JAMES BEVANWOOD 
 BARONET
 
 JAMES BEVANWOOD, BARONET 
 HENRY ST. JOHN COOPER
 
 JAMES BEVANWOOD 
 BARONET 
 
 BY 
 HENRY ST. JOHN COOPER 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SUNNY DUCROW" 
 
 NEW ^SJT YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 Stack 
 Annex 
 
 IMS 
 
 r5k? 
 
 
 TO 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 813S006
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGH 
 
 I How EKID FOUND HER LOVER . . n 
 
 II How JIM WOODS FOUGHT FOR His GIRL 21 
 
 III ATONEMENT . . . , .31 
 
 IV THE NEW HOME . , . . . .41 
 V "POOR LITTLE KID!" .... 50 
 
 VI THE PASSING OF SIR HAROLD . . 55 
 
 VII "THE THING OF HER DREAMS" . . 59 
 
 VIII THE WHEEL TURNS .... 67 
 
 IX "Mv LADY" ...... 73 
 
 X THE HOME-COMING .... 78 
 
 XI THE AWAKENING .... 86 
 
 XII THEIR SEPARATE WAYS ... 93 
 
 XIII THE HUNGER 97 
 
 XIV THEY Two ....*. 108 
 XV ADRIFT : . .no 
 
 XVI How THE NEWS CAME TO JIM , .119 
 
 XVII THE BEST FOR HER . . . .124 
 
 XVIII THE FEAR 131 
 
 XIX How JIM MADE A NEW HOME . 138 
 
 XX THE ROAD HOME .... 144 
 
 XXI THE BRAMBLE . . . .152 
 vii
 
 viii Contents 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXII JIM FACES FAILURE . . . .160 
 
 XXIII IN WHICH 'Nro COMES HOME . . 162 
 
 XXIV WHAT HE DID 164 
 
 XXV "MAY I STAY?" 173 
 
 XXVI "THE SUMMER WILL Go" . . .178 
 
 XXVII FOUND 187 
 
 XXVIII "THE FOOL" . . . . . 191 
 
 XXIX THE COMING OF THE SHADOW . . 197 
 
 XXX GONE 206 
 
 XXXI How BILLY FOUND HER . . .216 
 
 XXXII "I DIDN'T KNOW" i 220 
 
 XXXIII "I TOLD HIM NOTHING" . . .227 
 
 XXXIV THE LONELY ROAD . . . .231 
 XXXV "FATE!" . . . ., . .238 
 
 XXXVI THE FINISHING OF THE BRIDGE . . 245
 
 JAMES BEVANWOOD, BARONET 

 
 JAMES BEVANWOOD, BARONET 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HOW ENID FOUND HER LOVER 
 
 VERY weary, very, very tired of it all, and yet how 
 easily things might be far worse ! She had a roof 
 to cover her, enough food for her small wants, clothes, 
 such as they were ; the sordid, trumpery finery with which 
 other girls decked themselves had never appealed to 
 her. To her clothes were simply clothes, and so, easily, 
 things might be worse. There were many other girls who 
 would count themselves as lucky if they could change lots 
 with her. 
 
 But for the rest she had a great and unsatisfied hunger, 
 a strange, undefined yearning and longing for some- 
 thing something she had never known. Here it was al- 
 ways the same to-day as yesterday, and all the yester- 
 days and to-morrows the same sounds, the deep nasal 
 breathing of the other women, the thud, thud of their 
 irons, the indescribable smell that had become part of 
 her very life. The steam, the strong soap, the musty 
 scent of the unwashed linen, all mingled in one familiar 
 whole ; that smell was part and parcel of her daily exist- 
 ence, for nine hours a day she had her being in it. 
 
 The woman working beside her was very fat, but she 
 
 ii
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 was a skilled ironer. She worked fast and furious, gasp- 
 ing and panting over her work and snoring in an un- 
 pleasant manner. 
 
 "Look out!" she said suddenly. "Now you done it, 
 'Nid!" 
 
 The girl started, she came back to life and reality. 
 Yes, she had done it, she had hesitated a moment too long, 
 the goffering iron had made a faint yellow scorchmark 
 on the frilled petticoat she was working at. She hurried 
 on with her work, praying that Miss Henderson's sharp 
 eyes might not see it. 
 
 It was always the same, when she got to thinking over 
 her work, she always did something of the kind; she 
 ought not to think. 
 
 "She'll know it's you or 'Liz," Jakes, the fat woman, 
 said. "You're the only two goffering to-day!" 
 
 "I'll tell her!" the girl said. 
 
 "You'll be lucky if you get out of it under five bob !" 
 the fat woman said ; then she went on with her work. 
 
 The girl went on working, too. Yes, she would be 
 lucky to get out of it under five bob. Five bob meant 
 almost a third of her week's pay, meant the loss of two 
 days. Well, it could not be helped; it would be all the 
 same a hundred years hence. 
 
 The floor rocked and the walls gave back the sound 
 of the engine thumping and banging away down in the 
 basement the engine that was driving the machinery 
 that mangled, tore, crushed and wrenched the dirt out of 
 the linen. 
 
 The girl tp whom this petticoat belonged, she tried 
 
 to visualise her. She would be young and happy, with 
 
 plenty of money ; she would have a good time of course, 
 
 tennis and theatres and parties. It was not fair, it was 
 
 12
 
 How Enid Found Her Lover 
 
 not fair that that girl should have everything and she 
 nothing, just this daily grind, the reek of the soapsuds, 
 the steam and all the rest of it. And, of course, when 
 this girl found the yellow scorchmark on her petticoat she 
 would make a row, she would write a furious letter to 
 Miss Henderson; then the trouble would start. 
 
 "Sick of it !" the girl muttered. She had finished the 
 petticoat, she folded it neatly and deftly, laid it aside, 
 and took up the next thing for her irons to operate on. 
 
 Now her head was beginning to ache, it always did 
 at a certain hour of the afternoon. It meant that the 
 day's work was nearly over. It was funny that her head 
 kept clear till this time, then started to ache. It proved 
 that she was doing just as much as she was capable of. 
 She looked up and down the long ironing table. There 
 were thirty women here besides herself, women and girls, 
 many of them old and hideous, but they knew their work, 
 and worked like slaves because theirs was piece work, 
 and there were rent and food and other things to be con- 
 sidered. The younger girls took things rather more easily, 
 now and again they talked. Generally it was about some 
 "feller," or a hat, a dress, or the melodrama at the 
 Grand. Somehow they had no sympathy with her, nor 
 she with them. She often wondered why they did not 
 understand her and she did not understand them. They 
 worked here in the Snowflake Laundry together, they 
 ate the same food, lived in much the same kind of house, 
 much the same kind of life, yet they were miles apart. 
 
 For one thing, she knew no "feller" to talk about. 
 She hated men, felt a little afraid of them, avoided them. 
 As for the theatre, she never went inside one. 
 
 She wanted something, that she knew, that instinct told 
 her, these other girls never even thought of. Her 
 
 13
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 heart, her very soul, hungered for something different 
 a blue sea and a blue sky, wind-swept hills. It was all 
 dim and vague and indistinct. She had never seen the 
 sea in her life, yet she pictured it to herself, a great, 
 a vast sheet of water. She had seen the advertisements 
 on the hoardings of the railway companies, she formed 
 her idea of the sea from those. The sea was always a 
 deep blue, the same blue as the blue they blued the 
 white linen with. There was always a blue sky with a 
 yellow, pillow-like cloud floating over it. There were 
 also specks of white on the blue of the sea. What the 
 specks were she did not know. 
 
 But she hungered for it, yearned for it, shut her eyes 
 and saw visions of it, then opened them again and saw 
 the long ironing table and the perspiring women at their 
 work. 
 
 And now her head was aching badly, madly. It was 
 a sign that it was time to leave off. 
 
 A bell rang for a moment or two, then stopped. Sud- 
 denly every one began to talk at once. 
 
 "Just about fed up!" the stout woman said. "Lor*, 
 don't my arm ache, not 'arf got a touch of rheumatics 
 in the shoulder, that's what ! Now then, big eyes, didn't 
 you 'ear the bell?" 
 
 "Big eyes" was the girl. Yes, she had heard the 
 bell. It meant freedom from slavery, it meant that for 
 the next twelve hours she would be free of the laundry 
 smell and the thud, thud of the irons, the clank and 
 shake of the engine down in the basement. 
 
 She went out, joining the crowd of women and girls. 
 She went to the long, narrow, dark room where the hats 
 and coats hung. She found her own and put it on. 
 14
 
 How Enid Found Her Lover 
 
 "Said 'is name was Alf, and 'e was getting two quid a 
 week!" a girl was saying. 
 
 "Don't you swallow all you 'ear!" another girl said. 
 
 " 'Ello, 'Nid, 'ow's your 'ead, bad as usual ?" 
 
 "Yes, the same as usual, bad aching 'orribly!" the 
 girl said. 
 
 "Poor kid, you'll 'ave to chuck it sooner or later! 
 It ain't every one's strong enough for it. Why don't 
 you go back to the sorting?" 
 
 "I can't stand it!" the girl said. "I 'ate the smell 
 there, and besides, I couldn't live on the money !" 
 
 The other laughed. "Well, you'll 'ave to stick it some- 
 how, I suppose, same as the rest of us !" 
 
 They trooped out into the street. 
 
 It was not a nice street, it was a back street. The 
 Snowflake Laundry was a small, squat, ugly building, 
 along the top of which ran a black board with the name 
 painted on it in white. 
 
 "There's the bloke!" a girl said. "There he is sure 
 as fate Vs 'anging about 'ere every blessed night; 'oo's 
 'e after?" 
 
 " 'E ain't much to look at neither !" another girl said. 
 
 'Nid glanced across the street. She saw a young man ; 
 he was big and broad shouldered. He was plain faced, 
 very plain looking and commonplace ; there was nothing 
 distinguished about him. 
 
 "Not much style about 'im, 'ooever 'e is !" a girl said. 
 
 The man looked across at the girls trooping out through 
 the wide gate with a curiously eager look in his eyes. 
 He seemed to hesitate, he shivered obviously, noticeably. 
 The girls stared at him, and 'Nid saw a dull red flush 
 come into his cheeks, his eyes drooped. She saw him 
 clench and unclench his hands nervously. 
 
 15
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 The girls hurried off in twos and threes; the elder 
 women, mostly carrying small bundles, trudged home. 
 
 'Nid was left to herself; she had no companion, no 
 bosom friend among them all. Her own home was not 
 far away, two small rooms in a dingy little house. She 
 paid six shillings a week for them, that left her eleven 
 shillings for food, clothing, fire and light, except when 
 she was fined for something. It looked as if she would 
 be five shillings short in her money this week through 
 that scorched petticoat. Well, she would have to manage 
 on six, she had done it before. 
 
 "I wish " she said, "I wish " she often said 
 
 she wished, but never gave utterance to the exact wish. 
 Perhaps she did not know what it was. It had never 
 taken any tangible form, but she wished there was 
 something she wished for, something different, some- 
 thing 
 
 "I I wonder if you'd mind me speaking to you?" 
 
 The girl turned. 
 
 It was the man, he had followed her. He stood before 
 her now, he had plucked off his shabby cap and stood 
 bareheaded before her. She drew back instinctively, into 
 her eyes came -the suspicious look, the defiant look of a 
 young, wild animal. 
 
 "I don't mean to to insult you or anything," the 
 
 man said. "I only just wanted ' He paused. "To 
 
 to speak to you. Do you mind?" 
 
 "What do you want to say?" she asked. She almost 
 wondered at herself. She knew that she ought to turn 
 her back on him and walk on, proving to him she was 
 not a girl who could be addressed by any stranger in 
 the street. 
 
 He stood before her, big, awkward, tongue-tied, dumb. 
 16
 
 How Enid Found Her Lover 
 
 "Well?" she said sharply, "what is it?" 
 
 "I I don't know quite only I I just wanted to 
 speak to you, that's all. I I thought perhaps you 
 wouldn't mind !" There was almost a pathetic look in 
 his face, a pleading in his eyes. 
 
 "It's funny your wanting to speak and and not 
 having nothing to say!" 
 
 Her suspicion died out a sensation of superiority 
 came to her. Somehow she felt herself better and above 
 this man, she did not quite know how or why, but the 
 feeling came, and strangely enough it remained always. 
 She was a superior being to this big, awkward, anxious- 
 eyed man. 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 "It it isn't that I've got nothing to say," he stam- 
 mered, "but but it's that I don't know quite how to say 
 
 it " He paused, then suddenly it came from him 
 
 with a burst of confidence. 
 
 "It's like this I I never had a girl. I've listened to 
 the chaps talking of of girls, their sweethearts, you see 
 I seemed out of it somehow they used to laugh at me, 
 said I was too shy ever to speak to a girl 
 
 "Well?" she said uncompromisingly. "So you spoke 
 to me just, to to prove " 
 
 "No, it wasn't that. I saw you one night weeks ago, 
 you was coming out of that place. I just saw you and 
 started thinking about you, about you and your eyes, 
 and your little pale face ; you can't be very old, can you ?" 
 
 "I don't see that's got anything ' She paused. "I 
 
 ain't seventeen till next month!" 
 
 "I thought you was about that age," he said. "I'm 
 
 twenty-three, my name's " He paused. "Woods 
 
 at least, it isn't all my name, it's enough, it's all I use. 
 
 17
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 It saves talking and the others laughing about it " 
 
 "Well?" Whenever she said "Well?" it seemed to 
 affect him, he seemed to stiffen up. 
 
 "I saw you that night, weeks ago; every night I've 
 tried to come along at the same time, just just to see 
 you I've seen you most nights. Every night I've said 
 to myself, I'll try my luck and speak to her, and and 
 then I saw those other girls staring at me and laughing 
 and somehow-^well, I couldn't only to-night I made up 
 my mind, I swore to myself I'd speak and I've done 
 it " He drew a long breath. 
 
 "And you don't mind, you aren't offended ?" he asked. 
 
 She looked at him. No, she did not mind, she was 
 not offended. She remembered what the other girls had 
 said of him he was not their style, he was not anything 
 to look at. The queer sensation that she was altogether 
 superior to him had come to stay. From the height of 
 her superiority she felt she could afford to be a little 
 gracious to him. 
 
 "No, I'm not offended! If it was any one else, 
 though " 
 
 "You you mean you wouldn't let another man speak 
 to you?" 
 
 "I've never let another man speak to me " she 
 
 said. "Some have tried, only I've took no notice; only 
 somehow I don't seem to mind you so much!" 
 
 His face flushed. When he flushed there was some- 
 thing rather appealing about him. She felt she liked 
 him. 
 
 "It's just that I am lonely! I was bred up in the 
 
 country I am a carpenter. I am working on the new 
 
 buildings at the corner of Hyde Street ; there's a heap 
 
 of others there, six carpenters beside me. Somehow I 
 
 18
 
 How Enid Found Her Lover 
 
 don't get to like them, and they don't seem to care about 
 me we just work together and talk a bit now and 
 again, nothing much. Usually they talk about things 
 I don't seem to care about." 
 
 "Same with me. It's the same with the girls and " 
 
 She paused ; she did not mean to tell him anything. Con- 
 sidering he was a stranger she was going too far. 
 
 "And I I got longing longing for some one to talk 
 to, some one as I could understand and who could under- 
 stand me. Then I saw you, you seemed different " 
 
 He paused nervously. "Just different somehow. I won- 
 dered if you'd mind me speaking I thought you would. 
 Do you mind me walking beside you?" 
 
 "I'm going 'ome. It isn't far; I don't see there's no 
 need for you to walk with me !" 
 
 "I'm sorry." He stood still. "I won't come if you 
 don't want it." The pleading was still in his eyes. 
 
 "Well, I don't mind, then," she said. "Just a few 
 steps !" 
 
 He walked beside her, his face lighted up, he looked like 
 a man who had been vouchsafed some great boon, some 
 great blessing. 
 
 "My name isn't really Woods, that's what the others 
 think. I didn't mean to say anything to you, but you I 
 don't want to tell you nothing but what's true. My name's 
 a funny one, I only use half of it; once I had an idea 
 of using the other half." 
 
 "What is it?" she asked directly. 
 
 "Bevanwood ! It's a rum name, ain't it ?" 
 
 "Bevanwood " she repeated. "It's a funny name !" 
 
 "James Curtis Bevanwood," he said. "There's a rare 
 lot of it, ain't there? I'm called Jim Woods, it's enough 
 
 to go on with, and " He paused. 
 
 19
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 She knew what he meant. "My name's Foster," she 
 said, "E-nid Foster mostly I get called 'Nid. Enid's 
 a rum name, like yours, a bit outlandish." 
 
 "I like it," he said. "I like it it sounds jus' right!" 
 He held out his hand shyly, for she had come to a stand- 
 still. "I'd like to call you E-nid," he said. "May I?" 
 
 "I don't mind!" she laughed. 
 
 20
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HOW JIM WOODS FOUGHT FOR HIS GIRL 
 
 E-NID !" the man said to himself when the shavings 
 sang through his jack-plane. They seemed to sing 
 the word, the name to him. It was the name of his girl 
 "his girl." 
 
 He had built his possession of her on a very slight 
 foundation. He had only spoken to her last night for 
 the first time, perhaps for the last, but in his heart he 
 called her "his girl." 
 
 "Consumption, I bet !" a man said it was Luke, the 
 big carpenter, the bully of the shed. He was cutting 
 mortices in a window frame at the morticing machine. 
 
 "That's what she looks like to me," he said as he 
 brought the long lever down, driving the sharp chisel 
 into the wood. "A sailer-faced, yeller, big-eyed slip of 
 a thing ugly as sin !" 
 
 Instinct made Jim Woods pause. He was listening. 
 
 "Nothing to look at and nothing more'n a kid at that, 
 and thought he was doing himself proud, I bet !" 
 
 Luke paused, some one else laughed. 
 
 "And consumptive, 'oiler-chested and big-eyed. I know 
 'er sort, she'll start coughing presently ; works in a laun- 
 dry, the steam and all the rest of it ' 
 
 They were talking about her ! The man stood motion- 
 less, quivering, his hands gripping the jack-plane. 
 
 "Well, he's got a sweetheart at last, that's something !" 
 
 21
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Oh, her sort !" Luke said. "The sort as 'ud speak to 
 any man who spoke to her and only too glad !" 
 
 "Liar!" 
 
 Luke swung round; he saw a man whose face was 
 white and whose eyes glinted and shone savagely. 
 
 " 'Oo are you " he began. 
 
 "Liar, dirty 'ound and liar!" Jim Woods said. 
 
 The other men had dropped their tools. One went to 
 the door to see if the foreman was about. He was not ; 
 they looked on with a sense of enjoyment. They knew 
 Luke; he was a huge man he had fought in the ring 
 once or twice and from his own account had done re- 
 markably well. 
 
 But Woods Woods was no mean man either, though 
 "soft." Somehow they had it in their heads that Woods 
 was "soft," perhaps because he was too good-humoured 
 to take offence as a rule, perhaps because he had no love 
 of fighting nor of strong drink nor of even stronger 
 language. 
 
 "A soft chap, Jim Woods," they said, though they 
 were inclined to like him, there was so little to dislike 
 about the man. -But the man they knew, the "soft" man, 
 surely this was not he? 
 
 His face was white, his eyes gleaming, his lips tightly 
 closed. They looked at him, intending to laugh, yet for- 
 got to laugh when they saw his face. 
 
 Luke was rolling the dirty sleeves back from his great 
 hairy arms. His lips were tightly closed, too, his eyes 
 had a dangerous glint in them. 
 
 "You you said ?" he remarked slowly. 
 
 "That you was a dirty liar!" Woods said, and his 
 voice sounded hoarse and unnatural even to himself. 
 
 22
 
 How Jim Woods Fought 
 
 There was a grim smile on Luke's face; he glanced 
 about him to see that all was clear. 
 
 "Move them trussels !" he said, and spoke as naturally 
 as though nothing was about to happen. 
 
 One of the men pitched the sawing trestles aside, and 
 then they faced one another, big men both, Luke a shade 
 the bigger, and the more accustomed fighter. 
 
 There was not another man in the shop who would 
 have stood up against Luke, not another man who would 
 for a very considerable sum have taken Woods' place; 
 but Woods himself showed no signs of fear, only of a 
 grim determination and a deep, passionate anger. 
 
 This man had maligned her, had said she was "the 
 sort as 'ud speak to any man who spoke to her and 
 only too glad !" The liar, the liar ! 
 
 "Half a moment, mates!" It was Stainer, the little 
 old carpenter with the grizzled hair. "Woods," he said, 
 "Woods, you'd best give in ! You won't have a look in 
 with Luke. Give in, man, and say as you're sorry callin' 
 Luke names !" He had a liking for Woods, he wanted to 
 save the man while there was time. 
 
 "Take it back and shake 'ands !" he quavered in his 
 nervous treble. 
 
 Woods laughed, a strange laugh for Woods, who 
 usually laughed freely and merrily. 
 
 "I I said it said as 'e was a liar and a 'ound, and 
 
 so 'e is, a dirty liar and worse " His eyes glared, 
 
 his face was very white. 
 
 Naked fists with the knuckles standing out white, 
 brawny arms and heaving chests most of the men here 
 loved a fight, yet here was something different some- 
 thing they did not quite understand. A drunken brawl, 
 two men aiming ineffectual blows at each other while 
 
 23
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 their arms sawed the air, thick with their cursing, they 
 understood fighting of that kind but this! Stainer 
 turned deliberately away. He shuddered at the sound 
 of fist on soft flesh. When he took the courage to look 
 again he saw that both were bleeding, and that under 
 their blood their faces were white as chalk. 
 
 "Don't let 'em, don't let 'em!" he said. He gripped 
 at the arm of the man nearest him, but the other man 
 shook him off. 
 
 "Leave 'em alone, they mean settling it !" he muttered. 
 
 They did mean settling it! At last Luke had found a 
 man worthy of him. The love of fighting was in him, 
 born in him, it was the breath of his life. Such men 
 as he have turned defeats into victories, have stayed the 
 rush of savage foes, have offered their lives in the serv- 
 ice of King and Country with a smile of joy on their 
 faces, for to live and fight and to die fighting what 
 'better can man ask of fate? And this man's eyes were 
 gleaming with a great and pure joy, and he shook his big 
 head so that the blood was flung from his face and spat- 
 tered on to the benches and the shaving-littered floor. 
 
 "You !" he gasped. "You you're a good 'un, a good 
 'un !" and struck out with all his might. 
 
 Woods flung up his arms, he reeled a step as the fist 
 took him between the eyes. He saw dazzling lights and 
 leaping flames of fire. Then he was down, measuring 
 his length on the earthen, pine shavings-covered floor. 
 
 " 'E's down !" Stainer whispered. "Thank Gord, it's 
 over!" 
 
 Over ! No, it was not over yet ; he was down, he lay 
 there for how long? A moment two perhaps, but that 
 man, the man who was standing now looking down at 
 24
 
 How Jim Woods Fought 
 
 him had said: "She was the sort who would speak to 
 any man that sort!" 
 
 He came back to life, he struggled to his feet, he swayed 
 a little, but the light of battle still burned on in the one 
 eye tnat alone was of service to him now. Yet with 
 that eye he could see this man, his enemy, the man who 
 had traduced her, and he rushed at him and struck and 
 struck again, forcing the other back by the impetuous; 
 fury of his attack, forcing him back against the mortic- 
 ing machine, which stayed him so that he could go no 
 farther ; and Luke, fighter though he was, lost his head for 
 a moment, for he had never faced an attack like this, 
 and, losing his head, he left himself open to attack. 
 
 Two fists battered his face, his head jerked back, it 
 struck smartly against the iron arm of the machine and 
 Luke's senses drifted for a moment. He staggered side- 
 ways and slipped, and as he slipped Woods' fist took him 
 under the jaw, and Luke went down with his head on the 
 iron foot-plate of the machine. 
 
 Another man's skull might have cracked, but not 
 Luke's. Still he lay there, for many moments, blinking his 
 eyes slowly, then he rose. It was a lengthy process, but 
 it was done at last. He rose to his feet and wiped the 
 blood from his face with a handful of shavings. Faint 
 now, but unbeaten, waiting for another attack, Jim Woods 
 leaned against his bench. 
 
 But there was no attack. Luke came towards him, 
 strangely uncertain and unsteady on his feet. 
 
 "You," he said, then paused to spit out a fragment 
 
 of broken tooth. "You're a fighter ! You are " again 
 
 he paused and put his big finger into his mouth to rake 
 out the fragment of tooth. He found it and looked at 
 it with a smile on his battered countenance. 
 
 25
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "A fighter!" he repeated. "You're the first as ever 
 downed me, Woods !" 
 
 Woods said nothing. 
 
 "What I said about that gel," Luke said, "I didn't 
 mean you to 'ear!" 
 
 "But I 'card, and it was a lie !" 
 
 Luke nodded. "That's it, a lie! I didn't know, I 
 jest said it for the sake of saying somethink and pr'aps 
 I was wrong about the other, too, 'er being consumptive, 
 I mean; I 'ope as I was wrong, any'ow!" 
 
 "It it wasn't that it was what you said about 'er 
 speakin' to " 
 
 "I know, I've took it back, I didn't 'ave no reason 
 to say it ! It was a lie, like you said ! Woods, you're a 
 fighter, you are! I like a man as can put 'is fists up! 
 You can ! I should think that gel 'ud a been proud of 
 you to-day if she'd been 'ere and seen you fighting for 
 'er!" 
 
 Jim Woods' heart gave a sudden leap. He felt a warm 
 glow in his breast would she, would she if she had 
 been here? Would she when she knew be proud of 
 him? 
 
 Luke held out his hand. "Mate, I take it all back, 
 every blessed word of it she's only a kid as yet, that 
 gel, but if I know anything she'll make a beauty one of 
 these days! You ought to think yourself lucky if she's 
 your gel!" 
 
 "She is !" Jim said. 
 
 "Then you're in luck!" Luke said generously. "You 
 are ! She'll be pretty as a oil painting afore she's done !" 
 
 Jim Woods smiled, though smiling hurt him horribly. 
 He liked Luke as he had never liked him before. If 
 cutting off his hand would have been of the slightest 
 26
 
 How Jim Woods Fought 
 
 benefit to Luke he would have done it at this moment. 
 
 "A good fighter!" Luke said. He paused, he looked 
 about on the bench and found a pair of pliers. For 
 some moments he was busy with the pliers in his enor- 
 mous mouth. At last, with a terrific jerk, he succeeded. 
 A slow smile came into his face as he looked at the 
 bleeding stump of the broken tooth held in the pliers. 
 
 "That's better !" he said. He pitched it away and held 
 out his hand to Jim Woods. 
 
 "I've took it back, Jim," he said; "me and you 
 friends?" 
 
 Jim nodded, and they gripped hands tightly, but briefly. 
 
 Then the others came to him with their congratula- 
 tions. Jim Woods had taken on a new importance in 
 their eyes, there were many who had been inclined to 
 look down on him but never again ! They were glad 
 that he had never taken umbrage at them what sort of 
 figures would they have made in such a combat? 
 
 His eye smarted and was painful, so were the bruises 
 and the cut lip, but he seemed to feel nothing. He 
 glowed with a sense of exultation. He had fought for 
 her; a knight of old could have done no more. He had 
 fought and bled for her, and surely that made her his 
 girl! 
 
 'Nid took herself to task. She ought not to care; 
 it ought not to matter to her in the slightest whether 
 the man was there or not. Yet it did matter in her 
 lean little chest, under the thin, ragged print blouse, her 
 heart was pounding rapidly. 
 
 Love him the idea had never even entered her head ! 
 She would have scorned it. Love she knew nothing 
 about love, it was something the other girls talked about 
 
 27
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 and for which she had always felt a kind of sneering con- 
 tempt. If love was anything like what these girls spoke 
 of, then she knew she would never love. But the man 
 had spoken to her. She had lied when she had told 
 him that other men had spoken to her. No man ever 
 had; perhaps she was not attractive enough, perhaps it 
 was because she did not give them encouragement. But 
 he had spoken to her, and henceforth he had become dif- 
 ferent from any other man in her eyes. 
 
 She wondered if he would be there she knew he 
 would, something told her he would and what then? 
 They would talk for a few minutes, then part and then 
 to-morrow night. 
 
 It did not make so much difference in her life after all. 
 
 Miss Henderson had found out about the scorched 
 frill. 
 
 "You, 'Nid Foster," she said. "If Miss Clare kicks 
 up a row about that skirt, you'll have to pay, my girl, and 
 it'll cost you ten or twelve shillings if a penny." 
 
 She did not know who 'Miss Clare was, nor did she 
 care. She felt that she hated her. Because Miss Clare 
 objected, or would object, to the slight stain of yellow 
 on the hern of her skirt she, 'Nid Foster, must forgo 
 two- thirds of a week's money. She would have to go 
 hungry next week through Miss Clare. 
 
 The fat woman, Mrs. Melchor, next to her, was panting. 
 It was hotter than usual to-day, the perspiration was 
 running down Mrs. Melchor's fat cheeks in tiny rivulets. 
 She paused now and again to wipe it away. Presently 
 one of the girls screamed out suddenly. She had burned 
 her arm with the edge of a hot iron. The scream ended 
 with an oath. Then the work went on. 
 
 It was headache time now. 'Nid looked at the clock. 
 28
 
 How Jim Woods Fought 
 
 Only half an hour more would he be there? And if he 
 were what then? And if he were not why should 
 she care? 
 
 A funny name for a man what was it? Bevan- 
 wood. She laughed at it. Yes, he was right not to use 
 it, Woods was surely enough. 
 
 Time at last. She rushed to the long narrow room and 
 fought for her hat and coat. She was, usually, one of 
 the first out. And he was there. 
 
 She looked at him and her face turned white, she felt 
 sickened, disgusted. 
 
 "The the beast !" she muttered. "The horrible beast, 
 ugh!" 
 
 She never wanted to speak to him again, never wanted 
 to look at him again. She walked on, she heard his step 
 behind her; then she turned, her sallow little face was 
 flushed, her big eyes sparkled. 
 
 "Never, never speak to me again," she gasped. "I I 
 hate you, I think you are horrible, ugh ! I won't be seen 
 speaking to you ; you are filthy !" She turned away. 
 
 "Enid, won't " 
 
 "Don't you dare use my name!" she shrieked at him. 
 "You a low, common, horrible brute!" She glared at 
 his disfigured face, his blackened eye, his cut lip. 
 
 "I I hate such men as you," she said, "hate them." 
 She turned her thin shoulders on him and walked on, 
 and he stood there looking after her. 
 
 He was conscious of a feeling of desolation, of vile 
 injustice. It was for her, because of her he had received 
 these wounds they were honourable wounds. 
 
 In the old days the lady would have crowned her bat- 
 tered and disfigured and, in all probability, bleeding 
 knight with a wreath of something or other, anyhow a 
 
 29
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 wreath and she she had said spiteful words to him, 
 had turned her slender back on him. He felt angry, 
 hurt. 
 
 "Anyhow, I s'pose I'm not much to look at at the 
 best of times," he muttered. "I s'pose most girls 
 
 wouldn't " He looked after her trim little figure. 
 
 "She's done with me now, I s'pose," he thought. He 
 sighed deeply. It was a romance, his first, probably his 
 last, and it was gone out of his life ended.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ATONEMENT 
 
 A WEEK had passed, a week of days just the same 
 as all other days. Only there had been Sunday 
 Sunday she had lain in bed the whole day long, had 
 stretched her limbs and shut her eyes and had revelled 
 in the luxury of complete idleness. Besides, it was 
 cheaper to stay in bed, one meal sufficed for the whole 
 day; she only wanted to sleep. 
 
 She pitied other girls who dressed themselves up in 
 uncomfortable clothes and went for dreary walks with 
 uninteresting young men ; for her bed. 
 
 She had firmly made up her mind never to speak to 
 Jim Woods again, yet the night after their parting she 
 had glanced across the road just to see if he were there, 
 and he was not there. She felt a little chill of disap- 
 pointment. She was conscious of tears and hated her- 
 self for her weakness. 
 
 "Good riddance," she said aloud, but she did not mean 
 it, and she could not cheat herself. She had told him 
 to go, had said she would never speak to him again, and 
 he had taken her at her word. All men were fools, he 
 the greatest of any. But he had looked horrible she 
 shuddered at the thought of his black eye and swollen lip. 
 
 So the week passed and he came no more, and every 
 evening she glanced across the road and, seeing no one
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 there, she bit her lips a little and forced the tears back, 
 the tears that would come. 
 
 It would have been nice to have had him for a friend. 
 She had no friends, she spoke to no one except Gert 
 Rawlings, and that not much. 
 
 He had come into her life and had gone out of it 
 again. Somehow it made life just a little more lonely 
 for her than it had been before, just a little more if 
 that were possible. 
 
 This morning on her way to the laundry Gert Rawlings 
 caught her up. 
 
 "You're getting proud, ain't you, 'Nid?" she said. 
 
 "Me proud ? I ain't got much to be proud about," Enid 
 said. 
 
 "I don't know, I'd put on a bit of side if chaps got 
 to fighting about me." 
 
 "Chaps?" the other girl asked. 
 
 "Yes, Alf you know Alf Alf Young, my young 
 man, he's working in the carpenters' shed on the new 
 building. He told me Woods the chap's name is Jim 
 Woods Luke Simmonds was saying something about 
 you, something about well, I don't remember, I think 
 it was about -you speaking to any chap who come along, 
 and this chap Woods 'Liar !' he says to Luke " 
 
 'Nid gripped her small hands tightly, a tense look came 
 into her face. 
 
 " 'Dirty liar,' he says, this chap Woods," Gert Rawl- 
 ings went on. 
 
 "And and it was about me?" 'Nid whispered. 
 
 "About you all right. It seems Luke and some of 'era 
 
 see that cnap Woods speaking to you, and they was 
 
 laughing about it. Luke, he says you was the sort of 
 
 girl as 'ud speak to any man who spoke to her though 
 
 32
 
 Atonement 
 
 you ain't, 'Nid, I know that and then this feller Woods, 
 he goes up to Luke with clenched fists and calls him liar!'' 
 Gert paused. "Well, they fought all right!" The girl 
 laughed. "They say that there ain't no one to stand up to 
 Luke, only this feller did stood up to him for ten min- 
 utes and took 'is punishment like a man, and knocked 
 Luke out, what's more, Alf says. So you see, chaps 'as 
 been fighting about you. Lor', there goes the blooming 
 bell!" 
 
 Fighting fighting about her ! And she had not known. 
 Fighting for her! She felt something swell in her 
 breast pride, joy, happiness. Then came grief, horror. 
 After he had fought and bled for her she had insulted 
 him, called him filthy and foul, and turned her back on 
 him! 
 
 "Oh, what does he think of me ?" she moaned. "What 
 does he think of me? He done it for for me, called 
 that Luke a liar for me oh !" She looked across the 
 road to the spot where he had usually waited; he was 
 not there. Would he ever be there again? 
 
 " 'Nid Foster, you're wanted !" 
 
 It was not usual in the middle of the afternoon's work. 
 
 "Me?" 'Nid said. 
 
 "Wanted you come with me!" Miss Henderson said. 
 
 "What's the trouble ?" 'Nid asked. 
 
 "It's Miss Gare, she's come about that there petticoat, 
 and she said she'd like to see the girl what spoiled it." 
 
 "What's she want to see me for ?" 'Nid asked. 
 
 "I don't know, you'd better ask her," Miss Henderson 
 said. 
 
 Miss Gare was in the waiting-room ; she was tall and 
 slender, beautifully dressed. She was young, not more 
 than two or three and twenty, and she was distinctly 
 
 33
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 and obviously very beautiful, with raven-black hair, a 
 white colourless skin and vivid red lips. She looked at 
 'Nid and 'Nid looked at her; there was a suggestion of 
 defiance in 'Nid's eyes. 
 
 Miss Clare laughed. "So you are the the young lady 
 who ruined my petticoat," she said. 
 
 "I'll pay for it if I did," 'Nid said. 
 
 "I am afraid you would find it expensive ; do you know 
 that was real Valenciennes?" 
 
 "I'll pay, anyhow," 'Nid said. 
 
 "But I don't want you to pay; after all, the scorched 
 piece can be carefully taken out." 
 
 "Then why did you want to see me?" 
 
 "Merely curiosity," Miss Clare said. She laughed as 
 she spoke. "I was curious to see the girl who washed 
 my clothes." 
 
 "I don't wash 'em, I only iron 'em," 'Nid said. 
 
 "And scorch them," Miss Clare said. 
 
 "I suppose you've come to get me the sack," 'Nid said. 
 
 "I have come for no such thing, and I don't think I 
 quite like your manners," Miss Clare said. "I really 
 wanted to do something for you, I'd have liked to have 
 helped you." 
 
 "I don't want no help." 
 
 "If you don't wish to speak to this girl any more, 
 Miss Clare, she had better go back to her work," Miss 
 Henderson said. 
 
 Miss Clare nodded. "You're a funny little thing. You 
 almost made me cross, but not quite see, I'll shake hands 
 with you." % She held out a very delicately gloved hand. 
 
 'Nid glanced at it, her cheeks burned suddenly; there 
 was a suggestion of insult in the other woman, patron- 
 age. It seemed as if Miss Clare were suggesting that 
 34
 
 Atonement 
 
 she was descending from a great height by holding out 
 her hand to a common laundry girl. 
 
 "I don't think, if you don't mind, I'll shake 'ands," 
 'Nid said. "I I don't shake 'ands much." She turned 
 and went out. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Miss Clare " Miss Henderson began. 
 
 "What a funny little soul, and how beautiful!" Miss 
 Clare said. 
 
 "Bea beautiful, 'Nid Foster her!" Miss Henderson 
 gasped. 
 
 "My good woman, yes. Where are your eyes ? Eyes, 
 I say! Haven't you seen her eyes? They are the sort 
 
 of eyes a man " She paused. "And her mouth. 
 
 She is only a child yet, wait beautiful !" She laughed. 
 "She is something more, she is extraordinary. She's got 
 a face to remember, to dream about ; those eyes and that 
 mouth of hers, and and that colouring, the expression ! 
 You're not an artist, Miss Henderson." 
 
 "Me? No; I run a laundry," Miss Henderson said. 
 
 "As for beauty " She looked at Miss Clare with 
 
 frank admiration. 
 
 "I'm a woman," Miss Clare said. "But even though 
 I am a woman I can see beauty in other women and 
 appreciate it. I have never seen a girl with a face quite 
 
 like this one's before. I tell you She paused and 
 
 shrugged her shoulders ; after all, why waste her enthu- 
 siasm on this log? And Miss Henderson was a log. 
 
 "Don't trouble any further about that skirt," she said. 
 "It's all right, but I am glad I came. I am glad I saw 
 that girl. She is something out of the common, and, 
 remember what I say, beautiful !" 
 
 Miss Henderson smiled. So long as Miss Clare did 
 not make a fuss about the skirt, that was the main thing. 
 
 35
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 And he had fought and bled for her, and she had 
 insulted him. 'Nid's heart swelled. Would he be there 
 to-night, would he? He was not there; she felt a sense 
 of sickening disappointment. No, he was not there, 
 would never come there again. She would never see 
 him again, and she wanted to wanted to tell him that 
 she was sorry, wanted to thank him. She felt a great 
 longing to humble herself to him somehow, in some way 
 how, she did not know. But he was not there, and 
 was never likely to come again. He had taken her dis- 
 missal literally. 
 
 She went home, she made herself tea, boiling the 
 water on an oil-stove that had a peculiar smell of its 
 own. She never disliked the smell of the oil-stove, 
 it was so different from the smell of the laundry. It 
 was even pleasant as a change. She cut two slices 
 of thick bread and butter and neglected to eat them. 
 
 She would never see him again, he would never 
 come back to her. But she was in fault, it was her 
 duty to make amends. She was a generous little soul 
 at heart; realising that she was in fault, she was eager 
 to ask pardon. When she wished to atone there was 
 no limit to her atonement, no lengths to which she 
 would not go to prove her contrition. 
 
 If he demanded it, she would go down on her knees 
 and grovel to him. Was it not in her defence, in her 
 honour, that he had acquired that blackened eye, that 
 cut lip, that puffed and swollen face? 
 
 She could not rest to-night; she did not know where 
 he lived, had not the faintest idea, but she went out. 
 If he did not come to see her, then she must go and 
 seek him. She did not usually go out. Sometimes she 
 read a little, then she went to bed. She was always glad 
 36
 
 Atonement 
 
 to go to bed, to ease her aching legs and her burning, 
 tired feet. 
 
 She went out. She shuddered a little as men passed 
 her; she drew back to avoid them. She did not know 
 which way to go, but she accepted it all as part of her 
 atonement. Much, much rather would she have been 
 in her own room, lying in her bed, finishing the last 
 chapter of the book Gert Rawlings had lent her. But 
 she had to find him. 
 
 It was curious that she did find him. He stood outside 
 the door of a picture palace, the light full on him. He 
 seemed to be hesitating whether to go in or not. Then 
 she touched his arm, and he turned and looked down 
 at her. 
 
 "I I've been looking for you," she said. 
 
 "Why?" he asked. 
 
 "To to tell you I'm sorry very sorry and and 
 ashamed." 
 
 "Why?" he said again, yet his face lighted up. The 
 puffiness was gone, there was still a suggestion of alien 
 colour about the eye, but the swollen lip was not notice- 
 able. 
 
 "I I was told some one told me " She hesi- 
 tated, a burning flush came into her face. 
 
 "What the fight was about?" 
 
 "Yes. About me. I know how it was, you you 
 stood up for me, and I I turned against you. I hate 
 
 myself " Her voice thrilled with passion. "It wasn't 
 
 fair." 
 
 "No, it wasn't fair, was it?" he said; "but then you 
 didn't know." 
 
 "And I I want you to know I am sorry and and 
 ashamed, and I'd do anything to prove it." 
 
 37
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Anything?" he said. He stooped and peered into her 
 face. She flinched, but faced him bravely. She nodded. 
 
 "Anything's a lot a a great deal." He gripped her 
 arm; the pain almost made her wince. "Still, I'll test 
 you," he said. "Will you marry me be my wife?" 
 
 She still stared at him; she felt as if the solid ground 
 beneath her had given way suddenly, that it was only 
 his grip on her arm that was holding her up. 
 
 Still, she had said it, and she never, never was a liar; 
 she had said "anything." 
 
 "I am asking too much," he said. "I thought I would, 
 but you said 'anything.' " 
 
 "And and I mean it," she said. "Yes, I said anything. 
 I'll marry you if you want it, I'll be your wife." 
 
 "You mean that?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 She knew what it meant to her it meant that some- 
 how all her dreams, the curious fancies that had been 
 part of herself, must die now. Her future was no 
 longer a mysterious, unknown quantity, a dim future full 
 of vague possibilities. She would marry him, go and 
 live in some small cottage; probably later she would go 
 back to the laundry and work like Mother Melchor and 
 the rest did. There would always be the rent to pay, 
 then later he might take to drink most men did. He 
 might hurt her and knock her about. The wonderful, 
 unreal dreams that might yet have come true must end. 
 She had said "anything," and he had taken her at her 
 word. 
 
 Almost unconsciously she let him draw her into the 
 picture house; they sat side by side in the darkness. 
 
 " 'Nid," he whispered, "would you tell me one thing?" 
 
 "Yes, what is it?" 
 38
 
 Atonement 
 
 He hesitated. "I I mean would you " He 
 
 paused. "It's this, you don't care, you I mean you 
 don't love me, do you?" 
 
 "No," she said simply. 
 
 "And yet you'll marry me?" 
 
 "I said so." 
 
 "If you'd rather not " he said. 
 
 "I said I would and I will I said I'd do anything," 
 she muttered passionately. "You you thought you'd 
 prove me, you thought I wouldn't do as I said; well, 
 you haven't proved me. I'll marry you when you like." 
 
