before, but that as no one ever came to matins on Christmas Day—(And whose fault was that, my dear?) it was not worth while having music again. There had been a violent discussion, one would have given anything to be there, during which Mamma had said that if she was a child her Christmas would have been ruined with no music on Christmas Day. Crayshaw had replied that the children could come at six in the evening when everyone else came, and when there was music. Mamma had said that it was the morning that mattered. Crayshaw had parried by saying that the children could come to Holy Communion. Mamma had not liked that, “it was bothering children’s heads with mysticism.” Finally they had voted, and Mamma had been defeatedbecause she had closed the public pathway at the bottom of the garden, a path which no one had used for nine years, and the gates were ugly and in the way. It had spoilt the drive, that wretched path. “The first time, John, that the village has not followed my lead. It is so discouraging.” Oh, it had been tragic.

Behind the house a hen was taken with asthma over her newly-laid.

A bee droned by to the accompaniment of flies. He glided down the hill of consciousness to the bottom, where he was aware only of wings buzzing, and of the sun, that poured down a beam to warm him, and of a wind that curled round. Only one pigeon cooed now, and he was tireless, emptying his sentiment into a void of unresponding laziness. He was singing everyone to sleep. How dreadful if a cuckoo were to come. The sky would have cleared, it would be a white-blue. It was hot.

A woodpecker mocked.

He leant down and his fingers hurried over the grass, here and there, looking for the cigarette-box. He found and opened it, taking out a cigarette. Again they set out to find the matches, which they found. He felt for the end that lit, he struck and heard the burst of flame. Fingers of the left hand groped down the cigarette in his mouth to the end, and he brought the match there. He puffed, he might have puffed anything then. He felt with a forefinger to see whether it was alight and heburned the tip. The match blew out with a shudder, and he threw it away.

How intolerable not to be able to smoke, but people said that you came to appreciate it in time, and it was degrading to chew gum. Was it still alight? Again he burned his finger. He threw the cigarette away. Now it would be starting a fire; still he had thrown it out on the lawn. What was that? A tiny sound miles away, no one but a blind man could possibly have caught it. He sniffed, he could smell the fire, very small yet, but starting, just one flame, invisible in the sunlight, eating a pine-needle. What was to be done? To leave it was madness, but how to find it to put it out? Await developments, there was nothing probably. Stevenson’s last match.

All the same the cigarette was not burning anything, it was an invention typical of the country. He was getting into the country state of mind already, with no sense of proportion, and always looking for trouble. And he would become more and more like that, when one was blind there was no escape. It was a wretched business. The life of the century was in the towns, he had meant to go there to write books, and now he was imprisoned in a rudimentary part of life. And the nurse was busy nursing him back to a state of health sufficient for him to be left to their all-enfolding embrace of fatuity. So that all he could do to keep his brain a little his own was to write short stories. Perhapsone on the nurse, with her love of white wards and of stiff flowers, they were sure to be stiff if she had any, and of a ghastly antiseptic sanity. With her love of pain and horrors, and of interesting cases, with her devastating knowledge of human anatomy. But that was rather cheap, for she wasn’t like that. She was merely dull, with a desire for something concrete and defined to hold on to. But she was dull.

He would write a story, all about tulips. That time when Mamma had taken him one Easter holidays to Holland, when the tulips had been out all along the railway line. And the cows with blankets on in case it rained. But no, it would have to be in England, the tourist effect in stories was dreadful. It would be a Dutchman with a strange passion for tulips—that was rather beautiful, that idea. Yes, and he would have passed all his life in sending tulips over to England, till he had come to think that England must have been a carpet of them in spring—he would have to be uneducated and think that England was only a very tiny island. He would be just a little bit queer with lovely haunting ideas that drifted through his brain, and he would love his tulips! So that Holland in springtime would not have enough tulips for him, and he would sell the little he had so as to buy a passage, that he might feed his soul on his tulips in England. His place in the bulb farm would be to address the wrappers, and there would be an address in Cumberlandthat he was told to write to very often. Then there would be those hills to work into the story, and he would go on a bicycle, which he had bought with his last penny, and each hill would seem to hide his tulips, they might be there, just beyond, behind the next hill. Till he would fall down, dead, his heart broken! But perhaps that was a little flat. It must simmer over in his brain. He would be very queer, with little fragments of insanity here and there. It would work.

