-m.' 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNWERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM ' 
 
 G.a.Sabine 
 
 kZL. 
 
 Jr 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013235134 
 
NOVELS BY HUGH WALPOLB 
 
 STUDIES IN PLACE 
 THE DABK FOREST 
 THE GOLDEN SCARECBOW 
 THE WOODEN HOBSE 
 MABADICK AT FORTY 
 THE GODS AND MB. PERRIN 
 
 TWO PBOLOaUES 
 
 THE PEELTJDE TO ADVENTnRB 
 FORTITUDE 
 
 THE Riaisa cnr 
 
 1. THE DUCHESS OF WHEXE 
 
 2. THE GREEN MIBBOR 
 
THE 
 
 GREEN MIRROR 
 
 A QUIET STORY 
 
 BY 
 
 HUGH WALPOLE 
 
 AUTHOR OP "THE DUCHESS OP WEEXE," "FOETITUDE,' 
 "THE DARK FOREST." ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
copraiGHT, 1917, 
 
 BY GEORGE H. DOKAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN ISE UNITED STATES OV AUEKICA 
 
TO 
 
 DOEOTHY 
 
 WHO FIRST INTRODDCED ME 
 
 TO 
 
 KATH£BINE 
 
"There's the feather bed element here brother, acM 
 and not only that! There's an attraction here — here 
 you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quid, 
 haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are 
 the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of 
 savoury fish-pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs 
 and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on — as snug 
 as though you were dead, and yet you're alive — the 
 advantages of both at once." 
 
 DOSTOBFFSKY. 
 
 VI 
 
My deae Doeotht, 
 
 As I think you know, this book was finished in the month 
 of August, 1914. I did not look at it again until I revised 
 it during my convalescence after an illness in the autumn of 
 1915. 
 
 We are now in a world very different from that with which 
 this story deals, and it must, I am afraid, appear slow in 
 development and uneventful in movement, belonging, in style 
 and method and subject, to a day that seems to us already 
 old-fashioned. 
 
 But I will frankly confess that I have too warm a personal 
 affection for Katherine, Philip, Henry and Millicent to be 
 able to destroy utterly the signs and traditions of their exist- 
 ence, nor can I feel my book to be quite old-fashioned when 
 the love of England, which I have tried to make the text of 
 it, has in many of us survived so triumphantly changes and 
 catastrophes and victories that have shaken into ruin almost 
 every other faith we held. 
 
 Let this be my excuse for giving you, with my constant 
 affection, this uneventful story. 
 
 Youra always, 
 
 HUGH WALPOLE. 
 
 Petrograd, 
 
 May 11th, 1917. 
 
 Vll 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK I: THE RAID 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I The Cehemont 13 
 
 II The Winter Afternoon 32 
 
 III Kathehine . 45 
 
 IV The Forest 64 
 
 I V The Finest Thing 81 
 
 VI The Shock 106 
 
 BOOK II: THE FEATHER BED 
 
 I Katherine in Love 129 
 
 II Mrs. Trenchard 139 
 
 III Life and Henry 164 
 
 IV Garth in Roselands 195 
 
 V The Feast ~ 218 
 
 VI Sunday 241 
 
 Vn Roche St. Mary Moor 279 
 
 ix 
 
X CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK III: KATHERINE AND ANNA 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I Katherinb Alone 299 
 
 II The Mirror 322 
 
 III Anna and Mrs. Trenchard 344 
 
 IV The Wild Night 366 
 
 V The Trenchards 384 
 
 VI The Ceremony 405 
 
BOOK I 
 THE RAID 
 
OHAPTEE I 
 
 THE OEEEMONT 
 
 THE fog had swallowed up the house, and the house had 
 submitted. So thick was this fog that the towers of 
 Westminster Abbey, the river, and the fat complacency of the 
 church in the middle of the Square, even the three Plane 
 Trees in front of the old gate and the heavy old-fashioned 
 porch had all vanished together, leaving in their place, the 
 rattle of a cab, the barking of a dog, isolated sounds that 
 ascended, plaintively, from a lost, a submerged world. 
 
 The House had, indeed, in its time seen many fogs for it had 
 known its first one in the days of Queen Anne and even then 
 it had yielded, without surprise and without curiosity, to its 
 tyranny. On the brighest of days this was a solemn, unenter- 
 prising unimaginative building, standing four-square to all 
 the winds, its windows planted stolidly, securely, its vigorous 
 propriety well suited to its safe, unagitated surroundings. 
 Its faded red brick had weathered many London storms and 
 would weather many more: that old, quiet Square, with its 
 uneven stones, its church, and its plane-trees, had the Abbey, 
 the Houses of Parliament, the river for its guardians . . . 
 the skies might fall, the Thames burst into a flaming fire, 
 Bundle Square would not stir from its tranquillity. 
 
 The old house — No, 5, Bundle Square — ^had for its most 
 charming feature its entrance. Pirst came an old iron gate 
 guarded, on either side, by weatherbeaten stone pillars. Then 
 a cobbled path, with little green lawns to right and left of 
 
 13 
 
14 THE GEEEN MIREOK 
 
 it, ran to the door whose stolidity was crowned with an old 
 porch of dim red brick. This was unusual enough for Lon- 
 don, but there the gate, the little garden, the. Porch had stood 
 for some himdreds of years, and that Progress that had al- 
 ready its throttling fingers about London's neck, had, as yet, 
 left Eundle Square to its staid propriety. 
 
 Westminster abides, like a little Cathedral town, at the 
 heart of London. One is led to it, through Whitehall, through 
 Victoria Street, through Belgravia, over Westminster Bridge 
 with preparatory caution. The thunder of London sinks, 
 as the traveller approaches, dying gradually as though the 
 spirit of. the town warned you, with his finger at his lip. 
 To the roar of the traffic there succeeds the solemn striking 
 of Big Ben, the chiming of the Abbey Bells ; so narrow and 
 winding are many of the little streets that such traffic as 
 penetrates them proceeds slowly, cautiously, almost sleepily; 
 there are old buildings and grass squares, many clergymen, 
 schoolboys in black gowns and battered top hats, and at the 
 corners one may see policemen, motionless, somnolent, sta- 
 tioned one supposes, to threaten disturbance or agitation. 
 
 There is, it seems, no impulse here to pile many more 
 events upon the lap of the day than the poor thing can de- 
 cently hold. Behind the windows of Westminster life is pass- 
 ing, surely, with easy tranquillity; the very door-bells are, 
 many of them, old and comfortable, unsuited to any frantic 
 ringing ; there does not sound, through every hour, the whir- 
 ring clang of workmen flinging, with eager haste, into the 
 reluctant air, hideous and contemptuous buildings ; dust doe^ 
 not rise in blinding clouds from the tortured corpses of old 
 and happy houses. . . . Those who live here live long. 
 
 "No. 5, Eundle Square then, had its destiny in pleasant 
 places. Upon a fine summer evening the old red brids with 
 its windows staring complacently upon a comfortable world 
 showed a fine colour. Its very chimneys were square and 
 solid, its eaves and water pipes regular and mathematical. 
 Whatever horrid catastrophe might convulse the rest of Lon- 
 
THE CEEEMONY 15 
 
 don, No. 6 would suffer no hurt ; the god of propriety — ^the 
 strongest of all the gods — ^had it beneath His care. 
 
 Now behind the Fog it waited, as it had waited so often 
 before, with certain assurance, for its release. 
 
 II 
 
 Inside the house at about half-past four, upon this after- 
 noon November 8th, in the year 1902, young Henry Trench- 
 ard was sitting alone ; he was straining his eyes over a book 
 that interested him so deeply that he could not leave it in 
 order to switch on the electric light ; his long nose stuck into 
 the book's very heart and his eyelashes almost brushed the 
 paper. The drawing-room where he was had caught some 
 of the fog and kept it, and Henry Trenchard's only light was 
 the fading glow of a red cavernous fire. Henry Trenchard, 
 now nineteen years of age, had known, in all those nine- 
 teen years, no change in that old drawing-room. As an 
 ugly and tiresome baby he had wailed before the sombre 
 indifference of that same old stiff green wall-paper — a little 
 brighter then perhaps, — ^had sprawled upon the same old 
 green carpet, had begged to be allowed to play with the same 
 collection of little scent bottles and stones and rings and 
 miniatures that lay now, in the same decent symmetry, in the 
 same narrow glass-topped table over by the window. It was 
 by shape and design a heavy room, slipping into its true 
 spirit with the London dusk, the London fog, the London 
 lamp-lit winter afternoon, seeming awkward, stiff, almost af- 
 fronted before the sunshine and summer weather. One or 
 two Trenchards — two soldiers and a Eishop — ^were there in 
 heavy old gold frames, two ponderous glass-fronted book- 
 cases guarded from any frivolous touch high stiff-backed vol- 
 umes of Gibbons and Eichardson and Hooker. 
 
 There were some old water-colours of faded green lawns, 
 dim rocks and seas with neglected boats upon the sand — 
 
16 THE GKEEN MIEEOE 
 
 all these painted in the stiff precision of the 'thirties and the 
 'forties, smoked and fogged a little in their thin black frames. 
 
 Upon one round-table indeed there was a concession to the 
 modem spirit in the latest numbers of the "Cornhill" and 
 "Blackwood" magazines, the "Quarterly Eeview" and the 
 "Hibbert Journal." 
 
 The chairs in the room were for the most part stiff with 
 gilt backs and wore a "Don't you dare to sit down upon me" 
 eye, but two armchairs, near the fire, of old green leather 
 were comfortable enough and upon one of these Henry was 
 now sitting. Above the wide stone fireplace was a large old 
 gold mirror, a mirror that took into its expanse the whole of 
 the room, so that, standing before it, with your back to the 
 door, you could see everything that happened behind you. 
 The Mirror was old and gave to the view that it embraced 
 some old comfortable touch so that everything within it was 
 soft and still and at rest. Now, in the gloom and shadow, 
 the reflection was green and dark with the only point of 
 colour the fading fire. Before it a massive gold clock with 
 the figures of the Three Graces stiff and angular at its sum- 
 mit ticked away as though it were the voice of a very old 
 gentleman telling an interminable story. It served indeed for 
 the voice of the mirror itself. . . . 
 
 Henry was reading a novel that showed upon its back 
 Mudie's bright yellow label. He was reading, as the clock 
 struck half -past four, these words : — 
 
 "I sat on the stump of a tree at his feet, and below us 
 stretched the land, the great expanse of the forests, sombre 
 under the sunshine, rolling like a sea, with glints of wind- 
 ing rivers, the grey spots of villages, and here and there a 
 clearing, like an islet of light amongst the dark waves of con- 
 tinuous tree-tops. A brooding gloom lay over this vast and 
 monotonous landscape ; the light fell on it as if into an abyss. 
 The land devoured the sunshine ; only far off, along the coast, 
 the empty ocean, smooth and polished within the faint bays, 
 seemed to rise up to the sky in a wall of steel. 
 
THE CEEEMONY 17 
 
 And there I was with him, high on the sunshine on the top 
 of that historic hill. . . ," 
 
 The striking of the clock brought him away from the book 
 with a jerk, so deep had he been sunk in it that he looked 
 now about the dusky room with a startled uncertain gaze. The 
 familiar place settled once more about him and, with a little 
 sigh, he sank back into the chair. His thin bony legs stuck 
 out in front of him; one trouser-leg was hitched up and his 
 sock, falling down over his boot, left bare part of his calf ; 
 his ^oots had not been laced tightly and the tongues had 
 slipped aside, lowing his sock. He was a long thin youth, 
 his hair untidy, his black tie up at the back of his collar ; one 
 white and rather ragged cuff had slipped down over his wrist, 
 the other was invisible. His eyes were grey and weak, he 
 had a long pointed nose with two freckles on the very end 
 of it, but his mouth was kindly although too large and in- 
 determinate. His cheeks were thin and showed high cheek- 
 bones; his chin was pronounced enough to be strong but 
 nevertheless helped him very little. 
 
 He was untidy and ungainly but not entirely unattrac- 
 tive ; his growth was at the stage when nature has not made 
 up its mind as to the next, the final move. That may, after 
 all, be something very pleasant. , . . 
 
 His eyes now were dreamy and soft because he was think- 
 ing of the book. No book, perhaps, in all his life before had 
 moved him so deeply and he was very often moved — ^but, as 
 a rule, by cheaip and sentimental emotions. 
 
 He knew that he was cheap; he knew that he was senti- 
 mental ; he, very often, hated and despised himself. 
 
 He could see the Forests "rolling like a sea". It was as 
 though he, himself, had been perched upon that high, bright 
 hill, and he was exalted, he felt, with that same exultation ; 
 the space, Ihe freedom, the liberty, the picture of a world 
 wherein anything might happen, where heroes, fugitives, 
 scoundrels, cowards, conquerors all alike might win their 
 salvation. "Room for everyone ... no one to pull one up — 
 
18 THE GREElSr MIEEOE 
 
 No one to make one ashamed of what one says and does. 
 No crowd watching one's every movement. Adventures for 
 the wishing and courage to meet them." 
 
 He looked about the room and hated it, — the old, shabby, 
 hemmed-in thing! He hated this life to which he was con- 
 demned ; he hated himself, his world, his uninspiring future. 
 
 "My God, I must do something! ... I will do some- 
 thing! . . . But suppose I can't!" His head fell again — 
 suppose he were out in that other world, there in the heart 
 of those dark forests, suppose that he found that he did no 
 better there than here ! . . . That would be, indeed, the most 
 terrible thing of all! 
 
 He gazed up into the Mirror, saw in it the reflection of 
 the room, the green walls, the green carpet, the old faded 
 green place like moss covering dead ground. Soft, damp, dark, 
 — and beyond outside the Mirror, the world of the Forests 
 — "the great expanse of Forests" and "beyond, the Ocean 
 — smooth and polished . . . rising up to the sky in a wall of 
 steel." 
 
 His people, his family, his many, many relations, his 
 world, he thought, were all inside the Mirror — all embedded 
 in that green, soft, silent enclosure. He saw, stretching from 
 one end of England to the other, in all Provincial towns, in 
 neat little houses with neat little gardens, in Cathedral Cities 
 with their sequestered Closes, in villages with the deep green 
 lanes leading up to the rectory gardens, in old Country 
 houses hemmed in by wide stretching fields, in little lost 
 places by the sea, all these persons happily, peacefully sunk 
 up to their very necks in the green moss. Within the Mirror 
 this . . . Outside the Mirror the rolling forests guarded by 
 the shining wall of sea. His own family passed before him. 
 His grandfather, his great-aunt Sarah, his mother and his 
 father. Aunt Aggie and Aunt Betty, Uncle Tim, Millicent, 
 Katherine. . . . He paused then. The book slipped away 
 and fell on to the floor. 
 
 i^atherine . . . dear Katherine! He did not care what 
 
THE CEREMONY 19 
 
 she was ! And then, swept by a fresh wave of feeling spring- 
 ing up, stretching his arms, facing the room, he did not care 
 what any of them were ! He was the Idiot, the discontented, 
 ungrateful Idiot ! He loved them all — ^he wouldn't change 
 one of them, he wouldn't be in any other family in all the 
 world ! 
 
 The door opened ; in came old Rocket, the staff and prop 
 of the family, to turn up the lights, to poke up the fire. In 
 a minute tea would come in. , . . 
 
 "Why, Mr. Henry, no fire nor lights !" He shuffled to the 
 windows, pulling the great heavy curtains across them, hia 
 knees cracking, very slowly he bent down, picked up the book, 
 and laid it carefully on the table next to the "Hibbert 
 Journal." 
 
 "I hope you've not been reading, Mr. Henry, in this bad 
 light," he said. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Later, between nine and half-past, Henry was sitting with 
 his father and his uncle, smoking and drinking after dinner. 
 To-night was an evening of Ceremony — the Family Cere- 
 mony of the year — ^therefore, although the meal had been 
 an extremely festive one with many fiowers, a perfect moun- 
 tain of fruit in the huge silver bowl in the centre of the table, 
 and the Most Sacred Of All Ports (produced on this occa- 
 sion and Christmas Day) nevertheless only the Family had 
 been present. No distant relations even, certainly no friends. 
 . . . This was Grandfather Trenchard's birthday. 
 
 The ladies vanished, there remained only Henry, his father 
 and Uncle Tim. Henry was sitting there, very self-con- 
 scious over his glass of Port. He was always self-conscious 
 when Uncle Tim was present. 
 
 Uncle Tim was a Faunder and was large-limbed and 
 absent-minded like Henry's father. Uncle Tim had a wild 
 head of grey hair, a badly-kept grey beard and clothed hia 
 long, loose figure in long, loose garments. He was here to- 
 
20 THE GEEEN MIEROR 
 
 day and gone to-morrow, preferred the country to the town 
 and had a little house down in Gleheshire, where he led an 
 untidy hachelor existence whose motive impulses were birds 
 and flowers. 
 
 Henry was very fond of Uncle Tim; he liked his imtidi- 
 ness, his careless geniality, his freedom and his happiness. 
 
 Henry's father — George Trenchard — ^was "splendid" — 
 that, thought Henry, was the only possible word — and the 
 boy, surveying other persons' fathers, wondered why Kath- 
 erine, Millicent, and himself should have been chosen out 
 of all the world to be so favoured. 
 
 George Trenchard, at this time about sixty years of age, 
 was over six feet in height and broad in proportion. He 
 was growing too stout ; his hair was grey and the top of his 
 head bald ; his eyes were brown and absent-minded, his mouth 
 large with a lurking humour in its curves; his cheeks were 
 fat and round and there was the beginning of a double chin. 
 He walked, always, in a rambling, rolling kind of way, like 
 a sea-captain on shore, still balancing himself to the swing 
 of his vessel, his hands deep sunk in his trouser-pocikets. 
 Henry had been privileged, sometimes, to see him, when, ab- 
 sorbed in the evolution of an essay or the Chapter of some 
 book (he is, of course, one of our foremost authorities on 
 the early liTineteenth Century period of English Literature, 
 especially Hazlitt and De Quincey) he rolled up and down 
 his study, with his head back, his hand sunk in his pockets, 
 whistling a little tune . . . very wonderful he seemed to 
 Henry then. 
 
 He was the most completely careless of optimists, refused 
 to be brought down to any stem fact whatever, hated any 
 strong emotion or stringent relations with anyone, treated his 
 wife and children as the most delightful accidents against 
 whom he had, most happily tumbled; his kindness of heart 
 was equalled only by the lightning speed with which he for- 
 got the l:)enefits that he had conferred and the persons upon 
 whom he had conferred them . . . like a happy bird, he 
 
THE CEREMONY 21 
 
 ■went carolling tibrough life. Alone, of all living beings, his 
 daughter Katherine had bound him to her with cords; for 
 the rest, he loved and forgot them all. 
 
 Now, on this family occasion of his father's birthday — ^his 
 father was eighty-seven to-day — ^he was absolutely happy. 
 He was proud of his family when any definite occasion, such 
 as this, compelled him to think of it; he considered that it 
 had all been a very jolly, pleasant dinner, that there would 
 certainly follow a very jolly, pleasant evening. He liked, 
 especially, to have his brother, Timothy, with him — ^he loved 
 them all, bless their hearts — ^he felt, as he assured them, "Not 
 a day more than twenty." 
 
 "How do you really think Father is, George?" asked 
 Timothy. 
 
 "Sound as a bell," said Henry's father, "getting deaf of 
 course— must expect that — ^but it's my belief that the harder 
 his hearing the brighter his eyes — ^never knew anyone so 
 sharp. Nothing escapes him, 'pon my soul." 
 
 "Well," said George Trenchard, "I think it a most sat- 
 isfactory thing that here we should all be again — ^healthy, 
 happy, sound as so many bells — ^lively as crickets — ^not a hap- 
 pier family in England." 
 
 "Don't say that, George," said Uncle Tim, "most unlucky." 
 
 "Nonsense," said George Trenchard, brushing Uncle Tim 
 aside like a fly, "Nonsense. We're a happy family, a healthy 
 family and a united family." 
 
 "I drink my gratitude to the God of Family Life, who- 
 ever He is. . . ." He finished his glass of Port. "Here, 
 Timothy, have another glass. It's a Port in a million, so it 
 is." 
 
 But Uncle Tim shook his head. "It's all very well, G«orge, 
 but you'll have to break up soon. The girls will be mar- 
 rying — ^Katherine and Millicent — " 
 
 "Rot," said George, "Millie's still at school." 
 
 "She's coming home very soon— very shortly I believe. 
 And besides you can't keep a family together as you used to. 
 
22 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 You can't. No one cares about the home at all now-a-days. 
 These youngsters will find that out soon enough. You'll be 
 deserting the nest immediately, Henry, my friend, won't 
 you?" 
 
 This sudden appeal, of course, confused Henry terribly. 
 He choked over his wine, coloured crimson, stammered out: 
 
 "No, Uncle Tim — Of course — Of course — ^not." 
 
 George Trenchard looked at his son with approval. 
 
 "That's right. Stick to your old father while you can. 
 The matter with you, Tim, is that you live outside the world 
 and don't know what's going on." 
 
 "The matter with you, George, is," his brother, speaking 
 slowly and carefully, replied, "That you haven't the ghost of 
 an idea of what the modern world's like — not the ghost. Up 
 in the clouds you are, and so's your whole family, my sister 
 and all — ^But the young ones won't be up in the clouds al- 
 ways, not a bit of it. They'll come down one day and then 
 you'll see what you wUl see." 
 
 "And what'll that be?" said George Trenchard, laughing 
 a little scornfully, 
 
 "Why you and Harriet doing Darby and Joan over the 
 dying fire and no one else within a hundred miles of you 
 — except a servant who's waiting for your clothes and sleeve- 
 links." 
 
 "There, Henry — ^Listen to that!" said his father, still 
 laughing — "See what an ungrateful fellow you're going to 
 be in a year or two !" 
 
 Henry blushed, swallowed in his throat, smiled idioti- 
 cally. They were all, he thought, laughing at him, but the 
 effect was very pleasant and genial. . . . 
 
 Moreover he was interested. He was, of course, one of 
 the young ones and it was his future that was under dis- 
 cussion. His mind hovered over the book that he had been 
 reading that afternoon. Uncle Tim's words had very much 
 the same effect upon Henry's mind that that book's words 
 had had, although from a different angle so to speak. . . . 
 
THE CEEEMONT 23 
 
 Henry's eyes lingered about a little silver dish that contained 
 sugared cherries. . . . He liked immensely sugared cherries. 
 Encouraged by the genial atmosphere he stretched out his 
 hand, took two cherries, and swallowed them, hut, in his 
 agitation, so swiftly that he did not taste them at all. 
 
 Then he drank two glasses of Port — he had never before 
 drunk so much wine. He was conscious now that he must 
 not, under any circumstances, drink any more. He was 
 aware that he must control, very closely, his tongue; he 
 told himself that the room was not in reality so golden and 
 glowing a place as it now seemed to him, that it was only 
 the same old dining-room with which he had all his life, been 
 familiar. He convinced himself by a steady gaze that the 
 great silver dish with the red and purple and golden fruit 
 piled upon it was only a silver dish, was not a deep bowl 
 whose sides, like silver walls stretched up right into the dim 
 electric clusters of electric light hanging from the ceiling. 
 He might convince himself of these facts, he might with a 
 great effort steady the room that very, very slightly swayed 
 about him . . . what he could not deny was that Life was 
 gorgeous, that this was an Evening of all the Evenings, that 
 he adored his father, his uncle and all the family to such a 
 height and depth of devotioil that, were he not exceedingly 
 careful, he would burst into tears — ^burst into tears he must 
 not because then would the stud in his shirt most assuredly 
 abandon its restraints and shame him, for ever, before Uncle 
 Tim. 
 
 At this moment his father gave the command to move. 
 Henry rose, very carefully, from his seat, steadied himself 
 at the table for an instant, then, very, very gravely, with his 
 eye upon his ahirt-stud, followed his uncle from the room. 
 
 IV 
 
 He retained, throughout the rest of that eventful evening, 
 the slightly exaggerated vision of the world. It was not that, 
 
24 THE GEEEN MIEHOR 
 
 as lie followed his father and uncle into the drawimg^oanj, 
 he did not know what he would see. He would find them 
 sitting there — Grandfather in his chair, his feet on a stool, 
 his bony hands pressed upon his thin knees with that fierce, 
 protesting pressure that represented so much in his grand- 
 father. There would be, also,, his Great- Aunt Sarah' with her 
 high pyramid of white hair, her long black eai'-trumpet and 
 her hard sharp little eyes like faded blue pebbles, there would 
 be his mother, square and broad and placid with her hands 
 folded on her lap, there would be Aunt Aggie> with her pout- 
 ing, fat little face, her cheeks quivering a little as she moved 
 her head, her eyes searching about the room, nervously, un- 
 easily, and there would be Aunt Betty, neat and tiny, with her 
 little trembling smile and her quiet air of having something 
 very important to do of which no one else in the family had 
 the ghost of an idea! Oh! he knew them all so well that 
 they appeared to him, now, to be part of himself and to 
 exist only as his ideas of the world and lifo and his own des- 
 tiny. They could not now do anything thai would ever sur- 
 prise or disconcert him, he knew thdir ideas,, their schemes, 
 their partialities, their disgusts, and he would not — so he 
 thought now with the fire of life burning so brightly with- 
 in him — ^have them changed, no, not in any tiniest atom of 
 an alteration. 
 
 He knew that they would sit there,, all of tbem, and talk 
 quietly about nothing, and then when the gold clock was ap- 
 proaching half-past nine they would slip away, — save only 
 grandfather and Aunt Sarah — and would slip up to their 
 rooms and then they would slip down again with their parcels 
 in their hands and at haM-past nine the Ceremony would take 
 place. So it had been for years and years and so it would 
 continue to be until Grandfather's death, and, after that, 
 Henry's father would take his place, and then, one day, per- 
 haps, it would be the turn of Henry himself. 
 
 He paused for a moment and looked at the room — ^Kath- 
 erine was not there. She was always until the very last 
 
THE CEEEMONT 25 
 
 moment, doing something to Grandfatlxer's present, tying it 
 Tip in some especial ribbon, writing sometbing ontbe paper 
 wrapping, making it, in some way, more perfect. He kiiew 
 that, as be came in, bis motber would look up and smile and 
 say "Well, Henry," and tben would resume ber placidity, 
 that Uncle Tim would sit down beside Aunt Betty and begin, 
 very gently, to chaff her, which would please ber immensely, 
 and that Aunt Sarah would cry "What did you say, Tim- 
 othy ?" and that tben be would shout down her ear-trumpet, 
 with a good-humoured smile peeping down from his beard 
 as though be were thinking "One must humour the old lady 
 you know." 
 
 All these things occurred. Henry himself sat in a low 
 chair by the fire and looked at his father, who was walking 
 up and down the other end of the room, bis hands deep in 
 bis pockets, his head back. Then he looked at his two aunts 
 and wondered, as be had wondered so many times before, that 
 they were not the sisters of bis mother instead of his father. 
 They were so small and fragile to be the sisters of such large- 
 limbed, rough-and-tumble men as bis father and Uncle Tim- 
 othy. They would have, so naturally, taken their position 
 in the world as the sisters of bis motber. 
 
 Aunt Aggie, who thought that no one was paying her very 
 much attention, said : 
 
 "I can't think why Katberine wouldn't let me get that silk 
 for ber at Liberty's this afternoon. I could have gone up 
 Eegent Street so easily — it wouldn't have been very much 
 trouble — ^not very much, but Katberine always must do every- 
 thing for herself." 
 
 Mrs. Trencbard said: "It was very kind of you, Aggie 
 dear, to think of it — I'm sure it was very kind," and Aunt 
 Betty said: "Katberine would appreciate your thinking of 
 ber." 
 
 "I wonder, with the fog, that any of you went out at all," 
 said Uncle Tim, "I'm sure I was as nearly killed as nothing 
 just coming back from the Strand." 
 
26 THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 Aunt Aggie moved her hands on her lap, looked at them, 
 suspiciously, to see whether they meant what they said, and 
 then sighed — and, to Henry, this all seemed to-night won- 
 derful, magical, possessed of some thrilling, passionate qual- 
 ity; his heart was beating with furious, leaping bounds, his 
 eyes were misty with sentimental happiness. He thought 
 that this was life that he was realising now for the first time. 
 ... It was not — ^it was two glasses of Port. 
 
 He looked at his grandfather and thought of the wonderful 
 old man that he was. His grandfather was very small and 
 very thin and so delicate was the colour of his white hair, his 
 face, and his hands that the light seemed to shine through 
 him, as though he had been made of glass. He was a silent 
 old man and everything about him was of a fine precious qual- 
 ity — ^his black shoes with the silver buckles, the gold signet 
 ring on his finger, the black cord with the gold eye-glasses that 
 lay across his shirt-front ; when he spoke it was with a thin, 
 silvery voice like a bell. 
 
 He did not seem, as he sat there, to be thinking about any 
 of them or to be caring for anything that they might do. 
 
 His thoughts, perhaps, were shining and silver and pre- 
 cious like the rest of him, but no one knew because he said so 
 little. Aunt Betty, with a glance at the clock, rose and 
 slipped from the room. The moment had arrived. . • . 
 
 Very soon, and, indeed, just as the clock, as though it were 
 summoning them all back, struck the half -hour, there they all 
 were again. They stood, in a group by the door and each 
 one had, in his or her hand, his or her present. Grandfather, 
 as silent as an ivory figure, sat in his chair, with Aunt Sarah 
 in her chair beside him, and in front of him was a table, 
 cleared of anything that was upon it, its mahogany shining 
 in the fire-light. All the Trenchard soldiers and the Trench- 
 
THE CEEEMONY 27 
 
 ard Bishop looked down, with solemn approval, upon the 
 scene. 
 
 "Come on, Henry, my boy, time to begin," said his father. 
 
 Henry, because he was the youngest, stepped forward, his 
 present in his hand. His parcel was very ill-tied and the 
 paper was creased and badly folded. He was greatly ashamed 
 as he laid it upon the table. Blushing, he made his little 
 speech, his lips together, speaking like an awkward schoolboy. 
 "We're all very glad. Grandfather, that we're all — ^most of 
 us — ^here to — ^to congratulate you on your birthday. We hope 
 that you're enjoying your birthday and that — that there'll 
 be lots more for you to enjoy." 
 
 "Bravo, Henry," came from the back of the room. Henry 
 stepped back still blushing. Then Grandfather Trenchard, 
 with trembling hands, slowly undid the parcel and revealed 
 a purple leather blotting-book with silver edges. 
 
 "Thank you, my boy — ^very good of you. Thank you." 
 
 Then came Katherine. Katherine was neither very tall 
 nor very short, neither fat nor thin. She had some of the 
 grave placidity of her mother and, in her eyes and mouth, 
 some .of the humour of her father. She moved quietly and 
 easily, very self-possessed; she bore herself as though she 
 had many more important things to think about than any- 
 thing that concerned herself. Her hair and her eyes were 
 dark brown, and now as she went with her present, her smile 
 was as quiet and unself-conscious as everything else about 
 her. 
 
 "Dear Grandfather," she said, "I wish you many, many 
 happy returns — " and then she stepped back. Her present 
 was an old gold snuff-box. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear," he said. "Very charming. Thank 
 you, my dear." 
 
 Then came Aunt Aggie, her eyes nervous and a little re- 
 sentful as though she had been treated rather hardly but was 
 making the best of difficult circumstances. "I'm afraid you 
 won't like this, Father," she said. "I felt that you wouldn't 
 
28 THE GEEEN MIKEOK 
 
 when I got it. But I did my best. It's a silly thing to give 
 you, I'm afraid." 
 
 She -watched as the old man, very slowly, undid the parcel. 
 She had given him a china ink-stand. It had been as though 
 she had said: "Anything more foolish than to give an old 
 man who ought to be thinking about the grave a china iiik- 
 stand I can't imagine." 
 
 Perhaps her father had felt something of this in her voice 
 — he answered her a little sharply — 
 
 "Thank 'ye — ^my dear Aggie — Thank 'ye." 
 
 Very different Aunt Betty. She came forward like a cheer- 
 ful and happy sparrow, her head just on one side as though 
 she wished to perceive the complete effect of everything that 
 was going on. 
 
 "My present is handkerchiefs, Father, I worked the ini- 
 tials myself. I hope you will like them," and then she bent 
 forward and took his hand in hers and held it for a mo- 
 ment. As he looked across at her, a little wave of colour 
 crept up behind the white mask of his cheek. "Dear Betty 
 — ^my dear. Thank 'ye — Thank 'ye." 
 
 Then followed Mrs. Trenchard, moving like some frag^ 
 ment of the old house that contained her, a fragment anxious 
 to testify its allegiance to the head of the family — but anx- 
 ious — as one must always remember with Mrs. Trenchard — 
 with no very agitated anxiety. Her slow smile, her solid 
 square figure that should have been fat but was only broad, 
 her calm soft eyes — cow's eyes — ^from these characteristics 
 many years of child-bearing and the company of a dreamy 
 husband had not torn her. 
 
 Would something ever tear her ? . . . Yes, there was some- 
 thing. 
 
 In her slow soft voice she said: "Father dear, many 
 happy returns of the day — rrumy happy returns. This is 
 a silk muffler. I hope you'll like it. Father dear. It's a 
 muffler." 
 
 They stirveyed one another calmly across the shining table. 
 
THE CEKEMONT 29' 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard was a Faunder, but the Faunders were kin 
 by breeding and tradition to tbe Trenchards— the same green 
 pastures, the same rich, packed counties, the same mild 
 skies and flowering Springs had seen the development of their 
 convictions about the world and their place in it. 
 
 The Eaunders. . . . The Trenchards ... it is as though 
 you said Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Mrs. Trenchard 
 looked at her father-in-law and smiled, then moved away. 
 
 Then came the men. Uncle Tim had a case of silver 
 brushes to present and he mumbled something in his beard 
 about them. George Trenchard had some old glass, he flung 
 back bis head and laughed, gripped his father by the hand, 
 shouted something down Aunt Sarah's trumpet. Aunt Sarah 
 herself had given, at an earlier hour, her offering because 
 she was so deaf and her brother's voice so feeble that on 
 earlier occasions, her presentation, protracted and embar- 
 rassing, had affected the whole evening. She sat there now, 
 like an ancient iBoadicea, looking down grimly upon the pres- 
 ents, as though they were so many spoils won by a raid. 
 
 It was time for the old man to make a Speech : It was — 
 "Thank 'ye, Thank 'ye — ^very good of you all — ^very. It's 
 pleasant, all of us together — ^very pleasant. I never felt bet- 
 ter in my life and I hope you're all the same. . . . Thank 
 'ye, my dears. Thank 'ye." 
 
 The Ceremony was thus concluded; instantly they were 
 all standing about, laughing, talking, soon they would be all 
 in the hall and then they would separate, George and Timothy 
 and Bob to talk, perhaps, until early hours in the morning. 
 . . . Here is old Eocket to wheel grandfather's chair along 
 to his bedroom. 
 
 "Well, Father, here's Eocket come for you." 
 
 "All right, my dear, I'm ready. . . ." 
 
 But Eocket had not come for his master. Eocket, perplex- 
 ity, dismay, upon his countenance, was plainly at a loss, and 
 for Eocket to be at a loss ! 
 
 "Hullo, Eocket, what is it?" 
 
30 THE GKEEN MIEEOR 
 
 "There's a gentleman, sir — apologises profoundly for the 
 lateness of the hour — ^wouldn't disturb you but the fog — ^his 
 card. . . ." 
 
 VI 
 
 Until he passes away to join the glorious company of 
 Trenchards who await him, will young Henry Trenchard re- 
 member everything that then occurred — exactly he will re- 
 member it and to its tiniest detail. It was past ten o'clock 
 and never in the memory of anyone present had the Cere- 
 mony before been invaded, . . . Astonishing impertinence 
 on the part of someone! Astonishing bravery also did he 
 only realise it ! 
 
 "It's the fog, you know," said Henry's mother. 
 
 "What's the matter!" screamed Aunt Sarah. 
 
 "Somebody lost in the fog." 
 
 "Somebody what?" 
 
 "Lost in the Fog." 
 
 "In the what?" 
 
 "In the Fog!" 
 
 "Oh! . . . Ifowdidyousay?" 
 
 "Fog!" 
 
 George Trenchard then returned, bringing wilt him a 
 man. The man stood in the doorway, confused (as, indeed, 
 it was only right for him to be), blushing, holding his bowler 
 hat nervously in his hand, smiling that smile with which one 
 seeks to propitiate strangers. 
 
 "I say, of all things," cried George Trenchard. "What 
 do you think, all of you ? Of all the coincidences ! This is 
 Mr. Mark. You know, mother dear (this to Mrs. Trenchard, 
 who was waiting calmly for orders), son of Eodney Mark 
 I've so often told you of. . . . Here's his son, arrived in 
 London yesterday after years' abroad, out to-night, lost his 
 way in' the fog, stopped at first here to enquire, found it of 
 all remarkable things ours where he was coming to call to- 
 morrow ! . . . Did you ever !" 
 
THE OEEEMONY 31 
 
 "I really must apologise — " began Mr. Mark, smiling at 
 everyone. 
 
 "Oh no ! you mustn't," broke in George Trenchard — "Must 
 he, mother ? He's got to stop the night. Of course he has. 
 We've got as much room as you like. Here, let me intro- 
 duce you." 
 
 Mr. Mark was led round. . He vi^as, most certainly, (as 
 Aunt Betty remarked afterwards upstairs) very quiet and 
 pleasant and easy about it all. He apologised again to Mrs. 
 Trenchard, hadn't meant to stop more than a moment, so 
 struck by the coincidence, his father had always said first 
 thing he must do in London. . . . 
 
 Eocket was summoned — "Mr. Mark will stop here to- 
 night." "Certainly — of course — anything in the world — " 
 
 Grandfather was wheeled away, the ladies in the hall hoped 
 that they would see Mr. Mark in the morning and Mr. Mark 
 hoped that he would see fhem. Good-night — good-night. . . . 
 
 "Come along now," cried George Trenchard, taking his 
 guest's arm. "Come along and have a smoke and a drink 
 and tell us what you've been doing all these years ! . . . Why 
 the last time I saw you ! . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard, unmoved by this ripple upon the Tren- 
 chard waters, stopped for a moment before leaving the draw- 
 ing-room and called Henry — 
 
 "Henry dear. Is this your book?" She held up the 
 volume with the yellow Mudie's label. 
 
 "Yes, Mother." 
 
 "I hope it's a nice book for you, dear." 
 
 "A very nice book. Mother." 
 
 "Well I'm sure you're old enough to know for yourself 
 now." 
 
 "Good-night, Mother." 
 
 "Good-night, dear." 
 
 Henry, with the book under his arm, went up to bed. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE WINTEK AFTEEITOON 
 
 EXTEACTS from a letter written by Philip Mark to Mr. 
 Paul Alexis in Moscow : — 
 
 ". . . because, beyond question, it was the oddest chance 
 that I should come — straight out of the fog, into the very 
 house that I wanted. That, mind you, was a week ago, and 
 I'm still here. You've never seen a London fog. I defy you 
 to imagine either the choking, stifling nastiness of it or the 
 comfortable happy indifference of English people under it. 
 I couldn't have struck, if I'd tried for a year, anything more 
 eloquent of the whole position — ^my position, I mean, and 
 theirs and the probable result of our being up against one 
 another. . . . 
 
 This will be a long letter because, here I am quite unac- 
 countably excited, unaccountably, I say, because it's all as 
 quiet as the grave — after midnight, an old clock ticking out 
 there on the stairs. Landseer's 'Dignity and Impudence' on 
 the wall over my bed and that old faded wall-paper that you 
 only see in the bedrooms of the upper middles in England, 
 who have lived for centuries and centuries in the same old. 
 house. Much too excited to sleep, simply I suppose because 
 all kinds of things are beginning to reassert themselves on 
 me — ^things that haven't stirred since I was eighteen, things 
 that Anna and Moscow had so effectually laid to rest. All 
 those years as a boy I had just this wall-paper, just this 
 ticking-clook, just these faded volumes of 'Ivanhoe,' 'Kenil- 
 worth', 'The Scarlet Letter' and Lytton's 'Night and Morn- 
 ing' that I see huddled together in the window. Ah, Paul, 
 
 32 
 
THE WINTEE AETEENOON 33 
 
 you've never known what all that means — the comfort, the 
 safety, the nluffled cosiness, the gradual decline of old famil- 
 iar things from shabbiness to shabbiness, the candles, and 
 pony-traps and apple-lofts and going to country dances in old, 
 jolting cabs with the buttons hopping off your new white 
 gloves as you go . . . it's all back on me to-night, it's been 
 crowding in upon me all the week — The Trenchards are 
 bathed, soaked, saturated with it all — they aee it ! . . . If ow, 
 I'll tell you about them, as I've seen them so far. 
 
 Trenchard, himself, is fat, jolly, self-centred, writes about 
 the Lake Poets and lives all the morning with Lamb, Hazlitt 
 and De Quincey, all the afternoon with the world as seen by 
 himseK, and all the evening with himself as seen by the world. 
 He's selfish and happy, absent-minded and as far from all 
 reality as any man could possibly be. He likes me, I think, be- 
 cause I understand his sense of humour, the surest key to 
 the heart of a selfish man. About Mrs. Trenchard I'm not 
 nearly so sure. I've been too long out of England to under- 
 stand her all in a minute. You'd say right off that she's 
 stupider than any one you'd ever met, and then afterwards 
 you'd be less and less certain. . o . Tremendously full of 
 family (she was a Eaunder), muddled, with no power over 
 words at all so that she can never say what she means, out- 
 wardly of an extremely amiable simplicity, inwardly, I am 
 sure, as obstinate as a limpet . . . not a shadow of humour. 
 Heaven only knows what she's thinking about really. She 
 never lets you see. I don't think she likes me. 
 
 There are only two children at home, Henry and Kather- 
 ine. Henry's at 'the awkward age'. Gauche, shy, sentimen- 
 tal, rude, frightfully excitable from the public school con- 
 viction that he must never show excitement about anything, 
 full of theories, enthusiasms, judgments which he casts aside, 
 one after the other, as fast as he can get rid of them — at the 
 very crisis of his development — ^might be splendid or no 
 good at aJl, according as things happen to him. He's inters 
 ested in me but isn't sure of me. 
 
34 THE GKEEN MIKROK 
 
 Then there's Katherine. Katherine is the clue to the 
 house — ^know Katherine and you know the family. But then 
 Katherine is not easy to know. She is more friendly than 
 any of them — and she is farther away. Very quiet with all 
 the calm security of someone who knows that there are many 
 important things to be done and that you will never be al- 
 lowed, however insistent you may be, to interfere with those 
 things. The family depends entirely upon her and she lives 
 for the family. If or is she so limited as that might seem to 
 make her. She keeps, I am sure, a great many things down 
 lest they should interfere, but they are all there — ^those things. 
 Meanwhile she is cheerful, friendly, busy, very, very quiet — 
 and distant — miles. Does she like me ? I don't know. She 
 listens to all that I have to say. She has imagination and 
 humour. And sometimes when I think that I have im- 
 pressed her by what I have said I look up and catch a glimpse 
 of her smiling eyes, as though she thought me, in spite of 
 all my wisdom, the most awful fool. The family do more 
 than depend upon her — ^^they adore her. There is no kind of 
 doubt— they adore her. She alone in all the world awakes 
 her father's selfish heart, stirs her mother's sluggish imagina- 
 tion, reassures her brother's terrified soul. They love her for 
 the things that she does for them. They are all — save per- 
 haps Henry — selfish in their affection. But then so are the 
 rest of us, are we not ? You, Paul, and I, at any rate. . . . 
 
 And, all this time, I have said nothing to you about the 
 guardians of the House's honour. Already, they view me 
 with intense suspicion. There are two of them, both very old. 
 An aged, aged man, bitter and sharp and shining like a glass 
 figure, and his sister, as aged as he. They are, both of them, 
 deaf and the only things truly alive about them are their eyes. 
 But with these they watch everything, and above all, they 
 watch me. They distrust me, profoundly, their eyes never 
 leave me. They allow me to make no advances to them. 
 They cannot imagine why- 1 have been admitted — ^they will, 
 I am sure, take steps to turn me out very soon. It is as 
 
THE WINTER AFTERI^'OOIS" 35 
 
 though I were a spy in a hostile country. And yet they all 
 press me to stay — all of them. They seem to like to have 
 me. What I have to tell them interests them and they are 
 pleased, too, to he hospitable in a large and comfortable man- 
 ner. Trenchard was deeply attached to my father and speaks 
 of him to me with an emotion surprising in so selfish a man. 
 They like me to stay and yet, Paul, with it all I tell you that 
 I am strangely frightened. Of what? Of whom? ... I 
 have no idea. Isn't it simply that the change from Russia 
 and, perhaps, also Anna is so abrupt that it is startling? 
 Anna and Miss Trenchard— there's a contrast for you! 
 And I'm at the mercy — you know, of anyone — you have al- 
 ways said it and it is so — ^most unhappily. Tell Anna from 
 me that I am writing. 
 
 Because I couldn't, of course, explain to her as I do to you 
 the way that these old, dead, long-forgotten things are spring- 
 ing up again in me. She would never understand. But we 
 were both agreed — she as strongly as I — that this was the 
 right thing, the only thing. . . . You know that I would not 
 hurt a fly if I could help it. No, tell her that I won't write. 
 I'll keep to my word. Not a line from either of us until Time 
 has made it safe, easy. And Stepan will be good to her. 
 He's the best fellow in the world, although so often I hated 
 him. For his sake, as well as for all the other reasons, I will 
 not write. . . . Meanwhile it is really true enough that I'm 
 frightened for, perhaps, the first time in my life. . . ." 
 
 Suspicion was the key-note of young Henry Trenchard at 
 this time. He was so unsure of himself that he must needs be 
 unsure of everyone else. He was, of course, suspicious of 
 Philip Mark. He was suspicious and he also admired him. 
 On the day after Mark had sat up writing his letter Tialf the 
 night because he was excited', on the afternoon of that day 
 they were sitting in the green dim drawing-room waiting for 
 tea. Mark was opposite Henry, and Henry, back in the 
 shadow, as he liked to sit, huddled up but with his long legs 
 
36 THE GEEEN MIEROR 
 
 shooting out in front of him as though they belonged to an- 
 other body, watched him attentively, critically, inquisitively. 
 Mark sat with a little pool of electric light about him and 
 talked politely to Mrs. Trenchard, who, knitting a long red 
 woollen affair that trailed like a serpent on to the green car- 
 pet, said now and then such things as : 
 
 "It must be very different from England" or "I must say 
 I should find that very unpleasant," breaking in also to say : 
 "Forgive me a moment. Henry, that bell did ring, didn't 
 it ?" or "Just a little more on the fire, Henry, please. That 
 big lump, please." Then, turning patiently to Mark and 
 saying : "I beg your pardon, Mr. Mark — you said ?" 
 
 Henry, having at this time a passion for neatness and or- 
 derly arrangements, admired Mark's appearance. Mark was 
 short, thick-set and very dark. A closely-clipped black mous- 
 tache and black hair cut short made him look like an officer, 
 Henry thought. His thick muscular legs proved him a rider, 
 his mouth and ears were small, and over him from head to 
 foot was the air of one who might have to be 'off' on a danger- 
 ous expedition at any moment and would moreover know ex- 
 actly what to do, having been on many other dangerous expe- 
 ditions before. Only his eyes disproved the man of action. 
 They were dreamy, introspective, wavering eyes — eyes that 
 were much younger than the rest of him and eyes too that 
 might be emotional, sentimental, impetuous, foolish and care- 
 
 Henry, being very young, did not notice his eyes. Mark 
 was thirty and looked it. His eyes were the eyes of a boy 
 of twenty. . . . Erom Henry his dark neat clothes, his com- 
 pact and resourceful air compelled envy and admiration — 
 yes, and alarm. Eor Henry was, now, entirely and utterly 
 concerned with himself, and every fresh incident, every new 
 arrival was instantly set up before him so that he might see 
 how he himself looked in the light of it. Never before, 
 within Henry's memory, had anyone not a relation, not even 
 the friend of a relation, been admitted so intimately into the 
 
THE WINTEE AETEEN00I5" 37 
 
 heart of the house, and it seemed to Henry that now already 
 a new standard was being set up and that, perhaps, the fam- 
 ily by the light of this dashing figure, who knew Russia like 
 an open book and could be relied upon at the most dangerous 
 crisis, might regard himself, Henry, as something more 
 crudely shabby and incompetent than ever. Moreover he was 
 not sure that Mark himself did not laugh at him. . . . 
 
 Beyond all this there was the sense that Mark had, in a 
 way, invaded the place. It was true that the family had, 
 after that first eventful evening, pressed him to stay, but it 
 had pressed him as though it had, upon itself, felt pressure — 
 as though its breath had been caught by the impact of some 
 new force and, before it could recover from its surprise, be- 
 hold the force was there, inside the room with the doors closed 
 behind it. 
 
 "It's hardly decent for him to stay on like this," thought 
 Henry, "and yet after all we asked him. And ... he is 
 
 jolly!" 
 
 Jolly was something that only Henry's father and TJncle 
 Tim of the Trenchard family could be said to be, and its 
 quality was therefore both enlivening and alarming. 
 
 "Mother won't like it, if he's too jolly," thought Henry, 
 "I'm not sure if she likes it now." 
 
 Henry had, upon this afternoon, an extra cause for anx- 
 iety; a friend of his, a friend of whom he was especially 
 proud, was coming to tea. This friend's name was Seymour 
 and he was a cheerful young man who had written several 
 novels and was considered 'promising' — 
 
 The Trenchards had a very slight knowledge of that world 
 knovTn as 'the Arts' and they had (with the exception of 
 Henry) a very healthy distrust of artists as a race. 
 
 But young Seymour was another affair. He was a gentle- 
 man, with many relations who knew Trenchards and Faund- 
 ers; his novels were proper in sentiment and based always 
 upon certain agreeable moral axioms, as for instance "It is 
 better to be good than to be bad" and "Courage is the Great 
 
38 THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 Thing" and "Let us not despise others. They may have more 
 to say for themselves than we know." 
 
 It was wonderful, Mrs. Trenchard thought, that ajayone 
 so young should have discovered these things. Moreover 
 he was cheerful, would talk at any length about anything, and 
 was full of self-assurance. He was fat, and would soon be 
 fatter; he was nice to everyone on principle because "one 
 doesn't know how much a careless word may harm others." 
 Above all, he was 'jolly'. He proclaimed life splendid, 
 wished he could live to a thousand, thought that to be a novel- 
 ist was the luckiest thing in the world. Some people said 
 that what he really meant was "To be Seymour was the luck- 
 iest thing in the world" . . . but everyone has their enemies. 
 
 Henry was nervous about this afternoon because he felt — 
 and he could not have given his reasons — that Mark and Sey- 
 mour would not get on. He knew that if Mark disliked Sey- 
 mour he, Henry, would dislike Mark. Mark would be criticis- 
 ing the Trenchard taste — a dangerous thing to do. And, per- 
 haps, after all — ^he was not sure — ^he looked across the dark 
 intervening shadow into the light where Mark was sitting — 
 the fellow did look conceited, supercilious. !N"o one in the 
 world had the right to be so definitely at his ease. 
 
 There came in then Eocket and a maid with the tea, Kath- 
 erine, and finally Aunt Aggie with Harvey Seymour, 
 
 "I found Mr. Seymour in the Hall," she said, looking dis- 
 contentedly about her and shivering a little. "Standing in 
 the Hall." 
 
 Seymour was greeted and soon his cheerful laugh filled the 
 room. He was introduced to Mark. He was busy over tea. 
 "Sugar? Milk?" 
 
 "Wice sharp twang in the air, there is. Jolly weather. 
 I walked rJl the way from Knightsbridge. Delightful. 
 Oake? Bread and butter? Hello, Henry! You ought to 
 have walked with me — never enjoyed anything so much in my 
 life." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard's broad, impassive face was lighted with 
 
THE WINTEE AFTEENOOI^ 39 
 
 approval as a lantern is lit. She liked afternoon-tea and her 
 drawing-room and young cheerful Seymour and the books 
 behind the book-case and the ticking of the clock. A cosy 
 winter's afternoon in London! What could be pleasanter? 
 She sighed a comfortable, contented sigh. . . . 
 
 Mark was seized, as he sat there, with a drowsy torpor. 
 The fire seemed to draw from the room all scents that, like 
 memories, waited there for some compelling friendly warmth. 
 The room was close with more than the Trenchard protection 
 against the winter's day — it was packed with a conscious pres- 
 sure of all the things that the Trenchards had ever done in 
 that room, and Mrs. Trenchard sat motionless, placid, receiv- 
 ing these old things, encouraging them and distributing them. 
 Mark was aware that if he encouraged his drowsiness he 
 would very shortly acquiesce in and submit to — ^he knew not 
 what — and the necessity for battling against this acquiescence 
 irritated him so that it was almost as though everyone in the 
 room were subtly taking him captive and he would be lost be- 
 fore he was aware. Katherine, alone, quiet, full of repose, 
 saying very little, did not disturb him. It was exactly as 
 though all the other persons present were wishing him to 
 break into argument and contradiction because then they 
 could spring upon him. 
 
 His attention was, of course, directed to Seymour's opin- 
 ions, and he knew, before he heard them, that he would dis- 
 agree violently with them all. 
 
 They came, like the distant firing of guns, across the muf- 
 fled drowziness of the room. 
 
 "I assure you, Mrs. Trenchard. ... I assure you . . . 
 assure you. You wouldn't believe. . . . Well, of course, 
 I've heard people say so but I can't help disagreeing with 
 them. One may know very little about writing oneself — I 
 don't pretend I've got far — and yet have very distinct ideas 
 as to how the thing should be done. There's good work and 
 bad, you know — ^there's no getting over it. . . . 
 
 "But, my dear Henry . . . dear old chap ... I assure 
 
40 THE GKEE¥ MIEEOE 
 
 you. • But it's a question of Form. You take my word a 
 man's nothing without a sense of Form . . . Form . . . 
 Form. . . . Yes, of course, the French are the people. Now 
 the Eussians. . . . Tolstoi, Dostoevsky . , . Dostoevsky, 
 Mrs. Trenchard. Well, people spell him different ways. 
 You should read 'War and Peace'. Never read 'War and 
 Peace' ? Ah, you should and 'Crime and Punishment'. But 
 compare 'Crime and Punishment' with 'La maison Tel- 
 lier' . . . Maupassant — The Eussians aren't in it. But what 
 can you expect from a country like that ? I assure you. . . ." 
 
 Quitfe irresistibly, as though everyone in the room had said : 
 "There now. You've simply got to come in now", Mark was 
 drawn forward. He heard through the sleepy, clogged and 
 scented air his own voice. 
 
 "But there are all sorts of novels, aren't there, just as 
 there are all sorts of people? I don't see why everything 
 should be after the same pattern." 
 
 He was violently conscious then of Seymour's chin that 
 turned, slowly, irresistibly as the prow of a ship is turned, 
 towards him — a very remarkable chin for its size and 
 strength, jutting up and out, surprising, too, after the chubby 
 amiability of the rest of his face. At the same moment it 
 seemed to Mark that all the other chins in the room turned 
 towards him with stern emphasis. 
 
 A sharp litle dialogue followed then : Seymour was eager, 
 cheerful and good-humoured — patronising, too, perhaps, if 
 one is sensitive to such things. 
 
 "Quite so. Of course — of course. But you will admit, 
 won't you, that style matters, that the way a thing's done, the 
 way things are arranged, you know, count ?" 
 
 "I don't know anything about writing novels — I only know 
 about reading them. The literary, polished novel is one 
 sort of thing, I suppose. But there is also the novel with 
 plenty of real people and real things in it. If a novel's too 
 literary a plain man like myself doesn't find it real at all. I 
 prefer something careless and casual like life itself, with 
 
THE WINTER AFTEENOON 41 
 
 plenty of people -whom you get to know. . . ." Seymour 
 bent towards him, his chubby face like a very full bud ready 
 to burst with the eagerness of his amiable superiority. 
 
 "But you can't say that your Russians are real people — 
 come now. Take Dostoevsky — take him for a minute. Look 
 at them. Look at 'Les Ereres Karamazoff'. All as mad as 
 hatters — all of 'em — and no method at all — ^just chucked on 
 anyhow. After all, Literature is something." 
 
 "Yes, that's just what I complain of," said Mark, feeling 
 as though he were inside a ring of eager onlookers who were 
 all cheering his opponent. "You fellows all think literature's 
 the only thing. It's entirely unimportant beside real life. 
 If your book is like real life, why then it's interesting. If 
 it's like literature it's no good at all except to a critic or 
 two." 
 
 "And I suppose," cried Seymour, scornfully, his chin ris- 
 ing higher and higher, "that you'd say Dostoevsky's like real 
 life?" 
 
 "It is," said Mark, quietly, "if you know Russia." 
 
 "Well, I've never been there," Seymour admitted. "But 
 I've got a friend who has. He says that Russian fiction's 
 nothing like the real thing at all. That Russia's just like 
 anywhere else." 
 
 "Nonsense" — and Mark's voice was shaking — "Your 
 friend . . . rot — " He recovered himseK. "That's utterly 
 untrue," he said. 
 
 "I assure you — " Seymour began. 
 
 Then Mark forgot himself, his surroundings, his audience. 
 
 "Oh — go to Blazes !" he cried. "What do you know about 
 it ? You say yourself you've never been there. I've lived in 
 Moscow for years !" 
 
 There was then a tremendous silence, Mrs. Trenchard, 
 Aunt Aggie, Henry, all looked at Seymour as though they 
 said "Please, please, don't mind. It shall never happen 
 again." 
 
 Katherine looked at Mark. During that moment's silence 
 
42 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 the winter afternoon with its frost and clear skies, its fresh 
 colour and happy intimacies, seemed to beat about the house. 
 In Mark, the irritation that he had felt ever since Seymour's 
 sentence, seemed now to explode within him, like the bursting 
 of some thunder cloud. He was for a moment deluged, al- 
 most drowned by his impotent desire to make some scene, in 
 short, to fight, anything that would break the hot stuffy close- 
 ness of the air and let in the sharp crispness of the outer 
 world. 
 
 But the episode was at an end. Katherine closed it with : 
 "Tell Mr. Seymour some of those things that you were 
 telling us last night — about Moscow and Eussian life." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard's eyes, having concluded their work of 
 consoling Seymour, fastened themselves upon Mark, — ^watch- 
 ing like eyes behind closed windows; strangely in addition 
 to their conviction that some outrage had been committed 
 there was also a suspicion of fear — ^but they were the mild, 
 glazed eyes of a stupid although kindly woman. . . . 
 
 Mark that evening, going up to dress for dinner, thought 
 to himself, "I really can't stay here any longer. It isn't de- 
 cent, besides, they don't like me." He found, half in the 
 dusk, half in the moonlight of the landing-window Katherine, 
 looking for an instant before she went to her room, at the dark 
 Abbey-towers, the sky with the stars frosted over, it seemed, 
 by the coldness of the night, at the moon, faintly orange and 
 crisp against the night blue. 
 
 He stopped. "I'm sorry," he said abruptly, looking into 
 her eyes, very soft and mild but always with that lingering 
 humour behind their mildness. "I'm afraid I was rude to 
 that fellow this afternoon." 
 
 "Yes," she said, turning to him but -with her eyes still on 
 the black towers. "You were — but it would have no effect on 
 Mr. Seymour." 
 
 He felt, as he stood there, that he wished to explain that 
 he was not naturally so unpolished a barbarian. 
 
THE WINTEE AFTEENOON 43 
 
 "Eussia," he began, hesitating and looking at her almost 
 appealingly, "is a sore point with me. ,You can't tell — unless 
 you've lived there how it grows upon yon, holds you, and, at 
 last, begs you to stand up for it whenever it may be attacked. 
 And he didn't know — really he didn't — " 
 
 "You're taking it much too seriously," she said, laughing 
 at him, he felt. "No one thought that he did know. But 
 Mother likes him and he's Henry's friend. And we all 
 stick together as a family." 
 
 "I'm afraid your mother thought me abominable," he said, 
 looking up at her and looking away again. 
 
 "Mother's old-fashioned," Katherine answered. "So am I 
 — so are we all. We're an old-fashioned family. We've 
 never had anyone like you to stay with us before." 
 
 "It's abominable that I should stay on like this. I'll go 
 tO'morrow." 
 
 "Ko, don't do that. Eather loves having you. We all like 
 you — only we're a little afraid of your ways" — she moved 
 down the passage. "We're very good for you, I expect, and 
 I'm sure you're very good for us." She suddenly turned 
 back towards him, and dropping her voice, quite solemnly 
 said to him, "The great thing about as is that we're fond of 
 one another. That makes it all the harder for anyone from 
 outside. . . ." 
 
 "I'll tell you one thing," he said, carrying on her note of 
 confidence, "I like people to like me. I'm very foolish about 
 it. It's the chief thing I want." 
 
 "I like people to like me, too," Katherine answered, rais- 
 ing her voice and moving now definitely away from him. 
 "Why shouldn't one?" she ended. "Don't you be afraid, 
 Mr. Mark. It's all right." 
 
 He dressed hurriedly and came down to the drawing-room, 
 with , some thought in the back of his mind that he would, 
 throughout the evening, be the most charming person possi- 
 ble. He found, however, at once a check. . . . 
 
U THE GREEN MIEEOR 
 
 Under a full blaze of light Grandfather Trenchard and 
 Great Aunt Sarah were sitting, waiting for the others* The 
 old man, his silver buckles and white hair gleaming, sat, 
 perched high in his chair, one hand raised before the fire, 
 behind it the firelight shining as behind a faint screen. 
 
 Aunt Sarah, very stifF, upright and slim, was the priestess 
 before the Trenchard temple. They, both of them, gazed into 
 the fire. They did not turn their heads as Mark entered; 
 they had watched his entry in the Mirror. 
 
 He shouted Good-evening, but they did not hear him. He 
 sat down, began a sentence. 
 
 "Really a sharp touch in the air-^" then abandoned it, 
 seizing 'Blackwood' as a weapon of defence. Behind his 
 paper, he knew that their eyes were upon him. He felt them 
 peering into 'Blackwood's' cover ; they pierced the pages, they 
 struck him in the face. 
 
 There was complete silence in the room. The place was 
 thick with burning eyes. They were reflected, he felt, in 
 the Mirror, again and again. 
 
 "How they hate me!" he thought. 
 
CHAPTEK III 
 
 KATHBEINE 
 
 KATHEEIN"E TEENCHAED'S very earliest sense of 
 morality had been that there were God, the Trenehard'a 
 and the Devil — ^that the Devil vrished very much to win the 
 Trenchards over to His side, but that God assured the Tren- 
 chards that if only they behaved well He would not let them 
 go — and, for this, Troy had burnt, Carthage been razed to 
 the ground, proud kings driven from their thrones and hum- 
 bled to the dust, plague, pestilence, and famine had wrought 
 their worst. . . . 
 
 The Trenchards were, indeed, a tremendous family, and 
 it was little wonder that the Heavenly Powers should fight 
 for their alliance. In the county of Glebeshire, where Kath- 
 erine had spent all her early years, Trenchards ran like spid- 
 ers' webs, up and down the lanes and villages. 
 
 In Polchester, the Cathedral city, there were Canon 
 Trenchard and his family, old Colonel Trenchard, late of the 
 Indian army, the Trenchards of Polhaze and the Trenchards 
 of Eothin Place — all these in one small town. There were 
 Trenchards at Easselas and Trenchards (poor and rather un- 
 worthy Trenchards) at Clinton St. Mary. There was one 
 Trenchard (a truculent and gout-ridden bachelor) at Pol- 
 wint — all of these in the immediate neighbourhood of Kather- 
 ine's home. Of course they were important to God. . . . 
 
 In that old house in the village of Garth in Eoselands, 
 where Katherine had been born, an old house np to its very 
 chin in deep green fields, an old house wedded, hundreds of 
 years ago to the Trenchard Spirit, nor likely now ever to be 
 divorced from it, Katherine had learnt to adore with her 
 
 45 
 
46 THE GEEEN" MIEROR 
 
 body, her soul and her spirit Glebeshire and everything that 
 belonged to that fair county, but to adore it, also, because it 
 was so completely, so devoutly, the Trenchard heritage. So 
 full were her early prayers of petitions for successive Tren- 
 chards. "God bless Father, Mother, Henry, Millie, Vincent, 
 Uncle Tim, TJncle Wobert, Auntie Agnes, Auntie Betty, 
 Cousin Woger, Cousin Wilfrid, Cousin Alice, etc., etc.," that, 
 did it ever come to a petition for someone unhappily not a 
 Trenchard the prayer was offered with a little hesitating 
 apology. For a long while Katherine thought that when 
 Missionaries were sent to gather in the heathen they were 
 going out on the divine mission of driving all strangers into 
 the Trenchard fold. 
 
 Not to be a Trenchard was to be a nigger or a Chinaman. 
 
 And here I would remark with all possible emphasis that 
 Katherine was never taught that it was a fine and a mighty 
 thing to be a Trenchard. No Trenchard had ever, since time 
 began, considered his position any more than the stars, the 
 moon and the sun consider theirs. If you were a Trenchard 
 you did not think about it at all. The whole Trenchard 
 world with all its ramifications, its great men and its small 
 men, its dignitaries, its houses, its Castles, its pleasure-resorts, 
 its Foreign Baths, its Theatres, its Shooting, its Churches, 
 its Politics, its Foods and Drinks, its Patriotisms and Chari- 
 ties, its Seas, its lakes and rivers, its Morality, its angers, its 
 pleasures, its regrets, its God and its Devil, the whole Tren- 
 chard world was a thing intact, preserved, ancient, immov- 
 able. It took its stand on its History, its family affection, its 
 country Places, its loyal Conservatism, its obstinacy and its 
 stupidity. Utterly unlike such a family as the Beaminsters 
 with their preposterous old Duchess (now so happily dead) 
 it had no need whatever for any self-assertion, any struggle 
 with anything, any fear of invasion. From Without noth- 
 ing could attack its impregnability. From Within ? Well, 
 perhaps, presently . . . but no Trenchard was aware of that. 
 
 A young Beaminster learnt from the instant of its break- 
 
KATHEEINE 47 
 
 ing the Egg that it must at once set about showing the world 
 that it was a Beaminster. 
 
 A young Trenehard never considered for a single second 
 that he was supposed to show anyone anything. He was . . . 
 that was enough. 
 
 The Trenehards had never been conceited people — conceit 
 implied too definite a recog-nition of other people's position 
 and abilities. To be conceited you must think yourself abler, 
 more interesting, richer, handsomer than someone else — and 
 no Trenehard ever realised anyone else. 
 
 From the security of their Mirror they looked out upon 
 the world. Only from inside the House could the Mirror 
 be broken — surely then they were secure. . . . 
 
 Katherine was always a very modest little girl, but her 
 modesty had never led to any awkward shyness or embarrass- 
 ment; she simply did not consider herself at all. She had 
 been, in the early days, a funny little figure, 'dumpy', with 
 serious brown eyes and a quiet voice. She was never in the 
 way, better at home than at parties, she never 'struck' strang- 
 ers, as did her younger sister Millicent, 'who would be bril- 
 liant when she grew up' ; Katherine would never be brilliant. 
 
 She had, from the first, a capacity for doing things for 
 the family without atracting attention — and what more can 
 selfish people desire ? She was soon busy and occupied — ^nec- 
 essary to the whole house. She very seldom laughed, but her 
 eyes twinkled and she was excellent company did anyone care 
 for her opinion. Only Uncle Tim of them all realised her 
 intelligence — ^for the rest of the family she was slow 'but a 
 dear.' 
 
 It was in her capacity of 'a dear' that she finally stood 
 to all of them. They adored because they knew that they 
 never disappointed her. Although they had, none of them 
 (save Henry) any concern as to their especial failings or 
 weaknesses, it was nevertheless comforting to know that they 
 might put anything upon Katherine, behave to her always 
 in the way that was easiest to them, and that she would al- 
 
48 THE GREEN MIEEOR 
 
 ways think them splendid. They would not in public places 
 put Katherine forward as a Fine Trenchard. Millicent 
 would be a Eine Trenchard one day — ^but at home, in their 
 cosy fortified security, there was no one like Katherine. 
 