 Neither looked at the pictures. Now and again he 
 muttered to her some confidence about his wages, his 
 prospects, something the foreman had said. He discussed 
 their future home, a cottage in a certain street he knew of. 
 
 She listened without enthusiasm. She was realising 
 that in some way she had cut herself off from the future 
 that might have been. She closed her eyes and saw 
 an impossible blue sea with white specks on it. Still, 
 she could never understand what the white specks meant. 
 She saw an equally blue sky with a great yellow pillow 
 of a cloud suspended in it. Not for her, never for her. 
 Only some cottage in one of these back streets, toil, rent 
 day, the laundry again when she was old and fat like 
 Mother Melchor. It was all gone, the dreams; but the 
 hunger was there still, the hunger for the vague, un- 
 known life of which she knew nothing, would never 
 know anything now. 
 
 He saw her home; he stood outside the door of the 
 lodging-house where she lived; he held her thin, bony 
 hand tightly and bent to her ; he kissed her on the cheek 
 and looked eagerly into her eyes. He prayed inwardly, 
 though he did not know it, that that kiss might mean 
 
 39
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 the birth of love, might awaken the soul in her but 
 it did not. 
 
 She went upstairs, locked the door of her room, and 
 
 threw herself down on the bed. She felt too tired to 
 
 undress she ached from head to foot. She had not 
 
 lighted the candle, and she lay there staring into the 
 
 -darkness. 
 
 "I've missed everything," she said, "everything ! I 
 don't know what I've done or what I've missed. Only 
 it seems as if there's nothing left now nothing." She 
 flung out her hands with a sharp cry of pain. It was 
 like the cry of the girl when she had burned her bare 
 arm with the hot iron. 
 
 40
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE NEW HOME 
 
 '*VTID rose early, as she always did. There was a 
 i. ^i weight on her mind, a sense of oppression. Some- 
 thing had gone wrong with her life. She was going to be 
 married, yes, that was it. 
 
 She thought of Mrs. Melchor who worked next to her 
 in the laundry. Mrs. Melchor was married. She was 
 perhaps forty, and she looked sixty. She was worn and 
 harried, life was hideous to her; so it would be with her 
 presently. Marriage seemed to spoil everything. It was 
 hateful to be married. 
 
 The man himself that she was going to marry played 
 a very small part in the girl's thoughts. She hardly knew 
 him, she did not know if she liked him. She thought 
 not. Last night he had kissed her ; she rubbed her cheek 
 vigorously as though to rub away the taint, the re- 
 membrance of it. 
 
 Deep down in her heart was a world of romance, 
 though she did not know it. She had read nothing 
 worth reading, she knew nothing about handsome young 
 princes who rescued beggar maidens and lifted them 
 up to share their thrones. She knew nothing of this, 
 yet the instinct was there. She felt that something ought 
 to come into her life to change it utterly. But as it was, 
 she would simply drift into marriage ; in a little time she 
 would become as Mrs. Melchor and the others, old, ugly, 
 
 41
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 worn out before her time, shapeless and fat perhaps, 
 though Heaven knew what Mrs. Melchor got fat on. 
 
 She went to the laundry and her work ; the other girls 
 said "Good-morning" to her. 
 
 "Hello, 'Nid!" Gertie Rawlings said, "what's up? 
 You look as if you'd lost a shilling and found six- 
 pence." 
 
 She kept her secret to herself she was not proud of 
 it. She expected that the other girls would laugh at 
 her and sneer. Marry she was very young to marry, 
 wasn't she? She knew nothing about marriage. Her 
 mother had been dead years ; she had lived alone without 
 companions of her own age. She never listened to the 
 light talk of other girls. 
 
 Marriage meant nothing to her except a kind of prison 
 in which, pent up, she would grow old and ugly and 
 tired to death before her time. 
 
 He was waiting for her that evening, waiting boldly. 
 He stepped across the road and came straight to her, 
 unmindful of the stares and the giggling of the others. 
 
 There was an air of possession about him, his honest 
 face glowed, he walked with his head held high. 
 
 This was his girl and they were going to be married 
 soon. Only last night he had studied his Post Office 
 Savings Bank book, and the catalogue of a furnishing 
 business. 
 
 He would just about manage it without getting into 
 debt. He told 'Nid about it, but she was not inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "I'll be getting a rise soon," he said ; "and we'll man- 
 age finely, E-nid." 
 
 "Yes !" she said. "And me, I suppose I'll stay at the 
 laundry?" 
 42
 
 The New Home 
 
 "You? No," he said; "my wife won't have to work 
 for her living, I'll see to that." 
 
 Not at first perhaps; but later oh, yes, she was sure 
 to have to come back later, they all did. 
 
 "Haven't you got nobody in the world, 'Nid?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Nobody," she said. 
 
 "Not an uncle nor an aunt, nor anything?" 
 
 "Nobody!" 
 
 "More have I, that I know of there's some rela- 
 tions of my father somewhere, only I never seen them," 
 he said; "and they never seen me, so we won't worry 
 about them. I expect we'll get on without relations all 
 right." 
 
 He took her unresisting hand and drew it through his 
 arm; his homely face glowed with pride as he walked 
 down the street beside her. 
 
 "How'd it be if we was to arrange to get married on 
 your seventeenth birthday?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't mind," she said wearily. "It's all the same 
 to me." 
 
 They went to a picture palace, but she did not enjoy 
 it at all. He insisted on holding her hand, even when 
 the lights were turned up. Something, she did not know 
 what it was, prevented her from drawing it away. 
 
 " 'Nid, I've seen a little house, just the place for us ; 
 it's in Pent Street," he said. "It's only six and six, and 
 they are willing to do it all up new." 
 
 "Oh !" she said. 
 
 "What do you think about it ?" he asked eagerly. 
 
 "I daresay it'll do as well as any other," she said. 
 
 "But you ought to have some say in it, 'Nid," he 
 said. 
 
 43
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "I don't mind you know best; we got to live some- 
 where, I suppose," she said wearily. 
 
 He met her again the next night and the next. The 
 other girls chaffed her about it. 
 
 'Nid Foster had a young man at last. No one en- 
 vied her her young man he was homely and plain. 
 "Not my style," they said ; "and manners ; he don't even 
 take his 'at off when he sees her : look at Alf and Bert, 
 they've got manners if you like !" 
 
 It was not until two weeks later that it leaked out that 
 'Nid was going to be married. 
 
 The girls accepted it as a kind of joke ; Mrs. Melchor 
 sniffed. 
 
 "A kid like 'er!" she said; "why, she ain't seventeen 
 yet. Married if she knew as much about it as I did !" 
 She sniffed again "I 'ate the sight of men, I do. I 
 
 was 'appy when I was a gel; now " She thumped 
 
 her iron down on the ironing board. "I 'ate the very 
 sight of men," she repeated. "Beer and grub and grub 
 and beer, that's all they think of." 
 
 Gertie Rawlings questioned her. 
 
 "I s'pose you've fell in love with 'im. 'Nid, though 
 what you see in 'im I don't know, nor does any of the 
 others. Of course he ain't bad, and he seems quiet and 
 sober enough; but any'ow, there's no accounting for 
 love." 
 
 "I don't love 5 im," 'Nid said angrily, "I don't love 
 nobody, Gert." 
 
 "Then wJiat are you marrying 'im for?" 
 
 "I don't know," the girl said. 
 
 "But there's got to be some reason." 
 
 "Well, he asked me. I didn't treat him fair and I 
 44
 
 The New Home 
 
 said I'd make it up and do anything he liked, so he said, 
 'marry me/ and I promised." 
 
 Gert laughed. 
 
 "Well, you're a rum one, you are, 'Nid," she said. 
 "And so you're going to marry 'im just because 'e wants 
 it and not because you do." 
 
 "That's it," 'Nid said shortly. She turned away. 
 
 "You might 'ave picked a chap with some looks and 
 manners, any'ow," Gert called after her. 
 
 "Pick !" She had not picked at all ; the man had picked 
 her. She did not want to marry him nor any one else, 
 but the thought never came to her to cry off, to beg Jim 
 Woods to release her. She had promised, and instinc- 
 tively she regarded her promise as sacred. Besides, she 
 had ill-treated and misjudged him, and owed him repara- 
 tion. So it must go on, of course. 
 
 And now the time was getting very short. The banns 
 had been published in church. 'Nid had insisted on being 
 married in church her mother had been married in 
 church. 
 
 "I don't hold with registry offices," she said. 
 
 Nor did he ; in his heart he thought it more fitting that 
 they should be married in church. And in a week's time 
 they would be man and wife. He was waiting for her 
 to-night with the light of a great eagerness in his face. 
 
 He took her hand and held it and then tucked it into 
 his arm. 
 
 " 'Nid," he said, "I got something to tell you." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "We'll go and 'ave a bit of tea at Menker's," he said, 
 "round the corner; after that " He paused. 
 
 She walked on; she was not impressed by his excite- 
 ment. Outside Menker's there was a large hoarding, on 
 
 45
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 the hoarding were advertisements. .One caught her eye; 
 it was a railway company's advertisement advertising a 
 cheap trip to a well-known seaside place. There was 
 a view of the place, the usual blue sky and the blue sea. 
 
 "A reg'lar Rickett's blue," she thought as she stared 
 at it. There was a suggestion of landscape in brilliant 
 yellows, browns and greens. She stood staring at it it 
 held her eyes. There was a suggestion of glorious sun- 
 shine* about it, crude as it was. She felt something move 
 within her, a desire, yearning, hunger for something 
 something that she had repressed for so long now. 
 
 "Come on, *Nid," he said; "what are you staring at?" 
 
 "What's them white spots they always put on the 
 sea ?" she asked. 
 
 "That ?" he said he looked at the pictures. "Oh, that's 
 foam, I s'pose." 
 
 "Foam," she said; "you mean like suds?" 
 
 He nodded. "Something like that ; it's when the waves 
 break the top turns white like suds." 
 
 "I often wondered," she said. She turned into the 
 shop, but took one glance back at the picture. 
 
 Sea, sunshine, colour a riot of colour. She was 
 panting a little as if she had run far ; that was what she 
 wanted sea and sunshine and colour, the breath of flow- 
 ers, brightness, glitter, some other life, a life that she 
 had never known. And yet, curiously enough, she had 
 some vague sense of remembering that other life. 
 
 She had never seen the sea in her life, yet she felt that 
 she knew what it was like. 
 
 N "Jim," she said, "if you was to dip a cup into the sea 
 and fetch out some water, would it look blue inside the 
 cup, just like the blue we puts the clothes in?" 
 
 He laughed. "No, it wouldn't. It isn't naturally blue 
 46
 
 The New Home 
 
 at all, it's just clear like water in that bottle; it's the 
 
 blue sky as makes the sea look blue reflection " He 
 
 paused. " 'Nid, I've got something to show you to- 
 night " 
 
 "What's that ?" She spoke without curiosity. 
 
 "It's that little home; I took it and it's been done up. 
 I got the furniture all ready; rent starts from to-day: 
 it's mine ours now." 
 
 She did not feel elated. She knew Pent Street she 
 had to pass through Pent Street twice every day of her 
 life. It was a mean, narrow, unlovely thoroughfare like 
 most other streets in the neighbourhood. 
 
 "I want you to come and see it this evenin', 'Nid," he 
 said. "It's all ready, just as it'll look on our wedding- 
 day when I take you home." 
 
 "I'll come!" she said. 
 
 She paid for her own tea on that she always insisted. 
 Whenever she went with him to a picture palace or had 
 a meal, as now, she paid for herself. He remonstrated 
 at first and then gave way. He had asked one of the 
 men at the carpenter's shed how he managed when he 
 went out with his girl. 
 
 "Do you pay, or does she ?" he asked. 
 
 "Her pay !" the man laughed. "I'd like to see her ; 
 not she ! No girl ever pays for herself when a chap 
 cakes her out." 
 
 But 'Nid did 'Nid was different; somehow he felt 
 pleased to think that 'Nid was different from other girls. 
 
 Coming out 'Nid took another long, lingering glance 
 at the railway poster. 
 
 "I often wondered what them white marks were," 
 she muttered ; "now I know it's suds." 
 
 47
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 It was not far to Pent Street; they walked quickly 
 because he was eager and enthusiastic. 
 
 He felt proud of the new home it represented the 
 spending of some years of savings. He was glad to 
 think that he never drank and only smoked a very little. 
 If he had drunk and smoked a great deal he would not 
 have saved the money. 
 
 "This is it," he said; and his voice shook with pride. 
 
 The girl looked up at the house; there was not much 
 of it to look at a door newly painted brilliant green, 
 but with the old paint, blistered and scarred, left under. 
 There was one window to the right of the door, two 
 windows above that was all. 
 
 He opened the door with his key and they went in. 
 
 The door opened into a sitting-room a box of a room. 
 He had purchased what was catalogued as a "dining- 
 room suite in saddlebag." It already looked a little dusty ; 
 there were four small chairs, two armchairs and a couch. 
 They more than filled the room to get round the table 
 one had to edge sideways. 
 
 Two of the chairs were already showing signs of col- 
 lapse, their back legs unsteady. The man who had 
 moved the things had told Jim in confidence how the 
 rolls on the arms of the armchairs and the back of the 
 couch were made. 
 
 "You take empty ginger beer bottles," he said, "and 
 roll them round with rags that's the foundation. The 
 rest of it's mostly seaweed." 
 
 He looked at her now, eagerly and expectantly. He 
 half expected her to break out into little cries of rapture. 
 But she diet not. 
 
 "It looks too full, somehow, don't it? There's too 
 many things." Which showed her good sense. 
 48
 
 The New Home 
 
 "It'll be all right when you get used to it, 'Nid; be- 
 sides, we could shove some of the chairs into the back 
 room as it won't be wanted." 
 
 They went into the kitchen, and she nodded. 
 
 "It's all right," she said unenthusiastically. "Only 
 them tin saucepans won't last long; you ought to have 
 got iron." 
 
 "I didn't know," he said heavily. "I daresay we'll 
 pick up an iron saucepan or two." 
 
 He led the way up the narrow stairs to the bedroom. 
 
 'Nid looked about her. The room faced the street; 
 the painted chest of drawers and the washstand were neat 
 and clean. There was a rug beside the bed on the floor ; 
 the bed itself looked large, she thought she said so. 
 
 "But it's the right size," he said; "I asked and " 
 
 'Nid nodded. "What's this to be your room or 
 mine?" she asked. 
 
 He started, he turned red, he looked at her; her face 
 was utterly unconscious. 
 
 "Yours, I expect," she said slowly. "The bed's so big." 
 
 Jim did not answer ; he walked to the window and stood 
 staring out into Pent Street. 
 
 A child after all, only a child, not yet seventeen ! He 
 did not look at her he stared into Pent Street. 
 
 "It's yours," he said; "any any old shake-down'll do 
 for me. I thought of fitting up that there empty back 
 room it'll do for me all right, 'Nid." 
 
 "Them things in my rooms belong to me," she said; 
 "I could have 'em moved here. The back room 'ud do 
 for me then with my own things somehow it 'ud seem 
 a bit 'omelike." 
 
 "Just as you like," he said briefly. 
 
 49
 
 CHAPTER V 
 "POOR LITTLE KID!" 
 
 THEY were married. 'Nid's eyes roamed about the 
 church. The service seemed interminably long to 
 her. She hardly listened to it. At one point Jim put a 
 ring on her finger ; she looked at it and twisted it about. 
 
 "Jim, that ain't gold, not real gold?" she asked him 
 afterwards. 
 
 He shoofc his head. "No, the things cost so much, 
 'Nid. One day I'll give you a real gold one; they called 
 this rolled gold that's another name for brass, I s'pose. 
 But I'll give you another one, a real gold one, one day." 
 
 "It don't matter, it don't make no difference, I sup- 
 pose," she said. 
 
 Yesterday she had left the Snowflake Laundry. One 
 day she would go back, she was sure of that. Every 
 one went back. Mrs. Melchor and Mrs. Nichols and Mrs. 
 Marken they were married and they had gone back, so 
 would she one day. Some of the girls kissed her when 
 they said good-bye ; they had never kissed her before. 
 
 Gert Rawlings hugged her tightly. "Good luck, dearie !" 
 she said. "I daresay he's all right, even if he ain't much 
 to look at. Very likely it's the plain ones as make the 
 best husbands. Anyway, he's not one for the beershops. 
 Alf told me that, and that's somethink, goodness knows." 
 
 So she had left. This morning early she had seen her 
 goods and chattels removed to the little house in Pent 
 50
 
 "Poor Little Kid!" 
 
 Street. She had arranged her own room. She had with 
 her own money, her last wages, laid in a small stock of 
 provisions bread, butter, bacon, yellow soap, soda, 
 matches, and a pound of steak. She was not sure but 
 that she ought to have ordered two pounds; she under- 
 stood that men ate a great deal. 
 
 And now they were married and were going home to- 
 gether. Jim was silent ; now and again he looked at her. 
 
 "I didn't wish you many 'appy returns of the day, 
 'Nid," he said. 
 
 She laughed. "Of my birthday, or wedding-day, Jim?" 
 she said. 
 
 "Birthday," he said briefly. 
 
 Now he sat in the little kitchen and watched her. He 
 too had the day off. She was cooking the steak over the 
 oil-stove, her own; the smell of it reminded her of her 
 rooms, her home, the only one she had known. 
 
 Watching her, he began to find time hanging heavily 
 on his hands; the long, long afternoon and evening lay 
 before them. He almost wished himself back in the 
 carpenters' shop. The girl was thinking of the work at 
 the "Snowflake." It seemed so wonderful that she was 
 not there, and would not be there to-morrow, nor the 
 next day, nor the next wonderful. 
 
 'Nid made gravy she poured some water into the 
 frying-pan in which the steak had been cooked and let 
 it frizzle on the stove, then she poured some over his 
 share and some over her own. 
 
 "You're a cook; I never see that trick before," he 
 said; "you are cleverer than I thought, 'Nid in some 
 things," he added slowly. 
 
 They both tried to spin out the meal as much as possi-
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 ble. They wondered what they should do when it was 
 over. It was barely half-past one yet. 
 
 They could not make it last longer than ten minutes past 
 two, even though he broke up bread in small pieces and 
 sopped his gravy with it and lingered over the operation. 
 'Nid got up and put a kettle on to boil on the oil-stove. 
 
 "For washing up," she said. 
 
 "Mind me smoking, 'Nid?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. "All the same if I did," she said ; 
 "only I don't." 
 
 "I don't smoke in the daytime as a rule, only to-day's 
 different." He sat and smoked his pipe. 
 
 Half-past two what a day ! Would it never end ? He 
 fidgeted a little. 
 
 "I I've been thinking if I popped out there's some of 
 my tools I might get and bring back and put on the 
 oilstone," he said. "It 'ud be something to do." 
 
 "All right," she said; she did not turn her head as 
 she washed up in the sink. 
 
 Jim drew a long sigh of relief as he stepped out into 
 Pent Street. 
 
 "Clever and pretty," he muttered; "knows a deal, 
 wonderful what she knows and and don't know." 
 
 He walked to the carpenters' shed and stood looking 
 at the others working. 
 
 One man looked up. "Hello, Woods!" he said. "I 
 see you with a bit of a girl this morning; who's she?" 
 
 "Oh, her " Jim said. He paused. 
 
 "Your girl, or 'ave you adopted 'er or what ?" the other 
 man asked. 
 
 Jim smiled 'slowly. "That's it, I fancy, ad-opted her," 
 he said. 
 
 "Looks about fifteen," the man said. 
 52
 
 "Poor Little Kid!" 
 
 "Seventeen to-day it's 'er birthday." 
 
 "Oh, I s'pose you was taking her out to give 'er a treat. 
 This bit o' timber's got a shake in it from end to end," he 
 added. 
 
 Jim hung about the shed till nearly five, then he went 
 home. The long evening was before them at any rate 
 there were the picture palaces, but that would be an ex- 
 pense if they had to go there every night; still to-night 
 was their wedding-day. 
 
 She had tea ready ; it looked comfortable and cosy he 
 began to doubt about the picture palace after all. But 
 after tea she turned to the sink. "That's the worst of 
 meals, there's always washing up !" she said. She yawned 
 a little wearily. 
 
 "How about the pictures, 'Nid?" he asked. 
 
 "If you like " 
 
 They went out ; he wanted her to take his arm, but she 
 would not. 
 
 "Just as if I can't walk alone," she said. 
 
 "Anyway, I can pay for you now," he said with a 
 note of triumph in his voice. 
 
 "I suppose so," the girl said. "I shan't be earning 
 nothing now." 
 
 The little house looked dark and rather lonely when 
 they got back. Jim lighted the lamp. 
 
 "Tired?" he asked. 
 
 She nodded. "Dead tired ; it's been a long day, I think 
 I'll get off." She paused. "Good-night, Jim." 
 
 He got up and went to her. "Good-night, 'Nid," he 
 said. "Ain't you going to kiss me?" 
 
 "I s'pose so," she said wearily. She held up her face ; 
 he kissed her cheek. 
 
 53
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Good-night, Kid," he said. "That's what I think I'll 
 call you in future Kid." 
 
 She laughed. "Good-night, Jim." 
 
 He went back and sat down on the new Windsor chair 
 and stared at the lighted lamp, but he did not notice that 
 the wick was turned too high and that the smoke was 
 making a black patch on the ceiling. 
 
 "Funny thing, life," he muttered. 
 
 "I don't know that Mason weren't right a-dopted, 
 that's the word," he laughed softly. "Poor little kid!" 
 he said. 
 
 He sat there for an hour, then rose. He turned out 
 the lamp and went upstairs; outside her door he paused 
 and listened. The door was ajar ; he could hear her regu- 
 lar, soft breathing she was fast asleep. He went into 
 his own room. 
 
 "Dead tired," he muttered. "And it's latish. I've got 
 to be at the works at six in the morning." 
 
 54
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE PASSING OF SIR HAROLD 
 
 THE doctor's face was very grave as he came into 
 the morning-room ; the girl rose eagerly to greet him. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I am afraid, 'Miss Clare, there is absolutely no hope, 
 the desire to live is gone. It is the shock, the terrible 
 shock. Think of it, the two both of them so young, so 
 full of life, so promising, the beginning and the ending 
 of all things to him. The awful shock of it one can 
 
 understand, poor old fellow poor old man " He 
 
 paused. 
 
 "Then you do not think that Sir Harold can possibly 
 live?" the girl asked. 
 
 "He will not live ; he will die because he wishes to die. 
 He was never a strong man; he lived in his children. 
 They have both been taken from him the blow is more 
 than he can bear. He wishes to die he told me so with 
 his own lips and he will." 
 
 The girl moved across the pleasant, old-fashioned 
 room; she looked out into a garden, a garden gorgeous 
 with flowers. Standing there in the window embrasure 
 she could see the old clipped yew walk that was one of 
 the glories of Bevanwood. The Sussex guide book had 
 it that this clipped yew walk at Bevanwood was one of 
 the finest and most complete in existence. 
 
 The same guide book also had it that "Bevanwood, the 
 
 55
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 seat of Sir Harold Bevanwood, Bart., was commenced in 
 the reign of Mary by Sir Walter Bevanwood, who was 
 responsible for the main building and the west wing. The 
 east wing, however, was completed by Sir Ambrose 
 Bevanwood in the reign of James the First. Visitors are 
 admitted on certain days on presentation of their cards, 
 and particular attention is drawn to the admirable ex- 
 amples of Sir Peter Lely and Van Dyck in the long cor- 
 ridor, the Hogarths, Gainsboroughs, Raeburns arid 
 Reynolds in the picture gallery in the west wing, also 
 the fine Dutch collection, including a superb Matsys, be- 
 lieved to be the best example of this master, equalling 
 even that at present in Windsor Castle ; this and others 
 are to be seen in the large dining-hall." 
 
 There" was much other interesting information in the 
 guide. The girl stared out across the garden; the doc- 
 tor was drawing his gloves on slowly, gazing at her 
 slender back with a curious smile on his face. 
 
 "Oh, there's Geoffrey!" she said suddenly. 
 
 "Your brother?" 
 
 "Yes, I sent him a wire last night ; he has lost no time 
 in coming I told him about poor Hugh and Ralph, and 
 and uncle poor uncle, it is a blow to us all." 
 
 "Of course." The doctor paused. "You call Sir 
 Harold uncle, but " 
 
 "No, he is not our uncle really; we are distantly re- 
 lated, very distantly, I believe. Yet it seems that after 
 all we are now the nearest, practically the only relatives 
 he had." 
 
 "Then theyoung gentleman coming up the drive at 
 this moment will in all probability be master of these 
 broad acres ere long?" 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Yes." A flush came into her cheeks. 
 56
 
 The Passing of Sir Harold 
 
 "It must be so. The property is all strictly entailed; I 
 don't think there is another living relative excepting 
 Geoffrey and myself." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Miss Clare." 
 
 She started and turned suddenly. A man stood in the 
 doorway, thin, dapper, clad in black, the very type of the 
 legal practitioner. 
 
 "I beg your pardon for interrupting you and for, I 
 am afraid, dashing your hopes a little possibly I may be 
 wrong, but you must not forget that there was James 
 Bevanwood, James Curtis Bevanwood, your uncle's 
 younger brother " 
 
 "He is dead many years " 
 
 Mr. Aswell nodded. "Possibly, possibly. Yet he may 
 have married and left an heir; that we must discover. 
 As you say, the estates are strictly entailed and " 
 
 There was a tap on the door, a nurse stood there. 
 She beckoned anxiously to the doctor, he turned and 
 went out of the room. 
 
 "I was saying," Mr. Aswell said, "we must satisfy 
 ourselves that James Curtis Bevanwood left no direct 
 heir; if not, then, of course Again he was in- 
 terrupted, this time by a young man, a very good-looking 
 young man. He was tall, slender, exquisitely dressed, a 
 young man with fair curling hair that he wore a shade 
 too long. He also wore a large silk bow for a tie in 
 the manner of the Quartier Latin. His hands were beau- 
 tifully soft, white and delicate. His voice matched his 
 hands exactly, as did his eyes, wonderful blue eyes for 
 a man. 
 
 "I had your wire, Sheila," he said. "I came at 
 
 once " He spoke softly, in a dreamy voice. "Poor 
 
 uncle, poor Hugh, poor Ralph! How truly shocking!" 
 
 57
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 The keen little lawyer looked at him ; there was a lack 
 of warmth, of sincerity about the young man, and his 
 hard eyes took it in. 
 
 "It was thoughtful of you to wire me, Sheila; of 
 course I came at once. I even put Lady Alice off. The 
 
 'sitting was to have been this morning " He sighed. 
 
 "Death," he said; "it is very terrible." His eyes 
 wandered round the room. They seemed to be taking in 
 and appraising every article it held. There was that 
 about him which said "This and all else will soon be 
 mine, but for decency's sake I must not exult openly." 
 
 And the little lawyer, keen eyed as a ferret, watched 
 him and understood. Yes, he took it all in. 
 
 "The the news was so sudden, so terribly unex- 
 pected, such a shock," Miss Clare said. 
 
 "A feahful blow " he said, "feah-ful." For which 
 
 the lawyer hated him. 
 
 "And how how is the poor old fellow?" Geoffrey 
 Clare asked. 
 
 The door opened, the doctor had come in. He glanced 
 at the newcomer. 
 
 "You were asking," he said, "how my patient is. Miss 
 Clare it is my melancholy duty to tell you and this 
 gentleman, your brother, that Sir Harold Bevanwood has 
 passed away."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 "THE THING OF HER DREAMS" 
 
 SIX weeks had made a wonderful difference. Miss 
 Henderson, meeting Enid in the street one day, 
 stared at her with almost unbelieving eyes. Into Miss 
 Henderson's somewhat harassed mind there came back 
 Miss Clare's words "I tell you, that girl is beautiful!" 
 And Miss Henderson had not believed her. 
 
 Yet, Enid was not beautiful even now, in Miss Hen- 
 derson's estimation. To be thoroughly and entirely 
 beautiful Miss Henderson decided that fair, curling, 
 golden hair and very large blue eyes were absolute es- 
 sentials. 'Nid had neither. 
 
 "Anyhow, she's uncommon looking and strange," she 
 said. "Queer looking I call her, with her funny looking 
 eyes." 
 
 She stopped and spoke to 'Nid, she even unbent to 
 shake hands. 
 
 "I hope you're getting along well and you're happy," 
 she said. 
 
 "I'm getting on all right," 'Nid said. As to being 
 happy she did not know. If having little or nothing to 
 do and having plenty to eat constituted happiness, then 
 she was happy. 
 
 But her mind was groping for something else, some- 
 thing different, something that was not merely food and 
 idleness. 
 
 59
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 But there had been one vivid splash of the purest hap- 
 piness in 'Nid's life. Two Sundays ago Jim had taken 
 her to the sea on a day's trip. She had seen the sea, 
 had stood staring with great, wide, wondering eyes at 
 the things she had dreamed so often and so much about. 
 
 It was not in the least like the pictures she had seen 
 on the hoardings. It was a grey day with a chill wind 
 blowing; the sea had looked a greenish, greyish brown 
 rather than blue. But it satisfied her, more than satisfied 
 her. 
 
 They had left London at six in the morning, they had 
 gone down in a railway carriage built to seat ten. There 
 had been sixteen of them wedged in the carriage some- 
 how. There had been other girls in the carriage beside 
 herself. There had been much shrieking and giggling and 
 laughing. Most of the girls had performed the journey 
 seated on the knees of the young men. 
 
 'Nid had hated the journey, had wondered if it would 
 never come to an end, had wished that she had not come. 
 She felt tired and cold and hungry, and strangely sleepy ; 
 and then she saw the sea and she forgot everything. 
 She was stricken dumb. She stood shivering a little, 
 but it was not the touch of the cold wind. It was some- 
 thing else, dim memories that could not be memories after 
 all, because in all her life she had never seen the sea. 
 In all her life, yes, that was it. But was this one life all 
 everything? 
 
 With these two eyes of hers she was looking on the 
 sea for the first time and yet it seemed in no way strange 
 to her. It was like the face of an old friend a friend 
 dimly, very, very dimly remembered. 
 
 It was not in the least like those highly coloured post- 
 ers, those which she called "Rikitt's Blue" posters. It 
 60
 
 "The Thing of Her Dreams" 
 
 was different, and because it was different it satisfied 
 her. 
 
 She scarcely spoke a word the day long; she walked 
 along the edge of the sea lost in dreams. The wind 
 brought the colour into her cheeks, brought a new glo- 
 rious light into her eyes. It caught her hair and tore it 
 free and Jim looked at her and wondered. This was a 
 new 'Nid, a creature he did not know. 
 
 He spoke to her and she did not seem to hear, for she 
 never answered him. For him it was rather a disap- 
 pointing day. She refused to go on to the pier, she 
 refused to take a trip on the cliff railway, even she re- 
 fused to go to a shop in a little side street and partake 
 of sausages and mashed with vast quantities of onions. 
 And his soul yearned for them, for he was a man with a 
 big and a healthy appetite. 
 
 "You you go," she said, "and leave me 'ere. I'll stay 
 'ere and just watch the sea, Jim." 
 
 But he was too loyal to go, so he sat beside her and 
 wondered what on earth she could see to admire in that 
 grey, ugly-looking sea. Besides it was cold. He would 
 not have come if he had not thought that the sun would 
 be shining, and he was hungry and just a little out of 
 temper. 
 
 But his lack of temper was lost on her. He might 
 not have existed so far as she was concerned. 
 
 Beset by ravening hunger, he grew sullen at last. 
 
 "Any'ow," he said, "I s'pose you'll come and 'ave 
 some tea? I ain't eat nothing since five this morning, 
 and I'm fair faint for want of food, I am." 
 
 "You you go, I wish you would go. I'm not hungry, 
 I don't want nothink," she said. "I want you to go, 
 any'ow ; you'll find me 'ere when you come back." 
 
 61
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 And because he was hungry he went, and when he 
 came back with a paper bag of buns for her in his hands, 
 he found her in the exact spot, almost the exact position 
 in which he had left her. 
 
 "I don't want 'em, I don't want nothink," she said. 
 "I'm not 'ungry. I don't want nothink, but just to to 
 look." 
 
 He was thankful when the day was over. He was 
 tired, out of sorts, grumpy. But, looking at her in the 
 stuffy railway carriage, he saw that same strange light 
 still dwelt in her eyes, that rapt look, that far-away look 
 of one who sees not the sordid reality about her, but is 
 looking away away into some dim, misty past, a past 
 that has never been in this life at any rate. 
 
 And he, with his limited vocabulary and his restricted 
 means of expressing himself, had one word only to 
 describe that look "barmy," he thought. "The sea's 
 driven her barmy." 
 
 Perhaps she had not uttered fifty words during the 
 entire day. She scarcely broke silence during the long, 
 tedious and uncomfortable journey back to town. 
 
 But she suffered no discomfort, she did not hate the 
 journey as she had hated it coming down. She could 
 still see it, the grey sea, with the flashes of distant white 
 foam, the low flying grey banks of clouds, white plumaged 
 gulls skimming the water. 
 
 She saw it in her dreams that night and during many 
 nights to come. It was from that day that the strange, 
 subtle change came over 'Nid. That queer, bright, 
 dreamy look in her eyes troubled Jim. He tried to ques- 
 tion her gently about her forebears. 
 
 " 'Ow about your mother she was all right, I s'pose, 
 'Nid?" 
 62
 
 "The Thing of Her Dreams" 
 
 "Yes, she was all right." 
 
 "I I mean," he stammered. "She was the same as 
 others, I s'pose, not odd like ?" 
 
 "Odd like?" She lifted bright eyes to his for a mo- 
 ment. "My mother was dear and good and sweet to me. 
 I loved 'er; she was kind and loving and gentle. I don't 
 remember 'er none too clear, only I remember she 'ad a 
 sweet, soft voice, that's all." 
 
 "And your father?" 
 
 She shook her head. "I don't remember nothing about 
 him; he must 'a died or something," she said. "Jim," 
 she said suddenly, "I wish I 'ad learned a bit more at 
 school. I didn't learn much and I s'pose it's too late 
 it's gone by, the time for me to learn anythink." 
 
 "I s'pose so," he said. 
 
 He sat here smoking his pipe and studying her. He, 
 too, living with her as he did, seeing her every day, yet 
 saw the change in her. The great change seemed to have 
 come from that day when they went to the sea. 
 
 "Queer eyes," he thought to himself. Pretty eyes, 
 too. He always thought them pretty. It was her eyes 
 that had attracted him first, there had been a suggestion 
 of sadness in them that appealed. Now the sadness was 
 gone, but there was a curious longing, a kind of hunger in 
 them that he did not understand. 
 
 And the little thin face was less thin, the cheeks 
 less hollow; they were filling out very, very slowly, still 
 they were filling out. The face was becoming oval, the 
 complexion had always been wonderfully clear, yet in- 
 clined to sallowness. The sallowness was going, some- 
 times there was the faintest tinge of colour in her cheeks 
 and then then she was suddenly beautiful. 
 
 Jim recognised it in a disturbed kind of way. He also 
 
 63
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 recognised another fact that made him uneasy. He knew 
 now that he was only really happy when he could see her. 
 He knew that of nights when his work was done he 
 hurried home as he had never hurried in his life before, 
 knew that his heart was beating with strange, sledge- 
 hammerlike blows, and that he was hungry, hungry for 
 the sight of her. 
 
 He loved her, not with a sudden, wild, passionate, de- 
 siring love, but with a great love that had come to him 
 little by little, that would abide and live with him to 
 the end of all things. 
 
 He had never told them at the worksheds that he was 
 married. Sometimes they chaffed him about the "Kid." 
 It had become known in a vague manner that Jim Woods 
 had picked up with some kid of a girl and had prac- 
 tically adopted her. The other men laughed it was 
 just the queer sort of thing a rum chap like Jim Woods 
 would do. They saw them together sometimes, Jim and 
 his wife "Jim and his kid" they called them. They 
 went to picture palaces fairly regularly; they had been 
 seen entering the same house when the shows were over. 
 It got about that the girl was the daughter of Jim's land- 
 lady and he let it go at that. 
 
 It took but little, very little work to keep the tiny 
 house in order. That she did keep it in order was beyond 
 question the place was like a new pin. When Jim 
 came home every night there was always a meal excel- 
 lently cooked for him, a bright fire, a clean tablecloth. 
 No man could have been better served. 
 
 And she was economical, too. He found out that it 
 
 cost but little, if any more, to be running this "show" of 
 
 his own than the expense of living as a single man in 
 
 apartments, and the comfort there was no comparison. 
 
 64
 
 "The Thing of Her Dreams" 
 
 And besides, there was the Kid for him to stare at and 
 occasionally speak to during the evenings. But time hung 
 heavily on 'Nid's hands and for a time she almost missed 
 the Snowflake. 
 
 And then time hung heavily on her hands no longer 
 Mrs. Crutchett's lodger made all the difference in the 
 world to her. 
 
 Mrs. Crutchett was the woman next door and her 
 lodger was Miss Simmons, a decayed gentlewoman who 
 had once been a school teacher. 'Nid had attracted her 
 from the commencement. The girl was "unusual." 
 Presently Miss Simmons discovered that the girl had a 
 great hunger for knowledge and she, Miss Simmons, had 
 an equal hunger for human companionship other than 
 that of Mrs. Crutchett, whose conversation was limited 
 and inclined to be wearisome by reason of constant repe- 
 tition. 
 
 "What I'm to do I don't know, with the rent falling 
 due Friday and that there 'Nosey Parker' coming round 
 to collect, and the price of things is getting terrible. 
 Cabbages, f'r instance, gone up; you can't get a cabbage 
 under thruppence and nothink at that." This was the 
 burden of Mrs. Crutchett's song. 
 
 So Miss Simmons made up a little parcel of old and 
 valued books and went in to see 'Nid. That was the 
 beginning of it. Miss Simmons went every day; she 
 and 'Nid spent hours together, the girl poring over the 
 books or listening with rapt attention to the woman who 
 had constituted herself her teacher unpaid except by 
 various cups of tea and some delicately cut bread and 
 butter that reminded Miss Simmons of happier bygone 
 days. 
 
 And when she was not there, her books were. The 
 
 65
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 house never suffered; Jim's meals were as punctual and 
 as well cooked as ever, the little place shone like a 
 new shilling. Yet 'Nid found time for her books. 
 
 Miss Simmons had taken her speech in hand, so to 
 speak 'Nid was improving. She rarely dropped her 
 aitches now and did not mix her tenses in the old 
 familiar fashion. But Jim noticed nothing. 
 
 Yes, the six weeks had made a great change in 'Nid, 
 and so Miss Henderson, meeting her in the street, re- 
 membered Miss Clare's words: "The girl is beautiful; 
 with those eyes of hers she could not be anything 
 else." 
 
 "She's funny looking anyhow and odd, unusual," Miss 
 
 Henderson thought. "But it ain't my idea of beauty " 
 
 And it was not
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE WHEEL TURNS 
 
 HE was a little grey man, extremely well dressed. He 
 looked out of place in Pent Street, where folks did 
 not dress with such scrupulous care, and where the 
 morning tub was practically unknown. Smart, dapper, 
 grey whiskered, he stood on the step and looked at 'Nid 
 through large, magnifying spectacles. 
 
 "This is number eight ?" he said. 
 
 She nodded. She wondered; it could not be the rent 
 because the rent was paid yesterday, and she owed 
 nothing, not a penny. Perhaps she was the only person 
 in the street who could have received a strange visitor in 
 this manner unmoved and undismayed by thoughts of 
 possible County Court summonses. 
 
 "The the name, I understand, is " He hesitated. 
 
 "Woods," she said, "Woods!" 
 
 He looked disappointed, bitterly disappointed. 
 
 "Then then I have been misinformed. I am very 
 sorry, I understood that the name was Bevanwood." 
 
 "So it is!" 
 
 His face lighted up again. "I understood you to 
 say " 
 
 "It's Bevanwood, only he calls hisself himself I mean 
 Woods, it's shorter and saves trouble." 
 
 "Oh," he said. "Then it is Bevanwood, your your 
 
 father, I suppose? And yet it no " He paused. 
 
 67
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "My husband." 
 
 "But you look very young." 
 
 "I'm turned seventeen," she said. "I'll be eighteen 
 come June." 
 
 "And really your husband's name is Bevanwood?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Might I come inside?" 
 
 'Nid hesitated; she had no liking for strangers. But 
 he was old, he looked respectable and harmless. She 
 opened the door a little wider. 
 
 "Will you tell me your husband's complete name ?" he 
 said. 
 
 She nodded. "James Curtis Bevanwood," she said 
 quietly. 
 
 "Oh, then it is so. I felt sure! Why did he not 
 answer any of my advertisements ?" 
 
 "He didn't see 'em, I expect. What was were they 
 in, the evening paper?" 
 
 "No, of course, the morning dailies and the 
 weekly " 
 
 "We never get them; Jim brings home the evening 
 paper and that's all." 
 
 "But his friends?" 
 
 "Jim's got no friends, and besides, those who know 
 him only know him as Jim Woods." 
 
 "I begin to. understand. Did your husband ever tell 
 you that he came of of a good family?" 
 
 She shook her head. "He said something once about 
 relations he wasn't good enough to know." 
 
 "No, perhaps so. But but this alters it; the wheel 
 turns " he paused. 
 
 She did not understand him in the least. 
 
 "Tell me where I may find your husband." 
 68
 
 The Wheel Turns 
 
 "Down at the sheds on the building at the corner of 
 Hyde Street." 
 
 "I will go and look for him." 
 
 "Remember," she called after him; "ask for Jim 
 Woods ; that other name they don't know nothing don't 
 know anything of." 
 
 He nodded and walked briskly away down the street. 
 
 "What's the matter now?" 'Nid wondered. Then she 
 went back to her book Tennyson of all things. There 
 was much that she could not follow, yet much that she 
 did understand. With her book she forgot other things 
 and her life seemed to stretch out and expand for her. 
 Dreams, ideas, that had 'been vague and thin, misty like 
 a fog, became suddenly real. Engrossed in her books 
 she heard nothing, knew nothing. 
 
 Ordinary, everyday life passed by and left her un- 
 touched. The fishmonger might go bawling down Pent 
 Street that fresh herrings were to be bought as cheaply 
 as three for sixpence, but it did not move her. Though 
 fresh herrings at three for sixpence would have made a 
 nourishing and satisfactory meal for Jim and her two 
 for Jim and one for herself. 
 
 That night Jim came home with a queer look on his 
 face. 
 
 "Kid," he said; "Kid." He paused. 
 
 'Nid looked at him. "Nothink nothing, I mean 
 wrong?" 
 
 "I don't know," he said heavily. "It's all rum and 
 strange, I can't get over it. You you sent a little 
 badger-'aired chap down to the sheds after me." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 Jim sat down heavily ; he let his big, toil-worn hands 
 rest on the white tablecloth. 
 
 69
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "It's a rum go," he said ; "a blooming rum go. I don't 
 know as I 'alf like it, Kid." 
 
 "You don't owe nothing, Jim, do you?" she said. 
 "Owe him anything, I mean?" 
 
 He shook his head. He could never understand why 
 'Nid was always correcting herself. In fact, he did not 
 know that it was correction at all, it seemed merely repe- 
 tition to him. 
 
 "Anyhow, it's a rum go," he said. He shook his head. 
 "It sort of upsets everything." He looked round the 
 bright little kitchen with loving eyes. "I'd 'ate leav- 
 ing " he muttered. 
 
 'Nid was dishing up the meal, a big pork chop for 
 Jim, for herself a rasher of bacon. Jim loved pork 
 chops. To-night they had lost their fascination for him. 
 He sat toying with it and frowning at his thoughts. 
 
 "A rum go, Kid," he said. 
 