The laziness of this afternoon.

Mrs. Haye crushed grass on the way to Mrs. Trench. Herbert stretched out a hand and made clucking noises, while Mrs. Lane giggled. Weston shifted his feet slightly, and put his cap further back on his head, before the artichokes. Harry began hissing his way down another paragraph, and Doris was fondly tying a bow on the end of one pigtail. Jenny, the laundry cat, was two inches nearer the sparrow.

Nan put down her cup with a sigh and folded her hands on her lap, while her eyes fixed on the fly-paper over the table.

*****

They were all standing round him on the lawn.

“Seven days old. I said what I could to Mrs. Trench. A terrible affair. What can one do?”

“Poor little mite.”

“What was it, Mrs. Haye?”

“Gastric pneumonia, I think, nurse. I am sure that Brodwell muddled the case.”

“To think of it!”

“Of course, Mrs. Haye, gastric pneumonia with a seven days’ child is very grave.”

“Was it a boy or a little girl’m?”

“A girl. How is he to-day, nurse?”

“Oh, I’m all right.”

“I think we are getting on very nicely, aren’t we?”

“He has more colour to him to-day.”

“Oh, Master John, you do look a heap better.”

“Thanks, Nan, I’m sure I do.”

“Yes, Mrs. Haye, he really has. In one or two days we shall be up and about again, shan’t we?”

“I suppose so.”

“Of course you will, dear.”

“It did give me a fright.”

“Well, there’s another fright over anyway, Nan.”

“Dr. Mulligan is not coming again, is he, nurse?”

“Only to-morrow, Mrs. Haye, for a final inspection. And I had perhaps be better getting ready to go back to town in a week or two, he is going on so quickly.”

—Thank God, the woman was talkin’ about goin’.

—Time she went, too, airified body.

“Well, nurse, I think in about ten days’ time it will be safe for me to take over the dressings, and then there would be nothing left for you to doexcept teaching him how to get about and so on, and we can do that, can’t we, Jennings?”

“We can do that’m.”

Yes, they could do that. The nurse was intolerable, but at least she was alive, and now they were sending her away.

“Then, Mrs. Haye, I can write up to town to tell them that I shall be free in, say, twelve days’ time? That will make the 24th, won’t it?”

“Yes, shall we say the 24th? Why, it’s you, Ruffles. Oh, so old.”

“Poor dog.”

“How old is he, Mrs. Haye?”

“Twelve years old. He ought to be destroyed. One must be practical.”

“That’s right. Kill him.”

“But, my dear, it is cruel to let him live.”

“He is too old to be healthy, Mrs. Haye. They are germ traps.”

Ruffles made confiding noises, wagging a patchy tail. An effluvia of decay arose.

“Perhaps it would be best.”

It was a pity to shoot him, after he had been so good. How sentimental dogs were. Nan would be having one of her waves of silent grief. Their breathing descended in a chorus to where he lay, hoarse, sibilant, and tired. Were they thinking of Ruffles? Did they all snore at night?

The evening was falling away and the breeze haddropped. A midge bit him on the ankle and a drop of sweat tickled him by the bandages. The pigeons were all cooing together, there seemed to be no question and answer, they were in such a hurry to say everything that there wasn’t time. Birds twittered happily and senselessly all round. Through it and over it all there was the evening calm, the wet air heavy everywhere. The sky would be in great form, being crude and vulgar.

They were silent because it was the evening, though they could not keep it up for long.

“A pretty sunset.”

“It’s that beautiful.”

“I do love a sunset, Mrs. Haye, I think . . .”

“A sunset, John”—the woman was intolerable.

“Ah.”

“Is it not becoming a little fresh for him out here, Mrs. Haye? We mustn’t catch a chill.”