 Katherine was perfect to them all. . . . IsTot that she did 
 not sometimes have her tempers, her impatiences, her 'moods'. 
 They were puzzled when she was short with them, when she 
 would not respond to their invitations for compliments, when 
 she seemed to have some horrible doubt as to whether the 
 Trenchard world was, after all, the only one — ^but they waited 
 for the 'mood' to pass, and it passed very swiftly ... it is 
 noteworthy however that never, in spite of their devotion to 
 her, did they during these crises, attempt to help or console 
 her. She stood alone, and at the back of their love there 
 was always some shadow of fear. 
 
 Very happy had her early years been. The house at Garth, 
 rambling, untidy, intimate, with the croquet-lawn in front 
 of it, the little wild wood at the right of it, the high sheltering 
 green fields at the left of it, the old church Tower above the 
 little wood, the primroses atid cuckoos, the owls and moon- 
 light nights, the hot summer days with the hum of the reap- 
 ing machine, the taste of crushed strawberries, the dim- 
 sleepy voices from the village street. This was a world ! The 
 Old House had never changed — as she had grown it had 
 dwindled perhaps, but ever, as the years passed, had enclosed 
 more securely the passion of her heart. She saw herself 
 standing in the dim passage that led to her bedroom, a tiny, 
 stumpy figure. She could hear the voice of Miss Mayer, the 
 governess, "JSTow, Katherine — come along, please — ^Millie's in 
 bed." 
 
 She could smell the talloW of the candle, could hear the 
 owls' hoot from the dark window, could smell apples and roses 
 somewhere, could remembei' how intensely she had caught 
 that moment and held it, and carried it, for ever and ever, 
 away with her. Yes, that was a World ! 
 
 And, beyond the House, there was the Country. Every 
 
KATHEEINE 49 
 
 lane and wood and hill did she know. Those thick, deep, 
 scented lanes that only Glebeshire in all the world can pro- 
 vide — the road to Kafiel, running, at first, with only a mo- 
 ment's peep now and again of the sea, then plunging with dra- 
 matic fling, suddenly down into the heart of the Valley. 
 There was Kafiel-^-Eafiel, the only Cove in all the world! 
 How as the dog-cart bumped down that precipice had her 
 heart been in her mouth, how magical the square harbour, 
 the black Peak, the little wall of white-washed cottages, after 
 that defeated danger! 
 
 There were all the other places — St. Lowe and Polwint, 
 Polchester with the Cathedral and the Orchards and the cob- 
 bled streets, Grane Woods and Grane Castle, Kothin Woods, 
 Roche St. Mary, Moore with the seadunes and the mists and 
 rabbits, the Loroe river and the fishing-boats at Pelynt — 
 world of perfect beauty and simplicity, days stained with the 
 high glory of romance. And this was Trenchard, Country ! 
 
 London, coming to her afterwards, had, at first, been hated, 
 only gradually accepted. She grew slowly fond of the old 
 Westminster house, but the crowds about her confused and 
 perplexed her. She was aware now that, perhaps, there were 
 those in the world who cared nothing for the Trenchards. 
 She flew from such confusion the more intensely into her de- 
 votion to her ovm people. It was as though, at the very 
 first peep of the world, she had said to herself — "l^o. That 
 is not my place. They have no need of me nor I of them. 
 They would change me. I do not wish to be changed." 
 
 She was aware of her own duty the more strongly because 
 her younger sister, Millicent, had taken always the opposite 
 outlook. Millicent, pretty, slender, witty, attractive, had al- 
 ways found home (even Garth and its glories) 'a little slow'. 
 
 The family had always understood that it was natural 
 for Millicent to find them slow — ^no pains had been spared 
 over Millicent's development. She had just finished her edu- 
 cation in Paris and was coming back to London. Always 
 
50 THE GEEEN MIEKOK 
 
 future plans now were discussed with a view to finding amuse- 
 ment for Millicent. "Millie will be here then". "I wonder 
 whether Millie will like him." "You'd better accept it. 
 Millie will like to go." 
 
 Beyond all the family Katherine loved Millicent. It had 
 begun when Millie had been very small and Katherine had 
 mothered her, — it had continued when Millie, growing older, 
 had plunged into scrapes and demanded succour out of them 
 again — it had continued when Katherine and Millie had de- 
 veloped under a cloud of governesses, Millie brilliant and 
 idle, Katherine plodding and unenterprising, it had continued 
 when Millie, two years ago, had gone to Paris, had written 
 amusing, affectionate letters, had told "Darling Katie that 
 there was no one, no one, no one, anywhere in all the world, 
 to touch her — ^Mme. Eoget was a pig. Mile. Lefresne, who 
 taught music, an angel, etc. etc." 
 
 ISTow Millicent was coming home. . . . Katherine was 
 aware that from none of the family did she receive more gen- 
 uine affection than from Henry, and yet, strangely, she was 
 often irritated with Henry. She wished that he were more 
 tidy, less rude to strangers, less impulsive, more of a comfort 
 and less of an anxiety to his father and mother. She was 
 severe sometimes to Henry and then was sorry afterwards. 
 She could 'do anything with him,' and wished therefore that 
 he had more backbone. Of them all she understood her 
 mother the best. She was very like her mother in many 
 ways ; she understood that inability to put things into words, 
 that mild conviction that 'everything was all right', a con- 
 viction to be obtained only by shutting your eyes very tight. 
 She understood, too, as no other member of the family under- 
 stood, that Mrs. Trenchard's devotion to her children was a 
 passion as fierce, as unresting, as profound, and, possibly, 
 as devastating as any religion, any superstition, any obses- 
 sion. It was an obsession. It had in it all the glories, the 
 dangers, the relentless ruthlessness of an overwhelming 'idee 
 
KATHEEINE 51 
 
 fixe' — that 'idee fixe' which is at every human being's heart, 
 and that, often undiscovered, unsuspected, transforms the 
 world. . . . Katherine knew this. 
 
 For her father she had the comradeship of a play-fellow. 
 She could not take her father very seriously — ^he did not wish 
 that she should. She loved him always and he loved her in 
 his 'off' moments, when he was not thinking of himself and 
 his early Nineteenth Century — if he had any time that he 
 could spare from himself it was given to her. She thought 
 it quite natural that his spare time should be slender. 
 
 And, of them all, no one enquired as to her own heart, her 
 thoughts, her wonders, her alarms and suspicions, her happi- 
 ness, her desires. She would not if she could help it, enquire 
 herself about these things — ^but sometimes she was aware that 
 life would not for ever, leave her alone. She had one friend 
 who was not a Trenchard, and only one. This was Lady 
 Seddon, who had been before her marriage a Beaminster 
 and grand-daughter of the old Duchess of Wrexe. Rachel 
 Beaminster had married Roddy Seddon. Shortly after their 
 marriage he had been flung from his horse, and from that 
 time had been always upon his back — it would always be so 
 with him. They had one child — a boy of two — and they 
 lived in a little house in Regent's Park. 
 
 That friendship had been of Rachel Seddon's making. She 
 had driven herself in upon Katherine and, offering her baby 
 as a reward, had lured Katherine into her company — ^but 
 even to her, Katherine had not surrendered herself. Rachel 
 Seddon was a Beaminster, and although the Beaminster 
 power was now broken, about that family there lingered 
 traditions of greatness and autocratic splendour. ISTeither 
 Rachel nor Roddy Seddon was autocratic, but Katherine 
 would not trust herself entirely to them. It was as though 
 she was afraid that by doing so she would be disloyal to her 
 own people. 
 
 This, then, was Katherine's world. 
 
52 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 Upon the morning of the November day when Millicent 
 was to make, upon London, her triumphal descent from Paris, 
 Katherine found herself, suddenly, in the middle of Wig- 
 more Street, uneasy — ^Wi^nore Street was mild, pleasantly 
 lit with a low and dim November sun, humming with a little 
 stir and scatter of voices and traffic, opening and shutting its 
 doors, watching a drove of clouds, like shredded paper, sail 
 through the faint blue sky above it. Katherine stopped for 
 an instant to consider this strange uneasiness. She looked 
 about her, thought, and decided that she would go and see 
 Eachel Seddon, 
 
 Crossing a little finger of the Park, she stopped again. 
 The shredded clouds were dancing now amongst the bare 
 stiff branches of the trees and a grey mist, climbing over the 
 expanse of green, spread like thin gauze from end to end of 
 the rising ground. A little soughing wind seemed to creep 
 about her feet. She stopped again and stood there, a solitary 
 figure. For, perhaps, the first time in her life she consid- 
 ered herseK. She knew, as she stood there, that she had for 
 several days been aware of this uneasiness. It was as though 
 someone had been knocking at a door for admittance. She 
 had heard the knocking, but had refused to move, saying to 
 herself that soon the sound would cease. But it had not 
 ceased, it was more clamorous than before. She was fright- 
 ened — ^why? Was it Millie's return? She knew that it 
 was not that. ... 
 
 Standing there, in the still Park, she seemed to hear some- 
 thing say to her "You are to be caught up. . . . Life is com- 
 ing to you. . . . You cannot avoid it. , . . You are caught." 
 
 She might have cried to the sky, the trees, the little pools 
 of dead and sodden leaves "What is it? What is it? Do 
 you hear anything?" A scent of rotting leaves and damp 
 mist, brought by the little wind, invaded her. The pale sun 
 struck through the moist air and smiled down, a globe of 
 gold, upon her. There came to her that moment of revela- 
 tion that tells human beings that, fine as they may think them- 
 
KATHERINE 53 
 
 eelves, full of courage and independent of all men, Life, if it 
 exert but the softest pressure, may be too strong for them — 
 the armies of God, with their certain purpose, are revealed 
 for a brief instant entrenched amongst the clouds. "If we 
 crush you what matters it to Us ?" 
 
 She hurried on her way, longing for the sound of friendly 
 voices, and, when she found Eachel Seddon with her son in 
 the nursery, the fire, the warm colours, the absurd rocking- 
 horse, armies of glittering soldiers encamped upon the red 
 carpet, the buzz of a sewing-machine in the next room, above 
 all, Michael Seddon's golden head and Rachel's dark one, 
 she could have cried aloud her relief. 
 
 Eachel, tall and slender, dark eyes and hair from a Rus- 
 sian mother, restless, impetuous, flinging her hands out in 
 some gesture, catching her boy, suddenly, and kissing him, 
 breaking off in the heart of one sentence to begin another, was 
 a strange contrast to Katherine's repose. Soon Katherine 
 was on the floor and Michael, who loved her, had his arms 
 about her neck. 
 
 "That's how she ought always to be," thought Rachel, 
 looking down at her. "How could anyone ever say that she 
 was plain! Roddy thinks her so. . . . He should see her 
 now." 
 
 Katherine looked up. "Rachel," she said, "I was fright- 
 ened just now in the Park. I don't know why — I almost 
 ran here. I'm despetately ashamed of myself." 
 
 "You— frightened?" 
 
 "Yes, I thought someone was coming out from behind a 
 tree to slip a bag over my head, I — Oh ! I don't know what 
 I thought. . • ." 
 
 Then she would say no more. She played with Michael 
 and tried to tell him a story. Here she was, as she had 
 often been before, unsuccessful. She was too serious over 
 the business, would not risk improbabilities and wanted to 
 emphasise the moral. She was not sufficiently absurd . . . 
 gravely her eyes sought for a decent ending. She looked up 
 
54 THE GREEN MIREOE 
 
 and found that Michael had left her and was moving his 
 soldiers. 
 
 The sun, slanting in, struck lines of silver and gold from 
 their armour across the floor. 
 
 As she got up and stood there, patting herself to see 
 whether she were tidy, her laughing eyes caught Rachel. 
 
 "There ! You see ! I'm no good at that! — ^no imagination 
 — father's always said so." 
 
 "Katie," Rachel said, catching her soft, warm, almost 
 chubby hand, "there's nothing the matter, is there ?" 
 
 "The matter ! No ! what should there be ?" 
 
 "It's so odd for you to say what you did just now. And I 
 think — I don't know — ^you're different to-day." 
 
 "No, I'm not." Katherine looked at her. "It was the 
 damp Park, all the bare trees and nobody about." 
 
 "But it's so unlike you to think of damp Parks and bare 
 trees." 
 
 "Well — perhaps it's because Millie's coming back from 
 Paris this afternoon. I shall be terrified of her — so smart 
 she'll be!" 
 
 "Give her my love and bring her here as soon as she'll come. 
 She'll amuse Roddy." She paused, searching in Katherine's 
 brown eyes — "Katie — if there's ever — anything — aji^/thing — 
 I can help you in or advise you — or do for you. You know, 
 don't you? . . . You always will be so independent. You 
 don't tell me things. Remember I've had my times — ^worse 
 times than you guess." 
 
 Katherine kissed her. "It's all right, Rachel, there's noth- 
 ing the matter — except that . . . no, nothing at all. Good- 
 bye, dear. Don't come down. I'll bring Millie over." 
 
 She was gone — Rachel watched her demure, careful prog- 
 ress until she was caught and hidden by the trees. 
 
 There had been a little truth in her words when she told 
 Rachel that she dreaded Millie's arrival. If she had ever, 
 in the regular routine of her happy and busy life, looked for- 
 
KATHEEINE 55 
 
 ■ward to any event as dramatic or a crisis, that moment had 
 always been Millie's return from Paris. Millie had been 
 happy and affectionate at home, but nevertheless a critic. 
 She had never quite seen Life from inside the Trenchard 
 Mirror nor had she quite seen it from the vision of family 
 affection. She loved them all — ^but she found them slow, un- 
 adventurous, behind the times. That was the awful thing — 
 'behind the times' — a terrible accusation. If Millie had felt 
 that (two years ago) how vehemently would she feel it now ! 
 . • . and Katherine knew that as she considered this criticism 
 of Millie's she was angry and indignant and warm with an 
 urgent, passionate desire to protect her mother from any 
 criticism whatever. "Behind the times", indeed — Millie had 
 better not. . . . And then she remembered the depth of her 
 love for Millie . . . nothing should interfere with that. 
 
 She was in her bedroom, after luncheon, considering these 
 things when there was a tap on the door and Aunt Betty 
 entered. In her peep round the door to see whether she 
 might come in, in the friendly, hopeful, reassuring butterfly 
 of a smile that hovered about her lips, in the little stir of her 
 clothes as she moved as though every article of attire was 
 assuring her that it was still there, and was very happy to 
 be there too, there was the whole of her history written. 
 
 It might be said that she had no history, but to such an 
 assertion, did she hear it, she would offer an indignant denial, 
 could she be indignant about anything. She had been per- 
 fectly, admirably happy for fifty-six years, and that, after 
 all, is to have a history to some purpose. She had nothing 
 whatever to be happy about. She had no money at all, and 
 had never had any. She had, for a great number of years, 
 been compelled to live upon her brother's charity, and she 
 was the most independent soul alive. In strict truth she had, 
 of her ovm, thirty pounds a year, and the things that she 
 did with those thirty pounds are outside and beyond any cal- 
 culation. "There's always Tny money, George," she would 
 say when her brother had gloomy forebodings about invest- 
 
56 THE GEEEN MIKEOK 
 
 • ments. She lived, in fact, a minute, engrossing, adventurous, 
 flaming life of her own, and the flame, the colour, the fire 
 were drawn from her own unconquerable soul. Tn her bed- 
 room — faded wall-paper, faded carpet, faded chairs because 
 no one ever thought of her needs — she had certain possessions, 
 a cedar-wood box, a row of books, a water-colour sketch, pho- 
 tographs of the family (Katherine 3^, Vincent 8 years old, 
 Millicent 10 years, etc., etc.), a model of the Albert Memo- 
 rial done in pink wax, a brass tray from India, some mother- 
 of-pearl shells, two china cats given to her, one Christmas day, 
 by a very young Katherine — those possessions were her world. 
 She felt that within that bedroom everything was her own. 
 She would allow no other pictures on the wall, no books not 
 hers in the bookcase. One day when she had some of the 
 thirty pounds 'to play with' she would cover the chairs with 
 beautiful cretonne and she would buy a rug — so she had said 
 for the last twenty years. She withdrew, when life was tire- 
 some, when her sister Aggie was difficult, when there were 
 quarrels in the family (she hated quarrels) into this world 
 of her own, and would suddenly break out in the midst of 
 a conversation with "I might have the bed tJiere" or "There 
 isn't really room for another chair if I had one," and then 
 would make a little noise like a top, 'hum, hum, hum'. In 
 defiance of her serenity she could assume a terrible rage and 
 indignation were any member of the family attacked. Her 
 brother George and Katherine she loved best — she did not, 
 although she would never acknowledge it, care greatly for 
 Henry — Millie she admired and feared. She had only to 
 think of Katherine and her eyes would fill with tears , . . 
 she was a very fount of sentiment. She had suffered much 
 from her sister Agues, but she had learnt now the art of 
 withdrawal so perfectly that she could escape at any time 
 without her sister being aware of it. "You aren't listening, 
 Elizabeth," Agnes would cry suspiciously. 
 
 "Yes, dear Aggie, I am. I don't think things as bad as 
 you say. For instance,'' and a wonderful recovery would re^ 
 
KATHERINE 57 
 
 assure suspicion. The real core of her life was Katherine 
 and Katharine's future. There was to be, one day, for Kath- 
 erine a most splendid suitor — a Lord, perhaps, a great poli- 
 tician, a great Churchman, she did not know — ^but someone 
 who would realise first Katherine's perfection, secondly the 
 honour of being made a Trenchard, thirdly the necessity of 
 spending all his life in the noble work of making Katherine 
 happy. "I shall miss her — ^we shall all miss her — ^but wo 
 mustn't be selfish — -hum, hum. — she'll haTe one to stay, per- 
 haps." 
 
 Very often she came peeping into Katherine's room as she 
 came to-day. She would take Katherine into her confidence ; 
 she would offer her opinion about the events of the hour. 
 She took her stand in the middle of the room, giving little 
 excited pecks at one of her fingers, the one that suffered most 
 from her needle when she sewed, a finger scarred now by a 
 million little stabs. So she stood now, and Katherine, sitting 
 on the edge of her bed, looked up at her. 
 
 "I came in, my dear, because you hardly ate any limcheon. 
 I watched you — ^hardly any at all." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right. Aunt -Betty. I wasn't hungry." 
 
 "I don't like your not eating — ^himi, hum. IsTo, I don't. 
 Mother always used to say 'Don't Eat, can't Beat' — of mili- 
 tary forces, you know, dear, or anything that had a hard 
 task to perform." 
 
 She looked about her with an aimless and rather nervous 
 smile, which meant that she had something to say but was 
 afraid of it. 
 
 "Katie, dear, do you know ?" (This with an air of intense 
 importance.) "I don't think I'll show Millie my room — not 
 just at first at any rate." 
 
 "Oh, but you must. She'll be longing to see it." 
 
 "Well, but — ^will she, do you think? Oh, no, she won't, 
 not after Paris. . . . Paris is so grand. Perhaps, later I 
 will — show it her. I mean when she's more accustomed to the 
 old life." 
 
58 THE GEEEN MIEEOK 
 
 But even now it was plain that she had not delivered her 
 purpose. It was imprisoned, like a mouse in a very woolly 
 moth-eaten trap. Soon there will be a click and out it will 
 come! 
 
 Her wandering, soft, kindly eyes looked gravely upon 
 Katherine. 
 
 "My dear, I wish you'd eaten something. Only a little 
 mince and two of those cheese biscuits. . . . Katie dear, did 
 you hear what Mr, Mark said at luncheon about leaving us ?" 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Betty." 
 
 "He said he'd got somewhere from next Monday. Poor 
 young man — not so young now either — ^but he seems lonely. 
 I'm glad we were able to be kind to him at first. Katie, I 
 have an 'Idea'." Impossible to give any picture of the eager- 
 ness with which now her eyes were lit and her small body 
 strung on a tiptoe of excitement, "I have an idea. ... I 
 think he and Millie — I think he might be just the man for 
 Millie — adventurous, exciting, knowing so much about Eus- 
 sia-p-and, after Paris, she'll want someone like that." 
 
 Katherine turned slowly away from her aunt, gazing 
 vaguely, absent-mindedly, as though she had not been think- 
 ing of the old lady's words. 
 
 "Ohj no, Aunt Betty. I don't think so — ^What an old 
 matchmaker you are !" 
 
 "I love to see people happy. And I like him. I think 
 it's a pity he's going on Monday. He's been here a fortnight 
 now. I like him. He's polite to me, and when a young man 
 is polite to an old woman like me that says a lot — ^hum, hum' 
 — ^yes, it does. But your mother doesn't like him— I wonder 
 why not — ^but she doesn't. I always know when your mother 
 doesn't like anybody. Millie will. ... I know she will. 
 But I don't think I'll show her my things — ^not at first, not 
 right after Paris." 
 
 "Perhaps it would be better to wait a little." Katherine 
 went and sat in front of her mirror. She touched the things 
 on her dressing-table. 
 
KATHEEINE 59 
 
 "I'll go now, dear — I can't bear to think of you only 
 having had that mince. My eye will be on you at dinner, 
 mind." 
 
 She peeped out of the door, looked about her with her 
 bright little eyes, then whisked away. 
 
 Katherine sat before her glass, gazing. <But not at her- 
 self. She did not know whose face it was that stared back 
 at her. 
 
 Millie's entrance that afternoon was very fine. There were 
 there to receive her, her grandfather, her great-aunt (in 
 white boa), her father, her mother, Henry, Katherine, Aunt 
 Betty and Aggie, Philip Mark, Esq. She stood in the door- 
 way of the drawing-room radiant with health, good spirits 
 and happiness at being home again — all Trenchards always 
 are. Like Katherine in the humour of her eyes, otherwise 
 not at all — ^tall, dark, slim in black and white, a little black 
 hat with a blue feather, a hat that was over one ear. She 
 had her grandfather's air of clear, finely cut distinction, but 
 so alive, so vibrating with health was she that her entrance 
 extinguished the family awaiting her as you blow out a 
 candle. Her cheeks were flushed, her black eyes sparkled, 
 her arms were outstretched to all of them. 
 
 "Here I am!" she seemed to say, "I'm sure you've for- 
 gotten in all this time how delightful I am! — and indeed 
 I'm ever so much more delightful than I was before I went 
 away. In any case here I am, ready to love you all. And 
 there's no family in the world I'd be gladder to be a member 
 of than this !" 
 
 Her sharp, merry, inquisitive eyes sought them all out — 
 sought out the old room with all the things in it exactly as 
 she had always known them, and then the people — one after 
 the other — all of them exactly as she had always known 
 them. . . . 
 
 She was introduced to Philip Mark. Her eyes lingered up 
 him, for an instant, mischievously, almost interrogatively. 
 
60 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 To him she seemed to say: "What on earth are you doing 
 inside liere ? How did you ever get in ? And what are you 
 here for?" She seemed to say to him: "You and I — ^we 
 know more than these others here — ^but just because of that 
 we're not half so nice." 
 
 "Well, Henry," she said, and he felt that she was laughing 
 at him and blushed. He knew that his socks were hanging 
 loosely. He had lost one of his suspenders. 
 
 "Well, Millie," he answered, and thought how beautiful 
 she was. 
 
 It was one of the Trenchard axioms that anyone who 
 crossed the English Channel conferred a favour — it was nice 
 of them to go, as though one visited a hospital or asked a poor 
 relation to stay. Paris must have been glad to have had 
 Millie — it must have been very gay for Paris — and that not 
 because Millie was very wonderful, but simply because Paris 
 wasn't English. 
 
 "It must be nice to be home again, Millie dear/' said Mrs. 
 Trenchard comfortably. 
 
 Millie laughed and for a moment her eyes flashed across 
 at Philip Mark, but he was looking at Katherine. She 
 looked round upon them all, then, as though she were won- 
 dering how, after all, things were going to be now that she 
 had come home 'for good' — now that it would be always and 
 always — ^well, perhaps not always. She looked again at 
 Philip Mark and liked him. She surrendered herself then to 
 the dip and splash and sparkle of the family waters of affec- 
 tion. They deluged and overwhelmed her. Her old grand- 
 father and the great-aunt sat silently there, watching, with 
 their bird-like eyes, everything, but even upon their grim 
 features there were furrowed smiles. 
 
 "And the crossing was really all right?" "The trees in 
 the Park were blowing rather. . . ." "And so, Milly deaf, 
 I said you'd go. I promised for you. But you can get out 
 of it as easily as anything. . . ." 
 
 "You must have been sorry, as it was the last time, but 
 
KATHERINE 61 
 
 jqxl'H be aUe to go back later on and see them. . . ." 
 
 And her father. "Well, they've had her long enough, and 
 now it's our turn for a bit. She's been spoiled there. . . . 
 She won't get any spoiling here. . . ." 
 
 He roared with laughter, flinging his head back, coming 
 over and catching Millie's head between his hands, laughing 
 above her own laughing eyes. Henry watched them, his 
 father cynically, his sister devotedly. He was always em- 
 barrassed by the family demonstrations, and he felt it the 
 more embarrassing now because there was a stranger in their 
 midst. Philip was Just the man to think this all odd. . • . 
 Eut Henry was anxious about the family behaviour simply 
 because he was devoted to the family, not at all because he 
 thought himself superior to it. 
 
 Then Milly tore herself away from them all. She looked 
 at Katherine. 
 
 "I'm going up to my room. Katy, come up and help 
 
 "I'd better come and help you, dear," said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 "There's sure to be a mess. . . ." 
 
 But Milly shook her head vsdth a slight gesture of im- 
 patience. "JSTo, no. Mother . . . Katy and I will manage." 
 
 "Hilda will do everything if — " 
 
 "'No, I want to show Katy things. . . ." 
 
 They went. 
 
 When the two girls were alone in the bedroom and the 
 door was closed Milly flung her arms round Katherine and 
 kissed her again and again. They stood there, in the silence, 
 wrapped in one another's arms. 
 
 "Katy — darling — if you only knew, all this time, how 
 I've longed for you. Sometimes I thought 'I must — I must 
 —see her' — that's you. I'd run away — I'd do anything. I 
 don't think anything matters now that I've got you again-^ 
 and I've so much to tell you !" 
 
 They sat down on the bed, Millie vibrating with the ex- 
 citement of her wonderful experiences, Katherine quiet, but 
 
62 THE GEEEN" MIEEOE 
 
 ■with one hand pressing Millie's and her eyes staring into 
 distance. 
 
 Suddenly Millie stopped. 
 
 "Katie, dear, who's this man ?" 
 
 "Whatman?" 
 
 "The nice-looking man I saw downstairs." 
 
 "Oh, he's a Mr. Mark. Son of a great friend of father's. 
 He's lived in Eussia — ^Moscow — for years. He came in by 
 mistake one night in a fog and found that ours was the house 
 he was coming to next day — ^then Father asked him to stay — " 
 
 "Do you like him?" 
 
 "Yes. He's very nice." 
 
 "He looks nice." 
 
 Milly went on again with her reminiscences. Katherine, 
 saying only a word now and then, listened. 
 
 Then, exactly as though she had caught some unexpected 
 sound, Milly broke off again. 
 
 "Katy— Katy." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You're different, something's happraied to you." 
 
 "My dear ! — ^nothing, of course." 
 
 "Yes, something has. — Something . . . Katy!" And 
 here Milly flung her arms again about her sister and stared 
 into her eyes. "You're in love with someone." 
 
 But Katherine laughed. "That's Paris, Milly dear — Paris 
 —Paris." 
 
 "It isn't. It isn't. It's you. There is someone. Katy, 
 darling, tell me — ^you've always told me everything: who is 
 he? tell me." 
 
 Katherine drew herself away from Milly's embrace, then 
 turned round, looking at her sister. Then she caught her 
 and kissed her with a sudden urgent passion. "There's no 
 one, of course there's no one. I'm the old maid of the fam- 
 ily. You know we, long ago, decided that. I'm not . . ." 
 she broke off, laughed, got up from the bed. She looked at 
 Milly as though she were setting, subduing some thoughts 
 
KATHERINE 63 
 
 in her mind. "I'm just the same, Milly. You're different, of 
 course." 
 
 At a sudden sound both the girls looked up. Their mother 
 stood in the doorway, with her placidity, her mild affection ; 
 she looked about the room. 
 
 "I had to come, my dears, to see how you were getting 
 on." She moved forward slowly towards them. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE POEEST 
 
 PAET of a letter that Philip Mark wrote to his friend : — 
 "... I couldn't stay any longer. They'd had me 
 there a fortnight and then one of the daughters came home 
 from being 'finished' in Paris, so that they've really no room 
 for strangers. I've moved here — ^not very far av^ay — ^three 
 furnished rooms in an upper part in a small street off Vic- 
 toria Street. It's quiet with an amazing quietness consider- 
 ing its closeness to all the rattle. The Eoman Catholic Cathe- 
 dral is just round the corner — hideous to look at, but it's nice 
 inside. There's a low little pub. opposite that reminds me 
 comfortably of one of our beloved 'Trakteer' — ^you see I'm 
 sentimental about Moscow already — ^more so every day. 
 
 "I've so much to tell you, and yet it comes down to one 
 very simple thing. I've found, I believe, already the very 
 soul I set out to find, set out with yours and Anna's bless- 
 ing, remember. You mayn't tell her yet. It's too soon and 
 it may so easily come to nothing, but I do believe that if I'd 
 searched England through and through for many years I 
 could never have found anyone so — ^so — exactly what I need. 
 You must have guessed in that very first letter that it had^ 
 even then, begun. It began from the instant that I saw her — 
 it seems to me now to be as deeply seated in me as my own 
 soul itself. But you know that at the root of everything is my 
 own distrust in myself. Perhaps if I had never gone to Rus- 
 sia I should have had more confidence, but that country, as I 
 see it now, stirs always through the hearts of its lovers, ques- 
 tions about everything in heaven or earth and then tells one 
 at the end that nothing matters. And the Englishman that 
 
 64 
 
THE FOEEST 65 
 
 is in me has always fouglit that distrust, has called it senti- 
 mental, feeble, and then again I've caught back the supersti- 
 tion and the wonder. In Russia one's so close to God and the 
 Devil — in England there is business and common-sense. Be- 
 tween the two I'm pretty useless. If you had once seen Eath- 
 erine you'd know why she seems to me a refuge from all that 
 I've been fighting with Anna for so long. She's clear and 
 true as steel — so quiet, so sure, so much better and finer than 
 myself that I feel that I'm the most selfish hound in the 
 world to dream of attaching her to me. Mind you, I don't 
 know at present that she's interested; she's so young and 
 ignorant in so many ways, with all her calm common-sense, 
 that I'm terrified of alarming her, and if she doesn't care for 
 me I'll never disturb her — never. But if she should — ^well, 
 then, I believe that I can make her happy — I know myself 
 by now. I've left my Moscow seK behind me just as Anna 
 said that I must. There's nothing stranger than the way 
 that Anna foretold it all. That night when she shewed me 
 that I must go she drew a picture of the kind of woman whom 
 I must find. She had never been to England, she had only, 
 in all her life, seen one or two Englishwomen, but she knew, 
 she knew absolutely. It's as though she had seen Katherine 
 in her dreams. . . . 
 
 '^ut I'm talking with absurd assurance. Putting Kath- 
 erine entirely aside there is all the family to deal with. Tren- 
 chard himself likes me — Mrs. Trenchard hates me. That's 
 not a bit too strong, and the strange thing is that there's 
 no reason at all for it that I can see, nor have we been, either 
 of us, from the beginning anything but most friendly to one 
 another. If she suspected that I was in love with Katherine 
 I might understand it, but that is impossible. There has been 
 nothing, I swear, to give anyone the slightest suspicion. She 
 detects, I think, something foreign and strange in me. Eub- 
 sia of course she views with the deepest suspicion, and it 
 would amuse you to hear her ideas of that country. !N"othing, 
 although she has never been near it nor read anything but 
 
66 THE GREEN MIREOE 
 
 silly romances about it, could shake her convictions. Be- 
 cause I don't support them she knows me for a liar. She is 
 always calm and friendly to me, but her intense dislike comes 
 through it all. And yet I really like her. She is so firm and 
 placid and determined. She adores her family — she will 
 fight for them to the last feather and claw. She is so sure 
 and £0 certain about everything, and yet I believe that in 
 her heart she is always afraid of something-r-it's out of that 
 fear, I am sure, that her hatred of me comes. For the others, 
 the only one who troubled about me was the boy, and he is 
 the strangest creature. He'd like me to give him all my ex- 
 periences: he hasn't the slightest notion of them, but he's 
 morbidly impatient of his own inexperience and the way his 
 family are shutting him out of everything, and yet he's Tren- 
 chard enough to disapprove violently of that wider expe- 
 rience if it came to him. He'd like me, for instance, to take 
 him out and show him purple restaurants, ladies in big hats, 
 and so on. If he did so he'd feel terribly out of it and then 
 hate me. He's a jumble of the crudest, most impossible and 
 yet rather touching ideas, enthusiasms, indignations, virtues, 
 would-be vices. He adores his sister. About that at least 
 he is firm — and if I were to harm her or make her xm- 
 happy! • • • 
 
 "I suppose it's foolish of me to go on like this. I'm in- 
 dulging myself, I can talk to no one. So you . . . just as I 
 used to in those first days such years ago when I didn't know 
 a word of Russian, came and sat by the hour in your flat, 
 talked bad French to your wife, and found all the sympathy 
 I wanted in your kind fat face, even though we could only 
 exchange a word or two in the worst German. How good 
 you were to me then! How I must have bored you! . . . 
 There's no one here willing to be bored like that. To an 
 Englishman time is money — ^none of that blissful ignoring 
 of the rising and setting of sun, moon, and stars that for so 
 many years I have enjoyed. 'The morning and the evening 
 were the first day. . . .' It was no Russian God who said 
 
THE FOEEST 67 
 
 that. I've found some old friends— Millet, Thackeray, you'll 
 rememher — ^they were in Moscow two years ago. But with 
 them it is 'Dinner eight o'clock sharp, old man — got an en- 
 gagement nine-thirty.' So I'm lonely. I'd give the world 
 to see your fat body in the doorway and hear your voice rise 
 into that shrill Eussian scream of pleasure at seeing me. 
 You should sit down — You should have some tea although 
 I've no Samovar to boil the water in, and I'd talk about Kath- 
 erine, Katherine, Katherine — ^until all was blue. And you'd 
 say 'Harosho' 'Harosho' — and it would be six in the morn- 
 ing before we knew. . . . God help us all, I mustn't talk 
 about it. It all comes to this, in the end, as to whether a 
 man can, by determination and resolve, of his own will, wipe 
 out utterly the old life and become a new man. All those 
 Eussian years — Anna, Paul, Paul's death, all the thought, 
 the view, the vision of life, the philosophy that Eussia gave 
 me — those things have got to disappear. . . . They never ex- 
 isted. I've got again what, all those years, you all said that 
 I wanted — the right to be once again an English citizen with 
 everything, morals and all, cut and dried. I can say, like 
 old Vladimir after his year in Canada, 'I'd never seen so 
 many clean people in my life.' I've got what I wanted, and 
 I mustn't — I musn't — ^look back. 
 
 "I believe I can carry it all through if I can get Kather- 
 ine — get her and keep her and separate her from the family. 
 She's got to belong to me and not to the Trenchards. Mos- 
 cow — The Trenchards ! Oh, Paul, there's a Comedy there — 
 and a tragedy too perhaps. I'm an ass, but I'm frightened. 
 I think I'm doing the finest things and, when they're done, 
 they turn out the rottenest. Supposing I become a Tren- 
 chard myself ? Think of that night when Paul died. After- 
 wards we went up to the Kremlin, you remember. How 
 quiet it was and how entirely I seemed to have died with 
 Paul, and then how quickly life wp3 the same again. But 
 at any rate Moscow cared for me and told me that it cared — 
 London cares nothing . . . not even for the Trenchards. . . . 
 
68 THE GEEElf MIEEOR 
 
 "Think of me, Paul, as often as you can. Think of that 
 afternoon in the restaurant when you first showed me how 
 to drink Vodka and I told you in appalling German that 
 Byron and Wilde weren't as good as you thought them. . . . 
 Think of me, old man. I believe I'm in for a terrible busi- 
 ness. If Katherine loves me the family will fight me. If 
 she doesn't love me nothing else now seems to matter . . . 
 and, with it all, I'm as lonely as though I were a foreigner 
 who didn't know a word of English and hadn't a friend. . . . 
 I've got my Ikon up on the right corner — Near it is a print 
 of *Queen Victoria receiving news of her accession to the 
 throne of England' . . ." 
 
 Philip Mark sat, day after day, in his ugly sitting-room 
 and thought of Katherine Trenchard. It was nearly a fort- 
 night now since he had come to these rooms — ^he had not, 
 during that time, seen Katherine ; he had called once at the 
 Trenchard's house; he had spent then half an hour alone 
 with Mrs. Trenchard and Aunt Aggie. 
 
 In these fourteen days she had grown from an attractive 
 thought into a compelling, driving impulse. Because his 
 rooms were unattractive and because he was sick for Mos- 
 cow (although he would not admit that) therefore he had 
 turned to the thought of her to comfort him ; now he was a 
 slave to the commination of it. . . . He must see her, he 
 must speak to her, he must have something to remember. . . . 
 He must not speak to her, he must not see her lest he should 
 be foolish and ruin all his friendship with her by frighten- 
 ing her; and, meanwhile, in these long, long evenings the 
 lamp from the street below trembled and trembled on his wall 
 as though London, like some hostile policeman, were keeping 
 its eye upon him, and warned him not to go too far. 
 
 The history of Philip Mark, its past, its present, and its 
 future, is to be found cle.Tly written in the character of his 
 mother. His mother had been a woman of great force, resolve 
 and determination. She had in complete subjection those 
 
THE EOEEST 69 
 
 who composed her world. She was kind as the skilful execu- 
 tioner is kind who severs a head with one neat blow; her 
 good-humoured husband, her friendly, sentimental, idealistic 
 son submitted, utterly, without question, to her kindness. 
 She had died when Philip was twenty-oue^ and instantly 
 Philip and his father had discovered, to their immense sur- 
 prise, their immense relief. Philip's father had married at 
 once a young clergyman's daughter of no character at all, 
 and was compelled to divorce her four years later. Philip, 
 to show his new and splendid independence, had discovered 
 a.n opening in a cloth business in Moscow. He went there 
 and so remained until, in his thirtieth year, the death of his 
 father had presented him with fifteen hundred pounds a year. 
 
 Always, through all the Eussian time, it had been his 
 dream that he would one day be an English landowner with 
 a house and a wood, fields and children, white gates and a 
 curving drive. He had come home now to realise this am- 
 bition. 
 
 The central motive of Philip's existence was that he al- 
 ways desired, very seriously, sometimes desperately, to be all 
 these things that the elements in his character would always 
 prevent him from being. For instance, awaking, at his 
 mother's death, from her relentless domination, he resolved 
 that he would never be influenced by anyone again; five 
 minutes after this determination he was influenced by the 
 doctor who had attended his mother, the lavs^er who read her 
 will, and the clergyman who buried her. 
 
 It had seemed to him, as he grew up in England, that the 
 finest thing in the world was to be (when he was sixteen) like 
 St. Francis of Assisi, (when he was nineteen) like Shelley, 
 (when he was twenty-one) like Tolstoi, and the worst thing in 
 the world was to be a commonplace English Squire. He went 
 to Eussia and, at once, concluded that there was nothing like 
 the solid, sensible beef-eating English Squire for helping on 
 the World, and that, as I have said^ as soon as he was rich 
 
70 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 enough lie would settle down in England, with his estate, his 
 hunters and his weekly 'Spectator'. 
 
 Meanwhile he was influenced more and more by Eussia and 
 the Eussians. He did not really desire to be strong, sober, 
 moral, industrious, strong-minded, but only kindly, affection- 
 ate, tolerant, with every one man for his friend. . . . He 
 found in Eussia that the only thing demanded of him was 
 that he should love his brother. He made an immense num- 
 ber of friends, lived with a Eussian girl, Anna Petrovna 
 Semyonov, (she danced in the Moscow, Imperial Ballet) for 
 three years, and had, by her, a son who died. At the end 
 of that time his father's death gave him the opportunity of 
 doing what he had always declared to every Eussian was 
 the ambition of his life — to settle in England as an English 
 land-owner. Anna was fond of him now, but not at all in 
 love with him — ^they were the best friends in the world. She 
 believed, very seriously, that the greatest thing for him would 
 be to find a nice English girl whom he could love, marry, and 
 make the mother of his children. 
 
 Philip had, during these Eussian years, grown stronger in 
 character, and still was determined that the worst thing in 
 the world was to be under anyone's domination. He was 
 however under the power of anyone who showed him affec- 
 tion; his outlook was now vehemently idealistic, romantic 
 and sentimental, although, in the cloth business, he was hard- 
 headed, cynical, and methodical. Did, a human being care 
 for him, and he would do anything for him ; under the influ- 
 ence of anyone's affection the world became so rosy to him 
 that he lost all count of time, common-sense and digestion. 
 
 Anna was really fond of him, although often enough she 
 was desperately bored with him. She had always mothered 
 him, but thought now that an English'girl would mother him 
 better. She sent him home. He was very young for hia 
 thirty years, but then from the age of anyone who has lived 
 in Eussia for long, you may take away, always, twenty years. 
 
 He was resolved now to be the most English of all Eng- 
 
THE FOEEST 71 
 
 lish — ^to be strong, hard-headed, a little cynical, tinsentimen- 
 tal. . . . He had, of course, fallen in love with the first Eng- 
 lish girl whom he met. Meanwhile he did not entirely assist 
 his cynical hardheadedness by writing long, introspective let- 
 ters to his Eussian friend. However, to support his resolute 
 independence, he had always in front of him on his writing- 
 table a photograph of his mother, 
 
 "It shall never be like that again", he would say to him- 
 self, looking fixedly at the rather faded picture of a lady 
 of iron-grey hair and a strong bosom clad in shining black 
 silk. "Won't it, my son?" said his mother, looking back 
 at him with a steely twinkle somewhere in her eye. "Won't 
 it?" 
 
 Meanwhile there was no place in London where, at three 
 in the morning, he might drink with his friends and dis- 
 cover that all the world loved him. He was very lonely in 
 London, and wanted Katherine more desperately with every 
 tick of the Ormolu clock on the marble mantelpiece; but he 
 would not go to see her. . . . One glance at his mother's 
 photograph was enough to settle that. No, Tie would not. . . . 
 
 Then he met her. Upon a lonely ISTovember afternoon he 
 walked along the Embankment, past Lambeth Bridge, into 
 the melancholy, deserted silences of Pimlico. He turned 
 back, out of the little grey streets on to the river again, and 
 stood, for a while, looking back over the broad still sheet of 
 the river, almost white in colour but streaked with black 
 lines of shadow that trembled and wavered as though they 
 were rods about to whip the water into storm. The sky was 
 grey, and all the buildings clustered against it were grey, 
 but slowly, as though some unseen hand were tearing the 
 sky like tissue paper, a faint red background was stealing 
 into the picture and even a little faint gold that came from 
 God knows where flitted, in and out, upon the face of the 
 river. 
 
 Heavy black barges lay, like ancient prehistoric beasts, 
 in the slime left now by the retreating tide. One little tug 
 
Y2 THE GEEEN MIKKOE 
 
 pushed desperately up stream as though it would force some 
 energy into this dreaming, dying world — a revolutionary 
 striving to stir the dim silences that watched, from either 
 bank, into protest. 
 
 The air was sharply cold and there was a smell of smoke 
 somewhere — also of tar and cabbage and mud. . . . The red 
 light pushed and pushed its way upwards. 
 
 The silence emphasised, with rather a pleasing melancholy, 
 Philip's loneliness. It seemed, down here, as though Lon- 
 don were a dead city and he, only, alive in it. Katherine, 
 too, was alive somewhere. . . . He looked and, as in one's 
 dreams absurdity tumbles upon the heels of absurdity, he 
 saw her walking alone, coming, as yet without any recogni- 
 tion in her eyes, towards him. 
 
 The world was dead and he was dead and Katherine — ^let 
 it stay so then. . . . No, the world was alive. She had rec- 
 ognised him; she had smiled — ^the air was suddenly warm 
 and pulsating with stir and sound. As she came up to him 
 he could think of nothing but the strange difference that his 
 fortnight's absorption in her had made for him. His being 
 with her now was as though he had arrived at some long- 
 desired Mecca after a despei'ate journey of dust and strain 
 and peril. As he greeted her he felt "A fortnight ago we 
 had only just met, but now we have known each other for 
 years and years and years — ^but perhaps she does not know 
 that yet." 
 
 But he knew, as she gave him her hand, that she felt a 
 little awkwardness simply because she was so glad to see 
 him — and she had never been awkward with him before. 
 
 "You've been hiding from us," she said. Her cheeks were 
 flaming because she had walked fast, because the air was 
 frosty — ^because she was glad to see him. Her coat and muff 
 were a little old-fashioned and not very becoming to her — ' 
 all the more did he praise the beautiful kindliness of her 
 eyes. "I'm in love with you," he wanted to say to her. "Do 
 you care that I am ?" . . . He turned at her side and they 
 
THE FOEEST 73 
 
 faced together the reddening sky. The whole city lay in 
 ahsolute silence ahout them as though they were caught to- 
 gether into a ball of grey evening cloud. 
 
 "I haven't hidden," he said, spilling, '^I came and called, 
 hut you were not there." 
 
 "I heard," she answered, "Aunt Aggie said you were 
 very agreeable and amusing — I hope you're happy in your 
 rooms." 
 
 "They're all right." 
 
 "We miss you. Father's always beginning to tell you 
 something and then finding that you're gone. Henry — " 
 
 "Your Mother?" 
 
 "Ah, you were quite wrong about Mother. You thought 
 that she disliked you. You care much too much, by the way, 
 whether people like you or no. But Mother's hard, perhaps, 
 to get to know. You shocked and disturbed her a little, but 
 she didn't dislike you." 
 
 Although he had asserted so definitely that Mrs. Trenchard 
 hated him, he had reassured himself, in his own heart, that 
 she rather liked him — ^now when he saw in spite of Kather- 
 ine's words that she really had disliked him, he felt a little 
 shock of dismay. 
 
 "You may say what you like," he said, "I know—" 
 
 "No, you don't understand. Mother is so absorbed by 
 all of us. There are a great many of us, you know — ^that 
 it takes a long time for her to realise anyone from outside. 
 You were so much from outside. She was just beginning 
 to realise you when you went away. We are all so much 
 to her. In a family as big as ours there are always so many 
 things. . . =" 
 
 "Of course," he said, "I know. As to myself, it's natural 
 enough. At present I miss Moscow — ^but that will be all 
 right soon." 
 
 She came a little closer to him, and her eyes were so kindly 
 that he looked down upon the ground lest his own eyes should 
 betray him. 
 
74 THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 "Look here — come to us whenever you like. Why, all this 
 time, have you kept away ? Wasn't it what you were always 
 telling us about your friends in Moscow that their houses 
 were open to everyone always ? You must miss that. Don't 
 he lonely whatever you do. There are ever so many of 
 us, and some of us are sure to he in." 
 
 "I will," he said, stammering, "I will." 
 
 "Henry's always asking questions about Eussia now. 
 You've had a great effect upon him, and. he wants you to tell 
 him ever so much more. Then there's Millie. She hasn't 
 seen you at all yet. You'll like her so much. There's Vin- 
 cent coming back from Eton. Don't be lonely or homesick. 
 I know how miserable it is." 
 
 They were in the Square by the Church outside her house ; 
 above the grey solid building the sky had been torn into 
 streaming clouds of red and gold. 
 
 He took her hand and held it, and suddenly as she felt 
 his pressure the colour flooded her face; she strove to beat 
 it down — she could not. She tried to draw her hand away — 
 but her own body, as though it knew better than she, defied 
 her. She tried to speak — no words would come. 
 
 She tried to tell him with her eyes that she was indiffer- 
 ent, but her glance at him showed such triumph in his gaze 
 that she began to tremble. 
 
 Then he released her hand. She said nothing — only with 
 quick steps hurried into the house. He stood th'ere until 
 she had disappeared, then he turned round towards his rooms. 
 
 He strode down Victoria Street in such a flame of exul- 
 tation as can flare this World into splendour only once or 
 twice in a lifetime. It was the hour when the lights come 
 out, and it seemed to him that he himself flung fire here, 
 there, for all the world to catch, now high into a lamp-post, 
 now low beneath some basement window, now like a cracker 
 upon some distant trees, now, high, high into the very eve- 
 ning blue itself. The pavement, the broad street, the high. 
 
THE rOEEST 75 
 
 mysterious buildings caught and passed the flame from one 
 to another. 
 
 An ancient newspaper man, ragged in a faded tail coat, 
 was shouting "Finals! Finals! All the Finals!" but to 
 Philip's ear he was saying-^"She cares for you! she cares 
 for you ! Praise God ! What a world it is." 
 
 He stumbled up the dark stairs of his house past the door 
 from whose crevices there stole always the scent of patchouli, 
 past the door, higher up, whence came, creeping up his stairs 
 the suggestion of beef and cabbage, into his own dark lodg- 
 ing. His sitting-room had its windows still open and its 
 blinds still up. The lamp in the street below flung its squares 
 of white light upon his walls ; papers on his table were blow- 
 ing in the evening breeze, and the noise of the town climbed 
 up, looked in through the open windows, fell away again, 
 climbed up again in an eternal indifferent urgency. He was 
 aware that a man stood by the window, a wavering shadow 
 was spread against the lighted wall. 
 
 Philip stopped in the doorway. 
 
 "Hullo!" he said, "who's there?" 
 
 A figure came forward. Philip, to whom all the world 
 was, to-night, a fantasy, stared, for a moment, at the large 
 bearded form without recognising it — wild and unreal as it 
 seemed in the dim room. The man chuckled. 
 
 "Well, young man. I've come to call, I got here two 
 minutes before yoi^t." 
 
 It was Uncle Tim, Mrs. Trenchard's brother, Timothy 
 Faunder, Esq. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Philip, "the room was dark 
 and — and — as a matter of fact I was thinking of something 
 rather hard as I came in. Wait a minute. You shall have 
 some light, tea and a cigarette in a moment." 
 
 "!N^o, thanks." Uncle Tim went back to the window again. 
 "No tea — no cigarette. I hate the first. The second's poi- 
 fionous. I've got a pipe here — and don't light up — ^the room's 
 
76 THE GEEEN MIKEOE 
 
 lather pleasant like this. I expect it's hideous when one 
 can see it." 
 
 Philip was astonished. He had liked Tim Fannder, hut 
 hdd decidfed that Tim Eaunder was indifferent to him — quite 
 indifferent. For what had he come here ? Sent hy the fam- 
 ily ?.. . Yes, he liked Uncle Tim, hut he did not want him 
 or anyone else in the world there just then. He desired to 
 sit hy the open window, alone, to think about Katherine, to 
 worship Katherine! 
 
 They both sat down ; Faunder on the window-seat, Philip 
 near by. The noise of the town was distant enough to make 
 a pleasant rumbling accompaniment to their voices. The 
 little dark public-house opposite with its beery eye, a dim 
 hanging lamp in the doorway, watched them. 
 
 "Well, how are you ?" said Faunder, "lonely ?" 
 
 "It was at first," said Philip, who found it immensely 
 difficult to tie his thoughts to his visitor. "And I hadn't 
 been lonely for so long — not since my first days in Moscow." 
 
 "They were lonely then ?" 
 
 "Oh, horribly. My first two months there were the worst 
 hours in all my life. I wanted to learn Eussian, so I kept 
 away from English people — and Eussian's difficult to pick 
 up at first." 
 
 Faunder made one of the rumbling noises in his throat 
 that always testified to his interest. 
 
 "I like what you said — over there, at my sister's," he 
 waved his hand, "about Eussia — and about everything. I 
 listened, although perhaps you didn't think it. I hope you're 
 going to stick to it, young man." 
 
 "Stick to what?" 
 
 "Your ideas about things — everything being for the best. 
 There^s a great time Cdining — and the Trenchards are 
 damned fools." 
 
 "But I never—" 
 
 "Ohj yes, you did. You implied it. Nobody minded, 
 di course, because the Trenchards know so well that they're 
 
THE rOEEST 77 
 
 not. They don't bother what people think, bless thenif Be- 
 sides, you don't understand them in the least — nor won't 
 ever, I expect." 
 
 "But," said Philip, "I really never thought for a moment." 
 
 "Don't be so afraid of hurting people's feelings. I liked 
 your confidence. I liked your optimism. I just came this 
 afternoon to see whether a fortnight alone had damped it a 
 little." 
 
 Philip hesitated. It would be very pleasant to say that 
 no amount of personal trouble could alter his point of vievc ; 
 it would be very pleasant to say that the drearier his personal 
 life was the surer he was of his Creed. Hp hesitate(i — ^then 
 spoke the truth. 
 
 "As a matter of fact, I'm afraid it was dimmed for a bit. 
 Eussia seemed so far away and so did England, and I was 
 hanging in mid-air, between. But now^everytbing's all 
 right again." 
 
 "Why now ? . . . . Because I've paid you a pall ?" 
 
 Uncle Timothy laughed- 
 
 Philip looked down at the little public-house. "I'jn very 
 glad you have. But this afternoon — it's been the kind of 
 day I've expected London to give me, it seemed to settle me 
 suddenly with a jerk, as though it were pushing me into my 
 place and saying, 'There! now I'ye found a seat for you'." 
 
 He was talking, he knew, at random, but he was very con- 
 scious of Uncle Timothy, the more conscious, perhaps, be- 
 cause he could not see his face. 
 
 Then he bent forward in his chair. "It was very jolly of 
 you," he said, "to come and see me — ^but tell me, frankly, 
 why you did. We scarcely spoke to one another whjlat I 
 was at your sister's house." 
 
 "I listened to you, though. Years ago I must have been 
 rather like you. How old are you ?" 
 
 "Thirty." 
 
 "Well, when I was thirty I was an idealist. I was im- 
 patient of my family although I loved them. I thought the 
 
78 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 world was going to do great things in a year or two. I be- 
 lieved most devoutly in the Millennium. I grew older — I 
 was hurt badly. I believed no longer, or thought I didn t. 
 I determined that the only thing in life was to hold oneself 
 absolutely aloof. I have done that ever since. ... I had 
 forgotten all these years that I had ever been like you. And 
 then when I heard once again the same things, the same be- 
 liefs . . ." He broke off, lit his pipe, puffed furiously at 
 it and watched the white clouds sail into the night air. 
 
 "Whatever I have felt," said Philip, slowly, "however I 
 have changed, to-night I know that I am right. To-night I 
 know that all I believed in my most confident hour is true." 
 
 The older man bent forward and put his hand on Philip's 
 arm. 
 
 "Stick to that. Eemember at least that you said it to me. 
 If before I died.' . . . There have been times. . . . After 
 the Boer War here in England it seemed that things were 
 moving. There was new life, new blood, new curiosity. 
 But then I don't know — it takes so long to wake people up. 
 You woke me up a little with your talk. You woke them all 
 up — a. little. And if people like my sister and my brother-in- 
 law — whom I love, mind you — ^wake up, why then it will be 
 painful for them but glorious for everyone else." 
 
 Philip was more alarmed than ever. He had not, at all, 
 wished to wake the Trenchards up — ^he had only wanted them 
 to like him. He was a little irritated and a little bored with 
 Uncle Timothy. If only Mr. and Mrs. Trenchard allowed 
 him to love Katherine, he did not care if they never woke 
 up in all their lives. He felt too that he did not really fill 
 the picture of the young ardent enthusiast. He was bound, 
 he knew, to disappoint Uncle Timothy. He would have 
 liked to have taken him by the hand and said to him : "Now 
 if only you will help me to marry Katherine I will be as 
 optimistic as you like for ever and ever." 
 
 But Uncle Tim was cleverer than Philip supposed. 
 "You're thinking — ^how tiresome ! Here's this old man fore- 
 
THE FOREST 79 
 
 ing me into a stained-glass window. Don't think that. I 
 know you're an ordinary nice young fellow just like any- 
 one else. It's your age that's pleasant. I've lived very much 
 alone all these years at a little house I've got down in Glebe- 
 shire. You must come and see it. You're sure to stay with 
 my sister there ; she's only five niinutes away. But I've been 
 so much alone there that I've got into the habit of talking to 
 myself." 
 
 Philip at once loved Uncle Tim. 
 
 "I'm delighted that you came. If you'll let me be a friend 
 of yours I shall be most awfully proud. It was only that I 
 didn't want you to expect too much of me. One gets into 
 the way in Russia of saying that things are going to be 
 splendid because they're so bad — and really there they do 
 want things to be better. And often I do think that there's 
 going to be, one day, a new world. And many people now 
 think about it and hope for it — ^perhaps they always did." 
 
 Uncle Timothy got up. "That's all right, my son. We'll 
 be friends. Come and see me. . London's a bit of a forest — 
 one can't make out always quite what's going on. You'll get 
 to know all of us and like us, I hope. Come and see me. 
 Yes?" 
 
 "Of course I will." 
 
 "I've got a dirty little room in Westminster, 14 Barton 
 Street. I go down to Glebeshire for Christmas, thank God. 
 Good-night." 
 
 He clumped away down the stairs. He had stayed a very 
 short time, and Philip felt vaguely that, in some way or an- 
 other, Uncle Tim had been disappointed in him. For what 
 had he come ? What had he wanted ? Had the family sent 
 him ? Was the family watching him ? 
 
 That sense that Philip had had during the early days in 
 London suddenly returned. He felt, in the dark room, in the 
 dark street, that the Trenchards were watching him. From 
 the old man down to Henry they were watching him, waiting 
 to see what he would do. 
 
80 THE GEEEN MIKKOE 
 
 Did Fncle Tim think that he loved Katherine ? Had he 
 le to discover that ? 
 
 ^though it was fearly, the room was very cold and very 
 dark. Philip knew that for an instant he was so afraid 
 that he dared not look behiiid him. 
 
 "London's a forest. . . ." 
 
 And Katherine ! At the thought of her he rose, defied all 
 the Trenchards in the world, lit his lamp and pulled down 
 the blinds. The smell of Uncle Tim's tobacco was very 
 strong in the room. 
 
CHAPTEE Y 
 
 THE FHTEST THIITG 
 
 WHEN a stranger surveys the life of a family it is very 
 certain that the really determining factor in the de- 
 velopment of that group of persons will escape his notice. 
 Eor instance, in surveying the Trenchards, Philip had disre- 
 garded Aunt Aggie. 
 
 As this is a record of the history of a family and not only 
 of individuals, Aunt Aggie must be seriously considered; it 
 vras the first ominous mistake that Philip made that he did 
 not seriously consider her. Agnes Trenchard, when quite a 
 young girl, had been pretty in a soft and rounded manner. 
 Two offers of marriage had been made to her, but she had 
 refused these because she had a great sense of her destiny. 
 From her first thinking moment she had considered herself 
 very seriously. She had very high ideals ; the finest thing in 
 this world was a life of utter unselfishness, a life of noble 
 devotion and martyred self-interest. She looked about her 
 and could see no signs of such lives; all the more then was 
 it clear that she was set apart to give the world such an ex- 
 ample. Unfortunately, allied to this appreciation of a fine 
 self-sacrificing character was a nature self-indulgent, indo- 
 lent and suspicious. Could she be unselfish without trouble 
 or loss then how unselfish she would be ! She liked the idea 
 of it immensely. . . . 
 
 For some years she was pretty, sang a little and obviously 
 'thought more' than either of her sisters. People listened 
 then to her creed and believed in her intentions. She talked 
 often of unselfishness, was always ready to do anything for 
 
 81 
 
82 THE GEEEN MIEROE 
 
 anybody, and was always prevented or forestalled by less al- 
 truistic people. When, after her two offers of marriage, she 
 stepped very quickly into the shapes and colours of an old 
 maid, went to live with her sister-in-law and brother, and 
 formed 'habits', people listened to her less readily. She her- 
 self however, quite unaware that at thirty-five, life for a 
 woman is, sexually, either over or only just commencing, 
 hoped to continue the illusions of her girlhood. The nobility 
 of unselfishness appealed to her more than ever, but she found 
 that the people around her were always standing in her way. 
 She became, therefore, quite naturally, rather bitter. Her 
 round figue expressed, in defiance of its rotundity, peevish- 
 ness. 
 
 She had to account for her failures in self-sacrificing al- 
 truism, and found it not in her own love of ease and dislike 
 of effort, but, completely, in other people's selfishness. Had 
 she been permitted she would have been the finest Trenchard 
 alive, and how fine that was only a Trenchard could know! 
 But the world was in a conspiracy against her — ^the world, 
 and especially her sister Elizabeth, whom she despised and 
 bullied, but, somewhere in her strange suspicious crust of a 
 heart, loved. That was, perhaps, the strangest thing about 
 her — ^that, in spite of her ill-humour, discontents and irri- 
 tations, she really loved the family, and would like to have 
 told it so were she not continually prevented by its extraor- 
 dinary habit of being irritating just when she felt most af- 
 fectionate ! She really did love them, and she would go down 
 sometimes in the morning with every intention of saying so, 
 but in five minutes they had destroyed that picture of her- 
 self which, during her absence from them, she had painted — 
 for that, of course, she could not forgive them. 
 ' In the mansion of the human soul there are many cham- 
 bers ; Aunt Aggie's contradictions were numberless ; but, on 
 broad lines it may be said that her assurance of the injustice 
 of her own fate was balanced only by her conviction of the 
 good luck of everyone else. She hoped, perpetually, that 
 
THE FINEST THING 83 
 
 they would all recognise this — namely, that their Life had 
 treated them with the most wonderful good fortune. Her 
 brother G«orge Trenchard, for instance, with his careless 
 habits, his indifference to the facts of life, his obvious sel- 
 fishness. What disasters he would, had he not been incredi- 
 bly favoured, most surely have encountered! Aunt Aggie 
 was afraid that he did not sufficiently realise this, and so, 
 in order that he might offer up thanks to God, she reminded 
 him, as often as was possible, of his failings. Thus, too, with 
 the others. Even Katherine, for whom she cared deeply, be- 
 trayed, at times, a haughty and uplifted spirit, and fre- 
 quently forestalled her aunt's intended unselfishness, thus, 
 in a way, rebuking her aunt, a thing that a niece should 
 never do. With this consciousness of her relations' failings 
 went an insatiable curiosity. Aunt Aggie, because she was 
 the finest character in the family, should be rewarded by the 
 trust and confidence of the family; she must, at any rate, 
 maintain the illusion that she received it. Did they keep her 
 quiet with little facts and stories that were of no importance, 
 she must make them important in order to support her dig- 
 nity. She made them very important indeed. . . . 
 
 A great factor was her religion. She was, like her sister, 
 a most sincere and devout member of the Church of England. 
 She believed in God as revealed to her by relations and 
 clergymen in the day of her baptism; time and a changing 
 world had done nothing to shake her confidence. But, unlike 
 her sisters, she believed that this God existed chiefly as a 
 friend and supporter of Miss Agnes Trenchard. He had 
 other duties and purposes, of course, but did not hide from 
 her His especial interest in herself. The knowledge of this 
 gave her great confidence. She was now fifty years of age, 
 and believed that she was still twenty-five; that is not to 
 say that she dressed as a young woman or encouraged, any 
 longer, the possibility of romantic affairs. It was simply 
 that the interest and attraction that she offered to the world 
 as a fine and noble character were the same as they had ever 
 
84 THE GKEEN MIKKOE 
 
 been. — and if the world did not recognize this that was be- 
 cause fine and noble characters were few and difficult to dis- 
 cover. One knew this because the Trenchard family offered 
 so seldom an example of one, and the Trenchards were, of 
 course, the finest people in England. 
 
 She had great power with her relations because she knew, 
 so intimately, their weaknesses. People, on the whole, may 
 be said to triumph over those who believe in them and submit 
 to those who don't. The Trenchards, because life was full 
 and time was short, submitted to Aunt Aggie and granted 
 anything in order that they might not be made uncomfort- 
 able. They could not, however, allow her to abuse them, 
 one to another, and would submit to much personal criticism 
 before they permitted treachery. Their mutual affection was 
 a very real factor in their lives. Aunt Aggie herself had 
 her share in it. She possessed, nevertheless, a genius for 
 creating discomfort or for promoting an already unsteady atr 
 mosphere. She was at her best when the family was at its 
 worst, because then she could perceive, quite clearly, her own 
 fine nobility. 
 
 Philip Mark had made a grave mistake when he disre- 
 garded her. 
 
 She had disliked Philip from the first. She had disap- 
 proved of the way that he had burst in upon the family just 
 when she had been at her best in the presentation to her 
 father. He had not known that she had been at her best, but 
 then that was his fault. She had been ready to forgive this, 
 however, if, in the days that followed, he had shown that he 
 appreciated her. He had not shown this, at all — ^he had, in 
 fact, quite obviously preferred her sister Elizabeth. He had 
 not listened to lier with close attention when she had talked 
 to him about the nobility of unselfishness, and he had dis- 
 played both irritation and immorality in his views of life. 
 She had been shocked by the abruptness with which he had 
 rebuked Mr. Seymour, and she thought his influence on 
 
THE FINEST THUsTG 85 
 
 Henry was, already, as bad as it could be. It was of course 
 only too characteristic of George that he should encourage 
 the young man. She could see what her father and Aunt 
 Sarah thought of hiln, and she could only say that she en- 
 tirely shared their opinion. 
 
 Philip's visit had upset her, and Millie's return from Paris 
 upset her still more. She had never cared greatly about 
 Millie, who had never showed her any deference or attention, 
 but Millie had until now always been a Trenchard. She had 
 come back from Paris only half a Trenchard. Aunt Aggie 
 was grievously afraid that troublesome times were in store 
 for them all. 
 
 It was just at this point that her attention was directed 
 towards Katherine. She always considered that Katherine 
 knew her better than any other member of the family did, 
 which simply meant that Katherine considered her feelings. 
 Lately, however, Katherine had not considered her feelings. 
 She had, on at least two occasions, been deliberately uncivil ! 
 Once Aunt Aggie had suffered from neuralgia, and Katl^ine 
 had promised to come and read her to sleep and had fragot- 
 ten to do so. ISext morning, her neuralgia being better, Aunt 
 Aggie said — "I can't, dear Katherine, imagine myself, under 
 similar conditions, acting as you have done. ... I had a 
 sleepless night. . . . But of course you had more important 
 duties" — and Katherine had scarcely apologised. On the sec- 
 ond occasion Aunt Aggie at breakfast, (she was always bitter 
 at breakfast, mildly unhappy over her porridge and violently 
 sarcastic by marmalade time) had remarked with regret that 
 Millie, who was late, had "picked up these sad habits abroad. 
 She had never known anyone the finer, whether in character 
 or manners, for living abroad ;" here was a little dust flung 
 at the inoffensive person of Philip, now soundly asleep in 
 Jermyn Street. At once Katherine was "in a flijrry." 
 "What right had Aunt Aggie to say so? How could she 
 tell ? It might be better if one went abroad more, lost some 
 
86 THE GEEEN MIKEOE 
 
 of one's prejudices . . ." quite a little scene ! Very unlike 
 Katherine ! 
 
 Aunt Aggie did not forget. Like some scientist or mathe- 
 matician, happily let loose into some new theory or proV 
 lem, so now did she consider Katherine. Katherine was dif- 
 ferent, Katherine was restless and out of temper. She had 
 been so ever since Philip Mark's visit. . . . With her sew- 
 ing or her book Aunt Aggie sat in a corner by the drawing- 
 room fire and watched and waited. 
 
 Upon that afternoon that had seen Katherine's meeting 
 with Philip by the river Aunt Aggie had been compelled to 
 have tea alone. That had been annoying, because it looked 
 as though the gay world was inviting everyone except Aunt 
 Aggie to share in its excitements and pleasures. At last 
 there arrived Mrs. Trenchard and Millie, and finally Kath- 
 erine. Aunt Aggie had sat in her warm corner, pursuing 
 with her needle the green tail of an unnatural parrot which 
 she was working into a slowly-developing cushion cover and 
 had considered her grievances. It had been a horrible day, 
 cold and gloomy. Aunt Aggie had a chilblain that, like the 
 Waits, always appeared about Christmas and, unlike them, 
 stayed on well into the spring. It had made its appearance, 
 for the first time this season, during the past night. Millie 
 talked a great deal about very little, and Mrs. Trenchard 
 received her remarks with the nonchalant indifference of a 
 croupier raking in the money at Monte Carlo. Katherine sat 
 staring into the fire and saying nothing. 
 