 "What is?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, it don't matter pertickler, it mayn't come off. 
 That chap, that little badger-'aired chap, 'im with the 
 whiskers wanted to know a deal about me, where I was 
 born and 'ow and why and 'oo my father was, and so 
 on, setra, setra. And I told 'im and 'e made notes and 
 said I'd 'ear a bit more in a day or two; and then he 
 
 shook hands, he did " Jim looked down at his own 
 
 hands as though he could scarcely even now believe it. 
 
 "Said as 'ow I should 'ear of somethink greatly to my 
 advantage, he did." 
 
 But 'Nid Jiad her nose in Tennyson again and Jim's 
 talking was wasted on the empty air. 
 
 And that night, seated by the kitchen fire, smoking 
 his pipe with his hands thrust moodily into his pockets, 
 70
 
 The Wheel Turns 
 
 Jim talked and muttered and looked about the warm, 
 comfortable little kitchen. 
 
 "I don't 'arf like it, I don't," he muttered. "It'll be 
 a sort of upsetting of things. Any'ow, it mayn't be 
 right." He drew a long breath as though of relief. But 
 'Nid, with her mind dazed by Tennyson, was not listen- 
 ing. 
 
 She rose presently ; it was ten at ten she always went 
 to bed, unless they went to a picture show. 
 
 "Good-night, Jim," she said. She nodded to him and 
 turned towards the little staircase that opened out of the 
 kitchen through a doorway that looked as if it belonged 
 to a cupboard. 
 
 "Good-night, Kid," he said. "Kid " He paused, 
 
 he rose to his feet. "Come 'ere." 
 
 She came back wonderingly and utterly fearless to 
 him. 
 
 "Kid, I'd like you to kiss me to-night. I feel a bit 
 down, a bit off some'ow, a bit lonely like, Kid. Would 
 you?" 
 
 Her cheeks coloured and her eyes were bright as 
 stars. 
 
 "I don't mind, Jim," she said. She stood on the tips 
 of her little toes. She meant to kiss him on the cheek, 
 the usual kiss that she gave him, usual, though few 
 and far between. Then suddenly his strong arms went 
 round her, a great hunger had come to him; he crushed 
 her to his breast, he kissed her on the lips, the eyes, even 
 the nose. He kissed her a dozen times and then suddenly 
 released her. 
 
 "Good night Kid," he said. 
 
 Panting a little, she stood staring at him. Her cheeks 
 were red, her eyes angry and yet not quite angry. But
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 she did not say good-night. She went up the stairs and 
 banged the door after him. 
 
 And Jim hunched himself in his chair and sat staring 
 at the fire that was burning low. 
 
 "How them chaps would laugh," he muttered. 
 "Laugh fit to crack their sides. Let 'em laugh, fools; 
 they they don't understand 'er, I do. I do/ One day, 
 please God, she will wake up, she will. She's only a kid, 
 
 yet one day she Love 'er, love } er!" He clenched 
 
 his big hands. "Love 'er! I often wonder whether any 
 gel 'as been loved the way I love 'er. I'd lie down and let 
 'er trample on me with her little feet if she wanted to. 
 Love'er!" 
 
 72
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 "MY LADY" 
 
 IT was three o'clock in the afternoon some days later. 
 'Nid had cleaned and tidied the little house from top 
 to bottom. She would have two clear hours before her 
 before she need commence on Jim's tea. She curled her- 
 self up on the couch in the sitting-room and opened her 
 book eagerly, her eyes were bright and misty with antici- 
 pation, her cheeks flushed. She might have been a girl 
 going to meet her lover from the look of her. Anticipa- 
 tion, joy, eagerness, they were all in her expressive little 
 face. 
 
 It was Tennyson to-day; she read where the book 
 had fallen open 
 
 "She is coming, my own, my sweet, 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tread 
 My heart would hear her and beat 
 Had it lain for a century dead." 
 
 She closed her eyes and repeated the words to herself. 
 They seemed to touch her. How he must have loved her, 
 that man his own, his sweet. Would lips ever say such 
 words to her, would 
 
 The door had opened, 'Nid sprang up. It was the little 
 grey-haired, whiskered man and Jim Jim at three o'clock 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 Something was decidedly wrong. She had only to look 
 
 73
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 at Jim's face to realise that everything was wrong. He 
 looked sullen, miserable, wretchedly unhappy, almost 
 shamefaced. 
 
 "He's been doing something," she thought. "And it's 
 found out." 
 
 "'Nid," he said, or rather groaned. "'Nid, it it's 
 all up." 
 
 She had once read a story in which the villain had 
 declared that it was "all up" when the " 'tecs" had laid 
 their hands on him. It made certainty absolutely certain. 
 Jim had done some wrong and had been found out. This 
 grey-haired man was probably some famous detective in 
 disguise. 
 
 She looked at him, expecting him suddenly to tear off 
 his whiskers and remove his wig and stand revealed be- 
 fore her. Probably he would say, "Ha, ha, the game is 
 up!" 
 
 But he did nothing of the kind. He only beamed on 
 her very kindly and then stood waiting as for Jim to go 
 on. But Jim did not. 
 
 "Well?" 'Nid said. Her voice was sad, it had a 
 strangled sound in it. She saw herself going back to the 
 Snowflake Laundry, to-morrow probably. The girls 
 would question her, and then it would come out. Her 
 husband had been arrested. He was a forger or a burg- 
 lar, possibly a murderer no, not Jim. He would not 
 hurt a living thing, but it might have been an accident. 
 
 "Well?" she said. "What what is it? What have 
 you been doing ?" 
 
 Jim opened his mouth and closed it again ; he turned 
 to the little grey man. 
 
 "Mister, you you tell her, blowed if I can," he said. 
 "I can't." He looked round the little sitting-room, the 
 74
 
 "My Lady" 
 
 "parlour" as he called it. His eyes were watery. He had 
 been so fond of it, so proud of it, this little home he had 
 bought with his own earnings. There had not been a 
 happier man 
 
 "Tell 'er," he whispered. "I can't." 
 
 And then the little man came forward and held out a 
 hand to 'Nid. 
 
 "Lady Bevanwood," he said, "permit me to offer you 
 my most sincere and hearty congratulations." 
 
 And Lady Bevanwood stood staring at him as at an 
 amiable madman. 
 
 "It has been truly said," Mr. Aswell proceeded, "that 
 every cloud has a silver lining, and indeed, in this case, 
 it seems so. The tragedy that robbed the world of those 
 two bright young lives, I allude to Hugh and Ralph 
 Bevanwood, a blow that killed their father ahem," he 
 paused. He realised that the girl he was speaking to 
 was staring at him with wondering eyes which pro- 
 claimed the fact that she knew absolutely nothing of what 
 he was talking about. 
 
 He turned to Jim Jim sullen and despondent, unhappy 
 obviously. "Do do I understand, Sir James," he said 
 sharply, "that that you have told your young wife abso- 
 lutely nothing?" 
 
 "I ain't told her a thing," Jim groaned. "I I 'oped 
 it wouldn't come off, so so I didn't want to start making 
 
 a song about it. But Mr. Aswell " He hesitated, 
 
 he looked at 'Nid. 
 
 Mr. Aswell turned to 'Nid again. 
 
 "Lady Bevanwood, I have to inform you that owing 
 to the tragic death of Mr. Hugh and Mr. Ralph Bevan- 
 wood, followed almost immediately by the death of their 
 father, Sir Harold Bevanwood, your husband, James 
 
 75
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 Curtis Bevanwood, son of James Curtis Bevanwood 
 ^iow becomes tenth Baronet, Sir James Curtis Bevanwood, 
 of Bevanwood, in Sussex." He paused. "Bevanwood is 
 one of the most charming and historical mansions in that 
 delightful county. Your husband, as next-of-kin, suc- 
 ceeds to the property, which is, of course, entailed, with 
 a rent roll of some eighteen thousand a year." 
 
 The girl looked at him with dazed eyes; slowly she 
 turned her head and looked at Jim. He was staring out 
 of the window into Pent Street. 
 
 Tenth Baronet he did not look it, with a black smudge 
 on his cheek and glowering discontent in his eyes 
 eighteen thousand a year. 
 
 "Jim!" she said. 
 
 There had been a coolness, an estrangement between 
 them since the night three nights ago when he had kissed 
 her and crushed her in his arms. Since then she had 
 been cold, a little bitter towards him. Now, seeing the 
 trouble in his face, her heart went out in pity to him. She 
 went to him and touched him on the arm. 
 
 Mr. Aswell passed his hand across his brow, he felt 
 and looked hopelessly astonished. He had anticipated a 
 scene of wild joy, of unbounded delight. He looked at 
 the man, sullen and discontented, the girl apparently for- 
 getful of everything but of sudden pity for the man who 
 had unexpectedly come into a title and a great estate. He 
 saw her touch his arm, saw the man turn and grip her 
 hand almost savagely. 
 
 "And we," he said, "we been so happy here, Kid, so 
 
 happy here in this little place. Some'ow I 'ate " He 
 
 paused. "I s'pose it'll be all right when one gets used to 
 it, only I I 'ate change, always did 'ate change." 
 
 Mr. Aswell was bringing a fat pocket-book out. 
 76
 
 "My Lady" 
 
 "Ahem!" he said. "In case it struck me " He 
 
 paused. "Sir James, you will, no doubt, have some use 
 for immediate ready money necessary things, you know, 
 
 clothes ahem a fit appearance, first impressions " 
 
 He paused again. "So I drew a couple of hundred this 
 
 morning and I " He laid the notes on the table, but 
 
 they were not listening to him. 'Nid had her hand on 
 Jim's arm. 
 
 "I'll try," she whispered. "Jim, I'll try to to make 
 your other home just as happy as this one's been. I'll 
 work, dear, for for you just the same." 
 
 He turned on her suddenly, he caught her hand and 
 held it in a grip that hurt, then he lifted it to his lips. 
 
 "So long's I got you," he whispered. "So long's I got 
 you, that that's all I care about, that's all I want in 
 this world, Kid." 
 
 77
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE HOME-COMING 
 
 A COMMON working man !" 
 "A bricklayer, I understand. He will, no doubt, 
 appreciate the exquisite herringbone brickwork of the 
 west front." 
 
 "Geoffrey, don't joke, it is all too horrible. Why 
 why did that wretched James Curtis Bevanwood marry? 
 But for that you we would there is always always a 
 but always something to upset things. Think of it. We 
 might have been rich, this place might have been ours. I 
 looked on it as ours when I heard of the death " 
 
 "Curse the luck! Curse the man and his red-cheeked 
 servant-girl wife !" Geoffrey Clare said. He said it with 
 intentness and with all his heart. It was not usually that 
 he roused himself to a sufficient extent to curse any one. 
 
 "Oh, curse them both with all my heart, the low, com- 
 mon, vulgar wretches," she said. "And to think that they 
 are coming. We owe this to that interfering old beast 
 Aswell. He always hated you." 
 
 "I hated him," Geoffrey Clare said. "A horrible little 
 lawyer, ugh!" He looked down at the beautifully kept 
 nails of his beautifully kept hands. His fingers were long 
 and delicate, his hands soft and pliable, as devoid of 
 muscle and strength as a woman's. But he was proud of 
 them; they were, he told himself, the hands of a true 
 artist. 
 78
 
 The Home-Coming 
 
 Yet, as a matter of fact, he was a very bad artist. He 
 might have nice hands and wear low collars and long, 
 flowing ribbon neckties and velvet coats, and wear his hair 
 a great deal too long to be pleasant, but it did not make 
 an artist of him. 
 
 "Have you thought of the future?" his sister asked. 
 
 "I hate to think of the future." 
 
 "Do you realise that we have practically nothing; we 
 have three hundred a year between us." 
 
 "I have my art " 
 
 She sneered. "You never earned a penny yet, and 
 never will. Now Sir Harold is dead the allowance he 
 made you stops. Have you thought of that?" 
 
 "The bricklayer fellow may " 
 
 "I hate the idea of your taking anything from him," 
 she said. 
 
 "My dear," he said softly, "I like the idea of taking 
 anything I can get. If the bricklayer will part, then so 
 much the better. I shall tell him that Sir Harold allowed 
 me eight hundred a year " 
 
 "He only allowed you four " 
 
 "I know ; he will probably suggest four, being half." 
 
 "Oh, I hate it!" she said. "To stoop, to lower one's 
 self. We are well-born and gentlefolks, to lower our- 
 selves to such people as these a bricklayer and his ser- 
 vant-girl wife." 
 
 They were in the drawing-room, the brother and sister. 
 On a little table close by her hand lay an open telegram ; 
 it was signed "Aswell." It stated : "Sir James and Lady 
 Bevanwood leaving by three-fifteen train. Please have 
 them met at four-fifty. ASWELL." 
 
 And the car had now gone to meet them the big Rolls- 
 
 79
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 Royce that poor Hugh Bevanwood had bought and prided 
 himself on. 
 
 The Rolls-Royce had gone to meet the bricklayer and 
 his wife. 
 
 "Listen," Sheila said. "Listen! These two, they 
 will be ignorant and boorish, vulgar, impossible, of course. 
 They will, in all probability, be a pair of ignorant fools. 
 We must do the best we can for ourselves. I hate the 
 
 idea, my pride rises in revolt against it Was that 
 
 the car? Listen." 
 
 "It is the car," he said. "Go on." 
 
 "We must do the best we can for ourselves, we must 
 make them believe in us, need us. They wiH be strange, 
 they will be a pair of very ugly, common-place fish out of 
 water. We must make them feel the need of us, make 
 ourselves essential to them, you understand me? We 
 have to think and plan for ourselves. We have nothing, 
 we must bleed them hideous word, but it expresses 
 what I mean. I've no time now to choose my language ; 
 you must exert yourself to please the woman, I will please 
 tHe man, do you understand me?" 
 
 He nodded. "I am to fascinate the washer-woman's 
 daughter an(J you are to expend your arts on the brick- 
 layer. It promises to be amusing." 
 
 "It will be hateful," she said. "But beggars cannot be 
 choosers, and we are practically beggars. Hark! They 
 are coming, I hear the car in the avenue come!" She 
 led the way out into the old hall, to the widely open 
 door. She stood up on the topmost of the high flight of 
 steps and he lounged behind her. 
 
 And the* car that was bringing James Curtis Bevan- 
 wood, the younger, up the avenue and into his inheritance 
 came on. Jim looked at the pile before him, his an- 
 80
 
 The Home-Coming 
 
 cestral home. It came to him suddenly, a sense of pride, 
 of the dignity of his position. He was master here now, 
 where his father had been born, where his father's father 
 had been born before him, where a long line of Bevan- 
 woods had been born and ruled and died. It was his. 
 
 Something seemed to rise in his throat, he looked about 
 him. The sun was near its setting, the trees in the wide 
 home park were casting long shadows on the grass where 
 deer were browsing. His all his. He was master here. 
 
 Yesterday he had been But yesterday was gone and 
 
 with it was gone Jim Woods. He wa"s Sir James Bevan- 
 wood now, master here. 
 
 His chest swelled suddenly under the cheap, ready- 
 made coat, the coat that was presently to bring a look of 
 sheer horror into the eyes of Geoffrey Clare. 
 
 " 'Nid, it's a fine place, ain't it ? Somethink to look 
 at, it is, and no mistake," he muttered. 
 
 But the girl beside him said nothing. She was looking 
 with dilated eyes, her little breast rose and fell convulsive- 
 ly, her hands were tightly clenched. 
 
 Had she dreamed of something like this? Had some 
 fairy palace formed itself of her dreams? She did nol 
 know, yet it was all strangely familiar. Perhaps she ha/ 
 seen a print of some such house as this in one of the old 
 sixpenny illustrated papers, stray leaves of which some- 
 times found their way into the laundry. 
 
 Hers and his somehow the thought did not please 
 her his. He was out of place here. She looked at him; 
 the sun was on his face, his face was shining. His mouth 
 was a little open. He was not looking his best. Lost in 
 his own thoughts, the expression of his face was some- 
 what foolish and vacant. She drew away a little from 
 him. 
 
 81
 
 James ,Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 And then the car stopped. 
 
 Gracefully Sheila Clare descended the steps; she 
 stretched out a white, gracious hand of welcome. 
 
 "Welcome home, Sir James," she said; "and welcome 
 
 home to you, too, Lady " She paused. "You," she 
 
 said. "You? This this is too wonderful." 
 
 She knew 'Nid at once ; her thoughts flew back to the 
 office at the Snowflake Laundry, the damaged petticoat, 
 the sullen, defiant hand who had wrought the damage, 
 the vociferous Miss what was her name? the man- 
 ageress. And 'Nid knew her. 
 
 "It is quite too wonderful that we should meet again 
 like this, isn't it?" Sheila said. "Believe me, I am very 
 glad to see you again under such happy circumstances." 
 
 "Mr. Aswell, the lawyer, said somethink some- 
 thing " 'Nid paused, "something about a Miss Clare 
 
 being 'ere here " She corrected herself. "Only I 
 
 didn't never guess I I never guessed that it was you." 
 
 "It is just fate," Sheila said. "Geoffrey, my brother, 
 Sir James, this is my brother, Lady Bevanwood, my 
 brother Geoffrey." 
 
 He came forward slowly, he held out his hand to Jim; 
 he turned to 'Nid and looked at her and the look in his 
 eyes was not' of disappointment. On the contrary, some- 
 thing of his lazy indolence was gone, there was a quick 
 flash in those eyes of his. The girl was unusual ar- 
 tistic, he could see her temperament, it was as artistic as 
 his own. 
 
 Those big eyes of hers and that delicate little face, al- 
 most beautiful, not quite, something lacking. What? He 
 wondered. % And his thoughts travelled quickly while he 
 held her small, well-shaped hand in his and murmured 
 the conventional greeting. 
 82
 
 The Home-Coming 
 
 "It it's a fine place," Jim said heavily. "Bigger'n I 
 I thought for. Never been 'ere before, though I've 'card 
 my father speak about it years ago; pretty well forgot 
 all about it, though a man can't spend his time think- 
 ing." 
 
 "And you?" Geoffrey said. "You are not a man to 
 waste time thinking, Sir James." 
 
 "Not me," Jim said, not understanding the sarcasm 
 under the other's speech. 
 
 Geoffrey was watching the slim, almost too slim, nar- 
 row figure up the stairs. The girl was wonderful, un- 
 usual, interesting; the man a boor, a lumpish boor, just 
 what he would have expected. 
 
 "You'll like to see round the place ?" Geoffrey said. 
 
 "I don't mind," Jim said. 
 
 "Perhaps you you are wondering who I am and how 
 my sister and I come to be here?" Geoffrey said softly. 
 
 "Me, I I don't know as I give it a thought, it seemed 
 just natural for you to be 'ere, some'ow. I suppose some 
 one 'ad to be 'ere to sort of caretake, 'adn't they ?" Jim 
 said. 
 
 "I am distantly related to the late Sir Harold, mere 
 distantly unfortunately for me than you are. But 
 for you, Sir James, I would be master here now, but your 
 claim is a far better one than mine." 
 
 "Sorry if if I " Jim paused, he hardly knew 
 
 what to say. 
 
 "Oh, we won't be enemies on that account. On the 
 contrary, I hope we shall be friends, good friends, close 
 friends. At first you will find it rather " 
 
 "I've been thinking of that," Jim said. He stood there 
 on the threshold of the big drawing-room, and a look of 
 awe came into his face. 
 
 83
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 His this all his. These little tables and chairs, all 
 gilded, these ornaments, these pictures, these hundred 
 and one things that his brain could not take in all at once. 
 He looked down at the deep, soft carpet, he looked at his 
 own clumsy new boots which would not accept polish 
 because of their newness. Fifteen and eleven they had 
 cost him, and he felt proud of them as he had walked 
 out of the shop. Now, comparing them with this carpet, 
 there seemed to be something wrong, he felt that putting 
 those boots down on that carpet would be sacrilege. 
 
 Geoffrey saw the hesitation, his brain was keen and 
 quick. 
 
 "We'll go and have a chat m the smoking-room. 
 You're like me, these jimcracks don't appeal to you, eh? 
 Yes," he went on; "the late Sir Harold was my friend. 
 He was good to me almost as a father, he made me an al- 
 lowance. Now I lose all, of course." 
 
 "Why?" Jim asked. 
 
 "Why, my benefactor is dead; he left no will, nothing; 
 besides, all, everything is entailed. He had no power to 
 continue, and and my sister's allowance is gone, so so 
 we lose all. We go back to our poverty," he sighed. 
 
 "I don't see," Jim said. "What 'e done I suppose I can 
 do. I don't want no one to be the poorer by me." 
 
 "You are too good," the other said softly. "Too good 
 and too generous. But, no why should you allow me an 
 
 income, why should you despoil yourself of of " 
 
 He paused. "Of nine hundred a year ?" 
 
 "If that's what you 'ad from 'im, it'll go on. I don't 
 want any one to be the poorer by me. I daresay there'll 
 be plenty over and above." 
 
 Geoffrey held out his hand and grasped Jim's horny 
 rough hand. 
 84
 
 j. lie 
 
 "I I did not expect this, did not look for it. Sheila 
 will try and thank you, I I cannot." 
 
 "That's all right," Jim said. He felt the better for it. 
 He had started right, he had done some one a good turn ; 
 it gave him more confidence in himself. 
 
 "Is this the dining-room?" he asked. 
 
 "No, only the smoking-room." 
 
 Jim nodded. "It's a tidy place," he said. He felt the 
 same awe ; he walked delicately in his fif teen-and-eleven- 
 pennies. But he must not show it ; he must appear at his 
 ease, for was he not master here ? And he must learn to 
 live up to it all. He was Sir James. And when presently 
 the silent butler, the deferential footmen and the placid, 
 ancient lady in rustling black silk, Mrs. Meadows, the 
 housekeeper, came, Jim shook them all heartily by the 
 hand. 
 
 "Pleased to meet you and 'ope you're well," he said, 
 and felt in his heart that he had risen to the occasion and 
 had acted just as Sir James Bevanwood of Bevanwood 
 should act.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE AWAKENING 
 
 ID was impatient of interference ; she did not want 
 to be personally conducted through the old house 
 and over the grounds. She wanted to see for herself, find 
 out for herself and, most of all, be by herself. 
 
 She did not feel the same nervous awe of the 
 servants that Jim did she seemed to recognise them as 
 servants. She slipped into her own place quietly and 
 with a certain dignity, a grace that was born in her. 
 
 She made no outrageous mistakes ; her only mistakes 
 were of speech, and these she usually corrected herself. 
 She had chosen for herself a room on the very topmost 
 floor. It was not the room for the lady of the house 
 Sheila told her so, but 'Nid looked at her. 
 
 "I s'pose I can choose the room I want ?" 
 
 "Of of course," Sheila said. "But there are some 
 much better rooms on the lower floors, besides " 
 
 "I want the room," 'Nid said, but she did not tell 
 Sheila why; she saw no need to tell Sheila Clare any- 
 thing. She wanted that room because she could see the 
 distant sea from its window, and the sea held her, fasci- 
 nated her, the lure of the sea. She had never seen it all 
 her life until that day trip with Jim, but it seemed part 
 of her nature. 
 
 So she went prying and poking about the house, went 
 on voyages of discovery, found herself in dusty, long- 
 86
 
 iiic 
 
 forgotten attics, and within a week she knew more of the 
 house than Sheila Clare ever would. 
 
 There was not a room that she had not entered, not a 
 corner of the fine old mansion that she did not get to 
 know. 
 
 At the little home in Pent Street she and Jim had been 
 good friends. At night when he had smoked his pipe 
 beside the fire in the kitchen, she had done a bit of sew- 
 ing, and they had talked sometimes of nothing that mat- 
 tered it was not talk that satisfied her. He told her 
 of his work, of the funny sayings of some of the men, 
 of their doings, their troubles, and she listened politely. 
 
 Now they saw hardly anything of one another. They 
 met at meals and a great and uncomfortable silence had 
 fallen on Jim. The fear of speech was on him ; he real- 
 ised that he was not as others were. He gathered that 
 his speech was not what the speech of a Sir James of 
 Bevanwood should be. He studied Geoffrey Clare's in- 
 dolent swagger and soft, drawling voice, and tried vainly 
 to copy it all, making himself ridiculous for his pains. 
 
 For while the one might sprawl artistically in a deep 
 chair and still look graceful and a gentleman, the other 
 had only the appearance of a man in the last and most 
 helpless state of intoxication. 
 
 "The man is impossible, horrible," Sheila Clare said to 
 her brother. "But the girl" she shrugged her shoulders 
 "I hate her, I think I always hated her, but " 
 
 "Quaint and unusual, interesting; there's something 
 in her, she fascinates," he said. "But she is unapproach- 
 able ; my task is harder than yours. The man seems to 
 follow you like a shadow." 
 
 She laughed. "And the girl avoids you." 
 
 87
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 His eyes flamed suddenly. "But she shan't. I'll take 
 her in hand. I'll tame her yet watch and see." 
 
 And that evening as 'Nid stood in the long picture gal- 
 lery, studying the pictures of bygone Bevanwoods, she be- 
 came conscious that he was standing beside her. 
 
 "You are interested in these pictures, Lady Bevan- 
 wood?" 
 
 She nodded in silence. She resented him; she wanted 
 to be left alone. 
 
 "And the house?" 
 
 "It interests me," she said. 
 
 "Doesn't it all seem strange to you?" 
 
 "No, it doesn't." There was resentment in her voice 
 and he knew it, but continued. 
 
 "It is not strange, and yet " 
 
 "I don't understand, I don't know nothink anything," 
 she said. "All I know is it isn't strange, it seems just 
 right." 
 
 "I understand. Yet you were always forgive me 
 you were never rich, you never lived in such a home as 
 this?" 
 
 "No," she said. She would have turned away, but 
 he pleaded with her not to. So she stayed, lest he might 
 think her rude. 
 
 "There are some who would smile at what you say, but 
 I know better," he said. "Somewhere in the past the 
 past that yet was not a part of this life, this life you are 
 living now, you knew of something, some place like this. 
 It was never a real place, you never lived in such a house, 
 yet you saw it, shall we say in your dreams?" 
 
 She nodded. She wondered that he should understand ; 
 she looked at % him now with new interest. 
 
 "That's it dreams," she said. "I seen funny things, 
 88
 
 The Awakening 
 
 many funny things in dreams. I seen the sea in my 
 dreams and I hadn't never seen it before, only the posters 
 on the hoardings; and then when I see the real sea, all 
 grey and brown, and the curling waves, I knew it was the 
 right sea just as it should be and not like them posters 
 those posters, I mean on the hoardings." 
 
 He had a smattering of the mysterious, the occult. It 
 had interested him; he had studied theosophy without 
 understanding it. He had never tried to understand it. 
 He had told himself and others that he believed in re- 
 incarnation; he was essentially shallow and lacking deep 
 knowledge, and the pose appealed to his vanity and self- 
 esteem. He drew on his slight knowledge now and his 
 imagination for her benefit. And while he spoke she 
 listened with breathless attention. She had forgotten that 
 she had resented his attentions and his coming here. And 
 he was secretly delighted. He had found a way past her 
 aloofness, he knew now how to approach her. 
 
 "There was a door to which I found no key, 
 There was a veil past which I could not see," 
 
 he quoted. 
 
 She held her breath. "I I seem to understand what 
 that means. Go on," she said. But he could not, he had 
 forgotten the rest. 
 
 "What's it mean, what's it mean?" she breathed. 
 
 "It means " He floundered, a little out of his 
 
 depth. "It means just this " He spoke a little lamely, 
 
 a little uncertainly. "Of a sub-consciousness, a memory 
 of things that did not belong to this life at all things, 
 places, people, happenings of a previous existence. This 
 is not our first time on earth. In some past age you were 
 
 89
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 here, not as you are now. I was here perhaps yes, I 
 think that in that long ago you and I met." 
 
 He saw it affected her. 
 
 "And and then I knew the sea," she said. "I was by 
 it, I saw the sea often, perhaps I lived in a ship." 
 
 "Quite likely, or in some fine old house like this, one 
 on the edge of the sea." 
 
 "Oh!" she said. "Oh, that must be it!" Her face 
 flushed, her big eyes shone, a sudden and wonderful 
 beauty came to her, and the man drank it in. 
 
 He realised suddenly that she was not merely quaint 
 and interesting and unusual, she was beautiful with a 
 strange charm. It affected him. An artist, even though 
 a bad one, he had an appreciation of the beautiful, and 
 she was beautiful with those great liquid eyes of hers, 
 pools in which a great wonder, a great desire for knowl- 
 edge lay. Those red, parted lips, showing the gleam of 
 little white teeth, those almost colourless, oval cheeks. 
 Beautiful why, he had been blind, she was wonderful! 
 
 "You you'll talk to me again," she whispered. "Tell 
 me more ; tell me about the things you've read, the things 
 you know. It has all been misty and unreal to me, like 
 
 dreams; and yet yet it is true, I know I know " 
 
 She paused. "It's this life as is more like dreaming; 
 there was another life behind, a life I seem sometimes to 
 remember " 
 
 "And in that life you and I met," he whispered. "We 
 met." His eyes glowed into hers. "Perhaps we, you and 
 
 I " He paused, dared he? Yes, he dared. "Perhaps 
 
 we loved who knows ?" 
 
 "Who know<>?" she thought. "Who knows?" 
 
 It was Sheila who suggested that Geoffrey should teach 
 her to ride. 
 90
 
 Ine Awakening 
 
 \ 
 
 Slender, light, graceful, it was no hardship for her to 
 learn. She learned quickly ; in a few days she could ride 
 the big, steady old mare and sit her like a bird. And then 
 they went for long, long rides together on the downs over- 
 looking the sea. And the wind kissed the rare colour 
 into her cheeks and made her eyes bright. 
 
 Her love for the sea was amazing and extraordinary, 
 and while she watched it, he watched her. And one 
 whose heart was very heavy and sad and lonely watched 
 them both and felt strangely out of it all. 
 
 'Nid was his wife and yet she never seemed to give 
 him a thought, scarcely ever threw him a word. 
 
 "Yet yet she's only a kid, after all, she's only young," 
 Sir James Bevanwood thought. "One day it will come 
 right." 
 
 But meanwhile his heart was hungry for her, his 
 eyes were wistful for her. Sometimes when he touched 
 her little hand, grown so white and delicate of late, his 
 blood leaped in his veins, he thrilled at the touch. 
 
 He was a big, commonplace, ugly fish out of water, but 
 he was a pathetic and lonely fish, too. The servants 
 sneered at him, he* felt abashed in their presence. They 
 never sneered at 'Nid. She was "My Lady," treated with 
 respect and deference. 
 
 And in his loneliness and heart-hunger, the man was 
 turning to the only one who seemed to take an interest 
 in him. She was always by his side, always ready with 
 advice and help in little difficulties. She shut herself up 
 with him in the library and went over with him the af- 
 fairs of the estate. And he thanked her gratefully, 
 though dumbly, and longed with all his heart for the old 
 days and the little kitchen and his pipe, and 'Nid sitting
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 there by the kitchen table with her needlework in her 
 hands. 
 
 But to 'Nid a new interest, a new joy in life had come. 
 She had been like one groping in the dark, and then she 
 had found him, this man, and he had opened the doors to 
 her, had let the light in on her darkness. 
 
 He could talk with her as Jim never could, he never 
 laughed at her. Sometimes his eyes smiled into hers; 
 sometimes he held her hand too long, yet she did not 
 notice it. 
 
 "By all means," his sister said to him, "make her fall 
 in love with you, that is all part of the idea. But, my 
 dear Geoffrey, don't do anything so absurdly impossible 
 as to fall in love with her. That would be too tragic 
 and too silly. Do, please, remember that she is only a 
 little laundry girl, even if she has big, soulful eyes and 
 a not unpretty face." 
 
 "Not unpretty," he murmured to himself with a wry 
 smile, for he knew that Sheila's advice had come too 
 late. He knew that he had fallen in love with the little 
 laundry girl, had fallen in love with the girl who sat so 
 lightly on the big grey mare, those great eyes of hers 
 gazing far out to sea, the cheeks tinged with colour by the 
 whip of the wind, her hair blown about her sweet young 
 face. How could a man help falling in love with her? 
 
 And he had come to learn by innocent, artless words 
 she had let fall that she was an utter child at heart ; that 
 though she was married she was still but a child that 
 her husband, the great hulking man, was no more to 
 her than any other man on this earth. And, knowing 
 this, he felt a joy beyond words. 
 
 "She has never loved and I will teach her," he prom- 
 ised himself. "I will teach her what love really is." 
 92
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THEIR SEPARATE WAYS 
 
 SIR JAMES went on his way. When his great hulking 
 figure came lumbering down the peaceful village 
 street, the dogs lying sunning themselves in the dust 
 wagged their tails instinctively. 
 
 He hardly ever passed one without giving it a pat on its 
 dusty head. He never passed a child but that he stopped 
 and felt in his pockets, the pockets of the new clothes 
 from London that Sheila had insisted on, for coppers. 
 
 The children and the dogs came to know him and look 
 for him. It was no unusual thing to see him tramping 
 through the village with a couple of dirty faced, happy 
 little ones on either side of him, and a dog or two 
 lopping along at his heels. 
 
 His way, the children knew, always led to the sweet 
 shop, and sometimes there were not two, but nearer 
 twenty of them, and he went on first and they followed, 
 and always with a mongrel dog or two in the procession. 
 
 And the women-folk from their doorways smiled at 
 him and bobbed curtseys. For the man who loved their 
 children was a man after their own heart. 
 
 Down in the village they reversed things. For the 
 big man with his ungainly figure and shining red face 
 they had nothing but affection and respect. They loved 
 him, came to watch for him. His coming was a signal 
 for shrieks of joy from the children, and it was not 
 
 93
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 wholly cupboard love, for sometimes he would go tramp- 
 ing out on to the hills and half-a-dozen or so who were 
 sturdy of leg would go and tramp it with him. 
 
 Down in the village they worshipped the man, but 
 looked askance at the girl, his wife. 
 
 Job Clark, the village postmaster, standing at the door 
 of his shop and staring down the white road after the 
 little slender figure on the big grey, closely attended, as 
 always, by her cavalier of the flowing locks and the 
 flowing necktie, shook his grizzled head slowly. 
 
 " 'Er," he said ; " 'er with 'er 'orse riding and always 
 along o' that feller Clare who wasn't no better'n a 
 'anger on in the old gentleman's time proud, too, and 
 'aughty like, 'olding 'er 'ead wonderful 'igh and never 
 giving nobody as much as a look, who be she, I'd like to 
 know? Like as not a jumped-up nobody. While Sir 
 James be Sir James, and there be no getting away from 
 that, whatever they servants at the 'ouse may say, the 
 cheeky lot." 
 
 "Har! a unrespectful lot they be," said Mrs. Clark; 
 "I 'ope they'll never feel the want of a good master." 
 
 Job wagged his head. "Anyhow, if she was my wife 
 which she ain't I'd larn 'er to go 'orse riding along 
 with another feller, that Clare with the funny tie I'd 
 larn her for to keep in her own place, I would, and " 
 
 " 'Oo would ?" Mrs. Clark enquired. 
 
 Mr. Clark hesitated. He turned and cast a dazed eye 
 on the distant horizon. "Looks like, wonderful like, we 
 shall 'ave a storm before nightfall," he said. 
 
 " 'Oo wouldn't let me go riding with nobody if I 
 wanted to ?" Mrs. Clark repeated. 
 
 But he had meandered away in the direction of the 
 "Plough and Harrow." 
 94
 
 Their Separate Ways 
 
 But the storm that Job Clark had spoken of was a 
 reality. It came down over the downs, a grey, inky, blue- 
 black cloud that spread over the face of the Heavens. 
 
 "We shall have to ride for it we're in for a wet- 
 ting," Geoffrey said. 
 
 'Nid's little face had gone pale. "You you don't think 
 it's going to thunder and lightning !" she gasped. 
 
 "I am afraid it is." 
 
 She shivered. "I never couldn't abide it," she cried. 
 She had forgotten grammar, everything else, in the ter- 
 ror that was coming to her. 
 
 "At at the laundry there was a storm, a fearful, ter- 
 rible one, one day, and I fainted, I I couldn't 'elp it." 
 She never spoke of the laundry as a rule; now nothing 
 mattered. 
 
 She looked over her shoulder at the great inky pall 
 spreading over the sky, and then there came a sudden 
 flash and a distant roll of thunder. 
 
 Wild terror was in her eyes, eyes glazed with fear. 
 
 "What what can I do? Oh, what can I do?" she 
 moaned. "I I'm afraid, I can't bear it. I'm afraid." 
 
 "There's the mill," he said. "We'll gain it; it'll be 
 shelter." 
 
 He seized the mare's bridle and urged his own horse 
 on. Another flash and then another and the girl was 
 sobbing in terror. But the mill was reached; he lifted 
 her down and carried her in. He dragged the horses in 
 through the broken wall. 
 
 Outside the thunder roared and the lightning seemed to 
 leap up from sea to sky, vivid white flashes that made 
 the brain reel, and the crashing of the thunder was one 
 continuous roar. 
 
 95
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 She was in his arms, clinging to him, sobbing in her 
 terror. 
 
 "Don't leave me, don't leave me!" 
 
 "Never, never in this world," he whispered. "Never, 
 darling." 
 
 And she did not heed, for fear held her. She did not 
 feel his arms about her, she clung to him for protec- 
 tion, and he, with the madness of this new, this strange 
 love, the least selfish love he had ever known, bent his 
 head and kissed her bowed head, kissed her hair and 
 murmured words of love and endearment that she did 
 not, could not hear. 
 
 But later, much later, when the storm was over, 
 almost forgotten, when she was lying in her own bed 
 safely under her husband's roof, it came back to her, much 
 of it. And she thrilled ; the blood raced hotly in her 
 veins and flamed in her cheeks, her heart throbbed. She 
 could feel his arms about her again, feel his kisses on 
 her hair, hear his words, "My darling, I will never, never 
 leave you." 
 
 His darling! 
 
 She had heard the other girls, the girls at the laundry, 
 talk of love, had grown to hate the word. But she had 
 never understood it. Was this love, then, this that had 
 come into her life now? She wondered as she lay there, 
 wakeful in the darkness, and her cheeks burned. 
 
 No one had ever kissed her hair before; once once Jim 
 had kissed her strangely, but she had shuddered at the 
 time, hated him for those kisses. But this was differ- 
 ent. Why? She wondered. Why? 
 
 And then, she wondered to-morrow, how could she 
 face him again? How would it be when they met again 
 in the peaceful sunlight of the morning? 
 96
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE HUNGER 
 
 WHAT is the end of it going to be?" Sheila asked. 
 "I want to know; I want to know what I am 
 working for, what the object to be gained is. For me it is 
 tiring; you have all the amusement, all the fun. I sup- 
 pose " She paused for a moment. "I suppose you 
 
 realise that there is not much fun for me in this ? I feel 
 like a bear leader. He follows me about like a tame 
 bear, or some great, ungainly dog. He depends on me 
 for everything. I feel almost sorry for him, even though 
 he is rather contemptible." 
 
 She was in her own bedroom, dressed in some lacey, 
 rather becoming dressing-gown; her brother was loung- 
 ing at the open window, sending clouds of cigarette 
 smoke out into the calm and peaceful night. The last 
 vestige of the storm had passed away ; the downpour had 
 freshened the air, which was sweet with the scent of 
 a thousand flowers. 
 
 "Well?" she said sharply. "This cannot go on for 
 ever." 
 
 "I do not mean that it shall," he said. "For ever is 
 a long time, and well, I'm young and in love " 
 
 "You then you " 
 
 "Oh, well, one may as well own it. Yes, I am in love, 
 genuinely in love. She attracted me from the start. It's 
 
 not merely that she is pretty I don't know " He 
 
 97
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 paused and drew hard at his cigarette. "She's odd, 
 quaint, unusual ; she appeals to my artistic " 
 
 "Rubbish!" his sister said sharply. "I warned you 
 and you did not listen." 
 
 "Your warning came too late. You ask what the end 
 
 is going to be ; for me only one thing 'Nid He 
 
 paused. "I need her, life will not be complete without 
 her." 
 
 "Rubbish!" the woman said again. 
 
 "To you, not to me. I have the artistic temperament ; 
 you, my dear Sheila forgive me for saying it you are 
 entirely mercenary." 
 
 "Sensible," she said. "Call it that." 
 
 "Eminently sensible, you look for the main chance 
 money, wealth, the fat of the land, the good things of life. 
 She appeals to me more than all this." 
 
 "And and the end, for you and her?" 
 
 "Only one thing possible," he said; "love. She loves 
 me; to-day in the storm she clung to me and begged me 
 not to leave her just as if I would ! That man, her hus- 
 band, with his round, red face and his beefy hands and 
 his coarse voice, he is impossible to her. He is nothing, 
 never has been anything to her; she is a child, utterly 
 ignorant, utterly innocent." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "I have guessed; she has said things to me that a 
 woman who was not as innocent as a child could never 
 say. She spoke from the utter purity of her heart." 
 
 Sheila's lips formed the word "Rubbish." But she did 
 not utter it. ^ 
 
 "So so you intend to " She paused. "Go away 
 
 with her, end it?" 
 
 "Begin it, begin life with her yes." 
 98
 
 The Hunger 
 
 "And the future, money? Oh, yes, I am mercenary, 
 I suppose, but one must have money to live on, and you 
 have little enough." 
 
 "I have my work." 
 
 "Of course," she said, but there was a suggestion of 
 sneering in her voice. She held his work in no high 
 esteem. 
 
 "The man already depends on me," she was thinking. 
 "This place is his when she is gone he will need some 
 one, he is the kind of man who must turn to a woman 
 for sympathy. He will turn to me. It is unfortunate 
 that Geoffrey is my brother, but that will not count with 
 him. And then he can be free. He will understand it 
 will be necessary for her sake. I suspect he will consider 
 her even then before himself, before any one else. He 
 is that sort of man." She frowned at her thoughts. 
 
 "And then, when he is free " Then she might take 
 
 her place here as mistress of this old house. 
 
 The man himself was a drawback, a husband for no 
 gentlewoman, no educated, intelligent woman like her- 
 self to be proud of. But the old place, the wealth, the 
 luxuries she needed, would all be hers. The sacrifice 
 would be worth while. 
 
 "And now, go," she said. "I am tired. Good-night, 
 Geoffrey. I only ask one thing of you do nothing till 
 you have warned me, and do nothing yet give me time ; 
 you must consider me." 
 
 He nodded and agreed and went out. 
 
 'Nid woke to the new day with the consciousness that 
 something had changed in her life. She lay there while 
 the warm sunshine poured into the room, lay there 
 thinking. She shivered a little at the memory of the 
 storm, the storm that had driven her into his arms. 
 
 99
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 He understood her as no one ever had. He had 
 talked to her as no one in this world ever had. He 
 was different from Jim different it hardly seemed 
 possible that they were of the same species. Jim with- 
 out imagination, understanding nothing that he did not 
 see, believing nothing but that he had been taught to 
 believe in. He went to church regularly, accepted the 
 Christian faith without cavil or question. He was just 
 slow-going, unimaginative, honest yes, he was honest 
 and he had been kind to her. Married life with Jim 
 had not been terrible; looking back there had been 
 nothing to shudder at. 
 
 He had been kind, he had treated her almost as he 
 might have treated a child. Insensibly she had grown 
 to depend on him, to look to him for protection. He 
 was so big and so strong, so willing to aid her in any way. 
 She could only remember one thing against him with a 
 shudder of repulsion that kiss that night when he had 
 caught her and held her to his breast ; that hot, passion- 
 ate kiss. She had never quite forgiven that, though he 
 had never offended again. 
 
 It was strange that she was thinking of him so much, 
 going over in her mind her married life day by day with 
 Jim in Pent Street. Those days had been happy enough 
 for her, far far happier than she had ever believed 
 they could be. She, and Jim, too, had left Pent Street 
 with real sorrow, real regret. It was like leaving home. 
 