“Perhaps. Jennin’s, could you just go and tell William and Robert to come here to help Master John back.”

“But I can walk by myself if one of you will give me their arm.”

“I don’t think we are quite strong enough yet, Mrs. Haye.”

She would write to-morrow to get her changed. It was too bad of them to send her this thing.

God blast the woman, why was he always treated as a baby? Oh, how they loved it, now that he was helpless.

“What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock, dear. Time for dinner. Ah, here are William and Robert.”

Ruffles licked his hand. My only friend. Oh, he was sick and tired of it all.

“Now, dear, put your arm round William’s shoulder, and the other round Robert . . .”

“Would it not be better, Mrs. Haye, if between them they carried the chair and him on it?”

“Stairs—narrow. Now lift him. That’s right. You can get along like that with them on each side, can’t you, John?”

The woman was insufferable.

“Yes, I’m all right. Good-night, Ruffles.”

“I’ll come up and see you after dinner, dear.”

William breathed discreetly but heavily, Robert full of energy. William’s shoulders were thin.

“Mind, Master John, here’s the step into the library.”

The nurse walked quickly behind. Mrs. Haye was a fool, and with no medical training, even if she were an honourable. Of course it was bad for the patient to walk upstairs. If she had had her way, they would never have put him in a room two storeys up, even if he had been in it since childhood. These ex-V.A.D.’s who gave themselves such airs.

Nan was drowned in a wave of silent grief.

To see him supported between Mr. William and Robert with white bandages over his head and him so weak and feeble and who would never see again,and the nurse who was not fit to look after a sick boy she was that cantankerous.

She trailed away to a cup o’ tea in the kitchen.

Mrs. Haye went round to her sitting-room through the door in the wall of the rose garden. No solution yet, nothing found, nothing arranged. Only one or two letters of condolence left to answer. And the nurse was terrible. Terrible. The idea of carrying him up those narrow stairs. There might have been a nasty accident if the woman had had her way. And he was in such a difficult state of mind. You could not say a word to him without his taking it wrong. Really, the only thing to do was to watch him and await developments. And in two or three years’ time they would marry him to some nice girl, they would look out for one. There was—well, perhaps.

She went upstairs to dress for dinner.

He sat on a chair while the nurse got the bed ready. His head hurt him, the stairs must have done that. Poor Ruffles, it was too bad that he was finished. His head was throbbing; how he hated pain, and in the head it was unbearable. And this atmosphere of women. There was no male friend who would come to stay, he had always been too unpleasant, or had always tried to be clever, or in the movement. And now there was no escape, none. A long way away there might be a country of rest, made of ice, green in the depths, and ice that was not cold, a country to rest in. He would lie in thegrotto where it was cool and where his head would be clear and light, and where there was nothing in the future, and nothing in the past. He would lie on the grass that was soft, and that had no ants and no bugs, and there would be no flies in the air and no sun above his head, but only a grey clearness in the sky, that stretched to mountains blue against the distance, through the door of his ice-house. There would be pine trees in clumps or suddenly alone, and strange little mounds, one after the other, that grew and grew in height till they met the mountains that cut off the sky. A country of opera-bouffe. And little men in scarlet and orange would come to fight up and down the little hills, some carrying flags, others water pistols. There would be no wounded and no dead, but they would be very serious.

Why couldn’t there be something really romantic and laughable in life? With sentimentality and tuppenny realism. Something to wake one out of an existence like this, where day would follow day with nothing to break the monotony, where meal followed meal and where people sat still between meals letting troubles fall into their lap. Nothing stirred.

“There, it is ready now. Take off your dressing-gown and lean on my shoulder. There we are. Would you prefer to have your dressings renewed now, or after dinner?”

“Oh, now, to get it over.”

He hated pain. He only half saw how pain fitted in with the scheme of things, and it made him afraid.

She was clinking bowls, and already the clean smell, far worse than any dung-heap, was all over the room.

Fingers began to unpin and to remove his bandages. It was hurting less to-day. No, it wasn’t. Oh . . .

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