 Aunt Aggie, watching her, felt quite suddenly as though 
 the firelight had leapt from some crashing coal into a flaring 
 splendour, that something strange and unusual was with them 
 in the room. She was not at all, like her sister Elizabeth, 
 given to romantic and sentimental impressions. She seldom 
 read novels, and cared nothing for the theatre. What she felt 
 now was really unpleasant and uncomfortable, as though she 
 had soap in her eyes or dropped her collection under the seat 
 during the Litany. The room positively glowed, the dim 
 
THE FINEST THING 87 
 
 shadows were richly coloured, and in Aunt Aggie's heart was 
 alarm and agitation. 
 
 She stared about her; she looked about the room and 
 pierced the shadows; she sewed a wrong stitch into the par- 
 rots' tail, and then decided that it was Katherine's eyes. . . . 
 She looked at the girl — she looked again and again — saw her 
 bending forward a little, her hands pressed together on her 
 lap, her breast rising and falling with the softest suspicion 
 of some agitation, and, in her eyes, such a light as could come 
 from no fire, no flame from without, but only from the very 
 soul itself. Katherine's good-tempered, humorous eyes, so 
 charged with cominon-sense, affectionate but always mild, un- 
 agitated, calm, like her mother's — ^now what was one to say ? 
 
 Aunt Aggie said nothing. Her own heart felt for an in- 
 stant some response. She would have liked to have taken the 
 girl into her arms and kissed her and petted her. In a mo- 
 ment the impulse passed. What was the matter with Kath- 
 erine? Who was the matter with Katherine? It was al- 
 most improper that anyone should look like that in a drawing- 
 room that had witnessed so much good manners. Moreover 
 it was selfish, this terrible absorption. If Katherine began 
 to think of herself, whatever would happen to them all ! And 
 there were Millie and her mother, poor things, chattering 
 blindly together. Aunt Aggie felt that the business of watch- 
 ing over this helpless family did indeed devolve upon her. 
 From that moment Katherine and the things that were pos- 
 sibly happening to Katherine never left her thoughts. She 
 was happier than she had been for many months. 
 
 But Katherine, in the days that followed, gave her curi- 
 osity no satisfaction. Aunt Aggie dated, in future years, 
 all the agitation that was so shortly to sweep down upon 
 the Trenchard waters from that afternoon when 'Kather- 
 ine's eyes had seemed so strange', but her insistence on that 
 date did not at all mean that it was then that Katherine in- 
 vited her aunt's confidence, Aunt Aggie was compelled to 
 drive on her mysterious way alone. She was now assured 
 
88 THE GEEEN MIEROE 
 
 that 'something was the matter', but the time had not yet 
 arrived when all the family was concerned in it. 
 
 In any case, to begin with, what was her sister-in-law 
 Harriet Trenchard thinking? 'No one ever knew what 
 Harriet Trenchard thought ; and foolish and hasty observers 
 said that that was because Harriet Trenchard never thought 
 at all. Aggie Trenchard was neither foolish nor hasty; 
 she was afraid of Harriet because, after all these years, she 
 knew nothing about her. She had never penetrated that 
 indifferent stolidity. Harriet had never spoken to her in- 
 timately about anything, nor had Harriet once displayed 
 any emotions, whether of surprise or anger, happiness or 
 grief, but Aggie was penetrating enough to fear that brood- 
 ing quiet. 
 
 At least Aggie knew her sister-in-law well enough to 
 realise that her children were an ever-present, ever-passionate 
 element in her life. On certain occasions, concerning Millie, 
 Katherine, Henry or Vincent, Aggie had seen that silence, 
 for a moment, quiver as a still lake trembles with a sudden 
 shake or roll when the storm is raging across the hills — espe- 
 cially was Katherine linked to her mother's most intimate 
 hold upon life, even though the words that they exchanged 
 were of the most commonplace ; Aunt Aggie knew that, and 
 strangely, obscurely, she was moved, at times, to sudden im- 
 pulses of bitter jealousy. Why was it that no one cared for 
 her as Katherine cared for her mother? What was there 
 in Harriet to care for? . . . and yet — ^nevertheless, Aggie 
 Trenchard loved her sister-in-law. With regard to this 
 present business Aggie knew, with sufficient assurance, that 
 Harriet disliked Philip Mark, had disliked him from the 
 first. Had Harriet noticed this change in her daughter, 
 and had she drawn her conclusions? What would Harriet 
 say if . . .? Aunt Aggie added stitches to the green par- 
 rot's tail with every comfortable assurance that 'in a time 
 or two', there would be plenty of trouble. 
 
 Ultimately, through it all, it was her jealousy that moved 
 
THE EINEST THmG SP 
 
 her and her jealousy that provoked the first outburst . . . 
 instantly, without warning, new impulses, new relationshipa, 
 new motives were working amongst them all, and their world 
 was changed. 
 
 Upon an afternoon, Aunt Aggie hearing that Henry 
 wished to change a novel at Mudie's Library (that very 
 novel that he had been reading on the day of Philip's ar- 
 rival) offered to take it for him. This was at luncheon, and 
 she felt, because she liked her food and barley-water, a sud- 
 den impulse towards the Ideal Unselfishness. She made 
 her offer, and then reflected that it would be very trouble- 
 some to go so far as Oxford Street; she therefore allowed 
 Katherine to accept the mission, retaining at the same time 
 her own nobility. She became quite angry: "Of course," 
 she said, "you consider me too old to do anything — ^to sit 
 in a comer and sew is all I'm good for — well, well — ^you'll 
 be old yourself one day, Katherine, my dear. I should 
 have liked to have helped Henry. . . . However . . ." 
 
 She was conscious, during the afternoon, of some injus- 
 tice; she had been treated badly. At dinner that night 
 Eocket forgot the footstool that was essential to her com- 
 fort; she was compelled at last to ask him for it. He had 
 never forgotten it before ; they all thought her an old woman 
 who didn't matter ; no one troubled now about her — ^well, they 
 should see. . . . 
 
 Great Aunt Sarah was, as often happened to her, rheu- 
 matic but Spartan in bed. The ladies, when they left the 
 dining-room and closed around the drawing-room fire, were 
 Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, Katherine and 
 ]\Iillie. Happy and comfortable enough they looked, with 
 the shadowed dusky room behind them and the blaze in 
 front of them. In the world outside it was a night of in- 
 tense frost: here they were reflected in the Mirror, Mrs. 
 Trenchard's large gold locket (Henry as a baby inside it), 
 Aggie's plump neck and black silk dress, Aunt Betty's dart- 
 ing, sparkling eyes, Millie's lovely shoulders, Katherine's 
 
90 THE GKEEN MIEEOB 
 
 rather dumpy ones — ^there they all were, right inside the 
 Mirror, with a reflected fire to make them cosy and the 
 walls ever so thick and old. The freezing night could not 
 touch them. 
 
 "Eocket's getting very old and careless," said Aggie. 
 
 Everyone had known that Aunt Aggie was out of temper 
 this evening, and everyone, therefore, was prepared for a 
 tiresome hour or two. Eocket was a great favourite; Mrs. 
 Trenchard, her arms folded across her bosom, her face the 
 picture of placid content, said : 
 
 "Oh, Aggie, do you think so ? ... I don't." 
 
 "'No, of couse, you don't, Harriet," answered her sister 
 sharply. "He takes care with you. Of course he does. But 
 if you considered your sister sometimes — " 
 
 "My dear Aggie!" Mrs. Trenchard, as she spoke, bent 
 forward and very quietly picked up a bright green silk 
 thread from the carpet. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not complaining! That's a thing I don't be- 
 lieve in! After all, if you think Eocket's perfection I've 
 no more to say. I want others to be comfortable — for my- 
 self I care nothing. It is for the rest of the family." 
 
 "We're quite comfortable. Aunt Aggie, thank you," said 
 Millie laughing. 
 
 "I hope you don't think, Harriet," said Aggie, disregard- 
 ing her niece, "that I'm complaining — I — ■" 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard leant towards her, holding out the thread 
 of green silk! 
 
 "That must be from your silks, Aggie dear," she said. 
 "It's just the colour of your parrot's tail. I couldn't think 
 what it was, lying there on the carpet." 
 
 It was then that Katherine, who liad paid no attention 
 to this little conversation but had followed her own thoughts, 
 said: 
 
 "Oh! how careless of me! I never took Henry's book, 
 after all— and I went right up Oxford Street too !" 
 
 This was unfortunate, because it reminded Aunt Aggie of 
 
THE FINEST THING 91 
 
 sometliing that she had very nearly forgotten. Of course 
 Katherine had never intended to take the book — she had 
 simply offered to do so because she thought her Aunt old, 
 feeble, and incapable. 
 
 "Eeally, Katherine," said Aunt Aggie, "you might have 
 let me take it after all. I may be useless in most ways and 
 not worth anyone's consideration, but at least I'm still able 
 to walk up Oxford Street in safety !" 
 
 Her aunt's tones were so bitter that Katherine looked 
 across at her in some dismay. 
 
 Aunt Betty did not assist the affair by saying : 
 
 "Why, Aggie dear, who ever supposed you couldn't; 
 I'm sure you can do anything you want to!" 
 
 "Well, perhaps, next time," Aunt Aggie said sharply. 
 "When I offer some help someone will listen to me. / 
 should not have forgotten the book." 
 
 "I can't think why / did," said Katherine, "I remembered 
 it just before I started, and then something happened — " 
 
 Aunt Aggie looked about her, and thought that this would 
 be a very good opportunity for discovering the real state of 
 Katherine's mind. 
 
 "You must take care, Katherine dear," she said, "you 
 don't seem to me to have been quite yourself lately. I've 
 noticed a number of little things. You're tired, I think." 
 
 Katherine laughed. "Why should I be ? I've had nothing 
 to make me." 
 
 It was then that Aunt Aggie caught a look of strange, 
 almost furtive anxiety in Harriet's eyes. Following this, 
 for the swiftest moment, Katherine and her mother ex- 
 changed a gleam of affection, of reassurance, of confidence. 
 
 "Ah!" thought Aunt Aggie, "they're laughing at me. 
 Everyone's laughing at me." 
 
 "My dear Katherine," she snapped, "I'm sure I don't 
 know what's tired you, but I think you must realise what 
 I mean. You are not your normal self; and, if your old 
 aunt may say so, that's a pity." 
 
92 THE GREEN MIREOR 
 
 Millie, looking across at her sister, was astonished to see 
 the colour rising in her cheeks. Katherine was annoyed! 
 Katherine minded Aunt Aggie! Katherine, who was never 
 out of temper — ^never perturbed! and at Aunt Aggie! 
 
 "Really, Aunt Aggie," Katherine said, "it's very tiresome 
 if all the family are going to watch one day and night as 
 though one were something from the Zoo. Tiresome is not 
 nearly strong enough." 
 
 Hear aunt smiled bitterly. 
 
 "It's only my affection for you," she said. "But of course 
 you don't want that. Why should you ? One day, however, 
 you may remember that someone once cared whether you 
 were tired or not." 
 
 Aunt Aggie's hands trembled on her lap. 
 
 Katherine shook her head impatiently. 
 
 "I'm very grateful for your kindness — ^but I'd much 
 rather be left alone. I'm not tired, nor odd, nor anything 
 — so, please, don't tell me that I am." 
 
 Aggie rose from her chair, and very slowly with trembling 
 fingers drew her work together. "I think," she said, her 
 voice quivering a little, "that I'll go to bed. Ifext time you 
 wish to insult me, Katherine, I'd rather you did it when 
 we were alone." 
 
 A very slow and stately figure, she walked down the draw- 
 ing-room and disappeared. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 "Oh, dear !" cried Katherine, "I'm so sorry !" She looked 
 round upon them all, and saw quite clearly that they were 
 surprised at her. Again behind Mrs. Trenchard's eyes 
 there hovered that suspicion of anxiety. 
 
 "What did I do? What did I say? Aunt Aggie's so 
 funny." Then, as still they did not answer, she turned 
 round upon them : "Have I been cross and tiresome lately ? 
 £rfti;e you all noticed it ? Tell me." 
 
 Aunt Betty said, "No, dear, of course not." 
 
 Millie said, "What does it matter what Aunt Aggie says ?" 
 
THE FINEST THING 93 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard said, "There's another of Aggie's green 
 threads. Under your chair, Millie dear. I'd better go up 
 and see whether she wants anything." 
 
 But Katherine rose and, standing for an instant with a 
 little half-smile, half-frown, surveying them, moved then 
 slowly away from them down the room. 
 
 "No. I'll go, Mother, and apologise. I suppose I was 
 horrid." She left them. 
 
 She went up through the dark passages slowly, medita- 
 tively. She waited for a moment outside her aunt's door 
 and then knocked, heard then her aunt's voice, "Come in!" 
 — in tones that showed that she had been expecting some 
 ambassador. 
 
 Katherine stood by the door, then moved forward, put 
 her arms about Aunt Aggie and kissed her. 
 
 "I'm so sorry. I'm afraid that I hurt you. You know 
 that I didn't mean to." 
 
 Upon Aunt Aggie's dried cheeks there hovered a tiny 
 cold and glassy tear. She drew back from Katherine's em- 
 brace, then with a strange, almost feverish movement caught 
 Katherine's hand. 
 
 "It wasn't, my dear, that you hurt me. I expect I'm too 
 sensitive — that has always been my misfortune. But I 
 felt" (another glassy tear now upon the other cheek) "that 
 you and Millie are finding me tiresome now." 
 
 "Aunt Aggie! Of course not!" 
 
 "I wish to be of some use — it is my continual prayer — 
 some use to someone — and you make me feel — ^but of course 
 you are young and impatient — ^that I'd be better perhaps 
 out of the way." 
 
 Katherine answered her very gravely: "If I've ever 
 made you feel that for a moment, Aunt Aggie, there's noth- 
 ing too bad for me. But how can you say such a thing? 
 Aren't you a little unjust?" 
 
 The two tears had disappeared. 
 
 "I daresay I am, my dear, I daresay I am — or seem ao 
 
94 THE GEEEN MIEKOE 
 
 to you. Old people often do to young ones. But I'm not 
 unjust, I think, in fancying that you yourself have changed 
 lately. I made you angry when I said that just now, but 
 I felt it my duty—" 
 
 Katherine was silent. Aunt Aggie watched her with 
 bright, inquisitive eyes, from which tears were now very 
 far away. 
 
 "Well, we won't say any more, dear. My fault is, per- 
 haps, that I am too anxious to do things for others, and so 
 may seem to you young ones interfering. I don't know, 
 I'm sure. It has always been my way. I'm glad indeed 
 when you tell me that nothing is the matter. To my old 
 eyes it seems that ever since Mr. Mark stayed here the house 
 has not been the same. You have not been the same." 
 
 "Mr. Mark?" Katherine's voice was sharp, then sud- 
 denly dropped and, after an instant's silence, was soft, 
 "You've got Mr. Mark on the brain. Aunt Aggie." 
 
 "Well, my dear, I didn't like him. I'm sure he was very 
 bad for Henry. But then I'm old-fashioned, I suppose. Mr. 
 Mark shocked me, I confess. Eussia must be a very wild 
 country." 
 
 Then, for a space, they looked at one another. Katherine 
 said nothing, only, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming 
 sharply, stared into the mirror on the dressing-table. Aunt 
 Aggie faced in this silence something alarming and uneasy; 
 it was as though they were, both of them, listening for some 
 sound, but the house was very still. 
 
 "I think I'll go to bed, my dear. Kiss me, Katherine. 
 Don't forget that I'm older than you, dear. I know some- 
 thing of the world— yes . . . good-night, my dear." 
 
 They embraced; Katherine left the room. Her cheeks 
 were flaming ; her body seemed wrapt in dry, scorching heat. 
 She hurried, her heart beating so loudly that it seemed to 
 her to fill the passage with sound, into her own room. 
 
 She did not switch on the electric-light, but stood there 
 in the darkness, tha room very cool and half -shadowed ; some 
 
THE FINEST THING 96 
 
 reflected outside light made a pool of grey twilight upon the 
 floor, and jvist above this pool Katharine stood, quite mo- 
 tionless, her head raised, her hands tightly clasped together. 
 She knew. That moment in her aunt's room had told her ! 
 
 She was lifted, by one instant of glorious revelation, out 
 of herself, her body, her life, and caught up into her divine 
 heaven, could look down upon that other arid, mordant world 
 with eyes of incredulous happiness. 
 
 She loved Philip Mark. She had always loved him. She 
 had never loved anyone before. She had thought that life 
 was enough with its duties, its friendships, its little pleasures 
 and little sorrows. She had never lived; she was born now 
 here in the still security of her room. . . . The clocks were 
 striking ten, the light on the carpet quivered, dimly she 
 could see her books, her bed, her furniture. Some voice, 
 very far away, called her name, waited and then called again 
 • — called the old Katherine, who was dead now . . . dead 
 and gone . . . buried in Aunt Aggie's room. The new 
 Katherine had powers, demands, values, insistences, of which 
 the old Katherine had never dreamed. 
 
 Katherine, at this instant, asked herself no questions — 
 whether he loved her, what the family would say, how she 
 herself would face a new world, why it was that, thr6ugh 
 all these weeks, she had not known that she loved him ? She 
 asked herself nothing. . . . Only waited, motionless, staring 
 in front of her. 
 
 Then suddenly her heart was so weighed down with happi- 
 ness that she was utterly weary; her knees trembled, her 
 hands wavered as though seeking some support. She turned, 
 fell down on her knees beside the bed, her face sank deep 
 in her hands and so remained, thinking of nothing, conscious 
 of nothing, her spirit bathed in an intensity of overwhelm- 
 ing joy. 
 
 She recovered, instantly in the days that followed, her 
 natural sweetness ; she was, as all the household, with relief, 
 discovered, the real Katherine again. She did not to her- 
 
96 THE GKEEN MIEEOE 
 
 self seem to have any existence at all. The days in this early 
 December were days of frost, red skies, smoking leaves, and 
 hovering silver mists that clouded the chimneys, made the 
 sun a remotely yellow ball, shot sunset and sunrise with all 
 rainbow colours. 
 
 Beautiful days — ^she passed through them with no con- 
 sciousness of herseK, her friends, not even of Philip. iN'o 
 thought of anything was possible, only that breathless, burn- 
 ing, heart-beat, the thickness of the throat, the strange heat 
 and then sudden cold about her face, the vision of everyone 
 near her as ghosts who moved many, • many worlds away. 
 Her daily duties were performed by someone else — some 
 kindly, considerate, sensible person, who saw that she was 
 disturbed and preoccupied. She watched this kind person, 
 and wondered how it was that the people about her did not 
 notice this. At night for many hours she lay there, thinking 
 of nothing, feeling the beating of her heart, wrapped in a 
 glorious ecstasy of content, then suddenly soothed as though 
 by some anaesthetic she would sleep, dumbly, dreamleSsly, 
 heavily. 
 
 For a week this continued — then Philip came to dinner, 
 scarcely a dinner-party, although it had solemnity. The only 
 invited guests were Philip, Rachel Seddon, her fat uncle, 
 Lord John Beaminster, and an ancient Trenchard cousin. 
 Lord John was fat, shining, and happy. Having survived 
 with much complacency the death of his mother, the Duchess 
 of Wrexe, and the end of the Beaminster grandeur, he led 
 a happy bachelor existence in a little house behind Shepherds 
 Market. He was the perfect symbol of good temper, good 
 food, and a good conscience. Deeply attached to his niece, 
 Rachel, he had, otherwise, many friends, many interests, 
 many happinesses, all of a small bird-like amiable character. 
 He bubbled with relief because he was not compelled, any 
 longer, to sustain the Beaminster character. He had beauti- 
 ful white hair, rosy cheeks, and perfect clothes. He often 
 dined at the Trenchard's house with Eachel — ^he called him- 
 
THE FINEST THING 97 
 
 self 'Eoddy's Apology.' The Trenchards liked him be- 
 cause he thought very highly of the Trenchards. 
 
 He sat beside Katherine at dinner and chattered to her. 
 Philip sat on her side of the table, and she could not see 
 him, but when he had entere4 the drawing-room earlier in 
 the evening the sudden sight of him had torn aside, as though 
 with a fierce, almost revengeful gesture, all the mists, the 
 unrealities, the glories that had, during the last weeks, sur- 
 rounded her. She saw him and instantly, as though with 
 a fall into icy water, was plunged into her old world again. 
 He looked at her, she thought, as he would look at a stranger. 
 He did not care for her — ^he had not even thought about her. 
 Why had she been so confident during all these strange days ? 
 Her one longing now was to avoid him. With a great effort 
 she drove her common-sense to her service, talked to him for 
 a moment or two with her customary quiet, half-humorous 
 placidity, and went into dinner. She heard his voice now 
 and then. He was getting on well with Eachel. They would 
 become great friends. Katherine was glad. Dinner was 
 interminable; Lord John babbled and babbled and babbled. 
 Dinner was over. The ladies went into the drawing-room. 
 
 "I like your friend, Katie," said Eachel. "He's inter- 
 esting." 
 
 "I'm glad you do," said Katherine. 
 
 The men joined them. Philip was conveyed by Mrs. 
 Trenehard to the ancient Trenchard cousin, who had a bony 
 face and an eager, unsatisfied eye. Philip devoted himself 
 to these. 
 
 Katherine sat and talked to anyone. She was so miserable 
 that she felt that she had never known before what to be 
 miserable was. Then, when she was wondering whether the 
 evening would ever end, she looked up, across the room. 
 Philip, from his corner, also looked up. Their eyes met 
 and, at that moment, the fire, hitherto decorously confined 
 behind its decent bounds, ran golden, brilliant about the 
 room, up to the ceiling, crackling, flaming. The people in 
 
98 THE GEEEN MIEKOK 
 
 the room faded, disappeared; there was no furniture there, 
 the bookcases, the chairs, the tahlea were gone, the mirror, 
 blazing with light, burning with some strange heat, shone 
 down upon chaos. Only, through it all, Katherine and 
 Philip were standing, their eyes shining, for all to see, and 
 Heaven, let loose upon a dead, dusty world, poured reck- 
 lessly its glories upon them. 
 
 "I was saying," said Lord John, "that it's these young 
 fellows who think they can shoot and can't who are doin' 
 all the harm." 
 
 Slowly, very slowly Katherine's soul retreated within its 
 fortresses again. Slowly the fires faded, Heaven was with- 
 drawn. For a moment she closed her eyes, then, once more, 
 she regarded Lord John. "Oh, God! I'm so happy!" some- 
 thing within her was saying, "I shall be absurd and im- 
 possible in a moment if I can't do something with my happi- 
 ness !" 
 
 She was saved by the ancient cousin's deciding that it 
 was late. She always ended an evening party by declaring 
 that it was later than she could ever have supposed. She 
 was followed by Eachel, Lord John and Philip. 
 
 When Philip and Katherine said good-bye their hands 
 scarcely touched, but they were burning. 
 
 "I will come to-morrow afternoon," he whispered. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered back to him. 
 
 Through the history of that old Westminster house there 
 ran the thread of many of such moments, now it could not 
 be surprised nor even so greatly stirred, whispering through 
 its passages and corridors. "Here it is again. . „ , Pleasant 
 enough for the time. I wish them luck, poor dears, but I've 
 never known it answer. This new breath, out through my 
 rafters, up through my floors, down my chimneys, in at my 
 windows — ^just the same as it used to be. Very pleasant 
 while it lasts — ^poor young things." 
 
 It was only natural that the House, long practised in the 
 
THE FINEST THING 99 
 
 affairs of men, should perceive these movements in advance 
 of the Trenchard family. As to warning the Trenehards, 
 that was not the House's business. It was certainly owing 
 to no especial virtue of perception that Aunt Aggie decided 
 that she would spend the afternoon of the day following the 
 dinner-party in the drawing-room. 
 
 This decision was owing to the physical fact that she 
 fancied that she had a slight cold, and the spiritual one 
 that her sister Harriet had said : would she mind being most 
 unselfish : would she stay in and receive callers as she, Har- 
 riet, was compelled to attend an unfortunate Committee? 
 There was nothing that Aunt Aggie could have preferred 
 to sitting close to the drawing-room fire, eating muflSn if 
 alone, and being gracious were there company. However, 
 Harriet had said that it would be unselfish — ^therefore un- 
 selfish it was. 
 
 Katherine, it appeared, also intended to stay at home. 
 
 "You needn't, my dear," said Aunt Aggie, "I promised 
 your mother. I had rather looked forward to going to the 
 Misset-Eaunders', but never mind — I promised your 
 mother." 
 
 "I'm sure it's better for your cold that you shouldn't go 
 out," said Katherine. "/ think you ought to be upstairs — ■ 
 in bed with a hot bottle." 
 
 "My cold's nothing" — Aunt Aggie's voice was sharp. 
 "Certainly the Misset-Faunders wouldn't have hurt it. I 
 could have gone in a cab. But I promised your mother, 
 . . . It's a pity. They always have music on their second 
 Fridays. Alice plays the violin very well . . ~ and I dare 
 say, after all, no one will come this afternoon. You really 
 needn't bother to stay in, Katherine." 
 
 "I think I will to-day," said Katherine quietly. 
 
 So aunt and niece sat, one on each side of the fire, wait- 
 ing. Katherine was very quiet, and Aunt Aggie, who, like 
 all self-centred people, waa alarmed by silence, spun a little 
 web of chatter round and round the room. 
 
100 THE GKEEN MIRKOE 
 
 "It was all quite pleasant last night I thought; I must 
 say Lord John can make himself very agreeahle if he pleases. 
 How did you think Rachel was looking? I wanted to ask 
 her ahout Michael, who had a nasty little cold last week, 
 but Mr. Mark quite absorbed her — ^talking about his Russia, 
 I suppose. I don't suppose anyone will come this afternoon. 
 The very last thing Clare Eaunder said on Sunday was 
 'Mind you come on Eriday. We've some special music on 
 Friday, and I know how you love it.' But of course one must 
 help your mother when one can. Your Aunt Betty would 
 take one of her walks. Walking in London seems to me 
 such' an odd thing to do. If everyone walked what would 
 the poor cabmen and busses do ? One must think of others, 
 especially with the cold weather coming on." 
 
 Her voice paused and then dropped; she looked sharply 
 across at Katherine,. and realized that the girl had not been 
 listening. She was staring up into the Mirror; in her eyes 
 was the look of burning, dreaming expectation that had on 
 that other afternoon been so alarming. 
 
 At that moment Rocket opened the door and announced 
 Philip Mark. 
 
 Katherine's eyes met Philip's for an instant, then they 
 travelled to Aunt Aggie. That lady rose with the little 
 tremor of half-nervous, half-gratified greeting that she al- 
 ways bestowed on a guest. She disliked Mr. Mark cordially, 
 but that was no reason why the memory of an hour or two 
 filled with close attention from a young man should not 
 brighten to-morrow's reminiscences. She was conscious also 
 that she was keeping guard over Katherine. IsTot for an 
 instant would she leave that room until Mr. Mark had also 
 left it. She looked at the two young people, Katherine 
 flushed with the fire, Philip flushed with the frosty day, 
 and regarded with satisfaction their distance one from the 
 other. Tea was brought ; life was very civilised ; the doors 
 were all tightly closed. 
 
 Philip had come with the determined resolve of asking 
 
THE FINEST THING 101 
 
 Katherine to marry him. Last night he had not slept. With 
 a glorious Katherine at his side he had paced his room, his 
 soul in the stars, his body somewhere underground. All day 
 he had waited for a decent hour to arrive. He had almost 
 run to the house. Now he was faced by Aunt Aggie. As 
 he smiled at her he could have taken her little body, her 
 bundle of clothes, her dried little soul, crunched it to nothing 
 in his hands and flung it into the fire. 
 
 Although he gave no sign of outward dismay, he was rag- 
 ing with impatience. He would not look at Katherine lest, 
 borne upon some wave of passion stronger than he, he should 
 have rushed across the room, caught her to his side, and so 
 defied all the Trenchard decencies; he knew that it was 
 wiser, at present, to preserve them. ^ 
 
 They talked about Eachel Seddon, Dinner-parties, Cold 
 Weather, Dancing, Exercise, growing Stout, Biscuits, the best 
 Church in London, Choirs, Committees, Aunt Aggie's duties, 
 growing Thin, Sleeplessness, Aunt Aggie's trials, Chilblains, 
 Cold Weather. ... At this renewed appearance of the 
 weather Philip noticed an old calf-bound book lying upon 
 a little table at his side. Behind his eyes there flashed the 
 discovery of an idea. 
 
 "Pride and Prejudice," he said. 
 
 "Oh !" cried Katherine. "That's one of Father's precious 
 Jane Austen's — a flrst edition. He keeps them all locked 
 up in his study. Henry must have borrowed that one. 
 They're never allowed to lie about." 
 
 Philip picked it up. From between the old leaves, brown 
 a little now, with the black print sunk deep into their very 
 heart, there stole a scent of old age, old leather, old tobacco, 
 old fun and wisdom. 
 
 Philip had opened it where Mr. Collins, proposing to 
 Elizabeth Bennet, declines to accept her refusal. 
 
 "I am not now to learn," replied Mr. Collins, with a 
 formal wave of the hand, "that it is usual with young ladies 
 to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean 
 
102 THE GEEEN MIKEOE 
 
 to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that 
 sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third 
 time. I am, therefore, hy no means discouraged by vrhat 
 you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar 
 ere long." 
 
 "Upon my vrord, sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is 
 rather an extraordinary one after my declaration. I do 
 assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such 
 young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their 
 happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am 
 perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make me 
 happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the 
 world who would make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady 
 Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me 
 in every respect ill-qualified for the situation." 
 
 "Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so," 
 said Mr. Collins very gravely — "but I cannot imagine that 
 her ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may 
 be certain that when I have the honour of seeing her again, 
 I shall npeak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy, 
 and other amiable qualifications." 
 
 " 'Pride and Prejudice,' I always thought," said Aunt 
 Aggie with amiable approval, "a very pretty little tale. It's 
 many years since I read it. Father read it aloud to us, I 
 remember, when we were girls." 
 
 Philip turned a little from her, as though he would- have 
 the light more directly over his shoulder. He had taken 
 a piece of paper from his pocket, and in an instant he had 
 written in pencil: 
 
 "I love you. Will you marry me ? Philip." 
 
 This he slipped between the pages. 
 
 He knew that Katherine had watched him; very gravely 
 he passed the book across to her, then he turned to Aunt 
 Aggie, and with a composure that surprised himself, paid 
 her a little of the deference that she needed. 
 
 Katherine, with hands that trembled, had opened the 
 
THE FINEST THING 103 
 
 book. She found the piece of paper, saw the words, and 
 then, in a sort of dreaming bewilderment, read to the bottom 
 of the old printed page. 
 
 "Mr. Collins thus addressed her : 
 
 "When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on 
 this subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer 
 than you have now given me; though I am far from accus- 
 ing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the 
 established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first — " 
 
 She did not turn the page ; for a moment she waited, her 
 mind quite empty of any concentrated thought, her eyes see- 
 ing nothing but the shining, glittering expanse of the Mirror. 
 
 Very quickly, using a gold pencil that hung on to her 
 watch chain, she wrote below his name : "Yes. Katherine." 
 
 "Let me see the book, my dear," said Aunt Aggie. "You 
 must know, Mr. Mark, that I care very little for novels. 
 There is so much to do in this world, so many people that 
 need care, so many things that want attention, that I think 
 one is scarcely justified in spending the precious time over 
 stories. But I own Miss Austen is a memory — a really 
 precious memory to me. Those little simple stories have 
 their charm still, Mr. Mark. . . . Yes. . . . Thank you, 
 my dear." 
 
 She took the book from Katherine, and began very slowly 
 to turn over the pages, bending upon Miss Austen's labours 
 exactly the look of kindly patronage that she would have 
 bent upon that lady herself had she been present. 
 
 Katherine glanced at Philip, half rose in her chair, and 
 then sat down again. She felt, as she waited for the dread- 
 ful moment to pass, a sudden perception of the family — 
 until this moment they had not occurred to her. She saw 
 her mother, her father, her grandfather, her aunts, Henry, 
 Millie. Let this affair be suddenly fltmg upon them as a 
 result of Aunt Aggie's horrified discovery and the tumult 
 would be, indeed, terrible. The silence in the room, during 
 those momeuts, almost forced her to cry out, 
 
104 THE GEEEN MIREOK 
 
 Had Philip not been there she would have rushed to her 
 aunt, torn the book from her hands, and surrendered to the 
 ayalanche. 
 
 Aunt Aggie paused — she peered forward over the page. 
 With a little cry Katherine stood up, her knees trembling, 
 her eyes dimmed, as though the room were filled with fog. 
 
 "I doubt very much," said Aunt Aggie, "whether I could 
 read it now. It would seem strangely old-fashioned, I dare- 
 say, I'm sure to a modern young man like yourself, Mr. 
 Mark." 
 
 Philip took the book from her ; he opened it, read Kather- 
 ine's answer, laid the volume very carefully upon the table. 
 
 "I can assure, Miss Trenchard," he said, "a glance is 
 enough to assure me that 'Pride and Prejudice' is and al- 
 ways will be my favourite novel." 
 
 Katherine moved to the table, picked up the book, and 
 slipped the paper from the leaves into her belt. For an in- 
 stant her hand touched Philip's. 
 
 Aunt Aggie looked at them, and satisfied with hot tea, a 
 fire, a perfect conscience and a sense of her real importance 
 in the business of the world, thought to herself — "Well, this 
 afternoon at any rate those two have had no chance." 
 
 She was drowsy and anxious for a little rest before dinner, 
 but her guard, she assured herself with a pleasant little bit 
 of conscious self-sacrifice, should not be relaxed. . . . 
 
 Eleven had boomed that night, from the Abbey clock, 
 when Philip Mark took his stand opposite the old house, 
 looking up, as all the lovers in fiction and most of the lovers 
 in real life have done, at his mistress' window. A little red 
 glow of light was there. The frosty night had showered its 
 sky with stars, frozen into the blue itself in this clear air, 
 a frozen sea ; an orange moon scooped into a dazzling curve, 
 lay like a sail that had floated from its vessel, idly above 
 the town; the plane trees rustled softly once and again, as 
 though, now that the noise of men had died away, they might 
 
THE FINEST THING 105 
 
 whisper in comfort together. Sometimes a horn blew from 
 the river, or a bell riang. 
 
 Philip waited there, and worshipped with all the humil- 
 ity and reverence of a human soul at the threshold of Love. 
 
 The lights in the house went out. Now all the Trenchards 
 were lying upon their backs, their noses towards the ceilings, 
 the ceilings that shut off that starry sky. They were very 
 secure, fenced round by Westminster. No danger could 
 threaten their strong fortress. . . . Their very dreams were 
 winged about with security, their happy safety was penetrated 
 by no consciousness of that watching, motionless figure. 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 THE SHOCK 
 
 GEOEGE TEElSrOHAED'S study expressed, very pleas- 
 antly, his personality. The room's walls were of a 
 deep warm red, and covering three sides ran high bookcases 
 with glass fronts ; within these bookcases were beautiful new 
 editions, ugly old ones, books, for the greater part, relating 
 to his favourite period, all ranged and ordered with the most 
 delicate care. The windows of the room were tall and bright 
 even on dull and foggy days, the carpet soft and thick, the 
 leather chairs large and yielding, the fireplace wide and shin- 
 ing. Most significant of all was his writing-table ; upon this 
 lay everything that any writer could possibly desire, from 
 the handsomest of gold inkstands to the minutest of elastic 
 bands. There was also here a little bust of Sir Walter Scott. 
 Within this room George Trenchard knew, always, perfect 
 happiness — a very exceptional man, indeed, that he could 
 know it so easily. He knew it by the simple expedient of 
 shutting off entirely from his consciousness the rest of man- 
 kind; his study door once closed, he forgot his family abso- 
 lutely. No one was allowed to disturb or interrupt him ; it 
 was understood that he was at work upon a volume that 
 would ultimately make another of that series that contained 
 already such well-known books as "William Wordsworth 
 and his Circle," "Hazlitt — The Man in his Letters" and 
 "The Life of Thomas de Quincey." These had appeared a 
 number of years ago ; he had been indeed a young man when 
 he had written them. It was supposed that a work entitled 
 
 106 
 
THE SHOCK 107 
 
 "The Lake Poets, a Critical Survey" would appear 'Next 
 Autumn'. 
 
 For some time now the literary schemes of the weekly 
 journals had announced this. George Trenchard only 
 laughed at enquiries: "It takes a damned long time, you 
 know," he said, " 'tisn't any use rushing the thing." He 
 enjoyed, however, immensely, making notes. From half- 
 past nine in the morning until half-past one, behind his 
 closed doors, he considered the early Nineteenth Century, 
 found it admirable (Scott seemed to him the perfect type) 
 took first one book, then another from his book-shelves, wrote 
 a few lines, and before his fire imagined the Trenchards 
 of that period, considered their food and their drink, their 
 morals, their humour and their literature. Hazlitt's essays 
 seemed to him the perfection, not of English prose, but of 
 a temporal and spiritual attitude. "Hang it all," he would 
 conclude, "we're a rotten lot now-a-days." He did not worry 
 over this conclusion, but it gave him the opportunity of a 
 superior attitude during the rest of the day when he joined 
 the world. "If you knew as much about the early Nine- 
 teenth Century as I do," he seemed to say, "you wouldn't 
 be so pleased with yourselves." He did not, however, ex- 
 press his superiority in any unpleasant manner. There was 
 never anyone more amiable. All that he wanted was that 
 everyone should be happy, and to be that, he had long ago 
 discovered, one must not go too deep. "Keep out of close 
 relationships and you're safe" might be considered his advice 
 to young people. He had certainly avoided them all his life, 
 and avoided them by laughing at them. He couldn't abide 
 "gloomy fellows" and on no account would he allow a 'scene'. 
 He had never lost his temper. 
 
 During the months that he spent at his place in Grlebeshire 
 he pursued a plan identically similar. He possessed an in- 
 valuable 'factotimi', a certain James Eitchie, who took 
 everything in a way of management off his hands. Ritchie 
 
108 THE GREElf MIEEOE 
 
 in Glebeshire, Mrs. Trencliard and Rocket in London. Life 
 was made very simple for him. 
 
 As has been said elsewhere, Katherine, alone of his fam- 
 ily, had in some degree penetrated his indifferent jollity; 
 that was because she really did seem to him to have some 
 of the Early Nineteenth Century characteristics. She 
 seemed to him (he did not know her very well) tranquil, 
 humorous, unadventurous, but determined. She reminded 
 him of Elizabeth Bennet, and he always fancied (he re- 
 garded her, of course, from a distance,) that she would make 
 a very jolly companion. She seemed to him wiser than the 
 others, with a little strain of satirical humour in her com- 
 ment on things that pleased him greatly. "She should have 
 been the boy, and Henry the girl," he would say. He thought 
 Henry a terrible ass. He was really anxious that Katherine 
 should be happy. She deserved it, he thought, because she 
 was a little wiser than the others. He considered sometimes 
 her future, and thought that it would be agreeable to have 
 her always about the place, but she must not be an old maid. 
 She was too good for that. "She'd breed a good stock," 
 he would say. "She must marry a decent fellow — one day." 
 He delighted in the gentle postponement of possibly charm- 
 ing climaxes. His size, geniality and good appetite may be 
 attributed very largely to his happy gifts of procrastination. 
 "Always leave until to-morrow what ought to be done to- 
 day" had made him the best-tempered of men. 
 
 After luncheon on the day that followed Philip's tea with 
 Aunt Aggie, George Trenchard retired to his study "to 
 finish a chapter". He intended to finish it in his head 
 rather than upon paper, and it was even possible that a nap 
 would postpone the conclusion ; he lit his pipe and preferred 
 to be comfortable — it was then that Eocket informed him 
 that Mr. Mark had called, wished to see him alone, would 
 not keep him long, apologised, but it was important. 
 
 "Why the devil couldn't he come to lunch ? What a time 
 
THE SHOOK 109 
 
 to appear!" iBut Trenctard liked Philip, Philip amused 
 him — ^he was so alive and talked such ridiculous nonsense. 
 "Of course he would see him !" 
 
 Then when Trenchard saw Philip Mark standing inside 
 the room, waiting, with a smile half-nervous, half-friendly, 
 the sight of that square, sturdy young man gave him to his 
 own uneasy surprise a moment of vague and unreasonable 
 alarm. George Trenchard was not accustomed to feelings 
 of alarm; it was his principle in life that he should deny 
 himself such things. 
 
 He connected now, however, this very momentary sensa- 
 tion with other little sensations that he had felt before in 
 Philip's company. The young man was so damnably full 
 of his experiences, so eager to compare one thing with an- 
 other, so insistent upon foreign places and dianges in Eng- 
 land and what we'd all got to do about it. Trenchard did 
 not altogether dislike this activity. That was the devil of 
 it. It would never do to change his life at this time of 
 day. . . . 
 
 He stood, large, genial, and rosy, in front of his fire. 
 "Well, young man, what are you descending upon us at 
 this hour for ? Why couldn't you come to lunch ?" 
 
 "I wanted to speak to you seriously about something. I 
 wanted to see you alone." 
 
 "Well, here I am. Sit dovTu. Have a cigar." Trenchard 
 saw that Philip was nervous, and he liked him the better 
 for that. "He's a nice young fellow, nice and clean and 
 healthy — ^not too cocksure either, although he's clever." 
 
 Philip, on his part, felt, at this moment, a desperate de- 
 termination to make aU the Trenchard family love him. 
 They must. . . . They must. 
 
 His heart was bursting with charity, with fine illusions, 
 with self-deprecation, with Trenchard exultation. He 
 carried the flaming banner of one who loves and knows that 
 he is loved in return. 
 
 He looked round upon George Trenchard's bookcases and 
 
110 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 thought that there could, surely, be nothing finer than writ- 
 ing critical hooks about early Nineteenth Century Litera- 
 ture. 
 
 "I love Katherine," he said, sitting on the very edge of 
 his arm-chair. "And she loves me. We want to be married." 
 
 George Trenchard stared at him. 
 
 "Well, I'm damned!" he said at last, "you've got some 
 cheek !" His first impression was one of a strange illumina- 
 tion around and about Katherine, as though his daughter 
 had been standing before him in the dark and then had sud- 
 denly been surrounded with blazing candles. Although he 
 had, as has been said, already considered the possibility of 
 Katherine's marriage, he had never considered the possibil- 
 ity of her caring for someone outside the family. That 
 struck him, really, as amazing. That made him regard his 
 daughter, for a moment, as someone quite new and strange. 
 
 He burst into laughter. 
 
 "It's ridiculous !" he said. "Why ! you two have scarcely 
 seen one another!" 
 
 Philip blushed, but looked up into Trenchard's face with 
 eyes that were strangely pleading for a man who could, at 
 other times, be so firmly authoritative. 
 
 "I know that it must seem so to you," he said. "But 
 really we have met a good deal. I knew from the very be- 
 ginning. . . . I'll make her happy," he ended, almost de- 
 fiantly, as though he were challenging some unseen enemy. 
 
 "Well, state your case," said Trenchard. 
 
 "I love her," he stammered a little, then his voice cleared 
 and he stared straight before him at Trenchard's velvet 
 waistcoat. "Of course there've been people in my life be- 
 fore, but I've never felt anything like this. I should like 
 to tell you that my life is absolutely free from any entangle- 
 ments — of any kind. I'm thirty and as fit as a fiddle. My 
 share in the business and some other things come to about 
 fifteen hundred a year. It's all very decently invested, but, 
 of course, I'd show you all that. I'm not bad about manag- 
 
THE SHOOK 111 
 
 ing those things, although you mightn't think so. I want 
 to buy a little place somewhere in England and settle down 
 — a little place with a bit of land. I do think I c<?uld make 
 Katherine happy — ^I'd devote myself to that." 
 
 "She cares for you?" asked Trenchard. 
 
 "Yes," said Philip quite simply. 
 
 "Well, I'm damned," said Trenchard. 
 
 This was not so rude as it appeared to be. He was not 
 thinking about Philip at all — only about Katherine. She 
 had fallen in love, she, Katherine, the staid, humorous, 
 comfortable companion. He had not realised, until now, 
 that he had always extracted much complacent comfort from 
 the belief that she cared for him more than for any other 
 member of the family. He did not know that every indi- 
 vidual member extracted from Katherine the same comfort. 
 He looked at Philip. What did she see in the man to lead 
 her to such wild courses? He was nice enough to look at, 
 to listen to — but to love? It seemed to him that his quiet 
 daughter must have been indulging in melodrama. 
 
 "Why, you know," he cried at last, "it never entered my 
 head — Katherine's marrying anybody. She's very young — • 
 you're very young too." 
 
 "I don't know," said Philip, "I'm thirty — ^lots of men 
 have families by then." 
 
 "No, but you're young though — ^both of you," persisted 
 Trenchard. "I don't think I want Katherine to marry any- 
 body." 
 
 "Isn't that rather selfish ?" said Philip. 
 
 "Yes. I suppose it is," said Trenchard, laughing, "but 
 it's natural." 
 
 "It isn't, you see," said Philip eagerly, "as though I 
 wanted to take her away to Russia or in any way deprive 
 you of her. I know how much she is to all of you. She's 
 sure to marry some day, isn't she ? and it's much better that 
 she should marry someone who's going to settle down here 
 
112 THE GEEE¥ MIEKOE 
 
 and live as you all do than someone who'd go right off witli 
 her." 
 
 "It's all right, I shouldn't let him," said Trenchard. He 
 bent his eyes upon the eager lover, and again said to him- 
 self that he liked the young man. It v?ould certainly be 
 much pleasanter that Katherine should care about a fine 
 healthy young fellow, a good companion after dinner, a 
 good listener with a pleasant sense of humour, than that 
 she should force into the heart of the family some impossi- 
 bility — ^not that Katherine was likely to care about impossi- 
 bilities, but you never knew ; the world to-day was so full of 
 impossibilities. . . . 
 
 "I think we'll send for Katherine," he said. 
 
 He rang the bell, Eocket came, Katherine was summoned. 
 As they waited Trenchard delivered himself of a random, 
 half -humorous, half -conscious, half -unconscious discourse: 
 
 "Tou know, I like you — and I don't often like modem 
 young men. I wouldn't mind you at all as a son-in-law, 
 and you'd suit me as a son much better than Henry does. 
 At least I think so, but then I know you very slightly, and 
 I may dislike you intensely later on. We none of us know 
 you, you see. We never had anybody drop in upon us as 
 you did. ... It doesn't seem to me a bit like Katherine 
 — and I don't suppose she knows you any better than the 
 rest of us do. She mayn't like you later on. I can't say 
 that marriage is going to be what you think it is. You're 
 very unsettling. Tou won't keep quiet and take things 
 easily, and Katherine is sure not to like that. She's as 
 quiet as anything. ... If it were Millie now. I suppose 
 you wouldn't care to have Millie instead? she'd suit you 
 much better. Then, you know, the family won't like your 
 doing it. My wife won't like it." He paused, then, stand- 
 ing, his legs wide apart, his hands deep in his pockets, roared 
 with laughter : "It will disturb them all — ^not that it won't 
 be good for them perhaps. You're not to think though that 
 I've given my consent — at any rate you're not to marry her 
 
THE SHOOK 113 
 
 for a long time until we see what you're like. I'm not to 
 give her just to anyone who comes along, you know. I 
 rather wish you'd stayed in Eussia. It's very unsettling." 
 
 The door opened — ^Katherine entered. She looked at 
 Philip, smiled, then came across to her father and put her 
 arm through his. She said nothing, hut was radiant; her 
 father felt her hand tremhle as it touched his, and that sud- 
 denly moved him as, perhaps, nothing had ever moved him 
 before. 
 
 "Do you want to marry him ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 "But you hardly know him." 
 
 "I know him very well indeed," she said, looking at 
 Philip's eyes. 
 
 "But I don't want you to marry anyone," her father went 
 on. "We were all very nice as we were. . . . What'U you 
 do if I say you're not to marry him?" 
 
 "You won't say that," she answered, smiling at him. 
 
 "What do you want to marry him for ?" he asked. "He's 
 just an ordinary young man. You don't know him," he re- 
 peated, "you can't yet, you've seen so little of him. Then 
 you'll upset us all here very much — it will be very un- 
 pleasant for everybody. Do you really think it's worth it ?" 
 
 Katherine laughed. "I don't think I can help it, father," 
 she answered. 
 
 Deep in Trenchard's consciousness was the conviction, 
 very common to men of good digestion over fifty, that had 
 he been God he would have managed the affairs of the world 
 very agreeably for everybody. He had not, often, been in 
 the position of absolute power, but that was because he had 
 not often taken the trouble to come out of his comfortable 
 shelter and see what people were doing. He felt now that 
 he could be Jove for a quarter of an hour without any dis- 
 comfort to himself — a very agreeable feeling. 
 
 He was also the most kind-hearted of men. "Seriously, 
 Katherine," he said, separating himself from her, drawing 
 
114 THE GKEEN^ MIEROE 
 
 his legs togetliet and frowning, "you're over age. You can 
 do what you like. In these days children aren't supposed to 
 consider their parents, and I don't really see why they 
 should . . . it's not much I've done for you. But you're 
 fond of us. We've rather hung together as a family. . . . 
 I like your young man, but I've only knovsru him a week or 
 two, and I can't answer for him. You know us, but you 
 don't know him. Are you sure you're making a wise ex- 
 change ?" 
 
 Here Philip broke in eagerly but humbly. "It isn't that 
 there need be any change," he said. "Katherine shall be- 
 long to you all just as much as ever she did." 
 
 "Thank you," said Trenchard laughing. 
 
 "I'll be proud," Philip cried, impulsively, jumping up 
 from his chair, "if you'll let me marry Katherine, but I'll 
 never forget that she was yours first. Of course I can't 
 come into the family as though I'd always been one of you, 
 but I'll do my best. . . . I'll do my best. . . ." 
 
 "My dear boy," said Trenchard, touched by the happy 
 atmosphere that he seemed, with a nod of his head, to fling 
 about him, "don't think I'm preventing you. I want every- 
 one to be pleased, I always have. If you and Katherine 
 have made up your minds about this, there isn't very much 
 for me to say. If I thought you'd make her miserable I'd 
 show you the door, but I don't think you will. All I say is 
 — we don't know you well enough yet. I^or does she. After 
 all, does she?" He paused, and then, enjoying the sense 
 of their listening attention, thought that he would malse a 
 little speech. "You're like children in a dark wood, you 
 know. You think you've found one another — caught hold 
 of one another — but when there's a bit of a moon or some- 
 thing to see one another by you may find out you've each 
 of you caught hold of someone quite different. Then, there 
 you are, you see. That's all I can tell you about marriage ; 
 all your lives you'll be in the forest, thinking you've made 
 a clutch at somebody, just for comfort's sake. But you never 
 
THE SHOCK 115 
 
 know whom you're catching — it's someone different every 
 five minutes, even when it's the same person. Well, well 
 — all I mean is that you mustn't marry for a year at least." 
 
 "Oh! a year!" cried Philip. 
 
 "Yes, a year. Won't hear of it otherwise. What do you 
 say, Katherine?" 
 
 "I think Philip and I can wait as long as that quite 
 safely," she answered, looking at her lover. 
 
 Trenohard held out his hand to Philip. "I congratulate 
 you," he said. "If you've made Katherine love you you're 
 a lucky fellow. Dear me — ^yes, you are." He put his hand 
 on Philip's shoulder. "You'd better be good to her," he 
 said, "or there'll be some who'll make you pay for it." 
 
 "Be good to her! My God!" answered Philip. 
 
 "Now you'd better clear. Eeveal yourselves to the fam- 
 ily. . . . There, Katherine, my dear, give me a kiss. Don't 
 neglect me or I shall poison the villain. . . . There, there 
 — God bless you." 
 
 He watched them depart with real affection both for them 
 and for himself. 
 
 "I'm not such a bad father after all," he thought as he 
 settled down into his chair. 
 
 Outside the study door, in the dark comer of the little 
 passage, Philip kissed Katherine. Her lips met his with a 
 passion that had in it complete and utter self -surrender. 
 
 They did not speak. 
 
 At last, drawing herself gently away from him, she said : 
 "ril tell Mother— I think it would be better not for both 
 of us. . . ." 
 
 "Yes," he whispered back, as though they were conspira- 
 tors, "I don't think I'll face them all now — unless you'd 
 like me to help you. I'll come in to-night." 
 
 With a strange, fierce, almost desperate action she caught 
 his arm and held him for a moment with his cheek against 
 hers. 
 
116 THE GKEEN MIEEOE 
 
 "Oh! Philip . . , my dearV Her voice caught and 
 broke. They kissed once again, and then, very quietly, went 
 back into the world. 
 
 Meanwhile they had been watched; Henry had watched 
 them. He had been crossing at the farther end of the little 
 passage, and stopping, holding himself back against the wall, 
 had seen, with staring eyes, the two figures. He knew in- 
 stantly. They were Philip and Katherine. He saw Kather- 
 ine's hand as it pressed into Philip's shoulder; he saw 
 Philip's back set with so fierce a strength that Henry's knees 
 trembled before the energy of it. He was disgusted — ^he 
 was wildly excited. "This is real life. . . . I've seen some- 
 thing at last. I didn't know people kissed like that, but 
 they oughtn't to do it in the passage. Anyone might see 
 them. . . . Katherine!" 
 
 Staggered by the contemplation of an utterly new Kath- 
 erine with whom, for the rest of his life, he would be com- 
 pelled to deal, he slipped into a room as he heard their steps. 
 When they had gone he came out ; he knocked on his father's 
 door: 
 
 "I'm sorry to bother you. Father," he began. "I wanted 
 to know whether I might borrow — " he stopped; his heart 
 was beating so wildly that his tongue did not belong to him. 
 
 "Well, get it and cut." His father looked at him. 
 "You've heard the news, I see." 
 
 "What news?" said Henry. 
 
 "Philip and Katherine. They're engaged, they tell me. 
 ]^ot to marry for a year though. ... I thought you'd heard 
 it by the look of you. What a mess you're in ! Why can't 
 you brush your hair ? Look at your tie up the back of your 
 collar ! Get your book and go ! I'm busy !" 
 
 But Henry went without his book. 
 
 Katherine went up to her mother's room. She would 
 catch her alone now for half an hour before tea-time, when 
 many of the family would be assembled, ready for the news. 
 
THE SHOCK 117 
 
 With sucH wild happiness was she surrounded that she saw 
 them all in the light of that happiness; she had always 
 shared so readily in any piece of good fortune that had ever 
 befallen any one of them that she did not doubt that now 
 they too would share in this fortune — this wonderful for- 
 tune! — of hers. She stopped at the little window in the 
 passage where she had had the first of her little personal 
 scraps of talk with Philip. Little scraps of talks were all 
 that they had been, and yet now, looking back upon them, 
 how weighted they seemed with heavy golden significance. 
 The sky was amber-coloured, the Abbey tower sharply black, 
 and the low archway of Dean's Yard, that she could just 
 catch with her eye, was hooped against the sky, pushing up- 
 wards to have its share in the evening light. There was 
 perfect quiet in the house and beyond it, as she went to 
 her mother's room. This room was the very earliest thing 
 that she could remember, this, or her mother's bedroom in 
 the Glebeshire house. It was a bedroom that exactly ex- 
 pressed Mrs. Trenchard, large, clumsy, lit with five windows, 
 mild and full of unarranged trifles that nevertheless ar- 
 ranged themselves. At the foot of the large bed, defended 
 with dark sateen faded curtains, was a comfortable old- 
 fashioned sofa. Further away in the middle of a clear space 
 was a table with a muddle of things upon it— a doll half- 
 clothed, a writing-case, a silver inkstand, photographs of 
 Millie, Henry and Katherine, a little younger than they 
 were now, a square silver clock, a pile of socks with a needle 
 sticking sharply out of them, a little oak book-case with 
 'Keble's Christian Year', Charlotte Yonge's 'Pillars of the 
 House', two volumes of Bishop Westcott's 'Sermons' and 
 Mrs. Gaskell's 'Wives and Daughters'. There was also a 
 little brass tray with a silver thimble, tortoiseshell paper- 
 knife, a little mat made of bright-coloured beads, a reel of 
 red silk and a tiny pocket calendar. Beside the bed there 
 was a small square oaken table with a fine silver Crucifix 
 and a Bible and a prayer book and copy of 'Before the 
 
118 THE GBEEK MIEROE 
 
 Throne' in dark blue leather. The pictures on the walls — 
 they hung against a wall-paper of pink roses, faded like the 
 bedroom curtains and the dark red carpet, but comfortably, 
 happily faded — were prints of 'Ulysses Deriding Poly- 
 phemus', 'Crossing the Brook', and 'Christ leaving the 
 Temple'. These three pictures were the very earliest things 
 of Katherine's remembrance. There were also several photo- 
 graphs of old-fashioned but sturdy ladies and gentlemen — an 
 officer in uniform, a lady with high shoulders against a back- 
 ground of a grey rolling sea. There were photographs of 
 the children at different ages. There were many cupboards, 
 and these, although they were closed, seemed to bulge, as 
 though they contained more clothes than was comfortable 
 for them. 
 
 There was a faint scent in the room of eau-de-cologne and 
 burning candles. The little clock on the table gave an 
 irritating, self-important whirr and clatter now and then, 
 and it had been doing that for a great many years. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard was lying upon her sofa making a little 
 crimson jacket for the half -clothed doll. She did not move 
 when Katherine came in, but went on with her work, her 
 fat, rather clumsy-looking fingers moving very comfortably 
 up and down the little piece of red cloth. 
 
 "Who is that?" she said. 
 
 "It's I, Mother," said Katherine, remaining by the door. 
 
 "Ah, it's you, dear," her mother answered. "Just give 
 me that doll on the table. It's for Miss Sawyer's Bazaar 
 in the Hampstead Eooms. I said I'd dress three dolls, and 
 I only remembered this morning that they've got to go off to- 
 morrow. I thought I'd snatch this quiet time before tea. 
 Yes, it's for Miss Sawyer, poor thing. I'm sure I shall 
 run out of red silk, and I don't suppose there's any in the 
 house. Did you want anything, Katherine?" 
 
 Katherine came forward, picked up the doll from the 
 table and gavie it to her mother. Then she went to one of 
 the broad high windows and stood looking out. She could 
 
THE SHOCK V 119 
 
 see the river, over whose face the evening, studded with 
 golden lamps, was dropping its veil. She could see, very 
 dimly, Westminster Bridge, with dots and little splashes 
 of hlack passing and repassing with the mechanical indif- 
 ference of some moving toy. The sight of her mother's room 
 had suddenly told her that her task would be a supremely 
 diflScult one; she did not know why she had not realised 
 that before. Her personal happiness was overwhelmed by 
 her consciousness of her mother; nothing at this moment 
 seemed to be of importance save their relations, the one to 
 the other. "I'm going to hurt her," she thought, as she 
 turned round from the window. All her life it had been her 
 urgent passion to save her mother from pain. 
 
 "Mother dear," she said, "I've got something very im- 
 portant to tell you. Mr. Mark has asked me to marry him, 
 and I've accepted him. Father says we're to wait for a 
 year." 
 
 She moved forward and then stopped. Mrs. Trenchard 
 looked at her, suddenly, as a house of cards crumples up at 
 a single touch, her face puckered as though she were going 
 to cry. For an instant it was like the face of a baby. It 
 was so swift that in a flash it was gone, and only in the 
 eyes there was still the effect of it. Her hands trembled 
 so that she forced them down upon her lap. Then her face, 
 except for her eyes, which were terrified, wore again exactly 
 her look of placid, rather stupid composure. The force that 
 she had driven into her hands had done its work, for now 
 she could raise them again; in one hand she held the doU 
 and in another the little red jacket. 
 
 "My dear Katherine!" she said. Then — ;"Just give me 
 that reel of silk, dear, on the table." Then — "But it's 
 absurd — ^you don't — " she seemed to strviggle with her words 
 as though she were beating back some other personality that 
 threatened to rise and overwhelm her. "You don't — " 
 She found her words. "You don't know him." 
 
 Katherine broke in eagerly. "I loved him at the very 
 
120 THE GEEEN MIKEOE 
 
 beginning I think. I felt I knew him at once. I don't 
 know; it's so hard to see how it began, but I can't help it, 
 Mother. I've known it myself for weeks now; Mother — " 
 She knelt down beside the sofa and looked tip, and then, at 
 something in her mother's eyes, looked down again. "Please 
 — ^please — I know it seems strange to you now, but soon 
 you'll get to know him — ^then you'll be glad — " She broke 
 off, and there followed a long silence. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard put down the doll very carefully, and' 
 then, with her hands folded on her lap, lay back on her sofa. 
 She watched the dark evening as it gathered in beyond the 
 windows ; she heard her maid's knock on the door, watched 
 her draw the curtains and switch on the light. 
 ^It was only four o'clock, but it was very cold. 
 
 "I think I'll have my shawl, dear," said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 "The Indian one that your Uncle Timothy gave me — it's 
 in the third drawer — there — to the right. . . . Thank you. 
 I must go down. Grandfather's coming down to tea this 
 afternoon." 
 
 Katharine drew closer to the sofa, after she had brought 
 the shawl ; she laid her hand upon her mother's, which were 
 very cold. 
 
 "But, Mother, you've said nothing! I know that now it 
 must seem as though I'd done it without asking you, without 
 telling you, but I didn't know myself until yesterday after- 
 noon. It came so suddenly." 
 
 "Yesterday afternoon ?" Mrs. Trenchard drew her shawl 
 closely about her. "But how could he — ^Mr. Mark — ^yester^ 
 day afternoon? You weren't alone with him — Aggie was 
 there. Surely she — " 
 
 "No. He wrote on a piece of paper and slipped it across 
 to me, and I said 'yes.' We both felt we couldn't wait." . 
 
 "I don't like him," Mrs. Trenchard said slowly. "You 
 knew that I didn't like him." 
 
 The colour rose in Katherine's cheeks. 
 
THE SHOOK 121 
 
 "No," she said, "I knew that you thought some of his 
 ideas odd. But you didn't know him," 
 
 "I don't like him," said Mrs. Trenchard again. "I could 
 never like him. He isn't a religious man. He has a bad 
 effect upon Henry. You, Katherine, to accept him when 
 you know that he doesn't go to church and was so rude 
 to poor Mr. Seymour and thinks Russia such a fine country ! 
 I can't think," said Mrs. Trenchard, her hands trembling 
 again, "what's come over you." 
 
 Katherine got up from her knees. "You won't think that 
 when you know him better. It's only that he's seen more 
 of the world than we have. He'U change and we'll change, 
 and perhaps it will be better for all of us. Down in Glebe- 
 shire we always have done so much the same things and 
 seen the same people, and even here in London — " 
 
 Her mother gave a little cry, not sharp for anyone else 
 in the world, but very sharp indeed for Mrs. Trenchard. 
 
 "You ! Katherine— you ! If it had been Millie !" 
 
 They looked at one another then in silence. They were 
 both of them conscious of an intensity of love that they had 
 borne towards one another through the space of a great many 
 years — a love that nothing else had ever approached. But 
 it was an emotion that had always been expressed in the 
 quietest terms. Both to Katherine and her mother demon- 
 strations were unknovim. Katherine felt now, at what 
 promised to be, perhaps, the sharpest crisis that her life had 
 yet experienced, an urgent desire to break through, to fling 
 her arms round her mother, to beat down all barriers, to as- 
 sure her that whatever emotion might come to her, nothing 
 could touch their own perfect relationship. But the habits 
 of years muffled everything in thick, thick wrappings — it 
 was impossible to break through. 
 
 "Your father is pleased ?" said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 
 "Yes," answered Katherine. "He likes Philip. But we 
 must wait a year." 
 
122 THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 "Your father has never told me anything. Never." She 
 got up slowly from the sofa. 
 
 "He couldn't have told you," Katherine said eagerly. 
 "He has only just known. I came straight to you from 
 him." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard now stood, looking rather lost, in the 
 middle of her room; the shawl had slipped half from her 
 shoulders, and she seemed, suddenly, an old woman. 
 
 The vision of something helpless in her, as she stood there, 
 stirred Katherine passionately. 
 
 She took her mother into her arms, stroking her hair, 
 kissing her cheeks and whispering to her: ^Darling — ■ 
 darling — it doesn't make any difference to us — it can't — it 
 can't. Nothing can. Nothing. . . . Nothing!" 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard kissed her daughter very quietly, re- 
 mained in her emhrace for a little, then drew herself away 
 and went to her mirror. She tidied her hair, patted her 
 dress, put some eau-de-Cologne on her handkerchief, laid 
 the shawl carefully away in the drawer. 
 
 "I must go down now. Father will want his tea. I'll 
 take the doll — I shan't have another chance of finishing it." 
 She walked to the door, then, turning, said with an intensity 
 that was amazing in its sudden vehemence and fire: "No 
 one shall take you from me, Katherine. No one. Let him 
 do what he likes. No one shall take you." 
 
 She did not appear an old woman, then, as she faced her 
 daughter. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the drawing-room, the family had already 
 gathered together as though it were aware that something 
 had occurred. Mr. Trenchard, Senior, surrounded by his 
 rugs, his especial table, his silver snuff-box (he never took 
 snuff in the drawing-room, but liked his box to be there), 
 a case of spectacles, and the last number of 'Blackwood's 
 Magazine'. Great Aunt Sarah, Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, 
 and Millie. Millie, watching them, was, to her own immense 
 surprise, sorry for them. 
 
THE SHOCK 123 
 
 Millie, watching them, -wondered at herself. What had 
 happened to her? She had returned from Paris, eager to 
 find herself as securely inside the family as she had always 
 been — longing after the wide, vague horizons of the outside 
 world to feel that security. She had laughed at them a little, 
 perhaps, but she had always understood and approved of 
 their motives. 
 
 JSTow she found herself at every turn criticising, wonder- 
 ing, defending against her own intelligence, as though she 
 had been the merest stranger. She loved them — all of them 
 — ^but — ^how strong they were! And how terrible of her 
 that she should find them strange! They were utterly un- 
 aware of any alteration in her; she seemed to herself to 
 be a spy in their midst. . . . 
 
 Happily, however, they were all, this afternoon, most 
 comfortably unaware of any criticism from anyone in the 
 world. They sat about the room, waiting for their tea and 
 saying very little. They knew one another so well that con- 
 versation was a mere emphasis of platitudes. Aunt Aggie 
 talked, but nobody listened, unless one of the above-men- 
 tioned assurances were demanded. 
 
 Her dry, sharp little voice, like the fire and the ticking of 
 the clock, made an agreeable background. 
 
 Upon this innocent gathering, so happy and tranquil, 
 Henry burst with his news. He came with all the excited 
 vehemence sprung from his own vision of the lovers. He 
 could see only that; he did not realise that the others had 
 not shared his experience. It was almost as though he had 
 tumbled into the middle of them, so abrupt, so agitated, so 
 incoherent was he! 
 
 "They're engaged!" he burst out. 
 
 "My dear Henry!" said Millie. "What's the matter?" 
 
 "I tell you! Katherine and Mark. They've been into 
 father, and he says they're to wait a year, but it's all right. 
 He says that he didn't know till they told him. Katherine's 
 with Mother now, — Mark's coming in to-night; Katherine!" 
 
124 THE GKEEJST MIKEOE 
 
 He broke off, words failed him, and lie was suddenly 
 conscious of hia Uncle's eye. 
 
 "What?" said Aunt Aggie. 
 
 "They're engaged," repeated Henry. 
 
 "Whom?" cried Aunt Aggie, ungrammatically, with a 
 shrill horror that showed that she had already heard. 
 
 "Katie and Philip," Henry almost screamed in reply. 
 
 What Aunt Aggie, whose eyes were staring as though she 
 saw ghosts or a man under her bed, would have said to 
 this no one could say, but Aunt Sarah drove, like a four- 
 wheeled coach, right across her protruding body. 
 
 Aunt Sarah said: "What are you all talking about? 
 What's the matter with Henry ? Is he ill ? I can't hear." 
 
 Millie went up to her. "Katherine's engaged. Aunt 
 Sarah, to Mr. Mark," 
 
 "What do you say about Katherine?" 
 
 "She's engaged." 
 
 "She's what?" 
 
 "Engaged!" 
 
 "Who to?" 
 
 "Mr. Mark." 
 
 "Eh? What?" 
 
 "Mark!" 
 