 And to-day, presently, she must face this other man 
 again, and facing him, would remember the happenings 
 of yesterday.* She felt nervous, shy, unwilling to see 
 him; she almost wished never to see him again, and yet 
 she liked him. Like was it like or was it the love she 
 100
 
 The Hunger 
 
 had heard so much about and had never properly under- 
 stood ? 
 
 One of the maidservants came tapping her door. 
 
 It was late, it was quite late. Was not my lady going 
 to rise? 
 
 "My head aches," 'Nid said. "I'll stay where I am. 
 Tell them that that I shall not be down this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Oh, coward that she was ! She -had never felt better 
 in her life. She longed to be up and out in the sun- 
 shine, but she dreaded meeting him; the feeling would 
 pass away, of course. 
 
 She rose when the girl had gone, dressed herself 
 leisurely. They brought her breakfast and laid it on 
 a table; she drank a little tea, but she had no appetite 
 for food. 
 
 What would the girls at the Snowflake, what would 
 Mrs. Melchor and the rest think and say could they have 
 seen 'Nid's dainty, untouched breakfast this morning? 
 She laughed merrily at the thought. She caught a. 
 glimpse of herself in the glass and stared curiously and 
 in a detached sort of way, utterly without vanity, at 
 her own reflection. 
 
 "Am I pretty?" she asked of herself. "I look dif- 
 ferent somehow, my cheeks are not so thin and so sal- 
 low, there's colour in them and they seem a better 
 shape, rounder. I'd like to think I was beautiful," she 
 muttered. "It would be nice to feel you was worth 
 looking at." And she must be, for was he not an artist 
 who painted wonderful pictures? She knew, because 
 he had told her so himself. If she was ugly he would 
 not like her artists only loved beautiful things, there- 
 fore she must be beautiful. 
 
 101
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Daren't face me this morning," Geoffrey thought, 
 when he heard the maid give her message. He wondered 
 if it was a bad or a good sign. Good, he fancied it 
 meant she had been thinking of him a great deal. 
 
 Still, he felt vaguely dissatisfied, it was a disap- 
 pointment to him; the morning lacked something beau- 
 tiful it was because there was no 'Nid. Yet he would 
 go for his ride. The saddle-horse was brought round 
 and 'Nid from her window saw him mount and ride 
 away and breathed a little sigh of relief. 
 
 He was gone 'Nid put on her hat and slipped quietly 
 down the stairs. She might have been a schoolgirl steal- 
 ing away breaking bounds against orders. She was con- 
 scious of a feeling of subdued excitement. 
 
 She wanted to be alone, quite alone this morning, 
 somewhere out on the hills where she could see the 
 sea, where she could lie down on the soft turf and think, 
 with the blue sky above her. 
 
 No one saw her steal out, she took care of that. Now 
 she had gained the road and walked on quickly through 
 the village. The village folk bobbed and curtseyed to 
 her, but they did not give her the smiles that they gave 
 to her husband. No dog wagged its stumpy tail in 
 the dust as she passed: the children did not come flock- 
 ing to greet her; she would have been surprised if they 
 had. She hated children, she told herself. A nuisance 
 they were, always getting dirty and falling down and 
 hurting themselves, and rows, always making rows. She 
 hoped that she would never have any children, she would 
 pray against t such a calamity. 
 
 She had gained the hills, she climbed them with quick- 
 ened breath and heightened colour. She gloried in the 
 freedom, the sunshine, the loneliness. The wind kissed 
 1 02
 
 The Hunger 
 
 her cheeks, the free, fresh wind laden with a touch of 
 the salt from the sea whence it had come. She snatched 
 off her hat and let the wind play with her hair. She 
 who told herself that she hated children was a child 
 herself. She stooped and picked daisies, a bunch of the 
 pretty grass with its little brown seedlings which grows 
 on the Sussex Downs. She walked on till she could 
 see the sea shimmering like the surface of a great golden 
 shield in the distance, and then she lay down and put 
 her elbows on the ground and supported her chin on her 
 hands and looked her fill, if she could ever look her fill. 
 
 She lay there for an hour and then rose ; she wandered 
 on; the hill dipped dipped to a winding road, a road 
 running like an irregular white ribbon through the green. 
 She gained the road and followed it for a time. It de- 
 scended into a hollow where trees grew; she heard the 
 ripple of running water among the trees, she saw a 
 cottage. 
 
 It was a tiny place, a place of four rooms; it was 
 empty. The door hung broken on its hinges, the old 
 thatched roof was ragged and worn. Evidently it had 
 not been tenanted for years. But there was a curious 
 attraction about the place set here alone in the midst 
 of the hills, surrounded by its little belt of trees with 
 the trickling stream running by the broken door. 
 
 It had a strange, desolate charm of its own, a charm 
 that appealed to her. She had to step across the stream 
 to gain the door; she pushed it open and went in, went 
 into a little bare room with a rusty old fireplace. Be- 
 hind the room was a scullery or washhouse with a pump 
 handle and a sink; from this room through a doorway 
 that looked as if it opened into a cupboard she found 
 steep, narrow stairs that led upwards. 
 
 103
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 It was like a voyage of discovery, an exploration. 
 She felt curiously excited about it, though it was nothing 
 but a very ordinary little cottage, much the worse for 
 age and neglect. 
 
 There were two rooms above with sloping eaves; in 
 one room the floor was discoloured and rotting, due to 
 a great gaping hole in the roof, through which she could 
 see the blue sky. 
 
 The long-neglected, unpruned branches of an old apple 
 tree 1 tapped at the little leaden casement window to 
 her. The ceaseless tapping and the ripple of the brook 
 over the stones were the only sounds to disturb the 
 silence and the solitude of the place a place that seemed 
 to be forgotten of man, lying here in a little dip in the 
 hills, a little hollow of its own. 
 
 It was a place that most would have sniffed at with 
 disdain, a place that suggested dampness, mould and 
 decay. She never thought of dampness, she liked it; 
 there was something about the little forgotten place 
 that appealed to her. She would like to come here and 
 live, leaving the big house and its servants and its 
 spacious rooms behind her. 
 
 Live, live here, alone? She wondered. Yes, alone; 
 why not alone? She had been crowded all her life, 
 had lived all her short life among the busy swarm of hu- 
 manity, had been elbowed and jostled always. Here 
 she would have room, she could think her own thoughts, 
 live her own life free, untrammelled. 
 
 It was with a sense of regret, reluctance, that she 
 came away at last. She saw a little half-ruined, tumble- 
 down shed outside and she peeped into it. 
 
 Evidently there had been stores kept here, some of 
 the furniture of the late occupant. There was still a 
 104
 
 The Hunger 
 
 broken-down old table, some chairs (two), both dam- 
 aged; a rusty iron bedstead, some battered boxes filled 
 with rotten, ill-odoured straw. 
 
 Now she was back at the brook; child that she was 
 she sat down on a stone and drew off her dainty, smart 
 little shoes and her silken stockings; she thrust two 
 bare feet into the brook and caught her breath at the 
 touch of the icy cold water. Then she laughed and the 
 colour flooded her cheeks. She stood up with her skirts 
 gathered around her and watched the sparkling water 
 surge around her slender ankles. 
 
 She forgot time, her new dignity, everything! She 
 waded on, looking for those strange and interesting things 
 that one finds in brooks. She prayed she might find a 
 stickleback, a fish of some kind, but she found nothing 
 but an ugly-looking newt, at which she shuddered and 
 before which she retreated. 
 
 The newt decided her; she waded ashore and let the 
 sun dry her little feet, then she replaced the silken hose 
 and the dainty French shoes and made her way back 
 to the hills. But looking back at the little cottage in 
 the hollow she felt a keen regret at leaving it. 
 
 "I love it," she said. "It's just the place, I always 
 seem to have had something like that in my mind. I'll 
 come again, often and often. No one shan't know, it'll 
 be like as if it belonged to me. I wonder who it does 
 belong to; I wonder if he ever comes 'ere here." It 
 required almost a physical effort on her part to tear 
 herself away, and now she was on the hills again and 
 then she saw him. 
 
 He was coming towards her, a big, ungainly figure in 
 tweeds, walking slowly. There were four children with 
 him, four little tousled, white-haired mites. One was 
 
 105
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 clinging to his hand, the other three were lagging a little 
 behind. And suddenly 'Nid felt that she did not want 
 to be seen by him. There was a convenient clump of 
 furze and she knelt behind it. 
 
 "Funny," she said to herself, "funny how fond he is 
 
 of kids and them of him they She corrected 
 
 herself. "That there little 'un as is clinging to his 'and 
 
 is too small to walk so far, it's a shame She 
 
 paused. Evidently the same thought had struck Jim. 
 He stooped suddenly and lifted the child; he set her 
 on his shoulder and held her there securely. The sun 
 shone down on the little untidy head of sunbleached 
 hair that curled above the little round face. A little 
 hand, perhaps none too clean, grabbed at Jim's bare 
 head, caught at his hair and took a firm hold on it. 
 
 And watching, 'Nid was suddenly conscious of some- 
 thing, something she did not understand, a sudden quick 
 throb of her heart, a sudden mist of tears before her 
 eyes. 
 
 Foolish! What did it mean? She who hated chil- 
 dren and cared nothing for this man, what did it mean? 
 
 "I am a fool !" she muttered. "I don't understand !" 
 
 And she did 'not, but she lay there and watched him 
 and the tag of children at his heels, and they were 
 descending the hill to the winding, white road that she 
 had just now left. And when the dip in the hill hid 
 them she stood up so that she might see them again 
 Jim's great, strong figure with the tiny child perched 
 on his shoulder, and the sun made a splash of vivid 
 light on the child's bare head. 
 
 And then suddenly on to 'Nid there descended a feel- 
 ing of loneliness, a strange feeling of loneliness, of 
 106
 
 The Hunger 
 
 hunger for something, something that she did not under- 
 stand. 
 
 They were gone, mere specks in the far distance, gone 
 down to the white, winding road, the man and the 
 children. But she could not see them for the tears had 
 come and all was misty in the golden sunlight. 
 
 107
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THEY TWO 
 
 BEEN out, Kid?" Jim's eyes met hers shyly. 
 "Yes," she said. They stood in the hall; he had 
 just come in, had followed her in, half an hour later. 
 
 He looked down at his white, dusty boots nervously. 
 His big hands fumbled awkwardly with the edge of his 
 coat. 
 
 "Been fur?" he asked. 
 
 "Out on the hills!" 
 
 "You," he said. "And me, too, I've been that way. 
 
 Some time, 'Nid " He paused. "I wonder if you 
 
 you'd come out there with me. Not 'orse riding, I 
 don't mean, that isn't in my line. Just me and you 
 tramping. Would you, 'Nid, just once? You don't 
 know what it's like out there and " 
 
 "I do, for I've been there this morning," she said. 
 "Out there alone!" 
 
 "Would you come with me one day?" he asked plead- 
 ingly. 
 
 She nodded and laughed; she looked at him, looked 
 him full in the eyes. She wondered why she had never 
 noticed what kind eyes he had. No wonder children 
 trusted and loved him. 
 
 "And if I got tired?" she said. "What then, Jim? 
 Would wouM you lift me on to your shoulder and 
 carry me, too?'* 
 
 "Then then you saw?" he said. "You saw me?" 
 108
 
 They Two 
 
 "Yes !" 
 
 "And didn't tell me you was there, 'Nid," he said. 
 
 "You you had your friends along with you!" she 
 said. "They didn't want me, you neither, perhaps, Jim !" 
 
 "I I always want you, want you more " He 
 
 paused. His voice was shaken with a strange note, into 
 his eyes came a strange light that reminded her of that 
 night, the night she hated, the memory of which she 
 tried to put out of her mind. 
 
 "I I don't see enough of you, 'Nid. I'm just 'ungry 
 for a sight of you. Now and again I miss Pent Streef, 
 I do. I wish I wish I 'adn't never, never seen this 
 place. I curse it and 'ate it, curse it every minnit of 
 every day, every minnit of the day and the night. I'd 
 give it all all for our old 'ome in Pent Street, just me 
 
 me and you, 'Nid, and " He had drawn himself 
 
 up, he stood with his great strong hands clenched. He 
 looked foolish, awkward no longer. He looked what 
 he was, a great strong man, stirred suddenly to the 
 depths of his soul, of his being. A man who loved and 
 craved for love in return, a man who had cried for 
 bread and had been handed a stone, on which he had 
 ground his teeth impotently. 
 
 And then the change came swiftly over him. He was 
 the nervous, awkward, ill-placed boor again, for a door 
 had opened and Sheila Clare had come out. She looked 
 at him brightly. She laughed and shook her head. 
 
 "Oh, James, those dusty boots of yours again," she 
 said sweetly. 
 
 But sweetly though she had said it, he blushed awk- 
 wardly to his ears. 
 
 "I am sorry," he said ; "I'll go and change 'em," and 
 he moved sheepishly away. 
 
 109
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ADRIFT 
 
 FEAR had come to 'Nid, fear of what she hardly 
 knew. Fear of Geoffrey Clare, of herself, of her 
 vague longings, the curious sense of hunger at her heart. 
 But it was not a fear that was entirely unpleasant, it 
 was fear that was partly joy. The fear that a maid 
 might feel at the approach of a man who is not dis- 
 tasteful to her, the fear she might feel at hearing im- 
 passioned words of love that she scarcely understands 
 and yet which are sweet to her. 
 
 'Nid did not know her own mind. She liked Geoffrey 
 Clare with a liking she had never given to any one 
 else. He was different from any one else ; he understood 
 her as poor, slow-going, heavy-brained Jim never had 
 nor could. He could enter into her thoughts, could 
 even read them, and unspoken questions in her mind were 
 sometimes answered by him in a startling manner. For 
 he was clever and had the gift of intuition. When he 
 saw her beautiful, dreamy eyes fixed wistfully, with 
 some vague longing, on the sea, he gently touched a chord 
 that he knew would respond and vibrate to his touch. 
 It brought them closer together. 
 
 He talked to her in the affected manner of the studios 
 and suburban* tea parties of "soul mates" and "congenial 
 spirits." And she, knowing nothing of the humbug of 
 it, listened and was thrilled. 
 no
 
 Adrift 
 
 With her it was all a matter of spirit, with him all a 
 matter of the flesh. But he was clever enough to hide 
 the growing passion for her. He knew that she was 
 easily frightened, timid as a fawn, quick to take fright. 
 So he kept himself in control and talked to her the 
 rubbish of which he was a past-master. For how often 
 had he talked that same drivel to other women and 
 duly impressed them? 
 
 He stood on the breezy Downs and quoted Omar 
 to her. She did not understand it in the least, but she 
 was thrilled, she loved it, loved it the better because 
 it was beyond her comprehension. 
 
 And, oh, the tenderness he could so skilfully put 
 into his rich, mellow voice. How she thrilled at the 
 words, what meaning they had for her ! 
 
 "Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, 
 
 A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse, and Thou 
 Beside me, singing in the Wilderness 
 And Wilderness is Paradise enow." 
 
 The Downs were her paradise, the glint of the sea 
 like heaven, his voice was the only thing needful to 
 complete the spell. She did not realise that she was 
 drifting into real and terrible danger, there was no one 
 to tell her. 
 
 Jim trusted her absolutely. He longed for her com- 
 panionship, longed for her with a great and growing 
 hunger. She was his and yet not his ; she bore his name, 
 was his wife, and there it all ended. He knew that she 
 was less his now than she had been before their mar- 
 riage when she was only a girl working in a laundry. 
 
 But sometimes the desire, born of fear, to get away 
 from every one came to Enid. And then she would slip 
 quietly out of the house and go tramping away across 
 
 in
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 the Downs, down into the little hollow where the old 
 deserted cottage was. And there:, like a child, she 
 would play at "keeping house." 
 
 These were perhaps the happiest moments of her 
 life. She knew every nook and cranny in the old place. 
 She would lay aside her silk stockings and her pretty 
 shoes and paddle bare-footed in the stream like a child. 
 She would tell one of the servant maids to wrap up a 
 little luncheon for her and she would bring it here and 
 spend the long day in happy solitude, never for a mo- 
 ment dull, enjoying every moment of it with all a child's 
 thoroughness of enjoyment. 
 
 But sometimes when she came into the dell where 
 the cottage was, she heard voices and laughter. She 
 knew that others came here sometimes. They had left 
 traces behind, scraps of food, withered flowers. She did 
 not know who these others were, but she felt a queer 
 hatred of them. They were trespassers ; she wanted the 
 little place to herself hated to think that others shared 
 it with her. When she heard those voices and the 
 laughter, then she would shrink back and go quietly 
 away with a feeling of unhappiness and loss, a sense of 
 having been cheated of something. 
 
 Geoffrey Clare, with consummate skill and patience, 
 had played on her heartstrings. He had watched for 
 the wonder in her beautiful eyes and he had seen it. 
 
 "You seem to understand me more'n more than 
 any one else ever did," she said. "It's like as if you 
 it is as though you felt about things just the same as 
 I do." 
 
 He liked trie quaint way in which she always made 
 mistakes and always corrected them. There was nothing 
 about her that he did not like. He was really in love, 
 112
 
 Adrift 
 
 unselfishly and yet selfishly in love with her. She had 
 appealed to him as no other woman ever had. He 
 thought of his many past love affairs and shrugged his 
 shoulders. They had been all ordinary, if pretty girls. 
 There was nothing distinctive about them. One excelled 
 in eyes, another in lips, another had a beautiful voice, 
 another was clever and interesting. But in 'Nid seemed 
 the embodiment of all the attractions. 
 
 And meanwhile Sheila's ascendancy over Jim was 
 increasing. He seemed to be helpless without her. The 
 London carpenter, pitchforked by fate into this fine 
 mansion, made suddenly master of broad acres and of 
 great wealth, was hopelessly at sea. He needed some 
 one's guiding hand. Sheila was there to guide him, 
 tenderly and playfully, yet more strongly than he knew. 
 
 "Enid is only a child," she said to him; "leave her to 
 herself. It is a great pity, of course, that you and she 
 married when you did. She was not old enough to 
 know her own mind, so, dear friend, you must wait." 
 
 She always called him "dear friend," and he liked 
 it. In his heart he had a fear of her she was so much 
 above him, she belonged to a different world, a world 
 of which he knew nothing and was as yet learning 
 nothing. 
 
 "Enid is only a child; she is not eighteen yet, is she? 
 And she might be fourteen and have lived all her life in 
 a convent," Sheila said. 
 
 "I thought she might might have got to care a little 
 
 for me by now," he said. "But I s'pose " He 
 
 paused; "I ain't the sort 'Nid 'ud ever care much for. 
 I don't understand 'er like she wants to be understood." 
 
 "Your marriage was a mistake; still, you must make 
 the best of it," she said.
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 Yes, it was a mistake; it was dawning on him, and 
 the knowledge hurt him, hurt him terribly. He hun- 
 gered for his girl wife, his heart longed for her. The 
 indifferent kiss she gave him now and again simply 
 because it was her duty to kiss the man who was her 
 husband pained him. It set his blood dancing for a 
 moment, sent a thrill through him, and then came again 
 the bitterness of hopelessness. He watched her some- 
 times when she did not know it, watched her with his 
 heart and his soul in his eyes. 
 
 Would she ever come to care for him? He thought 
 not hope was dying. 
 
 And Sheila, watching him, understanding him, felt a 
 sense of fury. What a fool he was ! The girl was not 
 worth troubling about, a little twopenny-ha'penny laun- 
 dry hand! 
 
 "You think too much of her and she isn't worth it! 
 I don't believe she has a heart at all; she's just a selfish 
 little creature not worth the love or the thought of such 
 a man as you, James." 
 
 He stared open-eyed at her. 
 
 " 'Nid not not worth me, a chap like me ?" he said. 
 He flushed. "Why, she's worth a thousand of me. 
 She's in 'er way as much above me as you are, Miss !" 
 
 To her anger he always called Sheila "Miss" ; it was a 
 habit she had tried vainly to break him of. 
 
 "You are a fine man, a rich man, well born and a 
 gentleman by birth, and she what is she ? A child from 
 the gutter. I tell you she isn't worthy of you, she isn't 
 good enough for you, Jim!" 
 
 "Don't don't say that, I won't listen to you; you 
 you don't know what you're talking about," he said with 
 such real anger that she trembled for a moment for her 
 114
 
 Adrift 
 
 . 
 
 ascendancy over him; but he was apologising the next 
 moment. 
 
 And so life went on for them all. Every day Jim 
 and 'Nid drifted further and further apart. Every 
 day Geoffrey Clare brought all his arts of enchantment 
 to bear, and he was winning, he knew that. Once since 
 the night when the storm had overtaken them he had 
 tried to kiss her, had kissed her. But he had seen the 
 sudden fear, the almost loathing in her face, had felt 
 her draw away from him as though she was beginning 
 to suspect him, and he never made the same mistake 
 again. 
 
 "She's driving me mad," he said to his sister. "She's 
 just a little cold icicle, but I'll wake her heart up yet." 
 
 "The sooner the better! I am getting sick of this. 
 I'm tired of playing bear leader; for heaven's sake do 
 something soon!" Sheila said. 
 
 "You must help me," he said. 
 
 "I ?" 
 
 He nodded. "Talk to him, tell him that she is his 
 wife, say that he has played the fool long enough. He 
 will listen to you ; you can talk to him, you're a woman ; 
 I couldn't, you understand? Tell him that the only way 
 he can break down 'Nid's coldness is for him to be strong 
 and bold, eh ? Tell him to attack you understand ?" 
 
 She nodded. "And then?" 
 
 "Then she'll be afraid, she'll turn to me, her friend; 
 she will hate him, fear him !" 
 
 "It all sounds ridiculous," Sheila said. 
 
 "It may to you, but I understand 'Nid." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "Please call her Enid 
 when you speak to me about her. Remember I did 
 not work in the laundry with her."
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 But she took his advice, she spoke to Jim. She was 
 clever like her brother. She could speak delicately and 
 even then make herself understood to his slow-going 
 brain. 
 
 She summed it all up in a few words. "Faint heart 
 never won fair lady" ; and why need he be fainthearted ? 
 
 The girl was his lawful, legal, wedded wife! 
 
 "She'll think more of you, James. Insist on your 
 rights. You are her husband, you have the right to 
 kiss her on the lips. I see she gives you her cheek. 
 Kiss her to-night on the lips. If she does not like it, 
 insist the more. You've got to beat down this silly, 
 senseless modesty of hers." 
 
 "But she'd 'ate me," Jim said he remembered that 
 night in Pent Street. 
 
 "Not she! She's a woman; she would like you the 
 better for it, admire you, come to love you as you de- 
 serve to be loved." 
 
 "I I'd 'ate to 'urt her or frighten 'er," he said. "I'd 
 sooner cut off my right hand." 
 
 "Folly!" she said. "How foolish you men are; you 
 don't understand women ; women like to be bullied and 
 coerced. They admire a strong, resolute man and they hate 
 a coward, and you are playing a coward's part with 'Nid." 
 
 And so that night, against his own judgment, yet 
 because he needed her so, because his heart hungered 
 for her so, because he believed that Sheila was infinitely 
 more clever than he was, he followed her advice. When 
 'Nid gave him her cheeks to kiss as she wished him good- 
 night he caught her suddenly in his arms as he had that 
 night in Pent Street. She struggled, but it was useless. 
 
 Sheila understood, she was right, for too long he had 
 been wrong. So he held her, he forced her little face 
 116
 
 Adrift 
 
 towards his, he looked down into her angry and terror- 
 stricken eyes. He pressed his lips to hers and then he 
 let her go, feeling himself a brute, hating himself, but 
 loving her with a mad, passionate intensity. 
 
 And the girl fled shaking and white to her own room 
 and locked the door on herself. 
 
 She could not sleep. She rose and went out into the 
 grey dawn. She went out on to the Downs and watched 
 the sun rise. She felt she could not face her husband 
 again ; she told herself that she hated him. She thought 
 of London, even of the laundry anything, any place so 
 long as it meant escape. His kisses she scrubbed her 
 red lips till they were sore the kisses of any man 
 hateful ! And then in the sunrise she saw this other man 
 who understood her only too well. 
 
 " 'Nid," he said. "What is wrong? I heard you pac- 
 ing your room in the night, I felt that something was 
 wrong, dear. I heard you come out and I have followed 
 you!" 
 
 "Wrong! everything is wrong. I 'ate " She 
 
 paused, "hate," she said, and then paused again. 
 
 It was his chance, his opportunity. In his mind he 
 laughed at her for a little fool; he knew what had hap- 
 pened, for Sheila had spied on them and told him. But 
 he dragged a confession from her. 
 
 "The brute!" he said. "The brute! He does not 
 understand you." He talked to her of the soul and the 
 spirit, the same old jargon that he knew she loved. 
 
 "You cannot trust yourself with that man," he said. 
 "You want freedom, another life, something that I could 
 offer you, 'Nid, my my darling. Listen. When I first 
 saw your dear face I knew memory worked in my soul. 
 I knew that in some past age you and I were all the 
 
 117
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 world to one another. This life is not all; behind us is 
 a curtain, thick, heavy, impenetrable, yet it is given to 
 us now and again to lift the curtain for one brief moment, 
 to peep behind, to see the past. And I have seen beyond 
 the curtain, 'Nid. He was wrong who wrote, 
 
 " 'There was a door to which I found no key, 
 There was a veil past which I could not see.' 
 
 I have seen beyond the veil, 'Nid. I saw you you and 
 myself in the past ages !" 
 
 And she listened to this trivial stuff and believed in 
 it because it all seemed like an answer to her own dim 
 thoughts, her own unformed ideas. 
 
 It was some hours later that one of the village boys 
 came and slipped a letter into Sheila's hand. It was 
 hastily scribbled, a note written in the local post office. 
 
 "It's all right, it worked as I knew it would. We're 
 off and away, 'Nid and I. Wish us joy. I leave you 
 to deal with the man. I've got enough for immediate 
 necessities, but send me a draft for all you can manage 
 to the Hotel Boulogne, Paris." 
 
 And Sheila smiled as she tore the note into tiny frag- 
 ments. 
 
 Jim, heavy 'eyed through lack of sleep, came and 
 joined her in the garden. 
 
 "Seen 'Nid?" he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. "No, I cannot understand where 
 she has hidden herself. I suppose she has another of. 
 
 her wandering fits on her, and I wonder " she added 
 
 softly. "I wonder where Geoffrey can be?" She looked 
 at him, but bis 'eyes were innocent of suspicion, for he 
 trusted 'Nid with a trust that was complete, almost 
 sublime. 
 118
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HOW THE NEWS CAME TO JIM 
 
 TIM wandered about aimlessly and disconsolately all 
 ^ the day. Luncheon time came and there was no 
 'Nid. 
 
 "I cannot understand where Geoffrey can be," Sheila 
 
 said. "It is very odd and Enid, too Strange they 
 
 should both be absent." 
 
 She looked at him, wondering how long it would be 
 before he began to suspect. But he suspected nothing; 
 his own blundering honesty never led him to think of 
 'Nid's being untrue to him. 
 
 Evening, and the sun was sinking over the Downs, 
 the birds homing to their nests, the red glow of the 
 sunset in the sky turning the distant Downs to deep 
 purple. The old mill in the far distance almost black, 
 clear cut against the sky. And she had not come back, 
 nor the man. 
 
 Something stirred uneasily in his mind, a thought 
 came, a suspicion. But he put it away from him. She 
 had gone out, had forgotten the passing of time, had 
 made a day of it. She had gone to the sea of course, 
 her beloved sea. She would be back presently, explain- 
 ing apologising perhaps. No, she would not apologise, 
 'Nid never did. 
 
 Or it might be a sense of personal shame came to 
 him, he remembered that passionate kiss of last night, 
 
 119
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 the horror and terror in her face. Had she run away 
 from him then, dreading lest he should offend again? 
 
 "James, it is curious that Enid has not come back." 
 It was Sheila's clear voice. "It is also curious that my 
 brother should be away at the same time." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked quickly. 
 
 She came to him and slipped her hand into his. 
 
 "James, you have married a wife who does not under- 
 stand you, whom you will never understand, a foolish, 
 romantic girl with ridiculous ideas. I am sorry to say 
 that as she is, so is my brother. I have no patience 
 with the nonsense of which he talks and in which he 
 believes. I know that he and Enid have been talking 
 this nonsense affinities of the soul, kindred spirits, meet- 
 ings in a previous existence, and all that stuff and non- 
 sense." She laughed a little harshly. Jim looked at 
 her. 
 
 "What d'ye mean?" he repeated. "You you got 
 something on your mind ; there is something you want 
 to say say it." His face had gone very white. "Go 
 on, say it." 
 
 "James," she said, "Jim" her fingers tightened on 
 his "I am your friend ; if evil has happened, if if what 
 I dread and fear should be true, it it will not make 
 you turn against me, hate me because that man hap- 
 pened to to be my brother?" 
 
 "So so you mean that?" he said. "You mean you 
 think him and 'er has gorn gorn away together, left 
 me 'Nid?" 
 
 "James, I fear it is only too true. I have dreaded it, 
 feared it. I^spoke to Geoffrey, I told him that so long as 
 he lived I would never forgive him, never look at him 
 1 20
 
 How the News Came to Jim 
 
 again, renounce him as my brother if he brought shame 
 and pain to you." 
 
 Jim nodded slowly. "It isn't your fault he's your 
 brother," he said. "You don't need to blame yourself, 
 you can't help what brothers and sisters you 'ad, no 
 
 one can. But I don't believe " His voice shook. 
 
 "I don't believe bad of 'Nid; I don't believe it's in 'er 
 to be bad. I don't believe she'd ever care for any man. 
 She she's like that ; she's only a kid, a little 'un. Chaps 
 at the shed laughed at me when they see me with 'er. 
 One of 'em arst me if I'd adopted 'er and I said yes, 
 and that that seems to be 'ow it 'as been all along. 
 I don't believe " He paused suddenly, then as sud- 
 denly tore his hand from hers and strode away. He 
 went out into the night and walked walked hard, walked 
 till utter weariness came to him. And as he walked he 
 said to himself: "I don't believe, I don't believe. 'Nid's 
 good and right and and innocent, she is. 'Nid's only a 
 kid. I didn't ought to have married 'er, I ought to 'ave 
 waited I won't believe." 
 
 Sheila watched and waited for him with growing 
 impatience and annoyance. He always annoyed her, 
 he was a fool, but he was a rich fool. This place that 
 she had once regarded as Geoffrey's and her own was 
 his. 
 
 He would free himself, of course, he would put an end 
 to that ridiculous marriage. Then, free, she would 
 marry him. She shuddered a little at the prospect, yet 
 she had made up her mind to it, and she would not 
 spare herself. Married to him, they could live their 
 own lives. Fortunately he was a man it would be easy 
 to ignore. She could leave him out of her calculations, 
 
 121
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 she could spend the greater part of her time away from 
 him. 
 
 Sitting here in the softly lighted old drawing-room she 
 made her plans for the future with a certainty that was 
 surprising. 
 
 At last she heard his step outside. She would know 
 it from all others, heavy and uncertain. No servant 
 walked so badly as he did. 
 
 "Yes, I'll do that/' she muttered. "It'll end matters, 
 anyhow." 
 
 He would have passed the open door and gone to his 
 own room, but she called to him. 
 
 "Jim, I I wish to speak to you; I have something 
 to say. I have been waiting for you." 
 
 He came in; his face was white and tired looking. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 "I have had news a message was brought to me, a 
 message from the man I once called brother, Jina," 
 she said. 
 
 He nodded and came a little further into the room. 
 
 "Oh, Jim, it is true, only only too true," she said 
 with a catch in her voice. 
 
 "You you mean 'im and 'Nid; mean that that 
 they've gone together?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, they have gone to to Paris, he and she ! Oh, 
 Jim, Jim, I am so ashamed, so heart-broken !" She held 
 her face down to hide her perfectly dry eyes. 
 
 "So that's it !" he said. He repeated the words, "So 
 that's it!" 
 
 He sighed 1 ^and said it again and again. "So that's it." 
 Then he turned and went out. She heard him blunder- 
 ing across the hall. 
 
 "So that's it," she said in imitation of his voice. "Yes, 
 122
 
 How the News Came to Jim 
 
 that is it, my friend. Now you know, now you under- 
 stand, you've lost her, and so much the better. You 
 will rid yourself of her and make room for me." 
 
 She rose and moved about the drawing-room; she 
 examined the valuable old furniture, the several pieces 
 of well-nigh priceless china, she looked at the pictures. 
 It was worth it ; the man was impossible, of course, still 
 the man's possessions, they were worth it. So she smiled 
 to herself and went to bed. 
 
 Jim sat alone in his room, his hands clenched and 
 resting on the table before him, his eyes fixed, staring 
 into vacancy. "So so that's it," he said again. It 
 seemed as if he could say nothing else. 
 
 "I done 'er a wrong marrying 'er ; she was too young, 
 she didn't understand. Maybe she she don't prop'ly 
 understand now, I don't think she does. Poor 'Nid, 
 poor little 'un!" 
 
 And then suddenly there came to him a great hunger 
 for her, all his pent-up love for her flamed up. He 
 clenched his hands, the perspiration ran down his face. 
 
 "And I loved 'er, worshipped 'er, worshipped the very 
 ground 'er little feet trod on," he said hoarsely. "I'd 
 'a died for 'er willing if if she 'ad come to me and 
 said, 'Jim Jim, I can't never be 'appy with you, I 
 want to be free, and the only one way for me to be 
 
 free ' I'd 'a done it, died for 'er, died for 'er to be 
 
 free. But now now " He dropped his face on to 
 
 his shaking hands suddenly. 
 
 And so an hour passed and another and another and 
 he sat there motionless. And outside the night waned 
 and the stars paled before the coming of the new dawn. 
 
 123
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE BEST FOR HER 
 
 could guess from the look of him at the 
 tragedy that filled his soul, the emptiness, the 
 hunger, the torn and ruined love, the sorrow? To the 
 servants he was the same as usual, and so he was even 
 to Sheila's sharp eyes. His face was heavy and impas- 
 sive as ever. He ate his breakfast with no lack of 
 appetite. Another and a man of finer feeling might 
 have shuddered at the thought of food, but Jim did not. 
 Food was necessary, it was fuel to the engine he ate. 
 
 During the meal, while the servants were present, 
 they talked of indifferent things. No reference was 
 made to the two absent ones. If the servants wondered, 
 they had to keep their wonder to themselves. 
 
 It was not till they were alone that Jim spoke. 
 
 "You've 'card nothing more?" 
 
 "Nothing more, there is nothing more to hear. They 
 will be in Paris by this time," she said. 
 
 He nodded. "I s'pose so," he said. 
 
 She waited, but nothing came. This man was annoy- 
 ing, exasperating. She could have understood if he 
 had flown into a violent rage, if he had cursed Geoffrey 
 and even the girl, too, but he did nothing of the sort. 
 
 "I shouldn't 'ave believed it," he said quietly. "I 
 s'pose it's all right, your message? 'E sent it?" 
 
 "It was right, there is not the slightest doubt he 
 124
 
 The Best for Her 
 
 he wrote; I tore the letter up in a fit of fury. I wish 
 I had not now, I would have shown it to you." 
 
 "If you say so it's all right. I believe what you tell 
 me," he said. 
 
 "Paris," he repeated. "Paris 'Nid in Paris." 
 
 She looked up at him suddenly, and an idea, a sus- 
 picion flashed into her mind. 
 
 "Jim, what what are you going to do? You you're 
 not going to follow them, you aren't going to Paris ?" 
 
 He turned and looked at her. "Me," he said simply. 
 "Why?" 
 
 She drew a long breath of relief. She had foreseen 
 a scandal, a scene, perhaps a crime. Such things had 
 happened. She knew that if it had come to a man-to- 
 man struggle Geoffrey and Jim Geoffrey, her brother, 
 would have been helpless as a baby in the big man's 
 grip, and in her way she was fond of her brother, she 
 did not wish harm to come to him. But she might have 
 known, of course, he would not follow them, she had 
 been a fool to put such a thought into his head. 
 
 "Where are you going?" she asked sharply. 
 
 "Out," he said. "I'm going to see Baring. I I want 
 a bit of a talk with him." 
 
 Baring was the steward of the estate. 
 
 "Oh, and you will be back when?" 
 
 "Lunch, I s'pose," he said. "By then you may have 
 'ad something else." 
 
 "It is not likely," she said. 
 
 He went out ; he was gone all the morning. Just be- 
 fore luncheon he came in again. 
 
 "It's all right," she heard him mutter. He had a habit 
 of talking to himself, which was one of the things about 
 
 125
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 him she objected to. "That's all right." He spoke in 
 tones of relief. 
 
 He came in to luncheon, he ate with his usual appe- 
 tite. She felt disgusted; she watched him. The man 
 was a soulless, senseless creature; he accepted almost 
 indifferently what might have been almost a death blow 
 to another man. He could eat huge meals and talk of 
 indifferent subjects and spend the morning with his 
 steward just as though nothing had happened. 
 
 "James, I wish to speak to you, if you think of going 
 out again," she said. 
 
 He nodded. "I was going out," he said, "but I can 
 stay and 'ear anything you've got to say to me." 
 
 "What are you going to do ?" she asked sharply. He 
 was taxing her patience to its utmost. 
 
 "To do?" 
 
 Sheila stamped her foot. "Yes, do. Great Heavens, 
 do!" she cried. "Your wife has deserted you, she has 
 gone with that man who was my brother. I renounce 
 him, I will never look at him again. What are you 
 going to do about this I ask ? Are you going to do what 
 any sane man would do free yourself, give her the 
 chance of becoming an honest woman? Answer me." 
 
 Her eyes flamed at him, his stupidity was driving her 
 mad. 
 
 "I've thought about all that," he said. "I've thought 
 about it. It's early days yet. I want time time to do 
 the best as I can for for 'Nid." 
 
 "There is only one thing you can do for her free 
 her," she said. "And you owe it to yourself, too." She 
 paused; she might speak to this man as she could not 
 to any other man. 
 
 "Listen to me. You have been treated shamefully, so 
 126
 
 The Best for Her 
 
 have I. You trusted that woman, I trusted that man, 
 my brother; we are both shamed and humiliated. The 
 best thing you can do for her, for Enid, is to set her 
 free. When you have done so you will need a mistress 
 in this house of yours, some one who understands, who 
 can help you as a wife should. If you find that you do 
 need such a woman, then then you needn't have far to 
 look, Jim." 
 
 "You mean," he said, "you mean that if I get rid of 
 'Nid you'd be willing to marry me?" 
 
 "That is what I mean." 
 
 He nodded slowly. "I thought of that, too," he said. 
 "Only only I want time time to think. I don't 
 believe in acting in no 'urry, I want time to think." 
 
 He turned to the door, stumbling against a little table, 
 upsetting it and sending it and its contents into ruin 
 on the ground. He did not pause to look at the damage 
 he had done; he went out and slammed the door after 
 him. Then he opened the door again. 
 
 "I didn't mean to bang it," he said. "It was the wind 
 as caught it." And with this apology he went. 
 
 She laughed, laughed furiously. The man was hope- 
 less, impossible, a clod, a thing without feeling. Why 
 heaven had ever fashioned such a man, and moreover 
 had made him a Bevanwood, she could not think. 
 
 Jim went out ; he strode stolidly down the long avenue ; 
 he came to the road and made his way to the village. 
 At one of the cottages in the village he paused. As 
 usual the children came flocking to him. 
 
 " 'Ere, little uns, go and buy yourself stick-jaw," he 
 said. He gave them a shilling and sent them away, well 
 enough contented. 
 
 "Your Billy in, Mrs. Wasser?" he asked. 
 
 127
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 Mrs. Wasser, wife to Mr. George Wasser, one of 
 Jim's under-gardeners, came to the door drying her red 
 hands on her apron. 
 
 "My Billy, Vs gone on the Downs, Sir James," she 
 said. 
 
 "Maybe I'll find 'im all right?" he said. "Every- 
 think all right?" 
 
 She smiled. "Everything's been all right, Sir James, 
 since you come," she said. 
 
 "Got the joint in for Sunday?" he asked. 
 
 "No, I I 'adn't thought of it yet, and, oh thank you, 
 Sir James, I'm sure," she added. 
 
 "Take my advice," he said, "and git beef, there's more 
 in beef than there is in mutton. You don't 'ear no talk 
 about the roast mutton of old England, it's beef all the 
 time as put England where she is now, that and beer. 
 You don't never 'ear me running down good honest 
 ale. I say a man as does 'is work proper needs some- 
 think to keep up 'is strength and courage, so " He 
 
 paused, conscious that he was making a long speech. 
 "Beef makes blood and flesh," he said. "Git beef." 
 Then he turned away and the woman stared after him. 
 
 "I don't know what they say of him," she said. "Nor 
 I don't care, but this I do know, that I wish there was 
 a few more made like him." 
 
 And so the man with the impassive face and the lum- 
 bering stride and the aching heart went down the sunny 
 village street, and at the end of the street where the 
 road turns whiter and rises to the swell of the Downs, he 
 met a small, freckled, red-haired boy of about thirteen. 
 
 "I been booking for you, Billy Wasser," he said. 
 
 "Well, 'ere I be, governor," the boy said. "Going 
 
 128
 
 The Best for Her 
 
 Sir James Bevanwood nodded. "You come with me, 
 
 I want to talk with you," he said. "I'm going " He 
 
 paused. "Going away for a bit." 
 
 The boy's face fell. 
 
 "Not fur, Billy," Jim said. "Not so fur as you carn't 
 pop in and see me now and a bit." 
 
 "Oh, you mean there?" the boy said. "Going to live 
 there?" 
 
 "That's about the size of it, Billy. You see, it's like 
 this way with me. I've got a bit of thinking to do, a bit 
 of real 'ard thinking. Things isn't isn't what they 
 might be, and I've got to think a way out, a best way 
 for for 'er " He paused. "Best way for every- 
 body, and I don't believe in doin' nothing in a 'urry. I 
 
 want to think " He paused. "And when a man's 
 
 got thinking to do, why, 'e carn't be listening to chatter 
 all the time; a man's got to be alone to think prop'ly." 
 
 The boy nodded ; he looked at his big friend with wise 
 blue eyes. 
 
 "So you be going down there to do your think?" 
 he said. 
 
 "That's it, Billy, that's the idea I got into my 'ead, 
 and you you're going to 'elp me. You see, I don't 
 want no one to know where I'm gorn to, otherwise I'd 
 'ave some of 'em round worrying me. I just want to 
 be alone, all alone. I've got a deal of 'ard thinking to 
 do, Billy boy." 
 
 "Where do I come in, governor?" 
 
 "That's it," Jim said. "Well, I'll be wanting things. 
 I shan't want to come 'ere to get 'em. I shan't want 
 no one to know where I am. You got to tell your 
 mother I'm travelling a bit and I want you to come with 
 me, see?" 
 
 129
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 The boy's face beamed. "And and you mean you'll 
 'ave me along with you down there?" 
 
 "That's it. You'll have to fetch and carry for me. 
 We'll 'ave to git what we want over from Horswood; 
 it's a long tramp, we'll 'ave to git a bicycle." He paused. 
 
 They were on the Downs now. He sat down suddenly 
 on the turf and brought out a pocket-book. From the 
 pocket-book he selected a visiting-card engraved "Sir 
 James Bevanwood, Bart., Bevanwood, Amerhurst, Sus- 
 sex." 
 
 "Billy, you got to go back to your mother and tell 
 *er," he said, "about your coming with me. Say as I 
 met you and want you. Say you'll be away a week or 
 two, maybe a month or two, but you'll be all right with 
 me." 
 
 The boy nodded. 
 
 "And this'll be so as she'll know it's all right." 
 
 Jim nibbled the end of his pencil and then wrote 
 laboriously : 
 
 "To MRS. WASSER, I want your Billy to come 
 with me, he'll be alright and wel looked after, don't 
 worrie about him, so no more at present, from yours 
 truley, J. BEVANWOOD." 
 
 He wrote this on the back of the card till it over- 
 flowed, so he finished it on the front. 
 
 "You take that to 'er and I'll wait 'ere till you come 
 back," he said. And then he stretched himself out on 
 the soft turf, and lay staring up at the blue skies, and 
 already James Bevanwood was beginning his deep, hard 
 thinking and the burden of his thoughts was always 
 "What's the best I can do for 'er?" 
 130
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE FEAR 
 
 YOU'LL need things," Geoffrey said; "y u can get 
 all you need in London." 
 
 "Then we are going to London?" the girl said. 
 
 "At first; after that we shall leave for the sea. We 
 shall stay at Dover the night and cross by the morn- 
 ing boat to France." 
 
 "France, I never been there; it's across the sea," she 
 said. 
 
 "You'll enjoy every minute of Paris," he said. "It's 
 a new life for you. I'm opening the book of the world 
 to you, 'Nid, and I shall get my reward in seeing the 
 wonder and delight in your sweet eyes, darling." 
 
 "Don't," she said. "Don't call me that, I don't like 
 it. Some'ow it seems to spoil everything. Just 'Nld'll 
 do." 
 
 He smiled to himself. 
 
 They had walked across the Downs in the early 
 morning to Horswood, from Horswood they took train 
 to London. He would need things himself ; he must have 
 clothes, just enough to present a creditable appearance. 
 It gave him a thrill of pleasure to see men in the street 
 turn their heads for another glance at the girl beside 
 him. They admired her and envied him probably 
 that's what he wanted. 
 
 "She belongs to me," he thought. "Mine entirely. 
 There's no going back now."
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 He went with her to do the shopping. He went to 
 the bank and drew out the last penny he had there. 
 He reckoned it would just about see him through, pay 
 for her needs, the trip and the hotel expenses, and then 
 Sheila was sure to send him a remittance, he could 
 reckon on that. 
 
 In order that Sir James Bevanwood should have every 
 possible facility for prosecuting his suit when the time 
 came, he took 'Nid to his own chambers. 
 
 His manservant made tea for them. Before Watson, 
 the man, he spoke unguardedly of their future move- 
 ments. 
 
 "We'll stay at Dover to-night; to-morrow we'll cross 
 to Paris," he said. "We'll have a few weeks there. It 
 will be a glorious time, 'Nid, just you and I together 
 and alone." 
 
 The man stared, but he said nothing. What should 
 he say? 
 
 "Pack me all I shall want for about a month; don't 
 overdo it, Watson. And if any letters come for me 
 address them to me at the Hotel Boulogne, Paris." 
 
 "Very good, sir," the man said stiffly. He stared hard 
 at 'Nid. 
 
 "Lady Bevanwood and I " Geoffrey paused as 
 
 though he had let slip something that he had not in- 
 tended. He saw that the man had heard and he smiled 
 to himself. 
 
 An hour later they were in the train for Dover, and 
 she, tired out, wondering a little, frightened, a little ill 
 at ease, fell asleep. She slept as soundly and as sweetly 
 as a child might, rocked and lulled by the movement of 
 the train. And, watching her, a great consuming pas- 
 sion for her came to him. 
 132
 
 The Fear 
 
 He watched the dark shadows of her lashes against 
 her cheeks, the red rose mouth of her, the wonderful 
 hair, the unstudied grace of her attitude, the little child- 
 like hands. He bent forward, he fell on his knees and 
 pressed his lips to her hands, softly so not to waken 
 her. 
 
 He knew it was the passion, the love of his life, the 
 love compared with which all other loves had been 
 savourless, commonplace and ordinary. He even made 
 himself believe that all the rubbish of love in a previous 
 stage of existence had really been between him and her. 
 He wanted to believe it. 
 
 When she woke she found his burning eyes on her 
 and she shivered with a new fear, a new dread. But 
 she was tired, the sleep had made her dull and heavy. 
 She wanted only to rest, to go to bed and rest and sleep 
 till the morning came. 
 
 They went to an hotel. 
 
 "Will you stop at the same hotel as me?" she asked. 
 
 "Will I ? Why, of course," he said. "Don't you wish 
 it, 'Nid?" 
 
 "I don't know as I thought that I thought about 
 it," she said wearily. "All I want is to go to sleep. 
 
 I'm tired, tired to death. I don't know " She 
 
 paused ; she thought of Jim. She fancied she could see 
 the pain and surprise in his face. She did not want 
 to hurt him. He had been very good to her, very good 
 except twice. Remembering that twice she shivered 
 a little. 
 
 He had ordered a private sitting-room where the 
 dinner was served. 'Nid had no appetite. She was 
 haunted by this vision of Jim, Jim suffering, Jim with 
 pained eyes. Yes, he had been good to her in many, 
 
 133
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 many ways. He had not sent her back to work at the 
 laundry, for one thing, as some men did. He had made 
 life pleasant for her. It was Jim who had first taken 
 her to see the sea. 
 
 "Darling, what are you thinking of?" he said. He 
 had been studying her face eagerly, his own eyes glow- 
 ing. 
 
 She started. "I asked you not to to call me that," 
 she said with quiet dignity. "Somehow it don't sound 
 right. I'm thinking I'm tired, I want to go to bed and to 
 sleep; my head aches and I'm a bit worried. It'll be 
 all right in the morning. Can I go now?" 
 
 "Yes, why not ? Go now," he said. He rose. 
 
 " 'Nid," he cried suddenly. " 'Nid." He held out his 
 arms to her. "This is what I have been hoping for 
 and praying for. Just you and I alone, darling, my be- 
 loved." 
 
 His passion, so long pent up and restrained, so long 
 held in check, broke down all barriers now. He had won, 
 and was eager to taste of the fruits of his victory. He 
 had won, she belonged to him, had cast off all the world 
 to follow him. She was here with him alone. Discre- 
 tion and all the cunning chicanery and mock sentiment 
 he flung to the winds. She was his now and never 
 could she escape him. 
 
 He held her in his arms, struggling a little, panting, 
 a trembling frightened thing, and holding her, kissed 
 her upon the lips and eyes. 
 
 Strong with the passion that had found expression 
 at last, her ^feeble opposition was hopeless. She tried 
 to thrust her little hands into his face, and then, realising 
 her feebleness, she looked up, terror-stricken, to plead 
 mutely for help and pity and mercy ; and looking up, she 
 134
 
 The Fear 
 
 saw his eyes, and seeing them, a great loathing and a 
 great fear of him came to her. 
 
 There was that in his eyes that would haunt her sleep- 
 ing and waking for long, long to come. There was in 
 them an evil and a meaning that even now her brain 
 could not grasp, could not understand, but which yet 
 brought a chill horror and great overwhelming fear to 
 her. 
 
 "Let me go for God's sake, let me go!" she cried. 
 
 "Oh, let me go " And, fighting with her last vestige 
 
 of strength, she broke away from him. 
 
 And then he saw the look in her face, the horror and 
 fear in her eyes, and the mad passion of a moment ago 
 was gone. He had frightened her, fool that he was, he 
 had forgotten caution, he had been too impatient. 
 
 " 'Nid," he said. "I'm sorry sorry dear. I did not 
 mean to hurt you. Forgive me 'Nid." 
 
 He stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands. 
 
 "I won't offend again," he said. " 'Nid, trust me, I 
 won't offend again ; it is because I love you so." 
 
 She was making towards the door. Beyond the door 
 lay safety. She dared not look at him again ; she knew 
 that towards him her feelings had utterly changed. Dur- 
 ing the last minute, that minute when he had held her 
 struggling and afraid, the great revulsion had come. 
 She hated him now and feared him, but even greater 
 than her fear was her hatred and loathing of him for the 
 evil that had peeped at her from out his eyes, a look that 
 she had never seen in the eyes of James Bevanwood, or 
 of any other man. 
 
 And now there came to her a cunning born of her 
 desperate fear. She must escape him, leave him, and 
 yet he must not guess at her intentions, or surely he would 
 
 135
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 not let her go. So she turned to him with a smile that 
 she was desperately put to to conjure up. 
 
 "I am so so tired," she said. "So tired you you 
 moist forgive me if I am stupid it is only because I 
 am so tired." 
 
 He smiled indulgently. "Poor little 'Nid," he said 
 softly. "Poor little girl, I was a brute to you. I'm 
 sorry, but you forgive me, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, I forgive you," she said. "But, oh, I am so 
 so tired, the day has been so long." 
 
 She had gained the door now, and beyond that door 
 lay liberty and freedom, and he never guessed. Indeed, 
 he came and opened the door for her and smiled down 
 at her, the slender little figure, white faced and with 
 the great wistful eyes that she kept resolutely hidden 
 from him that he might not see that new expression that 
 had come into them. 
 
 "Good-night," he said. "Good-night, my beloved." 
 And as he spoke he smiled at the thoughts that came to 
 him. 
 
 So she passed out on to the landing, but knowing he 
 was still standing there, watching her, she turned to the 
 bedroom that she understood was to be hers ; and then she 
 went in and locked the door on herself and stood there, 
 shaking and faint, leaning against the door listening lest 
 he should follow her ; but he did not come yet. 
 
 And so she waited for many minutes, how long she 
 did not know. The hat and the cloak she had thrown 
 off still lay v on the bed. She went to it and put them 
 on and then crept to the door again, and with infinite 
 caution turned the key and opened the door a few inches 
 and looked out on to the landing. 
 136
 
 The Fear 
 
 He was not there; the place was deserted, for it was 
 growing late, and all the hotel was quiet. 
 
 So, mastering her fear, she came out and crept down 
 the wide stairs to the hall where there was only the 
 night porter, who looked at her curiously. 
 
 'Tm going going out," she said unsteadily. "My 
 head is bad, it aches badly. I want to walk; the night 
 air'll do me good. I shall be back soon." 
 
 He opened the door to her and she went out. She 
 found herself in unfamiliar streets under the cool night 
 sky. Once she looked back, only once, and then she 
 walked on and on, far into the night, till she had left 
 the town behind her. She walked on through deserted, 
 silent country roads, through little sleeping hamlets, 
 walked till the dawn was in the sky and the rose tint of 
 the new day made the world beautiful. 
 
 137
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 HOW JIM MADE A NEW HOME 
 
 A BOY brought it, Mrs. Wasser's boy. He said 
 there was no answer and he has gone." 
 
 Sheila Qare nodded. She took the note. It bore her 
 own name scrawled in the unformed, schoolboy hand 
 of Jim Bevanwood. 
 
 "What message has the idiot sent me ?" she wondered 
 as she tore the envelope open. 
 
 As she read her brow puckered in a frown, there was 
 a lack of understanding in her eyes. 
 
 "What does it mean? What has he gone for and 
 where to? Not not to seek for her? Good heavens, 
 he couldn't be such a fool as that." 
 
 "DEAR SHEELA," the letter ran, "I'm going away 
 for a bit, I want to be alone, to do a bit of thinking. 
 Don't worrie about me, I'm all right, look after 
 yourself and have all you want like the place was 
 your own. You're mistress anyway till I come 
 back, I've got to think out the best for every one, 
 including what you said to me to-day, also 'Nid and 
 him too. Yours truley, J. BEVANWOOD." 
 
 "Fool !" the woman said. She went to the window and 
 stared out into the grounds. Where had he gone, on what 
 wild, senseless chase? Surely not not to Paris to look 
 138
 
 How Jim Made a New Home 
 
 for 'Nid and Geoffrey? She stamped her foot with sud- 
 den rage. The man was enough to drive her mad. How- 
 ever, he was gone, and, as he had said, she was mistress 
 here till he came back, at any rate and then probably 
 afterwards. But it would have been more satisfactory 
 to have him here under her influence. 
 
 She did not like this breaking away, did not like it 
 at all. "But he will come back soon; the fool will feel 
 lost without me to advise him," she thought. 
 
 Jim Bevanwood took quiet possession. It was his 
 own property. He sent Billy Wasser over to Horswood. 
 It was seven miles, but he knew that the'boy could trudge 
 it in little over two hours. He had implicit faith in 
 Billy's honesty. He provided Billy with more money 
 than the youth had ever seen in his life. 
 
 "You get a bike and come back on it, for one thing," 
 Jim said. "Then you got to 'ave a few things here, 
 Billy, to be comfortable. Git all them things I've writ 
 down soap and tea and sugar and bread. Then you 
 take this 'ere bit of paper to Saunders, the furnishing 
 shop. We'll make it real comfortable 'ere." He .had 
 thought of everything, or as nearly everything as a man 
 can think of when it comes to housekeeping. During 
 the coming days he would realise that for everything 
 he had thought of he had forgotten two other necessary 
 articles, but these were merely details. 
 
 Billy was gone with the money and the written instruc- 
 tions, and Jim Bevanwood set to work. He found a 
 battered old pail which he filled at the stream before the 
 front door. He swamped the floor of the sitting-room, 
 then with his large pocket-knife he set to work to trim 
 the creepers and ivy into something like order over the 
 windows and door of his new home it kept him occu- 
 
 139
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 pied. The time flew surprisingly quickly. Presently he 
 heard a cart coming down the white chalk road and he 
 stepped across the stream to the broken-down gate to 
 see what it was. It was Saunders' cart from Horswood 
 bringing him the things he had ordered. 
 
 The man driving it was a stranger to him, he to the 
 man. Jim Bevanwood in his shirt-sleeves, his face well 
 blackened from the dust in the ivy and looking generally 
 disreputable, did not suggest Sir James Bevanwood of 
 Bevanwood to the man. 
 
 "Hello, mate," he said. "Is this the shanty this stuff 
 is for?" 
 
 "I expect so," Jim said. "Bring it in, I'll lend a 'and/' 
 
 They carried the contents of the cart into the shanty. 
 Two small iron bedsteads with their complement of sheets 
 and blankets, a roll of .linoleum, a couple of brooms, two 
 cane-seated chairs, a^dozen and one other articles, includ-- 
 ing a kettle and a good, useful, all-round saucepan. 
 
 "Phew !" the man said. "You ain't living in this 'ole, 
 are you, mate?" 
 
 "Going to," Jim said, "for a bit. Out of the world, 
 ain't it?" 
 
 "Fergotten 'ole, I call it," the man said. "Some people 
 know their own business best," he added thoughtfully. 
 He looked at Jim ; Jie wondered if this man was a crimi- 
 nal hiding from the law which he had outraged. There 
 was nothing very criminal in Jim Bevanwood's appear- 
 ance. 
 
 " 'Armless lun-atic, I expect," the man thought as he 
 drove away. 
 
 The arrival of the goods gave Jim something more 
 to do. He set to work with the broom; he put up one 
 small iron bedstead in one top room, the other in the 
 140
 
 How Jim Made a New Home 
 
 other. He made the beds as cleverly as a woman might. 
 Sir James Bevanwood, to the manner born, might not 
 have understood the making of a bed. Jim Woods had 
 made his own many a score of times. He had done it 
 for himself, there was nothing strange to him in all this. 
 
 Considering its natural drawbacks he had 'got the 
 place very shipshape when Billy Wasser came back riding 
 his new bicycle and with a sack of provisions slung over 
 his stout little shoulders. 
 
 " 'Ow's it beginning to look, Billy ?" Jim said. 
 
 "Fine," the boy said. "You been workin' all right, 
 ain't you ? Got the beds up and all. What do you think 
 of the bike ?" 
 
 "Ripping," Jim said. " 'Ow much?" 
 
 "Five ten; 'e wanted five and a 'arf guineas. I beat 
 
 'irn down the five and six and he wouldn't gi' a bell in 
 
 
 
 neither, so I sneaked one." 
 
 Jim frowned and shook his head. "You take that 
 there bell back next time you go to Horswood," he said. 
 "Sneakin' ain't the game, Billy." 
 
 "But after paying 'im for the bike " the boy com- 
 plained. 
 
 "You ain't no right to sneak the bell," Jim said. "It 
 ain't right, Billy, it's wrong; you take it back." 
 
 Billy looked at his master resentfully, then his face 
 cleared. No one, no child could Jook resentfully at Jim 
 Bevanwood for long. 
 
 "All right, governor, I'll ride over and take it back 
 to-morrow and tell 'im I made a mistake, the dirty 'ound." 
 
 For the first time for many months a fire was lighted 
 in the little rusty old kitchen grate. Billy Wasser brought 
 in the wood, of which there was no lack, Jim lighted it, 
 he boiled water and made tea, which they drank without 
 
 141
 
 milk for the best of all reasons. He fried some bacon 
 and some eggs, which he broke into the pan in masterly 
 fashion. 
 
 They sat opposite one another at a small deal table and 
 beamed at one another. 
 
 "This is something like," Billy Wasser said. "You 
 ain't 'arf a cook, you ain't, governor." 
 
 "I can do a bit that way," Jim said modestly. 
 
 After tea Billy washed up and Jim concluded his 
 domestic arrangements. 
 
 The sun went down on them, the sweet evening closed 
 in on them. Here in their dell they might have been 
 ten thousand miles away from the world; not a sound 
 came to them but the restless chirping of the birds finding 
 their refuge for the night and the ripple of the stream 
 over the broad stones before the cottage door. 
 
 Jim pulled out his pipe and sat down on the doorstep ; 
 he lighted his pipe solemnly. 
 
 "Bed-time, Billy," he said. 
 
 Billy expostulated. 
 
 "Bed-time. Early to bed and early to rise," Jim quoted. 
 "And " He paused. He forgot the rest ; it was some- 
 thing concerning an early worm he believed. "Anyway, 
 it's bed-time," he added. So Billy reluctantly went. And 
 Jim sat there while the twilight changed to darkness and 
 the stars came out in the blue vault above him. And 
 
 
 
 presently the great, round, yellow moon rose. And sit- 
 ting there smoking many pipes, his hands hugging his 
 knees, Jim Bevanwood stared at the stars, seeking in- 
 spiration. 
 
 "I got to.think," he muttered. "Got to think out the 
 best way for 'er and me and every one, Sheila and the 
 rest, but first and before all poor little Kid." He sighed. 
 142
 
 How Jim Made a New Home 
 
 "Poor little kid! It isn't as if she ever loved me that 
 way, like a wife, nor ever could, she did not prop'ly 
 
 understand. Just a kid, that's all she was. Adopted " 
 
 He paused with a wry smile. He remembered what his 
 mates at the works had said. " 'Ave you adopted her, 
 Jim Woods?" And he had said he had. 
 
 "So that's about it," he muttered. "I a-dopted 'er 4 
 and I got to see 'er through, poor little 'Nid. There's 
 ways out and ways out," he muttered. "The the way 
 she she spoke about." He shuddered. "Only it 'uo. 
 'urt 'Nid, 'urt 'er terrible. She 'ates anythink like that 
 and it 'ud be in the papers and she'd get spoke about, 
 I don't like that way. There's another way." He stared 
 at the great round moon. There was another way, and 
 loving her as he did with the great, unselfish love of a big 
 heart, that other way, terrible as it was, did not seem 
 impossible to him. 
 
 It would free her without shame, without scandal. 
 And then she could marry this man, the man she had 
 chosen. It did not strike him that he was contemplating 
 any great sacrifice, he just wanted to think out the best 
 thing for 'Nid. Might not this be the best thing? 
 
 He knocked out his pipe presently. Billy Wasser had 
 been asleep many hours. Jim crept up the creaky stairs 
 to his room and lay down on the bed. 
 
 "I ain't going to do nothink in a 'urry," he said. "It's 
 'urrying as spoils everything. I've got'to think it out. I'd 
 
 be sorry for many things, sorry to " He paused. 
 
 "Oh, God," he whispered. "God, it's a beautiful world 
 
 you made for us yet if it's the best way for 'er " 
 
 And then he fell asleep. 
 
 143
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE ROAD HOME 
 
 THE dainty little shoes were very ragged, the pretty 
 dress was heavy with the chalk dust from the white, 
 winding, never-ending roads. She trudged on. She had 
 left the sea behind her, the sea she had loved and yearned 
 for ; now she felt a kind of horror of it. As she walked 
 on in the burning sunshine she shivered now and again, 
 shivered as though with the cold. She had made a mis- 
 take, a big mistake, and had not realised it till till he 
 had caught her in his arms and kissed her on the lips, 
 and she had seen that something, in his eyes. Then 
 something something seemed to go wrong with her 
 world, with her thoughts. 
 
 "He he was horrible," she said. She said it aloud. 
 "Horrible." She shuddered. "I didn't know, I thought 
 he was different. I s'pose, come to that, they are all 
 alike horrible." She shuddered again and stooped to 
 pick a wild flower. She looked at it for a moment and 
 then threw it away. She was not thinking of it at, all. 
 
 "I s'pose," she muttered, "I'm a 'bit different to other 
 girls, to them to those who worked at the Snowflake. 
 I didn't never seem to understand 'em. Now I think I 
 know why perhaps I am wrong and they are right, I 
 don't know.* She paused. She sat down on the bank 
 beside the road and looked down at her ragged little 
 feet. 
 144
 
 The Road Home 
 
 How far had she walked? She had not the faintest 
 idea. It was not last night, nor yet the night before that 
 she had broken away from the hotel by the sea, that was 
 three nights ago now, and since then she had plodded 
 on and on. She had no money, not a penny. A woman 
 in a farmhouse had given her her first breakfast, had 
 invited her to stay if she liked and do some housework. 
 'Nid had stayed the better part of the day, earned her 
 dinner, and had then set out again. Her first idea had 
 been London and the Snowflake again; then she had 
 put it out of her mind. She did not feel inclined to 
 exchange the country for the smoky town, she hated the 
 town. 
 
 No, she would not go to London. Then where ? And 
 then she remembered a little broken-down, half-ruined 
 cottage in a dip of the Downs, a stream that ran musically 
 before a broken doorway. And remembering, she grew 
 homesick, homesick for the place. 
 
 Why not go there? She could go there. Of course, 
 when she reached there she would not be able to stay 
 without food or money, or bed or anything. Still it 
 was something definite, it was a goal to be won. 
 
 So she trudged on, taking many a wrong road, some- 
 times getting farther and still farther from her destina- 
 tion and then .picking up the road again. And so the 
 days had passed; she had slept out under a stack one 
 night, in an empty barn another. 
 
 There was no hurry, but it was comforting to know 
 she had some object in view. Sooner or later she would 
 find the little cottage in the hollow of the Downs. But 
 yet there was no haste. 
 
 People were good to her on her way. There is no 
 
 145
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 more open-hearted peasantry in the world than that which 
 finds its living on the rolling South Downs. 
 
 To-night at sunset she tapped on the door of a cottage ; 
 a woman with a baby in her arms came out and stared 
 at her. 
 
 "Well, my girl?" she said. 
 
 "I'm hungry," 'Nid said quietly; "couldn't you give 
 me some work to do, anything just for something J:o eat?" 
 
 "Come inside," the woman said. 
 
 'Nid dragged her weary little feet into the cottage room. 
 The table was laid for a meal. 
 
 "Sit you down ; you've come a long way." 
 
 'Nid nodded. "And I'm tired and hungry, yet I can 
 work. I can scrub and clean or do a bit of washing for 
 you that's what I'm best at, washing." 
 
 "Where do you sleep at night?" the woman asked. 
 
 "Oh, sleeping don't matter anywhere," 'Nid said. "I 
 slept under a stack and in a barn ; a hedge is good enough. 
 One can always sleep. It isn't that, it's getting some- 
 thing to eat now and again." 
 
 The door opened and a man came out. He looked at 
 'Nid. 
 
 " 'Oo is it?" he said briefly. 
 
 His wife explained. 
 
 "She be welcome," he said briefly. He sat down to the 
 table and took the baby from the woman. He nursed it 
 while she laid the meal. He never spoke to 'Nid, hardly 
 looked at her. He had said she was welcome and that, 
 so far as he was concerned, ended the matter. 
 
 Cold boiled bacon and good bread and butter and a 
 cup of tea made a meal for 'Nid. When it was over she 
 asked for the work she was to do. 
 
 "There's no work," the man said. "You're welcome to 
 146
 
 The Road Home 
 
 what you had. It ain't much, but there it is. Them as 
 ain't got much ain't got much to give. You're going? 
 Good-night." 
 
 She moved to the door ; the darkness had settled down, 
 the stars were out. 
 
 "Where are you sleeping to-night?" the woman asked 
 her again. 
 
 "Anywhere, it don't matter," 'Nid said. "Only I would 
 have worked willingly for you to make up " 
 
 "That's all right well " 
 
 "Is it far to Horswood ?" 'Nid asked suddenly. 
 
 "Horswood, don't know it. Jack," she called, "how 
 fur is it to Horswood?" 
 
 "Horswood?" He came to the door. "Horswood? 
 
 I know a Horswood " He paused. "It's miles and 
 
 miles, it's back of Chichester somewhere, past Little 
 'Ampton and Arundel oh, miles, twenty, thirty maybe 
 I know of 'Orswood as I used to court a gel whose people 
 
 come from there " He paused and looked at his 
 
 wife. 
 
 "Good-night," he said abruptly and turned back into 
 the cottage. 
 
 And so 'Nid started on her journey again. 
 
 Miles and miles and miles. She slept under a hedge 
 that night and woke in the yellow primrose of the dawn. 
 She bathed before the world was awake in a stream 
 that turned a great moss-grown millwheel. 
 
 Yokels going very, very early to their work might have 
 had something to tell about for the rest of their days had 
 they seen the little slim white figure on the bank of the 
 stream. Who in Sussex does not believe in the fairies 
 and the nymphs and dryads that come out of the woods, 
 and mermaids that come out of the foam? 
 
 147
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 But no one saw 'Nid, and so local superstition did 
 not get the fillip it might have secured. She dressed 
 herself in her dust-heavy clothes and stepped out again 
 on the white road. But she had cast the worn-out shoes 
 behind her for ever and henceforth went barefooted. 
 
 Miles and miles and miles. She often lost her way and 
 went a day's journey in the wrong direction, but it did 
 not matter. Sooner or later she would find the cottage 
 down in the dell. Not yet, not for weeks jperhaps, months 
 maybe it all depended on Fate. There was no hurry, 
 none in the world. 
 
 When a big town lay directly in her route she made 
 a wide detour to avoid it. It cost her many miles, but 
 she must avoid the big towns. People might look ques- 
 tioningly at her little bare feet in the big towns. Out 
 here on the Downs where the soft grass was good to walk 
 on it did not matter, but'the pavements of the towns would 
 hurt these small feet of hers, just as did the flints when, 
 perforce, she must travel by the road, so the tender skin 
 was cut and bruised; and sometimes because the pain 
 was so great she had to rest long hours by the way. 
 
 Still she crept on, making slowly to her goal, missing 
 her way, taking many extra miles to avoid what she did 
 not wish to meet. 
 
 To-day she lay out on the soft green turf with the 
 golden sunshine about her. Below her lay Lewes; she 
 could see the great, square, ugly prison, but did not 
 know what it was. So, too, could ^she see the ruins of 
 Lewes' ancient castle. Great fights have been fought 
 here, noble de.eds done in the old far-off days. There 
 are relics of those battles still to be found out here on the 
 green Downs, if one but seeks for them, some rust-eaten 
 scrap of metal that once might have been sword or spear- 
 148
 
 The Road Home 
 
 head or a fragment of some warrior's head-piece. Gal- 
 lant, stirring times has the old castle seen, but now it 
 stands in its decay overlooking the most peaceful valley 
 in all the green south country. Eastward the hills fall 
 to the valley of the Ouse, that dull brown river that 
 flows sluggishly to the sea; there in the valley good 
 Sussex cattle feed in the low meadows where the grass 
 grows so thick and green. And then the broken hills 
 claim their own again and rise to even greater heights, 
 their sides in many a place scarred by the cliffs of chalk 
 that gleam whitely in the sun's light. 
 
 And now, breaking on the peace and stillness of it 
 all, comes a discordant note, the shrill scream of an 
 engine. With a puff of white smoke the train comes 
 crawling through the valley, and so passes on its way to 
 Newhaven and the sea, and presently is gone, leaving 
 behind it a floating trail of white, and once again the 
 valley is given over to the red cattle and the brown river 
 and silence. 
 
 A shepherd tending his flocks told her her way. 
 Brighton lay directly west; to avoid it she must strike 
 across the Downs and come out at Clayton, then take 
 the road under the Downs beyond Poynings to Edburton 
 and Beeding. Horswood he had never heard of, but if it 
 was Chichester way she would be all right if she kept 
 on due west; and keeping the Downs between her and 
 the sea she would avoid the towns such as Brighton and 
 Worthing. 
 
 She slept that night in the base of a ruined windmill 
 and lay listening to the rats that played about near her, 
 but she was not afraid. She was only tired and very, 
 very supremely in need of rest, and in spite of the burn- 
 ing, throbbing pain of her feet, she slept serenely and 
 
 149
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 undisturbed and woke to another brilliant day, another 
 long day of journeying. And she had kept no count of 
 the days that had passed. She did not know whether it 
 was Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or any other day in 
 the week. 
 
 Sometimes she was very, very hungry, sometimes it 
 hurt her to go unwashed for lack of water, and there 
 were but few dew-ponds on the Downs. Once in a 
 cottage a woman gave her an old pair of shoes in pity 
 for her small, bare, wounded feet and that helped her 
 much, though the shoes were large and clumsy and often 
 she had to stop to collect one that had dropped by the 
 way. 
 
 "Horswood?" a man said it was in the glow of the 
 sunset. She had come on him tying faggots in a coppice. 
 He paused and straightened his back and lifted a hairy, 
 brawny arm. 
 
 "Horswood, it's about six miles," he said. 
 
 So she was near the end of her long, long journey 
 now, very near, only six miles and then seven more to 
 the cottage, and then what? But her thoughts did 
 not go beyond the cottage; perhaps she would shelter 
 there, lie down and rest. She was so tired now. 
 
 She looked back. The man had started tying his fag- 
 gots again. He had made a fire and the blue smoke was 
 curling up against the brown-purple background of trees. 
 
 Presently the man bundled his last faggot, bound it 
 and flung it aside, then straightened himself and picked 
 Mp his earthenware jar and his basket and trudged away 
 into the coming night. And 'Nid crept back. She 
 dragged the bundles of faggots together and made a 
 little shelter. There was a suggestion of companionship 
 in the fire, even though it was nearly out. Then she lay
 
 The Road Home 
 
 down and slept, and woke in the bright sunshine of the 
 early morning and crept out of her shelter to see the 
 rabbits playing. 
 
 She watched them as they sat up and cleaned themselves 
 with their paws. They saw her and turned large, liquid, 
 wondering eyes on her and wrinkled their funny little 
 noses at her, then with a whisk of a white tail they were 
 gone, and she laughed, for even the rabbits were some- 
 thing and she was very, very lonely.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE BRAMBLE 
 
 NEVER had a man contemplated self-destruction in 
 a calmer, saner and more impersonal manner than 
 Jim Bevanwood did. His mind was entirely serene. The 
 step into the unknown did not fill him with dread. The 
 only question he must finally decide for himself was 
 whether it would be better for 'Nid. It was just 'Nid 
 he was thinking of. She had made a mistake when she 
 married him, or rather the mistake had been his. 
 
 He had always known that 'Nid had not desired to 
 marry him, but he had extracted the promise to do so 
 from her and she had kept it. That 'Nid could do any- 
 thing else than keep a promise was impossible. And now 
 the question was whether it would not be a great deal 
 better for 'Nid if he ceased to exist. 
 
 He did not sit down and mope over it; on the con- 
 trary, he rose early. He set to work cleaning out the 
 cottage. He let Billy Wasser sleep on "Kids want 
 more sleep than us grown up 'uns," he thought. So 
 he got the pail and filled it at the stream and "slooshed" 
 as he called it out the little sitting-room kitchen, mak- 
 ing it in a rare muddle. Then with the hard new broom 
 he drove the water out over the door-sill. He took his 
 knife and again trimmed the creepers into something 
 like order, and all the time he whistled to himself. Any 
 one to see him would fancy that he was utterly care free. 
 152
 
 The Bramble 
 
 "If she loves 'im and 'e 'er," he thought, "I'm only 
 in the way, she can't marry 'im with me about. It's 
 just that, I'm in the way. I ain't pertickler wanted, 
 never was. I expect Billy 'ud miss me a bit. I got an 
 idea I'll make a will and leave this 'ere place to Billy. 
 He'd like it, 'e's a good little kid. That reminds me, 'e's 
 got to take that bell back to Horswood to-day." Jim 
 shook his head. "Stealing ain't no good, not even if you 
 calls it nicking. Nicking and stealing, it's just the same 
 thing, only different names. I wonder where she is now 
 and how she's enjoying 'erself ? Of course, 'im knowing 
 all about books and poets and all that, she's bound to be 
 more interested in 'im than in a chap like me. I didn't 
 never ought to 'ave married 'Nid, I ought to 'ave known 
 I wasn't 'er sort. A-dopted 'er, that's about what I done. 
 Come out of it." He hacked out a great thick bramble 
 that grew straight across one of the little iron-framed 
 windows. 
 
 "That'll let in a bit more light and air that's what 
 is wanted, light and air," Jim muttered. "Strikes me I'm 
 somethink like this bramble, big and strong and ugly, 
 growing straight across the light, getting in every one's 
 way, shutting out the sunshine." 
 
 He nodded his head. "Shutting the sunshine out of 
 'er life, that's about it." 
 
 He pursed his lips up and began to whistle in a hope- 
 lessly tuneless way. 
 
 "There, it's gone now and the sun shines in through 
 the window and it'll dry the floor and make the place 
 smell sweeter. That's it, if a thing's in the way, 'ack 
 it out." He nodded his head. His existence and that 
 of the bramble seemed synonymous. As the branch had 
 shut the light and air out of the little kitchen, so he was 
 
 153
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 shutting the light and air out of 'Nid's life. He gone, the 
 sun could shine in on her, she would be free and happy, 
 she could marry the man of her choice. 
 
 Jim Bevanwood sighed. He ceased work for a time 
 and stood leaning against the doorpost and stared at the 
 sparkling stream. Just where he saw it it ran through 
 a bed of thickly growing green stuff ground elder, cow 
 parsley, golden dandelions and kingcups, starlike daisies 
 and blue forget-me-nots, the broad leaved dock and the 
 deeper green of the stinging nettles. Through all this 
 the stream ran, a silver thread, here and there flashing 
 into gold where the sun filtered through the over-arching 
 trees and caught the ripple of the water. 
 
 "All this," Jim said. It came to him that this earth 
 was a very sweet and lovely place, a good place to live in. 
 He had not the slightest desire to die, but there was 'Nid 
 to consider. 
 
 "One thing," he muttered; "she ain't got to think I 
 done it for her sake, that 'ud worry 'er. I got to find some 
 way of finishing it up so's she nor any one will ever 
 guess." 
 
 That was the trouble he had not a mind given to cun- 
 ning and scheming. 
 
 "There's got to be a accident," he muttered. But could 
 one meet with an accident in such a place as this? If 
 the stream was but a river, deep and flowing fast but 
 no man, unless he was helplessly intoxicated, could find 
 death by drowning in such a trickle as this. Jim sighed ; 
 he looked perplexed. 
 
 "S'posing there was rats 'ere ?" he thought. "S'posing 
 Billy was to get me somethink for 'em and I made a mis- 
 take it's been done before." The idea seemed a good 
 one to him, his imagination could not achieve anything 
 154
 
 The Bramble 
 
 better. Rat poison and a mistake and then 'Nid would be 
 free, the bramble would be removed and the sunlight 
 would stream in on her. 
 
 "That's about it," Jim thought. 
 
 Billy Wasser with sleepy eyes stood before him. "I 
 thought you'd got some one 'ere," he said. " 'Eard you 
 muttering and a-talking to some one." He looked about 
 him. 
 
 "I were talking to myself," Jim said. "Billy Wasser, 
 you ain't washed yourself." 
 
 "Didn't 'ave no water," Billy said. 
 
 Jim pointed to the stream. "You jest off with your 
 clothes and woller in it," he said. 
 
 Billy demurred, but eventually did as he was bidden. 
 He stripped and rolled on the warm stones in the bed 
 of the brook and the shining water rippled over him. 
 Billy Wasser was not beautiful, but stripped and with his 
 skin sparkling with water drops he seemed to fit into the 
 picture. 
 
 Meanwhile Jim went in and prepared breakfast. When 
 he and Billy were seated, one at each end of the table, 
 Jim stared hard at Billy. He was trying to say some- 
 thing, the saying of which was difficult. He turned red 
 and hesitated, opened his mouth and shut it. 
 
 As a liar Jim Bevanwood did not shine, he told a lie 
 but rarely and always with a sense of self -consciousness. 
 
 "Billy," Jim said. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " 'Ow about rats ?" Jim said. 
 
 "Ah," Billy said. "Water rats?" 
 
 Jim grasped at the chance. "Yes," he said; "water 
 rats, bound to be water rats in a place like this, I I fancy 
 I see one this morning." 
 
 155
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Very likely," Billy said. 
 
 "We did ought to do somethink about 'em," Jim said. 
 "Next they'll be stealing our food." 
 
 Billy nodded. " 'Ow about shooting 'em? Shooting 
 with an air-gun ? Where I got the bike they sell air-guns." 
 His eyes glinted with eagerness. 
 
 Jim shook his head. "Poison's the best for them," 
 he said, getting to his subject. 
 
 "You'd get some sport with an air-gun," Billy said; 
 "and you won't with no poison." 
 
 "Poison," Jim said decidedly. "That's what it's got to 
 be. I ain't no shot with a air-gun, Billy. You're going to 
 Horswood about that bell this morning." 
 
 "I s'pose so," Billy grunted. "I'll pay for it, and tell 
 the man as I took it by mistake." 
 
 "No," Jim said; "you tell 'im the truth, say you 
 nicked it and you are sorry and 'ave come to pay for it. 
 You done a wrong thing stealing it, Billy; you ain't 
 
 going to put it right by telling no lies about " He 
 
 paused suddenly. Was he not as great a liar as Billy, 
 even worse? Had he not stated that he thought he had 
 seen a rat when he knew he had seen nothing of the 
 kind? 
 
 "And then you get the rat poison," Jim said. 
 
 Billy nodded. 
 
 It was done. Jim drew a sigh of relief. He felt pleased 
 with himself at the cunning and cleverness he had dis- 
 played. Billy Wasser had not the slightest idea in the 
 world that he, Jim Bevanwood, was bent on self-destruc- 
 tion. 'Nid would never know, no one would ever guess. 
 
 "Billy," Jrm said, "I s'pose there's all sorts of shops 
 in Horswood?" 
 
 "Yes, a good few." 
 156
 
 The Bramble 
 
 "I been thinking," Jim said, "I been thinking, Billy, 
 now I got property and like that, I did ought to make a 
 will. Life's uncertain " He stared out of the win- 
 dow to avoid seeing Billy. "Life's very uncertain. In 
 
 the midst of life you are in death " He had heard 
 
 that somewhere. "Billy, I been thinking I ought to make 
 
 a will " He paused and looked at Billy anxiously, 
 
 wondering if Billy's suspicions would be aroused now, 
 but Billy went on with his eating. 
 
 "That's it, a will," Jim said. "Some of them shops 
 sells forms printed 'This is my last will and testyment.' 
 You try and get me one of them forms, Billy, it 'ud be 
 a help." 
 
 Billy nodded ; the matter seemed of very slight impor- 
 tance to him. 
 
 Half an hour later Billy mounted his bicycle and rode 
 away to Horswood. 
 
 "Don't forget about the rat stuff and the will," Jim 
 called after him. Billy waved and vanished in a cloud 
 of chalk dust from the road. 
 
 "That's all right," Jim said to himself. He smiled 
 pleasantly as one who has achieved his purpose by great 
 cleverness and cunning. 
 
 He would have everything he had in the world left 
 to 'Nid, except this cottage, and that was for Billy. Then 
 there would be an accident in which the rat poison would 
 play a part and so the matter would be comfortably con- 
 cluded. He felt as a man feels who has had a great 
 weight lifted from his shoulders. He had nothing further 
 to trouble himself about, the bramble would soon be re- 
 moved. 
 
 And now, with nothing on his mind, Jim Bevanwood 
 whistled as he worked about the little place. He had 
 
 157
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 hammer, nails, saw, plane, and a chisel. There was much 
 to be done the old door to take down, mend and re-hang, 
 the windows to see to, a dozen and one other things. He 
 whistled cheerily as he worked. Since he was going to 
 leave the cottage to Billy he must see that it was put into 
 something like order. 
 
 That morning Jim enjoyed himself thoroughly. He had 
 nothing on his mind. He had decided and he had prepared 
 the means for carrying out his ideas, therefore he had 
 nothing to worry him and he did not worry. 
 
 "I'd 'a liked to 'ave made a neat little bridge over the 
 stream to the door," he thought, "only I s'pose I shan't 
 'ave time and then 'ow about a porch? A porch 'ud 
 look well with some of them wild things climbing over it 
 and it 'ud be nice to sit in when the evening comes." But 
 it would not be for him, he would need no porch to sit in. 
 Billy and Billy's children might sit in the porch, though. 
 Billy's wife would find it useful, she could sit here in 
 the porch and knit or sew and watch Billy's children. 
 Then when Billy came home from work she could 
 daintily pick her way across the rustic bridge to meet 
 Billy. 
 
 Jim's eyes glistened Billy was a lucky fellow. If 
 
 only he and 'Nid . He gave himself an angry jerk. 
 
 He was a fool to think about such things. 'Nid had never 
 cared for him, somehow she had always been frightened 
 of him. Very likely she would be a bit sorry when she 
 heard about that accident, the mistake he had made con- 
 cerning the rat poison. 
 
 Of course he would not do it at once, he would have 
 
 to wait a few days. If he made a mistake about the rat 
 
 poison immediately Billy bought it people might suspect. 
 
 That would not do. A few days more or less would not 
 
 158
 
 The Bramble 
 
 matter and he had set his mind on the porch and the 
 bridge. How would it be if he completed the porch and 
 got the bridge almost done not quite? A man would 
 not go and kill himself when he was half-way through a 
 job; the fact that he had not quite finished the bridge 
 would remove the last vestige of suspicion. But all the 
 same, he might have all the timbers ready cut and every- 
 thing ready to put into place so that even Billy himself 
 might complete it. 
 
 Jim Bevanwood began to feel a new respect for him- 
 self. He had never guessed what a really deep and 
 cunning rascal he was. Here he was plotting and plan- 
 ning to throw dust into the eyes of a suspicious police 
 and public with all the craft and cunning of a finished 
 criminal. He laughed to himself joyously. 
 
 As he was going to make the great sacrifice he might 
 as well make it with a good heart. It was for 'Nid's 
 sake, it was to make her life happier, it was to remove 
 the bramble that obstructed the sunlight and air. What 
 better use could he make of his life than to lay it down 
 to bring happiness to the woman he loved with all the 
 generosity of a heart utterly without selfishness? 
 
 159
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 JIM FACES FAILURE 
 
 BILLY came back white as any miller, covered with 
 the chalky dust from the Downs road. He had paid 
 for the bell and had a wordy warfare with the vendor 
 of it. "Told him off," he said to Jim. 
 
 "I 'ope you told the truth and said you was sorry about 
 it," Jim said. 
 
 Billy nodded. 
 
 "And 'ow about them other things?" Jim said with a 
 fine affectation of indifference. "Let's see, what were 
 they? Oh, rat poison and and a will form, wasn't it?" 
 
 " 'Ere's the form threepence," Billy said. "It's got 
 bits printed and the rest you got to fill in and get some 
 one to witness it." 
 
 "You'll do that for me, Billy?" Jim said. 
 
 "And the man said as 'ow the person as witnessed it 
 must not be one going to get anything by the will," Billy 
 said. 
 