 At the shouting of that name it did indeed seem that the 
 very walls and ceiling of that old room would collapse. To 
 Aunt Aggie, to Millie, to Henry, to Aunt Betty, this raid 
 upon Katherine struck more deeply than any cynical student 
 of human nature could have credited. For the moment 
 Philip Mark was forgotten — only was it apparent to them 
 all front Grandfather Trenchard and Great Aunt Sarah to 
 Henry that Katherine, their own absolute property, the 
 assurance given to them that life would be always secure, 
 solid, unalterable, had declared publicly, before the world, 
 that she preferred a stranger, a complete, blown-from-any- 
 where stranger, to the family. What would happen to 
 them all, to their comforts, their secret preferences and 
 
THE SHOCK 125 
 
 habits (known as they all, individually, believed, only to 
 K^atherine), to their pride, to their self-esteem? They loved 
 one another, yes, they loved the Trenehard family, the 
 Trenehard position, but through all these things, as a skewer 
 through beef, ran their reliance upon Katherine. It was 
 as though someone had cried to them : "The whole of Glebe- 
 shire is blown away — fields and houses, roads and rivers. 
 You must go and live in Yorkshire. Glebeshire cares for 
 you no longer!" 
 
 "They're to wait a tear, Fathee says!" shouted 
 Millie. 
 
 Aunt Sarah shook her white-plumed head and snorted: 
 
 "Katherine! Engaged! To a Stranger! Impossible!" 
 
 Aunt Aggie was conscious, at the moment, of nothing ex- 
 cept that she herself had been defeated. They had tricked 
 her, those two. They had eluded her vigilance. = » . They 
 were now, in all probability, laughing at her. . 
 
 "The last thing I want to do," she said, "is to blame 
 anybody, but if I'd been listened to at the beginning, Mr. 
 Mark would never have been asked to stay. . . , It was 
 thoughtless of George. [Now we can all see — " 
 
 But Millie, standing before them all, her face flushed, 
 said: 
 
 "The chief thing is to consider Katherine's happiness. 
 Mr. Mark is probably delightful. She was sure to marry 
 somebody. How can people help falling in love with Kath- 
 erine? We all love her. She loves us. I don't see what 
 Mr. Mark can do to prevent that — and he won't want to. 
 He rntist be nice if Katherine loves him !" 
 
 But the final word was spoken by Grandfather Trenehard, 
 who had been hitherto utterly silent. In his clear, silvery 
 voice he said : 
 
 "A great deal can happen in a year !" 
 
 At that moment Katherine and her mother came in. 
 
BOOK II 
 THE FEATHER BED 
 
CHAPTEE I 
 
 KATHEEINE IW LOVE 
 
 KATHEEINE TEE]!TCHAKD, although she had, for a 
 mimber of years now, gone about the world with open 
 eyes and an understanding heart, was, in very many ways, 
 absurdly old-fashioned. I say "absurd" because many peo- 
 ple, from amongst her own Trenchard relations, thought her 
 prejudices, simplicities, and confidences absurd, and hoped 
 that she would grow out of them. The two people who really 
 knew her, her Uncle Timothy and Eaehel Seddon, hoped 
 that she never would. Her "old-fashioned" habits of mind 
 led her to believe in "people" in "things" and iu "causes", 
 and it was her misfortune that up to this year of which I am 
 speaking she had never been disappointed. That may be 
 because she had grovm up amongst the rocks, the fields, the 
 lanes of Glebeshire, true ground where sincerity and truth 
 flourish yet in abundance — ^moreover it is assured that man 
 lives up to the qualities with which he is by his friends 
 credited, and all the Trenchard family lived up to Kather- 
 ine's belief in their word of honour. 
 
 She was not so simple a character that she found the 
 world perfect, but she was in no way subtle, and, because she 
 herself acted in her faults and virtues, her impetuosities and 
 repentances, her dislikes and affections with clear-hearted 
 simplicity, she believed that other persons did the same. 
 Hef love for her mother was of this quite unquestioning 
 sort; her religion too was perfectly direct and unquestion- 
 ing: so, then, her love for Philip. . . . 
 
 She had never before been in love, nor had she ever con- 
 
 129 
 
130 THE GEEEN MIKEOB 
 
 sidered men very closely as anything but visitors or rela- 
 tions. The force and power of the passion that now held 
 her was utterly removed from anything that had ever en- 
 countered her before, but she was a strong character, and 
 her simplicity of outlook helped her. Philip seemed to her 
 to be possessed of all the qualities of the perfect hero. His 
 cleverness, his knowledge of the world, his humour were 
 only balanced by his kindness to everyone and everything, 
 his unselfishness, his honesty of speech and eye. She had 
 thought him, once, a little weak in his anxiety to be liked, 
 by all the world, but now that was forgotten. He was, dur- 
 ing these days, a perfect character. 
 
 She had not, however, lost her clear-sighted sense of 
 humour; that humour was almost cynical sometimes in its 
 sharp perception of people and things, and did not seem 
 to belong to the rest of Katherine at all. It was driven 
 more often upon herself than upon anyone else, but it was, 
 for a character of Katherine's simplicity, strangely sharp. 
 A fair field for the employment of it was offered to her just 
 now in the various attitudes and dispositions of her own 
 immediate family, but, as yet, she was unable to see the 
 family at all, so blinding was Philip's radiance. 
 
 That year England enjoyed one of the old romantic 
 Christmases. There were sparkling dazzling frosts. The 
 snow lay hard and shining under skies of unchanging blue, 
 and on Christmas Eve, when the traffic and smoke of the 
 town had stolen the purity away, more snow fell and re- 
 stored it again. 
 
 It had always been the rule that the Trenehards should 
 spend Christmas in Glebeshire, but, this year, typhoid fever 
 had visited Garth only a month or two before, and London, 
 was held to be safer. Katherine had not had, in her life, 
 so many entertainments that she could afFord to be blase 
 about them, and she still thought a Pantomime splendid, 
 "The Only Way" certainly the most magnificent play in 
 the world, and a dance a thing of perfect rapture, if only 
 
KATHEEINE IN LOVE 131 
 
 she could be more secure about tbe rigbt shapes and colours 
 of her clothes. She had no vanity whatever — indeed a little 
 more would have helped her judgment: she never knew 
 whether a dress would suit her, nor why it was that one 
 thing "looked right" and another thing "looked wrong". 
 Millie could have helped her, because Millie knew all about 
 clothes, but it was always a case with Katherine of some- 
 thing else coming first, of having to dress at the last minute, 
 of "putting on any old thing because there was no time." 
 
 N'ow, however, there was Philip to dress for, and she did 
 really try. She went to Millie's dressmaker with Millie as 
 her guide, but unfortunately Mrs. Trenchard, who had as 
 little idea about dress as Katherine, insisted on coming too, 
 and confused everyone by her introduction of personal mo- 
 tives and religious dogmas into something that should have 
 been simply a matter of ribbons and bows. Katherine, in- 
 deed, was too happy to care. Philip loved her in any old 
 thing, the truth being that when he went about with her, 
 he saw very little except his own happiness. . . . 
 
 It is certainly a fact that during these weeks neither of 
 them saw the family at all. 
 
 Eaehel Seddon was the first person of the outside world 
 to whom Katherine told the news. 
 
 "So that was the matter with you that day when you 
 came to see me!" she cried. 
 
 "What day?" said Katherine. 
 
 "You'd been frightened in the Park, thought someone 
 was going to drop a bag over your head, and ran in 
 here for safety." 
 
 "I shall always run in here for safety," said Katherine 
 gravely. Rachel came, in Katherine's heart, in the place 
 next to Mrs. Trenchard and Philip. Katherine had always 
 told Eaehel everything until that day of which Eaehel had 
 just spoken. There had been reticence then, there would be 
 reticences always now. 
 
182 THE GEEElSr MIEKOR 
 
 ""^ou will bring him very quickly to see me?" said 
 Rachel. 
 
 "I will bring him at once," answered Katherine. 
 
 Eachel had lUced Philip when she met him at the 
 Trenchards; now, when he came to call, she found that she 
 did not get on with him. He seemed to be suspicious of 
 her: he was awkward and restrained^ His very youthful 
 desite to make the person he was with like him, seemed 
 now to give way to an almost tructilent surliness. "I don't 
 care whether you like me or not," he seemed to say. 
 "Katherine's inine and not yours any longer." 
 
 iNeither Philip nor Rachel told Katherine that they did 
 not like one another. Eoddy Seddon, Rachel's husband, on 
 the other hand, .iked Philip very much. Lying for many 
 years on his back had given him a preference for visitors 
 who talked l*eadily and gaily, who could tell him about 
 foreign countrieSj who did not too obviously pity him for 
 being "out of the running, poOi? beggar." 
 
 "You don't like the feller ?" Roddy said to his wife. 
 
 "He doesn't like me," feaid Rachel. 
 
 "Rot," said Roddy. "You're both jealous. You both 
 want Katherine." "" 
 
 "I shan't be jealous," answered Rachel, "if he's good 
 enough for her — if he makes her happy." 
 
 "He seems to me a very decent sort of feller," said Roddy. 
 
 Meanwhile Rachel adored Katherine's happiness. She 
 had chafed for many years now at what she considered was 
 the Trenchards' nithless sacrifice of Katherine to their own 
 Selfish needs. 
 
 "They're never going to let her have any life of her own," 
 she said. !N"ow Katherine had a life of her own, and if only 
 that might continue Rachel would ask no more. Rachel had 
 had her own agonies and disciplines in the past, and they 
 had left their mark upon her. She loved her husband and 
 her child, and her life was suflSciently filled with their de- 
 mands upon her, but she was apprehensive of happiness — 
 
KATHEEINE m LOVE 133 
 
 she saw the Gods tating avay with one hand whilst they gave 
 with the other. 
 
 "I tnew more ahout the world at ten," she thought, "than 
 Katherine will ever know. If she's hurt, it will he far worse 
 for her than it ever was for me." 
 
 Although she delighted in Katherine's happiness, she 
 trembled at the utter absorption of it. ^'We aren't meant 
 to trust anything so much," she thought, "as L-atherine 
 trusts his love for her." 
 
 Katherine, perhaps because she trusted so absolutely, did 
 not at present ask Philip any questions. They talked very 
 little. They walked, they rode on the tops of omnibuses, 
 they went to the Zoo and Madame Tussaud's and the Tower, 
 they had tea at the Carlton Eestaurant and lunch in Soho, 
 they went to the Winter Exhibition at Burlington House, 
 and heard a famous novelist give p. portentous lecture on 
 the novel at the "Times" Book Olub. They were taken to 
 a solemn evening at the Poets' Club, where ladies in evening 
 dress read their own poetry, they went to a performance 
 given by the Stage Society, and a tea-party given by four 
 lady novelists at the Lyceum Club: old Lady Oarloes, who 
 liked Katherine, chaperoned her to certain smart dances, 
 whither Philip also was invited, and, upon two glorious oc- 
 casions, they shared a box with her at a winter season of 
 German Opera at Covent Garden. They saw the Drury 
 Lane pantomime and Mr, Martin Harvey and one of Mr. 
 Hall Caine's melodramas and a very interesting play by Sir 
 Arthur (then Mr.) Pinero. They saw the King driving 
 out in his carriage and the Queen driving out in hers. 
 
 It was a wild and delirious time. Katherine had always 
 had too many duties at home to consider London very thor^ 
 oughly, and Philip had been away for so long that every- 
 thing in London was exciting to him. They spoke very 
 little; they went, with their eyes wide open, their hearts 
 heating very loudly, side by side, up and down the town, 
 
134 THE GEEEN MIKEOE 
 
 and the town smiled upon tliem because they were so young, 
 so happy, and so absurdly confident. 
 
 Katherlne was confident because she could see no reason 
 for being otherwise. She knew that it sometimes happened 
 that married people did not get on well together, but it was 
 ridiculous to suppose that that could be the case with herself 
 and Philip. She knew that, just at present, some members 
 of her family did not care very greatly for Philip, but that 
 was because they did not know him. She knew that a year 
 seemed a long time to wait, but it was a very short period 
 compared with a whole married lifetime. How anyone so 
 clever, so fine of soul, so wise in his knowledge of men and 
 things could come to love anyone so ordinary as herself 
 she did not know — ^but that had been in God's hands, and 
 she left it there. 
 
 There was a thing that began now to happen to Katherine 
 of which she herself was only very dimly perceptive. She 
 began to be aware of the living, actual participation in her 
 life of the outside, abstract world. It was simply this — ^that, 
 because so wonderful an event had transformed her own 
 history, so also to everyone whom she saw, she felt that some- 
 thing wonderful must have happened. It came to more than 
 this; she began now to be aware of London as something 
 alive and perceptive in the very heart of its bricks and 
 mortar, something that knew exactly her history and was 
 watching to see what would come of it. She had always 
 been concerned in the fortunes of those immediately about 
 her — in the villages of Garth, in all her Trenchard relations 
 — ^but they had filled her world. !N"ow she could not go out 
 of the Westminster house without wondering — about the 
 two old maids in black bonnets who walked up and down 
 Barton Street, about a tall gentleman with mutton-chop 
 whiskers and a white bow, whom she often saw in Dean's 
 Yard, about a large woman with a tiny dog and painted 
 eyebrows, about the young man with the bread, the young 
 man with the milk, the very trim young man with the post, 
 
KATHEEINE IN LOVE 135 
 
 the Tory fat young man with the butcher's cart, the two 
 smart nursemaids with the babies of the idle rich, who 
 were always together and deep in whispered conversation; 
 the policeman at the right comer of the Square, who was 
 friendly and human, and the policeman at the left comer 
 who was not ; the two young men in perfect attire and 
 attache cases who always lounged down Barton Street about 
 six o'clock in the evening with scorn for all the world at 
 the corners of their mouths, the old man with a brown muf- 
 fler who sold boot laces at the corner of Barton Street, and 
 the family with the barrel-organ who came on Eriday morn- 
 ings (man once been a soldier, woman pink shawl, baby in 
 a basket), a thick-set, grave gentleman who must be some- 
 body's butler, because his white shirt was so stiff and his 
 cheeks blue-black from shaving so often, a young man al- 
 ways in a hurry and so untidy that, until he came close to 
 her, Eatherine thought he must be Henry ... all those 
 figures she had known for years and years, but they had 
 been only figures, they had helped to make the pattern in 
 the carpet, shapes and splashes of colour against the grey. 
 
 "Now they were suddenly alive! They had, they must 
 have, histories, secrets, triumphs, defeats of a most thrilling 
 order! She would like to have told them of her own amaz- 
 ing, stupendous circumstances, and then to have invited their 
 confidences. The world that had held before some fifty or 
 sixty lives pulsated now with millions. But there was more 
 than that before her. Whereas she had always, because she 
 loved it, given to Garth and the country around it a con- 
 scious, individual existence, London had been to her simply 
 four walls with a fire and a window. Erom the fire there 
 came heat, from the window a view, but the heat and the 
 view were made by man for man's convenience. Had man 
 not been, London was not. . . . Garth had breathed and 
 stormed, threatened and loved before Man's spirit had been 
 created. 
 
 ITow, although as yet she did not recognise it, she began 
 
186 tHE G:kEEN MIEROE 
 
 to be AwAi^ie of London's pr^fettc^ — as tholigll from some 
 hiddeil corner, ftoin long ago some stfangei" had watched 
 her; liow, bebaUse the room was lit, he was revealed to her. 
 She Was not, as yOt, at all frightened by her knowledge, but 
 even in quiet Westminster there Were doorways, street 
 corners, trees', windows, chimneys, houses, set and square 
 and silent, that perceived her Coming and going — "Tum — 
 te tum— Tat— Tfet— Tat . . . Tair— Tat— Tat— Tum— te 
 — turn. . . . 
 
 "We know all about it, Katherine Trenchard — ^We know 
 what's going to happen to you, but We can't tell you — ^We're 
 oldel* and wiser, muCh older and miich, mlich wiser than 
 you are— Tat— Tat— Tat. . . ." 
 
 Sbe was so happy that London could not at present dis- 
 turb herj btit when the sim was suddenly caught behind 
 black clottds, when a whirr of rain came slashing doWn from 
 nowhet^ at all, when a fog ctoght with its yellow hand Lon- 
 don's thtoat and squeezed it, when giists of diist rose from 
 the streets in little clouds as though the horses were kick- 
 ing theit feet, when a wind, colder than snow cdme, blow- 
 ing from nowhere, on a Warm day, Katherine needed Philip, 
 eluhg to him, begged him not to leave her • . . she had 
 never, in all her life, clung to anyone before. 
 
 But this remains that, during these weeks, she found him. 
 perfect. She liked nothing better than his half-serious, half- 
 humotons Sallies at himself. "You've got -to buck me up, 
 Ka,therine — ^keep me from flopping about, you know. Until 
 I met you ho one had any real influence on me — ^never in 
 all my days. Now yoll can do anything with me. Tell 
 me when I do ahything hateful, and scold me as oftett as 
 you cah. Look at me with the eyes of Aunt Aggie if you 
 cto — she sees me without any false colouring. I'm not a 
 hero — fal^ from it — ^but I can be anything if you love me 
 enohgh." 
 
 "Love him enough !" Had anyone ever loved anyone be- 
 fore as she loved him? She was not, to any Ordinai-y oh- 
 
KATHEEINE IN LOVE 137 
 
 server, very greatly changed. Quietly and vsritll all the 
 ikatter-of-fact half-serious, half-humorous cominon-sense shie 
 vi^ent about her ordinary daily affairs. YoUng Seymoul- 
 came to tea, and she laughed at him, gave hito teacake, and 
 aSked him about the latest novel just as she had always done. 
 Mr. Seymour had come expecting to see love's candle lit 
 for the benefit of his own especial genius. He was greatly 
 disappointed, but also, because he hated Matk, gratified. 
 "I don't believe she loves him a bit," he said afterwards. 
 "He came in while I was there, and she didn't colour up or 
 anything. Didn't show anything, and I'm pretty observant. 
 She doesn't love him, and I'm jolly glad — I can't stand the 
 man." 
 
 But those who were near her knew. They felt the heat, 
 they watched the colour, of the pure, unfaltering flame. Old 
 Trenchard, the Aunts, Millie, Henry, her mother, even 
 George Trenchard felt it. "I always knew," said Millie, 
 "that when love came to Katherine it would be terrible". 
 She wrote that in a diary that she kept. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard said nothing at all. During those weeks 
 Katherine was, for the first time in her life, unaware of 
 her mother. 
 
 The afternoon of the Christmas Eve of that year TVas 
 never afterwards forgotten by Katherine. She had been buy- 
 ing last desperate additions to Christmas presents, had 
 fought in the shops and been victorious ; then, seeing through 
 the early dusk the lights of the Abbey, she slipped in at the 
 great door, found a seat near the back of the nave, and re- 
 membered that always, at this hour, on Christmas Eve, a 
 Carol Service was held. The service had not yet begun, 
 and a hush, with strange rhythms and pulsations in it, as 
 though some phantom conductor were leading a phantom 
 orchestra, filled the huge space. A fiood of people, dim and 
 very silent, spread from wall to wall. Ear away, candles 
 fluttered, trembled and flung strange lights into the web of 
 shadow that seemed to swing and stir as though driven by 
 
138 THE GEEEN" MIEKOE 
 
 some wind. Katherine sank into a happy, dreamy bewilder- 
 ment. The heat of the building after the cold, frosty air, 
 some old scent of candles and tombstones and ancient walls, 
 the consciousness of utter, perfect happiness carried her into 
 a state that was half dream, half reality. She closed her 
 eyes, and soon the voices from very far away rose and fell 
 with that same phantom, remotely inhuman urgency. 
 
 A boy's voice that struck, like a dart shot by some heavenly 
 archer, at her heart, awoke her. This was "Good King 
 Wenceslaus". A delicious pleasure filled her: her eyes 
 flooded with tears and her heart beat triumphantly. "Oh ! 
 how happy I am ! And I realise it — I lenow that I can never 
 be happier again than I am now !" 
 
 The carol ceased. After a time, too happy for speech, 
 she went out. 
 
 In Dean's Yard the snow, with blue evening shadows upon 
 it, caught light from the sheets of stars that tossed and 
 twinkled, stirred and were suddenly immovable. The Christ- 
 mas bells were ringing: all the lights of the houses in the 
 Yard gathered about her and protected her. What stars 
 there were ! What beauty ! What silence ! 
 
 She stood, for a moment, taking it in, then, with a little 
 shiver of delight, turned homewards. 
 
CHAPTEK II 
 
 MES. TEENCHAED 
 
 MILLIE, like many of the Trenchard ladies before her, 
 kept a diary. She had kept it now for three years, 
 and it had not during that time, like the diaries of other 
 young ladies, died many deaths and suffered many resur- 
 rections, but had continued with the utmost regularity and 
 discipline. This regularity finds its explanation in the fact 
 that Millie really was interested in other people as well as 
 in herself, was sometimes surprised at her cleverness and in 
 turn suspicious of it — in fact, she knew as much about the 
 world as most girls of eighteen who have been "finished" in 
 Paris: she thought that she knew more than she did, and 
 was perfectly determined to know a great deal more than 
 she thought she knew. 
 
 These were some entries : 
 
 "Dec. Qih. Tried on the new white silk, but it won't 
 do even now — ^too tight and makes me skimpy — Refused to 
 let mother come with me this time. Took Aunt Betty in- 
 stead, and we saw a peach of a hat at Eenee's which I'd give 
 my eyes for, only of course I haven't got the money now with 
 Christmas coming and everything. Aunt Betty said it was 
 much better wanting things you can't have, because then 
 you go on being excited, but that's of course absurd and just 
 like Aunt Betty. 
 
 Bought Aunt Aggie a calendar-blotter thing for Christmas 
 which she won't like (blue leather with silver corners) but I 
 can't help it. I'm sick of thinking what to get her, and she 
 won't be contented whatever it is. Meanwhile, in the after- 
 
 139 
 
140 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 noon: the sensation of a lifetime — All sitting in tlie draw- 
 ing-room, waiting for tea. When in bursts Henry with the 
 wild news that Katie's engaged herself to Philip Mark. We 
 all turned blue — I'd like to have been someone outside and 
 seen us. 'So one had really suspected it. I hadn't myself — 
 although one might have, I suppose, if one had watched 
 more closely. It's very exciting, and if Katie's happy I don't 
 care about anything else. At least I do. It was so lovely 
 coming back from Paris and having her all to oneself. We 
 understapd one another so much better than any of the others 
 do, I'm the only one in the family who really knows her. I 
 never thought of her as being married, which was siUy, I 
 suppose. It's funny to think of her liking a man, whom she's 
 only just seen, better than all of us. It wouldn't be funny 
 with most people, but Katherine's so quiet and so steady. 
 It all depends on what he's like. Finished 'La Faute de 
 I'abbe Mouret'. Loved it. Downstairs I'm reading 'Sesame 
 and Lilies' — ^well-written but awfully silly. 
 
 Dec. 9th. Dreary day buying presents with mother at 
 the Stores. Why she will go there I can't think, and she 
 takes it like a week on the Eiviera or a box at the opera. 
 She says nothing about Philip — ^not a word. He dined last 
 night, and was most tactful. I never saw anyone so de- 
 termined to make us all devoted to him, but he's got a 
 difficult business with Aunt Aggie and mother. I like him, 
 and have a kipd of idea that I understand him better than 
 ftny of the others do. He's certainly not the God that Kath- 
 erine thinks him — and he knows he isn't. He's a little 
 imcomfortable about it, I think. He's certainly very much 
 in love with her. Letter from Louise Pouge — She's engaged 
 — ^to no one very particular. She's younger than I am — and 
 prettier — ^lots. 
 
 Spoke to Henry about clean handkerchiefs. He's really 
 incredible at his age. Philip seems to influence him though. 
 Th^^t may do something. 
 
 Dec. ISth. Dismal day. Out of sorts and cross. Dread- 
 
MES. 1:KEl^CHAltD 141 
 
 fully restless. I don't know why. It's all wrong this Christ- 
 mas, not being down at Garth and Katherine so OCcupifed. 
 On days like these I have terrible scruples about myself. I 
 suppose I am terribly conceited really — and yet I don't 
 know. There are plenty of people I admire ever so much 
 more than myself. I suppose it's seeing Katherine so happy 
 that makes me restless. It must be nice to have anyone as 
 devoted as that to you. . • . I've always been very cynical 
 about being in love, but when one watches it, quite close, 
 with anyone as good as Katherine . . . anyway it's been a 
 beastly day, and Aunt Aggie went on like an old crow at 
 dinner. I wish I knew what mother was feeling about it 
 all — she's so quiet. 
 
 Dec. llih. Had a long talk with Philip this evening. 
 I must say I liked him — ^he was so modest about himself. He 
 said that he wished he were a little more as Katherine thinks 
 he is, and that he's going to try to be. I said that's all tight 
 so long as he made Katherine happy and didn't take her 
 right away from us all. He said that he would do any- 
 thing to make mother like him, and did I thiiik that she 
 liked him better now ? I said that I was sure that she did — 
 but I'm not sure really. It's impossible to know what 
 mother thinks. Katherine came iil whilst We were talking. 
 Afterwards, I don't know why, I felt afraid somehow. 
 Katie's so sure. I know I'd never be sure of anybody, least 
 of all anyone in love with me. But then I know so much 
 more about men than Katie does. And I'm sure Philip 
 knows lots more about women than Katie thinks. Katie and 
 mother are so alike in some ways. They're both as obstinate 
 as anything. Such a lovely afternoon out with the Swin- 
 tons — Snow in the Green Park, sparkling all over and the 
 air like after you've eaten peppermints. Lady Perrot asked 
 me to go with them to New Year's supper at the Savoy. 
 Hope I'll be allowed. 
 
 Dec. 23rd. Had a walk with Katie — first walk had alone 
 since her engagement. She was so happy that she was alinost 
 
142 THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 — a beastly word — frisky. Katie frisky ! We're miles away 
 from one another just now, and that's the truth. I suppose 
 one must simply wait until this period's passed away. But 
 supposing it never passes away? Supposing she disappears 
 altogether — from all of us. At any rate, what can one say ? 
 I like Philip, and can honestly say so, but I don't think him 
 the angel Gabriel. !N"ot that Katie at present cares, in the 
 least, what one thinks — she doesn't wait to hear. She is 
 making no plans, thinking of no possible future, imagining 
 nothing. She never had any imagination, or at any rate 
 never used it. Perhaps she'll get some now from Philip, 
 who has 'plenty — ^far too much. It's Ms trouble, I believe 
 that he's always imagining something a little better than 
 he's got. . . . We Trenchards have none. I haven't any 
 really — it's only curiosity. Henry and I might have some 
 if we were all very uncomfortable. But of course the whole 
 family only keeps together because it can't imagine things 
 being different. Are things going to be different now ? . . . 
 Eachel Seddon came to tea. Don't like her. Thinks she 
 owns Katie — and Katie's let her. Went with the Aunts to 
 the Messiah. Very long, with nice bits. Aunt Aggie had a 
 crick in the neck, and wriggled all the time. Hope I get 
 some money on Christmas Day or I shall be in an awful 
 hole. 
 
 Dec. 26ih. Two pounds from father, one from grand- 
 father, ten shillings Cousin Alice, five Aunt Grace, kettle- 
 holder Aunt Aggie, two dozen handkerchiefs Uncle Bob, 
 fountain-pen father, new hat mother (quite hopeless), photo- 
 gravure 'Happy Warrior' Aunt Betty, two books 'Eeuben 
 Hallard' by Westcott (Mudie second-hand) 'Eossetti's 
 Poems' from Henry — lovely amethyst brooch Katie (dar- 
 ling!) two novels by Turgenieff from Philip — ^lots of other 
 things. 
 
 Nice day on the whole, but not quite right somehow. Wish 
 mother didn't always look so anxious when there's a dinner 
 party. You always expect things to happen wrong, and really 
 
MES. TKENCHAED 143 
 
 Eocket knows his business by this time. All of us a little 
 forced, I think. It seemed funny not being at Garth and 
 Philip the first person we've ever had not of the family. 
 Aunt Sarah keeps forgetting who he is, or pretends to. I 
 wish he didn't make up to mother quite so much. That 
 isn't the way to make her like him. I really do understand 
 him much better than anyone else does — mvxih better than 
 Katie. 
 
 Dec. Zlst. Going to the Savoy party to-night. Hope it will 
 be fun. IsTever expected mother to let me, but she's awfully 
 sweet to me lately. She's a darling, but we're really always 
 just a little afraid of one another. Of course I'm not out 
 yet, so I'll have to be quiet to-night. Mother never would 
 have dreamt of letting me go six months back. End of the 
 year — ^made several resolutions. Not to be snappy, nor 
 superior, nor cynical, nor selfish. That's enough for any- 
 one to look after! Wonder what things will be like this 
 year, and how Katie and Philip will turn out. Feel as 
 though things will all go wrong, and yet I don't know why. 
 Bought the hat I saw a fortnight ago. Pinished 'House of 
 Gentlefolks'. Adored it. Discussed it with Philip. Going 
 to get all the other TurgeniefFs. Think Eussia must be a 
 wonderful country. Time to dress. I know I'll just love 
 the party. . . ." 
 
 Only Mrs. Trenchard herself could say whether or no 
 she had enjoyed this Christmas. She displayed the same 
 busy placidity as on other occasions ; of her fears, disappoint- 
 ments, surprises, she said nothing. The turkey was a suc- 
 cess, the plum-pudding burnt with a proper glow, no one was 
 ill, she had forgotten, in sending out her parcels, no single 
 Trenchard relation — surely all was well. 
 
 Her brother, Timothy, who knew her better than anyone 
 else did, had long abandoned the penetration of her motives, 
 aims, regrets. There had been a time when she had been 
 almost intimate with him, then something (he never knew 
 
lU THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 ■\yjiat) had driven her in more obstinately than ever upon 
 herself. Something he bad said. . . . He could point almost 
 exactly to the day and hour. She had been a stranger to him 
 from that moment. 
 
 Her history was, however, very simple. 
 
 When she had been a very, very small child she had de- 
 cided for herself that the way to give life a real value was to 
 fix one's affection upon someone : perhaps there had been also 
 the fear of life as a motive, the discovery that the best way 
 to be protected from all kinds of perils was to be so fond of 
 soinpone that nothing else mattered. With a quiet, unde- 
 monstrative but absolutely tenacious hold she attached herself 
 to her nurse, who deserted her on the appearance of a younger 
 sister, to her mother, who died, to her father, who was always 
 so busy that loving him was like being devoted to a blotting 
 pad- When she was ten years of age she went to school, and 
 clung to a succession of older girls, who, however, found, 
 in her lack of all demonstrations, her almost cynical remarks, 
 her inability to give any expression whatever to her emotions, 
 something, at first, terrifying, and afterwards merely tire- 
 some. 
 
 When she was about eighteen she discovered that the per- 
 son to whqm a woman should be properly attached was her 
 husband. She waited then very calmly until she was twenty, 
 when George Trenchard appeared, proposed to her, and was 
 accepted. She took it so utterly for granted that her devo- 
 tion to hini would fill sufficiently the energy of her remaining 
 days that it wasn't until the end of a year of married life that 
 she discovered that, although he liked her very much, he could 
 do quite beautifully without her, and did, indeed, for three- 
 quarters of eveiy day forget her altogether. No one, except 
 herself, knew whether that discovery hurt her. She, of course, 
 said nothing to anyone about it. She waited for the arrival 
 of her children. Katherine, Henry and Mildred came, and 
 at last it seemed that Mrs. Trenchard's ship had come into 
 port. Paring their early years, at any rate, they clung to 
 
MES, TEENCHAED 145 
 
 her tenaciously, did not in the least mind that she had noth- 
 ing to say to them: they found her sure and safe and, best 
 of all possible things in a parent, always the same. It was 
 when Katherine was six years old that Timothy said to her 
 one day: 
 
 "Look here, Harriet, don't get so wrapt in the children 
 that you'll never be able to unwrap yourself again. I've seen 
 it happen dozens of times, and it always gives endless trouble 
 later on. It's all very well now, but the time will come when 
 they'll break away — it mwsf come, and you'll suffer horribly 
 unless you're ready for it. I'm not married myself, it's true, 
 but I see all the more for that very reason." 
 
 This was the speech that severed Mrs. Trenchard from 
 her brother. She never forgot nor forgave it. She never 
 forgave it because she could not forget it : his words were to 
 haunt her from the moment of their utterance until the last 
 conscious instant of her life. She had been born entirely 
 without imagination, but she had not been born without the 
 wish for romance. Moreover, the Faunder tradition (which 
 is the same as the Trenchard tradition) taught her to believe 
 that there was something enfeebling and dangerous about 
 imagination, and that the more one thought about things not 
 immediately within sight the less likely one was to do one's 
 daily task with efficiency. Her longing for a romantic life 
 therefore (that is for the justification of her own personal 
 existence) was assisted by no private dreams nor castle-build- 
 ing. 'No Faunder or Trenchard had ever built a castle in 
 the air when there were good square mangers and vicarages 
 waiting to be constructed on good solid ground. She di- 
 rected the whole of her passionate life towards her relations 
 with her children, but never even to herself would she admit 
 that she had any passionate life at all. Take away the chil- 
 dren and there was nothing left for her except her religion ; 
 because the loss of them would be the one tragedy that would 
 drive her to question the justice of her God was justification 
 of itself for her passionate determination. 
 
146 THE GEEEN MIKKOE 
 
 iN'ow Timothy had said that she would lose them — ^well, 
 Timothy should see. With other children, with other 
 mothers, it might be so. God Himself should not take them 
 from her. 
 
 Nevertheless, as the children grew, the shadows of his words 
 ever pursued her and hemmed her in. She watched, with 
 close attention, other families, and saw that Timothy's warn- 
 ing was justified often enough, but always she was able to 
 find for herself some reason. The weakness of selfishness 
 or carelessness of the parent. Not weak, nor selfish, nor 
 careless could any watching Powers, waiting to pounce, ac- 
 cuse her of being! 
 
 When the children grew older she discovered certain things 
 about them. Henry often annoyed her with his untidiness 
 and strangely unjustified egotism. He always thought about 
 himself, and yet never did anything. She liked Henry least 
 of her children. 
 
 Mildred was delightful, clever, the "show child", but for 
 that very reason would in all probability be, afterwards, the 
 most restless of them. As the two girls grew Mrs. Tren- 
 chard told herself that, perhaps, Millie would have to be sacri- 
 ficed, and in telling herself this she implied that if she would 
 only, when the time came, allow Millie without a murmur 
 to depart, the Gods would be satisfied with that and Kath- 
 eiine would remain. 
 
 It came to this, that by the time that Katherine was 
 twelve she was the centre of her mother's existence. Mil- 
 dred and Henry would be held as long as it was possible 
 to hold them, but, if the worst came, they should go. Kath- 
 erine would always remain. . . . 
 
 It seemed indeed that she would. She loved her home, 
 her parents, her relations, Glebeshire, the whole of the 
 Trenchard inheritance. She placed her mother first in her 
 life, and she was able to satisfy the love in her mother's 
 heart without saying anything about it or drawing anyone's 
 attention towards it. She had all the qualities that her 
 
MES. TEENOHAED 147 
 
 mother admired — sincerity, trust, common-sense, practical 
 punctuality, moral as well as physical: above all, she took 
 things for granted without asking endless questions, as was 
 Henry's unfortunate habit. There grew then in the lives 
 both of Mrs. Trenchard and Katherine a passionate affec- 
 tion, which was never allowed by either of them to find out- 
 ward expression. This became, behind the commonplace 
 matter-of-fact of all their days, a kind of romantic conspiracy. 
 Even when Katherine was still a child Mrs. Trenchard knew 
 that the hours that they spent alone together had some strange 
 almost incoherent quality, something that was mixed, inex- 
 tricably, with the high lanes, the grassy lawns, the distant 
 strip of sea beyond the fields, the rooks in the high trees, the 
 smell of the village shop, boot-laces, liquorice, tallow, cheese 
 and cotton, the dark attic bedroom of Katherine's, the cries 
 of village children beyond the garden wall, afternoon Sunday 
 school upon hard benches under glazed lamps to the accom- 
 paniment of the harmonium ; all the things that belonged to 
 Garth belonged also to the love between Mrs. Trenchard and 
 Katherine. Katherine had been first taken to the sea when 
 she had been a very little girl ; she had been shown Eafiel and 
 the Pirates' Cove with its cave (too small for any but very 
 thin pirates), and the village with the cottages cut out of 
 the rock and the sea advancing and retreating as a lazy cat 
 stretches and vnthdraws its paws upon the pebbled beach. 
 Driving home through the twilight in the high dog-cart be- 
 hind the fat and beloved family pony, Katherine had been be- 
 sieged with questions. What had she thought of it all 1 What 
 had she liked best ? Had it been wonderful ? She had said 
 nothing. She was obstinately silent. At last, persecuted 
 beyond bearing, she looked, imploringly, at her mother. Her 
 eyes had met her mother's, and, as complete understanding 
 passed between them, it seemed that they made, there and 
 then, a compact of mutual help and protection that was never 
 afterwards to be broken. Mrs. Trenchard had never, never 
 been known to mention scenery, sunsets or buildings, except 
 
148 THE GEEEN MIREOE 
 
 for strictly practical reasons. She would sslyl "Ocftne in, 
 children, you'll catch cold, the sun's setting", or "I don't 
 think we'll have rain tO-day, There's not a cloud", or "It's 
 so hot, there's quite a mist. I hope there'll be enough straw- 
 berries and cream for everyone." That was her attitude, and 
 yet she loved Glebeshire, every stone and tree, with an un- 
 faltering and unarguing devotion. She never said "Glebe- 
 shire is the loveliest spot in the world". But only: "Oh! 
 you've never been to Glebeshire ? You don't know the Clar- 
 ence Eaunders then? They're only five miles from us", or 
 "Yes. We live in Glebeshire — a little village not far from 
 Polchester. We're very lucky in our clergyman, a Mr. Smart, 
 one of the SnaartS, etc." Moreover, she never when she was 
 quite alone said to herself : "Oh ! what a heavenly day !" or 
 "How lovely the new leaves are", or "Look at the primroses !" 
 She only said to herself: "Lucy Cartwright's Annie has 
 got to have that ointment", or "I must tell Eebekah about 
 the poor Curtises. She could take them the things." 
 
 Nevertheless, when she discovered that Katherine oared 
 for Glebeshire with a love as deep as her own, how happy 
 she was ! How firmly that discovery bound them together ! 
 Eor them both that journey twice a year from London to 
 Garth was as exciting as though they had never taken it be- 
 before. The stations, whose names were like the successive 
 wrappers that enclose a splendid present, Easselas, the little 
 windy station where they changed from the London Express 
 into the halting, stumbling little train that carried them to- 
 wards the sea ; then Stoep in Eoselands, tiniest station of all, 
 with the sea smell blowing across the dark fields, the carriage 
 with its lights and Jacob, the coachman, the drive through 
 the twilight lanes, the gleaming white gates, the house itself 
 and old Eebekah on the doorstep . , . yes, of all these things 
 was the love between Mrs. Trenchard and her daughter made. 
 
 Most wonderful of all was it that, with Katherine, Mrs. 
 Trenchard never knew a moment's awkwardness or embar- 
 rassment. With everyone else in the world and^ perhaps 
 
MES. TKEI^CHAKD 149 
 
 especially with her own family, Mrs. Trenchard was often 
 awkward and embarrassed, although no one but herself was 
 aware of it. Of this embarrassment Mrs. Trenchard had a 
 horrible dread: it was to her as though she were suddenly 
 lifted off her feet by a giant hand and held dangling: she 
 felt that all the world must see how her skirts blew in the 
 wind. With Katherine she was always safe : she grew, most 
 urgently, to depend upon this safety. Then, as the years 
 passed she felt that she might, with justice, consider Kath- 
 erine secure. Katherine seemed to have no interest in young 
 men : already she adopted a rather motherly attitude towards 
 them and, perhaps because Henry was the young man im- 
 mediately before her, considered them rather helpless, rather 
 clumsy, rather unwieldy and ungainly. She was always kind 
 but a little satirical in her relations to the other sex : young 
 men were, perhaps, afraid of her. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard did, of course, consider the possibility of 
 Katherine's marriage, but, if that ever occurred, it would be, 
 she knew, with someone in the family, someone like them- 
 selves, who would live near by, who would worship Kath- 
 erine but never interfere with her, who would give her 
 children, to whom Mrs. Trenchard could be a delightful 
 grandmother. This surrender the Gods might demand — it 
 would need more than such a marriage to separate, now, 
 Katherine from her mother. Mrs. Trenchard, like all un- 
 imaginative people, relied very strongly upon little facts and 
 well-accustomed places and familiar family relations. She 
 did not believe that Victoria Street would walk away or that 
 the old woman (Mrs. Pengello, an ancient widow with a pen- 
 sion, two granddaughters and a cast in her eye) at the Garth 
 post office would appear one morning rn r, radiant young 
 beauty, or that her brother Timothy would go c a to the music 
 halls. Her world was thus a place of security, and Kath- 
 erine was one of the most secure things in it, "Ah! Tim- 
 othy, you're wrong after all," she would sometimes, in the 
 watches of the night, think to herself. "Nothing can take 
 
150 THE GREEN MIEEOE 
 
 Katherine from me now. You may be as right as you like 
 about Millie and Henry. Katherine is enough. . . ." 
 
 She had, during these last years, been wrapped in with a 
 strange, placid content : Millie had been at school in Paris : 
 there was nothing inside the Trenchard fortress that spoke 
 of the outside world. No secret spirit ever whispered to Mrs. 
 Trenchard: "Are you not being selfish in keeping your 
 daughter ? You will die some day, and then she will have a 
 lonely old maid's life when she might have been so happy. 
 The children's lives are their own. What right have you to 
 Katherine's life and ambitions and love? Would you, in 
 your youth, have given up your future for your parents? 
 Why should she?" 
 
 There was nothing that Mrs. Trenchard desired more than 
 Katherine's happiness. If Katherine had not loved her she 
 would have let her go, but now . . . Katherine's life was 
 bound up with hers so tightly that nothing, nothing could 
 part them. . . . 
 
 Then there came a night of fog, a stranger bowing in the 
 doorway, and all the old days were dead. Mrs. Trenchard 
 was still stunned, the fog was yet about her eyes, and in her 
 heart was a dread that had not yet found its voice nor driven 
 her to determine what she would do. . . . Meanwhile there 
 was no one in the world who knew her. She did not know 
 herself. Until now there had been in her life no crisis strong 
 enough to force open that realisation. 
 
 One morning early in January Mrs. Trenchard said to 
 Katherine at breakfast : "Will you come to the Stores with 
 me this afternoon, Katherine ? I have to buy some hot-water 
 bottles and one or two other things. Two of them leak badly 
 . . . some hot-water bottles . . . and I'd like you to help 
 me." 
 
 "I'm lunching with Eachel, mother," Katherine said. "But 
 I'll be back by three if that's time enough." 
 
 "Three o'clock. Very well, dear. They oughtn't to leak 
 
MES. TEENCHAED 151 
 
 —we've had them quite a short time. Shall I meet you 
 there?" 
 
 "No. I'll come back. We might miss there. I'll be back 
 by three." 
 
 At ten minutes past three in a large rather confused hat 
 with a black bird and white feathers Mrs. Trenchard was 
 seated waiting in the drawing-room. The fire had bad coal 
 poured upon it by Eocket, and it was very black: the room 
 was cold and dark, and Mrs. Trenchard, feeling like an un- 
 welcome guest in her own house, shivered. At twenty min- 
 utes past three Mrs. Trenchard began to be afraid that there 
 had been an accident. Katherine was always so punctual. 
 Millie came in. 
 
 "Dear mother, what on earth !" 
 
 "I'm waiting for Katherine. She was to be back at three 
 from Eachel Seddon's. We are — ^were — going to the Stores. 
 You don't think there can have been an accident ?" 
 
 "Katherine! Why, I saw her twenty minutes ago. I've 
 just come back from Lady Carloes. Katie was at Hyde Park 
 Corner with Philip." 
 
 "Philip !" 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard got up, took off one black glove, then put 
 it on again. She looked at the clock. 
 
 "Will you come to the Stores with me, Millie? I've got 
 to get some hot-water bottles and some other things. . . . 
 Two of ours leak. . . . I'd like you to help me." 
 
 Millie looked once at the clock, and her mother saw her. 
 Then Millie said : 
 
 "Of course I will. We won't be very long, will we?" 
 
 "Why, no, dear," said Mrs. Trenchard, who would have 
 been happy to spend a week at the Stores had she the op- 
 portunity. "Quite a little time." 
 
 They set off together. 
 
 Millie was not yet of such an age that she could disguise 
 her thoughts. She was wondering about Katherine, and Mrs. 
 Trenchard knew that this was so. Mrs. Trenchard always 
 
152 THE GEEEN MIEROR 
 
 walked through the streets of London as a trainer in the 
 company of his lions. Anything might happen, and one's 
 life was not safe for a moment, but a calm, resolute de- 
 meanour did a great deal, and, if trouble came, one could 
 always use the whip : the whip was the Trenchard name. To- 
 day, however, she gave no thought to London ; she was very 
 gentle and kind to Millie — almost submissive and humble. 
 This made Millie very uncomfortable. 
 
 "I'm rather foolish about the Stores, I'm afraid. I know 
 several places where you can get better hot-water bottles and 
 cheaper. But they know me at the Stores now." 
 
 Once she said : "I hope, Millie dear, I'm not keeping you 
 from anything. We shall be home by half-past four." 
 
 In exchange for these two little remarks MiUie talked a 
 great deal, and the more she talked the more awkward she 
 seemed. She was very unhappy about her mother, and she 
 wished that she could comfort her, but she knew her so little 
 and had been always on such careless terms with her that 
 now she had no intuition about her. 
 
 "What is she thinking? ... I know Katherine has hurt 
 her terribly. She oughtn't to wear a hat like that : it doesn't 
 suit her a bit. Why isn't it I who have forgotten, and Katie 
 here instead to console her? Only then she wouldn't want 
 consolation. ..." 
 
 As they walked up the steps of the Stores they were stared 
 at by a number of little dogs on chains, who all seemed to 
 assert their triumphant claims on somebody's especial affec- 
 tions. The little dogs stirred Mrs. Trenchard's unhappi- 
 ness, without her knowing why. All down Victoria Street 
 she had been thinking to herself: "Katherine never forgot 
 before — never. It was only this morning — if it had even been 
 yesterday — ^but this morning ! Millie doesn't understand, and 
 she didn't want to come — Katie. . . ." 
 
 She walked slowly into the building, and was at once re- 
 ceived by that friendly, confused smell of hams and medicines 
 which is the Stores' note of welcome. Lights shone, warmth 
 
MKS. TKEWOHARD l53 
 
 eddied in little gusts of hot air from comer to corner : there 
 was much conversation, but all of a very decent kind : ladies, 
 not very grand ones and not very poor ones, but comfortable, 
 motherly, housekeeping ladies were everywhere to be seen. 
 
 ISTo wonder, surely, that Mrs. Trenchard loved the Stores ! 
 Here was everything gathered in from the ends of the earth 
 that was solid and sound and real. Here were no extrava- 
 gances, no decadencies, no flowing creations with fair out- 
 sides and no heart to them, nothing foreign nor degenerate. 
 However foreign an article might be before it entered the 
 Stores, once inside those walls it adopted itself at once to the 
 claims of a Cathedral City — even the Eastern carpets, stained 
 though their past lives might be with memories of the Harem, 
 recognised that their future lay along the floor of a Bishop's 
 study, a Major's drawing-room or the dining-room of a coun- 
 try rectory. If ever Mrs. Trenchard was alarmed by memo- 
 ries of foreign influences, of German invasions, or Armenian 
 atrocities, she had only to come to the Stores to be entirely re- 
 assured. It would be better for our unbalanced and 
 hysterical alarmists did they visit the Stores more fre- 
 quently. . . . 
 
 But frequent visits had bred in Mrs. Trenchard a yet 
 warmer intimacy. Although she had never put her feeling into 
 words, she was determined now that the Stores was main- 
 tained solely in the Trenchard and Faunder interests. So 
 pleasant and personally submissive had the young men and 
 young women of the place been to her all these years, that she 
 now regarded them with very nearly the personal benevolence 
 that she bestowed upon her own Eebekah, Rocket, Jacob and 
 so on. She felt that only Trenchards and Faunders could have 
 produced an organisation whose spirit was so entirely sprung 
 from their own views and observances. She did not defend 
 or extol those views. There simply they were! and out of 
 them the Stores were born. She paid her call here, there- 
 fore, rather as a Patroness visits a Hospital in which she is 
 interested — ^with no conceit or false pride^ but with a mater- 
 
154 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 nal anxiety that everything should be well and prosperous. 
 Everything always was well and prosperous. . . . She was 
 a happy Patroness! 
 
 "That's a splendid ham !" were invariably her first words, 
 and "I do like the way they arrange things here," her sec- 
 ond. She could have wandered, very happily, all day from 
 compartment to compartment, stopping continually to ob- 
 serve, to touch, to smile, to blow her nose (being moved, very 
 often, quite emotionally) to beam happily upon the custo- 
 mers and then to turn, with a little smile of intimacy, to the 
 young men in frock coats and shiny hair, as though she would 
 say : "We've got a good crowd to-day. Everyone seems com- 
 fortable . . . but how can they help it when everything is 
 so beautifully done ?" 
 
 Her chief pride and happiness found its ultimate crown 
 in the furniture department. Here, hung as it was some- 
 where up aloft, with dark bewildering passages starting into 
 infinity on every side of it, was the place that her soul truly 
 loved. She could gaze all day upon those sofas and chairs. 
 Those wonderful leather couches of dark red and dark blue, 
 so solid, so stern in their unrelenting opposition to flighty 
 half-and-half, so self-supporting and self-satisfying, so as- 
 sured of propriety and comfort and solid value for your 
 money. She would sink slowly into a huge leather arm- 
 chair, and from her throne smile upon the kind gentleman 
 who washed his hands in front of her. 
 
 "And how much is this one ?" 
 
 "Nine pounds, eight and sixpence, ma'am." 
 
 "Eeally. Nine pounds, eight and sixpence. It's a splen- 
 did chair." 
 
 "It is indeed, ma'am. We've sold more than two dozen 
 of this same article in this last fortnight. A great demand 
 just now." 
 
 "And so there ought to be — ^more than two dozen ! Well, 
 I'm not surprised — an excellent chair." 
 
 "Perhaps we can send it for you ? Or you prefer — ?" 
 
MES. TEENCHAED 155 
 
 "No, thank you. Not to-day. But I must say that it's 
 wonderful for the money. That sofa over there — " 
 
 Up here, in this world of solid furniture, it seemed that 
 England was indeed a country to be proud of ! Mrs. Tren- 
 chard would have made no mean Britannia, seated in one 
 of the Stores' arm-chairs with a Stores' curtain-rod for her 
 trident ! 
 
 Upon this January afternoon she found her way to the 
 furniture department more swiftly than was usual with her. 
 The Stores seemed remote from her to-day. As she passed 
 the hams, the chickens, the medicines and powders, the petti- 
 coats and ribbons and gloves, the books and the stationery, the 
 cut-glass and the ironware, the fancy pots, the brass, the 
 Chinese lanterns, the toys, the pianos and the gramophones, 
 the carpets and the silver, the clocks and the pictures, she 
 could only be dimly aware that to-day these things were not 
 for her, that all the treasures of the earth might be laid at 
 her feet and she would not care for them, that all the young 
 men and young women in England might bow and smile be- 
 fore her and she would have no interest nor pleasure in them. 
 She reached the furniture department. She sank down in 
 the red-leather arm-chair. She said, with a little sigh : 
 
 "She has never forgotten before !" 
 
 This was, considering her surroundings and the moment 
 of its expression, the most poignant utterance of her life. 
 
 Millie's chief emotion, until this moment, had been one 
 of intense boredom. The Stores seemed to her, after Paris, 
 an impossible anachronism; she could not understand why 
 it was not instantly burnt up and destroyed, and all its sol- 
 emn absurdities cast, in dirt and ashes, to the winds. 
 
 She followed her mother with irritation, and glances of 
 cynical contempt were flung by her upon the innocent ladies 
 who were buying and chatting and laughing together. Then 
 she remembered that her mother was in trouble, and she was 
 bowed dovra with self-accusation for a hard heartless girl 
 
156 THE GREEN MIEEOR 
 
 who thought of no one but herself. Her moods always thus 
 followed swiftly one upon another. 
 
 When, in the furniture department, she heard that for- 
 lorn exclamation she wanted to take her mother's hand, but 
 was shy and embarrassed. 
 
 "I expect Katie had to go with Philip. . . . Something 
 she had to do, and perhaps it only kept her a moment or 
 two and she got back just after we'd left. We didn't wait 
 long enough for her. She's been waiting there, I expect, 
 all this time for us." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard's cheek flushed and her eyes brightened. 
 
 "Why, Millie, that's most likely! We'll go back at once 
 . . . that's most likely. . . . We'll go back at once." 
 
 "This is a very cheap article," said the young man, "or 
 if Madame would prefer a chair with — " 
 
 "No, no," said Mrs. Trenchard quite impatiently. "Not 
 to-day. Not to-day, thank you." 
 
 "There are the hot-water bottles," said Millie. 
 
 "Oh, of course. ... I want some hot-water bottles. Ours 
 leak . . . three of them. . . ." 
 
 "In the rubber department. Madam, first to the right, sec- 
 ond to the left. . . ." 
 
 But Mrs. Trenchard hurried through the hot-water bottles 
 in a manner utterly foreign to her. 
 
 "Thank you. I'm sure they're very nice. They won't 
 leak, you say? How much? . . . Thank you . . . no, I 
 prefer these. ... If you're sure they won't leak. . . . Yes, 
 my number is 2157. . . . Thank you." 
 
 Outside in Victoria Street she said : "I might have given 
 her until quarter to four. I daresay she's been waiting all this 
 time." 
 
 But Millie for the first time in all their days together 
 was angry with Katherine. She said to herself: "She's 
 going to forget us all like this now. We aren't, any of us, 
 going to count for anything. Six months ago she would 
 have died rather than hurt mother. . , ." 
 
MES. TKENCHAED 157 
 
 And behind her anget with Katherine was anger with 
 herself because she seemed so far away from her mother, 
 because she was at a loss as to the right thing to do, because 
 she had said that she had seen Philip with Katherine. "You 
 silly idiot !" she thought to herself. "Why couldn't you have 
 kept your mouth shut ?" • 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard spoke no word all the way home. 
 
 Katherine was not in the house when they returned. 
 Millie went upstairs, Mrs. Trenchard stared at the desolate 
 drawing-room. The fire was dead, and the room, in spite 
 of its electric light, heavy and dark. Mrs. Trenchard 
 looked at the reflection of her face in the mirror ; with both 
 hands she pushed her hat a little, then, with a sudden ges- 
 ture, took it off, drawing out the pins slowly and staring at 
 it again. Mrs. Trenchard glanced at the clock, and then 
 slowly went out, holding her hat in her hand, advancing with 
 that trailing, half-sleepy movement that was peculiarly hers. 
 
 She did then what she had not done for many years : she 
 went to her husband's study. This hour before tea he always 
 insisted was absolutely his own : no one, on any pretext, was 
 ever to disturb him. To-day, cosily, with a luxurious sense 
 that the whole world had been made for him, and made for 
 him exactly as he liked it, he was, with a lazy pencil, half- 
 writing, half-thinking, making little notes for an essay on 
 William Hazlitt. 
 
 As his wife entered he was reading: "How fine it is to 
 enter some old town, walled and turreted, just at the approach 
 of nightfall, or to come to some straggling village, with the 
 lights streaming through the surrounding gloom; and then, 
 after enquiring for the best entertainment the place affords, 
 to take one's ease at one's inn ! These eventful moments in 
 our lives' history are too precious, too full of solid, heartfelt 
 happiness to be frittered and dribbled away in imperfect sym- 
 pathy. I would have them all to myself, and drain them to 
 the last drop." 
 
158 THE GEEElSr MIKEOK 
 
 How thoroughly George Trenchard agreed with that. How 
 lucky for him that he was ahle to defend himself from so 
 much of that same "imperfect sympathy". Not that he did 
 not love his fellow-creatures, far from it, but it was pleasant 
 to be able to protect oneself from their too constant, their 
 too eager ravages. Had he been born in his beloved Period, 
 then he fancied that he might, like magnificent Sir Walter, 
 have built his Castle and entertained all the world, but in this 
 age of telephones and motorcars one was absolutely compelled. 
 . . . He turned Hazlitt's words over on his tongue with a 
 little happy sigh of regret, and then was conscious that his 
 wife was standing by the door. 
 
 "Hullo !" he cried, starting up. "Is anything the matter ?" 
 
 It was so unusual for her to be there that he stared at her 
 large, heavy figure as though she had been a stranger. Then 
 he jiunped up, laughing, and the dark blue Hazlitt fell on 
 to the carpet. 
 
 "Well, my dear," he said, "tea-time?" 
 
 She came trailing across the room, and stood beside him 
 near the fire. 
 
 "No . . ." she said, "not yet . . . George. . . . You 
 look very cosy here," she suddenly added. 
 
 "I am," he answered. He looked down at the Hazlitt, 
 and her eyes followed his glance. "What have you been do- 
 ing?" 
 
 "I've been to the Stores." 
 
 "Why, of course," he said, chaffing her. "You live there. 
 And what have you been buying this time?" 
 
 "Hot-water bottles." 
 
 "Well, that's excitingl" 
 
 "Ours leaked. . . . Two of them, and we'd had them a 
 very short time. I took Millie with me !" 
 
 "Very good for her. Clear some of her Parisian fancies." 
 
 There was a pause then, and he bent forward as though 
 he would pick up the book, but he pulled himself up again, 
 s "Katherine's been out with Philip all the afternoon." 
 
MES. TKEKCHAED 159 
 
 He smiled one of his radiant, boyish smiles. 
 
 "She's happy, isn't she ? It does one good to see her. She 
 deserves it too if anyone in this world does. I like him — 
 more and more. He's seen the world, and has got a head on 
 his shoulders. And he isn't conceited, not in the least. He's 
 charming to her, and I think he'll malte her a very good 
 husband. That was a lucky thing for us his coming along, 
 because Katherine was sure to marry someone, and she might 
 have set her heart on an awful fellow. You never know 
 in these days." 
 
 ''Ah! I don't think so," said Mrs. Trenchard, nervously 
 turning her hat over in her hands, "that wouldn't be like 
 Katie at all." 
 
 "No, -well, perhaps it wouldn't," said George cheerfully. 
 There was another pause, and now he bent right down, picked 
 up the book, grunting a little, then stood, turning over the 
 pages. 
 
 "I'm getting fat," he said, "good for all of us when we 
 get down to Garth." 
 
 "George . . ." she began and stopped. 
 
 "Well, my dear." He put his hand on her shoulder, and 
 then as though embarrassed by the unexpected intimacy that 
 his action produced, withdrew it. 
 
 "Don't you think we might go out to the theatre one eve- 
 ning — ^theatre or something ?" 
 
 "What! With the children? Family party! Splendid 
 idea!" 
 
 "!N"o, I didn't mean with the children — exactly. Just you 
 and I alone. Dine somewhere — ^have an evening together." 
 
 It was no use to pretend that he was not surprised. She 
 saw his astonishment. 
 
 "Why, of course — if you'd really care about it. Mostly 
 pantomimes just now — ^but I daresay we could find something. 
 Good idea. Good idea." 
 
 "l^ow that — ^now that — the children are beginning to 
 
160 THE GEEEN MIEROK 
 
 marry and go off by themselves. Why, I thought . . . you 
 understand. . . ." 
 
 "Of course. Of course," he said again, "Any night you 
 like. You remind me. . . ." 
 
 He whistled a gay little tune, and turned over the pages 
 of the Hazlitt, reading sentences here and there. 
 
 "Tea in a minute ? . . ." he said gaily. "Just got a line 
 or two more to finish. Then I'll be with you." 
 
 She looked at him as though she would say something 
 more : she decided, however, that she would not, and trailed 
 away. 
 
 Eetuming to the drawing-room, she found Katherine 
 standing there. Katherine's cheeks were flushed and her eyes 
 sparkled : she was wearing a little black hat with red berries, 
 and the black velvet ribbon round her neck had a diamond 
 brooch in it that Philip had given her. Eocket was bend- 
 ing over the fire: she was laughing at him. When she saw 
 her mother she waved her hand. 
 
 "Mother, darling — ^what kind of an afternoon have you 
 had ? I've had the loveliest time. I lunched at Eachel's, and 
 there, to my immense surprise, was Philip. I hadn't the 
 least idea he was coming. Not the slightest. We weren't 
 to have met to-day at all. Just Lord John, Philip, Eachel 
 and I. Then we had such a walk. Philip and I. Hyde 
 Park Corner, right through the Park, Marble Arch, then 
 through Eegent's Park all the way up Primrose Hill — ^took 
 a 'bus home again. Never enjoyed anything so much. 
 You've all been out too, because here's the fire dead. I've 
 been telling Eocket what I think of him. Haven't I, Eocket ? 
 . . . Where are the others ? Millie, Aunt Aggie. It's tea- 
 time." 
 
 "Yes, dear, it is," said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 
 It was incredible, Katherine was utterly unconscious. She 
 remembered nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard looked at Eocket. 
 
MRS. TEENCHAED 161 
 
 "That'll do, Eocket. That's enough. We'll have tea at 
 once." 
 
 Eocket went out. She turned to her daughter. 
 
 "I'm glad you've enjoyed your afternoon, dear. I couldn't 
 think what had happened to you. I waited until half-past 
 three." 
 
 "Waited?" 
 
 "Yes — ^to go to the Stores. You said at breakfast that 
 you'd come with me — ^that you'd be back by three. I waited 
 until half-past. ... It was quite all right, dear. Millie 
 went with me. She had seen you — you and Philip at Hyde 
 Park Corner — so, of course, I didn't wait any longer." 
 
 Katherine stared at her mother : the colour slowly left her 
 face and her hand went up to her cheeks with a gesture of 
 dismay. 
 
 "Mother! . . . How could I!" 
 
 "It didn't matter, dear, in the slightest . . . dear me, no. 
 We went, Millie and I, and got the hot-water bottles, very 
 good and strong ones, I think, although they said they couldn't 
 positively guarantee them. You never can tell, apparently, 
 with a hot-water bottle." 
 
 Katherine's eyes, now, were wide and staring with dis- 
 tress. 
 
 "How could I possibly have forgotten? It was talking 
 about it at breakfast when Aunt Aggie too was talking about 
 something, and I got confused, I suppose. No, I haven't 
 any excuse at all. It was seeing Philip unexpectedly. . . ." 
 
 She stopped abruptly, realising that she had said the worst 
 thing possible. 
 
 "You mustn't let Philip, dear, drive everything out of your 
 head," Mrs. Trenchard said, laughing. "We have some claim 
 on you until you are married — then, of course. . . ." 
 
 The colour mounted again into Katherine's face. 
 
 "1^0, mother, you mustn't say that," she answered in a 
 low voice, as though she was talking to herself. "Philip 
 makes no difference — ^none at all. I'd have forgotten in any 
 
162 THE GEEEN MIEKOE 
 
 case, I'm afraid, because we talked about it at breakfast wben 
 I was thinking about Aunt Aggie. It was nothing to do 
 with Philip — it was my fault absolutely. I'll never forgive 
 myself." 
 
 All the joy had left her eyes. She was very grave: she 
 knew that, slight as the whole incident was, it marked a real 
 crisis in her relations, not only with her mother, but with the 
 whole house. Perhaps during all these weeks, she had for- 
 gotten them all, and they had noticed it and been hurt by it. 
 She accused herself so bitterly that it seemed that nothing 
 could be bad enough for her. She felt that, in the future, 
 she could not show her mother enough attention and affection. 
 But now, at this moment, there was nothing to be done. Millie 
 would have laughed, hugged her mother and forgotten in five 
 minutes that there had been any crime. But, in this, Kath- 
 erine's character resembled, exactly, her mother's. 
 
 "Eeally, Katie, it didn't matter. I'm glad you liked the 
 walk. And now it's tea-time. It always seems to be tea- 
 time. Tiiere's so much to do." 
 
 They were then, both of them, conscious that Aunt Aggie 
 had come in and was smiling at them. They wished intensely 
 to fling into the pause some conversation that would be trivial 
 and unimportant. They could think of nothing to say. . . . 
 
 "Why, Katherine," said Aunt Aggie, "where have you 
 been ? Millie says she's been to the Stores. . . . You said at 
 breakfast . . ." 
 
 "I was kept . . ." said Katherine sharply, and left the 
 room. 
 
 "I'll be down in five minutes, Aggie," said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 "Tea time—" 
 
 Her sister watched her as she went out, carrying her hat 
 in her hand. Half-way upstairs she saw Henry, who was 
 half -tumbling, half -sliding from step to step : he was evidently 
 hurrying, in his confused way, to do something that he had 
 forgotten to do or to finish some task that he should long ago 
 have completed. 
 
MKS. TEENOHAED 163 
 
 "Henry," she said, "I wonder whether — " 
 
 "Eight, mother," he called back to her. "I must — " the 
 rest of his sentence was swallowed hy distance. She turned 
 and looked after him, then walked through the long pas- 
 sages to her room. She entered it, closed the door, and stood 
 by her dressing-room staring in front of her. There was com- 
 plete, intense silence here, and all the things lay about the 
 room, as though waiting for her to address them. 
 
 "George, Millie, Henry, Katherine . . . Millie didn't 
 want to go . . . Katherine. . . ." 
 
 On her table was a list of articles, the week's washing — 
 her own list. 
 
 Handkerchiefs — 12. 
 
 Stockings — 8 pairs. 
 
 She looked at it without seeing it, then with a sudden, 
 vindictive, passionate movement tore it in half, and then 
 those halves into smaller pieces, tore the smaller pieces into 
 little shreds of paper that fluttered in the air and then fell 
 on to the floor at her feet. 
 
OHAPTEK III 
 
 LIFE AND HENET 
 
 PHILIP was entirely happy during the first days of his 
 engagement — so happy that he assured himself that he 
 had never hefore known what happiness was. When, how- 
 ever, this glorious state had continued for four or five weeks 
 he was aware that that most sensitive and unreliable of his 
 spiritual possessions, his conscience, was being attacked. He 
 was aware that there was something that he ought to do, 
 something that he did not want to do — ^he was aware that he 
 must tell Katherine about Anna and his life with her. Now 
 when he had said to Mr. Trenchard that his life was free of 
 all complications and that there was nothing in it that need 
 be hidden from the world, he was, quite honestly, convinced 
 that that was so. His life with Anna was entirely at an end : 
 he had done her no wrong, she owed him no grudge, he did 
 not know that he had ever taken any especial pains in Moscow 
 to hide his relations with her, and he did not believe that any- 
 one there thought the worse of him for them. He had come 
 to England with that chapter closed, eager to begin another. 
 His only thought of Anna when he had proposed to Katherine 
 was that this was exactly what she had intended him to do 
 — that she would be pleased if she knew. His conscience was 
 always at rest when he thought that everyone liked him. . . . 
 ISTow he knew, quite definitely, after a month of his en- 
 gagement to Katherine, that some of the members of the 
 Trenchard family did not like him — No amount of his de- 
 termination to like them could blind him to the truth of this 
 unpleasant fact — Mrs. Trenchard did not like him, Aunt 
 
 164 
 
LIFE AND HENEY 165 
 
 Aggie did not like him, probably Mr. Trencbard, senior, and 
 Great-Aunt Sarah did not like him (he could not tell, be- 
 cause they -were so silent), and he was not sure whether Henry 
 liked him or not. Therefore, in front of this alarming array 
 of critics his conscience awoke. 
 
 The other force that stirred his conscience was Katherine's 
 belief in him. In Moscow no one had believed in anyone — 
 anyone there, proved to be faultless, would have been, for that 
 very reason, unpopular. Anna herself had held the most hu- 
 morous opinion of him. (She liked Englishmen, respected 
 their restraint and silence, but always laughed at their care 
 for appearances.) Although he had known that his love for 
 Katherine had sprung partly from his sense of her difference 
 from Anna, he, nevertheless, had expected the qualities that 
 had pleased him. in the one to continue in the other. He dis- 
 covered that Katherine trusted him utterly, that she believed, 
 with absolute confidence, in every word that fell from his lips, 
 and he knew that, if the old whole world came to her and told 
 her that he had had for several years a mistress in Moscow 
 and he denied it to her, that she would laugh at the world. 
 This knowledge made him extremely uncomfortable. Eirst, 
 he tried to persuade himself that he had never had a mis- 
 tress, that Anna had never existed, then, when that miserably 
 failed, he told himself that he could always deny it if she 
 asked him, then he knew that he loved her so much that he 
 would not lie to her (this discovery pleased him) . He must, 
 he finally knew, tell her himself. . . . He told himself that 
 he would wait a little until she believed in him less com- 
 pletely; he must prepare her mind. He did not even now, 
 however, consider that she would feel his confession very 
 deeply; Anna would'" simply have laughed at his scruples. 
 