 "Oh !" Jim's jaw dropped. "I meant you to 'ave this 
 cottage, Billy," he said. "I suppose you won't be able 
 to 'ave it if you was to sign your name." 
 
 "The carter could sign, 'e passes three times a week; 
 'e'll be along^ to-morrow Nick Wickens 'is name is." 
 
 "Then you watch out for him to-morrow, Billy, and 
 bring 'im 'ere," Jim said. "I'd like you to 'ave the 
 cottage." 
 160
 
 Jim Faces Failure 
 
 Billy nodded. He was not excited at the prospect. 
 
 "What about the orther thing, the the poison, wasn't 
 it?" Jim asked. 
 
 "Oh, ah!" Billy brought out a packet from his 
 shabby pocket. He laid it on the table and Jim's heart 
 sank. He had hoped for something in a bottle bottles 
 are so easily mistaken one for another in the darkness. 
 What was this that Billy had brought? He opened it 
 and found a pot, inside the pot was a very small quantity 
 of some vile, sticky, dirty brown, evil-smelling stuff. 
 
 "What's this?" Jim asked. 
 
 "Rat poison you got to put it on bread and leave it 
 about and the rats get it." 
 
 "Couldn't you 'a got something in a bottle?" Jim 
 asked. 
 
 Billy shook his head. "No, this is all they got," he 
 said. "Besides, they say it only 'urts rats. If chickens 
 and dogs get 'old of it it don't 'urt 'em." 
 
 Jim felt a sense of sickening disappointment, of per- 
 sonal loss. His plan had failed. The rat poison would 
 not hurt him. If chickens and dogs could partake of 
 it with impunity of what earthly use would it be to him? 
 He must think again. Anyhow, he had the will form, 
 he could carry out the first part of his programme. 
 
 161
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 IN WHICH *NID COMES HOME 
 
 A LITTLE figure came wearily over the hills. It 
 could scarcely drag one small foot after the other. 
 Now it stopped ; it sat down on the short turf under the 
 shadow of a clump of gorse and wept weakly, for it was 
 very, very tired and hungry and lonely. 
 
 For an hour it sat there while the sun slowly dipped 
 towards the west, behind the gaunt skeleton of the ruined 
 mill which lifted but two of its once four sails as in dumb 
 surrender to the all-conquering victor, Time. 
 
 'Nid sat there on the soft grass, the tears dropped 
 slowly down her face, she was very, very tired, but she 
 knew her journey's end was very near now. Another 
 mile or but little more and she would have reached her 
 goal ; she would come down the valley to the little cottage 
 her refuge and her retreat and there she would stay. 
 She would just lie down somewhere beside the stream 
 and sleep sleep, perhaps God would be merciful and let 
 her sleep on always. 
 
 She wanted to sleep now, but she fought off the desire. 
 She was so near her goal, just a little more courage, a 
 little more strength and it would be won, and then rest 
 sleep, forgetfulness, and one day the children coming 
 to the cottage would find her sleeping there. 
 
 She rose slowly and staggered along on the green grass. 
 The sun was low and deeply red in the sky. But she did 
 not look back. Before her the hill dropped away, she 
 162
 
 In Which 'Nid Comes Home 
 
 could see the narrow, winding, white road that ran 
 through the valley that road would take her to the dell 
 and the old cottage and rest. 
 
 Again and again as she made down the steep bank of 
 the hillside she stumbled and fell on to her hands and 
 knees she was very weak, very tired. 
 
 But the road was gained at last; the sun had gone 
 down, the sweet twilight was over all. High up in the 
 heavens a lark was singing his last song to the departing 
 day ; some sheep paused for an instant from their eternal 
 cropping of the grass to look at her with mild-eyed in- 
 terest. 
 
 She gained the road it was hot and dry to her little 
 bare feet, it dipped to the valley. She was very near now. 
 Beside the road a shining stream ran, she knew it for the 
 same stream that ran before the door of the cottage. The 
 road dipped and dipped and her weary little feet had 
 carried her down to the bottom of the valley now. 
 She must turn to the left and in a few moments she would 
 see it the place she had prayed for, the home she was 
 seeking. It would be an empty home without food, with 
 no friendly, welcoming hands to help her in. 
 
 Thick green stuff brushed her bare ankles, so cool to 
 the touch of her tired little hot feet. So she pushed her 
 way slowly through the growth of years, past the broken 
 gate by the stream, and she saw the cottage before her 
 and the door stood open, and in the doorway a man stood 
 smoking, his bare arms folded across his chest. 
 
 'Nid stood still, the man did not move. Across the 
 stream they looked at one another, and then he moved. 
 Slowly, as with an effort, he came splashing across the 
 stream to her and took her hand. 
 
 "'Nid!" he said, '"Nid!" 
 
 163
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 WHAT HE DID 
 
 HE put no questions to her, he just accepted her return 
 as a fact. It was 'Nid come back again 'Nid dis- 
 illusioned very likely, 'Nid worn out, tired to death, with 
 a terribly weary, pathetic look in her pretty eyes, her little 
 bare feet sore and lacerated by the flinty roads. 
 
 He took her by the hand, he led her silently into the 
 cottage, he forced her gently into a seat. Speech seemed 
 useless to him, he had nothing to say. He would not 
 question her. She had come back and he must do his 
 best for her. 
 
 It seemed to his honest, simple mind that it was the 
 most natural thing in the world that 'Nid, weary and 
 disillusioned, heart-broken, perhaps deceived and aban- 
 doned, should come to him for comfort and protection. 
 That was what he was for, to comfort and protect her. 
 
 Simple minded and honest as he was, he was not ut- 
 terly ignorant of the world. He knew of men and men's 
 vices ; he knew of men who sought a thing only to play 
 with it for a time, then break and crush it and fling it 
 away. He did not doubt but that was what this man had 
 done. 'Nid had attracted him, he had lured her away, 
 she had amused him for a time, then he had tired of her 
 and abandoned her. So 'Nid had come back to him 
 again. 
 
 He busied himself about the place ; he prepared a meal, 
 he boiled a kettle on some sticks in the fireplace. He 
 164
 
 What He Did 
 
 made her tea, he set a feast for her, and all in silence, 
 for he was tongue-tied. He did not know what to say, 
 he felt that it would be out of place for him to offer her 
 pity. Certainly he never thought of offering her blame. 
 
 "Jim, why are you doing this for me ?" she said. 
 
 "Why ?" He turned to her. "You're hungry and tired, 
 ain't you, 'Nid?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, oh, yes," she said with a sob in her voice. 
 "So tired." She paused. "It's been a long, long way, 
 Jim. I didn't think to find you here." 
 
 "No," he said, "I s'pose not. You never know what's 
 waiting for you at the journey's end, do you? Now don't 
 talk, eat a bit and then you'll rest." 
 
 She ate a little, not much. Now and again she looked 
 at him with a kind of wonder in her eyes. Was he a man 
 that he could treat her like this ? It seemed to 'Nid just 
 now that plain, honest Jim Bevanwood was more angel 
 than man. She had treated him badly, had shamed him, 
 had done the worst thing a woman could do. She had 
 run away from him with another man ; she shuddered at 
 the memory of it. And she looked at him, at his plain, 
 honest, good face, and she felt she worshipped him for 
 his goodness to her. 
 
 She was too weary to think, to wonder how he came 
 to be here. He was here, here to welcome her, and 
 that was all that mattered. She felt like a little child 
 overtired come home to a mother's loving care. Jim 
 was like that to her, almost womanly in his tenderness 
 for her. Presently he led her upstairs to the tiny bed- 
 room under the eaves his own. 
 
 There he left her. Billy Wasser was away in the town 
 on his bicycle. He had gone to buy some necessaries. 
 Jim was glad, he wanted to be alone. His brain moved 
 
 165
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 slowly, he could not think when there were others by 
 talking to him perhaps. He went to the door and stared 
 out into the twilight. He sucked at his empty pipe and 
 thought deeply. 
 
 'Nid had come back he knew why, he saw the whole 
 pitiful little tragedy. Poor, foolish, innocent little 'Nid ! 
 She had allowed herself to become the plaything of a 
 man. He had tired of her, flung her aside, so bruised 
 and broken she had come crawling home to him. Poor 
 child, poor little one ! 
 
 "Now I understand," he muttered. "It wasn't meant 
 as I should do what I thought of doing. It's him, not 
 me ! Him !" He clenched his great hands. "Him, I got 
 to find him ! I'll find him. There's plenty of time, and 
 when I do find him!" Jim Bevanwood smiled to him- 
 self. He knew what he should do when he found that 
 man. He held out his great strong hands, he opened and 
 closed them, looked at them, admiring their strength. 
 Those hands of his would have work to do one day when 
 he and that man met. 
 
 Standing here in the absolute stillness he could hear 
 her gentle, regular breathing through the tiny window 
 above. She was asleep. And that reminded him that 
 there were other things to do for her, always for her. 
 
 He stooped and pulled off his boots ; he crept noislessly 
 up the narrow stairs; he gathered her clothes together 
 in a bundle and brought them down, never once glancing 
 towards the bed on which the sleeping girl lay. 
 
 Just as the darkness settled down Billy Wasser came 
 back on his 4?icycle. He found the little kitchen filled 
 with steam, a fire burning in the grate and Jim hard at 
 work. Billy opened his eyes. 
 
 "Well," he said. "Started to take in washing?" 
 166
 
 What He Did 
 
 "That's about it," Jim said briefly. He went on grimly 
 with his work. He rubbed and scrubbed with his shirt- 
 sleeves turned back over his bare arms, and Billy looked 
 on interestedly. 
 
 "Why, them things," he said suddenly, "they bain't 
 yours !" 
 
 "Never said they was," Jim said. "Look 'ere, Billy, 
 you keep your mouth shut and don't go whistling and 
 making a row, and don't go into my room, there's some- 
 body there." 
 
 "Somebody !" Billy opened his eyes widely. " 'Oo, 
 Jim?" he asked. 
 
 "Never you mind a lady, that's 'oo !" Jim said. "And 
 I'm doing a bit of washing for 'er, so mind you don't 
 kick up a shine, Billy, my lad. Get your supper and 'op 
 it off to bed," he added. 
 
 Billy got his supper. Now and again he stared at 
 Jim, at his labours. Billy wanted to laugh. The idea 
 of Sir James Bevanwood busy at the washtub ! If he 
 told people they wouldn't believe him. But Billy was 
 loyal, he had no intention of telling any one. He sat 
 there stuffing stolidly. 
 
 "When you done, you 'op it," Jim said. 
 
 Billy had done presently, and he hopped it. 
 
 "Good-night, Jim !" he said. 
 
 " 'Night, Billy !" The perspiration was running down 
 Jim's face, but he built up the fire with more sticks till 
 it roared in the chimney. 
 
 He took the clothes he had washed and rinsed them 
 out in the stream ; he wrung them out tenderly and care- 
 fully, and brought them back and hung them to dry by 
 the fire. 
 
 The night was far advanced when Jim's toils were over. 
 
 167
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 He had no iron he wished he had. He could not iron 
 the things, but he did his best. He stretched them care- 
 fully between his hands and held them closer to the fire 
 at risk of scorching them. 
 
 "Billy can get over to Horswood and get more things 
 for 'er to-morrow," he thought. It did not strike him 
 that he was acting foolishly, that if people ever came to 
 hear of what he had done they would laugh at him. 
 The bathos of the situation never entered his head. His 
 wife had proved false, disloyal, had smirched his honour 
 and her own, had been cast off by the man she had fled 
 with and had come back to him and he had set to work 
 to wash her clothes for her. It seemed stupid, but not 
 to him, to him it was just the natural thing for him to do. 
 
 And now the night was well nigh spent, the flush of 
 dawn was creeping up in the sky over the Downs. Jim 
 went out and drew a long breath. 
 
 'Nid had come back to him, somehow the dawn seemed 
 more beautiful to him than it had been yesterday. Yes- 
 terday he had not counted on seeing many more dawns, 
 to-day it was different. He knew somehow that his life 
 was valuable tp 'Nid, otherwise she would not have come 
 back to him. 
 
 He could not rest, he felt no need of sleep, there was 
 still much to do. He cleared the room, removing all 
 traces of his labour. He laid* the table for the morning 
 meal, he put everything in readiness, then he folded the 
 clothes and carried them up to her room. For the first 
 time he looked at her sleeping with the faint flush of the 
 primrose dawn on her childish face. She looked such a 
 child sleeping here with her long hair all about her face 
 on the pillow. He had never seen her like this before. 
 168
 
 What He Did 
 
 He stood looking at her now and his heart was filled with 
 a great pity for her. 
 
 "Poor little kid!" he muttered. He pitied her as he 
 might have pitied a child who had hurt herself and come 
 to him for comfort. 
 
 He went quietly out of the room and to Billy's room. It 
 was early, but it did not matter. He touched Billy on 
 the shoulder, finally he shook Billy into wakefulness. 
 
 "You got to get up, Billy Wasser, and if you make a 
 sound I'll give you somethink !" Jim said. 
 
 Billy nodded, his eyes dazed by sleep. 
 
 "You get dressed quiet, and come down," Jim said. 
 
 He himself went down, he looked about and found a 
 stub of pencil and a piece of paper. On the paper he 
 wrote : "Turn to the left outside the door and foller the 
 streme about half a mile, and then you come to a pool 
 deep enuff to baithe in. Shall come back later, JIM." 
 
 He remembered 'Nid's fondness for bathing. She 
 would be glad of the opportunity now. He cut a thick 
 hunch of bread and plastered it with butter, he drew a 
 glass of water from the well. 
 
 "Set down and eat that!" he said to Billy Wasser. 
 "You got to go to Horswood for some things I want!" 
 
 "It be too early," Billy said. 
 
 "Never you mind, you can take your time," Jim said. 
 
 "Is is she the woman you spoke of still 'ere?" Billy 
 said. 
 
 "She is, and she's stopping, Billy " Jim paused. 
 
 "Billy, you're a good lad, I trust you, you ain't one to 
 talk, you just say nothing, Billy, about anything, see?" 
 
 Billy nodded. "Not me," he said. "I'll keep my mouth 
 shut, Jim." 
 
 "Good boy," Jim said. 
 
 169
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "And about them things I got to get at Horswood?" 
 Billy asked, when he had finished his bread-and-butter. 
 
 Jim frowned. 
 
 That was the trouble, what was Billy to get? He did 
 not know. 
 
 "Stand up, Billy," he said. 
 
 Billy stood up obediently. Jim measured him with his 
 eye. 
 
 "She ain't a wonderful deal taller'n you and slimmer'n 
 you, Billy," he said. 
 
 "Then she's only a kid," Billy said, disgustedly. 
 
 "That's what she is, only a kid," Jim said. "Look 
 'ere, you go to Horswood, you go and find some woman 
 in a shop where they sell women's close, see? Just tell 
 'er you want things for a girl not much taller'n you and 
 
 slim slim built. Tell her that, Billy, say you want " 
 
 He paused. "Well, everything. She'll know better'n you 
 nor me. Close and boots and a 'at and other things, the 
 usual things. Say you want two or three of everything 
 and a dress or two, somethink light, whitey kind of 
 
 dress, or pink " Jim paused. "Somethink as 'ud 
 
 fit you if you was, say a inch taller and a bit thinner, 
 Billy." He paused. "Get 'old of some woman and she'll 
 
 know. If she asks questions say " Jim paused. 
 
 "Well, don't tell 'er no lies, Billy, say it's some one as 
 'as turned up unexpectedly and 'as pretty near run out 
 of close, see?" 
 
 "And 'ow am I to bring 'em back, Jim?" Billy asked. 
 
 "Bring 'em back?" Jim said. "Why, you jest bring 
 'em back, that's all. 'Ire a cart if you can't manage with- 
 out, only don't let the cart come 'ere. Unload at the 
 road, and 'ere's money." That was another question 
 how much money would Billy need? Jim produced a 
 170
 
 What He Did 
 
 five pound note. He hesitated and produced another. 
 Billy was honest as the day. 
 
 "You pay for everything and you can tell me all about 
 it when you get 'ome," he said. "Now 'op it." 
 
 Billy was gone, and Jim sat there alone. Once he went 
 to the foot of the stairs and listened, he heard her deep, 
 regular breathing and he smiled. It was as it should be, 
 the poor, tired little soul was taking her fill of sleep. 
 
 Jim went out, he went down the valley and climbed the 
 steep bank of the Downs. He climbed till he was high 
 up. A lark was singing overhead, a faint smell of the 
 distant sea was borne to him on the light wind. Far away 
 to the right the white sails of a mill turned lazily in the 
 breeze. Mingled with the smell of the sea was the smell 
 of gorse and of the sun-warmed turf. 
 
 Looking down he could see below the thatched roof 
 of the cottage. He could follow the silver thread of 
 the stream, except here and there where it was lost among 
 the greenery. He could see the lonely white, winding 
 road down which just now Billy Wasser had 'opped it 
 on his bicycle. 
 
 "That's it," Jim muttered. "That's it." 
 
 What it was he scarcely knew, but somehow things 
 seemed to be just as they should be that was what he 
 meant by "That's it." 
 
 She had come back, tired and worn, bruised and bleed- 
 ing poor little soul. She had come back for his care 
 and protection. The world would have it that she was 
 his wife, but she was not, she was just 'Nid his kid, 
 the kid he had adopted. And she found after all that 
 she needed him, she could not manage without him. 
 
 He lay there on his back on the green turf and watched 
 
 171
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 the fleecy clouds slowly scudding across the deep blue 
 of the sky. 
 
 And the man one day he would go out and seek the 
 man. Meanwhile his first thought must be for 'Nid. 
 He must arrange everything for her. When he and that 
 man met it would mean the end of things for him. It 
 would be both their lives, the man's first and then his 
 his demanded of the law. Well, that was as it should be. 
 
 "If you take the law into your own 'ands you got to 
 pay for it," Jim muttered. "All right, I'll pay, I'm willing 
 to pay, but not yet, I got to fix 'er up first. There's time, 
 plenty of time. I ain't going chasing round the world 
 for 'im, sooner or later he'll come back to me, that's 
 what I'll wait for, 'im coming back to me, bound to. 
 And that's when the time'll be, when he conies back." 
 
 Out here under the sky with the hum of the insects 
 in his ears, with the scent of the sea and gorse and grass 
 with him, Jim fell asleep. A passer-by chancing to 
 see him as he slept would have looked in vain for any 
 signs of passion, of revenge, of some sworn vendetta. 
 There was a smile on the rugged face, the man asleep 
 looked at peace with all the world. So he was, with the 
 exception of one man who, when the time came, he 
 would kill remorselessly and without passion, kill as a 
 simple act of justice. 
 
 172
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 "MAY i STAY ?" 
 
 D woke in the sunshine of the little room. She 
 stretched her still aching limbs in luxurious ease 
 and opened her eyes. Then she lay wondering. She 
 looked at whitened walls, broken in a score of places, 
 at a bare floor. She saw her own clothes neatly folded 
 on a cane chair beside the bed. 
 
 Where was she? How had she come here? Then 
 she remembered. She had come back, Jim was here. Jim 
 had welcomed her last night, had brought her in, had fed 
 her and had brought her to rest. Her eyes filled with 
 tears, she did not deserve this from him. She rose and 
 looked in sheer wonder at her clothes. She saw what 
 had happened, the dust had been shaken out of her dress, 
 her underclothing had all been washed clean. She knew 
 who had done it and a sob broke from her labouring 
 breast and the tears started into her eyes. 
 
 It was like Jim, so like him. What a wonderful Jim 
 it was. She tried to laugh, but only the tears came. 
 She dressed and went down, the little place was silent 
 and empty, for a moment she felt afraid afraid lest 
 Jim had deserted her. Then she saw the scrawled note 
 on the table left for her. 
 
 That again was like him, he would remember how 
 she loved to bathe. She followed his directions, she 
 went out and turned to the left and followed the 
 stream till she came to the bathing pool. 
 
 173
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 She slipped off her clothes and stood a slender, white, 
 almost boyish figure on the bank, then a plunge and she 
 was in. The cool water rippled over her head. She 
 could swim, she had learned swimming in the baths in 
 London, she swam like a mermaid. The pool was not 
 wide, nor was it very deep, but many minutes passed 
 before 'Nid emerged, dripping and flushed from the 
 exercise. 
 
 Now she took a sunbath that seemed to warm her 
 through and through to her very heart. She lay on the 
 green bank and stretched her limbs. It seemed to her 
 now that when she had plunged into the pool she had 
 cleansed herself of the past, of all the misery, the mis- 
 understanding, the folly of it. She was clean and whole 
 again in soul and mind and body. 
 
 What should she tell him when she saw him? What 
 could she say to him, how could she try and thank him 
 for his wonderful goodness to her? She almost hoped 
 that he would question her. She had so much to tell 
 him, so much that she could not tell him unless he ques- 
 tioned her. Would he? She wondered and hoped he 
 would. If only he would, then she would tell him all, 
 tell him how foolishly, wickedly wrong she had been, 
 tell him of how a knowledge of her folly and foolishness 
 had come to her in time, how she had fled from the man 
 in sudden horror. 
 
 She had been ignorant, innocent as a child, yet instinct 
 had come to her and taught her much. She realised now 
 how she had wronged Jim and wronged herself by going 
 with that man she had not known then, even now she 
 did not entirely comprehend. 
 
 But if he questioned her she would make him under- 
 174
 
 "May I Stay?" 
 
 stand that she was still 'Nid, still the same as she had 
 always been. 
 
 She dressed, shaking the water out of her long hair. 
 She left it free to fall about her shoulders and dry in 
 the sunshine as she walked back to the cottage. And at 
 the door Jim, coming down from the Downs, met her. 
 He looked at her with a smile of welcome. 
 
 "You're looking lots better, you looked pretty bad last 
 night. Had a swim?" 
 
 "Yes," she said shyly. She lifted her hand, she wanted 
 to touch him, she wanted him to take her hand, would 
 have been glad and grateful if he had kissed her. But 
 how was he to know? He was only a clumsy man. It 
 was not likely that he could understand. 
 
 "Jim," she said. 
 
 He nodded. "Yes, 'Nid?" 
 
 "Jim, I want to to try and thank you " 
 
 "There is no need," he said. "I'm 'andy at most things, 
 a bit of washing comes my way as easy as most other 
 things. See that door." He pointed with pride to the 
 patched up door. "A rare job I 'ad with that. You 
 wouldn't believe 'ow rotten the wood 'ad got." 
 
 And it was the same with the window, rotten through 
 and through. "I'm glad I got a bit ship shape before 
 you come. I been working in the garden, getting the 
 weeds under a bit." He went on talking about these mat- 
 ters, about the garden and the cottage, not about them- 
 selves. It was evident that he had no wish for any 
 personal talk. It was evident too that he had no inten- 
 tion of questioning her, though in her heart she prayed 
 that he might. 
 
 "And you been living here, Jim?" 
 
 "Me and Billy," he said; "Billy Wasser, he's a good 
 
 175
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 boy and knows 'ow to keep 'is mouth shut. I 'ad to come 
 somewhere, 'Nid, you see. I couldn't stand being there 
 
 and people talking and " He paused, " 'Owever it 
 
 don't matter, me and Billy 'as been comfortable enough 
 'ere." 
 
 "And now I I've come, Jim," she said. 
 
 He nodded. "Yes, you've come and the room " 
 
 "May may I stay?" she whispered. 
 
 He turned to look at her in sheer surprise. 
 
 "You don't think I'd want to turn you out, 'Nid?" 
 
 "I I didn't know," she said with a sob. "Oh, Jim, I 
 didn't know." 
 
 "Then you know now, gel," he said gently. "I don't 
 never want to turn you out. Some'ow when I see you 
 last night standing there on the bank of the stream it 
 seemed just right, just natural you should 'ave come. 
 I don't know, but I think I 'ad an idea all the time that 
 you might come." 
 
 He lighted the little oil stove, he filled the kettle at the 
 stream and busied himself preparing the breakfast. 
 
 "Jim would would you let me do that?" she asked 
 humbly and timidly. 
 
 "You couldn't yet," he said; "you don't know where 
 things are kep'." 
 
 "I could find out," she said; "you would tell me, I 
 would be glad to help, Jim." There was something pitiful 
 in her voice, in her pleading eyes. 
 
 "You can 'elp a bit," he said. "Things'll turn up for 
 you to do, I daresay, 'Nid, only now you're tired." 
 
 "I'm not, I am well again, I'm rested and my bathe, 
 oh, that was^good, Jim, it was good of you to think of it." 
 
 "I remembered," he said, "you was always keen on 
 bathing, 'Nid." 
 176
 
 "May I Stay?" 
 
 Yet though she tried to make him understand, he 
 insisted on treating her as an invalid, one in a delicate 
 state of health. She must not lift anything, she must 
 not wash up. She would have turned the little kitchen 
 out and cleaned it ; he would not hear of it. 
 
 "You just sit there in the sunshine and rest," he said. 
 He could not understand that she was eager for some- 
 thing to do, something to justify her presence here. Jim 
 Bevanwood's brain had its limitations, and it was cer- 
 tainly true that he could never understand J Nid. 
 
 177
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 "THE SUMMER WILL GO" 
 
 SHE followed him about as a dog might, she sat and 
 watched him with a strange look in her great, won- 
 derful eyes, the eyes that Geoffrey Clare had raved about 
 a look that was wholly eager, half hopeless, and yet 
 sometimes in it was the dawn of hope. 
 
 But Jim Bevanwood never saw, never knew. She 
 was here, and it seemed just natural to him that she 
 should have come back poor little woman. He thought, 
 bruised and hurt, she had come to him for protection, and 
 he had given it willingly and from his heart. 
 
 Sometimes he wondered how it might have been if 
 Geoffrey Clare had never come into her life and his. 
 How perhaps after years had passed 'Nid might have 
 come to like him a little better, even to care for him 
 how at last they might really have become man and wife. 
 But those dreams were ended, that future could never be. 
 She was his wife inasmuch as she bore his name and had 
 been through a legal ceremony of marriage with him. 
 But there it ended, she was no more to him than she 
 had been on that first day when he had seen her come 
 out from the laundry with the other girls. She would 
 never be more to him than that, now. 
 
 And yet he^Joved her, loved her even more dearly than 
 in those days, but his love was different. The passion 
 had all gone out of it. He loved her very dearly in a 
 pitying, protecting way. 
 178
 
 'The Summer Will Go" 
 
 And so life in the little cottage down there in the dip 
 of the Downs went on slowly, uneventfully. 
 
 Billy Wasser came and went. He rode over to Hors- 
 wood on his cycle and got what stores they needed. Billy 
 Wasser held his tongue; no one knew that the man in 
 the cottage was Sir James Bevanwood, no one knew that 
 there was a woman there at all. 
 
 At first Billy had looked at 'Nid with resentful eyes. 
 He resented her coming; he and Jim had been happy 
 enough together alone. 
 
 "What be her doing here?" he demanded of Jim. 
 
 "She came," Jim said. "She knew I'd be glad, so she 
 just came, Billy." 
 
 "I wish her had stopped away," Billy said. " Tisn't 
 like the same with a woman about the place." 
 
 "No, it isn't like the same," Jim said. 
 
 "When I be growed up," Billy said, "I'll keep house 
 with another man, I shan't never marry and be bothered 
 with no wimmen about me, Jim." 
 
 "Billy, if you don't ever marry," Jim said, "you'll never 
 know what sorrow is, my son, nor you won't never know 
 what happiness and joy is neither. You get to learn a bit 
 about both when you marry." 
 
 But after a time Billy grew used to her presence. 'Nid 
 was quiet, gentle, unlike the Lady Bevanwood he had seen 
 ride through the village. Where was her haughtiness? 
 It was gone. She smiled at him, she seemed to like him 
 to come and talk to her, for she was lonely, still, very, 
 very lonely. She knew that between Jim and herself a 
 barrier was raised, and though she might try feebly to 
 beat against it with her little hands, she would never be 
 able to thrust it down. 
 
 "I've lost him. He was mine, and I didn't know how 
 
 179
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 much he was to me," she thought. "I never knew that 
 he was so necessary to me, I just looked on him as as 
 Jim, and now he's mine no longer." Alone in her room 
 under the old thatched roof she shed many bitter tears, 
 yet Jim never saw them. When he came she had always 
 a smile on her face. She loved to stand beside him and 
 watch him at his work. They might have been friends, 
 good friends, even brother and sister together. Yet 
 there was something something all the time that she 
 could never forget, even though he might. 
 
 Once in their little home it had been Jim who had been 
 the slave, who fetched and carried. Now, insensibly, the 
 position was reversed. It was she who waited on him 
 and he scarcely knew it. If he wanted a thing it was she 
 who went eagerly to get it. He had taken up his old 
 work of carpentry; he had had wood and materials 
 brought from Horswood. He had set himself to work 
 practically to rebuild the cottage. He had made new 
 doors and new windows, put in new rafters and joists and 
 beams, new flooring where it was needed. All day long 
 his saw and hammer could be heard, and 'Nid stood be- 
 side him, ready to bring him nails and screws, ready to 
 put her hand on this tool or the other. When he wanted 
 a screwdriver and she brought him a chisel, she could 
 almost have cried at her stupidity, but Jim only laughed. 
 He could not dream how even a foolish little mistake 
 like that made her heart ache. 
 
 And often she asked herself, often "How long, how 
 long will this last? How long can it last? We cannot 
 live here for ever, the summer will go and the winter 
 will come and Jim Jim must go back to his house and 
 his people, his tenants, folk who want him, and I I 
 must stay here alone." 
 180
 
 "The Summer Will Go" 
 
 One day she spoke to him about it. She asked him 
 when he would go back. 
 
 "I've never thought o' that, 'Nid," he said. "I s'pose 
 one day it'll have to be." 
 
 "And when you you go back I shall be here alone. 
 Billy will go back with you, he he wouldn't stay here 
 with me," she said. Her voice trembled. She had a 
 hard fight to keep the tears back. What would he say? 
 Her heart waited eagerly, hungrily. Would he say that 
 where he went she must go, that his home was her home ? 
 From her soul she prayed that he might, but he did not. 
 
 "When I go back, 'Nid, as I s'pose I must one day, 
 because there's a deal o' things'll want seeing to, I'll find 
 some one to come here and keep you company." 
 
 Her heart fell like lead. She understood that it was 
 ended, that she was nothing to him now, that she could 
 never share his home. She had forfeited the right, her 
 place by his side out there in the world. Only here in 
 this tiny cottage tucked away in the Downs might she 
 and he still be together. 
 
 That night 'Nid cried herself to sleep. She woke while 
 the night was still black, woke with a sense of yearning 
 and longing beyond words for him. Oh! that he would 
 come to her now, put his arms around her, hold her to 
 his breast and kiss her as once before he had kissed 
 her. She remembered that kiss. Then she had hated 
 it, it had seemed to outrage her, it was like some deadly 
 insult. Poor fool, in her ignorance she had hated the 
 kiss that to-night she longed for, could have prayed for. 
 
 Down below she heard a step on the floor, the rattle 
 of fireirons. Jim had not gone to bed then. She rose 
 in her white nightdress and crept to the head of the nar- 
 low wooden stairs; there she crouched listening to him. 
 
 181
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 And listening to those slow, clumsy, heavy movements of 
 his, knowledge seemed suddenly to come to her, knowl- 
 edge of her own heart her love yes, her love for him. 
 She knew it now, she loved this quiet man, this 
 brave, good man. He had been more father than 
 husband and lover to her. She contrasted him with 
 Geoffrey Qare. Often before in the old days she had 
 contrasted them and now she seemed to realise the dif- 
 ference, for in the old days it was Geoffrey who had 
 shone. The one empty, selfish, unreliable, a man who 
 had taken her from her home, and had condemned her 
 to shame, without a thought for her, without a care for 
 anything in the world but for himself and this man 
 Jim, her husband who had been so kind, so delicate, even 
 though he was big and rough and uncouth and un- 
 educated. The most tender and considerate gentleman 
 in the world, she thought, as she knelt there on the 
 wooden floor and listened to him below. 
 
 And then the longing came to her, a longing she could 
 not fight down, she must go and abase herself before him, 
 kiss his hands, cry to him to pity her, to give her a little 
 of that great wealth of love that had once been hers. 
 She wanted it so much. Once it had meant nothing, 
 she had not valued it, it had annoyed, even disgusted 
 her. Now it was life itself. 
 
 Trembling, shaking, a little figure in her white night- 
 gown, she crept bare-footed down the stairs. She 
 peeped into the kitchen, he was sitting there beside the 
 table, his elbows resting on it, his hand supporting his 
 chin. He seemed to be looking straight at her, yet she 
 knew that his eyes saw nothing. They were fixed on 
 vacancy. And she could not move, she stood there 
 trembling, hesitating in the darkness. She stretched out 
 182
 
 "The Summer Will Go" 
 
 her arms to him, her heart went out to him, but her arms 
 fell to her side. And then, presently, his head dropped, 
 his arms folded on the table, on them he pillowed his 
 head. 
 
 And for nearly half an hour she watched him till she 
 knew him to be asleep, and then she crept in like a little 
 ghost. She went to him and stood beside him, her heart 
 beating quickly. She bent and touched his head with 
 her lips. 
 
 "My darling, my darling!" she whispered. "Oh, how 
 I love you love you for all your goodness to me, your 
 splendid charity, my my Jim !" And then a sob broke 
 from her breast and, afraid lest he should waken, she 
 crept away. 
 
 And he there, immovable, heard the stairs creak under 
 her light weight. 
 
 He had not been sleeping, he had only been thinking, 
 thinking of the hopeless future for her and for him 
 for himself less than for her, for he knew what his 
 future must be. And when she had come, he had felt 
 her near him, he had not raised his head, he had felt her 
 kiss on his bowed head, had heard the murmuring 
 whisper of her voice. "My darling!" she had said. 
 "Oh, how I love you !" 
 
 And he had longed with a great longing to rise up and 
 take her into his arms and kiss the gladness and happi- 
 ness back into her face. But he could not, he knew he 
 could not. She was not the same, she was not his, she 
 could never be his now, she was not the little 'Nid he 
 had married his pure, sweet little girl ; that 'Nid could 
 never come back to him again. 
 
 And so he stayed immovable till long, long after she 
 had gone, and then he lifted his head slowly. His face 
 
 183
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 was drawn and weary, haggard, and there was pain in 
 his eyes, the look of suffering. 
 
 "Oh, how I love you !" she had said. She loved him, 
 this woman who was his wife, and now she could be 
 nothing to him he nothing to her. He clenched his 
 hands. Life was cruel, Heaven was cruel. Why could 
 not Heaven if there was a Heaven have put love into 
 her heart for him before before she before this other 
 man had crossed her path? It was too late now, too 
 late. God help them both! too late! 
 
 He opened the door and went out into the blackness 
 that was changing softly to grey, the grey that comes be- 
 fore the dawn. A chill breath seemed to be in the air 
 and he shivered. He was in j>ain, his heart was bleeding. 
 He thought of her creeping to him while she thought he 
 slept the kiss, the first she had ever of her own free 
 will given to him her murmured words of love. And 
 he, loving her as he did, had been motionless, silent. 
 What else could he be? He knew how great the temp- 
 tation had been to take her, to hold her close to him, 
 to kiss back the smiles and the joy, to forgive nay, he 
 had forgiven, always he had forgiven her. And forget 
 
 Forget the past, no, that was impossible. He 
 
 would have but cheated her and himself. That j>ast 
 might be forgiven, but forgotten never! 
 
 He could forgive her. He knew her innocence; she 
 had not understood what she was doing. She had sinned, 
 yet sinned in her innocence, unknowingly. But the 
 man, he had sinned knowingly and with deliberation, and 
 the man should pay, must suffer and he, too. 
 
 But, striding away over the hills, Jim knew that he 
 had passed through a great temptation, and knew that he 
 had done rightly. She could never be the same, never 
 184
 
 "The Summer Will Go" 
 
 the same to him again. His 'Nid was dead and gone; 
 this woman who loved him was not his 'Nid, the in- 
 nocent, pure girl whose innocence and purity he had 
 respected. 
 
 So he strode over the Downland, breasting the hills, 
 climbing for the sheer joy of climbing, for the sake of 
 the physical strength necessary to do it, and for the 
 fatigue that he wanted to come. And presently he stood 
 on a high hill and looked about him and saw the sun 
 rising. Away to the east he could see the sea a faint grey 
 streak against the horizon, to the south behind him the 
 rolling Downs. And the flush grew in the sky and pres- 
 ently the sea seemed to come to life as the rays of the 
 rising sun kissed it. A faint breeze came laden with 
 the salt air and stirred the gorse with its yellow flowers. 
 
 He flung himself down and watched the birth of the 
 new day, saw the larks spring up into the air, heard their 
 shrill song from far above him. And then he fell 
 asleep and slept on heavily and dreamlessly, slept while 
 the sun rose higher and yet higher. 
 
 Down in a valley blue smoke curled from the red 
 chimneys of the little cottages. Fires were lighted, meals 
 were being cooked, men came out of the cottage doors 
 presently and marched away in the morning sunshine 
 to their day's work in the fields. 
 
 Presently from the cottage doors came children on 
 their way to the schools. The school bell was clanging, 
 but the man lying here on the hilltop heard nothing, 
 saw nothing. 
 
 Down in the cottage in the dell Billy Wasser stood at 
 the door .and stared far and wide. Now and again he 
 put his hand to his mouth and shouted, "J im Jim!" But 
 there was no answer. 
 
 185
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Can't make out where he be gone, missus!" he said. 
 
 "He will come back," 'Nid said. 
 
 "It be gone breakfus' time," Billy said. "I'll put on 
 the kittle, maybe he'll be back by the time it boils." But 
 Jim did not come back, and the kettle boiled away 
 merrily, so Billy made the tea. 
 
 And now it was 'Nid's turn to go and look with 
 anxious eyes for some sign of the homecoming of the 
 man she loved. 
 
 "Best have your breakfus'," Billy said. 
 
 She drank a little tea, but her heart was filled with 
 anxiety. Again and again she rose and went to the 
 door. And up there on the Downs the man lay sleeping 
 in the sunlight, sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion, 
 for sleep and he had been strangers of late.
 
 FOUND 
 
 SHEILA CLARE walked through the village. The 
 villagers bobbed and curtseyed to her ; she gave them 
 a haughty nod. The villagers never interested her; she 
 hated common people who only wanted things all the 
 time. Besides, she had other things to think about than 
 villagers and little children with more or less dirty faces. 
 
 She was worried, growing anxious. James Bevan- 
 wood's disappearance was getting to be a mystery. She 
 had made enquiries; she had been to London, she had 
 been to the solicitors, but they had heard nothing of 
 him. She had been to the bank; they could tell her but 
 little, but from them she gleaned the fact that he had 
 been changing cheques for small amounts he had given 
 cheques in payment for articles, that was all. She asked 
 more questions but received no answers. 
 
 It made one thing certain, at any rate, Jim was alive 
 and well. But where had he hidden himself ? She had 
 heard from Geoffrey. It was a violent, ill-tempered 
 letter. 
 
 "The silly little fool took alarm and bolted, left me !" 
 he wrote. "I kissed her and she seemed to flare up. 
 I didn't quite understand it, as you may guess, but when 
 I went to knock on the door of her room there was no 
 answer, she was not there. I opened the door and found 
 her gone. She had not even slept on the bed. I have 
 
 187
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 no more idea where she is than the man in the moon. 
 Let me know if she has come back." 
 
 The letter was from Paris. Sheila wired that 'Nid 
 had not come back. So 'Nid had disappeared, too. It 
 was strange. 
 
 Weeks had passed now since Jim Bevanwood had 
 gone, and she had not heard one word from him. If 
 she had been dishonestly inclined she might have en- 
 riched herself with his belongings and made off. But 
 she was looking forward to a better harvest than that. 
 
 Of course, the man himself was objectionable in many 
 ways, rough and uncultivated. He must be kept in the 
 background. They would live their own lives, but she at 
 least would be Lady Bevanwood, and she would have 
 all the money she wanted to spend and a bit more. But 
 to achieve that end Jim Bevanwood must be found, 
 must be found and his mind worked upon. He must get 
 rid of the girl, his wife, of course. The case was as 
 clear as a pikestaff. 
 
 Geoffrey's name would have to be dragged into it, but 
 that would not matter. Afterwards she would make 
 amends to Geoffrey and he might stay on in Paris or 
 go to New York. People soon forgot that sort of thing. 
 
 She had left the village and gained the Downs. She 
 hated walking, but she could think better if she walked. 
 What should she do? Advertise? That would be fool- 
 ish. Also it might anger Bevanwood. Employ a private 
 detective ? 
 
 After all, it was a serious matter. Here was a man of 
 
 name and property utterly vanished. His property 
 
 needed his attention. She had not been given power of 
 
 attorney in fact, he would not have known what it 
 
 188
 
 Found 
 
 meant. Things were at a standstill, more particularly, 
 her own plans were at a standstill till she found him. 
 
 And she must find him, she must set her wits to work 
 to discover where he had hidden himself. She must 
 she must find him somehow. 
 
 She stood still suddenly. She had come a long way, 
 a good deal further than she thought, and she had 
 found him! She was almost certain of it .the first 
 moment her eyes lighted on the figure lying stretched 
 out on the turf under the lee of a gorse clump. 
 
 She came nearer, walking softly on the soft turf. Yes, 
 she had made no mistake, it was Jim Bevanwood. And 
 he was here, here all the time, within a mile or so of 
 his own door all these weeks. She felt a sensation of 
 anger against him, as though he had played her a trick. 
 She would awaken him and ask him why he had done it, 
 what he meant. No, she would not she was naturally 
 cautious. He might refuse to tell her anything, might 
 even refuse to tell her where he was living. 
 
 She would not awaken him; on the contrary, she 
 would watch him, wait and watch, and, if possible, fol- 
 low him. 
 
 There was cover in plenty the whole place was thkk 
 with clumps of gorse, from out of which rabbits now 
 and again scampered and then, at sight of her, shot back 
 with a flick of their white tails. 
 
 She crouched down beside a thicket of gorse and 
 waited. She waited an hour. The hum of the insects 
 made her drowsy ; then she heard a sound. It was Jim's 
 awakening a prodigious yawn. Lifting her head she 
 could see him stretching his arms. 
 
 "I must 'a slep' hours," she heard him mutter. 
 "What'll she think o' me being away all this time?" 
 
 189
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "She " Sheila thought. "She! What she? Good 
 
 heavens !" Sudden dread, sudden suspicion came to her. 
 She clenched her hands tightly. Supposing that they 
 were together, these two; supposing the man had been 
 
 such a fool as to No, she would not believe it, 
 
 could not believe it. It was some woman that was keep- 
 ing house for him. But where was the house? She 
 would find*out, she would soon know. 
 
 He had risen and she crouched lower against the 
 gorse. He was walking away now, down the slope of 
 the hill, and she rose and followed him. Now and 
 again she dropped and hid behind the gorse in case he 
 should look round. But Jim Bevanwood, never dream- 
 ing that he was being followed, did not look round once. 
 So he made 'his way back to the dip in the hill and the 
 little cottage where 'Nid was anxiously waiting for 
 him. 
 
 190
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 "THE FOOL" 
 
 ID felt sick with fear. The long morning was 
 passing and he had not come back. Never before 
 had he gone without leaving word. What did it mean 
 now? Did it mean that he repented his forgiveness of 
 her, that he wished to see her no more, that he had gone, 
 never to return? It was so easy to believe this; yet he 
 had been so good to her, he had welcomed her in so 
 kindly a fashion. 
 
 Billy Wasser, whistling merrily, had gone off on his 
 bicycle to Horswood. Billy had no fears for the future, 
 no ideas came into Billy's head. Jim would come back 
 all right, of course he would. Why shouldn't he? Billy 
 did not worry, he rode off blithely in the beautiful calm 
 morning air, and 'Nid stood at the door of the little 
 cottage watching and waiting with anxious eyes and a 
 heart that felt sore and empty. 
 
 And then he came. She could scarcely believe it when 
 she did see him. She had built up such tragedies, 
 she had seen herself left here lonely, forsaken, she had 
 even begun to taste of the bitterness of it. But he was 
 here; he came with his long, swinging strides, walking 
 beside the stream. He looked at her and smiled. 
 
 "Hello 'Nid," he said. "Why, what's the matter, little 
 'un?" For she had suddenly broken down, the relief 
 of seeing him was so great. She hid her face in her 
 
 191
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 hands and sobbed so that the sobbing shook her small, 
 frail body. 
 
 "Why?" he said gently. "Why, little 'un, Kid, don't 
 don't cry. There's nothing to cry about, so fur as I 
 know. You ain't in pain, you ain't hurt yourself, have 
 you?" It was his first thought tears suggested pain 
 to him. Children cried when they were in pain. 
 
 "No, no," she said. "It's it's not that, only I I 
 thought you you had gone," she gasped. 
 
 "Gone!" He hardly seemed to understand for a 
 moment. " 'Nid, gone ! You don't suppose I'd go and 
 leave you here without a word, just go, do you ?" 
 
 "I I didn't," she sobbed. "I didn't; but, oh oh, I 
 am glad, so glad that you have come back." She lifted 
 her great eyes to his, swimming now in tears, seeming 
 the brighter and the bigger for those same tears. 
 
 "Never think I'd go without a word. When when 
 
 the time comes for me to go, 'Nid " He paused. 
 
 "When the time comes I'll tell you, mate." 
 
 "Mate." She seemed to shiver at the word; to him 
 perhaps it had no meaning. Many a man had been mate 
 to him, some few women perhaps; but to her. She 
 was his mate, his mate in life she should have been, 
 would have been, but for herself, her own fault. 
 
 "You you haven't had your breakfast, Jim," she said. 
 
 "No, and I'm hungry," he said. 
 
 She hurried before him into the cottage, glad and 
 eager to be able to do something for him. Her fears and 
 horroFe were forgotten ; she was like a child pleased and 
 proud that she had something to do. 
 
 Jim did ndt follow her at once, he went to the door and 
 stood there and stared thoughtfully at the noisy little 
 stream. Her tears, her joy at seeing him wrung his 
 192
 
 "The Fool" 
 
 heart. It might once have meant so much, now it must 
 mean so little. If only she had found out the truth 
 before before. He shivered suddenly, his face seemed 
 to turn grey and old. It was too late now, too late. She 
 would never belong to him. 
 
 The other woman had followed. She stood now 
 screened by the bushes; she was leaning against a tree. 
 She could see the little cottage ; she had witnessed the 
 meeting of the two. 
 
 "So that's it," Sheila Care said to herself. She said 
 it many times over. She had never suspected it, never 
 dreamed that they might be together. It had come as 
 a shock, her brain was still dulled by it. She could 
 see him now standing by the cottage; she had seen the 
 girl hurry in. 
 
 These two here, living together. "The fool, the fool," 
 she muttered. "The senseless, dishonourable fool." She 
 gripped her hands tightly. "She came whining back to 
 him and he took her in. He is the sort that would, 
 What could one expect from such a fool ? James Bevan- 
 wood is not a gentleman." She thought of the old say- 
 ing anent silk purses and sows' ears and laughed vicious- 
 ly to herself. But she was angry, furiously angry. She 
 felt that in some way she had been cheated, made a 
 fool of these two here together,*living in this place. 
 
 She did not move, yet she did not make her presence 
 known. 'Nid's presence here had upset all her plans. 
 Then she heard a voice calling: 
 
 "Jim, Jim, breakfast is ready." It might have been 
 some happy young wife calling to her man. 
 
 "Coming," he answered, and went in. And Sheila 
 Clare picked her way daintily back along the edge of 
 the stream till she came to the high ground. 
 
 193
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "So she went back to him and he took her in, but he's 
 ashamed to bring her back to his own house/' she mut- 
 tered. "Does the fool expect to go on living in that 
 hole of a place all his life? Is he going to keep her 
 shut up there? Even she won't stand that when once 
 her remorse has worn off." 
 
 Twice she looked back at the cottage down in the dip 
 of the hills. She could see the broken, old thatched roof, 
 the thin curl of blue smoke coming from the wood fire ; 
 then she saw it no more. Sheila Clare walked the miles 
 back home in a vile temper. What should she do ? How 
 act next? These two had come together again. The 
 man was hopeless, of course, a man without any sense 
 of honour and easily led, easily beguiled. The woman, 
 perhaps she had some sense of shame left, she might be 
 stung into action. Yes, it must be the woman she would 
 deal with, Sheila Clare resolved. 
 
 But how should she deal with her? It was for her 
 to decide, to plan and act on later. So she went away 
 across the swelling green Downs, and down in the hol- 
 low those two never dreamed of her coming, never let 
 a thought of her cast a shadow on them. 
 
 "Well, if you aren't getting to be quite a cook," Jim 
 said. She flushed with pleasure, her eyes glistened. She 
 had put all her soul into this simple, hurriedly prepared 
 meal for him, had done it gladly, joyfully as a task of 
 honour and great happiness. 
 
 And when it was over and he had done justice to it 
 he sat at the door smoking his pipe and staring across 
 at the hills vfith an inscrutable look in his eyes. She 
 washed up the plates and dishes and sang over her 
 work. He heard her voice as she sang. She had a 
 sweet voice, untrained and uncultivated, but he knew 
 IQ4
 
 "The Fool" 
 
 nothing and cared nothing about that. He liked to hear 
 her sing ; a child might sing as she did from sheer glad- 
 ness of heart. And then presently Billy Wasser came 
 speeding down the chalk road on his bicycle. 
 
 "Hello!" he said. 
 
 "Hello !" Jim said, and went on smoking. 
 
 "Singing, ain't she ?" Billy said. He paused to listen. 
 Jim nodded. 
 
 "Sings nice, don't she?" the boy said. He let his 
 bicycle down softly against the wall and stood listen- 
 ing. 
 
 "I like 'er being 'ere, after all," he said. 
 
 "You do ?" Jim said. 
 
 "Yes, don't you?" 
 
 Jim nodded. Yes, he did. He did not want to admit 
 it to himself nor to Billy, but he did. He liked her 
 being here, yet there was something that weighed on his 
 heart, that prevented the happiness he might have known. ' 
 If only she had been like this before, long ago. But 
 it was too late now, wishes were idle things. 
 
 And so another day passed in the cottage down in 
 the dell and another and yet another, and the folk in 
 the village were growing used to seeing Sheila Clare 
 come of a morning tramping through the village and 
 making her way to the green Downs alone. She missed 
 but few days and always she made to the same place, 
 the spot where she had stood hidden by the bushes and 
 had watched the little cottage. She came to watch it 
 every day, waiting for the chance, but it was days before 
 it came. She saw Jim Bevanwood most days, sometimes 
 the girl, sometimes the village boy. But one day, cross- 
 ing the Downs by herself, she saw two figures ahead of 
 her, a man and a boy. They were coming in her direc- 
 
 195
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 tion, and she crouched down and hid behind the gorse 
 to let them pass. They did not see her, but went on 
 their way. She rose and watched them till they were out 
 of sight, or but faint specks of black in the green dis- 
 tance, then she hurried on. Her chance had come. 
 
 196
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE COMING OF THE SHADOW 
 
 JIM and Billy had gone to the mill for some flour ; the 
 weight would be too much for Billy, so Jim had gone 
 with him and 'Nid was left to herself. This expedition 
 for flour had been talked of for some days and 'Nid 
 had planned her own day when they should be gone. 
 
 Now she had the fire going and a great iron kettle 
 of water on it. She had filled the big tub Jim had pro- 
 vided by cutting a barrel in half. 
 
 'Nid was going to have a washing-day and there was 
 much to be washed. She had rolled her sleeves up over 
 her fair, delicate, pretty arms, had tucked up her dress 
 to show her slim ankles. 
 
 She was like a child playing at housekeeping. She 
 worried no more. The day would come when she and 
 Jim must part, he to go back to a life and a place that 
 claimed him. But he had promised her it would not be 
 yet. And when he went he would tell her first. She had 
 no reason to fear now and she cheated herself into 
 happiness, the happiness of the moment. 
 
 So she sang to herself as she poured the boiling water 
 into the tub, as she thrust the clothes well down with 
 the stick he had cut for her. And then a shadow fell 
 across the open doorway and 'Nid looked up and the 
 song on her lips was stilled and silent. 
 
 Sheila Clare walked into the room. 
 
 197
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Go on," she said, "don't let me disturb you." 
 
 'Nid's lips quivered. "What do you want?" she said. 
 
 "To speak to you. What else should I want? I'm 
 sorry for him, sorry, he was always a weak man and 
 a fool. I didn't know how weak till now, to take you 
 
 back after " The woman paused. "There isn't a 
 
 man living who would have taken you back but this 
 one. I suppose you think you can dupe him and cheat 
 
 him because he is ignorant and a fool, you " she 
 
 paused. "There isn't another man who would. I thought 
 you had some sense of decency, but even you have failed 
 me and failed yourself. Fancy coming back after that 
 whining to him for shelter and forgiveness !" 
 
 "I I ain't ever asked him to forgive," 'Nid said. Her 
 breast rose and fell, "No! no! I never asked him to 
 forgive. I never thought of that, I never hoped for it, 
 never dreamed of it. I I just came back, that's all. 
 I didn't even know he was here." 
 
 "A decent woman wouldn't have come," Sheila said. 
 "You are lower than I thought you were." 
 
 "He he doesn't mind me coming; he's even glad I 
 am here," 'Nid said. 
 
 Sheila laughed. "Glad. He tells you so; he's such a 
 soft fool, he doesn't want to hurt your feelings. Can't 
 you imagine how he hates you ? Your presence reminds 
 him of of what you are, what you have done. Yes, 
 he must hate you even. But he doesn't tell you so, 
 no, he's too soft-hearted for that. But don't think that 
 he forgives ; he's not the man to forgive. There isn't a 
 man living who would forgive you and take you back, 
 not even Jim ^Bevanwood." 
 
 "Why why have you come?" 'Nid said. She pressed 
 her hands against her breast. 
 198
 
 The Coming of the Shadow 
 
 "To tell you I'm sorry for you. I pity you and him, 
 *too," Sheila said. "To tell you that if you have any 
 sense of fitness you will go. Can't you understand that 
 your presence here, the sight of you every day of his 
 life, must be torture to him, to this man? You were 
 his wife; you are face to face with him every day now. 
 You were false to him, you brought shame on his name 
 and a good name, it was till you blackened it." 
 
 "But but I didn't know, I didn't know ! Oh, I didn't 
 understand properly," 'Nid cried. "Don't you under- 
 stand, I didn't understand till " She paused. 
 
 Sheila shrugged her shoulders. "You take me for a 
 fool. Where did I first see you? In a dirty little Lon- 
 don laundry a fine place for perfect innocence to flour- 
 ish, eh?" she sneered. "Of course I believe you. You 
 
 were so unworldly, you Do you think he believes 
 
 you? Do you think he doesn't hate the memory that 
 every sight of you must bring into his mind?" 
 
 "You you don't think I ought to have come back?" 
 
 "Think you ought to have come back? I don't think 
 any woman in her sense would have come back. She 
 must be dead to self-respect and pride to come back, 
 to lick the hand of the man she has wronged as you 
 wronged him. What's the end of it going to be ? Answer 
 me. What is the end of it going to be? Do you think 
 he'll take you back to your to his house and acknowl- 
 edge you again before the world as his wife?" 
 
 "No," 'Nid said quietly, "I don't hope for that, miss." 
 
 "Then what do you hope for?" 
 
 "I I haven't thought. I don't suppose there is much 
 hope for me. I've just tried to be content and happy in 
 the present. I haven't dared to think about the future. 
 He'll go back one day he'll have to, very likely, when 
 
 199
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 the summer ends, he'll have to go back, and then " 
 
 "And then?" Sheila asked 
 
 "I don't know. Maybe I shall be able to live on here 
 by myself. I haven't thought, I don't want to think." 
 
 "So you are living in a fool's paradise and doing this 
 man a wrong by cheating yourself and him." 
 
 "I have not cheated him." 
 
 "Has he asked you nothing? Have you told him 
 nothing ?" 
 
 "No," 'Nid said simply. "I just came back and he 
 held out his hand to me and took me in, that's all." 
 
 "And there was nothing said, nothing of the past, 
 nothing of what you did, nothing of of that other man, 
 my brother?" 
 
 "No," 'Nid said. "We've never spoken about any- 
 thing." 
 
 Sheila stared across the little room. How could she 
 hope to understand such people as these? Her voice 
 was harsh with impatience. 
 
 "Can't you realise that you are doing this man a great 
 wrong, that you are taking advantage of his weakness 
 of character, his stupid good nature, his dislike to cause 
 pain? Can't you realise that he must hate to see you, 
 you who were once his wife, and who brought shame and 
 dishonour to him? Can't you see it, or are you blind?" 
 
 "I didn't think of it," 'Nid said. "I tried not to." She 
 twisted her hands together nervously. 
 
 "What ought I to do?" she said. 
 
 "You ought never to have come here to him. You 
 ought to have avoided him, never seen him again or 
 let him see you." 
 
 "You think I ought to go?" 'Nid said. 
 
 "Can there be two thoughts on the subject?" Sheila 
 200
 
 The Coming of the Shadow 
 
 said, shrugging her shoulders. "But for you he would 
 probably have returned to his home long ago. As it is, I 
 suppose he is too weak-willed to do so, too good-natured 
 to want to cause you pain. But sooner or later he must 
 come back. What's the use of your living on like this, 
 knowing that the end must soon be in sight, that he 
 must leave you? Tell me, you do not think don't 
 cheat yourself for one moment into thinking that he 
 will forgive you and take you back, let you again fill 
 your place as mistress of his home, as his wife, you who 
 have dragged his good name in the mire, you who have 
 done the things for which no woman is ever forgiven? 
 He's a fool, yet not so great a fool as that." 
 
 "No," 'Nid said. "No, I I don't hope for for any- 
 thing. I've simply tried to believe that there isn't no 
 future at all. I've just lived in each day; to-day is 
 enough. I haven't thought of to-morrow I didn't 
 dare." 
 
 "But to-morrow comes," Sheila said "I am sorry for 
 you," she said, "sorry. I don't think it was all your 
 fault; I blame my brother most. He knew the world, 
 you were ignorant, though I will never believe innocent ! 
 Still, I am sorry for you; I blame Geoffrey. But who- 
 ever is to blame, the fact remains. And I find you 
 here " 
 
 "I ought to go?" 
 
 "You ought to go. You ought never to be here at 
 all; it is a sin against that man who is too weak and 
 good-natured to resent it. But do you think he doesn't 
 resent it in his heart?" 
 
 "I I s'pose he does," 'Nid said miserably. "I s'pose 
 he must, only I never thought of it till you told me. 
 If I had better go, then then I will go !" 
 
 2OI
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Of course !" Sheila said. "Of course, and soon. You 
 should not delay the sooner the better; but, as I said, 
 I am sorry for you, I'd like to help you. My brother 
 was the cause; I feel myself involved in this, in some 
 way responsible. You will need money ; I have brought 
 some. You had better take it. Go away, find some 
 place and write to me. Let me know where you are 
 and I will see what can be done for you." She put the 
 money on the table. "At least be decent enough to go 
 at once !" she said. 
 
 She glanced at 'Nid, she saw the white, tragic little 
 face and she knew she had won. 
 
 "You're going; it will be the greatest benefit, the 
 greatest blessing you can bestow on James Bevanwood. 
 It is what he in his heart must wish, but does not like 
 to put into words!" And then she went. She went by 
 the way she had come she walked along the stream 
 and through the little coppice and came out at the base 
 of the slope; and as she went she did not see Billy 
 Wasser who was speeding back. 
 
 But he saw her and knew her at once. What was 
 she here for? It was Miss Clare, he knew her who 
 in the village did not? He stood watching her, round- 
 eyed. Billy went on slowly to the house. He had come 
 back for a sack the miller had explained his inability 
 to supply sacks, so Jim was waiting at the mill and he, 
 Billy, had come back for the necessary sack. He found 
 one in the kitchen; he was surprised to see a large tub 
 full of steaming water. He looked into the tub and saw 
 clothes lying-in the bottom of it, but of 'Nid there was 
 no sign. He called out and she answered him from 
 above. 
 
 "I come back for a sack!" he shouted. "Now I be 
 202
 
 The Coming of the Shadow 
 
 going again!" He paused. Should he mention that he 
 had seen Sheila Clare? No, it was difficult to carry 
 on conversation at the top of his voice; he would leave 
 it till he came back. So he took the sack and trudged 
 off up the hillside and to the distant mill, and then he 
 forgot Sheila Clare. 
 
 The sack was filled and it was heavy, and it was a 
 long way to carry it back. Jim slung it across his broad 
 shoulders, but even he, strong as he was, felt in need of 
 rest and an occasional stop, so they progressed but slow- 
 ly. Presently they sat down under the scanty shade of a 
 furze bush and made their meal off bread and cheese. 
 Billy stretched himself out on the turf. He had for- 
 gotten all about Sheila Clare his memory was never 
 of the best, and there were so many other things to dis- 
 tract it now. 
 
 They had reckoned that getting the flour would be 
 the better part of an all-day job; the delay occasioned 
 by the sack had lengthened the task considerably, so 
 that it was near the end of the afternoon when they 
 came back in sight of the cottage. 
 
 "I shan't be sorry to get it down, Billy," Jim said. 
 
 "Let's take a turn !" Billy said. 
 
 "You!" Jim laughed. "No, we'll soon be there, old 
 man." 
 
 He looked eagerly. He hoped, almost expected to see 
 her standing there by the stream watching for them, but 
 he saw nothing. He became conscious, too, that there 
 was no thin coil of smoke ascending from the chimney. 
 He wondered. 'Nid would be expecting them, surely, 
 and knowing that they had gone short of food would 
 have prepared a meal for them. He wondered most of 
 all at the absence of the smoke. 
 
 203
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 Billy put his two hands to his mouth and shouted. 
 
 "She'll 'ear !" he said, and he smiled in anticipation. 
 
 But she did not hear; there was no sign of the little 
 figure. 
 
 "Funny!" Billy said. "She always 'card me shout 
 before." He tried again, but there was no answer. 
 
 So they went down to the valley and gained the stream 
 and came to the cottage and the door was closed. 
 
 "'Nid, 'Nid!" Billy shouted. "'Ere we be! Open 
 the door, 'tis me and Jim!" But the door remained 
 fast. 
 
 It was Billy who opened it. He looked in and turned 
 to stare in wonder at Jim. The little kitchen was neat 
 and tidy, the things that she had washed were hanging 
 out on a line outside the cottage, the fire in the hearth 
 was all laid ready for lighting, the table was laid for 
 a meal, but of 'Nid no sign. 
 
 "'Nid!" Jim shouted. " 'Nid, 'Nid, girl, 'Nid !" But 
 his voice was unanswered save by the echoes. 
 
 "Funny 'er going out !" Billy said. "Maybe she came 
 to meet we." He paused. "Hello!" he said. He took 
 up a folded paper from the table and looked at it. On 
 it was written the one word "Jim." 
 
 "For you," he said. 
 
 Jim's hand shook a little as he stretched out to take 
 the paper ; he fumbled with it awkwardly as he opened it. 
 
 "I know now I did not ought ever to have come, it 
 was wrong. But I was so tired and so lonely, and I 
 hadn't anywhere else to go to, but I know it was wrong. 
 I ought to have turned back when I see you at the 
 door, but I cbuldn't. I'm going now, I never asked you 
 to forgive me nothing, Jim, I never hoped for that! I 
 didn't really know how wicked I was, I never under- 
 204
 
 The Coming of the Shadow 
 
 stood! I shan't come back no more, it's good-bye this 
 time, Jim, and thank you for being good to me, 'NiD." 
 
 He read it through and looked at Billy Wasser. 
 
 "She's she's gone!" he said. "She's gone, Billy, and 
 and she ain't coming back!" 
 
 305
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 GONE 
 
 BILLY stared at Jim round-eyed. 
 "She'll come back," he said. "Why should she 
 'ave gone, Jim? Jim, why should she 'ave gone like 
 this? We was all so 'appy together, Jim!" 
 
 " 'Appy !" Jim said, "yes, 'appy. 'Thank you for 
 being good to me.' " He read her last words again. 
 "Being good to her " How could he ever be any- 
 thing but good to her? Now she had gone. Why 
 why? Why, he questioned himself suddenly, why should 
 she have gone like this? Yesterday morning there had 
 been no signs to suggest that she should creep away 
 like this. What had happened? 
 
 "I s'pect it's 'er coming," Billy said, answering Jim's 
 unspoken question. 
 
 " 'Er 'er coming ! What do you mean ?" Jim said. 
 
 " 'Er Miss, what's-'er-name, 'er up at your 'ouse ; 
 she's been 'ere to-day; I seen 'er when I come back for 
 the sack." 
 
 "What ?" Jim thundered. 
 
 *r 
 
 Billy gave a jump. 
 
 "It's right, Jim," he said. "Don't 'oiler at me like that. 
 I seen 'er, I did ; she was sneaking off. She'd been 'ere. 
 I don't know 'ow I come to forget it. I seen 'er, 
 Miss Clare." 
 
 "Sheila Clare here?" How did she find out? How 
 206
 
 Gone 
 
 did she come to know and, knowing, what right had 
 she to come here? A sudden mad fury came to Jim. 
 He laid hold of Billy by the shoulder with a grip that 
 made Billy wince. 
 
 "Billy, you are sure of this, you are sure you see 
 'er 'ere?" 
 
 "I did," Billy said. "I did, Jim, straight, and I fergot 
 to tell you. It was when 1 come back for the sack; 
 I seen her down by the stream, Jim. She was going 
 away. I watched her up the Downs, then when I come 
 here there was a tub full of clothes in the middle of the 
 room, but 'Nid wasn't 'ere. She was upstairs getting 
 ready to go, maybe, but she must have stayed to tidy 
 up. Very like she see me coming, Jim, and hid so's I 
 shouldn't see 'er. Maybe something Miss Clare said 
 to 'er made 'Nid make up her mind to go." 
 
 "Yes," Jim said. "Yes, that's it, that's it." 
 
 "Only I be going to find her," Billy said. "She won't 
 'ave gone a wonderful long way. She 'ad to stay a 
 bit to clear up and lay the fire and the tea and all that 
 she carn't 'ave gone fur, Jim. Then she 'ad to write 
 that there letter to you. Writing a letter takes a long 
 time. I'll find 'er/' he added, and his voice was filled 
 with resolution. "Betcher I find 'er, Jim." 
 
 "Find her, old man, and bring her back," Jim said. 
 "Find her, yes, Billy, lad, we'll find her if we hunt the 
 world for her, but " And his face darkened sud- 
 denly and his eyes grew hard and fierce. "I'll see her, 
 that woman, first I'm going now, Billy, going to see 
 Sheila Clare. Maybe she knows where 'Nid has gone." 
 
 "You make 'er tell you, Jim," Billy said. "Make 'er 
 and me, I'll go and 'unt for 'er now and I'll find 'er, I 
 will." 
 
 207
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 He forgot that he was tired, that he was hungry, he 
 forgot everything save the pain and the mad, passionate 
 fury against Sheila Clare. How had she dared to come 
 here? By what means had she found out their hiding- 
 place? What had she said to 'Nid? Jim was off. He 
 breasted the hill; he strode away across the Downs. 
 Exercise, instead of soothing him, seemed only to in- 
 flame his anger against the woman. He reached the vil- 
 lage in the dusk. 
 
 The villagers stared at him, at his unfamiliar figure; 
 they greeted him with smiles and bobs, and wondered 
 that he never even gave them a glance. He strode among 
 them and on to his own home. His clothes had suffered 
 since he had last left it ; he was powdered with the flour 
 from the mill where he had been all day. His boots were 
 ragged and worn, his face burned brown by the sun. 
 He wore no collar or tie and he looked as little like Sir 
 James Curtis Bevanwood, master of this fine house, as 
 a man might look. The manservant who opened the 
 door to him stared at him, taking him for a moment 
 for some audacious tramp who dared to present him- 
 self at the hall door, but the next moment he knew him. 
 
 "Where is Miss Clare?" Jim demanded. 
 
 "Miss Miss Clare, sir?" 
 
 "You heard me, didn't you?" Jim thundered. 
 
 "I I beg your pardon, sir, yes, sir! I heard, Sir 
 James. Miss Clare is in in the drawing-room, I think, 
 and " 
 
 Jim passed him by, then stopped. 
 
 "Miss Clare was out this morning?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." v 
 
 "Walking?" 
 
 "I I believe so, sir." 
 208
 
 Gone 
 
 "She went far, eh? Out some time? Answer me, 
 you fool, don't stand gaping at me. I say Miss Clare 
 was out walking this morning and she was a long time 
 gone ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," the man said. "Miss Clare has been walk- 
 ing a lot lately, taking long walks most mornings now. 
 She was out about three hours, Sir James." 
 
 Jim nodded. The black fury that filled him was at 
 fever-point now. He flung open the door and strode into 
 the drawing-room. As usual when he entered that 
 room of precious nicknacks, he blundered into some- 
 thing. It was a little table overcrowded with china; it 
 fell with a crash and he trampled on the valuable frag- 
 ments. 
 
 "Good good gracious!" Sheila Clare started up. 
 "Who oh, Jim, you you! How nice! What a sur- 
 prise ! Where have you been, you bad " 
 
 "Silence," he said. "It's not for you to ask me no 
 questions, but for me to ask you. Where 'ave you been 
 and what 'ave you been doing? Answer that." 
 
 "Really, Jim," she said. "Don't shout at me like that, 
 you quite forget " 
 
 "Answer me," he said. "You 'ear what I say? What 
 'ave you been up to and where was you this morning?" 
 
 "My poor nerves," she said. "You burst into the room 
 like a bull in a china shop and then start shouting at 
 me. Jim, really, where are your manners, my dear 
 man?" 
 
 "Understand!" he said. "Don't play the fool! An- 
 swer me, or by 'eaven " He made one stride to her 
 
 and gripped her shoulder; in his passion he forgot his 
 strength. She winced and whined. 
 
 "Don't don't, you hurt! Oh, you you cruel man! 
 
 209
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 Your hard fingers hurt me, James Bevanwood. Are 
 you mad?" 
 
 "Pretty near," he said firmly. "And it's you as drove 
 me mad. 'Ang you and curse your interfering. What 
 did you want to come and upset 'Nid and drive 'er off 
 for?" 
 
 "Really I don't understand you," she said. 
 
 "Liar!" he said. "You do." 
 
 "Sir James Bevanwood, as you insult " 
 
 "I'm calling you by your name," he said. "I say liar, 
 and liar you are. You went to the cottage this morning, 
 you saw 'Nid. What lies did you tell 'er to drive 'er to 
 go away? Answer me. By 'eaven, you shall if if I 
 choke the truth out of you." 
 
 She saw his fury and she was frightened. This man 
 she had mocked at, jeered at, laughed at, this puppet 
 ready to dance when she pulled the string he was a 
 man after all and a big man, fierce, strong and powerful. 
 
 "You you hurt me," she whimpered. 
 
 "You've 'urt me badly badly," he said. "Why did 
 you go there?" 
 
 "I haven't been out of the house to-day." 
 
 "Liar!" he said. He strode to the door. "Burton, 
 you, Burton, come here." The man had been lurking 
 about the hall filled with curiosity concerning Sir James' 
 unexpected return. 
 
 "Oh, really, you needn't bring the servants into this." 
 
 Burton stood at the door. 
 
 "This woman was out this morning?" Jim said. He 
 pointed at Sheila Clare. 
 
 "Miss Miss* Clare " 
 
 "Answer me. I put a question. I say this woman 
 was out walking for some hours this morning?" 
 210
 
 Gone 
 
 "Yes, yes, sir." 
 
 "That'll do ; you go go, you 'ear, go." 
 
 Burton went he was glad to go. He hurried down to 
 the kitchens. 
 
 "Like a madman he is, shouting and raving and calling 
 Miss Clare 'this woman' and I don't know what 
 what's happened, I don't, only I think he's gone off his 
 head." 
 
 "So you come here, you shout at me, bully me, ill-treat 
 me, and and insult me before the servants," she said, 
 with a last attempt at bluster. 
 
 "Why didn't you leave me and 'Nid alone? What 
 on this earth 'as she and me to do with you?" he cried. 
 "What did you go and tell 'er your infernal lies and 
 drive 'er away for ? Answer, will you ?" 
 
 "I refuse to answer any one who shouts at at me 
 and uses such language. If you were a gentleman " 
 
 "I'm not ; I'm just a man who's goaded to see red by 
 a lying, interfering, mischief-making woman, and that 
 woman's you. I'm 'ere for the truth, and, by 'eaven, 
 I'm going to get it. You needn't try lying with me. 
 
 Maybe among your gentleman friends " He paused 
 
 with a short laugh, "You ain't seen a man in a mad rage 
 like you see me, eh? You don't get no soft speeches 
 from me. You'll get somethink as'll choke the truth out 
 of you. The truth, you 'ear, the truth. And if you fool 
 with me, by 'eaven, look out for yourself." 
 
 She looked at him. His eyes were red with fury, he 
 looked like a man beside himself, a dangerous man, a 
 man as dangerous as an infuriated tiger. She felt fear 
 for herself, bodily fear. She was shut up with a mad- 
 man who would use his strength if she dared him. 
 
 "It it was for your sake. She she had no right to 
 
 211
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 to go back to you. You were a fool to take her back 
 after after what has happened. She is shamed and 
 disgraced. She can never take her place beside you as 
 your wife. You were weak to take her back, I I told 
 her that; I had the right to tell her, I was your friend." 
 
 "My friend," he said. "You?" He paused. "Listen 
 to me," he said quietly, so quietly that she was startled 
 by the change in him. 
 
 " 'Nid was a child, as innocent as a baby. Your 
 brother lied to her, tricked 'er, deceived 'er. Then 'e 
 'e cast her off; such men do, I believe I 'ave 'card of 
 it before. She was broken-'earted, lonely and 'ungry ; 'er 
 little shoes was wore off 'er little feet, and then she 
 come to me not to me, she didn't know as I was there 
 at the cottage. She crep' there to die, that's why she 
 come. And I was there and I took 'er by the 'and and 
 led 'er in. You say I didn't ought to take 'er back; I 
 didn't. She's not my wife now. She just come to me 
 'omeless and friendless, broken in 'eart and spirit and 
 and I took 'er in like I might 'ave took in a 'ungry 
 child. That's all. You you don't understand, your 
 sort wouldn't. S'posing it 'ad been one of your friends, 
 one of these gentlemen you're telling me about, what 
 would 'e 'ave done?" 
 
 "He would have done what any man who values his 
 honour would have done he would have freed himself 
 from a woman unworthy to be his wife, he would have 
 regained his freedom." 
 
 "And got money damages out of the man, eh?" 
 Jim said quietly. "That's what a gentleman would 'ave 
 done, isn't it? I am going to tell you what a plain man 
 like me is going to do. 'E's going to stand by 'er and 
 'elp 'er. She was a little innocent child and that man, 
 
 212
 
 Gone 
 
 your brother, led 'er away. She didn't know of wrong 
 till 'e showed 'er what it was. Then, frightened and 
 broken-'earted, she crep' away from 'im 'e was tired of 
 'er, I suppose. So she come back to me and I I took 
 'er in. It ain't with 'er, but it's with the man I've got 
 to settle, and I'm going to settle one day in full." His 
 quietude was ominous after the flaring passion of just 
 now. In his eyes were little points of fire, his face 
 seemed to have grown older, graver, more determined. 
 
 "I'm going to wait," he said ; "wait. One day me and 
 that man'll meet it's bound to be, it's going to 'appen, 
 I know it and then " 
 
 "Yes?" she whispered, then?" 
 
 "Then I shall take 'is throat between my two 'ands 
 and I shall crush the life out of 'im. I shall kill 'im," he 
 said, "that's all. It's low and brutal and 'orrid, ain't 
 it? I see you shiver at it it ain't what a gentleman 
 would do, is it? But it's what what a plain man like 
 me is going to do." 
 
 "You you can't!" she cried. "He " She paused. 
 
 " 'Nid is oh I tell you 
 
 "I shall do it. Now, answer me, where is she?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "You drove 'er away where to?" 
 
 "I tell you I do not know, I don't know, I don't 
 know!" 
 
 "You're telling me the truth?" he asked. 
 
 "I swear I am, I swear it is true. I saw her; I told 
 her she was not acting fairly to you to go back to you. 
 I told her you were too kind, too foolish, too warm- 
 hearted. I told her that it was impossible that you could 
 forgive, that she could be anything to you again. I told 
 
 213
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 her that it was unfair of her to take advantage of your 
 weakness." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "go on." 
 
 "That is all; I left her." 
 
 "And she went, too, soon after you went," he said. 
 "She left a letter for me, thanking me for being good 
 to 'er. Being good to to 'er." He laughed shakily. 
 "All right, I'll find 'er," he said quietly; "and now I'm 
 going to settle with you." 
 
 "Settle, I don't understand " 
 
 "What money 'ave you got, all you got in the world, 
 I mean?" 
 
 "Very, very little." 
 
 "Answer me, what money 'ave you got?" 
 
 "Only a hundred and fifty a year; it is all I have." 
 
 He nodded. "You'll 'ave twice as much; I'll add 
 another 'undred and fifty a year to it. To-morrow I'd 
 like you to pack your things and get out of this." 
 
 "You you mean I am to go?" 
 
 "I said it. You're 'is sister. I don't want you to 
 be 'ere when 'e comes and 'e's bound to come. You'd 
 best go. To-morrow I want you gone. I don't want 
 you nor none of the breed of you in this 'ouse to-mor- 
 row. Go ! I'll write to the lawyers about the money." 
 
 "Jim!" she cried. "Jim, I have been your friend 
 all I did was for your sake. I wanted " 
 
 "You'll go to-morrow," he said quietly, "them's my 
 orders. I don't want you 'ere for many reasons. I 
 want you and all belonging to you out o' this ! You'll 
 meet 'im, likely as not ; you can tell 'im what I 'ave just 
 said, it won't make no difference. We'll meet, 'im and 
 me, just the same bound to. It may be 'ere on the 
 Downs, it may be in the streets of London, I don't know, 
 214
 
 Gone 
 
 but we'll meet ; and when we meet I'll kill 'im ! Tell 'im 
 that if you like !" He turned away. 
 
 "Jim !" she cried, "this is is horrible. You you can't 
 think think of the penalty! They will " 
 
 " 'Ang me !" he said. "I know, I've reckoned all that 
 up. I'm willing to pay, and I'll pay all right !" 
 
 "Jim!" she cried. "Jim, come come back; you must, 
 you shall ! I wish to speak to you ! Listen !" 
 
 But he did not stay, he strode to the door. 
 
 "You'll go to-morrow," he said. "That's all ! I don't 
 want to 'ear nothing more from you. We shan't meet 
 again, I s'pose I 'ope not. You'll get the money it'll 
 keep you from starving, any'ow." 
 
 "Listen!" She paused. "You you shall! Listen, 
 j 
 
 But he was gone. She ran to the door and caught at 
 the handle, then stood still. She wanted to tell him the 
 
 truth, to tell him that 'Nid was But why should 
 
 she? A great, furious, sullen hatred of 'Nid and him- 
 self rose in her breast. Why should she bring happiness 
 to these two ? No, she would tell him nothing nothing ! 
 He would not carry out his threat, he would not dare ; he 
 would be afraid of the penalty. Men did not take life 
 lightly, they had their own necks to think of. He was 
 boasting, bragging he would not do it. But she did not 
 know the man, or perhaps she did and was trying to 
 stifle her knowledge of him. But he was gone now; it 
 was too late ! 
 
 215
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 HOW BILLY FOUND HER 
 
 JIM was out on the Downs, striding through the star- 
 light, his face turned towards the little cottage far 
 away down the valley. But his thoughts were with her. 
 He was recalling that night when she had thought him 
 sleeping, when she had crept to his side and kissed his 
 bowed head. His heart ached with love for her, need 
 and longing. Only he knew of the fight that he had put 
 up that night, the fight against himself, the longing to 
 take her into his arms, to kiss her hair, her eyes, her 
 lips, to tell her that the past was past, dead that it 
 should never, never rise between them again. 
 
 But he had not, and now in his heart he knew that 
 he was glad he had not. She was not his, had never 
 been his, would never be now. Love her he might, pro- 
 tect her, cherish her, but she could never be to him 
 what once he had hoped and prayed she would be his 
 other self, part of his life, his wife, companion, friend, 
 everything ! That was impossible now ; besides, it would 
 not be for long, it could not, for he would have his work 
 to do when the time came. It was not revenge he 
 sought no revenge it was simple justice. He could take 
 this man tp the courts, he could blacken 'Nid's name 
 for ever, he could obtain damages represented by pounds, 
 shillings and pence ; a gentleman might, but he was prim- 
 itive man, a barbarian. A man had wronged him, more, 
 216
 
 How Billy Found Her 
 
 had wronged 'Nid, and that man must pay with his life. 
 He had settled it, had calmly and coolly reasoned it all 
 out with himself. There was no passion behind it, only 
 quiet determination. When the moment came he would 
 not shrink ; he would do it just as he had said he would 
 do it. 
 
 So in the dim solitude of the night he came to the 
 dip in the hills and found himself down beside the 
 stream, and presently he came to the cottage, the door of 
 which stood wide. There was no light within, no sign 
 of human habitation. The dark cheerlessness of the 
 place struck him; he called for Billy, called the name 
 again and again and there was no answer. He went up- 
 stairs the two little rooms were empty. 
 
 Then he came back to the little kitchen and sat down 
 in the darkness and stretched his arms out on the table 
 before him and laid his head on them, just as that 
 night when she had come. Hours ago he had been tired 
 and hungry with all a healthy man's honest hunger, now 
 he was neither. He had forgotten hunger, forgotten his 
 weariness; he only thought of her, wondered where she 
 was. He pictured Billy hunting for her, brave little 
 heart that the boy was ! 
 
 "God bless him!" Jim muttered. "I mustn't forget 
 Billy before I before I get finished with it all. I've 
 got to remember the boy. I never 'ad a better friend 
 than Billy!" 
 
 He rose presently and went to the door. The long 
 night was slowly passing; he could see a pale grey light 
 growing in the sky, a wind came rustling among the 
 trees, it rippled the surface of the stream that sang 
 at his feet. It brought a sense of chill with it ; he shud- 
 dered, and then the breeze was gone and the calm fell 
 
 217
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 again. And so the morning broke, the grey grew lighter. 
 He saw the trees beside the stream rising out of a bath 
 of mist; gradually the mist drifted away, a pale yellow 
 streak of light shot across the sky, and then the birds, 
 the thrushes, the starlings in the trees, wakened with 
 the new day. The rooks left their high homes and went 
 wheeling overhead against the pink and the primrose of 
 the sky. The sun had come back to the earth, bringing 
 life and light, but there was no light in his heart! He 
 looked with sombre eyes to the inevitable end, that 
 meeting that he knew with fatalistic certainty would one 
 day surely come. 
 
 And down the hill came a little black figure, a figure 
 that stood still for a moment, that put its hands to its 
 mouth and shouted. 
 
 Faintly Jim Bevanwood heard the shout above the 
 tinkling of the stream; he turned slowly and saw the 
 black speck on the green hillside. It was Billy coming 
 back. He watched the boy as he sped nearer and nearer ; 
 now and again Billy waved his arms, yet Jim did not 
 know, could not guess why. And presently Billy, breath- 
 less and reeling a little with fatigue, came. 
 
 "Jim," he 'said hoarsely, "Jim, I I found 'er. I said 
 I would, mate I found 'er, Jim!" 
 
 "Found 'er ?" Jim said quietly, so quietly that he won- 
 dered at himself. 
 
 Billy nodded, he was spent and gasping for breath. 
 He lifted a ragged arm and pointed towards the rising 
 sun. "Out there, I don't know 'ow, but I just found 'er, 
 just as it was getting light. Jim, I'd 'unted all night, I 
 I didn't mean coming back ; she's there, down by the chalk 
 pit, there where the old kiln used to be. She's lying 
 there!" 
 218
 
 How Billy Found Her 
 
 '"Urt?" Jim whispered. 
 
 Billy shook his head. "No, Jim, only asleep, and 
 and I didn't waken her; I just left 'er lying there and 
 come back to tell you." 
 
 Jim put his arm around the boy's shoulder; he drew 
 him to him and held him tightly for a moment. 
 
 "All right, Billy," he said quietly. "All right, boy, 
 I'll go go and bring 'er 'ome." 
 
 219
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 "i DIDN'T KNOW" 
 
 HE found her just where Billy had told him he 
 would. She was lying on her side, her right arm 
 thrust out, her head against her shoulder. She was 
 sleeping sweetly and calmly as a child, and as a child she 
 looked, so small, so fragile, such a "kid," he thought, as 
 he stood looking down at her ; there was a burning in his 
 eyes, a throb at his heart. It seemed to him that it would 
 be so easy to stoop, to pick her up and take her into his 
 arms and then then to carry her away to the far ends of 
 the earth. It did not matter where so long as she was 
 with him. 
 
 He was tempted, greatly tempted as he stood there 
 looking down at her, tempted to forgo everything, to 
 make life afresh, anew for her and for himself, to wipe 
 out the past,, to forgive. He had long ago forgiven her. 
 It was the other he could not forgive. She had been only 
 an innocent child, unconscious of evil, a little wayward, 
 a little self-willed, yet meaning no wrong. 
 
 Standing there watching her as she lay sleeping at 
 his feet, he remembered how he had first seen herein that 
 grimy London street, the square, squat, ugly yellow brick 
 background of the laundry, the swarm of women and 
 girls, tired Mter the toil of the day, yet noisy, talking and 
 laughing stridently. And then she had come among them 
 like a flower in the wilderness. So he had seen her that 
 220
 
 "I Didn't Know" 
 
 first time, and that day she had walked straight into his 
 heart; from that moment he loved her and needed her, 
 yet never as he loved her and needed her now. 
 
 His lips trembled, there was a burning in his eyes ; he 
 stretched out his hand as to touch her, and his arm fell 
 heavily to his side. And then he fell on to his knees 
 beside her and bent over her and watched her as she 
 slept. The light breeze lifted her hair and drew it across 
 his face there was the scent of the sea that she loved in 
 her hair. A great red brown curl fell against her white 
 neck. Fearfully he stretched out his hand, he touched 
 it, lifted it and put his lips to it. 
 
 She moved slightly, moaned a little in her sleep, and 
 then turned. She opened her eyes and stared at him. 
 
 "I I didn't know," she said. Perhaps she did not 
 know what she was saying. Her eyes were filled with 
 wonder; they took in the blue sky with its fleecy clouds, 
 the green turf, the swell of the downland, the clumps of 
 furze yellow with flower. And then they wandered back 
 to him. 
 
 "I I didn't know," she said again. 
 
 "I know you didn't," he said gently. "Of course you 
 
 didn't know, 'Nid 'Nid, you didn't ought " He 
 
 paused. "You didn't ought to come out here and go 
 to sleep, you might catch cold or something." 
 
 He had command of himself again. He was talking 
 to her, reproving her as a father might reprove a child. 
 
 "Why why did I come here?" she said. "I don't 
 remember. Oh!" She drew a long breath, a fluttering 
 sigh. 
 
 "You didn't ought to have gone like that, 'Nid; it 
 wasn't fair," he said. 
 
 221
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "Yes, it was fair and right; it was me coming back 
 that was wrong." 
 
 "She told you that?" 
 
 Her truthful eyes met his. "Yes," she said. 
 