 Meanwhile he loved her so deeply and so completely that 
 Anna's figure was a ghost, dimly recalled from some other 
 life. He had almost forgotten her appearance. She had 
 a little black mole on her left cheek — or was it her right ? . . . 
 
166 THE GKEEE" MIKKOE 
 
 Somewhere in the beginning of February he decided that 
 he would cultivate Henry, not because he liked Henry, but 
 because he thought that Katherine would like it — also, al- 
 though this he did not confess to himself, because Henry was 
 so strange and unexpected that he was half afraid of him. 
 
 Of course Henry ought to be sent to one of the Universi- 
 ties, it was absurd to keep a great, hulking boy of nineteen 
 hanging about, wasting his own time and the time of his 
 family, suffering no discipline and learning nothing of any 
 value. George Trenchard had told Philip that Henry was 
 too young for Oxford, and was to have a year of "seeing the 
 world" before he "went up". A fine lot of seeing the world 
 Henry was doing, slouching about the house, reading novels 
 and sulking! Philip, in spite of his years in Eussia, felt 
 very strongly that every Englishman should be shaven clean 
 an^wear clothes from a good tailor. About men of other na- 
 tionalities it did not matter, but smartness was expected from 
 an Englishman. Henry, however, was in that unpleasant 
 condition known as "sprouting." He had a little down on 
 one cheek, apparently none on the other ; in certain lights his 
 chin boasted a few hairs of a forlorn and desolate appear- 
 ance, in other lights you would swear that there were none. 
 His forehead often broke into pimples (these were a terrible 
 agony to him). 
 
 "Why can't he do something with his hair?" thought 
 Philip, "brush it and have it cut regularly. Why is it that 
 awful dusty colour ? He might at least do something to his 
 clothes. Mrs. Trenchard ought to see to it." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard did try to "see to it". She was perpetually 
 buying new clothes for Henry ; she took him to her husband's 
 tailor and dragged him, again and again, to have things "tried 
 on". Henry, however, possessed the art of reducing any suit, 
 within twenty-four hours of his first wearing it, to chaos. 
 He was puzzled himself to know what he did. 
 
 "But, Henry, it was new last week !" 
 
LIFE AND HENEY 167 
 
 ^'I know. How can I help it ? I haven't done anything 
 to the beastly thing. It simply came like that." 
 
 He affected a lofty indifference to clothes, but Philip, who 
 saw him look frequently into the looking-glass, suspected the 
 sincerity of this. Katherine said to Philip : 
 
 "You have so much influence on Henry. Do talk to him 
 about his clothes and other things. He won't mind it from 
 you. He gets so angry if we say anything." 
 
 Philip was not at all sure that Henry would "not mind it 
 from him". When they were alone Henry would listen with 
 the greatest interest to the things that Philip told him; his 
 eyes would soften, his mouth would smile, his voice would 
 quiver with his excitement. Then, quite suddenly, his face 
 would cloud, he would blush and frown, almost scowl, then, 
 abruptly, with some half-muttered word, fall into a sulky 
 silence. Once he had broken in to Philip's information wi|h : 
 "Oh ! I suppose you think I don't know anything about it, 
 that I'm a stupid idiot. . . . Well, if I am, what do you 
 bother to talk to me for?" 
 
 This, of course, annoyed Philip, who always liked to feel, 
 after a conversation with anyone, that "everything had gone 
 off all right". Had it not been for Katherine, he would not 
 have bothered with the fellow. Another thing puzzled and 
 even alarmed Philip. Henry would often, when he thought 
 that he was unwatched, stare at Philip in a perplexed brood- 
 ing fashion with a look in his eye that said: "I'll find out 
 one day all right. You think that no one's watching you, that 
 I'm not worth anyone's trouble. . . . You wait and see." 
 
 Henry would look at Philip's buttons, studs, tie, handker- 
 chief with this same puzzled stare. It was another side of 
 that surveillance of which Philip had been conscious ever 
 since Tim Plaunder's visit to his rooms. "Ah!" thought 
 Philip, "once I'm married, they can watch as much as they 
 like. ... A year's a long time though." 
 
 He decided then to cultivate Henry and to know the boy 
 better. "I'll show him that there's nothing in me to be sus- 
 
168 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 picious about — that I'm worthy of marrying his sister, I'll 
 make a friend of him." 
 
 He asked George Trenchard whether he might give Henry 
 an evening. "Take him out to dinner and a niusio-hall. I'll 
 look after him." 
 
 Trenchard said: 
 
 "My dear felbw, if you can make Henry look something 
 like an ordinary civilised being we'll all be in your debt for 
 ever. I don't envy you your job . . . but, of course, do what 
 you like with him/' 
 
 When Philip told Mrs. Trenchard she said : 
 
 "How nice for Henry! How kind of you to bother with 
 the boy ! He goes out so little. How nice for Henry !" 
 
 When Philip asked Henry himself, Henry coloured crim- 
 son, looked at his boots, muttered something about shirts, 
 stajnmered "Thanks » . . very glad . . . awful bore for 
 you", and finally stumbled from the room. 
 
 Philip thought Jules for dinner. The Empire, The Carlton 
 for supper. Katherine's delight when he told her compen- 
 sated him for all the effort of the undertaking. 
 
 To understand Henry's emotion at Philip's invitation 
 would be to understand everything about Henry, and that 
 no one has ever done. His chief sensation was one of delight 
 and excitement — ^this he hid from all the world. He had 
 waited, during more years than he could remember, for the 
 arrival of that moment when he would be treated as a man. 
 Lately he had said to himself, "If they're all going to laugh 
 at me always, I'll show them one day soon." He had a fero- 
 cious disgust at their lack of penetration. He had, from the 
 very first, admired Philip's appearance. Here was a man 
 still young, with perfect clothes, perfect ability to get in 
 and out of a room easily, perfect tranquillity in conversation. 
 He had been offended at Philip's treatment of Seymour, but 
 even that had been a bold, daring thing to do, and Henry 
 Was forced to admit that he had been, since that episode, him- 
 self sometimes doubtful of Seymour's ability. Then Philip in. 
 
LIFE AND HEKKY 169 
 
 his conversation had shown such knowledge of the world; 
 Henry could listen all day to his talk about Kussia. To be 
 able to travel so easily from one country to the other, without 
 fear or hesitation, that was, indeed, wonderful ! 
 
 Afterwards had occurred one of the critical moments in 
 Henry's career; his passionate memory of that afternoon 
 when he had seen the embrace of Katherine and Philip, 
 changed those two into miraculous beings, apart from all the 
 world. He heard Philip for the audacity of it, he also ad- 
 mired him, envied him, speculated endlessly about it. "Ah ! 
 if somebody would love me like that", he thought. "I'd be 
 just as fine. They think me a baby, not fit even to go to 
 college, I could — I could . . ." He did not know what 
 it was that he could do. Perhaps Philip would help him. 
 
 And yet he did not really like Philip. He thought that 
 Philip laughed at him, despised him. His one continual 
 fear was lest Philip should teach Katherine, Henry's adored 
 and worshipped Katherine, also to despise him. "If he were 
 to do that I'd kill him", he thought. He believed utterly in 
 Katherine's loyalty, "but she loves Philip so now. It's 
 changed her. She'll never belong to us properly again." 
 Always his first thought was : "So long as he's good to her 
 and makes her happy nothing matters." 
 
 IS'ow it seemed that Philip was making her happy. Kath- 
 erine's happiness lit, with its glow, the house, the family, all 
 the world. When, therefore, Philip asked Henry to dine 
 with him, the great moment of Henry's life seemed to have 
 come, and to have come from a source honourable caough 
 for Henry to accept it. 
 
 "If only I dare," Henry thought, "there are m many 
 things that I should like to ask him." The remembered 
 passion of that kiss told Henry that there could be nothing 
 that Philip did not know. He was in a ferment of excite- 
 ment and expectation. To the family he said: 
 
 "I'm afraid I shan't be in, Tuesday evening. Sorry, but 
 
170 THE GEEEN" MIEEOE 
 
 Philip and I are dining together. Expect I'll be in, Wednes- 
 day, though." 
 
 It is a fact, strange but true, that Henry had never en- 
 tered one of the bigger London restaurants. The Tren- 
 chards were not among those more modern parents who spend 
 their lives in restaurants and talfe their infant sons in Eton 
 jackets to supper at the Savoy after the Drury Lane panto- 
 mime. Moreover, no one ever thought of taking Henry 
 anywhere. He had been at school until a few months ago, 
 and when, in the holidays, he had gone to children's parties 
 he had always behaved badly. George Trenchard went very 
 seldom into restaurants, and often, for days together, forgot 
 that he had a son at all. Down in Glebeshire Henry was 
 allowed to roam as he pleased; even in London no restric- 
 tions were placed on his movements. So long as he went 
 to the Abbey twice on Sunday he could do what he liked. 
 A friend of Seymour's had put him up as a member of a 
 club in a little street off St. James: the entrance was only 
 a guinea, and "anyone could be a member". Henry had, 
 three months ago, received a book of club rules, a list of mem- 
 bers, and a printed letter informing him that he was now 
 elected, must pay five guineas entrance and a guinea sub- 
 scription. He had extorted the money from his father, and, 
 for twenty-four hours, was the proudest and happiest human 
 being in London. He had never, alas! dared to venture 
 inside the building, Seymour's friend had forgotten him. 
 The Club had remained strangely ignorant of his existence. 
 On three occasions he had started out, and on three occasions 
 his fears had been too strong for him. Once he had arrived 
 at the very club door, but a stout gentleman, emerging and 
 staring at him haughtily, had driven the blood from his 
 heart. He had hurried home, feeling that he had been per- 
 sonally insulted. He found, on his return, that some ve- 
 hicle had splashed mud on to hia cheek. "There! you see 
 what happens I . . ," 
 
 He was not far from tears. 
 
LIFE AND HENEY 171 
 
 He had, behind his unhappy experiences, the resolved cer- 
 tainty that he was marked apart by destiny for some extraor- 
 dinary future: his very misfortunes seemed to prove this. 
 He had twught for himself a second-hand copy of that ro- 
 mance to which I have made earlier allusion. It exercised, 
 at this time, an extraordinary influence upon him, and in 
 the hero's fight against an overwhelming fate he saw his own 
 history, even when the circumstance was as trivial as his 
 search for a stud under the washing-stand. So young was 
 he, so crude, so sentimental, impulsive, suspicious, self-con- 
 fident, and lacking in self-confidence, loyal, ambitious, mod- 
 est and conceited that it was not strange that Philip did not 
 understand him. 
 
 On the evening of his dinner with Philip he dressed with 
 the utmost care. There were three dress-shirts in his drawer, 
 and it was, of course, fate that decided that there should be 
 something the matter with all of them — one of them had 
 been worn once already, one was frayed at the cuffs, one had 
 a cracked and gaping stud hole. He pared the frayed cuffs 
 with his scissors, and hoped for the best. He then produced 
 the only valuable article in his possession, a pearl stud given 
 to him by his Uncle Bob on his last birthday. He was 
 greatly afraid of this stud, because the head of it screwed 
 into the body of it, and he was never sure whether he had 
 screwed it sufficiently. Suppose it were to leap into the 
 soup! Suppose it were to fall off and he not see it and 
 lose it! Such catastrophes were only too probable where 
 he was concerned. He screwed it in so vigorously to-night 
 that he made a grey mark round the stud-hole. He dabbed 
 this with a sponge, and the grey mark was greyer. His 
 father had told him that he must never wear a "made-up" 
 evening tie, but he had not told him how to tie one that 
 was not made-up, and Henry had been too timid to enquire. 
 To-night, by a sudden twist of genius, he produced some- 
 thing that really seemed satisfactory; one end was longer 
 
172 THE GEEEN MIEKOE 
 
 than the other, but his father approved of a little disorder 
 — when the tie was too neat it was alraost "made-up". 
 Henry's dress-clothes, lying there upon the bed, seemed a 
 little faded. The trousers glistered in the electric light, and 
 the tails of the coat were sadly crumpled. But when they 
 were on his body Henry gazed at them with pleasure. One 
 trouser leg seemed oddly longer than the other, and his shirt 
 cuff had disappeared altogether, but the grey mark round the 
 stud was scarcely visible, and his collar was beautifully clean. 
 
 His face was red and shining, his hair was plastered 
 down vsdth water; it was a pity that there were three red 
 pimples on his forehead, but there had been four yesterday. 
 His ears, too, were dreadfully red, but that was from ex- 
 citement. 
 
 He had an opera hat and a black greatcoat with a velvet 
 collar, so that he felt very smart indeed as he slipped out 
 of the house. He was glad that he had escaped the family, 
 although he fancied that Aunt Aggie watched him from the 
 top of the stairs. He would have liked to have seen Kath- 
 erine for a moment, and had he spoken his heart out, he 
 would have assured her that, for her sake, he would do his 
 best to love Philip. It was for her sake, after all, that he 
 had dressed so carefully, for her sake that he wanted to be 
 a fine figure in the world. If he had seen her, all that he 
 would have said would have been: "So long, Katherine. 
 Dining with Philip, you know. See you in the morn- 
 ing. ..." 
 
 He rode on an omnibus from Whitehall to Piccadilly Cir- 
 cus, and walked then to Jules'. The clocks were striking half- 
 past seven, the appointed hour, as he entered. A stout man 
 like an emperor insisted on disrobing him of his greatcoat, 
 and he felt suddenly naked. He peeped into the room, which 
 was very empty, and all the waiters, like figures in Mme. 
 Tussaud's, stared at him together. He was sure that his tie 
 had mounted above his collar ; he put up his hand, found that 
 this was so, and thought that the emperor was laughing at 
 
LIFE AND HENEY 173 
 
 him. He bent down to tie his shoe, and then, just as a large 
 party entered the restaurant, there was a little pop, and the 
 head of his pearl stud was gone. He was on his knees in a 
 second. 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir," said the Emperor. "Allow me." 
 
 "No," said Henry, whose face was purple, whose heart 
 was beating like a hammer, and through whose chasm in his 
 shirt a little wind was blowing against his vest. 
 
 "It's my stud. I can — I beg your — Oh, there — No, it 
 isn't—" 
 
 He was conscious of towering forms above him, of a lady's 
 black silk stockings, of someone saying : "Why, dammit" ; 
 of a sudden vision of the pearl and a large masculine boot 
 thundering towards it. 
 
 Prom his position on the floor he cried in agony: "Oh, 
 do look out, you're stepping on it ! . . . I say . . . Please !" 
 
 He heard a sharp little cry, then, just as he seized it, 
 Philip's voice: 
 
 "Why, Henry!" 
 
 He staggered up from his knees, which were white with 
 dust: his purple face, his disordered hair, a piece of pink 
 vest that protruded from his shirt made an unusual picture. 
 Someone began to laugh. 
 
 "I say," said Philip quickly, "come in here." He led the 
 way into the lavatory. "Now, what's the matter?" 
 
 Henry stared at him. Why couldn't the silly fool see ? 
 
 "It's my stud . . . the head came off . . . might have 
 happened to anyone." 
 
 "That's all right," said Philip cheerfully. "Got it now? 
 That's good. Look here, I'll screw it in for you." 
 
 "The other piece . . ." said Henry, who was near tears 
 . . . "It's slipped down— inside." 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll have to take your trousers off," said 
 Philip gravely. "Just let 'em down. It's all right. There's 
 no one here who matters." 
 
 Henry undressed. A smart man with hair Kke a looking- 
 
1Y4 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 glass came in, stared and went out again. Two attendants 
 watched sympathetically. After some time the stud was ar- 
 ranged, and Henry was dressed again. 
 
 "You'd better just let me tie your tie," said Philip. "It's 
 so difficult in here. One can't see to do it oneself." 
 
 Henry said nothing. He brushed his hair again, suffered 
 himself to be dusted and patted by the attendant, and fol- 
 lowed Philip into the restaurant. He was so miserable that 
 suicide was the only alternative to a disgraced and dishon- 
 oured life. He was sure that everyone in the restaurant was 
 laughing at him ; the grave waiter who brought him his soup, 
 the fat, round button of a waiter who brought the cham- 
 pagne in a bucket of ice, the party opposite, two men and 
 two women (beasts!), all these were laughing at him! His 
 forehead was burning, his heart deadly cold. He glared 
 at Philip, gulped down his food without knowing at all what 
 it was that he was eating, said "yes" and "no" ; never looked 
 at Philip, but stared, fiercely, round him as though he were 
 looking for someone. 
 
 Philip persisted, very bravely, in a succession of bright 
 and interesting anecdotes, but at last he flagged. He was 
 afraid that he had a terrible evening before him . . . never 
 again. . . . 
 
 "He's thinking," said Henry to himself, "that I'm im- 
 possible. He's wondering what on earth he asked me for. 
 Why did he if he didn't want to ? Conceited ass . . . that 
 about the stud might have happened to anyone. He'll tell 
 Katherine. . . ." 
 
 "Coffee?" said Philip. 
 
 "'No, thank you," said Henry. 
 
 "All right. We'll have it later. We'd better be getting 
 on to the show. Eeady ?" 
 
 They moved away ; they were in a cab ; they were caught 
 into the heart of some kaleidoscope. Lights flashed, men 
 shouted, someone cried in a high treble. Lights flashed again, 
 and they were sitting in the stalls at the "Empire" musio- 
 
LIFE AND HENKY 176 
 
 hall. Henry hailed the darkness with relief; he felt as 
 though his body were bruised all over, and when he looked 
 up and saw a stout man upside down on a tight-rope he 
 thought to himself: "Well, he can't see me anyhow. . . . 
 He doesn't know that the top of my stud came off." 
 
 There followed then a number of incredible people. (It 
 must be remembered that he had never been to a music-hall 
 before.) There was a man with two black eyes and a red 
 nose who sang a song about the wives he had had (seven 
 verses — one wife to every verse) , there was a stout lady who 
 sang about porter, and there were two small children who 
 danced the Tango — finally a gentleman in evening dress and 
 a large white button-hole who recited poems whilst his friends 
 in the background arranged themselves in illustrative groups. 
 In this strange world Henry's soul gradually found peace. 
 It was a world, after all, in which it was not absurd to grope 
 on one's knees for the top of one's stud — it was the natural 
 and clever thing to do. When the lady who sang about the 
 porter kissed her hand to the audience, Henry, clapping en- 
 thusiastically, felt a throb of sympathy. "I'm so glad she's 
 been a success to-night," he thought to himself, as though she 
 had been his cousin or his aunt. "She'll feel pleased." He 
 wanted, by this time, everyone to be happy. . . . When, 
 at the last, the fat man in evening clothes recited his tale of 
 "the good old British Elag," and was surrounded instantly 
 by a fluttering cloud of Union Jacks, Henry was very near 
 to tears. "I'll make them send me to Oxford," he said to 
 himself. "At once . . . I'll work like anything." 
 
 The lights went up — ^ten minutes' interval — ^whilst the 
 band played tunes out of "Eiogletta", and behind the curtain 
 they prepared for that immensely popular ballet "The 
 Pirate". 
 
 "Let's walk about a bit, shall we?" said Philip. 
 
 Henry, humbly, with a timid smile agreed. He tumbled 
 over a lady as he passed out of his row, but he did not mind 
 now, his eyes were shining and his head was up. He fol- 
 
176 THE GKEEN MIKROE 
 
 lowed Philip, admiring his broad shoulders, the back of his 
 head, his sturdy carriage and defiant movement of his body. 
 He glared haughtily at young men lolling over the bar, and 
 the young men glared back haughtily at him. He followed 
 Piilip upstairs, and they turned into the Promenade (Henry- 
 did not know that it was the Promenade). With his head 
 in the air he stepped forward and plunged instantly into some- 
 thing that flung powder down his throat, a strange and acrid 
 scent up his nose : his fingers scraped against silk. 
 
 "There ! clumsy !" said a voice. 
 
 A lady wearing a large hat and (as it appeared to Henry) 
 tissue of gold, smiled at him. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," she said, putting some fat fingers on 
 his hand for a moment. "It doesn't, dear, really. Hot, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 He was utterly at a loss, scarlet in the face, his eyes staring 
 wildly. Philip had come to his rescue. 
 
 "Hot, it is," said Philip. 
 
 "What about a drink, dear ?" said the lady. 
 
 "IsTot just now," said Philip, smiling at her as though he'd 
 known her all his life. "Jolly good scrum up here, isn't 
 there?" 
 
 "Everyone bangin' about so," said the lady. "What about 
 a drink now? Rot waitin'." 
 
 "Sorry," said Philip. "Got an engagement. Very im- 
 portant — " The lady, however, had suddenly recognised an 
 old friend. "Why, Charlie !" Henry heard her say : "Who 
 ever . . ." 
 
 They sat down on a sofa near the bar and watched the 
 group. Henry was thinking: "He spoke to her as though 
 he had known her all his life. ..." He was suddenly aware 
 that he and his father and mother and aunts, yes, and Kath- 
 erine too were babies compared with Philip. "Why, they 
 don't know anything about him. Katherine doesn't know any- 
 thing really. . . ." He watched the women who passed him ; 
 he watched their confidential whispers with gentlemen who all 
 
LIFE AND HENEY 1T7 
 
 seemed to have red faces and bulging necks. He watched two 
 old men with their hats cocked to one side; they had faces 
 like dusty strawberries, and they wore white gloves and car- 
 ried silver-topped canes. They didn't speak, and nothing 
 moved in their faces except their eyes. He watched a woman 
 who was angry and a man who was apologetic. He watched a 
 girl in a simple black dress who stood with grave, waiting 
 eyes. She suddenly smiled a welcome to someone, but the 
 smile was hard, practised, artificial, as though she had fast- 
 ened it on like a mask. Philip belonged to these people; 
 he knew their ways, their talk, their etiquette, their tragedies 
 and comedies. Henry stared at him, at his gaze, rather un- 
 interested and tired. (Philip, at that moment, was thinking 
 of Katherine, of the bore that her young brother was : he was 
 remembering the last time that she had kissed him, of her 
 warm cheek against his, of a little laugh that she had given, 
 a laugh of sheer happiness, of trusting, confident delight.) 
 Henry sat there, frightened, thrilled, shocked, proud, indig- 
 nant and terribly inquisitive. "I'm beginning to know about 
 life. Already I know more than they do at home." 
 
 Two boys who must have been younger than he passed him ; 
 they were smart, shining, scornful. They had the derisive, 
 incurious gaze of old men, and also the self-assertive swagger 
 of very young ones. Henry, as he looked at them, knew that 
 he was a babe in arms compared with them; but it seemed 
 to him to-night that all his family was still in the cradle. 
 "Why, even father," he thought, "if you brought him here I 
 don't believe he'd know what to say or do." 
 
 They went downstairs, then found their seats, and the cur- 
 tain rose on the ballet. The ballet was concerned with pirates 
 and Venice in the good Old Days. The first scene was on an 
 island in the Adriatic : there were any number of pirates and 
 ladies who loved them, and the sun slowly set and the dancers 
 on the golden sand sank, exhausted, at the feet of their lovers, 
 and the moon rose and the stars came out in a purple sky. 
 Then the Pirate Chief, an enormous Byronic figure with hair 
 
178 THE GEEEN MIKKOE 
 
 jet black and tremendous eyebrows, explained tbrougb bis 
 bands, tbat tbere was a lady in "Venice wbom be loved, whom 
 be must seize and convey to bis island. Would bis brave fel- 
 lows follow bim in bis raid ? His brave fellows would ! One 
 last dance and one last drink, tben deatb and glory! The 
 curtain came down upon figures whirling madly beneath the 
 moon. 
 
 There followed then the Doge's Palace, a feast with much 
 gold plate, aged senators with white beards, who watched the 
 dancing with critical gaze, finally a lovely lady who danced 
 mysteriously beneath many veils. She was, it appeared, a 
 Princess, sought in marriage by the Doge, her heart, however, 
 lost utterly to a noble Stranger whom she bad once seen but 
 never forgotten. The Doge, mad with love for her, orders 
 her to be seized. She is carried off, wildly protesting, and the 
 golden scene is filled with white dancers, tben with fantastic 
 masked figures, at last with dancers in black, who float like 
 shadows through the mazes of the music. 
 
 The third scene is the Piazza. The country people have 
 a holiday — drinking and dancing. Then enters a magnificent 
 procession, the Doge leading bis reluctant bride. Suddenly 
 shouts are heard. It is tb» Pirates ! A furious fight follows, 
 the Pirates, headed by their chief, who wears a black mask, 
 are, of course, victorious. The Princess is carried, screaming, 
 to the Pirates' ship, treasure is looted, pretty village maidens 
 are captured. The Pirates sail away. Last scene is the 
 Island again. The ladies are expecting their heroes, the ves- 
 sel is sighted, the Pirates land. There are dances of tri- 
 umph, the spoil, golden goblets, rich tapestries, gleaming 
 jewels are piled high, finally the captive lady Princess, who 
 weeps bitterly, is led by the Chieftain, still masked, into the 
 middle of the stage. She, upon her knees, begs for pity. He 
 is stern (a fine melancholy figure). At last be removes the 
 mask. iBehold, it is the noble Stranger ! With what rapture 
 does she fall into his arms, with what dances are the trium- 
 phant Pirates made happy, upon what feasting does the sun 
 
LIFE AND HENRY 179 
 
 again set. The moon rises and the stars appear. Finally, 
 when the night-sky is sheeted with dazzling lights and the 
 moon is orange-red, the Pirates and their ladies creep away. 
 Only the Chieftain and his Princess, locked in one anothei^s 
 arms, are left. Someone, in the distance, pipes a little tune 
 . . . the curtain descends. 
 
 Impossible to describe the effect that this had upon Henry. 
 The nearest approach to its splendour in all his life before 
 had been the Procession of Nations at the end of the Drury 
 Lane pantomime, and, although he had found that very beau- 
 tiful, he had nevertheless been disturbed by a certain sense 
 of incongruity, Aladdin and his Princess having little to do 
 with Canada and Australia represented, as those fine coun- 
 tries were, by two stout ladies of the Lane chorus. I think 
 that this "Pirate" ballet may be said to be the Third Crisis 
 in this critical development of Henry, the first being the 
 novel about the Forest, the second his vision of Katherine 
 and Philip. 
 
 It will be, perhaps, remembered that at Jules' restaurant 
 Henry had drunk champagne and, because of his misery and 
 confusion there, had had no consciousness of flavour, quantity 
 or consequences. It was certainly the champagne that lent 
 "The Pirate" an added colour and splendour. 
 
 As the boy followed Philip into Leicester Square he felt 
 that any achievement would be now possible to him, any sum- 
 mit was to be climbed by him. The lights of Leicester Square 
 circled him with fire — at the flame's heart were dark trees 
 soft and mysterious against the night sky — ^beneath these 
 trees, guarded by the flame, the Pirate and the Princess slept. 
 
 It seemed to him that now he understood all the world, 
 that he could be astonished and shocked by nothing, that every 
 man, be he never so degraded, was his brother. . . . He was 
 unaware that his tie was again above his collar and his shoe 
 lace unfastened. He strode along, thinking to himself : "How 
 glorious ! . . . How splendid ! . . . How glorious !" 
 
 Philip, too, although the Empire ballet had once been com- 
 
180 THE GEEEN" MIEEOR 
 
 monplace enough, although, moreover, he had come so little 
 a time ago from the country where the hallet was in all the 
 world supreme, had heen plunged hy the Pirate into a most 
 sentimental attitude of mind. He was to-night terrihly in love 
 with Katherine, and, when the lights had been turned down 
 and the easy, trifling music had floated out to him, caught 
 him, soothed and whispered to him, he had held Katherine 
 in his arms, her cheek touching his, her heart beating with 
 his, his hand against her hair. 
 
 Her confidence in him that, at other times, frightened him, 
 to-night thrilled him with a delicious pleasure. His old dis- 
 trust of himself yielded, to-night, to a fine, determined assur- 
 ance. "I will be all that she thinks I am. She shall see how 
 I love her. They shall all see." 
 
 "I think we'll go down into the Grill Eoom," said Philip, 
 when they arrived at the Carlton. "We can talk better 
 there." 
 
 It was all the same to Henry, who was busy feasting with 
 the Pirate upon the Adriatic Island, with the Princess danc- 
 ing for them on the golden sand. They found a quiet little 
 table in that comer which is one of the pleasantest places in 
 London, so retired from the world are you and yet so easy is 
 it to see all that goes on amongst your friends, enemies and 
 neighbours. 
 
 "Oysters? . . . Must have oysters, Henry. . . . Then 
 grilled bones . . . then we'll see. Whisky and soda — split 
 soda, waiter, please. . . ." 
 
 Henry had never eaten oysters before, and he would have 
 drunk his whisky with them had Philip not stopped him. 
 "!N"ever drink whisky with oysters — ^you'd die — you would 
 really." 
 
 Henry did not like oysters very much, but he would have 
 suffered the worst kind of torture rather than say so. The 
 bones came, and the whisky with them. Henry drank his 
 first glass very quickly in order to show that he was quite Used 
 to it. He thought, as he looked across the table, that Philip 
 
LIFE AND HENBY 181 
 
 ■was the finest fellow in the world; no one had ever been so 
 kind to him as Philip — How could he ever have disliked 
 Philip ? Philip was going to marry Katherine, and was the 
 only man in all the world who was worthy of her. Henry felt 
 a burning desire to confide in Philip, to tell him all his most 
 secret thoughts, his ambitions, his troubles. . . . 
 
 He drank his second glass of whisky, and began a long, 
 rather stumbling narration. 
 
 "You know, I shall never be able to tell you how grateful 
 I am to you for giving me such a ripping evening. All this 
 time . . . I've been very rude sometimes, I expect . . . you 
 must have thought me a dreadful ass, and I've wanted so 
 much to show you that I'm not." 
 
 "That's all right," said Philip, who was thinking of Kath- 
 erine. 
 
 "JSTo, it isn't all right," said Henry, striking the table with 
 his fist. "I must tell you, now that you've been so kind to 
 me. You see I'm shy really, I wouldn't like most people to 
 know that, but I am. I'm shy because I'm so unfortunate 
 about little things. You must have noticed long ago how 
 unlucky I am. ISTothing ever goes right with me at home. 
 I'm always uutidy and my clothes go to pieces and I break 
 things. People seem to think I want to . . ." His voice 
 was fierce for a moment, 
 
 "That's all right," said Philip again. "Have some more 
 bone." 
 
 "Yes, thank you," said Henry, staring darkly in front of 
 him. "I don't know why I'm so unfortunate, because I know 
 I could do things if I were given a chance, but no one will 
 ever let me try. What do they keep me at home for when 
 I ought to be at Oxford? Why don't they settle what I'm 
 going to be ? It's quite time for them to make up their mind. 
 . . . It's a shame, a shame. . . ." 
 
 "So it is. So it is," said Philip. "But it will be all right 
 if you wait a bit." 
 
 "I'm always told I've got to wait," said Henry fiercely. 
 
182 THE GEEEN MIEROE 
 
 "What about other fellows ? ^tfo one tells them to wait. . . - 
 I'm nineteen, and there are plenty of men of nineteen I know 
 who are doing all kinds of things. I can't even dress properly 
 — soot and fluff always come and settle on my clothes rather 
 than on anyone else's. I've often noticed it. Then people 
 laugh at me for nothing. They don't laugh at other men." 
 
 "You oughtn't to care," said Philip. 
 
 "I try not to, but you can't help it if it happens often." 
 
 "What do you want to be?" said Philip.. "What would 
 you like to do ?" 
 
 "I don't mind; anything," said Henry, "if only I did it 
 properly. I'd rather be a waiter who didn't make a fool of 
 himself than what I am. I'd like to be of use. I'd like to 
 make people proud of me. I'd like Katherine — " 
 
 At that name he suddenly stopped and was silent. 
 
 "Well?" said Philip. "What about Katherine?... 
 Have some more whisky. . . . Waiter, coffee." 
 
 "I want to do something," said Henry, "to make Katherine 
 proud of me. I know it must be horrible for her to have a 
 brother whom everyone laughs at. It's partly because of her 
 that I'm so shy. But she understands me as none of the others 
 do. She knows I've got something in me. She believes in me. 
 She's the only one. ... I caa talk to her. She understands 
 when I say that I want to do something in the world. She . 
 doesn't laugh.. And I'd die for her. . . . Here, now, if it 
 was necessary. And I'll tell you one thing. I didn't like you 
 at first. When you got engaged to Katherine I hated it until 
 I saw that she'd probably have to be engaged to someone, and 
 it might as well be you." 
 
 "Thank you," said Philip, laughing. 
 
 "I saw how happy you made her. It's hard on all of us 
 who've known her so long, but we don't mind that ... if 
 you do make her happy." 
 
 "So," said Philip, "it's only by the family's permission 
 that I can keep her ?" 
 
 "Oh, yoTi know what I mean," said Henry, "Of course 
 
LIFE AND HEl^KY 183 
 
 she's her own mistress. She can do what she likes. But she 
 is fond of us. And I don't think — if it came to it — that she'd 
 ever do anything to hurt us." 
 
 "If it came to what ?" said Philip. 
 
 But Henry shook his head. "Oh ! I'm only talking. I 
 meant that we're fonder of one another as a family than 
 people outside can realise. We don't seem to be if you watch 
 us, but if it came to pulling us apart — ^to — ^to — taking Kath- 
 erine away, for instance, it — it wouldn't be easy." 
 
 "Another soda, waiter," said Philip. "But I don't want to 
 take Katherine away. I don't want there to be any difference 
 to anyone." 
 
 "There must be a difference," said Henry, shaking his 
 head and looking very solemn. "If it had been Millie it 
 mightn't have mattered so much, because she's been away a 
 lot as it is, but with Katherine — ^you see, we've alwaya 
 thought that whatever misfortune happened, Katherine 
 would be there — and now we can't think that any longer." 
 
 "But that," said Philip, who'd drunk quite a number of 
 whiskies by this time, "was very selfish of you. You couldn't 
 expect her never to marry." 
 
 "We never thought about it," said Henry. He spoke 
 now rather confusedly and at random. "We aren't the sort 
 of people who look ahead. I suppose we haven't got much 
 imagination as a family. None of the Trenchards have. 
 That's why we're fond of one another and can't imagine 
 ever not being." 
 
 Philip leant forward. "Look here, Henry, I want us to 
 be friends — real friends. I love Katherine so much that I 
 would do anything for her. If she's happy you won't grudge 
 her to me, will you? . . . I've felt a little that you, some 
 of you, don't trust me, that you don't understand me. But 
 I'm just what I seem : I'm not worthy of Katherine. I can't 
 think why she cares for me, but, as she does, it's better, isn't 
 it, that she should be happy ? If you'd all help me, if you'd 
 all be friends with me — " 
 
184 THE GEEEN MIKKOK 
 
 He had for some minutes been conscious that there was 
 something odd about Henry. He had been intent on his 
 own thoughts, but behind them something had claimed his 
 attention. Henry was now waving a hand in the air vaguely, 
 he was looking at his half-empty glass with an intent and 
 puzzled eye. Philip broke off in the middle of his sentence, 
 arrested suddenly by this strangeness of Henry's eye, which 
 was now fixed and staring, now red and wandering. He 
 gazed at Henry, a swift, terrible suspicion striking him. 
 Heiliy, with a face desperately solemn, gazed back at him. 
 The boy then tried to speak, failed, and very slowly a large 
 fat tear trembled down his cheek. 
 
 "I'm trying — I'm trying," he began. "I'll be your friend 
 — ^always — ^I'U get up — stand — explain. . . . I'll make a 
 speech," he suddenly added. 
 
 "Good Lord !" Philip realised with a dismay pricked with 
 astonishment, "the fellow's drunk." It had happened so 
 swiftly that it was as though Henry were acting a part. 
 Pive minutes earlier Henry had apparently been perfectly 
 sober. Ho had drimk three whiskies and sodas. Philip had 
 never imagined this catastrophe, and now his emotions were 
 a confused mixture of alarm, annoyance, impatience and dis- 
 gust at his own imperception. 
 
 Whatever Henry had been five minutes ago, there was no 
 sort of question about him now. 
 
 "Someone's taken off my — ^b-boots," he confided very con- 
 fidentially to Philip. "Who— did?" 
 
 The one clear thought in Philip's brain was that he must 
 get Henry home quietly — from the Carlton table to Henry's 
 bed, and with as little noise as possible. Only a few people 
 now remained in the Grill Room. He summoned the waiter, 
 paid the bill. Henry watched him. 
 
 "You must — ^tell them — about my boots," he said. "It's 
 absurd." 
 
 "It's all tight," said Philip. "They've put them on again 
 now. It's time for us to be moving." He was relieved to 
 
LIFE AI^D HEl^EY 185 
 
 see that Henry rose at once and, holding for a moment on 
 to the tahle, steadied himself. His face, very solemn aUd 
 sa,d, with its large, mournful eyes and a lock of hair tumbling 
 forward over his forehead, was both ridiculous and pathetic 
 
 Philip took his arm. 
 
 "Come on," he said. "Time to go home." 
 
 Henry followed very meekly, allowed them to put on Ms 
 coat, was led upstairs and into a "taxi." 
 
 Then he suddenly put his head between his hands and 
 began to sob. He would say nothing, but only sobbed hope- 
 lessly. 
 
 "It's all right," said Philip, as though he were speaking 
 to a child of five. "There's nothing to cry about. You'll 
 be home in a moment." He was desperately annoyed at the 
 misfortune. Why could he not have seen that Henty was 
 drinking too much ? But Henry had drunk so little. Then 
 he had had champagne at dinner. He wasn't used to it. 
 Philip cursed his own stupidity. Wow if they made a noise 
 on the way to Henry's room there might follow fatal conse- 
 quences. If anyone should see them! 
 
 Henry's sobs had ceased: he seemed to be asleep. Philip 
 shook his arm. "Look here ! We must take care not to wake 
 anyone. Here we are ! Quietly now, and where's your key ?" 
 
 "Wash key ?" said Henry. 
 
 Philip had a horrible suspicion that Henry had forgotten 
 his key. He searched. Ah! there it was in the waistcoat 
 pocket. 
 
 Henry put his arms round Philip's neck. 
 
 "They've turned the roa' upside down," he whispered con- 
 fidentially. "We mustn't lose each other." 
 
 They entered the dark hall. Philip with one arm round 
 Henry's waist. Henry sat on the lowest step of the stairs. 
 
 "I'll shtay here to-night," he said. "It's shafer," and was 
 instantly asleep. Philip lifted him, then with Henry's boots 
 tapping the stairs at each step, they moved upwards. Henry 
 was heavy, and at the top Philip had to pause for breath. 
 
186 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 Suddenly the boy slipped from his arms and fell with a 
 crash. The whole house re-echoed. Philip's heart stopped 
 beating, and his only thought was, "E'ow I'm done. They'll 
 all be here in a moment. They'll drive me away. Katherine 
 will never speak to me again." A silence followed abys- 
 mally deep, only broken by some strange snore that came 
 from the heart of the house (as though it were the house 
 that was snoring) and the ticking of two clocks that, in their 
 race against one another, whirred and chuckled. 
 
 Philip picked Henry up again and proceeded. He found 
 the room, pushed open the door, closed it and switched on the 
 light. He then undressed Henry, folding the clothes care- 
 fully, put upon him his pyjamas, laid him in bed and tucked 
 him up. Henry, his eyes closed as though by death, snored 
 heavily. . . . 
 
 Philip turned the light out, crept into the passage, listened, 
 stole downstairs, let himself iuto the Square, where he stood 
 for a moment, in the cold night air, the only living thing in 
 a sleeping world, then hastened away. 
 
 "Thank Heaven," he thought, "we've escaped." He had 
 not escaped. Aunt Aggie, a fantastic figure in a long blue 
 dressing-gown, roused by Henry's fall, had watched, from 
 her bedroom door, the whole affair. She waited until she had 
 heard the haU-door close, then stole down and locked it, stole 
 up again and disappeared silently into her room. 
 
 When Henry woke in the morning his headache was very 
 different from any headache that he had ever endured be- 
 fore. His first thought was that he could never possibly get 
 up, but would lie there all day. His second that, whatever 
 he did, he must rouse suspicion in no one, his third that he 
 really had been terribly drunk last night, and remembered 
 nothing after his second whisky at the Carlton, his fourth 
 that someone must have put him to bed last night, because 
 his clothes were folded carefully, whereas it was his own 
 custom always to fling them about the room. At this moment 
 
LIEE AND HENRY 187 
 
 Eocket (who always took upon himself the rousing of Henry) 
 entered with hot water. 
 
 "Time to get up, sir," he said. "Breakfast-bell in twenty 
 minutes. Bath quite ready." 
 
 Henry watched. "He'll suspect something when he sees 
 those clothes," he thought. But Rocket, apparently, sus- 
 pected nothing. Henry got up, had his hath and slowly 
 dressed. His headache was quite horrible, being a cold head- 
 ache with a heavy weight of pain on his skull and a taste in 
 his mouth of mustard and bad eggs. He felt that he could 
 not possibly disguise from the world that he was unwell. 
 Looking in the glass he saw that his complexion was yellow 
 and muddy, but then it was never, at any time, very splen- 
 did. He looked cross and sulky, but then that would not sur- 
 prise anyone. He went downstairs and passed successfully 
 through the ordeal : fortunately Aunt Aggie was in bed. Only 
 Millie, laughing, said to him: "You don't look as though 
 evenings with Philip suited you, Henry — " 
 
 (How he hated Millie when she teased him !) 
 
 "Well, I'm sure," said Mrs. Trenchard placidly, "there 
 must be thunder about — ^thunder about. I always feel it 
 in my back. George dear, do put that paper down, your 
 tea's quite cold." 
 
 "Well," said George Trenchard, looking up from the 
 'Morning Post' and beaming upon everyone, "what did Philip 
 do with you last night, Henry. Show you the town — 
 eh?" 
 
 "We had a very pleasant evening, thank you, father," said 
 Henry. "We went to the Empire." 
 
 "You came in very quietly. I didn't hear you. Did you 
 hear him, Harriet ?" 
 
 "ISTo," said Mrs. Trenchard. "I do hope you locked the 
 front door, Henry." 
 
 "Oh, yes, mother. That was all right," he said hurriedly. 
 
 "Well, dear, I'm very glad you had a pleasant evening. 
 It was kind of Philip — ^very kind of Philip. Yes, that's 
 
188 THE GEEEN MIEKOR 
 
 Aunt Aggie's tray, Katie dear. I should put a little more 
 marmalade — and that bit of toast, the other's rather dry — 
 yes, the other's rather dry. Poor Aggie says she had a dis- 
 turbed night — slept very badly. I shouldn't wonder whether 
 it's the thunder. I always know by my back. Thank you, 
 Katie. Here's a letter from Eose Faunder, George, and she 
 says, 'etc., etc' " 
 
 After breakfast Henry escaped into the drawing-room ; he 
 sank into his favourite chair by the fire, which was burning 
 with a cold and glassy splendour that showed that it had 
 just been lit. The room was foggy, dim and chill, exactly 
 suited to Henry, who, with his thin legs stretched out in front 
 of him and his headache oppressing him with a reiterated em- 
 phasis as though it were some other person insisting on his 
 attention, stared before him and tried to think. 
 
 He wanted to think everything out, but could consider 
 nothing clearly. It was disgusting of him to have been drunk, 
 but it was Philip's fault — ^that was his main conclusion. 
 Looking back, everything seemed to be Philip's fault — even 
 the disaster to himself. There was in Henry a strange puri- 
 tanical, old-maidish strain, which, under the persuasion of 
 the headache, was allowed full freedom. Philip's intimacy 
 with those women, Philip's attitude to drink, to ballets, even 
 to shirt studs, an attitude of indifference bred of long cus- 
 tom, seemed to Henry this morning sinister and most suspi- 
 cious. Philip had probably been laughing at him all the 
 evening, thought him a fool for getting drunk so easily (ter- 
 rible idea this), would tell other people about his youth and 
 inexperience. Thoughts like these floated through Henry's 
 aching head, but he could not really catch them. Everything 
 escaped him. He could only stare into the old mirror, with 
 its reflection of green carpet and green wall-paper, and fancy 
 that he was caught, held prisoner by it, condemned to re- 
 main inside it for ever, with an aching head and an irri- 
 tated conscience. 
 
 He was ill, be was unhappy, and yet through it all ran the 
 
LIFE AND HENEY 189 
 
 thought: "You ate a man now. You have received your 
 freedom. You'll never be a boy again. . . ." 
 
 He was aronsed from his thoughts by the sudden vision of 
 Katherine, who was, he found, sitting on the elbow of his 
 armchair with her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Hullo," he said, letting her take his hand. "I didn't 
 hear you come in." 
 
 "I didn't know you were in here," she answered. "You 
 were hidden by the chair. I was looking for you, though." 
 
 "Why?" said Henry, suspiciously. 
 
 "Oh, nothing — except that I wanted to hear about last 
 night. Did you enjoy it ?" 
 
 "Very much." 
 
 "Was Philip nice?" 
 
 "Very nice." 
 
 "What did you do?" 
 
 "Oh, we dined at Jules, went to the Empire, had supper 
 at the Carlton, and came home." He looked at Katherine'a 
 eyes, felt that he was a surly brute and added : "The ballet 
 was called 'The Pirate'. I thought it was fine, but it was 
 the first one I'd seen — I don't think Philip cared much for 
 it, but then he's seen so many in Moscow, where they go on 
 all night and are perfectly splendid." 
 
 Katherine's hand pressed his shoulder a little, and he, in 
 response, drew closer to her. 
 
 "I'm glad Philip was nice to you," she said, gazing into 
 the fire. "I want you two to be great friends." There 
 sprang then a new note into her voice, as though she were 
 resolved to say something that had been in her mind a long 
 time. "Henry — ^tell me — quite honestly, I want to knOw. 
 Have I been a pig lately? A pig about everybody. Since 
 I've been engaged have I neglected you all and been different 
 to you all and hurt you all ?" 
 
 "No," said Henry, slowly. "Of course you haven't . . » 
 but it has been different a little — it couldn't help being." 
 
 "What has?" 
 
190 THE GEEEN MIEROR 
 
 "Well, of course, we don't mean so much to you now. 
 How can we ? I suppose what Philip said last night is true, 
 that we've been all rather selfish about you, and now we're 
 suffering for it." 
 
 "Did Philip say that?" 
 
 "Yes — or something like it." 
 
 "It isn't true. It simply shows that he doesn't under- 
 stand what we all are to one another. I suppose we're dif- 
 ferent. I've been feeling, since I've been engaged, that we 
 must be different. Philip is so continually surprised at the 
 things we do." 
 
 Henry frowned. "He needn't be. There's nothing very 
 wonderful in our all being fond of you." 
 
 She got -up from the chair and began to walk up and down 
 the room. Henry's eyes followed her. 
 
 "I don't know what it is," she said suddenly. "But dur^ 
 ing these last weeks it's as though you were all hiding some- 
 thing from me. Even you and MiUie. Of course I know 
 that Aunt Aggie hates Philip. She never can hide her feel- 
 ings. But mother . . ." Katherine broke out. "Oh ! it's all 
 so silly ! Why can't we all be natural ? It's unfair to Philip. 
 He's ready for anything, he wants to be one of us, and you, 
 aU of you — " 
 
 "It isn't quite fair," said Henry slowly, "to blame only us. 
 We've all been very nice to Philip, I think. I know Aunt 
 Betty and Millie and father like him very much." 
 
 "And you ?" said Katherine. 
 
 "I don't think I'd like anyone who was going to take 
 you away." 
 
 "But he isn't going to take me away. That's where you're 
 all so wrong. He's just going to be one more of the family." 
 
 Henry said nothing. 
 
 Katherine then cried passionately: "Ah, you don't know 
 him ! you simply don't know him !" She stopped, her eyes 
 shining, her whole body stirred by her happiness. She came 
 over and stood close to him: "Henry, whatever happens. 
 
LIFE AND HENEY 191 
 
 whatever happens, nothing can take me away from you and 
 mother and the rest. Nor from Garth. ... If you're sure 
 of that then you needn't be afraid of Philip." 
 
 Henry looked up at her. "Suppose, Katherine — ^just sup- 
 pose — ^that he insisted on your going, leaving us all, leaving 
 Garth, going right away somewhere. What would you do ?" 
 
 Katherine smiled with perfect confidence. "He wouldn't 
 insist on anything that would make me so unhappy — or any- 
 one unhappy. All he wants is that everyone should like 
 everyone else, and that no one should he hurt." 
 
 "I'm not sure," said Henry, "whether it isn't that sort 
 who hurt people most in the end." He took her hand in his. 
 "He can do anything he likes, Katherine, anything, and I'll 
 adore him madly, so long as he doesn't hurt you. If he 
 does that — " 
 
 Aunt Aggie, standing in the doorway with the look of 
 one who must live up to having had breakfast in bed, inter- 
 rupted him: 
 
 "Ah, Katherine, there you are. The last thing I want is 
 to give trouble to anyone, but I passed so poor a night that 
 I feel quite unequal to marking those pillow-cases that I 
 offered yesterday to do for your mother. I was so anxious 
 yesterday afternoon to help her, as indeed I always am, but 
 of course I couldn't foretell that my night would be so dis- 
 turbed. I wonder whether you — "' 
 
 "Why, of course, Atmt Aggie," said Katherine. 
 
 Henry's morning reflections resolved themselves finally 
 into the decision that to continue his emancipation he would, 
 definitely, before the day closed, penetrate into the heart 
 of his Club. He found, wheu he arrived there, that he was 
 so deeply occupied with thoughts of Katherine, Philip and 
 himself that he knew no fear. He boldly passed the old man 
 in the hall who exactly resembled a goat, climbed the stairs 
 with the air of one who had been doing it all his life, and dis- 
 covered a room with a fire, a table with papers, some book- 
 cases with ancient books, and Seymour. That gentleman was 
 
192 THE GEEEN" MIEROE 
 
 BtandiBg before the fire, a smile of beamiiig seK-satisfaction 
 Tippn bis red fat face ; he greeted Henry with that altruistic 
 welcome that was peculiarly his own. A manner that im- 
 plied that God had sent him especially into the world to show 
 other men how to be jolly, optimistic, kind-hearted and 
 healthy. 
 
 "Why, who ever expected to see you here?" he cried. 
 '•'You're yellow about the gills, my son. Have a whisky and 
 soda." 
 
 "jS'o, thank you," said Henry, with an internal shudder. 
 "I thought I'd just look in." 
 
 "Why, of course," said Seymour. "How jolly to see 
 you!" 
 
 They drew their chairs in front of the fire and talked — ■ 
 at least Seymour talked. He told Henry what a lucky fel- 
 low he, Seymour, was how jolly the world was, how splendid 
 the weather was. He let slip by accident the facts that three 
 publishers were fighting for his next book, that America had 
 gone mad about his last one ("although 1 always said, you 
 know, that to be popular in America was a sure sign that one 
 was no good"), and that he'd overheard some woman at a 
 party saying that he was the most interesting young man of 
 the day. He told these tales with an air as though he would 
 imply^ — "How absurd these people are! How ridiculous!" 
 
 Then, suddenly, he paused. It seemed that he had re- 
 membered something. 
 
 "By the way, Trenchard — I knew there was something. 
 There's a fellow in this Club, just been lunching with him. 
 I don't expect he's gone. I want you to meet him, I was 
 thinking about you at luncheon. He's just come from Mos- 
 cow, where he's been two years." 
 
 "Moscow ?" said Henry. 
 
 "Yes. I'll go and find him. He may have left if I don't 
 go now." 
 
 Seymour hurried away to return an instant later with a 
 very-iauch dressed young man in a purple suit and a high, 
 
LIFE AND HENEY 193 
 
 shrill voice. He gave Henry a languid finger, said that he 
 wouldn't mind a drink, and sat down in front of the fire. 
 Seymour began a fresh monologue, the young man (Morri- 
 son was his name) drank his whisky with a delicate foreign 
 attitude which Henry greatly admired, said at last that 
 he must he going. It was only then that Henry plucked up 
 courage. 
 
 "I say — Seymou;r tells me you've just come from Mos- 
 cow." 
 
 "Yes — damned rotten town," said Morrison, "two years 
 of it — nearly killed me." 
 
 "Did you happen to know," said Henry, "a man there 
 called Mark 8" 
 
 "What! Phil Mark! Think I did !... Everyone knew 
 Phil Mark ! Hot stuff, my word !" 
 
 "I beg your pardon ?" said Henry. 
 
 Mr. Morrison looked at Henry with curiosity, stared into 
 his glass, found that it was empty, rose and brushed his trou- 
 sers. 
 
 "Went the pace — ^had a mistress there for years — a girl 
 out of the ballet. Everyone knew about it — ^had a kid, but 
 the kid died . . . conceited sort o' feller — ^no one liked him. 
 Know I didn't." 
 
 "It can't have been the same man," said Henry slowly. 
 
 "^0 ? daresay not," said Morrison languidly, "name of 
 Philip though. Short square feller, bit fat, black hair; he 
 was in Maddox and Custom's— made a bit of money they 
 said. He chucked the girl and came to England — ^here some- 
 where now I believe. . . ." 
 
 He looked at Henry and Seymour, found them silent, 
 disliked the stare in Henry's eyes, saw a speck of dust on his 
 waistcoat, was very serious about this, found the silence un- 
 pleasant and broke away — 
 
 "Well, so long, you fellows. . . . Must be toddling." 
 
 He wandered out, his bent shoulders expressing great con- 
 tempt for his company. 
 
194 THE GKEEN MIKKOK 
 
 Seymour had watched his young friend's face. He was, 
 for once, at a loss. He had known what would occur; he 
 had produced Morrison for no other purpose. He had hated 
 Mark since that day at the Trenchard's house with all the 
 unresting hatred of one whose whole peace of mind depends 
 on the admiration of others. Morrison had told him stories 
 ahout Mark: he did not, himself, wish to inform Henry, 
 because his own acquaintance with the family and knowledge 
 of Miss Trenchard's engagement made it difficult, but he had 
 no objection at all to Morrison's agency. He was frightened 
 now at Henry's white face and staring eyes. 
 
 "Did you know this ?" Henry said. 
 
 " 'Pon my word, Trenchard — no idea. Morrison was 
 talking the other day about Englishmen in Moscow, and men- 
 tioned Mark, I think, but I never connected him. If I'd 
 thought he was coming out with it like that of course I'd have 
 stopped it, but he didn't know — " 
 
 "He's lying." 
 
 "Don't know why he should. He'd no idea your sister was 
 engaged. It's a bit rotten, isn't it ? I'm awfully sorry — " 
 
 Henry stared at him. "I believe you did know : I believe 
 you meant him to tell me. That's what you brought him for 
 — ^you hate Mark anyway." Henry laughed, then broke off, 
 stared about him as though he did not know where he was, 
 and rushed from the room. He did not know through what 
 streets he passed; he saw no people, heard no noise; was 
 conscious neither of light nor darkness. He knew that it was 
 true. Mark was a blackguard. Katherine — Katherine. . . . 
 
 As he crossed the bridge in St. James' Park he tumbled 
 against a man and knocked off his hat. He did not stop to 
 apologise. What was he to do ? What was he to do ? Why 
 had it been he who had heard this? 
 
 In the dark hall of the house he saw Katherine. She 
 spoke to him; he tore past her, tumbling upstairs, running 
 dovra the passage as though someone pursued him. His bed- 
 room door banged behind him. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 GAETH IN EOSELANDS 
 
 PHILIP, on the day following his evening with Henry, 
 left London to spend three weeks with some relations 
 who lived near Manchester. This was the first parting from 
 him that Katherine had suffered since the beginning of their 
 engagement, and when she had said good-bye to him at the 
 station, she seemed to return through empty streets, through 
 a town without colour or movement, and the house, when she 
 entered it, echoed, through its desolate rooms and passages, 
 to her steps. 
 
 She resolved at once, however, that now was the time to 
 show the family that she was the same Katherine as she had 
 ever been. As she waited for a little in her bedroom, finally 
 dismissing Philip's presence and summoning the others, she 
 laughed to think how simply now she would brush away the 
 little distrusts and suspicions that seemed, during those last 
 weeks, to have grown about her. 
 
 "They shall know Phil," she thought to herself. "They 
 can't help loving him when they see him as he really is. Any- 
 way, no more keeping anything back." It seemed to her, 
 at that moment, a very simple thing to impart her happiness 
 to all of them. She had no fear that she would fail. Then, 
 almost at once, the most delightful thing occurred. 
 
 Two or three days after Philip's departure Mrs. Tren- 
 chard, alone with Katherine in the dining-room before break- 
 fast, said: 
 
 "I've written to Philip, my dear, to ask him to go down 
 with us to Garth." 
 
 195 
 
196 THE GEEElSr MIHEOK 
 
 Katherine's eyes shone -with pleasure. 
 
 "Mother ! . . . How delightful of you ! I was hoping that 
 perhaps you might ask him later. But isn't it tiresome to 
 have him so soon ?" 
 
 "No — ^my dear — ^no. ISTot tiresome at all. I hope he'll be 
 able to come." 
 
 "Of course he'll be able to come," laughed Katherine. 
 
 "Yes — ^well — I've written to ask him. We go down on the 
 fifth of March. Tour father thinks that's the best day. 
 Griffiths writes that that business of the fences in Columb 
 meadow should be looked into — Yes. No, Alice, not the ham 
 — ^tell Grace to boil two more eggs — ^not enough — ^I'm glad 
 you're pleased, Katherine." 
 
 Katherine looked up, and her eyes meeting her mother's, 
 the confidence that had been clouded ever since that fatal 
 affair with the hot-water bottles seemed to leap into life be- 
 tween them. Mrs. Trenchard put out her hand, Katherine 
 moved forward, but at that moment Aunt Aggie and Aunt 
 Betty entered; breakfast began. 
 
 "I believe," thought Katherine, "Aunt Aggie waits outside 
 the door and chooses her moment. She's always interrupt- 
 ing. . . ." The fact that there was now some restraint be- 
 tween her mother and herself was only emphasised the more 
 by the feeling of both of them that an opportunity had been 
 missed. 
 
 And why, Katherine wondered afterwards, had her mother 
 asked Philip ? If he had been invited to come to them after 
 Easter — ^but now, to go down with them, as one of the fam- 
 ily! Was not this exactly what Katherine had been desir- 
 ing? And yet she was uncomfortable. She felt sometimes 
 now that her mother, who had once been her other self, in 
 whose every thought, distress, anxiety she had shared, was 
 almost a stranger. 
 
 "It's just as though there w«re ghosts in the house," she 
 thought. As she went to bed she was, for the first time in 
 her life, lonely. She longed for Philip . . . then suddenly. 
 
GARTH IK" EOSELANDS 197 
 
 for uo reason that she could name, began to cry and, so cry- 
 ing, fell asleep. She was much younger than everyone 
 thought her. . . . 
 
 Throughout the three weeks that followed she felt as 
 though she were beating the air. Eachel Seddon had taken 
 her husband abroad. There was no one to whom she could 
 speak. She wrote to Philip every day, and discovered how 
 useless letters were. She tried to approach Millie, but found 
 that she had not the courage to risk Millie's frankness. Her 
 sister's attitude to her was : "Dear Katie, let's be happy and 
 jolly together without talking about it — it's much bet- 
 ter. . . ." There had been a time, not so very long ago, 
 when they had told one another everything. Henry was the 
 strangest of all. He removed himself from the whole, fam- 
 ily, and would speak to no one. He went apparently for long 
 solitary walks. Even his father noticed his depression, and 
 decided that something must really be done with the boy. 
 "We might send him abroad for six months — ^learn some 
 French or German . . ." but of course nothing was done. 
 
 Aunt Betty was the only entirely satisfactory member of 
 the family. She frankly revelled in the romance of the 
 whole affair. She was delighted that Katherine had fallen 
 in love "with such a fine manly fellow" as Philip. Her at- 
 tention was always centred upon Katherine to the exclusion 
 of the others, therefore she noticed no restraint nor awkward- 
 ness. She was intensely happy, and went humming about the 
 house in a way that' annoyed desperately her sister Aggie. 
 She even wrote a little letter to Philip, beginning "My dear 
 Boy," saying that she thought that he'd like to know from 
 one of the family that Katherine was in perfect health and 
 looking beautiful. She received a letter from Philip that 
 surprised and delighted her by its warmth of feeling. This 
 letter was the cause of a little battle with Aggie. 
 
 They were alone together in Betty's room when she said, 
 half to herself : 
 
 "Such a delightful letter from the 'dear boy'." 
 
198 THE GEEEN MIREOE 
 
 "What dear boy ?" said Atmt Aggie sharply. 
 
 Aunt Betty started, as she always did when anyone spoke 
 to her sharply, sucked her fingers, and then, the colour mount- 
 ing into her cheeks, said: 
 
 "Philip. He's written to me from Manchester." 
 
 "I do think, Betty," Aggie answered, "that instead of 
 writing letters to young men who don't want them you might 
 try to take a little of the burden of this house off my shoul- 
 ders. ITow that Katherine has lost all her common-sense 
 I'm supposed to do everything. I don't complain. They 
 wish me to help as much as I can, but I'm far from strong, 
 and a little help from you . . ." 
 
 Then Aunt Betty, with the effect of standing on her toes, 
 her voice quite shrill with excitement, spoke to her sister 
 as she had never, in all her life, spoken to anyone before. 
 
 "It's too bad, Aggie. I used to think that you were fond 
 of Katherine, that you wished her happiness — Now, ever 
 since her engagement, you've done nothing but complain 
 about her. Sometimes I think you really want to see her 
 unhappy. We ought to be glad, you and I, that she's found 
 someone who will make her happy. It's all your selfishness, 
 Aggie ; just because you don't like Philip for some fancied 
 reason . . . it's unfair and wicked. At anyrate to me you 
 shan't speak against Katherine and Philip. ... I love 
 Katherine, even though you don't." 
 
 ISTow it happened that, as I have said elsewhere, Aggie 
 Trenchard loved her niece very deeply. It was a love, how- 
 ever, that depended for its life on an adequate return. "That 
 young man has turned Katherine against me. Ever since he 
 first came into the house I knew it." Now at her sister's 
 accusation her face grew grey and her hands trembled. 
 
 "Thank you, Betty. I don't think we'll discuss the matter. 
 Because you're blind and know nothing of what goes on under 
 your nose is no reason that other people's sight should be 
 blinded too. Can't you see for yourself the change in Kath- 
 erine ? If you loved her a little more sensibly than you do. 
 
GAETH IN ROSELANDS 199 
 
 instead of romancing about the affair, you'd look into the 
 future. I tell you that the moment Philip Mark entered this 
 house was the most unfortunate moment in Katherine's life. 
 Nothing but unhappiness will come of it. If you knew what 
 I know — " 
 
 Aunt Betty was, in spite of herself, struck by the feeling 
 and softness in her sister's voice. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" she asked. 
 
 "I mean nothing. I'm right, that's all. You're a silly, 
 soft fool, Elizabeth, and so you always were. But Harriet 
 . . . asking him to go down to Garth with us, when she hates 
 him as I know she does ! I don't know what it means. Do' 
 you suppose that I don't love Katherine any longer ? I love 
 her so much that I'd like to strangle Mr. Philip Mark in his 
 sleep!" 
 
 She flung from the room, banging the door behind her. 
 
 Philip arrived on the evening before the departure into the 
 country. He came well pleased with all the world, because 
 his Manchester relations had liked him and he had liked his 
 Manchester relations. Viewed from that happy distance, the 
 Trenchards had been bathed in golden light. He reviewed his 
 recent agitations and forebodings with laughter. "Her fam- 
 ily," he told his relations, "are a bit old-fashioned. They've 
 got their prejudices, and I don't think they liked the idea, at 
 first, of her being engaged — she's so valuable. But they're 
 getting used to it." He arrived in London in the highest 
 spirits, greeted Rocket as thqugh he had been his life-long 
 friend, and going straight up to his room to dress for dinner, 
 thought to himself that he really did feel at home in the old 
 house. , He looked at his fire, at the cosy shape of the room, 
 heard a purring, contented clock ticking away, thought for 
 a moment of Moscow, with its puddles, its mud, its dark, un- 
 even streets, its country roads, its weeks of rain. 
 
 "No, I've found my place," he thought, "this is home." 
 And yet, during dinner, his uneasiness, like a forgotten 
 
200 THE GKEEN MIRROK 
 
 ghost, crept back to him. Henry had a headache, and had 
 gone to bed. 
 
 "He's not been very well lately," said Aunt Aggie to 
 Philip, "that evening with you upset him, I believe — over- 
 excited him, perhaps. I'm glad you liked Manchester." He 
 could not deny that dinner was a little stiff. He was suddenly 
 aware over his pudding that he was afraid of Mrs. Tren- 
 chard, and that his fear of her that had been vague and 
 nebulous before his absence was now sharp and defined. 
 
 He looked at her, and saw that her eyes were anything but 
 placid and contented, like the rest of her. 
 
 "More pudding, Philip ?" she asked him, and his heart beat 
 as though he had received a challenge. 
 
 Afterwards in the drawing-room he thought to himself: 
 " 'Tis this beastly old house. It's so stuffy" — ^forgetting that 
 two hours earlier it had seemed to welcome him home. "We'll 
 be all right when we get down to the country," he thought. 
 
 Finally he said good-night to Katherine in the dark little 
 passage. As though he were giving himself some desperate 
 reassurance, he caught her to him and held her tightly in his 
 arms: 
 
 "Katie — darling, have you missed me?" 
 
 "Missed you? I thought the days were never going to 
 pass." 
 
 "Katie, I want to be married, here, now, to-night, at once. 
 I hate this waiting. I hate it. It's impossible — " 
 
 Katherine laughed, looking up into his eyes. 
 
 "I like you to be impatient. I'm so happy. I don't think 
 anything can ever be happier. Besides, you know," and her 
 eyes sparkled — "you may change — ^you may want to break 
 it off — and then think how glad you'll be that we waited." 
 
 He held her then so fiercely that she cried out. 
 
 "Don't say that — even as a joke. How dare you — even 
 as a joke ? I love you — ^I love you — I love you." He kissed 
 her mouth again and again, then suddenly, with a little move^ 
 ment of tenderness, stroked her hair very softly, whispering 
 
GAETH IN EOSELANDS 201 
 
 to her, "I love you — I love you — I love you — Oh ! how I love 
 you!" 
 
 That night she was so happy that she lay for many hours 
 staring at the black ceiling, a smile on her lips. He, also, 
 was awake until the early morning. . . . 
 
 The departure to the station was a terrific affair. There 
 were Mr. Trenchard, senior, Great Aunt Sarah (risen from 
 a bed of sickness, yellow and pinched in the face, very yel- 
 low and pinched in the temper, and deafer than deaf), Aunt 
 Aggie, Aunt Betty, George Trenchard, Mrs. Trenchard, Mil- 
 lie (very pretty), Henry (very sulky), Katherine, Philip, 
 Eocket and Aunt Sarah's maid (the other maids had left by 
 an earlier train) — ^twelve persons. The train to be caught 
 was the eleven o'clock from Paddington, and two carriages 
 had been reserved. The first business was to settle old Mr. 
 Trenchard and Aunt Sarah. They were placed, like images, 
 in the best corners, Mr. Trenchard saying sometimes in his 
 silvery voice: "It's very kind of you, Harriet," or "Thank 
 ye, Betty, my dear," and once to Millie, "I like to see ye 
 laughing, my dear — ^very pretty, very pretty". Aunt Sarah 
 frowned and wrinkled her nose, but was, in her high black 
 bonnet, a very fine figure. Her maid, Clarence, was plain, 
 elderly and masculine in appearance, having a moustache and 
 a stiff linen collar and very little hair visible under her black 
 straw hat. She, however, knew just how Great-Aunt Sarah 
 liked to be. . . . 
 
 The others in that compartment were Aunt Aggie, George 
 Trenchard (he sat next to his father and told him jokes out 
 of the papers) and Mrs. Trenchard. In the other carriage 
 Katherine and Philip had the corners by the window. Aunt 
 Betty sat next to Philip, Millie and Henry had the farther 
 corners. When the train started, Katherine's heart gave a 
 jump, as it always did when she set off for Garth. "We're 
 really off. We'll really be in Garth by the evening. We'll 
 really wake up there to-morrow morning." 
 
 Philip had not seen Henry since his return from Man- 
 
202 THE GEEEN MIEROE 
 
 Chester, so he tried to talk to him. Henry, however, was 
 engaged upon a very large edition of "War and Peace," and, 
 although he answered Philip's enquiries very politely, he was 
 obviously determined to speak to no one. Millie had Henry 
 Galleon's "Eoads" to read, but she did not study it very 
 deeply — Aunt Betty had a novel called "The Eosary" and 
 her knitting ; now and then she would break into little scraps 
 of talk as : "But if I moved the bed across lengthways that 
 would leave room for the bookcase," or "I do think people 
 must be clever to make up conversations in books," or 
 "There's Eeading". The lovers, therefore, were left to one 
 another. . . . 
 
 Katherine had upon her lap the novel that had so greatly 
 excited Henry ; he had insisted upon her reading it, but now 
 it lay idly there, unopened. That little smile that had hov- 
 ered about her lips last night was still there to-day. Often 
 her eyes were closed, and she might have seemed to be asleep 
 were it not that the little smile was alive — ^her eyes would 
 open, they would meet Philip's eyes, they would be drawn, 
 the two of them, closer and closer and closer. 
 
 They talked together, their voices scarcely above a whisper. 
 The day was one of those that are given sometimes, in a fit 
 of forgetfulness, by the gods, at the beginning of March. It 
 was a very soft, misty day, with the sun warm and golden but 
 veiled. Trees on the dim blue horizon were faintly pink, 
 and streams that flashed for an instant before the windows 
 were pigeon-colour. Everywhere the earth seemed to be 
 breaking, flowers pushing through the spil, rivers released 
 from their winter bondage laughing in their new freedom, 
 the earth chuckling, whispering, humming with the glorious 
 excitement of its preparation, as though it had never had a 
 spring in all its life before, as though it did not know that 
 there would yet be savage winds, wild storms of rain, many 
 cold and bitter days. Blue mist — running water — trees with 
 their bursting buds — a haze of sun and rain in the air — a 
 great and happy peace. 
 
GARTH IN nOSELAKDS 203 
 
 Katherine and Philip, although they saw no one but one 
 another, were aware of the day — it was as though it had been 
 arranged especially for them. The rise and fall of their 
 voices had a sleepy rhythm, as though they were keeping time 
 with the hum of the train : 
 
 "I'm BO glad," said Katherine, "that your first view of 
 Glebeshire will be on a day like this." 
 
 "I'm a little afraid," he answered. "What will you say if 
 I don't like it ?" 
 
 She seemed really for an instant to be afraid. "But, of 
 course, of course, you will." 
 
 "Everyone doesn't. Someone told me the other day that 
 either it was desolate enough to depress you for a lifetime or 
 stuffy like a hot-house, and that the towns were the ugliest 
 in the United Kingdom." 
 
 Katherine sighed and then smiled. 
 
 "I expect they'd think Manchester the loveliest place on 
 earth," she said. Then, looking at him very intently, she 
 asked him: "Do you regi-et Eussia — the size and the space 
 and the strangeness ? I daresay you do. Do you know, Phil, 
 I'm rather jealous of Eussia, of all the things you did before 
 I knew you, I wonder whether I'd have liked you if I'd met 
 you then, whether you'd have liked me. I expect you were 
 very different. Tell me about it. I'm always asking you 
 about Moscow, and you're so mysterious — ^yes, I believe I'm 
 jealous." 
 
 Philip looked away from her, out of the window, at the 
 fields with their neat hedges, the gentle hills faintly purple, 
 villages tucked into nests of trees, cows grazing, horses mildly 
 alert at the passing train. Por a moment he was conscious 
 of irritation at the tidy cosiness of it all. Then he spoke, 
 dreamily, as though he were talking in his sleep : 
 
 "No. That's all behind me. I shall never go back there 
 again, I don't think of it often, but sometimes I fancy I'm 
 there!,' Sounds will bring it back, and I dream sometimes. . . . 
 One gets so used to it that it's hard now to say what one did 
 
204 THE GKEEN MIEEOR 
 
 feel about it. I had a little flat in a part of the town called 
 the Arbat. Out of my window I could see a church with sky- 
 blue domes covered with silver stars, there was a shop with 
 food, sausages and all kinds of dried fish, and great barrels 
 of red caviare and mountains of cheese. The church had a 
 cherry-coloured wall, with a glittering Ikon at the gate and a 
 little lamp burning in front of it. There were always some 
 cabs at the end of my street, with the cabmen in their fat, 
 bunched-up clothes sleeping very often, their heads hanging 
 from the shafts. Lines of carts from the country would pass 
 down the street with great hoops of coloured wood over the 
 horses' necks and wild-looking peasants in charge of them. 
 They didn't seem wild to me then — they were quite ordinary. 
 Always just before six the bells at the church would ring, 
 one slow, deep note and a little funny noisy jangle as well — 
 one beautiful and unearthly ; the other like a talkative woman, 
 all human. ... In the autumn there'd be weeks of rain, 
 and the mud would rise and rise, and the carts and cabs go 
 splashing through great streams of water. When the snow 
 came there'd be fine days and the town on fire, all sparkling 
 and quivering, and every ugly thing in the place would be 
 beautiful. There'd be many days too when the sky would 
 fall lower and lower and the town be like grey blotting-paper 
 and the most beautiful things hideous. Opposite my window 
 there was a half-built house that had been there for three 
 years, and no one had troubled to finish it. There was a 
 beggar at the comer— a fine old man with no legs. He must 
 have made a fortune, because everyone who passed gave him 
 something. It would be fine on a snowy night when the 
 night-watchmen built great fires of logs to keep them warm. 
 
 "On a starry night I could see the domes of St. Saviour's 
 Cathedral like little golden clouds — ^very beautiful." 
 
 "And what was the inside of your flat like ?" asked Kath- 
 erine. She had been leaning a little forward, her hands 
 clasped together, deeply interested. 
 
 "Oh! very small! I made it as English as I could. It 
 
GAETH m KOSELANDS 205 
 
 liad central heating and, in the winter, with the douhle win- 
 dows, it got very stuffy. I had English pictures and English 
 booka, but it was never very comfortable. I don't know why. 
 Nothing in Eussia's comfortable. I had a funny old servant 
 called Sonia. She was fond of me, but she drank; she was 
 always having relations to stay with her. I would find funny- 
 looking men in the kitchen in the morning. She had no idea 
 of time, and would cook well or badly as she pleased. She 
 liked to tell fairy stories ; she stole and she drank and she 
 lied, but I kept her because I couldn't bother to change her." 
 
 He stopped — then began again, but now more dreamily 
 than before, as though he'd been carried far away from the 
 train, from England, from Katherine. "Yes — ^that was it — 
 one couldn't be bothered. One couldn't be bothered about 
 anything, and one didn't need to bother, because no one else 
 bothered either. Perhaps that's just why I loved it, as I see 
 now that I did love it. Wo one cared for anything but what 
 was in the air — dreams, superstitions, stories. The country 
 itself was lil^e that too — so vague, so vast and boundless, so 
 careless and heedless, so unpractical, so good for dreams, so 
 bad for work, so Unfinished, letting so many things go to 
 pieces, so beautiful and so ugly, so depressing and so cheer- 
 ful, so full of music and of ugly sounds ... so bad to live 
 in, so good to dream in. I was happy there and I didn't 
 know it — I was happy and didn't know it." His voice had 
 sunk to a whisper, so that Katherine could not catch his 
 words. She touched the sleeve of his coat. 
 
 "Come back, Phil, come back," she said, laughing. 
 "You're lost." 
 
 He started, then smiled at her. 
 
 "It's all right . . . but it's odd. There are so many things 
 that didn't seem to me to be curious and beautiful then that 
 are so now." Then, looking at Katherine very intently, as 
 though he were calling her back to him, he said : 
 
 "But don't talk to me about Eussia. It's bad for me. I 
 don't want to think of it. I've left it for ever. And when 
 
206 THE GREEN MIRROR 
 
 you ask me questions it revives me, as though it still had some 
 power. . . . You say that you're afraid of it — ^why," he 
 ended, laughing, "I believe I'm afraid of it too — I don't 
 want to think of it. It's England now and Glebeshire and 
 you — and you," he whispered. They were interrupted then 
 by an attendant, who told them that it was time for the first 
 luncheon. 
 
 Afterwards, when the shadows were lengthening across the 
 fields and the misty sun rode low above the far hills, they sat 
 silently dreaming of their great happiness. It was an after- 
 noon that was to remain, for both of them, throughout their 
 lives, in spite of all after events, a most perfect memory. 
 There are moments in the histories of all of us when we are 
 carried into heights that by the splendour of their view, the 
 fine vigour of their air, the rapture of their achievement offer 
 to us a sufficient reassurance against the ironic powers. We 
 find in them a justification of our hopes, our confidences, our 
 inspirations, our faith. . . . 
 
 So, for these few hours at least, Katherine and Philip 
 found their justification. 
 
 This was a moment that two others, also, in that carriage 
 were never afterwards to forget. Millie, under the warm 
 afternoon sun, had fallen asleep. She woke to a sudden, half- 
 real, half-fantastic realisation of Philip. She was awake, 
 of course, and yet Philip .was not quite human to her — or was 
 it that he was more human than he had ever been before? 
 She watched him, with her young, eager, inquisitive gaze, 
 over the cover of her book. She watched him steadily for a 
 long time. 
 
 She had always liked the clean, bullet-shaped head, his 
 black eyes, his sturdiness and set, square shoulders, his colour 
 and his strength. She had always liked him, but to-day, in 
 this sudden glimpse, he seemed to be revealed to her as some- 
 one whom she was seeing for the first time. Millie, in all the 
 freshness of her anticipated attack upon the world, had at this 
 
GAETH IE" ROSELANDS 207 
 
 period very little patience for bunglers, for sentimentalists, 
 for nervous and hesitating souls. Now, strangely, she saw in 
 Philip's eyes some hinted weakness, and yet she did not de- 
 spise him. "I believe," she thought, "he's afraid of us." 
 That discovery came as though it had been whispered to her 
 by someone who knew. Her old conviction that she knew 
 him better than did the others showed now no signs of falter- 
 ing. "I believe I could help him as they none of them can," 
 she thought. "No, not even Katherine." She had, in spite 
 of her determined, practical common-sense, the most romantic 
 idea of love, and now, as she thought of the two of them 
 wrapped up there before her eyes in one another, she felt irri- 
 tated by her own isolation. "I wonder whether Katherine 
 understands him really," she thought. "Katherine's so sim- 
 ple, and takes everything for granted. It's enough for her 
 that she's in love. I don't believe it's enough for him." She 
 had always in very early days felt some protecting, motherly 
 element in her love for Katherine. That protection seemed 
 now to spread to Philip as well. "Oh ! I do hope they're 
 going to be happy," she thought, and so, taking them both 
 with her under her wing, dozed off to sleep again. . . . 
 
 The other was, of course, Henry. 
 
 No one could ever call Henry a gay youth. I don't think 
 that anyone ever did, and although with every year that he 
 grows he is stronger, more cheerful and less clumsy and mis- 
 anthropic, he will never be really gay. He will always be far 
 too conscious of the troubles that may tumble on to his head, 
 of the tragedies of his friends and the evils of his country. 
 
 And yet, in spite of his temperament, he had, deep down in 
 his soul, a sense of humour, an appreciation of his own comic 
 appearance, a ready applause for the optimists (although 
 to this he would never, never confess) . "He's a surly brute," 
 I heard someone say of him once — ^but it is possible (I do not 
 say probable) that he will be a great man one of these days, 
 and then everyone will admire his fine reserve, "the taci- 
 turnity of a great man"; in one of his sudden moments oi 
 
208 THE GEEEN MIEKOK 
 
 confidence he confessed to me that this particular journey 
 down to Glebeshire was the beginning of the worst timfe in 
 his life — not, of course, quite the beginning. Philip's appear- 
 ance on that foggy night of his grandfather's birthday was 
 that — and he is even now not so old but that there may be 
 plenty of bad times in store for him. But he will know now 
 how to meet theiji ; this was his first test of responsibility. 
 
 He had always told himself that what he really wanted was 
 to show, in some heroic fashion, his love for Katherine. Let 
 him be tested, he cried, by fire, stake, torture and the block, 
 and he would "show them." Well, the test had come. As he 
 sat opposite her in the railway carriage he faced it. He 
 might go up to Philip and say to him : "Look here, is it true ? 
 Did you have a mistress in Moscow for three years and have 
 a son by her?" But what then? If Philip laughed, and 
 said: "Why, of course . . . everyone knows it. That's all 
 over now. What is it to you ?" He would answer : "It's this 
 to me. I'm not going to have a rotten swelp of a fellow marry- 
 ing my sister and making her miserable." 
 
 Then Philip might say: "My dear child — how young 
 you are ! all men do these things. I've finished with that part 
 of my life. But, anyway, don't interfere between me and 
 Katherine, you'll only make her miserable and you'll do no 
 good." 
 
 Ah ! that was just it. He would make her miserable ; he 
 could not look at her happiness and contemplate his own de- 
 struction of it. And yet if Philip were to marry her and 
 afterwards neglect her, and leave her as he had left this other 
 woman, would not Henry then reproach himself most bit- 
 terly for ever and ever ? But perhaps, after all, the story of 
 that wretched man at the Club was untrue, it had been, per- 
 haps, grossly exaggerated. Henry had a crude but finely-col- 
 oured fancy concerning the morals of the Man of the World. 
 Had not Seymour dismissed such things with a jolly laugh 
 and "my dear fellow, it's no business of ours. We're all very 
 much alike if we only knew." Had he not a secret envy of 
 
GAETH IN EOSELANDS 209 
 
 this same Man of the World who carried off his sins so lightly 
 with so graceful an air? But now it was no case of an 
 abstract sinner — it was a case of the happiness or unhappiness 
 of the person whom Henry loved best in life. 
 
 A subtler temptation attacked him. He knew (he could not 
 possibly doubt) that if his parents were told, Philip would 
 have to go. One word from him to his mother, and the fam- 
 ily were rid of this fellow who had come out of nowhere to 
 disturb their peace. The thing was so infernally easy. As 
 he sat there, reading, apparently, his novel, his eyes were on 
 Katherine's face. She was leaning back, her eyes closed, 
 smiling at her thoughts. What would Katherine do ? Would 
 she leave them all and go with him ? Would she hate him, 
 Henry, for ever afterwards ? Yes, that she would probably 
 do. . . . Ah, he was a weak, feeble, indeterminate creature. 
 He could make up his mind about nothing. . . . That eve- 
 ning he had had with Philip, it had been glorious and dis- 
 gusting, thrilling and sordid. He was rather glad that he 
 had been drunk — ^he was also ashamed. He was intensely 
 relieved that none of the family had seen him, and yet he saw 
 himself shouting to them : "I was drunk the other night, and 
 I talked to rotten women and I didn't care what happened 
 to me. . . . I'm a boy no longer;" 
 
 He hated Philip, and yet, perhaps, Philip was leading 
 him to freedom. That fellow in the novel about the sea and 
 the forests (Henry could see him challenging his foes, walk- 
 ing quietly across the square towards his friend, who was 
 waiting to slay him). He would have admired Philip. 
 Henry saw himself as that fine solitary figure waiting for his 
 opportunity. How grand he could be had he a chance, but life 
 was so lofty, so unromantic, so conventional. Instead of 
 meeting death like a hero, he must protect Katherine . , . 
 and he did not know how to do it. . . . 
 
 As the sun was sinking in a thick golden web that glittered 
 behind the dark purple woods— woods that seemed now to 
 stand like watchers with their fingers upon their lips — the 
 
210 THE GEEEN MIEKOE 
 
 train crossed the boundary river. That crossing had been, 
 ever since he could remember, a very great moment to Henry. 
 To-day the recognition of it dragged him away from Philip 
 and Catherine, from everything but Glebeshire. 
 
 He looked across at Katherine instinctively — she, sitting 
 now upright, gazing out of the window, turned as though she 
 had known and smiled at him. They were in Glebeshire, 
 there was the first valley, mysterious, now like a dark purple 
 cup, there the white winding road that went over the hill 
 on to Easselas, Liskane, Clinton and Truxe, there was the 
 first break in the hills, where you always peered forward ex- 
 pecting to catch a shimmer of the sea, here that cluster of 
 white cottages that, when he had been small, had seemed to 
 be tumbling down the hill, very dangerous to live in ... at 
 last the pause at Carlyon, the last stop before Easselas. 
 
 It was quite dark now. The light had suddenly been drawn 
 from the sky, and the earth was filled with new sounds, new 
 scents, new mysteries. The train stopped for a minute be- 
 fore Easselas, and, suddenly all about it, through the open 
 window there crowded whispers, stealthy movements, the 
 secret confidences of some hidden stream, the murmured 
 greetings of the trees. The train lay there as though it had 
 wanted them all to know how lovely the evening was. On the 
 road that skirted the train a man with a lantern greeted a cart. 
 "Well, good-night to 'ee," a voice said clear and sharp like an 
 invitation; Henry's heart began to beat furiously. Glebe^ 
 shire had welcomed them. 
 
 With a jerk the train stumbled forward again, and they 
 were in Easselas. The little station, which was of some im- 
 portance because it was a junction for Pelynt and therefore 
 also for Eafiel, lay very quietly at the bottom of the wooded 
 hill. A porter went down the train swinging a lantern and 
 crying: "Change for P'lynt. Change for P'lynt." 
 
 A stream flowed near by, and the scent of a garden flooded 
 the station : there would be already snowdrops and primroses 
 and crocuses. The whole party of them were bundled out on 
 
GAETH IN EOSELAITDS 211 
 
 to the platfoitn — a great pile of luggage loomed in the dis- 
 tance. Heads from the carriage windows watched them, then 
 a pause, a cry, and the train was off, leaving them all high 
 and dry, with the wind blowing round their hair and clothes 
 and ankles like a friendly and inquisitive dog. There was 
 sea in the wind. 
 
 "Smell the sea !" cried Millie. "I must have left it in the 
 restaurant car," said Aunt Aggie. "Too provoking. I par- 
 ticularly wanted you to read that article, Harriet. I think 
 you might have noticed, Millie . . . you were sitting next 
 to me." 
 
 "There's Jacob !" Henry, suddenly happy and excited and 
 free from all burdens, cried : 
 
 "Hallo ! Jacob ! How are you ? How's everyone ? How's 
 Eebekah?" 
 
 Jacob, with a face like a red moon, smiled, touched his hat, 
 stormed at a young man in buttons. "Do 'ee bustle a bit, 
 John. Didn't I tell 'ee the box with the black 'andles ? . . . 
 very comfortable, Mr. 'Enry, sir, thank 'ee, as I 'opes you 
 finds yourself. Been a bit o' sickness around down along in 
 the village . . . but not to 'urt. . . ." 
 
 Could they all get in ? Of course they could. The luggage 
 was all on the luggage-cart, and Eock and Clarence with it ; a 
 silver moon, just rising now above the station roofs, peeping 
 at her, laughed at her serious dignity. 
 
 "]Sro, we'll go on the box, Philip and I," said Katherine. 
 "Of course I shan't be cold. ISTo, really, we'd rather, wouldn't 
 we, Philip ? Plenty of room, Jacob." 
 
 They were off, up the little hill, down over the little bridge 
 and through the little village. Katherine, sitting between 
 Philip and Jacob, pressing her cheek against Philip's rough 
 tweed coat, her hand lying in his under the rug, seemed to 
 slip, dreaming, fulfilling some earlier vision, through space. 
 She had wondered sometimes, in the earlier days, whether 
 there could be any greater happiness in life than that ever- 
 
212 THE GKEEl^r MIEEOR 
 
 thrilling, ever-satisfying return to Garth. She knew now that 
 there was a greater happiness. . . . 
 
 A white world of crackling, burning stars roofed them in ; 
 an owl flew by them through the grey dusk ; the air smelt of 
 spring flowers and fresh damp soil. The stream that had been 
 with them since their entrance into Glebeshire still accom- 
 panied them, running with its friendly welcome at their side. 
 Beyond the deep black hedges cows and horses and sheep 
 moved stealthily: it seemed that they might not disturb the 
 wonderful silence of the night. 
 
 "Are you warm enough?" he asked her; he caught her 
 hand more tightly and kissed her cheek, very softly and 
 gently. She trembled with happiness, and pressed more 
 closely against his coat. 
 
 "Can you smell the sea yet ? You will when you get to the 
 top of Easselas Hill. This is the high road to Pelynt. It 
 runs parallel with the railway until we get to the cross roads, 
 Pelynt Cross, you know. . . . You'll smell the sea there. 
 You can see it on a clear day. To the left of you there is just 
 Pelynt Moor. It runs for miles and miles, right along by the 
 Drymouth Eoad. . . , Look through the brealc in the hedge. 
 Do you see that light across the field ? That's John Pollen's 
 cottage. John was murdered just about a hundred years ago. 
 He was an old miser, and some men robbed him, but they 
 never found his head. They say he wanders about still look- 
 ing for it. . . . Oh, if this could go on for ever. Philip, are 
 you happy ?" 
 
 "Happy ?" . . . Ah ! she could feel his body quiver. 
 
 "Yes, and now we're coming down to the Well. There's a 
 little wood just at the body of the hill. We always call it the 
 Well because it's so dark and green. It's the most famous 
 wood for primroses in all Glebeshire. They'll be coming 
 now. , . . We'll walk here. ... I cried once because I 
 thought I was lost here. They forgot me and went home. 
 Then I was comforted by the postman, who found me and 
 carried me home. . . . Jacob, do you remember ?" 
 
GAETH IN EOSELANDS 213 
 
 "Ah, Miss Kathie, doan't 'ee thinlj that I'd forget ought 
 about 'ee. Not likely. And your mother in a fine takin', poor 
 soul, too. We're a-coming to P'lynt Cross now, sir — as fa- 
 mous as any spot o' ground in the 'ole of Glebeshire, sir — 
 Hup, then! Hup, then— Whey— Oh ! oh! Hup, then!" 
 
 They pulled to the top, leaving the wood in the dip behind 
 them. The wind met them, flinging its salt and freshness in 
 their faces with a rough, wild greeting. Philip could hear 
 suddenly the humming of the telegraph wires, as though they 
 had sprung from their imprisoimient in the valley and were 
 chanting their victory. To his left, vague and formless under 
 the starlight, stretched Pelynt Moor, waiting there, scorn- 
 fully confident in its age and strength and power, for day- 
 light. The salt wind flung its arms around them and dragged 
 them forward; Philip, listening, could hear, very stealthily, 
 with the rhythm of armed men marching, the beating of the 
 
 S6a* • • • 
 
 "l^ow we're near — ^now we're very near. It'll be Garth 
 Cross in a minute. There it is. Now we turn off down to the 
 Almshouses. We don't really come into the village. . . . 
 There are the Almshouses and the Common. . . . Now round 
 the corner. . . . There it is — ^there's the Gate — the Gate! 
 . . . Oh ! Philip, are you happy f 
 
 She was crying a very little : her eyes were blurred as they 
 turned up the long drive, past all the rhododendron bushes, 
 past the lawn with the giant oak at the farther end of it, rouud 
 the curve to the hall door, with Eebekah standing under the 
 porch to welcome them. Philip was down, and had helped 
 her to the ground. She stood a little away from them all as 
 they laughed and chattered about the door. She wiped her 
 eyes with her gloved hand to stop the tears. 
 
 Philip was conscious of standing in a long dark hall with 
 stairs at the end of it and a large oak chest with a glass case 
 that contained a stuffed bird taking up much of the space; 
 that, he always afterwards remembered, was his first impres- 
 sion of the house, that it was absurd to put so large a chest 
 
214 THE GEEEN MIRKOK 
 
 just there where everyone would knock against it. A misty 
 babel of talk surrounded him: he was conscious of a tall old 
 woman wearing a high, stiffly-starched white cap : she had a 
 fine colour, very dark red cheeks, hair a deep black and flash- 
 ing eyes. She must be between sixty and seventy, but her 
 body was straight and vigorous. This was, he supposed, Ke- 
 bekah. He saw, in the background, old Mr. Trenchard being 
 helped up the stairs by Rocket; he heard Aunt Betty in a 
 happy twitter, "Ah, now, this is nice . . . this is nice . . . 
 how nice this is." He heard Mrs. Trenchard's slow, sleepy 
 voice: "Xo — ^the train was punctual, Rebekah, quite punc- 
 tual. We had luncheon on the train . . . yes, we were quite 
 punctual." 
 
 Someone said : "I'll show Philip his room," and George 
 Trenchard, laughing, cried to him: "Come on, Philip, this 
 way — this way." Trenchard, like a boy, bounded up the 
 stairs in front of him. They were old, black, winding and 
 creaking stairs that sighed as you mounted them. Trenchard 
 cried : "To the right now — ^mind your head !" They turned 
 through a little passage, so low that Philip must bend double 
 and so dark that he could see nothing before him. He put 
 out his hand, touched Trenchard's broad back, and was sur- 
 prised at his sense of relief. Now they walked along another 
 passage, very narrow, white walls with coloured sporting 
 prints hanging on them. "Ah ! here's the Blue Room. Hero 
 you are. Hope you'll like it — got a decent view. Brought 
 you hot water ? Ah, yes, there it is. When you've washed 
 come down just as you are. Don't bother to change. . . . 
 It's only supper to-night, you know. . . . Right you are." 
 
 His room was charming, with cherry-coloured wall-paper 
 on walls that seemed a thousand years old. He flung his win- 
 dows open, and there was the moon, thin, sharp, quivering 
 with light in the sky, and he could hear the stream that had 
 accompanied him ever since his entry into Glebeshire still 
 singing to him. The night air was so sweet, the trees, that 
 sighed and trembled and sighed again, so intimate. There 
 
QAETH IN EOSELANDS 215 
 
 was an intimacy here that he had never felt in any country 
 before. 
 
 There was an intimacy and also, for him, at any rate, some 
 strange loneliness. . . . He closed the window. He found 
 his way down into the hall, and there sSw Katherine. 
 "Quick !" she cried. "Quick ! I hoped that you'd come down 
 before the others. We've got ten minutes." She was almost 
 dancing with excitement (she his staid, reserved Katherine). 
 She was pulling him by the arm, out through the door, under 
 the porch, into the garden. She ran across the lawn, and he, 
 more slowly, followed her. He caught her and held her close 
 to him. 
 
 "You love it, Philip — don't you ? Ton must. Of course 
 you've hardly seen anything to-night. To-morrow we must 
 both get up early, before anyone else, and come down. But 
 look back now. Isn't the house simply — ? Isn't it ? Don't 
 you feel the happiness and cosiness and friendliness? Oh, 
 you must ! You must !" 
 
 "When I've got you I don't want anything. Everything is 
 lovely." 
 
 "But you're happy now to be here, aren't you ?" 
 
 "Very happy." 
 
 "And you won't be disappointed, will you? You must 
 promise me that you won't be disappointed." 
 
 "I promise you." 
 
 "And there's so much to show you ! Oh ! it's so wonderful 
 to have all the old places that I've loved so long, to have them 
 all to show you — ^to share them all with you. . . . Oh, won- 
 derful, wonderful !" 
 
 "Yes, I'll share them all with you. But — ^but . . . Kath- 
 erine, darling. ISTo, turn round — come closer. There, like 
 that : I don't want to share you with them. I don't want to 
 share you with anyone or anything." 
 
 "You don't— you can't. Of course you can't. I'm all 
 yours — but then this is part of me, so it's all yours too." 
 
 "And you couldn't live away from it ? You couldn't imag- 
 
216 THE GEEEN MIEROE 
 
 ine having to be right away from it — if I had to live some- 
 where else ?" 
 
 '^ut why should you ? You won't have to live somewhere 
 else. And let's not imagine anything. Things are so lovely, 
 so perfect, as they are, I don't like imagining things. I can't 
 when this is all so real." 
 
 "Katie . . . Katie . . . l^o, come closer. Much closer. 
 I don't care if I do hurt you. I want to. I want you^ you, 
 you. It's what 1 said last night. Let's marry soon — ^not this 
 awful year. I feel— ^I don't know — I imagine too much. I 
 suppose — But I feel as though you'd escape me, as though 
 they'd all come between and take you away. If once you 
 were mirie I'd never care again. We'd stay anywhere, do 
 anything you like. But this is so hard — to wait like this. 
 To see you caring so much for other people, who don't, per- 
 haps, care for me. I want you. I want you — all of you. 
 And I've only got half." 
 
 "Half!" She laughed triumphantly. "Tou have all of 
 me — oZZofme — iorever! Philip, how funny you are ! Why, 
 you don't trust me ! I'd wait for ever if necessary, and never 
 doiibt for an instant that anything could come between. I 
 trust you as I trust this place." 
 
 A voice broke in upon them. Someone called. 
 
 "Katherine ! Katherine !" 
 
 Slowly she drew away from him. "That's mother. I 
 must go." 
 
 He caught her hand. "Stay a little longer. They can 
 wait." 
 
 "ISo, it's mother. She wants me. Come on, Phil darling. 
 Supper time. We'll creep out again afterwards." 
 
 She crossed the lawn, expecting Philip to follow her. But 
 he stayed there under the oak tree. He heard the voices 
 laughing and calling in the lighted house. He was suddenly 
 desperately lonely. He was frightened. . . . He crossed hur- 
 riedly the lawn, and as he walked he knew that what he 
 
GAETH m KOSELANDS 217 
 
 wanted was that someone, someone who really knew him, 
 should come and comfort him. 
 
 Before he entered the hall he stopped and looked back into 
 the dark garden. Was there someone beneath the oak, some- 
 one who watched him with an ironical, indulgent smile ? . . . 
 No, there was no one there. But he knew who it was that 
 could comfort him. With a swift, sharp accusation of dis- 
 loyalty he confessed to himself that it was Anna for whom, 
 during that instant, he had looked. 
 
CHAPTEE V 
 
 THE FEAST 
 
 SOME entries in Millie's diary: 
 March 12th. Wind and rain like anything. Been 
 in most of the day patching up the screen in my bedroom 
 with new pictures — ^got them as much like the old ones as 
 possible. Went for an hour's tussle with the wind out to the 
 Cross, and it was fine. Wish I could have got over to Eafiel. 
 The sea must have been fine to-day coming in over the Peak. 
 Father drove Philip over to Polchester in the morning. Felt 
 bored and out of temper in the evening. 
 
 March IBih. Katie and Philip had their first tiff this 
 morning — at least first I've seen. He wanted her to go off 
 with him for the day. She'd got to stop and help mother with 
 the Merrimans from Polneaton, coming to tea. Mother said 
 it didn't matter, but I could see that she was awfully pleased 
 when K. stayed. But if I'd been K. I'd have gone. What 
 does a family matter when one's in love ? and she is in love, 
 more than anyone I've ever seen. But I think she's disap- 
 pointed with Phil for not caring more about Garth, although 
 she never owns it. I'm sorry for him. He wanders about 
 not knowing what to do with himself, and everyone's too 
 busy to think of him. I try, but he doesn't want me, he wants 
 Katherine, and thinks he ought to have her all the time. 
 Aunt Aggie makes things worse in every way she can. . . . 
 
 March 15th. Cross all day. Garth isn't quite so nice this 
 time somehow. Is it because of Paris ? I don't think so — 
 it used to make one care all the more. I think Philip upsets 
 one. When you see someone criticising something you've al- 
 
 21S 
 
THE PEAST 219 
 
 ways loved, it makes you hot defending it, but also, although 
 you'd never own it, it makes you see weak spots. Then he 
 stirs my imagination as no one ever has done before. I be- 
 lieve he always sees the place he's not in much more vividly 
 than the place he is. If I were Katie I'd marry him to-mor- 
 row and make sure of him. Not that he isn't in love with her 
 — ^he is — ^more every day — ^but he doesn't want to divide her 
 with us, and she doesn't understand it and we won't have it — 
 so there you are ! 
 
 March IQth. Henry very queer to-day. I wish they'd 
 send him to Oxford or do something with him. It's so hard on 
 him to let him hang around doing nothing — it's so bad for 
 him, too. I think he hates Philip, but is fascinated by him. 
 He took me into the garden after lunch to-day as though he 
 were going to tell me something very important. He was so 
 very mysterious, and said I could advise him, and he was 
 dreadfully worried. Then he suddenly stopped, said it was 
 nothing, and wasn't it a fine day ? I know I shall kill Henry 
 one day. He thinks he's so important and has got a great 
 destiny, whereas he can't even keep his face clean. So I 
 told him, and then I wanted to hug him and comfort him. 
 I'm really awfully fond of him, but I do wish he was nice 
 and smart like other men. 
 
 March 17th. Had a long walk with Philip this afternoon. 
 Keally I do like him most tremendously, partly, I think, be- 
 cause he always treats me as though I'd come out years ago 
 and knew all about everything. He talked all the time about 
 Katherine, which was natural enough, I suppose. He said 
 (what he'd told me in London) that he was frightened by her 
 idea of him, and wished she thought him more as he was. 
 He said he hated a long engagement, that he wished it were 
 over — then he said that he was a poor sort of fellow for any- 
 one so fine as Katherine, and I said that I didn't think it did 
 to be too humble about oneself and that I always made myself 
 out as grand as I could in my mind. 
 
 He said that it was Eussia made one like that, that after 
 
220 THE GKEEN MIRKOR 
 
 you'd been in Russia a little you doubted everyone and every- 
 thing, most of all yourself. I said that I thought that rather 
 flabby ... but I do like him. I don't think Katie ought 
 to insist so much on his liking Garth. She'll frighten him off 
 it altogether if she does that. 
 
 March 19 th. Rachel Seddon arrived. Mother asked her 
 down. She doesn't generally come at this time, and she's 
 only just back from abroad, but I think she wants to see how 
 the engagement's getting on. Of course she doesn't like 
 Philip — ^you can see that in a moment — and of course he 
 knows it. But he wants to make her like him. I wish he 
 didn't care so much whether people like him or no. Henry 
 quite his old self to-night, and we danced (I tried to teach 
 him a cake-walk) in my room, and smashed a lamp of Aunt 
 Aggie's — I'd quite forgotten her ceiling was my floor. The 
 house is awfully old and shalcy — ^letter from Rose La Touche 
 — Paris does seem funny to think of here. . . . 
 
 Part of a letter that was never posted — 
 
 "I haven't written to you all these weeks because I was 
 determined not to write to Russia until I was settled and 
 happy and married for life. Then, also, you yourself have 
 not written. Have you all, over there, forgotten me ? Rus- 
 sians never do write letters, do they? I don't suppose I 
 ought to be disappointed — ^you warned me. If I'd forgotten 
 all of you there — ^but I haven't. I thought for a time that I 
 had, but I haven't . . . then a bell rings, and all the servants 
 troop in and kneel down in a row with their heels up, and 
 George Trenchard reads a bit out of the New Testament and, 
 very fast, a prayer about 'Thy humble servants', and he has 
 his eye on the weather out of the window all the time. After- 
 wards there is the Post — also eggs, bacon, marmalade, brown 
 bread and white and the family arriving one by one with 
 'sorry I'm late !' Fancy a Russian saying: 'Sorry I'm late' ! 
 ... so the day's begun. Afterwards, everyone has their own 
 especial job. I don't know what my especial job is supposed 
 
THE FEAST 221 
 
 to be. George has his writing and the whole place — ^fences, 
 weeds, horses, dogs — anything you like. He fancies himself 
 Walter Scott at Abbotsford, and is as happy as the day is 
 long; Mrs. Trenchard has the village and the inside of the 
 house (with Katherine her lieutenant). There is no living 
 soul from the infant of a week to the old man of ninety-seven 
 (John Wesley Moyle — ^he sees visions) who does not have his 
 or her life exactly and precisely arranged. Mrs. Trenchard 
 has a quiet hypnotic power that fills me with terror, because 
 I know that I shall soon be ranged with all the others. She 
 is kindness itself I am sure, and no cloud passing across the 
 sun's face makes less sound^and yet she has always her way. 
 Oh, Paul, old man, I'm frightened of her as I have never 
 been of anyone before. When I see her here I want to run. I 
 had a horrible dream last night. The terror of it is with me 
 still. I thought that I said good-night to everyone and went 
 up to my bedroom. To my surprise I found Mrs. Trenchard 
 there, and instead of my usual bed was an enormous feather- 
 bed — an enormous one stretching from wall to wall. 'You 
 will sleep on that to-night,' said Mrs. Trenchard, pointing to 
 it. In some way I knew that if I once lay down upon it I 
 should never get up again. I said 'ISTo, I would not lie 
 down.' 'I think you'd better,' she said in her slow way. 
 'I think you'd better.' 'ISTo !' I cried, 'I defy you !' Instantly 
 the feather-bed like a cloud rose, filled the room, was above 
 me, under me, around me. It pressed in upon me. I tore at 
 it, and the feathers floated in a great stifling fog against my 
 eyes, up my nose, in my mouth. I screamed for mercy, I 
 fought, I fell, I was suffocating, death was driving down 
 upon me ... I woke. There's nonsense for you ! And yet 
 not such nonsense neither. On a stuffy day here, when every- 
 thing steams and the trees and grass and hedges close up about 
 the house like an army, when Mrs. Trenchard, with Kather- 
 ine, is arranging meals and lives, birth and death, when, try- 
 ing to escape down one of the lanes, they rise so high above 
 one's head that it's like being drowned in a green bath, I tell 
 
222 THE GREEN MIEROE 
 
 you the feather-bed is not so far away — suffocation seems no 
 idle dream. The fact of the matter is that there's nothing 
 here for me to do. It didn't matter having nothing to do in 
 Russia — although, as a matter of fact, I always had plenty, 
 because no one else had anything to do that couldn't be 
 stopped at any moment for the sake of a friend, or a drink, or 
 a bit of vagiie thinking. I suppose it's the order, the neat- 
 ness, the punctuality and, at the same time, the solid, matter- 
 of-fact assumption that things must be exactly what they look 
 (which they never are) that fusses me. But really of course 
 I came down here to make love to Katherine — and I only get 
 a bit of her. She cherishes the faith that I want the family 
 as badly as I want her, and that the family want me as badly 
 as she does. She has got a thousand little duties here that I 
 had never reckoned on, and they are like midges on a sum- 
 mer's evening. I would throw myself into their life if they 
 would let me, but there doesn't seem any real place for me. 
 It's fighting with shadows. George Trenchard takes me for 
 drives, Millie, Katherine's sister, takes me for walks — Katie 
 herself is, I do believe, with me whenever she can be. , . . 
 I ought to be satisfied. But only last night Great Aunt Sarah, 
 who is in her dotage (or pretends to be), said, in the drawing- 
 room to Millie, in a loud whisper, 'Who is that young man, 
 my dear, sitting over there ? I seem to know his face.' That 
 sort of thing doesn't exactly make you feel at home. With 
 all this, I feel the whole time that they are criticising me and 
 waiting for me to make some big blunder. Then they'll say 
 to Katherine, 'You see, my dear !' Oh, of course, I'm an ass 
 to make a fuss. Any sensible fellow would just wait his year, 
 marry Katherine and say good-bye to the lot. But I shan't 
 be able to say good-bye to the lot. That's the whole business 
 . . . partly because I'm weak, partly because Katherine 
 adores them, partly because that is, I believe, Mrs. T.'s plan. 
 To absorb me, to swallow me, to have me ever afterwards, 
 somewhere about the place, a colourless imitation of the rest 
 of them. So they'll keep Katie, and I'm not important 
 
THE FEAST 223 
 
 enough to matter. That's her plan. Is she stronger than I ? 
 Perhaps after all I shall snatch Katherine from them and 
 escape with her — and then have her homesick for ever after. 
 . . . Why am I always imagining something that isn't here ? 
 Eussia poisoned my blood — sweet poison, but poison all the 
 same. You'll understand this letter, but if George Trenchard, 
 or indeed any ordinary sensible Englishman were to read it, 
 what an ass he'd think me! 'If he thought more about the 
 girl he was going to marry than about himself he wouldn't 
 have all this worry.' But isn't it just that. If, in nine 
 months from now, I, swallowed whole by Mrs. T., marry 
 Katie, will that be much fun for her ? I shall be a sort of 
 shadow or ghost. I can see myself running Mrs. Trenchard's 
 errands, hurrying down to be in time for breakfast (although 
 she never scolds anyone), sometimes waking, seeing myself, 
 loathing, despising myself. Ah ! Anna would understand . . . 
 Anna, even when she laughed, understood . . . Anna . . . 
 I don't think I shall send this. I'm determined to drive you 
 all from me until, in a year's time, I can think of you safely 
 again. I described Moscow to Katherine in the train, and 
 speaking of it, has reminded me . . ." 
 
 Katherine could not remember that there had ever been a 
 year since her eighth birthday when she had missed "The 
 Feast" at Eafiel. "The Feast" was held always on the 24th 
 of March, unless that day were a Sunday: it had been held, 
 old Dr. Pybus, the antiquarian of Pelynt, said, ever since 
 Phoenician days. To Katherine the event was the crowning 
 day of the spring. After the 24th there would be, of course, 
 many cold, blustering days: nevertheless the spring, with 
 primroses, violets, anemones thick in the four valleys that ran 
 down to Eafiel, the sky blue with white clouds like bubbles, 
 the stream running crystal-clear over the red soil, the spring 
 was here, and "The Feast" was its crowning. 
 
 For the fishermen and their families "The Feast" meant a 
 huge tea in the Schools, great bonfires on the Peak, and a 
 
224 THE GEEEN MIREOK 
 
 dance on the fish-market, a drink at 'The Pilchards,' and, 
 above all, for the younger men and women, love and engage- 
 ments. It was on "The Feast" day that the young men of 
 Rafiel asked the young women whether 'they would walk 
 out', and the young women said 'yes' or 'no' according to their 
 pleasure. On a fine night, with the bonfires blazing to the 
 sky and showers of golden sparks like fire-flies over the quiet 
 sea, there was no happier village in the world than Rafiel. In 
 its little square harbour the stars, and the fires and the amphi- 
 theatre-shaped village looked down and the ghosts of the 
 Phoenicians peered over the brow of the hill, sighed for the 
 old times that they once knew, and crept at last, shivering, 
 back into their graves. 
 
 This was to be the greatest "Feast" that Katherine had 
 ever known, because Philip was, of course, to be with her. 
 It was to be, for them both, the crowning of their love by the 
 place, the soil, the good Glebeshire earth. To Katherine it 
 seemed that if anything untoward happened on this day, it 
 would be as though Glebeshire itself rejected them. She 
 would confess to no one how solemn it seemed to her. . . . 
 
 Uncle Tim was in charge of the party. Timothy Faunder 
 had not, for many, many years missed a "Feast" ; thither he 
 went, his outward appearance cynical and careless as ever, 
 but obeying, inwardly, more sacred instincts than he would 
 acknowledge. He would be in charge of Katherine, Millie, 
 Philip, Rachel-^Henry did not care to go. . 
 
 The 24th of March was wonderful weather. Uncle Tim, 
 coming over from his house up the road, to luncheon, said 
 that he had never seen a finer day. He said this to his sister 
 Harriet, standing before the window of her little room, look- 
 ing down upon the lawn that reflected the sunny shadows like 
 a glass, looking down upon the clumps of daffodils that 
 nodded their heads to him from the thick grass by the garden 
 wall. Harriet was very fond of her brother ; she had an inti- 
 mate relationship with him that had never been expressed in 
 words by either of them. She was a little afraid of him. She 
 
THE FEAST 225 
 
 was sitting now writing notes. She did not pause as she 
 talked to him, and sometimes she rubbed the side of her nose 
 with her fingers in a puzzled way. She wrote a large 'sprawl- 
 ing hand, and often spelt her words wrongly. 
 
 This conversation was before luncheon. 
 
 "Well, Harriet," Tim said. "How are you ?" 
 
 She looked up for a moment at his big, loose, untidy body, 
 his shaggy beard, his ruffled hair. 
 
 "Why do you never brush your hair, Tim ? It's such a bad 
 example for Henry. And you're standing in the light. . » , 
 Thank you. . . . Oh — I'm very well. Why didn't you come 
 in last night, as you said you would? . . . Yes, I'm quite 
 well, thank you." 
 
 "I went walking," said Timothy. "I do brush my hair, 
 only I am not going to put grease on it for anybody . . . 
 How do you like the young man ?" 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard nodded her head several times as though 
 she were adding up a sum. 
 
 "He likes it here, I think, although of course it must be 
 quiet for him — 'And if Tuesday — isn't convenient — suggest 
 — another day — next week !' " 
 
 "So you don't like him even so much as you expected to ?" 
 
 "No." She answered quite abruptly, spreading her large 
 hand flat out upon the table as though, by her sudden pounce, 
 she had caught a fly. "He's weaker than I had fancied, and 
 vainer. . . . More insigniflcant altogether. . . . Miss Pro- 
 pert, The Close, Polchester. . . ." 
 
 "He's weak, yes," said Tim, staring down upon his sister. 
 "But he isn't insignificant. He's weak because his imagination 
 paints for him so clearly the dreadful state of things it would 
 be if affairs went wrong. He wants then terribly to make 
 them right. Eut he hasn't the character to do much himself, 
 and he knows it. A man who knows he's weak isn't insignifi- 
 cant." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard made no reply. 
 
 "Well, what are you going to do about it ?" at last said Tim. 
 
226 THE GEEEN MIEKOE 
 
 "Oh, he'll marry Katherine of course." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "And then they'll live here. . . . 'Dear Canon, I wonder 
 whether . . .' — " 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "And then — why then it will he just as it is now." 
 
 "Oh! I see!" 
 
 Timothy turned his hack upon her, staring down upon all 
 the green that came up like a river to the walls of the house. 
 His eyes were grave, his back square, his hands locked tight. 
 He heard the scratching of his sister's pen — otherwise there 
 was deep silence about them. He wheeled round. 
 
 "Harriet, look here! I've never — no, I think, never — 
 asked you a favour." 
 
 She turned in her chair and faced him, looking up to him 
 with her wide, rather sleepy, kindly eyes — ^now a little humor- 
 ous, even a little cynical. 
 
 "No, Tim — never," she said. 
 
 "Well, I'm going to ask you one now." 
 
 "Yes ?" Her eyes never flickered nor stirred from his. 
 
 "It's this. I like the young man — ^like him, for God knows 
 what reason. I think I must myself once have seen the world 
 as he does. I know I believed that it could be such a splendid 
 world with such a little effort — if only everyone were nice to 
 everyone. I understand young Philip — I believe that this is 
 a crisis in his life and in Katherine's. There are three pos- 
 sible endings to the engagement. He can marry her, carry 
 her off and live his own life. He can marry her, not carry 
 her off and live your life. The engagement can break down, 
 and he disappear hack to where he came from. Tou love 
 Katherine, you are determined not to lose her, therefore you 
 intend to make the first impossible. You see that Katherine 
 is so deeply attached to him that it will break her heart if he 
 goes — ^therefore the last is not to be. There remains only the 
 second. To that you devote all your energies. You are quite 
 selfish about it. You see only yourself and Katherine in the 
 
THE FEAST 227 
 
 matter. Tou see that he is weak and afraid of you. . . . 
 You will break him in, then turn him into the paddock here 
 to graze for the rest of his life. It would serve you right if 
 Katherine were to run away with him." 
 
 "She won't do that," said Mrs. Trenchard quietly. 
 
 "Who knows ? I wish she would, but she's faithful, faith- 
 ful, faithful down to the soles of her shoes. . . . Bless her !" 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard smiled. "Dear Tim. Tou are fond of her, 
 I know. . . . There's the luncheon-bell." 
 
 "Wait a minute." He stood over her now. "Just listen. 
 I believe you're wrong about Katherine, Harriet. She's old- 
 fashioned and slow compared with the modern girl — ^we're an 
 old-fashioned family altogether, I suppose. It's the first time 
 she's been in love in her life, and, as I said just now, she's 
 faithful as death — but she'll be faithful to him as well as to 
 you. Let him have his fling, let him marry her and carry her 
 oif, go where he likes, develop himself, be a man she can be 
 proud of ! It's the crisis of his life and of hers too — perhaps 
 of yours. You won't lose her by letting her go off with him. 
 She'll stick to you all the more firmly if she knows that you've 
 trusted him. But to keep him here, to break his spirit, to 
 govern him through his fear of losing her— I tell you, Har- 
 riet, you'll regret it all your life. He'll either run away and 
 break Katie's heart or he'll stay and turn into a characterless, 
 spiritless young country bumpkin, like thousands of other 
 young fellows in this county. It isn't even as though he had 
 the money to be a first-class squire — ^just enough to grow fat 
 (he's rather fat now) and rotten on. Worse than dear 
 George, who at least has his books. 
 
 "And he isn't a stupid fool neither . . . he'll always know 
 he might have been something decent. If I thought I had any 
 influence over him I'd tell him to kidnap Katie to-morrow, 
 carry her up north, and keep her there." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard had listened to him with great attention; 
 her eyes had never left his face, nor had her body moved. 
 
228 THE GEEEN MIRKOE 
 
 She rose, now, very slowly from her chair, gathered her notes 
 together carefully, walked to the door, turned to him, saying : 
 "How you do despise us all, Tim !" then left the room. 
 
 After luncheon they started off. Philip, sitting next to 
 Katherine in the waggonette, was very silent during the 
 drive ; he was silent because he was determined that it was on 
 this afternoon that he would tell Katherine about Anna. 
 
 Without turning directly round to her he could see her 
 profile, her dark hair a little loose and untidy, her cheek 
 flushed with pleasure, her eyes smiling. "No, she's not 
 pretty," he thought. "But she's better than that. I can't 
 see what she's like — it's as though she were something so 
 close to me and so precious that I could never see it, only 
 feel that it was there. And yet, although I feel that she's un- 
 attainable too — she's something I can never hold completely, 
 because I shall always be a little frightened of her." 
 
 He made this discovery, that he was frightened, quite sud- 
 denly, sitting there on that lovely afternoon ; he saw the shad- 
 ows from the clouds, swooping, like black birds, down over the 
 valley beneath him : far beyond him he saw a thread of yellow 
 running beside the water of the stream that was now blue in 
 the sunshine and now dark under the hill; there were hosts 
 of primroses down there, and the hedges that now closed the 
 carriage were sheeted with gold : when the hedges broke the 
 meadows beyond them flowed, through the mist, like green 
 clouds, to the hazy sea; the world throbbed with a rhythm 
 that he could hear quite clearly behind the clap-clap of the 
 horses' hoofs — 'hum — ^hum — hum — ^hum' — The air was 
 warm, with a little breath of cold in it ; the dark soil in the 
 ditches glistened as though, very lately, it had been frozen. 
 
 Eiding there through this beautiful day he was frightened. 
 He was aware that he did not know what Katherine would do 
 when he told her. During his years in Eussia he had grown 
 accustomed to a world, inevitably, recklessly, voluble. Eus- 
 sians spoke, on any and every occasion, exactly what was in 
 
THE EEAST 229 
 
 their mind ; they thought nothing of consequences whether to 
 themselves or any other ; their interest in the ideas that they 
 were pursuing, the character that they were discussing, the 
 situation that they were unravelling, was always so intense, so 
 eager, so vital that they would talk for days or weeks, if 
 necessary, and lose all sense of time, private feelings, restraint 
 and even veracity. Philip had become used to this. Had 
 Katherine been a member of a Russian family he would, two 
 days after his engagement, have had everything out with them 
 all — ^he would have known exactly where he stood. With the 
 Trenchards he did not know anything at all; from the mo- 
 ment of his engagement he had been blindfolded, and now he 
 felt as though in a monstrous game of "Blind Man's Buff" 
 he were pushed against, knocked on the elbows, laughed at, 
 bumped against furniture, always in black, grim darkness. 
 Since he had come down to Garth he had lost even Katherine. 
 He felt that she was disappointed in some way, that she had 
 never been quite happy since their journey together in the 
 train. Well, he would put everything straight this afternoon. 
 He would tell her about Moscow, Anna, all his life — tell her 
 that he could not, after their marriage, live at Garth, that it 
 would stifle him, make him worthless and useless, that she 
 must show him that she definitely cared for him more than 
 for her family. . . . 
 
 He felt as though, with a great sweeping stroke of his arm, 
 all the cobwebs would be brushed away and he would be free. 
 He rdiearsed to himself some of the things that he would say : 
 "You must see, dear, that the family don't like^me. They're 
 jealous of me. Much better that we go away for a year or 
 two-*— right a\vay — and allow them to get used to the idea. 
 Then we can come back." 
 
 Eut what would she say about Anna ? Did she know any- 
 thing about men, their lives and affairs? Would her fine 
 picture of him be dimmed ? He hoped a little that it would. 
 He wanted simply to love her, that she should understand 
 him and that he should imderstand her, and then they two 
 
230 THE GREEN MIREOE 
 
 together (the world, Garth, the Trenchards blown to the 
 wind) should — 
 
 "That's Tredden Cove, that dip beyond the wood," said 
 Katherine. "We used to go there — " 
 
 Yes, he was frightened. He felt as though this afternoon 
 would be the crisis of his life. (There had been already a 
 great many crises in his life.) He was impatient ; he wanted 
 to begin, now, in the waggonette. He could imagine turning 
 to her, saying : "Katie, darling, I want to tell you — " 
 
 He was conscious that Lady Seddon was watching him. 
 "Jolly day, isn't it ?" he said. He thought to himself. "She 
 hates me as the others do." 
 
 They had come to the Cross-Eoads. Jacob put on the drag, 
 and they began, very slowly, to creak down a precipitous hill. 
 The fantastic element in the affair that Philip had been ex- 
 pecting as a kind of reply to his own sense of his personal ad- 
 venture seemed to begin with this hill. It resembled no ordi- 
 nary hill ; it plunged down with a sudden curve that seemed 
 to defy the wheels of any carriage; on their right the bank 
 broke sheer away far down to one of the Eaiiel four valleys, 
 vivid green now with tufted trees. There was no fence nor 
 v/all, and one slip of the wheels would have hurled the car- 
 riage over. At a turn of the road a cluster of white cottages, 
 forming one figure together as though they had been a great 
 stone flung from the hill-top by some giant, showed in the 
 valley's cup. At his sense of that remoteness, of that lifting 
 wildness of the rising hills, at the beauty of the green and 
 grey and silveir and white, he could not restrain a cry. 
 
 Katherine laughed. "That's Blotch End," she said. "One 
 turn and we're at the bottom." The carriage wheeled round, 
 crossed a brown bridge and had started down the road to 
 Eafiel. . . . On one side of the road was a stream that, hur- 
 rying down from the valley, hastened past them to the sea ; on 
 the other side of them a wooded hill, with trees like sentinela 
 against the sky — ^then the village street began, ugly at first, aa 
 are the streets of so many Glebeshire villages, the straight, 
 
THE FEAST 231 
 
 uniform houses, with their grey slate roofs, now and then 
 hideous-coloured glass over the doorways, and, ugliest of all, 
 the Methodist chapel with '1870' in white stone over the door. 
 But even with such a street as this Eafiel could do something : 
 the valley stream, hidden sometimes by houses, revealed itself 
 suddenly in chuckling, leaping vistas. Before the houses 
 there were little gardens, thick now with daffodils and prim- 
 roses and hyacinths: through the deep mouth of the forge 
 fires flamed, and a sudden curve of the street brought a bridge, 
 a view of the harbour and a vision of little houses rising, tier 
 on tier, against the rock, as though desperately they were 
 climbing to avoid some flood. This contrast of the wild place 
 itself, with the ugly patches of civilisation that had presented 
 themselves first, was like the voice of the place chuckling at 
 its visitors' surprise. ' 
 
 First the row of villas, the tailor's shop witb a pattern pic- 
 ture in the window, the sweet shop, the ironmonger's — now 
 this sudden huddle of twisted buildings, wildly climbing to 
 the very sky, a high, rugged peak guarding the little bay, two 
 streams tossing themselves madly over the harbour ridges, 
 the boats of the fleet rocking as though dancing to some mys- 
 terious measure, a flurry of gulls, grey and white, flashing, 
 wheeling, like waves and foam against the sky, the screaming 
 of the birds, the distant thud of the sea . . . this was Eafiel. 
 
 They left the carriage and turned to go back to the schools, 
 where the tea had already begun. Katherine slipped her arm 
 into Philip's : he knew that she was waiting for him to spealc 
 about the place, and he knew, too, that she was not expecting 
 his praise as confidently as she would have expected it three 
 weeks ago. A little of her great trust in him was shadowed 
 by her surprise that he had not surrendered to Glebeshire 
 more completely. Now he could tell her that it was to the 
 Trenehards and not to Glebeshire that he had refused to 
 surrender. 
 
 She could not tell, of course, that all his attention now was 
 fixed on his determination to tell her everything as soon as he 
 
232 THE GEEEN MIRROE 
 
 was alone. Walking with him up the road was that secret 
 figure who attends us all — ^the fine, cherished personality 
 whom we know ourselves to be. 
 
 To Philip, more than many others, was the preservation 
 of that secret personality essential. He was, this afternoon, 
 determined to live up to the full height of it. 
 
 In the schools, at two long tables, the whole village was 
 feeding : the room was steaming with heat : huge urns at the 
 ends of the tables were pouring out tea with a fierce, scornful 
 indifference, as though they would show what they could do 
 but despised their company. The fishermen, farmers, their 
 wives and families, shining with soap, perspiration and ex- 
 citement, sat, packed so tightly together that eating seemed an 
 impossibility: there were plates of bread and butter, saffron 
 buns, seed-cake piled up and running over: there were the 
 ladies of the village, who said : "Now, Mr. Trefusis, do try 
 another," or "Mary's rather tired, I think, Mrs. Maxwell. 
 Shall I lift her dovm ?" or "Well, Mrs. Pascoe, out and about 
 again, I see," or "How's the new cottage, Henry ? Better than 
 the old one, I expect." 
 
 Erom the other side of the world came : "Aw, thank 'ee. 
 Ma'am — not so bad, thank 'ee. Up to Glossen's Earm they 
 'ad it praper wild, so they tell me" — "Yes . . . true enough. 
 All over spots 'er arms was, poor worm" — "Didn't worry we, 
 thank 'ee. Miss. Marnin' or evenin' all the same to we . . . 
 Ah, yes, poor Mr. Jzards — 'e did suffer terrible, poor 
 dear. . . ." 
 
 Philip perceived with a sense of irritated isolation how in- 
 stantly and how easily the other members of his party were 
 swallowed up by the Ceremony. He himself was introduced 
 to a prim young woman in a blue hat, who flung remarks to 
 him over a tea-tray and seemed to regard his well-cut clothes 
 with contempt. The fishermen did not look happy in their 
 stiff Sunday clothes, but he liked their faces. They reminded 
 him more of Russian peasants than any people whom he had 
 
THE FEAST 233 
 
 seen since his landing in England. IfTo, lie must not think 
 about that . . . Euasia was banished for ever. 
 
 Uncle Timothy, Millie, even Lady Seddon were warmly 
 welcomed, but Katherine was adored. He understood, per- 
 haps for the first time, what that place must mean to her. 
 They called her 'Miss Kathie', they shouted to her across the 
 room, they cracked jokes with her ; an old man^ with a long 
 white beard like a prophet, stood up and put his hand on her 
 shoulder as he talked to her. Once she broke away from them 
 and came to him. 
 
 "Phil, I want you to come and be introduced to a great 
 friend of mine," she said. 
 
 He followed her, feeling that all eyes watched him, with 
 criticism and even with hostility. A large, immensely broad 
 man, in a navy blue suit, with a red, laughing face, hair cut 
 very close to his head, and eyes of the honestest, stood up as 
 they came across. He looked at Katherine with the devotion 
 and confidence of a faithful dog. 
 
 "This is Mr. Richard Curtis," Katherine said. "He used 
 to pick up shells for me when I was three. He has a boat 
 here with his brother. He's always in good spirits, aren't you, 
 Dick, even when you scald your arm with boiling water ?" 
 
 This was an allusion to some confidence between them, and 
 as their eyes met, Philip felt a pang of ridiculous jealousy. 
 The man's face was flaming, and his eyes were more devoted 
 than ever. He held out a large, horny hand to Philip. "Ex- 
 cuse me, sir," he said. "I'm proud to shake 'ands with the 
 man wot Miss Katherine is goin' to marry. We thought, 
 once on a time, p'raps as she'd always be 'ere, along with we, 
 but wot we want most is fer 'er to be 'appy — and that we 
 knows now she will be. I 'ope you'll be often down — along, 
 sir, in time to come — that is, sir, if you're not goin' to take 
 'er right away from us." 
 
 "Why, of course not, Dick," said Katherine. "When 
 we're married we're going to live quite close. You've only 
 got to find us a house." 
 
234 THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 Philip knew that he should say something pleasant; he 
 could think of nothing; he muttered a few words and then 
 turned away, confused, irritated, embarrassed. What had 
 happened to him ? He was always so pleasant with everyone, 
 especially with strangers ; now, at every turn, he seemed com- 
 pelled by someone stronger than he to show his worst side. 
 "Oh, if I can only get Katherine out of all this," he thought 
 passionately, "even for a little time. Then I'll come back 
 another man. To have her to myself. Everything's coming 
 between us. Everything's coming between us. . . ." 
 
 At last he had his desire. They had left the others. She 
 had led him, out past the row of white cottages, to a rock on 
 the side of the hill, high over the sea, with the harbour below 
 them, the village, curved like a moon in the hills' hollow, 
 behind the harbour, and a little cluster of trees at the hill top 
 striking the blue night sky : opposite them was the Peak rock, 
 black and jagged, lying out into the water like a dragon 
 couchant. They could see the plateau above the Peak where 
 the bonfire was to be, they could see the fish-market silver 
 grey in the evening light, and the harboiir like a green square 
 handkerchief with the boats painted upon it. The houses, 
 like an amphitheatre of spectators, watched and waited, their 
 lights turning from pale yellow to flame as the evening colours 
 faded ; crying, singing, laughing voices came up to their rock, 
 ^but they were utterly, finally remote. She leaned her head 
 against his shoulder, and they sat there in silence. 
 
 ^At last, half-dreamily, gazing forward into the sea that, 
 stirred by no wind, heaved ever and again, with some sigh, 
 some tremor bom of its own happiness, she talked. "You 
 can see the bonfire and the figures moving around it. Soon 
 the moon will be right above the Peak. . . . Isn't everything 
 quiet ? I never knew last year how different this one would 
 be from any that I had ever known before." She turned half 
 towards him, caught his hand and held it. "Phil, you must 
 be very patient with me. I've felt so much that you were 
 part of me that I've expected you to see things always as I 
 
THE FEAST 235 
 
 do. Of course that was ridiculous of me. You can't love 
 this place quite as I do — it must take time. . . . You aren't 
 angry with me, are you ?" 
 
 "Angry ?" he laughed. 
 
 "Because the closer I get to you — ^the longer we're engaged, 
 the less, in some ways, I seem to know you. I never realised 
 until you came how shut up as a family we've been, how 
 wrapt up in ourselves. That must be hard for you to under- 
 stand. . . ." 
 
 "There it goes !" he broke in suddenly. 
 
 The bonfire leapt into fire: instantly the village glowed 
 with flame, a golden pool burnt beneath the Peak, the houses 
 that had been blue-grey in the dusk now reflected a rosy glow, 
 and whirling, dancing sparks flew up to join the stars. Little 
 black figures were dancing round the blaze ; down on the fish- 
 market other figures were moving, and the faint echo of a 
 fiddle and a horn was carried across the water. 
 
 Something said to Philip, 'Tell her — now.' 
 
 He plunged with the same tightening of the heart that he 
 would have known had he sprung from their rock into the 
 pools of the sea below them. He put his arm more tightly 
 around her, and there was a desperate clutch in the pressure 
 of his fingers, as though he were afraid lest she should vanish 
 and he be left vnth sky, land and sea flaming and leaping be- 
 neath the fire's blaze. 
 
 "Katie, I've something I must tell you," he said. He felt 
 her body move under his arm, but she only said, very quietly : 
 "Yes, Phil ?" Then in the little fragment of silence that fol- 
 lowed she said, very cosily and securely : "So long as it isn't 
 to tell me that you don't love me any more, I don't mind what 
 it is?" 
 
 "Wo — it isn't that. It's something I should have told you, 
 I suppose, long ago. I would have told you, only it was all 
 so over and done with for me that I couldn't imagine its mat- 
 tering to anyone. I told your father that there was no com- 
 
236 THE GEEEN MIEEOK 
 
 plication in my life, and that's true — there is none. There's 
 nothing I have nor think nor do that isn't yours." 
 
 She said very quietly: "You were in love with someone 
 before you knew me ?" 
 
 He was surprised and immensely reassured by the quietness 
 and tranquillity of her voice. 
 
 "That's it — That's it," he said, eagerly, his heart bounding 
 with relief and happiness. "Look here, Katie. I must tell 
 you everything — everything, so that there can't be anything 
 between us any more that you don't know. You see, when I 
 went to Eussia first I was very young — very young for my 
 age too. Eussia isn't much of a place when you don't know 
 the language and the weather's bad — and I'd gone expecting 
 too much. I'd heard so much about Eussia's hospitality and 
 kindness, but I was with English people at first, and most of 
 them were tired to death of Eussia, and only saw its worst 
 side and didn't paint it very cheerfully. Then the Eussians 
 I did meet had to struggle along in bad French or English 
 (it's all rot about Eussians being great linguists), and if a 
 Eussian isn't spontaneous he isn't anything at all. Then 
 when I did go to their houses their meals simply killed me. 
 They make one eat such a lot and drink such a lot and sit up 
 all night — I simply couldn't stand it. So at first I was aw- 
 fully lonely and unhappy — awfully unhappy." 
 
 She sighed in sympathy and pressed closer to him. 
 
 "I'm not the sort of man," Philip went on, "to stand being 
 lonely. It's bad for me. Some men like it. It simply hills 
 me. But after about six months or more I knew a little Eus- 
 sian, and I got to know one or two Eussians individually. 
 There's one thing I can tell you — ^that until you know a Eus- 
 sian personally, so that he feels that he's got some kind of 
 personal part in you, you simply don't know him at all. It's 
 so easy to generalise about Eussians. Wait until you've 
 made a friend. ... I made a friend, several friends. I be- 
 gan to be happier." 
 
THE FEAST 237 
 
 Katherine pressed his hand. The bonfire was towering 
 steadily now in a great golden pillar of smoke and flame to 
 heaven. The music of the fiddle and the horn, as though they 
 were its voice, trembled dimly in the air : all the stars were 
 shining, and a full moon, brittle like glass, flung a broad silver 
 road of light across the black Peak and the sea. There was 
 no breeze, but the scent of the flowers from the gardens on 
 the rocks mingled with the strong briny odour of the sea- 
 pinks that covered the ground at their feet. 
 
 "The spring came all in a moment, like a new scene at the 
 play. I was introduced to some theatre people, who had a 
 house in the country near Moscow. You've no idea of the 
 slackness and ease of a Russian country house. People just 
 come and go — ^the doors are all open, meals are always going 
 on — there's always a samovar, and sweets in little glass dishes, 
 and cold fish and meat and little hot pies. In the evening 
 there was dancing, and afterwards the men woiild just sleep 
 about anywhere. I met a girl there, the first Eussian woman 
 who had attracted me. Her name was Anna Mihailovna, and 
 she was a dancer in the Moscow Ballet." 
 
 He paused, but Katherine said nothing nor did she move. 
 
 "She attracted me because she had never known an English- 
 man before, and I was exactly what she had always thought 
 an Englishman would be. That pleased me then — I wanted, 
 I even felt it my duty, to be the typical Englishman. It 
 wasn't that she admired the typical Englishman altogether: 
 she laughed at me a great deal, she laughed at my having 
 everything so cut and dried, at my dogmatising so easily, at 
 my disliking Russian unpunctuality and lack of method. 
 
 "She thought me rather ridiculous, I fancy, but she felt 
 motherly to me, and that's what most Russian women feel to 
 most men. I was just beginning to love Russia then. I was 
 beginning to dream of its wonderful secrets, secrets that no 
 one ever discovers, secrets the pursuit of which make life one 
 long, restless search. Anna fascinated me — she let me do 
 
238 THE GREEN MIEEOR 
 
 always as I pleased. She seemed to me freedom itself: I fell 
 madly in love with hev." 
 
 Katherine's hand gave then a sudden leap in his; lie felt 
 the ends of her fingers pressing against his palm. Some of his 
 confidence had left him: some of his confidence not only in 
 himself but in his assurance of the remoteness of his story and 
 the actors in it. He felt as though some hand were dragging 
 him back into scenes that he had abandoned, situations that 
 had been dead. ,The fire and the sea were veiled, and his 
 eyes, against their will, were fastened upon other visions. 
 