 "She lied," Jim said fiercely. "That woman is a liar. 
 Anyway, she was wrong. 'Nid, you got to come back. 
 Billy's waiting for you. Billy's been 'unting all night 
 long for you, and and breakfast'll be ready by now. 
 Let me 'elp you." He held out his hand to her; for a 
 moment it seemed that she would take it, then she drew 
 away and rose unaided. 
 
 "I I didn't ought to come back, Jim," she said. "It 
 'ud be best for me to go." 
 
 "You got to come back," he said, " 'ome." 
 
 "Home!" She laughed a little tremulously, uncertain- 
 ly, and her eyes filled with tears. He dared not look 
 at her, he knew that his resolutions would waver; he 
 wanted to hold out his arms to her, to take her back not 
 only to his home, but into his heart. No, she was there 
 already, had always been. 
 
 "Come," he said ; his voice was rough and a little hard ; 
 it had to be or he would have betrayed himself. 
 
 And so they went back together through the sunlight, 
 over the Downs, and far away in the haze lay the sea. 
 
 "Jim," she said timidly, "Jim." 
 
 "Yes, kid?" 
 
 "Jim, I I didn't ought to have come back. She was 
 right, she wasn't lying. You you can't take me back 
 again now, Jim." 
 
 He did not answer ; he strode on so that she had almost 
 to run beside him. 
 
 "I didn't ought to have come back again," she said. 
 
 222
 
 "I Didn't Know" 
 
 "I've been wicked to you, Jim." Her voice trembled, 
 there were tears in it. 
 
 "I I know," he said. "I know, don't don't talk 
 about it. Not now, one day, you you, 'Nid you've 
 never got to to play this trick on me again. You hear 
 me?" he added sharply. "Never again, never go off like 
 that no more. Where was you thinking of getting to, 
 'Nid?" 
 
 "I I don't know," she said. "I don't know." 
 
 "What was you after, then? Where was you going?" 
 
 She shook her head; her hair, all unbound, fell about 
 her shoulders ; her face looked very small, pale and oval ; 
 she held her hands together over her breast. 
 
 "I I wanted to die, Jim," she said quietly. 
 
 He started and looked at her. "Why?" he said 
 sharply. 
 
 She shook her head. "I I just wanted to die, that's 
 all. I didn't want to go on living, and and I don't know, 
 Jim but it isn't easy to die because one just wants it. 
 I thought that that day I came back. I didn't think you'd 
 been there, you and Billy ; I thought it would all be empty 
 and lonely. I meant to creep in there and and wait, 
 just wait, Jim. And then I saw you standing there, 
 and you you smiled at me, like as if I'd never done 
 wrong and wicked things, and you took me in, Jim, and 
 then I wanted to go on living." 
 
 "Yes," he said huskily. "I know, I've been the same. 
 Now I know I've got to go on living for a bit," he added 
 slowly. 
 
 "Jim, do you remember that time when I told you I 
 didn't never want to see you again because you had been 
 fighting and and your face was all 
 
 "I remember," he said; "don't talk about that, 'Nid." 
 
 223
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "I didn't know then you'd been fighting for me, Jim," 
 she said. 
 
 "No, you didn't know," he said. "Look, there's the 
 smoke coming from the chimbley. Billy'll be getting the 
 
 breakfast; he's a good lad, Billy. When I I'm " 
 
 He paused. "One day I'd like Billy to get his chance in 
 life. I'd like 'im to 'ave the money to get learning and 
 a start. There's a good man in Billy." 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 "You won't forget that, 'Nid, will you?" he said 
 earnestly. "There isn't much I'm bothering about, but I 
 been thinking of Billy. I want him to have a chance in 
 life ; I reckon Billy'll make good. You'll remember that, 
 'Nid?" 
 
 "Why do you ask me to remember that?" 
 
 "Because I want it done," he said. 
 
 "When when?" she cried, and there was sudden 
 terror in her voice. "Jim, why do you speak like that, 
 telling me what you want done when when you could do 
 
 it yourself, Jim? You don't mean ?" She stretched 
 
 out her hand and caught his arm. He wondered at the 
 strength of the grip of her little hand and looked down 
 into the wide, staring eyes. 
 
 "Jim, you you don't mean you're going toto die?" 
 she said. 
 
 "Me?" he said. "Me die?" He laughed. "No, I 
 reckon I'll live just about as long as I want to, only 
 only I'd like you to know what I think about Billy. See, 
 there he is, waving to us. Come, 'Nid, our breakfast'll 
 be getting cold." 
 
 But she stood still suddenly. 
 
 "Jim, I I didn't ought to go back." 
 
 "You've got to," he said roughly. "You've got to." 
 224
 
 "I Didn't Know" 
 
 "Jim, do do you want me back?" 
 
 Want her back, want her " 'Nid, you you're 
 
 talking foolish, you've got to come back and stay and 
 never go wandering off again." 
 
 "Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, I'll come back." 
 
 Twice on the steep hillside she stumbled a little, and he 
 threw out his hand to help her, but she drew back. It 
 seemed that she could not bear him to touch her, and 
 Jim saw it and wondered, wondered why, for he did not 
 forget that night when she had stolen down the narrow 
 stairs to him and had bent over him and kissed him, 
 thinking him asleep, and had whispered of her love for 
 him, the love he had craved for, hungered for once and 
 that had now come too late. 
 
 "I s'pose I'll never understand 'er quite," he thought. 
 
 Billy to his other good qualities added that of tact. 
 
 "Come on, you two," he said. "Breakfast is getting 
 cold ; been blackberrying or somethink ?" 
 
 He looked at them with his bright eyes, smiled, and 
 vanished into the cottage. 
 
 "I 'ated 'er coming," he said to himself. "I was 
 against 'er, I thought she didn't want me. Now I'd 'ate 
 'er going." She came in first and he turned. 
 
 "Billy," she said. The boy hesitated for a moment; 
 he was a boy with all a natural boyish hatred of senti- 
 ment and emotion, but somehow she looked so small and 
 weak, she looked sad. 
 
 " 'Nid," he said quietly, "don't you never go and do 
 that again; you wouldn't if if you seen 'im like I did 
 when he read that letter you writ. 'Billy, she's gone/ 
 he said. 'Gone for good, Billy.' I shan't never forget 
 'earing 'im say that, 'Nid." 
 
 "Billy, di did he care ?" she whispered. 
 
 225
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "It broke 'im all up," Billy said; he went to her. 
 *' 'Nid, 'Nid, don't never play with 'im again, he's too 
 good a sort." He held up his face to her, the fresh, in- 
 nocent face of boyhood, and she put her arms around 
 his neck and bent her head till it touched his shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, Billy, Billy!" she said. "I didn't ought to to 
 have come, but oh! I'm glad to be back, glad to be 
 back, Billy." 
 
 226
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 "i TOLD HIM NOTHING" 
 
 TT seems," Sheila Clare said, "that you have made a 
 * hopeless tangle of everything. You let her escape 
 you, she is back with him; he came to me raving and 
 bullying, he drove me out of the house. He makes me a 
 handsome allowance." She laughed derisively, bitterly. 
 "A hundred and fifty a year to keep me from starving, 
 that's what I get, and you you get nothing, you fool." 
 
 Her brother stood staring at her, his face was gloomy. 
 
 "How should I know that she would slip away from 
 me like that?" he said. 
 
 "You were a fool to trust her. You frightened her, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "I I kissed her," he said, "I kissed her and then 
 then I never saw her again." 
 
 Sheila Qare laughed. "And never will," she said; "she 
 has gone back to him, to Bevanwood. They are living in 
 some hole of a half-ruined cottage in a dip of the Downs, 
 quite Arcadian." 
 
 "And he knows that she that I " Geoffrey Clare 
 
 paused. "He must know or he wouldn't take her back." 
 
 "He knows nothing. She came back days after. How 
 was he to know? I suppose he didn't question her, she 
 offered no information. He spoke of you." 
 
 "Yes?" the other said eagerly. 
 
 "He is waiting for you ; he says that one day he will 
 
 227
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 kill you." Her voice shook with sudden fear. "And 
 he will meet you one day ; when that day comes he means 
 to kill you, and he will do it. I know that man, I say 
 he will do it. If you had heard him as I did you would 
 understand. He said it coldly, dispassionately; it was 
 no boast, no wild threat, it was just a quiet promise that 
 he had made to himself. 'I shall meet him one day, and 
 then I shall kill him.' He said it like that and he meant 
 it." 
 
 "But you " the man cried, "you you told him that 
 
 she was as pure and innocent as when " 
 
 "I told him nothing, I hated him too much. I didn't 
 want to give him tidings of comfort and joy." 
 
 "You were willing to sacrifice me, then?" he said. 
 
 "Afterwards I was sorry, I meant to call him back. 
 I did call, but it was too late, he had gone." 
 
 "And you mean to say that he believes and and is 
 waiting for me to revenge himself for a wrong that never 
 was " 
 
 "Yes, I've told you, I've warned you; you'll do better 
 to leave the country. I tell you the man is dangerous, 
 that sort of man is. He has promised himself a certain 
 thing, and he will keep that promise. He won't count 
 the penalty, he will just do it, so so you must go !" 
 
 "I'm not quite a coward," Geoffrey Clare said. "I'm 
 pretty low in some things." He paused. "But I'm still 
 a bit of a man," he laughed. "So he is going to kill me 
 for a fancied wrong, and you might have set everything 
 right and shielded me from danger and did not. I am 
 grateful to you ; you played a sisterly, a womanly part !" 
 He laughed sharply. "Since you did not tell him the 
 truth, I shall!" 
 228
 
 "I Told Him Nothing" 
 
 "You you will not go!" she cried. "You must not, 
 you don't understand!" 
 
 "I shall go and tell him ; after that " He shrugged 
 
 his shoulders. "I am a man, I can take care of myself ; 
 a man who doesn't arm himself before he steps into the 
 lion's den is a fool!" 
 
 "What are you going to do ?" she cried. 
 
 "It does not matter to you. I am going to do some- 
 thing that you could have saved me doing!" 
 
 "Geoffrey!" she called to him, "Geoff!" 
 
 He was at the door, but he did not wait. 
 
 "Wait !" she said, "wait, I will " 
 
 "There is nothing else that I have to say to you," he 
 said. "I have to thank you for nothing. I behaved like 
 
 a brute, and you encouraged me to do it; you " He 
 
 hesitated. "You put it into my head, I think. How- 
 ever, I shall fight my own battles !" 
 
 "Geoffrey!" she called, but he was gone. He went 
 down the hotel stairs into the London street. 
 
 So 'Nid had gone back, and Bevanwood had accepted 
 her, and Bevanwood was waiting for him to kill him. 
 He was not afraid; with all his many faults he had not 
 boasted when he said that he was not a coward. 
 
 He stood on the pavement for a minute considering, 
 then he hailed a cab. He drove to the house of a man 
 he knew and went in; his friend was taking his break- 
 fast. 
 
 "I've come to ask a favour, I hope you will grant it 
 without asking questions that I can't answer. It is sim- 
 ply this you own a revolver, I want you to lend it to 
 me." 
 
 "Going to commit murder?" the other asked with a 
 smile. 
 
 229
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 "I hope not going to prevent one, I hope. Will you 
 
 lend it?" 
 
 "Of course!" the other man said. "I'll get it." 
 
 An hour later Geoffrey Clare stood on the platform 
 
 at Charing Cross, a ticket for Horswood, the nearest 
 
 station to Bevanwood, in his pocket. 
 
 230
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE LONELY ROAD 
 
 JIM'S occupation of the little cottage had made a vast 
 change in its appearance. The renovation of the cot- 
 tage had been his delight. He was a man who had to be 
 doing something; what was more natural than that he 
 should do the work that he particularly understood ? The 
 broken but mended door had disappeared, in its place 
 was a smart, newly painted green door the same with 
 the broken window sashes and all the rest of the wood- 
 work. He had built a pretty little porch over the door- 
 way; he had trimmed and cleared away the tangle of 
 creepers. Billy had assisted him with the garden that 
 had been a wilderness. Flower beds had been dug and 
 planted ; flowers bloomed where there had been only tall, 
 rank grass. The little path had been trimmed and rolled. 
 Jim had lavished much bright green paint, fetched by 
 Billy from Horswood, on the woodwork. It was a very 
 attractive, pretty and smart little place now, this derelict 
 old wreck, a place for a man to be proud and fond of, 
 if he had rescued it as Jim had done with his own 
 unaided hands from decay and rot. 
 
 In the quaint little porch that Jim had laboriously de- 
 signed and carried out, he had built a seat, and on the 
 seat 'Nid was sitting this warm, drowsy afternoon, sew- 
 ing industriously. 
 
 Now and again she looked up, a sad little smile in her 
 
 231
 
 eyes and on her lips. She watched Jim working out there 
 in the hot sunshine. He was bringing large, smooth, 
 round pebbles from the bed of the stream with which to 
 complete the little pathway. 
 
 Now he had finished, the path was complete, a cobbled 
 pathway of large, smooth pebbles. It looked well, it had 
 been neatly and truly laid. Jim straightened his back 
 and looked about him, a pleased smile on his face. He 
 was proud of his work here, proud of his path. 
 
 "The bridge next !" he muttered. 
 
 The bridge over the stream consisted only of a plank, 
 and that somewhat sodden and rotten. Jim saw the plank 
 removed, in its place a neat little ornamental bridge with 
 a gate to it it would give the finishing touch to his little 
 domain. He called to 'Nid softly, and instantly she 
 dropped her work and hurried to him. 
 
 "Don't look so bad, 'Nid, does it ?" he said. 
 
 "It looks lovely!" she said, admiring the pathway. 
 
 "The next thing 9 !! be the bridge," he said. He was 
 intent on his plans ; he described the bridge at length. 
 
 "We'll have a little white gate one end," he said. "Six 
 supports'll be enough come to that, the bridge is more 
 for looks than anything else. Any one could 'op acrost 
 the stream; why, even you could, 'Nid, with your little 
 feet!" 
 
 "Yes !" she said. She looked down at her feet they 
 were certainly very small. 
 
 "But it's the finishing touch," he said. "That's what's 
 wanted, and after that I think I did ought to put up a 
 bit of a fence at the side there, and then I'll get some of 
 that there tartgle cleared at the back, and me and Billy'll 
 turn the land up and plant it out." 
 
 "It it'll be getting late for for planting out, won't it, 
 232
 
 The Lonely Road 
 
 Jim?" she said, and her voice faltered. "It's scarcely 
 summer now !" 
 
 The summer was waning, autumn was creeping down 
 on them, after the autumn would come winter winter! 
 she shivered at the thought. Where would they all be 
 when the winter came? He must go back, they would 
 need him; he had his estate, his place in the world to 
 fill, the place which she could never share with him 
 now. 
 
 The winter how she dreaded and feared it ! She felt 
 like a butterfly whose life ended with the summer-time. 
 After the summer what would life hold for her? 
 Nothing! For he must go, and without him how 
 empty, how desolate it would be ! 
 
 " 'Nid, you you ain't " He paused. " 'Nid, you 
 
 ain't crying?" he said. 
 
 "No," she said. "No, I ain't, Jim." 
 
 "I thought you was," he said. 
 
 When the summer should be gone what then? God 
 help her! She did not want to live, to live to see the 
 winter. Like the butterfly that lived only in the sun- 
 shine, she wanted to die when she could no longer be in 
 the sunshine of his presence. 
 
 "Jim." 
 
 He turned to her. "Yes, 'Nid?" he said. 
 
 "Jim, it it 'ud be best " she said. "It 'ud be best 
 
 for me to go go now. I I can't live on like this, 
 knowing that each day brings the time nearer and 
 nearer." 
 
 He did not speak, he stood staring at the big round 
 cobbles that he had dredged from the stream. 
 
 "The time's coming; every day, every hour brings it 
 nearer. Jim, you'll have to go back, they want you. 
 
 233
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 Billy'll have to go back, his mother'll want him, and 
 then " her voice died away. "Then " 
 
 " 'Nid, can't you be like me, just just living on each 
 day and not thinking about to-morrow?" 
 
 "But to-morrow comes, it must come, and to-morrow 
 will be black and cold and empty, Jim." 
 
 "Black and cold and empty," he said. "Yes." 
 
 "Jim, Jim, you must go back; they want you, you've 
 got to go back soon soon, and I I can't come with you, 
 Jim." 
 
 "No," he said. "You can't come with me, 'Nid." 
 
 She knew it, she had always known it, yet to hear him 
 say so now it sounded like the knell of doom to her. 
 She was shut out for ever from his life; in his life she 
 could play no part, she had forfeited her place by his 
 side, the place she had cared nothing for once. And 
 now oh, the difference ! Oh, the need for him ! What 
 of those coming days when she should not hear his voice, 
 when she could no longer see his face? 
 
 "So, Jim, wouldn't it be better if I was to go?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 "Go where?" he said quietly. 
 
 "I don't know; it don't much matter, Jim, does it? 
 Just go." 
 
 "Not yet," he said quietly. "Not yet, 'Nid ; one day 
 soon perhaps me and you'll talk it over, dear, and and 
 settle things, and you won't forget about Billy, 'Nid, will 
 you, when " He paused. 
 
 "I shan't be able to do anything about Billy," she said. 
 "Jim, you must do that, do it yourself." 
 
 "Why?" he asked. "You promised, 'Nid." 
 
 "Did I?" she said drearily. "I didn't ought to have 
 promised, Jim, I can't promise nothing now nothing. 
 234
 
 The Lonely Road 
 
 You see, I don't know where I shall be or what's going 
 to happen, Jim ; one can't promise much when one don't 
 know, can one?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "We ain't been un'appy together 'ere, 'Nid, you and 
 me and Billy " 
 
 "Unhappy," she said, "unhappy?" 
 
 "It ain't a bad little place, one gets to be fond of a 
 place like this; it it's like 'ome, ain't it, 'Nid? More 
 like 'ome than that big pi? yonder." He made a sweep 
 with his arm in the direct, n of Bevanwood. 
 
 "That wasn't ever home," she said. "The other might 
 have been Pent Street, I mean. Only only I wouldn't 
 let it be; it was my fault, Jim, that ought to have been 
 home for us both, but it wasn't; it was me, dear, not you. 
 I spoiled it." 
 
 "You didn't," he said. "You never spoiled anything 
 for me, never, except " He paused. 
 
 'Nid turned her face away. 
 
 "I I did ought to go, Jim," she whispered. "I must. 
 Oh, Jim, you you never forget it, never, never, not for 
 one moment. You speak kindly to me and smile at me, 
 and and all the time all the time I know you re- 
 member." 
 
 "I I can't 'elp it, 'Nid," he said. "I can't 'elp it. I 
 try not to to remember, but I do, I do. I can't 'elp 
 it. It isn't you, it isn't you, dear, I ain't bitter about you 
 now; I never was. One day, perhaps, you'll understand 
 that, 'Nid, I was never, never bitter about you, it was 
 
 only 'i m " He paused. "I wanted to do the best 
 
 for you, 'Nid. Always I knew it wasn't you, not your 
 fault, you was such a baby, 'Nid, such a kid. You're only 
 a baby now, 'Nid, you ain't fit to look after yourself, you 
 
 235
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 ain't fit to go alone. Remember the last time when I 
 found you asleep out there on the hills, you 'adn't gone 
 far after all, 'Nid." 
 
 "No," she said. "But the parting's coming, Jim, the 
 parting's coming; it's near the end of August now, Sep- 
 tember's coming, and then October, and then winter'll 
 begin, and Billy'll have to go back, and you'll have to go 
 back, and and me, I oh, Jim, I daren't daren't look 
 forward to it, it makes me cold. I daren't think what'll 
 come to us all when the summer days have passed and 
 gone. It'll be so different then." 
 
 He moved towards her, he put his hand on her 
 shoulder. " 'Nid, I been thinking for you all the time, 
 it's for you, gel. I'll arrange something, don't don't 
 worry." 
 
 "How can I help it? How can I help worrying?" 
 
 "I know," he said. "It's 'ard and rough, 'ard on us 
 both, 'Nid, but we can't 'elp it now. We can't alter any- 
 thing that's been, nor what's coming," he added. "Don't 
 cry, gel, don't cry; I'm going up to the mill, when I come 
 back there'll be a smiling face, won't there?" 
 
 "Yes, Jim," she said softly. "There'll always be a 
 smiling face for you when you come." 
 
 "That's right, gel," he said. He looked down at her, 
 his plain face looked less plain than usual now, there was 
 a great love and tenderness in his eyes, a great, great 
 longing that would never be appeased. 
 
 "She ain't mine, she was never mine. She can never 
 be mine. Just standing up before that there clergyman 
 never made *er really mine," he thought. "So long as 'e 
 lives she belongs to 'im and 'e to 'er. When 'e's gone 
 she'll be free free, free of 'im and of me, too, then. 
 She's young yet, only a kid, and maybe in time she'll 
 236
 
 The Lonely Road 
 
 forget. Maybe some one else'll come along. She's only 
 a kid yet, some one else may 'elp 'er to forget when she's 
 free of 'im, and that that means being free of me, too, 
 free of us both." 
 
 He looked back when he had stepped across the 
 stream, he saw her there standing in the porch watching 
 him. He waved his hand to her, but she did not wave 
 back, for she could only see him indistinctly through the 
 most of her tears. 
 
 Go yes, she knew; where she would go she knew 
 when the time came for parting. There was but one road 
 for her to take. She shivered a little for she was young 
 and afraid, afraid of the darkness and the loneliness of 
 that road by which she must travel alone, as all must. 
 
 He was gone now; she saw him far, far away in the 
 distance, breasting the green swell of the hills. She 
 stretched out her empty arms to him; her eyes watched 
 him till the distance swallowed him and still her arms 
 were held out. A smiling face when he came back 
 yes, that was the least she could do. But she knew that 
 when the summer days were gone, when he and Billy 
 must go back, she knew the road that lay before her, the 
 road that she must take alone. 
 
 237
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 "FATE!" 
 
 SO he breasted the hills and strode away through the 
 afternoon sunshine towards the mill in the misty dis- 
 tance. The gorse flowers were in bloom, the turf was 
 soft and springing under foot, the air was filled with 
 the hum of busy insects, and in the far distance a figure 
 was coming towards him, the figure of a man, but Jim 
 Bevanwood did not see it. 
 
 The summer days were ending. Life at their little cot- 
 tage in the hollow was ending for them, too, and 
 
 then One way for him, another for 'Nid. His way 
 
 he knew hers was all indistinct, uncertain to him. He 
 looked up and paused a smile came into his face, for 
 he knew suddenly that the thing that he had always 
 known must happen had happened now. So he would 
 play his part'; the parting of the ways had come sooner 
 than he had thought, sooner than he had looked for. It 
 had come while the summer-time was still with them. 
 
 The man was coming towards him, had seen him and 
 was hastening to him. So they would meet at last out 
 here on these green hills, man to man, armed with 
 the weapons that nature had given to them ; so here they 
 would meet^and fight their last fight and it would end in 
 freedom for 'Nid. 
 
 Jim knew how the battle must end, knew himself for 
 infinitely the stronger man. And when it was ended he 
 238
 
 "Fate!" 
 
 would go back no more to the cottage he would go on 
 and on to some town where he would give himself up, 
 where he would admit all and wait the result, the in- 
 evitable result. 
 
 He had known the man in the far distance, knew in- 
 stinctively that he could make no mistake. The man had 
 stopped now. 
 
 "Bevanwood," he cried, "Bevanwood, I have come 
 
 "I know," Jim said, "I know. I knew sooner or later 
 you'd come; I been waiting for you." He kept on his 
 advance. 
 
 "Keep back," the man said ; "I want to speak to you ; 
 stand where you are." 
 
 But Jim took no notice; he flung off his coat, ragged 
 and disreputable old coat that it was, and still he ad- 
 vanced. There was something in his voice, something 
 terrible in its quiet, passionless expression. 
 
 "Bevanwood, I tell you I have something to say to you. 
 
 Listen stand where you are, stand still or by " The 
 
 voice cracked with a note of sudden terror, for this man 
 advancing on him looked like Fate itself. He never 
 paused, never hesitated, and then suddenly the other 
 knew fear, frantic fear. 
 
 "Keep back, keep back! Listen, for God's sake, 
 listen !" he cried hoarsely. "I tell you 
 
 "It's me and you met at last. I been waiting for you. 
 I got to do what I promised myself. It 'ad to come; it 
 was Fate itself Fate as brought you 'ere to-day. You 
 and me meeting on these 'ills " His hands were out- 
 stretched, his face expressionless, only his eyes glittered. 
 
 "Keep back, man, keep back, in God's name, keep back ! 
 Listen, you must listen Bevanwood, for God's sake, 
 
 239
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 listen, give me one moment do you hear one." And 
 then fear, a mad, wild, unreasoning fear came to him. 
 He saw those great, powerful hands stretched out to 
 grasp him, he saw in those hands and in this man's eyes 
 death, and he knew why because she had not told this 
 man the truth; and now the man would not listen. He 
 was mad mad. He knew that once he was in that grip 
 it would mean the end for him ; but he would not die be- 
 cause of this man's folly because this fool would not 
 listen. He had something yet that would save him, and 
 so he sprang aside and the other man turned after him, 
 laughing hoarsely as though in derision of his effort to 
 escape. 
 
 And then as he leaped Clare stumbled and fell to his 
 knees and saw the other man towering above him, saw 
 inevitable death, and in his terror he pressed the trigger 
 again and again, and yet again, scarcely knowing what 
 he was doing, only realising that, come what might, he 
 himself must still live. 
 
 And then he saw the other man stand suddenly, saw 
 him sway, saw a puzzled look come into his face, grown 
 suddenly ghastly, and for a moment he stood there, rock- 
 ing strangely backwards and forwards, to fall at last 
 heavily, face downward, with arms flung out upon the 
 turf. 
 
 Dazed with the horror of it all, Clare knelt there, star- 
 ing at the great bulk of the man lying so motionless. 
 Had he done this? What would others say? Say that 
 it was murder? Murder God knew, God knew that it 
 was not; ir^was self-protection. He had not wished to 
 fire ; he had' been driven to it in self-defence. Self-de- 
 fence who would believe that? Had he not brought 
 the pistol with him? 
 240
 
 "Fate!" 
 
 Thoughts, fears seemed to tumble through his brain. 
 He stood up hesitating and undecided. The terror of 
 immediate death at this man's hands had given place to 
 a frantic fear of consequences, the fear of a death in- 
 finitely more shameful, a death that it was utterly im- 
 possible for him to escape. Had not the people in the 
 village seen him come this way to-day? Had there not 
 been a dozen who had recognised him? Some even had 
 wished him good-day and had called him by his name. 
 He thought of all this, of the net that was closing about 
 him. 
 
 And then the mists of terror cleared ; for the moment 
 all that was generous in him came uppermost. He put 
 self aside, he fell on his knees beside the body and, heavy 
 as it was, he raised it in his arms and held Bevanwood's 
 head against his breast. 
 
 "Bevanwood, Bevanwood, can you hear can you hear 
 me now? Can you understand? Try try and answer, 
 try and tell me that you hear, Bevanwood 
 
 For James Bevanwood's eyes were wide and staring 
 eyes that held no intelligence, but the sound of that fran- 
 tic voice seemed to rouse him, to pierce the mists; the 
 eyes wandered over the green hills, towards that shim- 
 mering belt of gold that was the sea, then came back 
 slowly until they rested on the face of the man who held 
 him. 
 
 "Bevanwood, can you hear me? Can you understand 
 me? I came to find you, to tell you the truth, but you 
 would not listen." There was a wail of despair in the 
 voice. "But you would not listen. Oh, man, man, you 
 gave me no chance, no time. I wanted to tell you the 
 truth, how she fled from me Bevanwood can you 
 hear ? Try try and answer me for I came to tell you 
 
 241
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 and I must tell you, though God knows it means little 
 enough to me now, and perhaps but little to you, Bevan- 
 wood. Can you hear me?" 
 
 Bevanwood's eyes stared up into the man's face, yet he 
 made no answer, gave no sign. 
 
 "Before God and as God above hears me, she is pure 
 pure and innocent, as innocent as on that day when I 
 first saw her. I loved her, I thought my love had tri- 
 umphed, and in my triumph I forgot caution I kissed 
 her madly, I know it now; then I saw sudden fear, 
 hatred, repulsion in her face. I saw her horror of me, 
 and then I understood that I had failed failed. Do you 
 hear me, Bevanwood ? Can you understand ? I saw her 
 horror of me horror and shame for then, I believe that 
 for the first time she understood. I laughed at it then, I 
 thought it would pass. Bevanwood, you hear me ? You 
 do hear me, man?" 
 
 "I 'ear," Bevanwood whispered. 
 
 "And you believe, you must, for you must know that 
 I have nothing to gain. I don't even know now why I 
 should tell you this, yet I came to tell you the truth. 
 My sister could have told you. I tell you that on that 
 first day 'Nid left me, fled from me; I have never seen 
 her since. She went as she came, an innocent child, 
 Bevanwood. I have nothing to gain now by lying. I 
 am not lying. God above knows that I am telling you the 
 truth. You hear me, man, you hear me ?" 
 
 The labouring chest rose and fell convulsively, a thin 
 stream of blood trickled slowly from the breast, it 
 dropped sluggishly to the ground and soaked into the 
 green turf, making a great black and ever-growing patch. 
 He heard, but he could not answer ; the eye-lids flickered, 
 a slow smile came into his face. 
 242
 
 "Fate!" 
 
 "Heaven knows I did not mean it," Clare moaned. 
 "I didn't mean it, I did not know what I was doing; you 
 you wouldn't listen, you were coming on me, you 
 wouldn't stop. If you had stopped, only for a moment, 
 only a moment so so that I could make you understand ; 
 I tell you I didn't know what I was doing; I saw death 
 and I was afraid for the moment. I I knew that I 
 might still live, so " 
 
 "She she is " Jim Bevanwood whispered. "She 
 
 is is " 
 
 "Innocent, pure, chaste," the other said. "I swear it. 
 She fled from me in horror ; there was no wrong to you 
 or to her, none, as God hears me." 
 
 Into the white face there came a slow smile. 
 
 "I I did ought to have listened," he whispered. "Only 
 I didn't think. I I never thought it it might be dif- 
 ferent. It was my fault, not yours. You've got to 
 'urry, 'urry. I've got to shelter you there's time yet. 
 Put it down 'ere into my 'and, that thing, the thing you 
 shot me with, into my 'and, then go go and bring 'em 
 quickly. I'm going to clear you ; my my own fault, I 
 done it myself, you understand? Done it myself, re- 
 member that. Only 'urry, 'urry while there's time and 
 tell 'er after tell 'er you told me and I understood the 
 truth tell 'er it's all right. Tell 'Nid you will?" 
 
 Geoffrey Clare left him lying there on tlje hillside, the 
 revolver gripped in his hand, and he ran ran like a 
 hunted man, ran to the village white-faced and shaking 
 with horror. 
 
 "There's been an accident. Sir James Bevanwood is 
 dying shot shot himself ; he's living yet hurry, hurry 
 to him, hurry!" 
 
 The police and the village doctor drove out over the 
 
 243
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 Downs to the place in the police car and Clare went with 
 them. 
 
 Jim Bevanwood's eyes were opened; he was still con- 
 scious. 
 
 "I'm glad you come," he whispered. "I wanted to 
 say I I done it myself ; it was an accident. I was look- 
 ing at it; I didn't understand much about them things, 
 I didn't know it was loaded. You understand, you 'ear? 
 'E ain't to blame. It was my own fault. I tell you I 
 done it myself. I didn't know. It's true, it's truth." 
 He paused "Will you tell 'er, tell my wife tell 'er I 
 loved " He paused. 
 
 Beyond the yellow blaze of the gorse flowers he could 
 see the horizon of the sea, he could see the glint of a tiny 
 white sail in the sunlight. How she had loved the sea. 
 He remembered the rapt look in her eyes that first time 
 she had seen it; the sea and 'Nid were somehow always 
 inseparable in his mind. He was glad to lay here watch- 
 ing the sea. It was almost 'Nid herself; and then the 
 gorse flowers faded and the sunlight was gone and the 
 blackness stole down on him. 
 
 "It was my fault no one's fault, only mine," he said. 
 
 244
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 THE FINISHING OF THE BRIDGE 
 
 D stared open-eyed; in her eyes was astonish- 
 ment and a little fear. She shrank back at 
 the sight of the man. She put her hands against her 
 breast. Why had he come ? She had hoped and thought 
 never to see him again. 
 
 " 'Nid," he said. " 'Nid, he he wants you; he's hurt, 
 'Nid ; it it was an accident." 
 
 "What have you done?" she asked quietly. "What 
 have you done?" She spoke calmly, even though her 
 heart was throbbing with fear. 
 
 "Nothing, I tell you ; it was an accident ; they have car- 
 ried him home to his house. He wants you you are to 
 follow. I have come for you." 
 
 "I I can't," she said. "I can't go there; he he don't 
 want that." 
 
 "But he does he sent me. He wants you and there is 
 no time to lose; you must come at once." 
 
 Billy had come upon them both. 
 
 "Is 'e 'urt, is Jim 'urt?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," Clare said, "badly hurt it was an accident. I 
 tried to tell him but he would not listen; then it hap- 
 pened. 'Nid, will you come ?" 
 
 "I can't go there, not to his house," she said. "I can't, 
 you you know I can't, you know I can't." 
 
 He looked at her wonderingly. "I know of no reason 
 
 245
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 why you should not. Besides, he wishes it, and there's 
 no time to lose." 
 
 "You best go," Billy said in a low, shocked voice. 
 "You know what Jim is 'e likes 'is own way; if 'e says 
 you're to go, you'd best go." 
 
 "But " 'Nid said. 
 
 "We are losing time," Clare said. "You must must 
 come. Don't you understand? He is dying." 
 
 "Yes, I think I understood that," 'Nid said. "I knew 
 somehow." She showed no grief, her face was very set 
 and white. Jim dying and she had meant to die; it 
 would not alter her intention, it would only make it the 
 more certain. After all, the road might not be so lonely 
 was she selfish to think of that? 
 
 "And he wants me?" she said. 
 
 "He sent me for you you must follow at once." 
 
 "I will come," she said quietly. "Billy, you you come 
 with me; I'd like you to be with me, Billy." 
 
 So they went together, tramping across the Downs, 
 passing through the village. They knew in the village 
 there was grief on their shocked faces. They saw 'Nid 
 and bobbed their curtseys to her, but the shadow of the 
 tragedy lay heavily on them all. Sir James was dying, 
 they had carried him home to die ; there had been an ac- 
 cident and every one in the village was conscious of a 
 sense of personal loss. 
 
 'Mrs. Wasser stood at her door. "You, Billy?" she 
 said. "Where you been this long time?" 
 
 "With 'im," Billy said; "and I'm going to 'im now, 
 mother, 'e wants me and 'Nid." 
 
 She nodded ; she put her apron to her eyes. 
 
 So 'Nid came to the house that she had never thought 
 t'o enter again, and there was a strange stillness, an un- 
 246
 
 The Finishing of the Bridge 
 
 canny silence reigning over it. Servants came soft- 
 footed, stared at her and then went away again. There 
 was something that hung heavily in the atmosphere. Jim 
 was right this place could never be home-like, never 
 like the little cottage with its green-painted door, never! 
 
 She went into the huge drawing-room; she thought 
 to see Miss Clare there, but the place was empty. She 
 stood there, a lonely little figure, shivering in the middle 
 of the vast square of the carpet. 
 
 The door opened, a man came in the local doctor. 
 He took her cold hand. "Sir Walter is on his way," 
 he said. "We wired for him at once. He will be 
 here in half an hour. Your husband wishes to see 
 you. Will you come?" 
 
 She did not answer; she went with him up the stairs. 
 It was all like some dream. She was back here again, 
 but she felt like a stranger, an outcast. Jim had never 
 meant that she should come back she knew that. It 
 had never entered into his plans, and yet she was back 
 and he had sent for her and wanted to see her. 
 
 "You will be very brave and control yourself?" the 
 doctor whispered. "I trust you, Lady Bevanwood." 
 
 She started at the sound of the name, the name she 
 had not heard for months, then she stole into the room. 
 
 Jim lay there on the bed, his face strangely white, 
 but his eyes were open. Very, very slightly he turned 
 his head as she came in. 
 
 " 'Nid !" he said ; " 'Nid, gel 'Nid !" 
 
 "Jim, you didn't mean me to come, but he he said 
 you sent for me." 
 
 "It's right, 'Nid!" he whispered; "I sent for you, 
 'Nid. There's been somethink wrong, somethink I didn't 
 quite understand. I understand now, dear; you're the 
 
 247
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 same, just the same; you didn't belong to no one but 
 me, 'Nid ! Do you remember that night, the night when 
 I was asleep with with my arms on the table?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said. 
 
 "And you you come in and crep' to me, 'Nid, and 
 kissed my 'ead and said somethink. Do you remember ?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "I'd like to 'ear you say that again, 'Nid!" he said 
 softly. "Just once again." 
 
 "You you want me to?" she said. "Jim, you 
 
 want " She crept to him. "I didn't mean wrong, 
 
 dear, I didn't know ; and then then when 'e 'e tried to 
 kiss me I hated him ; oh, I knew all of a sudden it was 
 wrong and wicked and I hated him! Jim, you don't 
 understand !" 
 
 "I do, 'Nid," he said. "I do understand, gel, I know! 
 And it was me arter all you cared for, old Jim?" 
 
 A sob broke from her; she went to him, she hung 
 over him. 
 
 "May may I kiss you, Jim?" she whispered. 
 
 "May you!" His eyes smiled up to hers. "Isn't it 
 what I want want more than I do even life, even now, 
 when life means somethink? Kiss me, 'Nid, my my 
 gel, kiss me and tell me again what you told me that 
 night, tell me " 
 
 "I love you, oh, I love you, I love you !" she said. 
 
 And that was what he wanted to hear, only that. 
 
 i 
 
 'Nid and Billy Wasser sat in the big drawing-room; 
 they crouched closely together side by side, clasping one 
 another's hands. There was a great stillness, an un- 
 broken silence in the house. Outside in the hall Geoffrey 
 Clare was waiting. The passing minutes were heavy 
 248
 
 The Finishing of the Bridge 
 
 with doom, with dread. He was suffering and praying 
 as he had never prayed in his life: He wondered dimly 
 how so much agony and so much fear could be crowded 
 into so short a space of time. An hour ago two hours 
 an eternity since the doctor from town had come. He 
 had lost count of time, he had lived through the ages 
 it seemed to him. "If he dies I shall tell the truth; 
 I'll face it if he dies I won't let him save me!" he 
 thought. 
 
 There was a movement at last, the sound of distant, 
 subdued voices, the creak of a board under a man's 
 weight. They were coming down, talking in low voices, 
 and the man in the hall waited as a criminal waits 
 to hear the verdict. 
 
 They came into sight round the bend of the stairs, 
 the little stout village doctor and the tall, lean, grave- 
 looking surgeon from town. 
 
 "This is Mr. Clare, a relation of Sir James," the local 
 doctor said. 
 
 Geoffrey did not speak ; he looked at the tall stranger. 
 
 "A very satisfactory result, Mr. Clare," he said, "but 
 
 a near thing! An inch to the left and He went 
 
 on speaking, but Geoffrey did not follow, did not 
 understand. 
 
 "Will he live?" 
 
 "Live I have every reason to believe so. Did I not 
 say that it was all very satisfactory? Yes, he will most 
 certainly live, so far as the hurts of to-day are con- 
 cerned. Three or four weeks should see him on his 
 legs again." 
 
 "Yes!" Geoffrey Clare said he scarcely knew what 
 he said. Jim Bevanwood would live; that meant that 
 
 249
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 he too would live. It was life for both, as it would 
 have been death for both. 
 
 "May I I tell her?" he said. 
 
 "Of course! Carry her the good news by all means!" 
 
 So he went to 'Nid and Billy, and they lifted their 
 white faces and stared at him. 
 
 "It it is all right; he will live it's over!" Geoffrey 
 said shakily. " 'Nid, don't you understand ? It's over ; 
 he he'll be all right! You you do understand, don't 
 you, 'Nid? Jim will live the hurt wasn't so bad as 
 we thought; he'll pull through, 'Nid!" 
 
 She did not speak, she only clasped her little hands 
 together tightly. Billy broke into blubbering; he had 
 borne up bravely till now now he went under and 
 flung himself face downward on the sofa and cried. 
 
 " 'Nid, I've got something to say !" Geoffrey said. 
 "You you've got to know the truth; he didn't mean 
 any one to. But I'm going to tell you I I did it! 
 He meant to kill me; he didn't give me time to tell him 
 how how you ran from me that night, how you hated 
 me because I I kissed you ; he didn't give me time. He 
 came to me to kill me; I knew that he meant to kill me 
 my sister told me. She could have told him the truth, 
 but she didn't; you could have told him!" 
 
 "What was there for me to tell?" she said. 
 
 He looked at her. "Nothing," he said, "nothing, dear, 
 you you didn't understand. But I did it, you under- 
 stand that? I fired at him. I was afraid afraid of 
 my life. When he knew afterwards he wanted to pro- 
 tect me; he % said it was an accident, and it was, 'Nid, 
 it was. Only " 
 
 "And he he's going to live?" 'Nid said. 
 
 Had she heard or had she not? He did not know, 
 250
 
 The Finishing of the Bridge 
 
 he never did know. Perhaps there was no need for 
 her to hear; she may have known all along. 
 
 "He's going to live. In a few weeks he will be him- 
 self, well and strong as ever again, 'Nid 'Nid, you'll 
 tell him I'm glad, won't you? I'm going now; I only 
 waited to hear the the best or the worst." 
 
 'Nid had turned ; she put her hand on Billy's heaving 
 shoulder, she bent to him, she laid her cheek against his. 
 
 "Billy," she said, "Billy, he's going to live." 
 
 And when she looked up again Geoffrey Clare had 
 gone, yet she never noticed it she had forgotten him. 
 
 The little bridge was finished, it was a triumph of 
 art and skill. 'Nid had designed it because Jim had asked 
 her to and 'Nid had never designed a bridge before 
 in her life. Still, what did that matter? 
 
 "It looks proper and fine, don't it, 'Nid?" Jim said. 
 
 She stood beside him and he slipped his arm around 
 her. 
 
 "It looks perfect, Jim," she said. "And it belongs 
 to us it's home, real home. But, Jim, the the winter's 
 coming." Her voice broke a little. 
 
 "But it'll go, gel," he said ; "and then the spring'11 come 
 and me and you'll come back 'ome again." 
 
 "And Billy?" she said. She lifted her head. Billy 
 was sawing and whistling cheerily over his task. 
 
 "And the winter won't be so long passing, 'Nid," Jim 
 said; "and we'll know it's our place, we'll know it's 
 'ere waiting for us to come back to it when the spring 
 time comes." 
 
 She crept a little closer to him. This evening a chill 
 breeze came over the Downs from the sea, it brought 
 
 251
 
 James Bevanwood, Baronet 
 
 the yellow leaves rustling down. Yellow leaves drifted 
 on the surface of the stream at their feet. 
 
 "And and even that other we we might make like 
 home," she said. "It's big and cold and not like this, 
 Jim, yet still it could be a little like home." 
 
 He put both his arms around her and tilted her head 
 backwards so that he could see into her eyes, and seeing 
 into them, he could look into the soul of her and knew 
 it all for his own. 
 
 "Where you are, 'Nid, where we are together, gel, 
 it's going to be J ome." 
 
 "This is home," she said; "home for me with your 
 arms round me, Jim. It's all I want in the world." 
 
 He smiled down at her; the trees rustled in the 
 breeze, a few more red and yellow leaves drifted down 
 and alighted softly on the surface of the stream to be 
 borne away. 
 
 From the faggot heap behind the cottage Billy's whistle 
 sounded loud, shrill and persistent. 
 
 THE END 
 
 252
 
 A 000 135 134 5