 "That year was a very wonderful one for me. We took a 
 flat together, and life seemed to be realised quite completely 
 for me. This, I thought, was what I had always desired . . . 
 and I grew slack and fat and lazy — outside my business — I 
 always worked at that decently. Early in the next year we 
 had a boy. Anna took him with the same happy indifference 
 that she had taken me : she loved him, I know, but she was 
 outside us all, speculating about impossibilities, then sud- 
 denly coming to earth and startling one with her reality. . I 
 loved her and I loved Moscow — although sometimes too I 
 hated it — but we used also to have the most awful quarrels ; 
 I was angry with her, I remember, because I thought that she 
 would never take me seriously, and she would laugh at me for 
 wanting her to. I felt that Eussia was doing me no good. 
 Our boy died, quite suddenly, of pneumonia, and then I 
 begged her to marry me and come and live in England. How 
 she laughed at the idea ! She didn't want to be married to 
 anyone. But she thought that perhaps England would bo 
 better for me. She did not seem to mind at all if I went. 
 That piqued me, and I stayed on, trying to make myself es- 
 sential to her. I did not care for her then so much as for my 
 idea of myself, that she would break her heart if I went. But 
 she knew that — ^how she would laugh as she looked at me. . . . 
 She refused to take me seriously. Eussia was doing me harm 
 — I got slack, sleepy, indifferent. I longed for England. 
 The chance came. Anna said that she was glad for me to go, 
 
THE FEAST 239 
 
 and laughed as she said it. I took my chance. . . . I've told ^ 
 you everything," he suddenly ended. 
 
 He waited. The tune across the water went : 'La-la-la, la, 
 la-la-la-la, la, la.' Many, many little black figures were turn- 
 ing on the fish-market. The blaze of the bonfire was low and 
 its reflection in the sea smoking red. 
 
 When he had finished Katherine had very gently drawn 
 her hand away from his, then suddenly, with a little fierce 
 gesture, pushed it back again. 
 
 "What was your boy's name ?" she asked, very quietly. 
 
 "Paul." 
 
 "Poor little boy. Did you care for him very much ?" 
 
 "Yes, terribly." 
 
 "It must have been dreadful his dying." 
 
 He felt then a sudden dismay and fear. Perhaps, after all, 
 she was going to dismiss him ; he fancied that she was retreat- 
 ing from him — he felt already that she was farther away from 
 him than she had ever been, and, with a desperate urgency, 
 his voice trembling, his hand pressing her arm, he said : 
 
 "Katie — Katie — You're disgusted with me. I can feel it. 
 But you must go on loving me — you must, you must. I don't 
 care for anything but that. All men have had affairs with 
 women. It's all dead with me, as though it had been another 
 man. There's no one in the world but you. I— I — " 
 
 His hand shook; his eyes, if she could have seen them, 
 were strained with terror. 
 
 She turned to him, put her arms round his neck, drew his 
 head towards her, kissed him on his eyes, his mouth, his 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Phil — Phil," she whispered. "How little you understand. 
 My dear — ^my dear." 
 
 Then raising her eyes away from him and staring again in 
 front of her, she said : 
 
 "But I want to know, Phil. I miist know. What was she 
 like?" 
 
 "Like ?" he repeated, puzzled. 
 
240 THE GREEN MIRROE 
 
 "Yes. Her appearance, her clothes, her hair, everything. 
 I want to he ahle to see her — ^with my own eyes — as though 
 she were here. . . ." 
 
 He stared at her for a moment — ^then, very slowly, almost 
 reluctantly, he began his description. . . . 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 SUNDAY 
 
 ON no day of the year — ^spring, summer, autumn, or 
 winter, did any inhabitant of Garth House rise before 
 Rebekah. Grimly complete, starch and stiff and taciturn, she 
 would be about the dim house, feeling nothing of- the cold 
 blackness of a winter morning, finding apparently no pleasure 
 in the beauty of a summer dawn. Her business was with the 
 House — ^buman beings (yes, Trenchards as well as the rest) 
 she despised — ^for Houses she could feel reverence . . . they 
 were stronger than she. 
 
 Upon the Sunday morning that followed the "Feast" at 
 Eafiel, very early indeed, she was moving about the passages. 
 Looking out on to the lawn and bushes, wet with mist, she 
 knew that it would be a bad day. . . . Weather mattered to 
 her nothing: people (although the Trenchards might think 
 otherwise) mattered to her nothing. Her business was with 
 the House. . . . 
 
 That Sunday began badly for Aunt Aggie — and, therefore, 
 for everyone else. Before she woke — in the dusty labyrinth 
 of her half-waking dreams — she knew that her tooth was 
 aching. In her dreams this tooth was of an enormous size, 
 holding, although it was in form and figure a veritable tooth, 
 a huge hammer that it brought down, with a regular beat, 
 upon Aunt Aggie's jaw. She screamed, struggled, fought, 
 awoke — ^to find that the tooth had receded to its proper place 
 and size, was still faintly beating, but not aching — only 
 threatening. This threat was, in its way, more terrible than 
 
 241 
 
242 THE GKEEI^ MIEEOE 
 
 a savage ache. When would the ache begin? Ah, here it 
 was ! ... no, only the throh. . . . Would hot or cold food 
 irritate it ? Would the wind ? . . . She got out of bed and 
 drew her blind. Her clock told her that the hour was seven. 
 Why had Annie not called her ? Annie had overslept herself 
 — ^what was it to Annie if Aunt Aggie were late for Early 
 Service? But it must be something to Annie. Annie miist 
 be warned. Annie . . . Aunt Aggie was conscious that she 
 had a headache, that the weather was abominable, and that 
 crossing through the wood to the church would certainly sta-rt 
 the tooth. But she was resolved. Very grimly, her mouth 
 tightly closed, her heart beating because she was expecting 
 that, at every moment, that tooth. . . . Aunt Aggie had her 
 bath, dressed, informed Annie, who came, very greatly agi- 
 tated, at half-past seven, that this would not be the last she 
 heard of it, walked off to church. During the singing of the 
 collection hymn her tooth leapt upon her. ... It came to her 
 like some malign and secret enemy, who would influence her 
 not so deeply through actual pain as through his insistence on 
 what, please God, he would do afterwards. She hurried 
 home to breakfast through the wet, grey morning, saying to 
 herself : "It shall not ache ! I forbid it to ache ! You hear 
 me ! You shall not !" and always that sinister whisper replied 
 in her ear: "Wait. Just see what I'll do to you in a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 In her bedroom some iodine, which she applied to her gum, 
 reduced the inside of her mouth to sawdust; through the 
 dried discomfort of it all her enemy still beat at her heart 
 ironically. 
 
 She was determined that the tooth should not alter her day. 
 She knew how easily ordinary human beings succumbed — • 
 such weakness should not be hers. Nevertheless her love of 
 honesty compelled her to admit that, this morning, the house 
 looked horrible. It had, as she had often told Harriet, been 
 always overcrowded with 'things' — with mats and jars and 
 pots and photographs, old books, magazines, ink-bottles, china 
 
SUNDAY 243 
 
 ornaments, stones and shells, religious emblems, old calendars, 
 and again photographs, photographs, photogi-aphs. ... It 
 was not that the house was definitely untidy, but that once a 
 thing was there, there it remained. The place looked like 
 home, because it was filled with properties that any new- 
 comer would instantly discard. Everything was dim and 
 faded — carpets, curtains, books, pictures; Katherine, Millie, 
 Henry could remember how the water-colour of "Eafiel 
 Beach," the photograph of Trezent Head, the dining-room 
 marble clock, surmounted by the Goddess Diana minus her 
 right leg, the book-case in the drawing-room, with rows and 
 rows of the novels of Anthony Trollope (each in three vol- 
 umes), the cuckoo clock in the dark corner on the first land- 
 ing, the glass case with sea shells in the hall near the hat- 
 rack, the long row of faded Trenchard and Faunder photo- 
 graphs in the drawing-room, the little corner cupboard with 
 the Sunday games in it — Bible Lotto, puzzle map of Pales- 
 tine, Bible Questions and iBible Answers — aU these things had 
 been "first there" since the beginning of time, even as the oak 
 on the lawn, the rough grass meadows that ran to the very 
 posts of the house, the little wood and the tennis lawn with the 
 brown hole in the middle of it had always been 'there.' Aunt 
 Aggie herself had grown profoundly accustomed to it all — 
 in her heart she would not have had a shell nor a photograph 
 removed from its place. Nevertheless, upon this grey Sunday 
 morning she was oppressed, almost triumphantly, about her 
 sense of the dinginess and confusion of the housa It was 
 as though she said to herself : "There ! it's not my tooth at 
 all that makes me feel out of sorts with things. It's simply 
 Harriet's inability to put things straight." She found then 
 that everyone was very quiet at breakfast- — 'stilky' one could 
 be justified in calling it. Moreover, there were 'sausages 
 again !' Harriet knew perfectly well that Aggie hated sau- 
 sages — ^nevertheless she persisted, with the devotion of a blind 
 slave to an august ritual, in having, always, sausages for 
 Sunday breakfast. Aggie was, in spite of her tooth, hungry 
 
244 THE GKEEN MIEKOR 
 
 this morning, but when, with an unconscious self-conscious- 
 ness, during a silence, she said : "No sausage for me, thanks. 
 You know, Betty, that I never care for them." 'No one said : 
 "Have an egg, Aggie : it can be boiled in a moment." 
 
 Only Harriet, with her attention obviously elsewhere, re- 
 marked carelessly : "We can have the ham in, Aggie, if you 
 like" — to which Aggie could only reply : "You know I dis- 
 like cold ham, Harriet." 
 
 But, indeed, Simday breakfast was never a very jolly meal 
 — ^how could it be ? The hour was throbbing with a conscious- 
 ness of the impending difficulties and problems of the day. 
 There was Church, there was Sunday School, there were 
 callers in the afternoon: there were meals, the very heavy 
 midday meal with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, tea vnth 
 a great deal of stiff conversation, something in the manner of 
 Ollendorff, supper, when the chill on the food typified the 
 exhausted spirits of the tired company. During too many 
 years had Henry, Millie, Katherine, and still more Aggie, 
 Betty and Mrs. Trenchard worn Sunday clothes, eaten Sun- 
 day meals, suffered Sunday restraint, known Sunday exhaus- 
 tion for it to be possible for any of them to regard Sunday 
 in a normal, easy fashion. Very right and proper that they 
 should so regard it. I would only observe that if there is to 
 be a thorough explosion of Trenchard, of Faunder tempers — 
 if there is to be, in any kind of way, a "family scene" Sunday 
 will be, almost certainly, the background selected for it. Aunt 
 Aggie, looking around her, on this morning, at her assembled 
 friends and relations, 'thought them all very sulky indeed. 
 Wrapped up entirely in their own selfish thoughts'. . . . The 
 day began badly. 
 
 Half an hour before church Rachel Seddon and Uncle Tim 
 were alone together in the drawing-room. She was standing, 
 prepared and waiting, staring through the windows at the 
 wild meadow that seemed now soaked with moisture, bent 
 before the dripping wind. She was thinking very deeply. 
 She did not at first hear Uncle Tim, and when, turning sud- 
 
SUNDAY 245 
 
 denly, she saw him, she thought hcrtv exactly he suited the 
 day. By his appearance he instantly justified the atrocious 
 weather : he was wearing a rough grey suit and a low flannel 
 collar : his beard and hair glistened, as though the damp had 
 soaked through them, he carried a muddy trowel in his hand. 
 He came hurriedly into the room, as though he were searching 
 for something. Then when he saw Eachel he stopped, put 
 the trowel down on one of the drawing-room chairs, smiled 
 at her, and came across to her. She had never known him 
 very well, but she had always liked him — his genial aloof- 
 ness, the sense that he always gave of absolute independence, 
 cheerful but never dogmatic, pleased her. Now she was trou- 
 bled, and felt that he could help her. 
 
 "What's the matter with Katie ?" she said, abruptly, look- 
 ing at him with sharp but deeply honest eyes. 
 
 He felt in his tumbled pockets for his pipe and tobacco, 
 then slowly said : 
 
 "I was just off for worms — I wanted Henry, but I suppose 
 he's going to church. . . . Katie ? . . . Why ?" 
 
 "1 don't know why. I want to know. It's been these last 
 few days— ever since — ever since — Saturday, Friday, Thurs- 
 day — the day at Rafiel. She's unhappy." 
 
 "The lovers have had a quarrel." 
 
 "If it were only that ! ... no, that's not Katie, and you 
 know it isn't. Philip's done something — told her some- 
 thing—" 
 
 "Ah, you think that because you dislike him." 
 
 "I don't know that I do — now. I certainly did at first, but 
 now — here ... I don't know. He's so much younger than 
 I'd expected, and he is really trying his best to suit himself 
 to the family and the place. I'm sorry for him. I rather like 
 him after all. But what is the matter with everyone ? Why 
 is the house so uncomfortable? Why can't it all be just 
 smooth and easy ? Of course we all hated Katie being en- 
 gaged at first — I suppose we thought that she might have 
 done better. But now everyone ought to be used to it: 
 
246 THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 instead of being used to it, it's positively 'nervy' the at- 
 mosphere." 
 
 "It's simply," said Uncle Tim, pressing down his tobacco 
 into his pipe, "the attack by a Young Man with Imagination 
 upon a family without any. The Young Man's weak of 
 course — people with imagination always are — ^he's weak and 
 impatient, and insists upon everything being perfect. All 
 the family wants is to be let alone — but it will never be let 
 alone again. The break-up is beginning." 
 
 "The break-up ?" said Eachel. 
 
 "It's like this. If Harriet catches me smoking here in the 
 morning there'll be a row." He picked up the trowel and 
 waved it. "Ifearly the whole of our class in England has, 
 ever since the beginning of last century, been happily asleep. 
 It isn't good for people to have a woman on the throne for 
 sixty years — ^bless her all the same, and her making a success 
 of it. So we've slept and slept and slept. The Old Lady 
 died. There was the Boer War : there were motor-cars, flying 
 machines, telephones. Suddenly England was an island no 
 longer. She's got to pay attention to other people, other 
 ideas, other customs. She's got to look out of her window 
 instead of just snoozing on the sofa, surrounded by her mid- 
 Victorian furniture. Everything's cracking : new classes are 
 coming up, old classes are going dovsm. Birth is nothing: 
 autocracies are anachronisms. ... A volcano's coming. 
 Everything will be blown sky-high. Then the folk who are 
 left will build a new city — as bad, as stupid, as selfish as the 
 old one, perhaps — but different ... as different as Garth 
 from China and China from Paradise." 
 
 "And Katherine and Philip ?" said Eachel. 
 
 "Oh, young Mark's just one of the advance-guard. He's 
 smashing up the Trenchards with his hammer — the same way 
 that all the families like us up and down England are being 
 smashed up. If it isn't a young man from abroad, it's a letter 
 or a book or a telephone number or a photograph or a suicide 
 or a Lyceum melodrama. It doesn't matter what it is. The 
 
SUNDAY 247 
 
 good old backbone of England baa got spine disease. When 
 your good grandmother died your lot went; now our lot is 
 going. . . . When I say going I mean changing." 
 
 "There was a funny little man," said Kachel, "whom Uncle 
 John used to know. I forget his name, but he talked in the 
 same way when grandmother died, and prophesied all kinds 
 of things. The world hasn't seemed very different since then, 
 but grandmother was an impossible survival, and her lot went, 
 all of them, long before she did. All the same, if you'll for- 
 give me, I don't think that England and possible volcanoes 
 are the point for the moment. It's Katie I'm thinking about. 
 If she's unhappy now what will she be after she's married to 
 him ? — If Katie were to make an unhappy marriage, I think 
 it would be the greatest sorrow of my life. I know . . . I've 
 known . . . how easily things can go wrong." 
 
 "Ah, things won't go wrong." Uncle Tim smiled confi- 
 dently. "Young Mark's a good fellow. He'll make Kather- 
 ine happy all right. iBut she'll have to change, and changing 
 hurts. She's been asleep like the others. . . . Oh, yes ! she 
 has ! There's no one loves her better than I, but she's had, in 
 the past, as much imagination as that trowel there. Perhaps 
 now Philip will give her some. She'll lose him if she doesn't 
 wake up. He's restive now under the heavy hands of my dear 
 relations — He'll be gone one fine morning if they don't take 
 care. Katie must look out. . . ." He waved his trowel in 
 the direction of the garden. "All this is like a narcotic. It's 
 so safe and easy and ordered. Philip knows he oughtn't to 
 be comfortable here. Katie, Millie and Henry are beginning 
 to know it. Even Harriet, Aggie, Betty, George will get a 
 tiny glimmering of it one day. But they're too old to change. 
 That's their tragedy. All the same, you see, before this time 
 next year George will be proposing to take Harriet for a trip 
 abroad — Italy probably — a thing he's never done since the 
 day of his marriage." 
 
 •And at that very moment George entered, very smart and 
 
248 THE GKEEN MIRKOR 
 
 big and red, with yellow gloves and a flower in his biatton- 
 hole. 
 
 "What's that ?" he cried, with his usual roar of laughter. 
 "Who says I'll do what?" 
 
 "Take Harriet abroad before this time next year," said 
 Tim. 
 
 "I? . . . Not much! . . . We know better than that. 
 England's good enough for us. There isn't a spot in the 
 world to touch this place in the summer — so why should we 
 stir ? You'll be saying we ought to go to Russia next, . . . 
 smoking your beastly pipe in here too. Why don't you dress 
 decently and go to church ?" 
 
 A Church Invasion followed. The Invasion rustled and 
 listened to the bell that called across the garden. 'Com-ing ? 
 . . . Com-ing? . . . Com-ing?' . . . Then 'Come! Come! 
 Come !' and said : "Where's Katie ? ... It isn't Litany to- 
 day, so there'll be time before lunch. Where's Henry ? . . . 
 We'd better start, the bell's stopping. Just hold my prayer- 
 book a minute, Millie dear, whilst I do this. . . ." 
 
 Finally the Invasion called: "Katie! Katie! Kather- 
 ine! . . . We're going!" and a voice, very far away an- 
 swered : 
 
 "Yes. . . . I'll catch you up ! Goon!" 
 
 The Invasion left, followed by Uncle Tim, smiling to him- 
 self, the trowel in his hand. The house was very still then, 
 relapsing with a little sigh of content into its Sunday quiet : 
 a bird was chattering gently to itself in the wet garden. 
 
 Katherine hurried into the drawing-room, her cheeks 
 flushed, buttoning her gloves, her prayer-book under her arm. 
 Her black dress, a little open at the front, had a stiff black 
 lace collar at the back, Elizabethan fashion ; now, for the first 
 time in her life, she was wearing something that she had 
 herself thought about and planned. It was for Philip. . . . 
 
 She looked about the empty drawing-room, then hurried 
 away through the little wood. How unlike her to be late! 
 She was always the first of the party. But to-day she had 
 
SUNDAY 249 
 
 been dreaming in her bedroom, sitting, with her hands in her 
 lap, looking out of the window, wondering, longing to know 
 . . . No, she was not jealous. Her curiosity had no tinge 
 of jealousy in it. Why should she be jealous ? Was not the 
 thing over, closed? Had not the woman herself dismissed 
 him? That strange figure in that strange country! The 
 wild town, as he had described it, like a village with towers 
 and towers, gold and green and blue, and the carts with 
 painted roofs and the strange writing on the shop-walls . . . 
 and the woman standing there, in the middle of it. This 
 woman, who had known Philip better than Katherine knew 
 him, whom Philip had madly loved, who had borne Philip a 
 son. She was still living there, loving, now, perhaps some- 
 one else, looking back perhaps with some scorn and some pity 
 and some affection to the days when Philip had kissed her, to 
 the hour when their son had died, to that first meeting in the 
 strange country house, where everyone might come and go as 
 they pleased. Wo, there was no jealousy; but Katherine 
 wanted to have her there, standing in front of her, so that she 
 might study her clothes, her hair, her eyes. Here was a 
 woman whom Philip had madly loved — and he had ceased to 
 love her. Well, he might also cease to love Katherine. But 
 that other woman had dismissed him. Fancy dismissing him ! 
 When one had shared with him such experiences how could 
 one ever let him go? . . . Ah, what, what was she like? 
 Was her voice soft or harsh ? How did she look when Philip 
 made love to her ? When Philip made love to her. . . . Yes, 
 there was pain in that. 
 
 Katherine hurried under the low porch of the church. 
 She could bear the voice: 'Wherefore I pray and beseech 
 you, as many as are here present, to accompany me with a 
 pure heart. . . .' 
 
 As the congregation knelt she slipped into a seat at the 
 back of the church. She had always loved the shabby, ugly 
 little place. It had, for one thing, nothing to boast about — 
 had no fine carvings like the Rafiel Church, no splendid 
 
250 THE GEEEN MIEKOE 
 
 tombs like the two Dunstan St. Firths at Poloynt, no won- 
 derful glass like the Porthcullin memorial window at Bor- 
 haze; frankly ugly, whitewashed, with thin narrow grey 
 glass in the side-walls and a hideous purple Transfiguration 
 above the altar, with plain, ugly seats, a terrible modern lec- 
 tern, a shabby nondescript pulpit, a font like an expensive 
 white sweet, and the most shining and vulgar brass tablet 
 commemorating the Garth heroes of the Boer War. 
 
 !N"o other church could ever mean so much to Katherine 
 as this, her shabby friend. She was glad that it was no 
 show place for inquisitive tourists to come tramping over 
 with haughty eyes and scornful boasts. It was her own . . . 
 she loved it because strangers would always say: "How 
 hideous!" because she could remember it on wonderful sum- 
 mer evenings when through the open doors the congregation 
 could hear the tinkling sheep-bells and smell the pinks from 
 the Eectory garden, on wild nights when the sea gales howled 
 round its warm, happy security, on Christmases, on Easters, 
 on Harvest Festivals : she loved it on the evenings when, vdth 
 its lights covering its plainness, the Garth villagers would 
 shout their souls away over "Onward, Christian soldiers" or 
 "For all the Saints" or would sink into sentimental tenderness 
 over "Abide with me" and "Saviour, again to Thy dear 
 name" ; she loved it because here she had been sad and happy, 
 frightened and secure, proud and humble, victorious and de- 
 feated ... as this morning she sank on her knees, bury- 
 ing her lace in her hands, she felt at first as though her 
 Friend had found her, had encircled her with His arm, had 
 draWn her into safety. . . . 
 
 And yet, after a little while, her unrest returned. As 
 Mr. Smart and the congregation hurried through the psalms 
 for the day, trying, as it were, to beat one another in the 
 friendly race, Katherine felt again that insistent pressure 
 and pursuit. Her mind left the church : she was back again 
 with Philip at Eafiel . . . and now she was searching that 
 mysterious town for that elusive, laughing figure. Katharine 
 
SUNDAY 251 
 
 had in her mind a clear picture ; she saw a woman, tall and 
 thin, a dark face with black, ironical eyes, hair jet black, a 
 figure alert, independent, sometimes scornful, never tragic 
 or despairing. "If she knew me she would despise me" . . . 
 this thought came flashing like a sudden stream of light across 
 the church. "If she knew me she'd despise me . . . despise 
 me for everything, even perhaps for lovipg Philip" — and yet 
 she felt no hostility ; of a certainty no jealousy, only a little 
 pain at her heart and a strange conviction that the world 
 was altered now simply because there was a new figure in it. 
 And there were so many things that she wanted to know. 
 Why had Anna dismissed Philip? Was it simply because 
 she was tired of him? Was it perhaps for his own sake, 
 because she thought that he was wasting his life and character 
 there. 'No, Anna probably did not think about his character. 
 . . . Did she still care for him and, now that he was gone, 
 long for him? Well, Katherine had him now, and no one 
 should take him. . . . Would she, perhaps, write to Philip 
 and try to compel him to return ? Did she think of the son 
 who had died ? Had she much heart or was she proud and 
 indifferent ? 
 
 ". . . grant that this day we fall into no sin, neither run 
 into any kind of danger: but that all our doings may be 
 ordered by Thy governance to do that which is right. . . ." 
 Mr. Smart's voice brought back the church, the choir with 
 two girls in large flowered hats, the little boys, Mr. Hart, the 
 butcher, and Mr. Swithan, the grocer, the broad backs in the 
 family pew. Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, Henry, Mrs. Tren- 
 chard, Millie, Philip, George Trenchard, Eachel Seddon (the 
 family pew was a hideous box with a door to it, and you 
 could see only the top half of the Trenchards. . . . They, 
 however, could see everything: Mrs. Trenchard could see 
 the choir, and the choir knew it). Because Katherine was 
 never late, therefore was she denied the opportunity of study- 
 ing the Collective Trenchard Back. To-day she had it in 
 front of her, and it seemed, suddenly, to be something with 
 
252 THE GEEEN MIEKOK 
 
 which she herself had no concern at all. Eor an amazing, 
 blinding, and most desolating moment she viewed the Tren- 
 chards as a stranger might view them. Her loneliness was 
 appalling. She belonged to no one. She had no place nor 
 country: her mother and Philip had left her . . . only a 
 strange woman, watching her to see what she would do, 
 laughed at her. As she stood up and Mr. Smart gave out the 
 hymn, she saw that there was a hole in her glove. She felt 
 shabby and hot, and covered the hole with her other hand, be- 
 cause during that moment she was positively, actively con- 
 scious of the other woman's curious, hostile gaze; then, as 
 the hymn began, security came back to her — her heart beat 
 quietly again. 
 
 "Why were you late, dear ?" said Aunt Aggie, walking back 
 through the wood. 
 
 "I dawdled." 
 
 "Dawdled! How unlike you, dear! I remember years 
 ago when I dawdled one Sunday mother saying . . . Oh, 
 dear, there it begins again !" 
 
 "Is your tooth bad ?" 
 
 "Never mind, dear, say nothing about it. The last thing 
 I should wish for would be a fuss. I thought poor Mr. Smart 
 at his very worst this morning. Since his last child was 
 bom he's never preached a good sermon. Eeally, it's difficult 
 to be patient with him." 
 
 "Have you done anything for it, Aunt Aggie ?" 
 
 "Iodine. It comes and goes. If it were only steady. . . ." 
 
 Katherine knew that it was of the utmost importance to be 
 sympathetic, but all that she could think of in her head 
 was, "How silly to worry about a tooth ! How silly to worry 
 about a tooth! . . ." She knew at once that Aunt Aggie 
 saw that she was unsympathetic, and that she resented it 
 deeply. 
 
 "Mind you say nothing, dear," she said, as they crossed 
 the lawn. "You know that I hate a fuss." And Katherine, 
 
SUNDAY 253 
 
 who had stopped on the grass and was staring at the horizon, 
 did not even answer. Then Aunt /Betty came up and said: 
 "What a delightful sermon! Mr. Smart gets better and 
 better." 
 
 Aunt Aggie did not trust herself to speak. 
 
 Meanwhile Philip also had been unhappy. He did frankly 
 hate an English Sunday, and to-day the damp-grey heaviness 
 overwhelmed him, so that he was almost melodramatic in his 
 resentment. 
 
 Four days now had passed since the "Feast", and he 
 thought that they had been the worst four days of his life. 
 He, positively, had not slept : he bad been driven by a wild, 
 uncertain spirit, inspiring him now to this action and now 
 to that, making him cry out in the middle of the night. 
 "What is she thinking about it ? Is it changing her love for 
 me? . . . Perhaps she doesn't love me any more, and is 
 afraid to tell me. She didn't seem angry then when I told 
 her, but she may not have realised — now — " He wanted her 
 to tell him everything, and he wanted her also never to allude 
 to the affair again. He had confessed to her, and there was 
 no more to be said — and yet she must say what now, after 
 four days, she felt about it. Meanwhile she said nothing and 
 he said nothing. There was constraint between them for 
 the only time since their first meeting. He had thought that 
 his confession would have smashed the cobwebs — it had only 
 made them the more blinding. 
 
 Meanwhile it was all so desperately serious to him that 
 he simply could not endure the watching and waiting family. 
 His insistent desire that 'things should be perfect' had from 
 the beginning been balked by the family's presence, now his 
 sense that they all wanted to take Katherine away from him 
 awoke in him a real hysterical nightmare of baffled im- 
 potence. He would willingly have strangled Aunt Aggie, 
 Henry and Mrs. Trenchard, and then set fire to the house 
 and garden. Then, into the middle of it all, came this 
 impossible Sunday. 
 
254 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 He set his teeth over the roast beef, Aunt Aggie's com- 
 plaints and George Trenchard's hearty commonplace; 
 directly luncheon was over he seized Katherine. 
 
 "Look here ! we must go for a walk — ^now — at once !" 
 
 "My dear Phil! I can't — there's my Sunday School at 
 three. I haven't looked at anything." 
 
 "Sunday School! Oh, my God! . . . Sunday School! 
 Look here, Katie, if you don't walk with me first I shall go 
 straight down to the village pond and drown myself." 
 
 "No, you mustn't do that". She seemed quite grave 
 about it. "All right — ^wait for me. I'll be down in two min- 
 utes." 
 
 They set off along the road to Pelynt Cross, the thin sea 
 mist driving in their faces. 
 
 He broke out: "I must go away from here. To-mor- 
 row, at once — I simply can't stand it any longer." 
 
 "Can't stand what ?" 
 
 "Seeing you swallowed up by the family, who all hate 
 me and want to get rid of me. You yourself are changing 
 — ^you aren't frank with me any longer. You don't say what 
 you think. What use am I here anyway? What good is it 
 my hanging round doing nothing? I'm sick of it. I'm los- 
 ing you — I'm miserable. A Sunday like this is enough to 
 make one commit murder." 
 
 She put her hand inside his arm and drew him closer to 
 her. 
 
 "I know what it is," she said. "You've been wondering 
 why I haven't spoken to you about what you told me the 
 other day. You've been thinking that I ought to, haven't 
 you?" 
 
 "No, it's only that I've wondered whether perhaps you've 
 changed your mind since then. Then you didn't seem to be 
 angry, but, thinking about it afterwards — " 
 
 "Why, Phil," she said, "how could there be anything dif- 
 ferent? It's all gone, finished. You don't suppose that I 
 ever imagined that you'd never loved another woman before 
 
SUNDAY 255 
 
 you met me. I'm interested, that's all. You've told me so 
 little about her. I'd like to know all sorts of things — even 
 quite little unimportant things — " 
 
 "It would be much better," he said slowly, "if we just 
 left it and didn't talk about it." 
 
 "But I thought you wanted me to talk about it?" she 
 cried. "How funny you are!" 
 
 "No, I didn't want you to talk about it. It's only that I 
 didn't like there being constraint — I don't see why you should 
 care. It's like talking about someone who's dead." 
 
 "But she isn't dead. Do you suppose, Phil — would she, 
 do you think, like you to go back?" 
 
 "No, I'm sure she wouldn't — at least I don't think so." 
 
 "Was she the kind of woman who forgets easily, who can 
 put people out of her life just as she wants to ?" 
 
 "Anna . . ." His voice lingered over the name. "No, I 
 don't think she ever forgot. She was simply independent." 
 
 "Would she think of your boy and want him back ?" 
 
 "She might." He suddenly stopped. "She might. That 
 evening he was so ill she — " 
 
 Katherine looked across the fields to Pelynt Cross, dim and 
 grey beneath the rain. 
 
 "She had a heart, then," she said slowly. 
 
 He suddenly wheeled about with his face to Garth. He 
 spoke sharply and roughly in a voice that she had never heard 
 him use before. 
 
 "Don't, Katie — leave her alone. What do you go. on about 
 her for ?" 
 
 "But if it's all dead?" 
 
 "Oh, drop it, I say ! That's enough." 
 
 She knew that she was a fool, but something — or was it 
 somebody ? — drove her on. 
 
 "But you said just now that you wanted me to be frank." 
 
 His voice was a cry. 
 
 "You'll drive me mad, Katie. You don't seem to have any 
 conception — " 
 
256 THE GREEN MIRROR 
 
 "Very well. I won't say anything." 
 
 They were quite silent after that : the silence swelled, like 
 a rising cloud, between them : it became impossible to break 
 it . . . they were at Garth gates, and they had not spoken. 
 She would have said something, but he turned abruptly off 
 into the garden. She walked, with her head up, into the 
 house. 
 
 She went up to her room, arranged her Sunday School 
 books, felt suddenly a grinding, hammering fatigue, as though 
 she had been walking all day ; her knees were trembling and 
 her throat was dry. She sat by her window, looking down 
 on to the garden, where the sea mist drove in walls of thin 
 rain against the horizon. Behind the mist the trees seemed 
 to peer at her as though they were wondering who she was. 
 "I don't care," she thought, "he shouldn't have spoken to me 
 like that." But how had it happened ? At, one moment they 
 had been so close together that no force, no power, would 
 separate them — a word and they had been so far apart that 
 they could not see one another's eyes. 
 
 "I don't care. He shouldn't—" 
 
 She got up, rubbed her cheeks with her hand because they 
 were burning, and, with a glance at Philip's photograph 
 (someone she had known years ago and would never know 
 again), went out. The house was silent, and she met no one. 
 As she crossed the lawn she thought : "How absurd ! We've 
 quarrelled — a real quarrel" — then — "It wasn't my fault. He 
 shouldn't — " She held her head very high indeed as she 
 walked down the road to the Bridge, but she saw no one, "felt 
 no rain upon her cheek, was not conscious that she was mov- 
 ing. At the door of the Schools she saw Mrs. Smart, and 
 heard someone say quite sensibly and happily : 
 
 "We're early. There won't be many this afternoon, I 
 expect." 
 
 "Mrs. Douglas has told me that she won't be able to come — 
 I wonder, Katie, whether you'd mind taking — " 
 
 "Why, of course." 
 
SUNDAY 25Y 
 
 Mrs. Smart was little and round and brown like a pippin. 
 She was always breathless from having more to wrestle with 
 than she could grasp. She was nervous, too, and short- 
 sighted, and the one governing motive of her life was to 
 bear her husband a son. She had now four daughters; she 
 knew that her husband felt it very deeply. She had once un- 
 burdened herself to Katherine, but, after that, had been shyer 
 with her than before. Katherine, against her will, had been 
 often irritated by Mrs. Smart — she had wondered at her 
 restlessness and incapacity to keep up with the business in 
 hand, but to-day, out of the sinister gloom of that horrible 
 afternoon, the little woman seemed to Katie suddenly sym- 
 pathetic, eloquent, moving. Katie could hear her voice, 
 rather husky, rather uncertain, on that afternoon of her con- 
 fession : ". , . and we did really hope that Lucy would be a 
 boy, we really did. He would have been called Edward. 
 Harold has such plans for a son — ^we have often thought 
 together what we would do . , . and now, I'm afraid. . . ." 
 
 Inside the schoolroom door Katie paused, looked at the 
 room with the bare benches arranged in squares, the shining 
 maps of the world and Europe, the case with beetles and 
 butterflies, the hideous harmonium. 
 
 She suddenly caught Mrs. Smart's hand and pressed it 
 through the damp little glove. She knew that Mrs. Smart 
 would be surprised — she had never been demonstrative to her 
 before. . . . She moved to her part of the room, three only 
 of her class were present, and to these were added two small 
 boys from another division. 
 
 "IS'ow, children," said Mr. Smart's cheerful voice (he 
 always spoke to boya as though he were luring animals into 
 a cage), "let us start with hymn No. 436, shall we?" After 
 the hymn, a prayer, and then, for an hour that subdued, re- 
 strained hum which belongs to the Sunday School only ; being 
 religious as well as disciplined, persuasive as well as obedient. 
 Katherine now was very proud — as she said : "Well, Eobin, 
 and what did Moses do then?" she was thinking — "But he 
 
258 THE GEEEN" MIKROR 
 
 must come to me — ^that's fair. It was not my fault. He 
 blamed me first for not speaking, and afterwards when I 
 did speak. . '. . Besides, if it's all over and finished, why- 
 should he mind ?" She looked very young as she sat there, 
 her mouth hard and set and her eyes full of trouble. Her 
 sensation was as though she had been suddenly marooned ; the 
 desolation, the terror, the awful loneliness came, as the eve- 
 ning fell, creeping up towards her. "Suppose he never makes 
 it up — Suppose he goes away and leaves me." She caught 
 her hands tightly together on her lap and her breath suddenly 
 left her. 
 
 "Yes, Johnny. His name was Aaron. That's right." 
 
 The ordeal was over; she was hurrying back through the 
 dusk to the lighted house. She went up again to her room, 
 and sat dovm again by the window. She listened. The 
 house was very still, but she thought that, perhaps, he would 
 guess that she was here, in her bedroom, and would come up. 
 She wished that her heart would stop beating so that she 
 might hear the better. 
 
 She listened to every sound, to distant voices, to the whim- 
 per of rain upon the window, to the sharp crack of some shut- 
 ting door. Her whole mind now was concentrated upon his 
 coming: her eyes left the window and turned to the door. 
 She waited. . . . 
 
 Quite suddenly, as though someone else had commanded 
 her, she began to cry. She did not move her hands to her 
 face, but little dry sobs shook her body. She hated herself 
 for her weakness, and then that very contempt broke her down 
 completely, so that with her hands pressed against her face, 
 desolately and almost, it might seem, ironically, she wept. 
 Through her crying she heard the door open, and, looking 
 up, saw her mother there. Mrs. Trenchard closed the door 
 very carefully. "Why, Katherine!" she said in a whisper, 
 as though this were a matter simply between the two of 
 them. "I came to see," said Mrs. Trenchard, "whether you 
 weren't coming in to tea. The Drakes are hera" 
 
SUNDAY 259 
 
 It was no use to pretend that she had not been crying. 
 She rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief, turning her back 
 for a moment on her mother and gazing down on to the 
 dark lawn that had all melted now into the rain. Then, 
 when she had gained her control, she faced the room again. 
 
 "It's nothing, mother. I've had a headache. It's better. 
 I'll lie down a little and then come in. Is Agnes Drake 
 here ?" 
 
 "Yes. She wants to see you." 
 
 "Well. I'll come." 
 
 But Mrs. Trenchard did not go away. Her large soft 
 eyes never left her daughter's face. 
 
 "What's really the matter, dear «" 
 
 "Really — a headache. This weather and then Sunday 
 School. I felt bad in church this morning." 
 
 "You've been unlike yourself, dear, for some days." 
 
 "'No, mother — I've been just the same." 
 
 "You've been unhappy." 
 
 Katherine raised her head proudly and gave back her 
 mother's gaze. 
 
 "There's been nothing — ^nothing at all — " 
 
 But Mrs. Trenchard's eyes never faltered. She suddenly, 
 with an action that was full of maternal love, but love re- 
 strained by fear of its rejection, love that had tenderness 
 in its request to be accepted, raised her hands as though 
 she would take her daughter, and hold her safe and never 
 let her depart into danger again. 
 
 "Katie — " her voice was soft, and she let her hands fall 
 again. "Give it up, dear. Break the engagement. Let him 
 go.". 
 
 Katherine did not answer, but she raised her head higher 
 than it had been before, and then, suddenly, as though the 
 irony of her whole relationship with her mother, with Philip, 
 with the very world itself, had driven in upon her, she 
 smiled. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard went on: "You aren't happy, Katie, 
 
260 THE GREEN MIEROR 
 
 darling. We all notice it. It was so sudden, the engagement. 
 YoTi couldn't tell at the time. But now — ^I've never said 
 anything, have I ? You've seen that I've been perfectly fair, 
 but you know that I've never liked him — I said give it its 
 chance. But now that he's been down here, you can judge 
 how different we all are — ^it's plain that it won't do. Of 
 course you couldn't tell at the time. But now — " 
 
 "Ah," Katherine said quietly, "that's why you asked him 
 here. I wondered." 
 
 At the sudden hostility in Katherine's voice Mrs. Tren- 
 chard started. Then, quite timidly, as though she were asking 
 some great favour, she said: 
 
 "You mustn't be angry with me for that. I only care about 
 your happiness. I'm older — If I think that you are not go- 
 ing to be happy I'm worried and distressed of course. What 
 can he be to me compared with you ? And lately you yourself 
 have been different — different to all of us . . . Yes . . . 
 You know that if I thought that he would make you 
 happy. . . ." Her voice was quickly sharp sounding on a 
 trembling, quivering note. "Katie — ^give him up. Crive him 
 up. There'll be somebody much better. There are all of us. 
 Give him up, darling. Tell him that you don't love him as 
 you thought you did." 
 
 "No, I don't," said Katherine, her voice low. "I love 
 him more than ever I thought I could love anything or any- 
 one. I love him more every day of my life. Why you — all 
 of you — " She broke away from her fierceness. She was 
 gentle, putting her hand against her mother's cheek, then 
 bending forward and kissing her. 
 
 "You don't understand, mother. I don't understand my- 
 self, I think. But it will be all right. I know that it 
 will. . . . You must be patient with me. It's hard for him 
 as well as for you. But nothing — nothing — can change me. 
 If I loved him before, I have twice as much reason to love 
 him now." 
 
 Mrs. Trepchard looked once more at Katherine, as though 
 
SUNDAY 261 
 
 she were seeing her for the last time, then, with a little 
 sigh, she went out, very carefully closing the door behind 
 her. 
 
 Meanwhile, another, memher of the Trenchard family, 
 namely Henry, had found this especial Sunday very difficult. 
 He always hated Sunday because, having very little to do 
 on ordinary days of the week, he had nothing at all to do 
 on Sunday. E"ever, moreover, in all his life before had 
 the passing of time been so intolerably slow as it had during 
 these last weeks. The matter with him, quite simply, was 
 that his imagination, which had been first stirred on that 
 afternoon of Philip's appearance, was now as lively and hun- 
 gry as a starved beast in a jungle. Henry simply didn't 
 know what to do with himself. Miserably uncertain as to 
 his right conduct in the matter of Philip and Katherine, 
 speculating now continually about adventures and experiences 
 in that wider world of which he had had a tiny glimpse, 
 needing desperately some definite business of preparation for 
 business that would fill his hours, and having nothing of the 
 sort, he was left to read old novels, moon about the fields 
 and roads, quarrel with Millie, gaze forebodingly at Kath- 
 erine, scowl at Philip, have some moments of clumsy senti- 
 ment towards his mother, bite his nails and neglect his ap- 
 pearance. He began to write a novel, a romantic novel with 
 three men asleep in a dark inn and a woman stealing up the 
 ricketty stairs with a knife in her hand. That was all that 
 he saw of the novel. He knew nothing at all about its time 
 nor place, its continuation nor conclusion. But he heard the 
 men breathing in their sleep, saw the moonshine on the 
 stairs, smelt the close, nasty, beery smell of the tap-room 
 below, saw the high cheek-bones and large nose of the woman 
 and the gleaming shine of the knife in her hand. 
 
 He walked for many miles, to Kafiel, to St. Lowe, to 
 Dumin Head, inland beyond Easselas, to Pendennis Woods, 
 to Polchester, to the further side of Pelynt — and always, as 
 
262 THE GEEEN MIEKOE 
 
 he walked with his head in the air, his Imagination ran 
 before him like a leaping, towering flame. The visions before 
 his soul were great visions, but he could do nothing with 
 them. He thought that he would go forth and, deliver the 
 world, would love all men, prostitutes, lepers, debauchera 
 (like Philip) ; he flung his arms about, tumbled over his 
 untidy boot laces, saw life as a gorgeous-tinted plain, with 
 fame and glory awaiting him — ^then returned to Garth, quar- 
 relled with Millie, sulked and bit his nails. 
 
 This was a hard time for Henry. 
 
 He had determined that he would not present himself in 
 the drawing-room at tea-time, but when half-past four ar- 
 rived, the afternoon had already stretched to such ghastly 
 lengths that something had to be done. He came slipping, 
 stumbling downstairs, and found Philip, with a waterproof 
 turned up over his ears and every sign of the challenger of 
 wild weather, standing in the hall. Henry would have passed 
 him in silence, but Philip stopped him. 
 
 "Look here," he said, in a low mysterious voice, "will you 
 do something for me ?" 
 
 "What ?" said Henry, suspiciously. 
 
 "Pm going out for a long walk. Shan't be back until sup- 
 per. Give this letter to Katherine, and tell her I want her 
 to read it before I get back." 
 
 "Why don't you give it to her yourself ? She's up in her 
 room." 
 
 '^Because I want you to." 
 
 Henry took the letter, and Philip was gone, sending into 
 the house a little gust of cold wind and rain as he plunged 
 through the door. Henry looked after him, shook his head as 
 though the destinies of the world were on his shoulders, put 
 the letter into his pocket and went into the drawing-room. 
 The Drake family was calling. There were Mrs. Drake, old 
 and sharp and weather-beaten, like a sign post on the top 
 of a hill; her son, Francis Drake, who, unlike his famous 
 namesake, seemed unable to make up his mind about any- 
 
SUNDAY 263 
 
 thing, was thin and weedy, with staring eyes, and continually 
 trying to swallow his fist; and little Lettice Drake, aged 
 seven, fifteen years younger than any other in the family; 
 her parents had never entirely got over their surprise at her 
 appearance : she was sharp and hony, like her mother. Mrs. 
 Trenchard, Aunt Aggie and Millie were entertaining ; Great- 
 Aunt Sarah was seated in state, in black silk and white cap, 
 and her stern eye was fixed upon Mr. Drake, whose appear- 
 ance she did not like. This made Mr. Drake very nervous. 
 
 Afternoon-tea on Sunday comes at the very moment when 
 the day seems most unbearable — Later, at about six o'clock, 
 Sunday fatigue will happily begin to descend and envelop its 
 victims, but at half-past four one is only able to remember 
 that it is a mistake to have so large a meal in the middle of 
 the day, that Sunday clothes are chill and uncomfortable, and 
 that all the people in whom one has the least interest in life 
 will shortly make their appearance. 
 
 There is also the prospect of evening service, followed by 
 cold supper : the earlier hours of the day stretch now behind 
 one at so vast and unwieldy a length that it seems impossible 
 that one will ever reach the end of the day alive. Aunt 
 Aggie felt all this — she also hated the Drakes. She saw that 
 Henry, moody in a corner by himself, regarded her with a 
 cynical eye: her tooth, which had been quiet since luncheon, 
 was throbbing again. She endeavoured to be pleasant to 
 little Lettice, although she hated children, and she knew 
 that children knew it. 
 
 "Wonderfully she's grown!" she said, bending down to- 
 wards the child, who watched her with cold curiosity. "And 
 what's your favourite game now, Lettice ? Too old for dolls, 
 I expect." 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 "Tell Miss Trenchard about your games, dear," said Mrs. 
 Drake. 
 
 There was no reply, 
 
 "You must come and play here one day, dear," said Aunt 
 
264 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 Aggie. "Such a big room as we've got upstairs — and lots 
 of toys. You'd like that, -wouldn't you ?" 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 "She's shy, I expect," said Mrs. Drake. "So many chil- 
 dren are." 
 
 Aunt Aggie drew nearer to Lettice. 
 
 "You mustn't he shy with me, dear. I'm so proud of chil- 
 dren. You shall have such a piece of cake in a minute!" 
 
 But with a little movement of her bony fingers Lettice 
 Drake, in a voice of chill detachment, said: 
 
 "You've got a thpot on your faith," referring to a little 
 black mole on Aunt Aggie's right cheek. The voice was so 
 chill, the indifference so complete that the failure of Aunt 
 Aggie's tactics was obvious to the dullest onlooker. Unfor- 
 tunately Henry laughed; he had not intended to laugh: he 
 did not feel at all in a humorous mood — ^but he laughed from 
 nervousness, discomfort and disgust. He knew that Aunt 
 Aggie would not forgive this ... he hated quarrels with 
 Aunt Aggie. She did not look at him, but her back told him 
 what she was thinking. He wished, bitterly, that he had 
 more self-control ; he knew that, of all possible insults. Aunt 
 Aggie would regard most bitterly a mock at her appearance 
 in a public place. The Drakes might be considered a public 
 place. 
 
 Mrs. Trenehard said : "Where's Katie ? You'd like to see 
 her, Agnes, I'm sure. Perhaps she doesn't know you're here. 
 I'll see. I know you'd like to see her." Mrs. Trenehard went 
 away. Then Aunt Sarah, who had been hitherto absolutely 
 silent, began, her eye never leaving Mrs: Drake's face. 
 
 "You're the daughter of Aggie Mummings, whom I used 
 to know. You must be. Poor Aggie ... I remember your 
 mother quite well — a feeble thing always, never knowing 
 her mind and always wanted people's advice. I used to say 
 to her : 'Aggie, if you let men see how feeble you are you'll 
 never get married' — but she did after all — ^which shows you 
 never can tell — I think, Millie, I'll have some more hot in 
 
SUNDAY 265 
 
 this . . . yes, I remember your mother Very well, poor 
 thing." 
 
 "I've heard her speak of you, Miss Trenchard," said Mrs. 
 Drake. 
 
 Mr. Drake suddenly attacked Millie. 
 
 "Well now — about Paris — ^you know — ^very different from 
 this hole, ain't it ?" 
 
 "Very different," said Millie. "But I don't consider this 
 'a hole'." 
 
 "Don't you now? Well — that's very interesting. Don't 
 you? . . . 7 do." 
 
 Millie had nothing to say. 
 
 "It's slow, you know — horrid slow — ^just weather, I call it. 
 Whether it's raining or not, you know — . Yes ... I wonder 
 you don't find it slow after Paris." 
 
 "I was at school there, you see," said Millie. "It's differ- 
 ent when you're at school." 
 
 "I suppose it is. Yes, I s'pose so." He began to cram 
 his fist into his mouth, was surprised at its boniness, regarded 
 it gravely, said : "Well, yes ... I s'pose so . , . Yes . . . 
 Well . . ." and was silent. 
 
 Then Mrs. Trenchard at last returned: Katherine was 
 with her. Henry at once saw that Katherine had been cry- 
 ing. The effect of this discovery upon Henry was elemental 
 in its force. He had, during all his life, regarded Kath- 
 erine as almost omnipotent in her strength and wisdom. He 
 had, moreover, always thought to himself: "One day she 
 will have her reward," and his vision of Katherine's future 
 happiness and glory had been one of his favourite dreams. 
 liTow that cad had been making her cry. . . . He was, at 
 that moment, on the very edge of making a scene ... he 
 would fling Philip's letter down there,* in front of them, 
 Drakes and all. He would cry: "There! that's from the 
 beast who's been making her cry — and I tell you he's a cad. 
 He had a woman for years in Russia and had a son too — 
 that's the kind of fellow he isi" But Katherine was smiling 
 
266 THE GEEE]!T MIEROK 
 
 and laughing. The Drakes certainly would not see that she 
 had been crying : even Millie did not, apparently, notice it ; 
 Millie, having done her duty by the Drakes, was going up- 
 stairs to write letters. She said good-bye and left the room 
 . . . two minutes later Henry slipped out after her. 
 
 He caught her at the top of the stairs. 
 
 "I say," he said. "Come into my room for a minute. I've 
 got something to tell you." 
 
 "Oh, bother," answered Millie. "I want to write letters." 
 
 "Never mind. You must. It's important." 
 
 "Aren't the Drakes awful ?" she said, standing inside his 
 door and observing the disorder of his room with a scornful 
 lip. 
 
 "Yes, they are," said Henry. "Wasn't Aunt Aggie angry 
 when I laughed ?" 
 
 "A silly sort of thing to do anyway. Whoi a room ! You 
 might put those clothes away, and why can't you have another 
 shelf for the books ? That table—" 
 
 "Oh, rot ! Dry up !" Henry moved about uneasily, kick- 
 ing a book along the floor. "I've got something I want to — I 
 can't keep it to myself any longer." 
 
 "What is it ? About Philip and Katie ?" 
 
 "No, not about Katie. At least — not unless he's told her. 
 It's about Philip." 
 
 "What is it ?" Millie said again. 
 
 "He's the most awful cad — an absolute outsider. I've 
 known it for weeks, only I haven't decided what to do." 
 
 "I don't believe it," Millie said, slowly. "You don't know 
 enough about men to tell whether a man's an outsider or 
 not. . . . What's he done ?" 
 
 "In Russia — in Moscow — he had a mistress for years — 
 and they had a son. He's never said anything about it, but 
 it's true. They say he had an awful reputation in Moscow." 
 
 "Who's 'they' ?" said Millie, slowly. The colour mounted 
 into her cheeks. 
 
SUNDAY 267 
 
 "A man I know — a friend of Seymour's. Oh ! I know, it's 
 true. There isn't any sort of doubt about it." 
 
 "I daresay it is. Men are like that," Millie said, with 
 profundity. 
 
 "Decent men aren't. l^Tot the sort of man who will marry 
 Katie." 
 
 Millie said nothing, and thore was a long silence in the 
 room. Then, with a deep sigh, Millie said: 
 
 "If it is true what does it matter if it's all over ?" 
 
 "Perhaps it isn't. Besides, if he's that kind of man he'll 
 do it again. And anyway, if Katie were to know — " 
 
 "Ah ! if Katie were to know — " 
 
 They stood there, young (very young) defenders of Kath- 
 erine. They would both of them, always, afterwards remem- 
 ber that moment, that hour, that Sunday. There came for 
 both of them, suddenly, an active, urgent, demand on their 
 participation in a sudden adventure, a real, serious adventure, 
 and they simply did not know what to do with it. With 
 neither of them was their apprehension, disgust, dismay so 
 great as their curiosity. The first thing, after the pause, that 
 Millie said was: 
 
 "I wonder what she's like, that other woman I mean." 
 
 Henry had been wondering for weeks. He now produced 
 his conclusions. 
 
 "It's my idea," he said, "that she was simply bored with 
 him, couldn't endure him any longer. I expect they had 
 awful rows — Eussians do, you know, and Philip's got a tem- 
 per I should think. Then he came home, and — sort of to save 
 his pride because the other woman had kicked him out — 
 made love to the first woman he saw. Katherine was the 
 first, you know." 
 
 Millie felt a momentary surprise at her brother's unex- 
 pected cleverness. Then she shook her head': "No, I'm sure 
 it's not that. He loves Katherine, I know, anyone can see 
 it." 
 
 "Well, then," said Henry, with sudden volcanic happiness, 
 
268 THE GREEN MIRROE 
 
 "he's making her awfully miserable. She was crying this 
 afternoon, and I've got a letter in my pocket now that he 
 told me to give to her for her to read while he was out. . . . 
 They've had a quarrel." 
 
 "Perhaps he's told her." 
 
 "If he's making her unhappy — " 
 
 "I wonder what she thinks ahout it — " 
 
 Henry's thought, with all the simplicity that was in his 
 real nature, was only of Katherine. Millie, although she 
 loved her sister, was absorbed by the vision of life — dramatic, 
 tragic, gay, sinister, rapturous — that was slowly being un- 
 folded before her. What she would have liked would have 
 been for both Philip and Katherine to have told her, minutely 
 and precisely, how the affair appeared to them. How she 
 could listen to them if they made her their confidante ! Mean- 
 while she must content herself with Henry. 
 
 "What are you going to do ?" she asked. 
 
 "Do ! . . . There are things I can do," he hinted darkly. 
 "Meanwhile, you just keep your eyes open and see whether 
 he's bad to Katherine. If he is we must stop it. That's all 
 that matters." 
 
 "I wonder what she was like — that other woman," Millie 
 said, not looking at Henry, but at her own reflection in his 
 looking-glass, then, vsdthout another word to him, she turned 
 and left the room. 
 
 After she had gone he wondered whether he'd been wise to 
 tell her. She had offered no advice, she had not even, he 
 thought, been immensely interested, she had certainly been, in 
 no way, shocked. 
 
 "Girls are queer" was his final reflection. When the bell 
 began to ring, with its strange little questioning invitation, 
 he suddenly thought that he would go to church. He some- 
 times found evening service, with its candles and old familiar 
 tunes and star-lit sky, romantic and moving : to-night he felt 
 that his restlessness and indecision must be influenced. He 
 came downstairs, and found Katherine standing and staring 
 
SUNDAY 269 
 
 through the little window to the left of the hall door. She 
 started when she heard his voice, as though she had been lost 
 in her own company. 
 
 "I've got a letter for you," he said, roughly. "From 
 Philip. He's gone out for a long walk until supper, and 
 he said you were to read it before he came back." 
 
 He gave it her. She said nothing. He turned abruptly 
 away, and faced his mother. 
 
 She had on her black Sunday hat and was buttoning her 
 gloves. 
 
 "I'm going to church." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Trenchard, "I think we shall be the only 
 ones. Unless Katherine's coming." 
 
 "1^0, I'm not coming," said Katherine. 
 
 He walked away with his mother, feeling self-conscious 
 with her, as he always did, but to-night, whether from some 
 especial sense of gloom, of dripping, wet trees, of wind and 
 rain, or from some real perception of agitation in his mother, 
 he felt a strong impulse of protection towards her. He 
 would have liked to have put his arm through hers, to have 
 defied the world to harm her, to run and fetch and carry for 
 her, to help her in any possible way. He had felt this before, 
 but he had never known how to begin, and he knew that any 
 demonstration of any kind would embarrass them both ter- 
 ribly. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard said things like: 
 
 "Those two shirts of yours, Henry — ^those last two blue 
 ones — ^have shrunk terribly. I'll never go to that place in 
 Oxford Street again. They've shrunk so dreadfully," or "If 
 you think you'd rather have those thicker socks next time you 
 must tell me. . . . Do you like them better?" 
 
 Henry was always vexed by such questions. He thought 
 that he should have been managing his own clothes at his 
 age, and he also could not be bothered to give his mind 
 seriously to socks. 
 
 *'I don't know, mother." 
 
270 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 "But you must care for one or the other." 
 
 "No, I don't." 
 
 "I think the thick ones are better. They don't feel quite 
 so comfortable perhaps. ... Ah! there's the bell stopping. 
 We shall be late." 
 
 In church, influenced by the fickering candles, the familiar 
 chants, the sense of a cosy and intimate trust in a Power who 
 would see one safely through the night, just as one's burning 
 night-light had guarded one when one had been very small, 
 Henry became sentimental and happy. He looked out of the 
 corner of his eye at his mother, at the so familiar wave of 
 her hair, the colour and shape of her cheek, the solid comfort 
 of her figure, and suddenly thought how old she was looking. 
 This came as a revelation to him : he fancied that even in the 
 last week there had been a little change. He moved closer to 
 her : then he saw that her eye was fixed upon a small choir- 
 boy who had been eating sweets. The eye was stern and so 
 full of command and assurance that Henry's sentiment sud- 
 denly shrivelled into nothing. His mother wanted nobody's 
 help — ^he sighed and thought about other things. Soon he 
 was singing "Abide with me" in his ugly, untuneful voice, 
 pleased that the choir lingered over it in an abominable fash- 
 ion, trying now and then to sing 'second', and miserably fail- 
 ing. 
 
 But, although he did not know it, Mrs. Trenchard had 
 realised her son's mood. . . . 
 
 So, at last, tired, a little hysterical, feeling as though heavy 
 steam rollers had, during the day, passed over their bodies, 
 they were all assembled for supper. Sunday supper should 
 be surely a meal very hot and very quickly over: instead it 
 is, in all really proper English families, very cold and quite 
 interminable. There were, to-night, seated round the enor- 
 mous table Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Betty, Aunt Aggie, Kath- 
 erine, Millie and Henry. George Trenchard and Eachel 
 Seddon were spending the evening with Timothy Faunder: 
 
SUNDAY 271 
 
 Philip had not yet returned from his walk. A tremendous 
 piece of cold roast beef was in front of Mrs. Trenchard; 
 in front of Henry were two cold chickens. There was a 
 salad in a huge glass dish, it looked very cold indeed. 
 There was a smaller glass dish with beetroot. There 
 was a large apple-tart, a white blancmange, with little "dobs'* 
 of raspberry jam round the side of the dish. There was a 
 plate of stiff and unfriendly celery — item a gorgonzola 
 cheese, item a family of little woolly biscuits, clustered 
 together for warmth, item a large "bought" cake that had not 
 been cut yet and was grimly determined that it never should 
 be, item what was known as "Toasted Water" (a grim family 
 mixture of no colour and a faded, melancholy taste) in a vast 
 jug, item, silver, white table-cloth, napkin-rings quite without 
 end. Everything seemed to shiver as they sat down. 
 
 Aunt Aggie, as she saw the blancmange shaking its sides 
 at her, thought that she would have been wiser to have gone 
 straight upstairs instead of coming in to supper. She knew 
 that her tooth would begin again as soon as she saw this 
 food. She had had a wretched day. Katherine, before lunch- 
 eon, had been utterly unsympathetic, Henry at tea-time had 
 laughed at her. ... At any rate, in a minute, there would 
 b ) soup. On Sunday evening, in order to give the servants 
 freedom, they waited upon themselves, but soup was the 
 one concession to comfort. Aunt Aggie thought she would 
 have her soup and then go up quietly to bed. One eye was 
 upon the door, looking for Eocket. Her tooth seemed to 
 promise her: "If you give me soup I won't ache." 
 
 "iBeef, Aggie — or chicken," said Mrs. Trenchard. "!N"o 
 soup to-night, I'm afraid. They've all got leave to-night, 
 even Rocket and Kebekah. There's a meeting at the Chapel 
 that seemed important . . . yes . . . beef or chicken, 
 Aggie ?" 
 
 Aunt Aggie, pulling all her self-control together, said: 
 "Beef, please." Her tooth, savage at so direct an insult, 
 leapt upon her. 
 
272 THE GKEEN MIEKOE 
 
 Aunt Betty, in her pleasant voice, began a story. "I must 
 say I call it strange. In the 'Church Times' for this week 
 there's a letter about 'Church-Kneelers' by 'A Vicar' — com- 
 plaining, you know . . . Well — " 
 
 "Beef or chicken, Millie?" said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 
 "Chicken, please," said Millie. "Shall I cut the bread?" 
 
 "White, please," said Henry. 
 
 "Well — " went on Aunt Betty. "As I was saying, on 
 'Church-Kneelers' signed by 'A Vicar'. Well, it's a very curi- 
 ous thing, but you remember, Harriet, that nice Mr, Eed- 
 path— " 
 
 "One moment, Betty, please," said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 
 "Not so much as that, Harry. Simply the leg. Thank 
 you, dear. Simply the leg. That nice Mr. Eedpath — ^with 
 the nice wife and so many dear little children — ^he was curate 
 to Mr. Williams of St. Clemens for years. Harriet, you'll 
 remember — one year all the children had scarlet fever to- 
 gether, and two of the poor little things died, although I 
 couldn't help thinking that really it was rather a mercy — " 
 
 "Mustard, please," said Henry. 
 
 "More beef, Aggie ?" said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 
 "Ifo, thank you," said Aggie, snapping her teeth upon a 
 piece of bread. She was thinking: "How selfish they all 
 are! They can't see how I'm suffering!" 
 
 "Well, that Mr. Eedpath — You must remember him, Har- 
 riet, because he had a red moustache and a rather fine white 
 forehead — when he left Mr. Williams got a living some- 
 where in Yorkshire, near York, I think, or was it Scarbor- 
 ough? Scarborough, because I remember when I virrote to 
 congratulate him he answered me in such a nice letter, and 
 said that it would be just the place for the children. You 
 remember, Katherine, I showed it you." 
 
 "Yes," said Katherine. 
 
 Henry, hearing her voice, looked across at her and then 
 dropped his eyes upon his plate. 
 
 She seemed herself again. Had her letter made her 
 
SUNDAY 273 
 
 happy ? Witli a sudden start he realised that Millie also was 
 watching her. . . 
 
 "Well, it must have been about 1900 that Mr. Kedpath 
 went to Scarborough. I remember it was the year before that 
 dreadful wet school treat here, when we didn't know where 
 to put all the children. I know the year after he went 
 there poor Mrs. Eedpath died and left him with all those 
 little children—" 
 
 Just at that moment Philip came in. He came with 
 the spray of the sea still wet upon his cheeks, his hair shining 
 with it. His colour flaming, his eyes on fire. He had been, 
 in the wind and darkness, down the Eafiel Road to the point 
 above Tredden Cove where the sea broke inland. Here, deaf- 
 ened by the wind, blinded by the night, the sea-mist, now 
 lashing his face, now stroking it softly with gentle fingers, 
 he had stood on the edge of the world and heard the waters 
 that are beyond the world exult in their freedom and scorn 
 for men. He, too, standing there, had had scorn for him- 
 self. He had seen Katherine's eyes as she turned from him 
 in the garden, he had seen his own wretched impatience and 
 temper and selfishness. "!Py heaven," he thought, as he 
 strode back, "I'll never be so contemptible again. I'll make 
 them all trust me and like me. As for Katherine . . ." and 
 so he burst in upon them, without even brushing his hair 
 first. Also, the only vacant chair was next to Aunt Aggie. . . . 
 
 Aunt Betty, who thought that Philip's entry had been a 
 little violent and abmipt, felt that she had better cover it with 
 the continuation of her story. 
 
 "And so the next year Mr. Eedpath married again — quite 
 a young woman. I never saw her, but Nelly Hickling knew 
 her quite well. She always said that she reminded her of 
 Clara Foster. You know, Harriet, the younger one with 
 the dark hair and pretty eyes." 
 
 But Philip had looked across at Katherine, her eyes had 
 met his, and very faintly, as it were secretly, she smiled: 
 the whirl of that encounter had hidden Aunt Betty's voice 
 
274 THE GEEEN MIEKOK 
 
 from him. He did not know that lie was interrupting her. 
 
 "It was a good walk, and it's raining like anything. The 
 sea was coming in over the Cove like thunder." 
 
 No one answered him, and he realised suddenly that all 
 the food was cold. No matter : he was used to Sunday sup- 
 per by this time, and he was of a ferocious hunger. "Lots 
 of beef, please," he said, with a laugh. 
 
 Aunt Aggie shuddered. Her tooth was in her eye and 
 her toes at the same moment; Annie had forgotten to call 
 her, there had been no eggs for breakfast, Katherine at 
 luncheon had been unsympathetic, at tea, before strangers 
 (or nearly strangers), Henry had laughed at her, at supper 
 there had been no soup, <Betty, who in the morning had 
 been idiotic enough to think Mr. Smart's sermon a good 
 one, in the evening had been idiotic enough to commence one 
 of her interminable stories, the day had as usual been dreary 
 and heavy and slow, and now that terrible young man, whom 
 she had always hated, must come in, late and dripping, 
 without even washing his hands, makes no apologies, de- 
 mands food as though he were a butcher, smiles upon every- 
 one with perfect complacency, is not apparently in the least 
 aware of other people's feelings — this horrible young man, 
 who had already made everyone about him miserable and 
 cross and restless : no, deeply though Aunt Aggie had always 
 disliked Philip, she had never really hated him until this 
 evening. 
 
 Although he was sitting next to her, he could not possibly 
 have been more unconscious of her. . . . 
 
 "You are interrupting my sister," she said. 
 
 He started and flushed. "Oh! I beg your pardon," he 
 stammered. 
 
 "JSTo, please, it's nothing," said Aunt Betty. 
 
 "You were saying something about Mr. Williams, Betty 
 dear," said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 
 "No, please, its nothing," said Aunt Betty. 
 
 There was silence after that. Philip waited, and then. 
 
SUNDAY 275 
 
 feeling that something must be done, said: "Well, Henry, 
 I wish you'd been out with me. You'd have loved it. Why 
 didn't you come ?" 
 
 "I'm sure he was better at church," said Aunt Aggie. Her 
 tooth said to her : "Go for him ! Go for him ! Go for him !" 
 
 Philip realised then her hostility. His face hardened. 
 What a tiresome old woman she was, always cross and rest- 
 less and wanting attention! He kept silent. That annoyed 
 her: he seemed so big and overbearing when he sat so close 
 to her. 
 
 "And I don't know," she went on, "whether you are really 
 the best companion for Henry." 
 
 Everyone looked up then at the bitterness in Aimt Aggie's 
 voice ; no one heard Mrs. Trenchard say : 
 
 "Do have some tart, Henry." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" said Philip sharply. His proximity 
 to her made in some way the anger between them absurd: 
 they were so close that they could not look at one another. 
 
 "Oh, nothing . . . nothing. . . ." She closed her lips. 
 
 "Please . . ." Philip insisted. "Why am I a bad com- 
 panion for Henry?" 
 
 "Because you make him drink . . . disgusting!" she 
 brought out furiously : when she had spoken her eyes went to 
 Katherine's face — then, as she saw Katherine's eyes fixed on 
 Philip's, her face hardened. "Yes. You know it's true," 
 she repeated. 
 
 Henry broke in. "What do you say, Aunt Aggie ? What 
 do you mean ? Drink — I — ^what ?" 
 
 "You know that it's true, Henry. That night that you 
 dined with Philip ij^ London — ^You came back — disgraceful. 
 Philip had to carry you. You fell on the top of the stairs. 
 He had to lift you up and carry you into your room. I 
 watched it all. Well — I didn't mean to say anything. I'm 
 sorry, Harriet, if I — perhaps not quite the right time — but 
 I— I—" 
 
 Her voice sank to muttering; her hands shook like leaves 
 
276 THE GREEN MIEEOR 
 
 on the tablecloth and her tooth was sayilig: "Go for him! 
 Go for him ! Go for him !" 
 
 And for Philip it was as though, after all these Weeks 
 of waiting, not only the family but the whole place had at 
 last broken into its definite challenge. 
 
 Beyond the room he could feel the garden, the lawn, the 
 oak, the sea-road, the moor, even Eafiel itself, with its little 
 square window-pane harbour, crowding up to the window, 
 listening, crying to him : "YouVe got to be broken ! You've 
 got to go or be broken ! , . ." The definite moment had come 
 at last. 
 
 His eyes never left Katherine's face as he answered : 
 
 "It's perfectly true. I don't know how it happened, but 
 we had been having supper quite soberly together, and then 
 Henry was suddenly drunk. I swear he'd had simply noth- 
 ing to drink. He was quite suddenly drunk, all in a mo- 
 ment. I was never more surprised in my life. I suppose 
 I should have prevented it, but I swear to you it would 
 have surprised anyone — ^really, you would have been sur- 
 prised, Mrs. Trenchard." 
 
 Henry, whose face was first flaming, then white, said, 
 sulkily: "It wasn't Philip's fault. ... I wasn't used to it. 
 Anyway, I don't see why there need be such a fuss about it. 
 What Aunt Aggie wants to drag it in now for just when 
 everyone's tired after Sunday. It isn't as though I were 
 always drunk — just once — everyone's drunk sometime." 
 
 "I've never said anything," Aunt Aggie began. 
 
 "No, that's just it," Philip broke in, suddenly flashing 
 round upon her. "That's just it. You've never said any- 
 thing until now. Why haven't you? Why, all this time, 
 have you kept it, hugging it to yourself? . . . That's what 
 you've all been doing. You never tell me anything. You 
 never treat me really frankly, but if you've got something 
 you think will do damage you keep it carefully until the best 
 moment for letting it go off. You're all as secret with me 
 as though I were a criminal. You ask me down here, and 
 
SUNDAY 21-7 
 
 then keep me out of everything. I know you dislike me 
 and think I oughtn't to marry Katherine — ^but why can't you 
 say so instead of keeping so quiet ? You think I shouldn't 
 have Katherine — ^but you can't stop it, and you know^ you 
 can't. . . . I'm sorry." He was conscious of the silence 
 and many pairs of eyes and of much quivering cold food 
 and the ticking of a large grandfather's clock saying: 'You 
 are rude. You are rude — ^You shouldn't — do it — You 
 shouldn't — do it.' 
 
 But he was also conscious of a quivering life that ran, like 
 quicksilver, through the world outside, through all the 
 streams, woods, paths, into the very heart of the sea. His 
 eyes were on Mrs. Trenchard's face. 
 
 "I apologise if I've been rude, but to-day — a day like this 
 — awful — " He broke off abruptly, and moved as though he 
 would get up. It was then that the Dreadful Thing oc- 
 curred. 
 
 He pushed his chair, and it knocked against Aunt Aggie's, 
 jolting her. She, conscious that she was responsible for an 
 abominable scene, conscious that she had lost all that fine 
 dignity and self-command in which, through her lifetime, she 
 had seen herself arrayed, conscious of her tooth, of a horrible 
 Sunday, of many Sundays in front of her equally horrible 
 (conscious, above all, of some doubt as to whether she were 
 a fine figure, whether the world would be very different with- 
 out her, conscious of the menace of her own cherished per- 
 sonal allusion), driven forward, moreover, by the individual 
 experiences that Mrs. Trenchard, Millie, Henry, Katherine 
 had had that day (because all their experiences were now in 
 the room, crowding and pressing against their victims), see- 
 ing simply Philip, an abominable intrusion into what had 
 formerly been a peaceful and honourable life, Philip, now and 
 always her enemy ... at the impact of his chair against 
 hers, her tooth said "Go !" 
 
 She raised her thin hand and slapped him. Her two rings 
 cut his cheek. 
 
278 THE GKEEIT MIEKOE 
 
 When the House was finally quiet and dark again, Eebekah 
 alone was left. Stiff, solemn, slow, she searched the rooms, 
 tried the doors, fastened the windows, marched with her 
 candle up the back stairs into the heart of the house. 
 
 It had been a dull, uneventful Sunday. Nothing had 
 occurred. 
 
CHAPTEK VII 
 
 EOCHE ST, MABY MOOE 
 
 ' I ^ EEROE is a tall word ; it should not, perhaps, be used, 
 ■'- in this trivial history, in connection with the feelings 
 and motives of so youthfully comfortable a character as 
 Philip — ^nevertheless very nearly akin to terror itself was 
 Philip's emotion on discovering the results of his disgraceful 
 encounter with Aunt Aggie . . . because there were no re- 
 sults. 
 
 As he had watched Aunt Aggie trembling, silent, emo- 
 tional, retreat (after striking Philip she had risen and, with- 
 out a word, left the room), he had thought that theimoment 
 for all his cards to be placed dramatically upon the Tren- 
 chard table had at last come. Perhaps they would tell him 
 that he must go ; they would openly urge Katherine to aban- 
 don him, and then, faced, with force and violence, by the 
 two alternatives, he was assured, absolutely assured, of her 
 loyalty to himself. He saw her, protesting that she would 
 love them all, reminded that (Philip being proved an 
 abomination) she must now choose, finally going out into 
 the world with Philip. 
 
 He went to his room that Sunday evening triumphant. No 
 more Trenchard secrets and mysteries — ^thanks to that hor- 
 rible old woman, the way was clear. He came down the 
 next morning to breakfast expecting to be treated with chilly 
 politeness, to be asked to interview George Trenchard in his 
 study, to hear Trenchard say: "Well, my dear boy — I'm 
 very sorry of course — but you must see with me that it's 
 better to break off . . ." and then his reply. 
 
 279 
 
280 THE GEEEN MIREOE 
 
 "That, sir, must remain with Katherine. I am bound to 
 her. . . ." No, he had no fear of the result. As he came 
 down the stairs on that Monday morning, a fine hot spring 
 day, with the mist of the spring heat hazy above the shining 
 grass, his eyes were lighter, his spirits higher than they had 
 been since his first coming to Garth, He entered the dining- 
 room, and thought that he had dreamt yesterday's incidents. 
 
 Millie cried — "Hullo, Phil! Late as usual." 
 
 George Trenchard said: "Philip, what do you say to a 
 drive over to Trezent ? It's a good day and I've some busi- 
 ness there." 
 
 Aunt Aggie gave him her withered hand to shake with 
 exactly the proud, peevish air that she always used to him. 
 There was a scratch on his face where her rings had cut 
 him; he looked at her rings . . . yes, he was surely dream- 
 ing. Then there crept to him the conviction that the plot — 
 the family plot — seen before vaguely, mysteriously and un- 
 certainly — ^was now developing before his eyes as something 
 far deeper, far more soundless, far more determined than he 
 had ever conceived. Mrs. Trenchard, smiling there at the 
 head of the table, knew what she was about. That outburst 
 of Aunt Aggie's last night had been a slip — They would make 
 no more. 
 
 His little quarrel with Katherine had needed no words to 
 mark its conclusion. He loved her, he felt, just twice as 
 deeply as he had loved her before ... he was not sure, 
 though, that he was not now a little — a very little — afraid 
 of her. . . . 
 
 In the middle of the week, waking, very early on the 
 most wonderful of all spring mornings, his inspiration came 
 to him. 
 
 He got up, and about half-past seven was knocking on 
 Katherine's door. She spoke to him from within the room. 
 
 "Katie!" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
EOCHE ST. MAEY MOOE 281 
 
 He whispered to her in the half-lit house, across whose 
 floors the light, carrying the scent of the garden-flowers, shook 
 and trembled ; he felt a conspirator. 
 
 "Look here! You've got to dress at once and come off 
 with me somewhere." 
 
 "Gooff!" 
 
 "Yes, for the day ! I've thought it all out. We can take 
 the pony-cart and just catch the nine o'clock at Easselas. 
 That'll get us to Clinton by ten. We'll be down in Eoche 
 Cove by eleven — spend the day there, catch the eight-thirty 
 back and be in the house again by half -past ten to-night." 
 
 There was a pause, filled with the delighted twittering of a 
 company of sparrows beyond the open passage-window. 
 
 At last her voice : 
 
 "Yes. I'll come." 
 
 "Good. . . . Hurry! , . . I'll tell them downstairs." 
 
 When the family assembled for breakfast a.nd he told them, 
 his eyes challenged Mrs. Trenchard's. 
 
 "ISTow, look here," his eyes said, "I'm the dreadful young 
 man who is teaching your boy Henry to drink, who's ruining 
 your domestic peace- — surely you're not, without protest, go- 
 ing to allow me a whole day with Katherine !" 
 
 And her eyes answered him. 
 
 "Oh, I'm not afraid. . . . You'll come back. You're a 
 weak young man." 
 
 In the train he considered, with a beating heart, his proj- 
 ect. The day encouraged adventure, boldness, romance; he 
 was still young enough to believe in the intangible illusion 
 of a Deity Who hangs His signs and colours upon the sky 
 to signify His approval of one bold mortal's projects, and 
 no ironic sense of contrast attacked, as yet, his belief. If 
 the Trenchards refused to make the incident of Sunday night 
 a crisis, he would, himself, force them to recognise it. He 
 had been passive long enough ... he did not know that, 
 all his life, he had never been anything else. 
 
 In the train they talked to oue another very little. Bte 
 
282 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 watched her and was bewildered, as are all lovers, by her 
 proximity and her remoteness. The very love that brought 
 her so close to him made her the more remote because it 
 clothed her in strange mystery. 
 
 She was further from him than Anna had ever been, be- 
 cause he loved her more deeply . . . and at the thought of 
 Anna — so constant now and so sinister — ^he had a sudden 
 fear of the success of his project. . . . 
 
 Clinton St. Mary is a village, with one ugly street, on the 
 very edge of Eoche St. Mary Moor. It has visitors from 
 the outside world because, in a hollow in the moor, lie the 
 remains of St, Arthe Church, one of the earliest Christian 
 buildings in Great Britain, 'buried until lately in the sand, 
 but recently excavated through the kind generosity of Sir 
 John PorthcuUis, Bart., of Borhaze, and shown to visitors, 
 6d. a head — ^Wednesday and Saturday afternoons free.' Tour- 
 ists therefore continually patronise 'The Hearty Cow' in Clin- 
 ton, where there is every day a cold luncheon — ^ham, chicken, 
 beef, tart, junket, cheese — for half-a-crown a-head. Kath- 
 erine also had relations here, the Vicar, the Eev. James Tren- 
 ehard, being a cousin 'and a dear old man'. However, to-day 
 the world should be for themselves alone. In the village they 
 bought ginger-beer, ham-sandwiches, saffron bims, chocolate. 
 They set off across the Moor. 
 
 When they had walked a very little way they were sud- 
 denly engulfed. Behind them the road, the trees, the village 
 were wrapped in blue haze: to the right, very faintly the 
 yellow sand-hills hovered. In the sandy ground at their feet 
 little pools that caught blue fragments of sky shone like 
 squares of marble : out of the tufts of coarse grass larks rose, 
 circling, like sudden sprays of some flashing into the air 
 as a fountain flashes: no mortal being was visible in this 
 world. 
 
 They walked for two hours and exchanged scarcely a word. 
 Philip felt as though he had never had Katherine alone with 
 him before since the day of their engagement — always there 
 
KOCHE ST. MAKY MOOE 283 
 
 had been people between them, and, if not people, then his 
 own silly fancies and imaginations. As he looked his love 
 was now neither reasoning nor hesitating. "I am stronger 
 than you all," he could shout to the ironical heavens, for 
 the first time in all his days. Then she spoke to him, and 
 her voice reminded him of his desperate plans. . . . His 
 confidence left him. It was his great misfortune that he 
 never believed in himself. 
 
 "Very little, this morning, was Katherine troubled about 
 dreams or fancies. She was happy, as she had always been 
 happy, with absolute simplicity, her trust in the ultimate per- 
 fection of the world being so strong in her that a fine day, her 
 closeness to Philip, her own bodily health and fitness were 
 enough to sweep all morbidities far away. She had not been 
 happy lately — some new force had been stirring in her that 
 was strange to her and unreal, like a bad dream. 
 
 But now her unhappiness of the last weeks was as faint 
 as the hazy mist, as shadowy as the thin curtain of sea that 
 now spread before them, hung like gauze between two humped 
 and staring sand-hills. They rushed down the deep cup of 
 the sand-valley and up, through the thin wiry grass, to 
 the top, then down again, then up once more to be perched 
 on the very edge of the path that twisted down to their 
 Cove. The sea-breeze, warm and soft, invited them. . . . 
 Down they went. 
 
 The Cove was hidden by black rocks, piled together, seem- 
 ing, through the mist, to be animals herded together to 
 guard its sanctity. Under the rocks the Cove lay, curved like 
 a small golden saucer, the sea forming here a thin glassy 
 lake, protected by a further range of rocks that extended, as 
 though placed there by human agency, across the mouth of 
 the tiny circle. The water within the rocks was utterly clear, 
 the seaweed, red-gold and green, covering the inside of the 
 cup: when the waves broke beyond the barrier they were 
 echoed here by a faint ripple that trembled, in green shadows, 
 like a happy sigh across the surface, and, with this ripple, 
 
284 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 came the echo of the dull boom that the surging tide was 
 making in the distant caves: this echo was a giant's chuckle, 
 sinister, malevolent, but filtered. When the tide was coming 
 in, the ripples, running in faint lines from side to side, cov- 
 ered the shining surface of the rocks and stones, with layers 
 of water, thin and fine like silk, now purple, now golden, 
 now white and grey. 
 
 The silk stretched over the rocks, drew itself taut, then 
 spilt itself suddenly, with a delighted ecstasy, in cascades 
 of shining water, into the breast of the retreating tide. As 
 the tide went out, very reluctantly the colour withdrew from 
 the rocks, leaving them, at last, hard and dry beneath the 
 sun . . . but at the heart of the smooth, glassy cup, on these 
 warm spring days, there was a great peace and content : birds, 
 sea-gulls, sparrows, thrushes, came to the edge of the golden 
 sand, and with trembling, twittering happiness listened to the 
 hollow booming in the distant caves. 
 
 Lying there, on the little beach, upon such a spring day as 
 this, man might be assured that the world had been made only 
 for his especial comfort and safety. The intense blue of the 
 sky, the green wall of hill behind him, these things could not 
 change: for an hour of his journey, life, gay rather than 
 solemn, humorous rather than ironic, satisfying and complete, 
 would seem to be revealed to him. He would wonder that he 
 had ever doubted it. . . . 
 
 Katherine and Philip lay, for a long time, saying very 
 little, listening to the gentle hiss of the water, watching the 
 line, beyond the rocks, where the sea was suddenly deep blue, 
 feeling the sun upon their faces, and the little breeze that, 
 once and again, with a sudden gesture of merriment ruffled 
 the faces of the golden pools with a flurry of grey splashes 
 and shadows. They ate their sandwiches and saffron buns 
 and drank their ginger-beer, which resembled hot-soap-and- 
 water : Katherine waited. She knew that Philip had some- 
 thing to say to her, that he had brought her here with some 
 purpose, and she seemed to know also that that gentle sunnj 
 
EOCHE ST. MAEY MOOE 285 
 
 hour of tte late morning was to be the last moment in sonle 
 stage in her life. Her fltst meeting with him, his proposal 
 to her, her talk afterwards with her mother, her coming to 
 Garth with him, his confession at Eafiel, their first quarrel 
 yesterday — all these had been stages in her growth. She 
 waited now with a struggle, a maturity that had be^n far 
 from her experience a year ago. 
 
 He began at last, holding her hand covered by both of his, 
 searching her eyes with his, very grave; she saw with a 
 little loving smile to herself that he intended to be of an 
 immense seriousness, that his sense of humour was very 
 far away. He began as though he were carrying through 
 the most tremendous business of his life — and a sparrowj 
 perched on the water's edge, seemed to watch his gravity with 
 a twitter of superior amusement. 
 
 "Do you mind my talking now a little ? There's something 
 I've got to say." 
 
 "It's a beautiful place for talking. There's no Aunt Aggie 
 . . . only one sparrow to overhear us." 
 
 "But it's really important — ^terribly important. It's simply 
 this — ^that last night was a crisis. I'm never going back to 
 Garth again." 
 
 Katherine laughed, but her eyes were suddenly fright- 
 ened. 
 
 "My dear Phil . . . What do you mean?" 
 
 "ISTo, I'm not — I mean — at least not until certain things 
 have happened. You're not going back either — " 
 
 "I'm not going back?" 
 
 "JSTo, not as Miss Katherine Trenchard — one day as Mrs. 
 Philip Mark, perhaps." 
 
 Katherine drew her hand from his, sat up, looked oilt 
 to the deep blue line of sea, said, at last, quietly : 
 
 "Now please, Philip, explain the joke, The afternoon's 
 too lovely to be wasted." 
 
 "There is no joke. I'm perfectly serious. I can't stand 
 it any longer. / cannot stand it — and when I say 'it' I mean 
 
286 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 the family, their treatment of me, their dislike of me, their 
 determination to swallow me up in their feather-hed and make 
 an end of me — ^the whole long engagement ; you're suffering. 
 Tm suffering. You were wretched yesterday — so was I. 
 When you're wretched I could hum the whole family, Garth 
 and Glebeshire and all included and waste no pity whatever." 
 
 But Katherine only laughed : 
 
 "Do you know, Phil, you're exaggerating the whole thing 
 in the most ridiculous manner. It's quite natural — it's be- 
 cause you don't know our habits and manners. Aunt Aggie 
 lost her temper last night — ^we were all rather worked up — 
 Sunday can be awful. She won't lose her temper again. We 
 had a quarrel. Well, I suppose all lovers have quarrels. You 
 think they'll all be terribly shocked because you let Henry 
 drink too much that night in London. That shows that you 
 simply don't know the family at all, because if you did you'd 
 know that it's never shocked at anything that it hasn't seen 
 with its own eyes. Aunt Aggie saw Henry, so she luas 
 shocked — ^but for the others ... If they were to know — 
 well, what you told me at Eafiel — ^then — perhaps — " 
 
 "Then ?" Philip cried eagerly. 
 
 "They might be — I don't know what they'd do." She 
 turned her eyes to his face again. "But you're so impatient, 
 Phil. You want everything to happen in a minute — ^You're 
 discontented because they all have their own lives, which you 
 can't share. But you're so strange. I'm the person whose 
 life you ought to share, and yet you don't. You've hardly 
 looked at all this. You've taken no interest at all in the fish- 
 ermen or the villagers. Garth is nothing to you — " 
 
 "I hate Garth !" he broke out furiously. "I—" Then he 
 dropped his voice. "That'll all come later. . . . I'll just say 
 this about myself. It's only what I've always told you, that 
 I'm simply not worthy for you to care about me. You may 
 have had some illusions about me at first. You can't have 
 any now. I'm weak and backboneless, always wanting things 
 better than I can have them, ready to be influenced by simply 
 
EOCHE ST. MAEY MOOE 287 
 
 anyone if they're nice to me, hating it when people aren't nice. 
 I'm no good at all, except for one thing — ^my love for you." 
 
 He bent forward and drew her towards him. 
 
 "I have never known anything like it before. I shall never 
 know anything like it again — and just because I do know 
 myself so well I'm going to hold on to it and let nothing take 
 it from me. They, all of them — are doing their best to take it 
 from me. Your mother knows me much better than you do. 
 . . . She despises me completely and she knows the way to 
 influence me." 
 
 Katherine would have spoken, but he stopped her, 
 
 "Oh, yes, she does. Have you noticed that she and I are 
 never alone together, that we never have talks nor walks nor 
 anything ? She is always perfectly kind, but she knows, and I 
 know that she knows, that if I were once to get really intimate 
 with her I might overcome my fright of her, that it's by my 
 imagination of her that she's influencing me. And she is . . . 
 she is . . . she is." His hand trembled against Katherine. 
 "You don't know. You don't see ! You love her and think 
 that she's simply your mother. But you don't know. . , . 
 Already she can get me to do anything she likes. If she wants 
 me to waste every day doing nothing, thinking nothing, be- 
 coming a stupid bore, with no ambitions, no lips of his own, 
 no energy — and that's what she does want — she's making me 
 exactly that. I feel her when she's not there— all over the 
 house, in the garden, in the roads. I can't escape her. In 
 half a year's time, when the wedding day comes, all I shall 
 want is to be allowed to cut the flowers for the dinner-table 
 and to hold your mother's wool when she's winding it." 
 
 He paused, stood suddenly upon his feet: "It's like my 
 own mother over again — only Mrs. Trenchard's cleverer , . , 
 but I tell you, Katie, you shan't marry a man like that. If 
 you marry me down there, and we're to spend all our lives 
 there, a year after marriage you'll despise me, hate me for the 
 thing I've become. . . . I've thought it all out. That scene 
 
288 THE GREEN MIREOE 
 
 last night decided me. You shan't go back — ^not until we're 
 married." 
 
 He stood proudly facing her, his whole body stirred to his 
 decision. But even then, as she looked at him she saw that 
 his upper lip trembled a little — ^his upper lip had always 
 been weak. He looked down at her, then sat very close to her, 
 leaning towards her as though he were pleading with her. 
 
 "I know that ever since our engagement you've been think- 
 ing that I've imagined things. Perhaps I have. Perhaps 
 that's my way, and always has been. And Eussia increased 
 my tendency. iBut if that's true then it ought to be taken 
 into account just as much as though I'd got a game leg or was 
 blind of one eye. You can't just dismiss it and say : 'He's 
 a silly ass — ^he oughtn't to imagine things'. I know that if I 
 were sensible I should just hang on for six months more, 
 marry you and then take you right off. But I know myself 
 —by that time I shall simply do exactly what your mother 
 tells me — and she'll tell me to dig potatoes in the garden." 
 
 "You're unjust to yourself, Phil," looking up at him. 
 "You're not so weak . . . and soon you'll love Garth. You'll 
 understand the family, even perhaps mother. It must come 
 — it must. I want it so." 
 
 "It will never come," he answered her firmly. "You 
 can make up your mind to that now for ever. The only way 
 we can live altogether like a happy family in the future is for 
 me to become a chair or table or one of your aunt's green 
 cushions. That's what I shall become if I don't do something 
 now." 
 
 She waited because she saw that he had more to say. 
 
 "And do you suppose that even then any of us would be 
 happy? See already how everyone is changed! Millie, 
 Henry, Aunt Aggie, you, even your father. Isn't he always 
 wondering now what's come over everyone? There's a sur- 
 prised look in his eyes. And it's I!. ..I!. ..I! It's 
 like a pebble in your shoe that you can't find. I'm the peb- 
 ble, and they'U never be comfortable so long as I'm here. 
 
EOCHE ST. MAEY MOOK 289 
 
 They're not only threatened with losing you, they're threat- 
 ened with losing their confidence, their trust, their super- 
 stitions." 
 
 "I'm one of them," Katherine said. "You forget that. 
 We may be slow and stupid and unimaginative, as you say, 
 but we are fond of one another. You're impatient, Phil. I 
 tell you to wait . . . wait !" 
 
 "Wait !" He looked out to sea, where the bar of blue was 
 now sown with white dancing feathers. "I can't wait . . . 
 there's something else. There's Anna." 
 
 Katherine nodded her head as though she had known that 
 this would come. 
 
 "Ever since that day at Eafiel she's been between us; 
 you've knov^n it as well as I. It hasn't been quite as I'd 
 expected. I thought perhaps that you'd be shocked. You 
 weren't shocked. I thought that I'd be confused myself. I 
 haven't been confused. You've wanted to know about her — 
 anything I could tell you. You've simply been curious, as 
 you might, about anyone I'd known before I met you — ^but 
 the business has been this, that the more you've asked the 
 more I've thought about her. The more she's come back to 
 me. It hasn't been ^ that I've wanted her, even that I've 
 thought tenderly about her, only that your curiosity has re- 
 vived all that life as though I were back in it all again. I've 
 remembered so much that I'd forgotten." 
 
 Katherine took his hand and came close to him. "Yes. 
 I knew that it was like that," she said. "I knew that it was 
 foolish of me to ask questions, to make you talk about her, 
 and I couldn't help myself — I loiew that it was foolish, and 
 I couldn't help myself. And the strange thing is that I don't 
 suppose I've ever wondered about anyone whom I didn't 
 know in my life before. I've never been able to imagine 
 people unless I had pictures or something to help me. But 
 now — I seem to see her as though I'd known her all my days. 
 And I'm not jealous — no, truly, truly, I'm not jealous. And 
 yet I don't like her — I grudge — ^I grudge — " 
 
290 THE GEEEN MIEKOK 
 
 She suddenly hid her face in the sleeve of his coat and her 
 hand went up to his cheek. 
 
 Philip, holding her with his arm as though he were pro- 
 tecting her, went on: "And you've felt that I didn't want 
 you to ask me questions ahout her — and you've heen silent. 
 I knew that you were silent because you were afraid of my 
 restlessness, and that has made restraint between us. You 
 wouldn't speak and I wouldn't speak, and we've both been 
 thinking of Anna until we've created her between us. It's so 
 like her — so like her. Why,", he went on, "you'll think this 
 absurd perhaps — ^but I don't know — it's not so absurd when 
 you've lived with her. I wrote and told her about us — about 
 our engagement. I've never had an answer from her, but I 
 can fancy her saying to herself: 'It would be amusing to 
 bring him back to me — ^not that I want him. I should be 
 bored to death if I had to live with him again — ^but just for 
 the humour of it. He was always so weak. He'll come if I 
 ask him.' 
 
 "I can imagine her saying that, and then I can imagine 
 her just projecting herself over here into the middle of us — 
 simply for the fun of it. I can see her laughing to herself in 
 the way she used to when she saw people behaving in what 
 she thought was a childish fashion. So now she'll think us all 
 childish, and she'll simply come here, her laughing, mocking 
 spirit — and dp her best to break us all up." 
 
 "You're afraid of her !" Katherine cried, as though she 
 were challenging him. 
 
 "Yes. I'm afraid of her," he acknowledged. 
 
 "Well, I'm not," she answered. "She can do her utmost. 
 She can laugh as much as she pleases." 
 
 "She shall be given no chance," he answered eagerly. 
 "See, Katherine ! Listen ! . . . All that matters is that we 
 should be married. She can't touch us then — Garth can't 
 touch us, the family can't touch us. I suddenly saw it as an 
 inspiration — that you've got to come up with me now — to 
 London. We'll get a special licence. We'll be married to- 
 
EOCHE ST. MAEY MOOE 291 
 
 morrow. If we catcli the five-thirty from Truxe we'll be up 
 there soon after midnight. We can get a trap in Clinton to 
 drive us over. It's got to be. It's just got to be. There can 
 be no alternative." 
 
 She shook her head smiling. "What a baby you are, Phil ! 
 Just because Aunt Aggie lost her temper last night we've got 
 to be married in half an hour. And what about our promise 
 to father of a year's engagement ?" 
 
 "That's all right," he answered eagerly. "If your father 
 had wanted to break off the engagement before the year's up 
 he'd have done so, you can be sure." 
 
 She laughed. "But I don't want to be married all in a 
 minute. You don't know how women care about trousseaux 
 and presents and bells and — " 
 
 "Ah! Please, Katie! . . . It's most awfully serious! 
 Please—" 
 
 She was grave then. They stood up together on the little 
 beach, her arm round his neck. 
 
 "Phil. I do understand better than you think. But do 
 you know what it would mean if we were to run away now 
 like this? My mother would never forgive me. It would 
 mean that I was throwing off everything — ^the place, mother, 
 all my life. ... Of course I would throw it away for you 
 if that were the only course to take. But it isn't the only 
 course. You see life exaggerated, Phil. Everything that 
 happened yesterday has irritated you. To-morrow — " 
 
 "To-morrow may be too late," he answered her. "At least 
 give my idea half an hour, I'll go off now for a walk by my- 
 self. In half an hour's time I'll be back. Dc your best 
 for me." 
 
 She looked at him, bent forward and kissed him. 
 
 "Yes, go — Come back in half an hour." 
 
 She watched him climb the rocks, wind up the path, turn 
 at the bend and look back to her, then disappear. She sat 
 down on the beach, rested her elbows on her knees and looked 
 out to sea. She was utterly alone : the pool, now spun gold, 
 
2M THE GREEN MIEEOR 
 
 beneatii a sun that was slowly sinking to bars of saffron, 
 quivered only with the reaction of the retreating tide; the 
 rocks were blkck and sharp against the evening sky. 
 
 Katherine, as she sat there, had, at first, a desperate wish 
 for the help of some older person's advice. It was not that 
 she could, for an instant, seridusly contemplate this mad pro- 
 posal of Philip's — and yet he had imparted to her some of 
 his own fear and distrust of the possible machinations of 
 heaven. What he had said was true — ^that ever since he had 
 told her about Anna it had been as though they had taken 
 some third person into their lives — ^t^lken her unwillingly, 
 klmost unconsciously, but nevertheless destructively. Then 
 also, although Katherine had denied it, she knew now that 
 what he had said about the family was true. She not only 
 could not hope now that they and Philip would ever live hap- 
 pily together — it was also the fact that they had changed. 
 Her mother had changed — ^her Aunts, her father, Millie, 
 Henry — ^they had all changed — changed to her and changed 
 to themselves. 
 
 Katherine, moreover, now for the first time in her life 
 criticised her family — even her mother. She felt as though 
 she and Philip had needed help, and that the family, instead 
 of giving it, had made difficulties and trouble. Her mother 
 had, deliberately, made trouble — ^had been hard and unkind 
 to Philip, had brought him to Garth that he might seem to 
 Katherine unsuited there, had put him into impossible posi- 
 tions and then laughed at him. Her mother had come to her 
 and asked her to give Philip up ; in retrospect that scene of 
 yesterday afternoon seemed a deliberate challenge — ^but a 
 challenge pffered behind Philip's back. 
 
 Now her whole impulse was that Philip must at all costs be 
 protected and ' defended, and, for the first time, this after- 
 noon, sitting there alone with the world all hers, she realised 
 how her feeling for him had changed. When she had first 
 known him she had fallen in love with him because she had 
 thought him the strongest, most adventurous, most fearless of 
 
KOCHE ST. MABY MOOK 293 
 
 mortal souls. !N"ow — S'lie knew that he was weak, afraid of 
 himself, unbalanced, a prey to moods, impulses, terrors — and 
 with that knowledge of him her love had grown, had flung its 
 wide arm about him, had caught him to her heart with a 
 fierce protection that the attraction for his strength had never 
 give4 her. 
 
 With her new knowledge of him came also her direct an- 
 tagonism with that other woman. She knew that what Philip 
 had said was true, that her curiosity had increased for them 
 both the live actuality of that figiire. Katharine had always 
 been afraid of cynical people, who must, always, she felt, de- 
 spise her for the simplicity of her beliefs, the confidence of 
 her trust. She remembered a woman who had, at one time, 
 been a close friend of Aunt Aggie's, a sharp, masculine 
 woman with pincenez, who, when Katherine had said any- 
 thing, had looked at her sharply through her glasses, laughed 
 as though she were ringing a coi;i to see whether it were good 
 metal, and said : 'Do you think so ?' 
 
 Katherine had hated her and been always helpless before 
 her, clumsy, awkward and tongue-tied. Now it was a woman 
 of that kind whom she was called out to challenge. Her 
 thought in church yesterday was with her now more strongly 
 than ever. "How she would despise me if she knew me! 
 . . ." and then, "what a power she must have if she can come 
 back like this into Philip's life." 
 
 And yet not such a power ! Always before him was that 
 world where he was not : his fancy, running before him, cried 
 to him: "Yes. There! There! was happiness," or "In 
 such a fashion happiness will come to you" — as though the 
 only end of life was happiness, the security of the ideal mo- 
 ment. Yes, Katherine knew why Anna had laughed at 
 Philip. 
 
 Her thoughts turned back again then to his mad idea of 
 their escape to London, and, suddenly, as though some woman 
 were with her whom she had never seen before, some voice 
 within her cried: "Ah! I wish he'd make me go! simply 
 
294 THE GREEN MIRROR 
 
 take me prisoner, force me by brutal strength, leave me no 
 ■will nor power." Her imagination, excited, almost breath- 
 less, began to play round this. She saw his return, heard him 
 ask her whether she would go with him, heard her answer 
 that she would not, heard him say: "But you are in my 
 power now. I have arranged everything. Whether you like 
 it or not we go. . . ." 
 
 She would protest, but in her surrender, triumphant at 
 heart, she would see her utter defeat of that other woman, 
 whose baffled ghost might whistle across the dark moor back 
 to its own country to find other humours for its decision. 
 
 ^'Poor Ghost," she might cry after it, "you did not know 
 that he would prove so strong!" Nor would he. . . . Her 
 dream faded like the trembling colours in the evening sea. 
 
 And otherwise, unless that were so, she could not go. She 
 had no illusions as to what her escape with him would mean. 
 There would be no return for her to Garth — even Glebeshire 
 itself would cast her out. As she thought of all her days, of 
 her babyhood, when the world had been the green lawn and 
 the old oak, of her girlhood, when Rafiel and Polchester had 
 been the farthest bounds, of all the fair days and the wild 
 days, of the scents and the sounds and the cries and the 
 laughter, it seemed that the little cove itself came close to her, 
 pressing up to her, touching her cheek, whispering to her: 
 "You will not go ! . . . You will not go ! . . . You will not 
 go !" No, of her own will she could not go. The gojden pool 
 was very full, swelling with a lift and fall that caught tbe 
 light of the sun as though the evening itself were rocking it. 
 Against the far band of rocks the tide was breaking with a 
 white flash of colour, and the distant caves boomed like 
 drums. But the peace was undisturbed ; birds slowly, with a 
 dreamy beat of wings, vanished into a sky that was almost 
 radiant white . . . and behind her, the dark rocks, more 
 than ever watching, guarding beasts that loved her, waited for 
 her decision. 
 
 Then all things faded before her vision of her mother. 
 
EOCHE ST, MAEY MOOR 295 
 
 That so familiar figure seemed to come towards ner with a 
 freshness, a piquancy, as though mother and daughter had 
 been parted for years. "We've misunderstood one another," 
 the figure seemed to say: "there shall never be misunder- 
 standing again." There seemed, at that moment, to be no 
 one else in Katherine's world : looking back she could see, in 
 all her past life, only her mother's face, could hear only her 
 mother's voice. 
 
 She remembered the day when she had told her about the 
 engagement, the day when she had forgotten about the Stores, 
 yesterday in her bedroom. . . . 
 
 She buried her face in her hands, feeling a wild, desperate 
 despair — as though life were too strong for her and her will 
 too weak. 
 
 She felt a touch on her shoulder, and saw that Philip had 
 returned, his face in the dusk was pale like the white sky. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 She shook her head, smiling a dismal little smile. "I can't 
 go. . . . You know that I can't." 
 
 (That other woman, in her whispered: ''How he must 
 compel you.') 
 
 Philip looked out to sea. 
 
 "I can't," she repeated. "I can't leave it all." 
 
 ('Ah ! make me go !' that other whispered.) 
 
 He turned away from her and looked back at the rocks. 
 
 "You care for all this more than for me." 
 
 "You know that that is not true. I care for you more 
 than anyone or anything in the world. But these have all 
 been fancies of yours, Phil. In six months time — " she broke 
 off. 
 
 ('Force me, compel me to go with you,' the other woman 
 whispered to him. But he did not hear^) 
 
 "Yes. We'll go back," he said. 
 
 They were silent. Suddenly he gripped her shoulder, and 
 they both turned and looked behind them. 
 
296 THE GKEEN MIEEOR 
 
 "I thought I heard someone laugh," he whispered. 
 
 She rose, then before they moved away, put her arm round 
 him with a close, maternal gesture that she had never used 
 to him before. 
 
BOOK III 
 KATHERINE AND ANNA 
 
CHAPTEE I 
 
 KATHEEIlSrE ALONE 
 
 T T happened that in the middle of July there was to be a 
 -*■ -Trenchard-Faunder wedding in London. It was to be a 
 quite especial Trenchard-Paunder wedding that no Trenehard 
 or Faunder ipust miss. A Miss Dorothy Faunder, daughter 
 of Colonel Faunder of Foxley Park, Wilts, was to marry her 
 cousin Humphrey Trenehard, second son of Sir Geoffrey 
 Trenehard of Tredent Hall, Truxe, in Glebeshire, and 22 
 Bryanston Square, W. . , . 
 
 The wedding was to be towards the end of the season, be- 
 fore Goodwood and Cowes ; and St. Margaret's, Westminster, 
 was to be the scene of the Ceremony. Of course the George 
 Trenchards of Garth would be present — there was never any 
 question of that — but at the same time it was an incon- 
 venient interference with normal life. Trenchards and 
 Faunders saw, as a rule, little of London in the season un- 
 less there was a daughter coming out or a wedding or a Pre- 
 sentation at Court. George Trenehard greatly disliked be- 
 ing torn from Garth during July and August, and it was only 
 an exceptional demand that could uproot him. 
 
 This demand was exceptional. Of course they must all be 
 there. 
 
 On the evening before the departure for London Katherine 
 sat alone in her bedroom looking through her bright window 
 on to the garden beneath her. The July evening was close 
 and oppressive — ^the garden was almost black, with a strange 
 quivering bar of pale yellow light behind the trees. The 
 scents came up to the open window heavily — there was no 
 
 299 
 
300 THE GEEEN MlEKOR 
 
 breeze. Now and then a dog barked as though it were chal- 
 lenging someone. Although there was no breeze, the trees 
 sometimes shivered very faintly. 
 
 One star glittered between the black cloiids. 
 
 Katherine sat at the open window smelling the pinks and 
 the roses, her room dim behind l^er wi|:h a pale metallic glow. 
 She felt oppressed by the evening, and at the same time 
 strangely excited, as thougb something was about to happen. 
 But beyond this she was conscious of a curious combative 
 loneliness that should Jiave been a miserable thing, but was in 
 reality something challenging and almost defiant. Defiant 
 of wh^t ? Defiant of whom ? She thought of it as she sat 
 there. 
 
 Her thoughts went back to that day that she had spent with 
 Philip at Roche St. Mary Moor. Her loneliness had begun 
 quite definitely from that day. Only a fortnight later Philip 
 had departed. She had not seen him since then. But even 
 had he been with her she thought that he would not, very 
 greatly, have affected her loneliness. He might even have 
 accentuated it. For Philip had behaved very strangely since 
 that afternoon at Eoche St. Mary. It was, Katherine thought, 
 as though, having made his bolt for freedom and failed, he 
 simply resigned himself. He only once afterwards alluded 
 to the affair. One day he said to her quite suddenly : "After 
 all, it's worth it — so long as you're there." 
 
 "What's worth it ?" she had asked him. 
 
 "But if you were to leave me," he went on, aid stopped 
 and looked at her. 
 
 "What's worth it ?" she had repeated. 
 
 "Being swallowed up," he had answered her. "Your 
 mother and I are going to pay calls together this afternoon." 
 
 He had during these last weeks been wonderful about her 
 mother ; ho had agreed to everything that she proposed, had 
 run errandc for her, supported her opinions, "been quite a son 
 to her," Aunt Betty, happy at this transformation, had de- 
 
EATHEEINE ALONE 301 
 
 clared — and he had been perfectly miserable. Katherine 
 knew that. 
 
 And his misery had kept them apart. Katherine had 
 never loved him so intensely as she did during those last 
 days, and he had loved her with a kind of passionate, almost 
 desperate, intensity. But their love had never brought them 
 together. There had always been someone between. 
 
 It was as good as though he had said to her : "We have 
 still another six months before ^ar marriage. You have told 
 ine definitely that you will not give up the family. Your 
 mother is determined nbt to surrender a bit of you to me, 
 therefore I am to be surrendered to your mother. I am will- 
 ing that this should be so because I love you, but if I change, 
 if I am dull and lifeless you mustn't be surprised. 
 
 "There's the earlier life, which one can't forget all at once, 
 however deeply one wants to. Meanwhile, I hate your mother 
 and your mother hates me. But she'll never let me go unless 
 you force her to. She knows that I can't break away so 
 long as you're here. And she means you to be here always. 
 What would a strong man do? Forget the earlier life, I 
 suppose. So would I if I had you all to myself. But I have 
 to share you — and that gives the earlier life a chance." 
 
 Although he had never opened his lips, Katherine heard 
 him saying all this as though he were there in front of her, 
 there with his charm and his hopeless humours about him- 
 self, his weakness that she had once thought was strength, 
 and for which now she only loved him all the more. 
 
 ■But the terrible thing about those last weeks had been 
 that, although she knew exactly what he was thinking, they 
 had simply avoided all open and direct discussion. She had 
 wished for it, but what could she say ? Only the same things 
 again — ^that it would be all right when they were married, 
 that he would love the family then, that she would be his 
 then and not the family's. . . . Always at this point in her 
 argument she was pulled up sharply, because that was a lie. 
 She would not be his when they were married. She knew 
 
302 THE GREEN MIEROR 
 
 now, quite definitely, that her mother was utterly, absolutely 
 resolved never to let her go. 
 
 And meanwhile there was Anna. . . . 
 
 Katherine, putting Philip aside for a moment, thought of 
 the members of the family one by one. They were all sepa- 
 rated from her. She summoned this ghostly truth before 
 her, there in her dim room with the hot scented air surround- 
 ing her, quite calmly without a shudder or a qualm. Her 
 mother was separated from her because, during the last six 
 months, they had never, with one exception, spoken the truth 
 to one another. Aunt Aggie was separated from her because, 
 quite definitely, ever since that horrible Sunday night, she 
 hated Aunt Aggie. Henry was separated from her because 
 during these last months he had been so strange with his 
 alternate moods of affection and abrupt rudeness that she now 
 deliberately avoided him. Aunt Betty was separated from 
 her because she simply didn't see things in the least as they 
 were. Her father was separated from her because he laughed 
 at the situation and refused to consider it at all. Millie — 
 ah ! Millie, the friend of all her life ! — ^was separated from 
 her because they were concealing things the one from tho 
 other as they had never done in all their days before. 
 
 Katherine faced these facts. She had an illusion about her 
 life that she had always been right in the very heart of her 
 family. She did not know that it had been their need of her 
 that had put her there, and that now that she was turning 
 away from them to someone else, they were all rejecting her. 
 They also were unaware of this. They thought and she 
 thought that it had been always a matter of Love between 
 them all — but of course Love in most cases is only a hand- 
 some name for selfishness. 
 
 So Katherine sat alone in her room and waited for the 
 thunder to come. Meanwhile she was immensely surprised 
 that this discovery of her loneliness did not immediately de- 
 press her, but rather aroused in her a pugnacity and an inde- 
 pendence that seemed to her to be quite new qualities. And 
 
KATHEEINE ALONE 303 
 
 then, following immediately upon her pugnacity, came an 
 overwhelming desire to kiss them all, to do anything in the 
 world that they wished, to love them all more than she had 
 ever done before. And following upon that came an aching, 
 aching desire for Philip, for his presence, his eyes, his hair, 
 his neck, his hands, his voice. . . . 
 
 And following upon that came Anna. Anna had become 
 an obsession to Katherine. If, in her earlier life, she had 
 thought very intently of persons or countries remote from 
 her, she would, perhaps, have known how to deal with the 
 woman, but never before, in any crisis or impulse, had her 
 imagination been stirred. If she had ever thought about 
 imagination, she had decided that Eachel Seddon's "Imagina- 
 tion ! . . . you haven't got a scrap, my dear !" hurled at her 
 once in the middle of some dispute, was absolutely true. But 
 her love for Philip had proved its preserver, had proved it, 
 roused it, stirred it into a fierce, tramping monster, with 
 whom she was simply unable to deal. 
 
 If only, she felt, she had been able to speak of her to 
 Philip! Surely then the questions and the answers would 
 have stripped Anna of her romance, would have shown her to 
 be the most ordinary of ordinary women, someone unworthy 
 of Philip, unworthy of anyone's dreams. But bringing Anna 
 into the air had been forbidden — anything better than to 
 start Philip thinking of her — so that there she had lingered, 
 somewhere in the shadow, romantic, provoking, mocking, 
 dangerous, coloured with all the show of her foreign land, 
 with the towers and plains and rivers of romance. 
 
 Nevertheless it had not been all Katherine's imagination. 
 There had been in the affair some other agency. Again and 
 again Katherine had been conscious that, in opposition to her 
 will, she was being driven to hunt for that figure. In the 
 middle of some work or pleasure she would start, half fright- 
 ened, half excited, conscious that someone was behind her, 
 watching her. She would turn, and in the first flash of her 
 glance it would seem to her that she caught some vanishing 
 
304 THE GEEEE^ MIEEOR 
 
 figure, the black hair, the thin, tall body, the laughing, mock- 
 ing eyes. 
 
 It was simply, she would tell herself, that her curiosity re- 
 fused to be quiet. If only she might have known whether 
 Philip thought of Anna, whether Anna thought of Philip, 
 whether Anna v/anted Philip to return to her, whether Anna 
 really despised him, whether . . . and then with a little 
 shudder of dismissal, she would banish the Phantom, sum- 
 moning all her admirable Trenchard common-sense to her aid. 
 . . . "That was past, that was gone, that was dead." 
 
 She was, upon this afternoon, at the point of summoning 
 this resolution when the door opened and Millie came in. 
 Eor a moment so dark was the room that she could not see, 
 and cried : "Katie, are you there ?" 
 
 "Yes. Here by the window." 
 
 Millie came across the room and stood by Katherine's chair. 
 In her voice there was the shadow of that restraint that there 
 had been now between them ever since the Sunday with the 
 Awful Supper. 
 
 "It's only the Post. It's just come. Two letters for you — 
 one from Philip that I thought that you'd like to have." 
 
 Katherine took the letters, laid them on her lap, looking 
 up at her sister with a little smile. 
 
 "Well . . ." said Millie, hesitating, then, half turning, 
 "I must go back to Aunt Betty — I'm helping her with the 
 things." 
 
 "Ifo. Don't go." Katherine, who was staring in front of 
 her now into the black well of a garden, lit by the quivering, 
 shaking light, put out her hand and touched Millie's sleeve. 
 Millie stpod there, awkwardly, her white cotton dress shining 
 against the darkness, her eyes uncertain and a little timid. 
 
 "I ought to go, Katie dear. . . . Aunt Betty — " 
 
 "Aunt Betty can wait. Millie, what's the matter ?" 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "Yes, between us. For a long time it's been — and worse 
 since Philip went away." 
 
KATHEEIWE ALONE 305 
 
 "NotHng," said Millie, slowly, then, quite suddenly, with 
 one of those movements so characteristic of her, she flung her- 
 self on to her knees, caught Katherine's hands, then stretched 
 forward and pulled Katherine's head down to hers — then 
 kissed her again and again. The two sisters held one another 
 in a close emhrace, cheek against cheek, breast to breast. So 
 they stayed for some time. 
 
 At last Millie slid down on to the floor and rested there, 
 her head, with all its fair hair ruffled and disordered, on 
 Katherine's lap. 
 
 "Well . • ." said Katherine at last, her head against her 
 sister's cheek. "Why, all this time, have you been so queer ? 
 Is it because you hate Philip ?" 
 
 "No, I like him." 
 
 "Is it because you hate me ?" 
 
 "No, I love you." 
 
 "Is it because you hate my marrying Philip ?" 
 
 "No — if you'd do it at once." 
 
 "Do it at once?" 
 
 "Yes — now — go up to London — Marry him to-morrow — " 
 
 "My dear Millie ! . . . our year isn't up — nearly." 
 
 "What does it matter about your year? Better to break 
 your year than to have us all at one another's throats — ^miser- 
 able. And then perhaps after all to lose Philip." 
 
 "Lose Philip?" 
 
 "Yes, He'll go back to Eussia." 
 
 The words flashed before Katherine's eyes like lightning 
 through the garden. Her heart gave a furious jump and 
 then stopped. 
 
 "Why do you think he'd do that ?" she asked at last. "Do 
 you think he doesn't love me ?" 
 
 "No, it's because he loves you so much, that he'd do it. 
 Because he'd rather have none of you than only a bit of you, 
 rather have none of you than share you with us." She turned 
 round, staring into Katherine's eyes. "Oh, I understand 
 him so well I I believe I'm the only one in all the family who 
 
306 THE GEEEN MIKKOK 
 
 does! You think that I'm not grown up yet, that I know 
 nothing about life, that I don't know what people do or think, 
 but I believe that I do know better than anyone ! And, after 
 all, it's Philip himself that's made me see ! He understands 
 now what he's got to give up if he marries you — all his 
 dreams, all his fun, all his travels, all his imagination. You 
 don't want to give up anything, Katie. You want to keep 
 all this. Garth and the sea, even the oldest old man and 
 woman in the place, above all, you want to keep all of us, 
 mother most of all. You know that mother hates Philip and 
 will always make him unhappy, but still you think that it's 
 fair that you should give up nothing and he everything. But 
 you're up against more than Philip, Katie — ^you're up against 
 all his imagination that won't let him alone however much 
 he wants it to — and then," Millie finally added, turning her 
 eyes back to the other garden— ^"There's the other woman." 
 
 "Why!" Katherine cried— "You know? , . . Who told 
 you?" 
 
 "And you know ?" cried Millie. "He told you after all ?" 
 
 "iBut who told you ?" Katherine insisted, her hand on Mil- 
 lie's shoulder. 
 
 "Henry." 
 
 "Then he knows. Who else ?" 
 
 "None of the family, I think, unless Henry's told the 
 others. I've never said a word." 
 
 "Who told Mm r 
 
 "A man at his Club." 
 
 There was silence. Then Katherine said : 
 
 "So that's why you've been so queer ?" 
 
 "Yes. I didn't know whether he'd told you or no. I was 
 afraid to say anything. I thought perhaps he'd told you and 
 it was making you miserable. Then I thought that you ought 
 to know. I thought sometimes that I'd speak to Philip, and 
 then I -^as afraid of Henry doing something awful, blurting 
 it all out to everybody. I haven't known what to do. But, 
 Katie darling, you aren't unhappy about it, are you ?" 
 
KATHEEINE ALOISTE 307 
 
 "No — not unhappy," said Katherine. 
 
 "Because you mustn't be. What does it matter what Phil 
 did before he loved you, whom he knew ? What does it mat- 
 ter so long as you take her place? If ever anybody loved 
 anybody, Philip loves you. . . ." Then she said quickly, 
 eagerly: "What was she like, Katie? Did he tell you? 
 Did he describe her ? Was she lovely, clever ? What was her 
 name ?" 
 
 "Anna," Katie said. 
 
 "Does he think of her still? Does he want to see her 
 again ?" 
 
 "I don't know," Katherine said slowly. "That's what's 
 been so hard all these months. We simply don't talk of her. 
 He doesn't want to think of her, nor of Russia, nor of any of 
 that past life. He says it's all dead — " 
 
 "Well," said Millie, eagerly. 
 
 "But it isn't to me. I don't hate her, I'm not jealous, it 
 doesn't alter one scrap of my love for Phil, but— I don't 
 know — I feel as though if we talked about it everything 
 would clear away. I'd see then that she was just an ordinary 
 person like anyone else, and I wouldn't bother about her any 
 more, as it is, simply because I don't know anything, I 
 imagine things. I don't know whether Philip thinks of her 
 or not, but I expect that he does, or thinks of my thinking 
 of her, which is the same thing." 
 
 "Well, I've thought of her !" Millie declared, "again and 
 again. I've wondered a thousand things, why she gave Philip 
 up, whether she loves him still, whether she hates his being 
 in love with someone else, whether she writes to him, what 
 she's like, what she wears. . . . Doesn't it prove, Katie, how 
 shut up we've always been? Why, even in Paris I never 
 really thought about anybody whom I couldn't actually see, 
 and life used to seem too simple if you just did the things in 
 front of your nose — and now it's only the things that aren't 
 anywhere near you that seem to matter." Millie said all 
 this as though she were fifty years old at least. It was indeed 
 
308 THE GEEEN MIEROE 
 
 a real crisis that she should be admitted into the very heart 
 of all this thrilling affair ; she was rewarded at last with her 
 flaming desire, that 'she should share in life.' It was almost 
 as though she herself had a lover. 
 
 Katherine waited, then she broke out suddenly : "But it's 
 all so stupid this. Why can't things be perfectly simple? 
 Why can't Philip like them and they like Philip ? Why can't 
 Philip and I marry and spend part of the year here and part 
 of the year away ?" 
 
 "You've got to choose," Millie said, "Mother or Philip — 
 Philip or the family — Philip or Glebeshire. The old life or 
 the new one. You've tried to mix it all up. You can't. 
 Philip can change us. He is changing us all, but mix with us 
 never. If he is forced to, he'll simply disappear." 
 
 "My dear, what's happened to you?" Katherine cried. 
 "How wise you've become! How you've grown up !" 
 
 "I am," said Millie, with a solemnity that proved that 
 'grown-up' was the last thing that she really was. She sprang 
 to her feet. She spoke as though she were delivering a chal- 
 lenge. 
 
 "Katie, if you let things go, if you let Mother have her 
 way, one of two things will happen; either Philip won't be 
 able to stand it and will vanish to Eussia, or he'll endure it, 
 will be smothered by us all, and there'll only be the corpse 
 left for your enjoyment. 
 
 "Katie !" Her eyes shone with excitement, her voice quiv- 
 ered with the thrill of her intensity. "You must marry 
 him now — whilst you're in London. You must chuck us all, 
 show Mother that Philip comes before everything, take it into 
 your own hands, send that Russian woman's ghost back to 
 Russia . . .just as Browning and Mrs. Browning did, slip 
 off one day, buy some smelling-salts at the chemist's and be 
 married !" 
 
 She laughed. She clapped her hands. 
 
 "Oh ! Katie ! Katie ! . . . It's the only way, the only pos- 
 sible way !" 
 
KATHEEINE ALONE 309 
 
 But Katherine replied: "You're wrong, Millie. I can 
 keep it all. I will keep it all. I love Phil, but I love Mother 
 and you and Henry and This — This — all of it. If I were to 
 marry Phil now Mother would never forgive me — ^you know 
 that she would not. I could never come back. I must lose 
 it all." 
 
 "You'd rather lose Philip then ?" 
 
 "No. That neyerV 
 
 "Well — Anna's after him, Katie. Eussia's after him. 
 He's awfully unhappy — and you're unfair. You're giving 
 him nothing, not even himself. You say that you love him, 
 but you want things all your way. I tell you you deserve to 
 lose . . ." then suddenly softening again: "But Pll help 
 you, Katie dear, whatever way it is. Oh ! I'm so glad that 
 we've spoken. We're together now, and nothing can part us." 
 
 Katherine caught her hand and held her close. "What 
 would Mother do, do you think, if she knew about Anna ?" 
 she said, at last. 
 
 "I don't know," Millie answered, "Mother's so strange. I 
 believe she'd do nothing. She'd know that if she dismissed 
 him she'd lose you." 
 
 Then Katherine suddenly, holding Millie so close to her 
 that their hearts beat as one, said: "I love him so. I love 
 him so. . . . Everything must go if he wants it to." 
 
 And then, as though the house, the land, the place that had 
 always been hers, answered her challenge, a lightning flash 
 stnick the darkness and the rain broke in a thunder of sound. 
 
 All through the wedding-ceremony Katherine felt insanely 
 that she was no longer a Trenchard — insanely because if she 
 was not a Trenchard what was she ? Always before in these 
 Trenchard gatherings she had knovm herself wonderfully at 
 home, sinking down with the kind of cosy security that one 
 greets as one drops into a soft, familiar bed. Every Tren- 
 chard was, in one way or another, so like every other Tren- 
 chard that a Trenchard gathering was in the most intimate 
 
310 THE GEEEN MIEKOR 
 
 sense of the word a family party. At a iBeaminster gathering 
 you were always aware of a spirit of haughty contempt for 
 the people who were still outside, but at a Trenchard or Faun- 
 der assembly the people outside did not exist at all. "They 
 were not there." The Beaminsters said: "Those we don't 
 know are not worth knowing." The Trenchards said : "Those 
 we can't see don't exist" — and they could only see one an- 
 other. All this did not mean that the Trenchards were not 
 very kind to the human beings in the villages and towns 
 under their care. But then these dependents were Tren- 
 chards, just as old Trenchard chairs and tables in old Tren- 
 chard houses were Trenchards. 
 
 The Beaminsters had been broken all in a moment because 
 they had tried to do something that their Age no longer per- 
 mitted them to do. The Trenchards were much more difficult 
 to break, because they were not trying to do anything at all. 
 There was no need for them to be "Positive" about any- 
 thing. . . . 
 
 As old Mrs. Trenchard, mother of Canon Trenchard of 
 Polchester, once said to a rebellious daughter: "My dear, 
 it's no use your trying to do anything. People say that new 
 generations have come and that we shall see great changes. 
 Eor myself, I don't believe it. England, thank God, is not 
 like one of those foreign countries. England never changes 
 about the Eeal Things," and by 'England' of course she meant 
 'Trenchards.' 
 
 Katherine knew exactly whom she would see at St. Mar- 
 garet's, Westminster. From Glebeshire there would be 
 Canon Trenchard, his wife and his two girls, also the Tren- 
 chards of Eothin Place, Polchester. There would be Sir 
 Guy Trenchard from Truxe, and Miss Penelope Trenchard 
 from Easselas. There would be the head of all the Tren- 
 chards — Sir Henry Trenchard of Euston Hall, in Norfolk, 
 and there would be Garth Trenchard, Esq., from Bambury 
 Towers, in ISTorthumberland. There would be the Medlicott 
 Trenchards of South Audley Street, the Eobert Trenchards 
 
KATHEKINE ALONE 311 
 
 from somewhere in South Kensington (he was a novelist), 
 and the Euston Trenchards from Portland Place. Of the 
 Paunders there was no end — Hylton Faunder, the famous 
 painter, one of the props of the Eoyal Academy, the Kev. 
 William Faunder of St. Mary's, Monkston, one of the hest 
 of London's preachers, the Misses Faunder of Hampstead, 
 known for their good work, and others, others . . . from 
 Hampshire, Wiltshire, Kent, Suffolk, Durham, Cumberland, 
 every county in England. 
 
 Well, there they all were in rows ; again and again you be- 
 held the same white high forehead, the same thin and polished 
 nose, the same mild, agreeable, well-fed, uncritical eyes. How 
 well Katherine knew those eyes ! She herself had them, of 
 course, but her mother had them so completely, so magnifi- 
 cently, that once you had seen Mrs. Trenchard's eyes you 
 would be able, afterwards, to recognise a Trenehard any- 
 where. But now, as Katherine looked about the church, it 
 suddenly struck her, with a little shiver of alarm, that all the 
 eyes were blind. She was sitting with her mother and Millie, 
 and she looked at them quickly to see whether they'd noticed 
 anything strange or unusual — ^but no, very placidly and 
 agreeably, they were enjoying the comfort and 'rightness' of 
 the whole affair. . . . 
 
 She was lonely, then, with a sudden shock of acute dis- 
 tress. She felt suddenly, with positive terror, that she did 
 not belong to anyone at all. Philip was miles and miles 
 away; as though it were the voice of prophecy, something 
 seemed to tell her that she would never see him again. The 
 service then seemed endless — she waited desperately for it to 
 close. At last, when they all moved on to 22 Bryanston 
 Square, her impatience simply seemed more than she could 
 control. The presents were there, and many, many beautiful 
 clothes and shining collars and cakes that no one wanted to 
 eat, and over and over again, a voice (it seemed always the 
 same voice) saying : "How nice ! How delightful ! ... so 
 glad ... so fortunate. . . ." At last she was on her way 
 
312 THE GKEEN MIREOE 
 
 back to Westminster. She had now only this one thought, 
 that unless she were very quick she would' never see Philip 
 again. He had said that he would come to her for a moment 
 after the wedding, and, when at the doorway of the drawing- 
 room she caught a reflection of his figure in the mirror, her 
 heart bounded with relief. How siUy of her. What had she 
 supposed? [Nevertheless, quite breathlessly, she caught his 
 hand. 
 
 "Oh, Phil! Fm so glad! . . . Come up to the school- 
 room. We shall be alone there !" 
 
 The schoolroom, that had once been the nursery, packed 
 away at the very top of the house, was bathed with the rich 
 evening glow. He caught her in his arms, held her, and she 
 kissed him, passionately, with clinging, eager kisses. Then, 
 with a little happy sigh, she released him. 
 
 The old shabby room, with its old shabby books, Charlotte 
 Mary Yonge and Mrs. Ewing and Henty, and the Christmas 
 Supplements on the walls and the old grate that seemed still 
 to be sunk in happy reveries of roasted chestnuts and toffee 
 and toast, reassured her. 
 
 "Oh, Phil !" she cried. "I thought I was never going to 
 get to you !" 
 
 She looked at him, carefully, luxuriously, with all the hap- 
 piness of possessing something known and proved and loved. 
 Why, were it the ugliest face in the world, the oldest, shab- 
 biest body, nothing now could change her attachment. That 
 was why, with true love, old age and decay did not, could not 
 matter — and here, after all, was her possession, as far from 
 old age as anyone could be, strong and thick-set and with the 
 whole of life before it ! But he seemed tired and depressed. 
 He was very quiet, and sat there close to her, holding her 
 hand, loving her, but subdued, saying very little. He Tiad 
 changed. He was not now that eager, voluble figure that had 
 burst through the fog on that first wonderful evening so long 
 
KATHEEINE ALONE 313 
 
 "Phil — ^you're tired!" she said quickly, looking up into 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Yes. I am rather," he answered. "It's been awfuUy hot. 
 Was it very splendid ?" 
 
 "The wedding? . . . 'Eo, horrid. . . . Just like any 
 other, and I can't tell you anything about it, because I didn't 
 notice a thing." 
 
 But he didn't ask her. He didn't want to know anything 
 about it. He only wanted to -have her there. They sat 
 quietly, very close to one another. Her terror and her loneli- 
 ness left her. The Abbey clock boomed the hour, and a little 
 clock in the room gave a friendly, intimate echo. 
 
 "Your mother's asked me to go back to Garth with you," 
 he suddenly said. 
 
 Katherine remembered how triumphant she had been when, 
 upon a certain earlier occasion, he had told her that. Ifow 
 her alarm returned ; her hand trembled on his knee. 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 "Oh! I'm going of course. You'll be there, and I want 
 to do what your mother wishes." 
 
 He said this very quietly, and looked at her with a little 
 smile. 
 
 "Phil, don't go!" she said suddenly. "You're happier 
 here. We'll be up in October." 
 
 "October !" he answered, still very quietly, "that's a long 
 time to wait — and I haven't had very much of you lately. 
 It won't help things very much my staying here — and I want 
 to please your mother," he ended. "I've a kind of idea," he 
 went on, "that she'll get to like me later, when she really gets 
 to know me. I've been thinking all this time in London that 
 I behaved very badly when I was down there before. Wanted 
 everything my own way." 
 
 Katherine could say nothing. In between them once more 
 was that shadow. To speak right out would mean the old 
 business all over again, the business that they had both reso- 
 lutely dismissed. To speak out would mean Anna and the 
 
314 THE GEEEN MIEEOK 
 
 family, and ttat same demand once more — ^that Katharine 
 should choose. One word and she knew that he would be 
 pleading with all his force : "Marry me now ! Come off with 
 me ! Slip out of the house and have it over." 
 
 But she could not — ^she was not ready. Give them all up, 
 cut her life in half, fling them all away ? No, still she chmg 
 desperately to the belief that she would keep them both, the 
 family and Philip, the old life and the new. She heard 
 Millie urging her, she saw Philip quietly determined to say 
 nothing now until she led the way — ^but she could not do it; 
 she could not, could not do it ! 
 
 So they sat there, holding hands, his shoulder against hers, 
 until at last it was time for him to go. After he had left her, 
 whilst she was dressing for dinner, she had a moment of 
 panic and almost ran out of the house, just as she was, to find 
 him. But the Trenchard blood reasserted itself; she went 
 down to dinner calm and apparently at ease. 
 
 That night, when they had all gone up to their rooms, she 
 stood for a moment waiting outside her bedroom door, then, 
 as though some sudden resolve had come to her, turned and 
 walked to her mother's door. She knocked, entered and found 
 her mother standing in front of her looking-glass. She had 
 slipped off her evening dress, there with her short white 
 sleeves, from which her stout, firm bare arms stood out strong 
 and reliant, with her thick neck, her sturdy legs, she seemed, 
 in spite of her grey hair, in the very plenitude of her 
 strength. Her mild eyes, large and calm, her high white fore- 
 head, the whole poise of her broad, resolute back seemed to 
 Katherine to have something defiant and challenging in it. 
 Her mouth was full of hair-pins, but she nodded and smiled 
 to her daughter. 
 
 "May I come in. Mother," said Katherine, "I want to 
 speak to you." 
 
 Katherine thought of that earlier occasion in that same 
 room when she had first spoken of her engagement. How far 
 apart since then they had grown ! It seemed to her to-night. 
 
KATHERIlf-E ALONE 315 
 
 as she looked at that broad white back, that she was looking 
 at a stranger. . . . Yes, but an extraordinary stranger, a 
 really marvellous woman. How curious that Katherine 
 should have been living during all those years of intimate 
 affection with her mother and have thought of her never — 
 no, never at all. She had taken her, her love, her little habits, 
 her slow voice, her relentless determination, her 'managing' — 
 all these things and many more — as though they had been in- 
 evitably outside argument, statement or gratitude. But now, 
 simply because of the division that there was between them, 
 she saw her as a marvellous woman, the strangest mingling 
 of sweetness and bitterness, of tenderness and hardness, of 
 unselfishness and relentless egotism. She saw this, suddenly, 
 standing there in the doorway, and the imminent .flash of it 
 struck her for an instant with great fear. Then she saw 
 Philip and gained her courage. 
 
 "I want to speak to you, Mother," she repeated, moving 
 into the middle of the room. 
 
 "Well, dear . . ." said Mrs. Trenchard, through the hair- 
 pins. She did not let down her hair, but after another glance 
 into the mirror, moved away, found a pink woolly dressing- 
 gown, which she put on. Then sat down on the old sofa, tak- 
 ing up, as she always did, a little piece of work — ^this time it 
 was some long red worsted that she was knitting. It curled 
 away from her, like a scarlet snake, under the flickering light 
 of the candles on her dressing-table, disappearing into dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Katherine stood in front of her mother, with her hands 
 behind her, as she had done when she was a very little girl. 
 
 "Well, dear, what is it ?" said Mrs. Trenchard again. 
 
 "Mother — I don't want you to have Philip dovm at Garth." 
 
 "Why not, dear ? I thought you would like it." 
 
 "He isn't happy there." 
 
 "Well, he's only got to say so. . . . He needn't come." 
 
 "If he doesn't — ^he's afraid." 
 
 "Afraid of what?" 
 
 o 
 
316 THE GEEEN MIKEOK 
 
 "Afraid of losing me." Katherine, as she said this, made 
 a little forward movement with her hand as though she were 
 asking for help, but Mrs. Trenchard's eyes were wide and 
 cold. 
 
 "Afraid of losing you ? . . . My dear, he can't trust you 
 very much I" 
 
 "JSTo, no, it isn't that ! . . . He knows that you, the others 
 don't like him. He hates Garth — at least he hates it if he's 
 always got to live there. If he's alone here in London he 
 thinks that you'll persuade me never to leave you, that you'll 
 get the tighter hold of me, that — Oh ! I can't explain it all !" 
 she broke off quite desperately. "But it isn't good for him to 
 be there, he's unhappy, he's depressed. Mother, why do you 
 hate him ?" she cried, suddenly challenging the whole room, 
 with its old familiar pictures, its books an(J furniture to 
 answer her. 
 
 "I think," said Mrs. Trenchard, very quietly, counting 
 her stitches and nodding her head at her stocking, "that 
 you're taking all this in a very exaggerated fashion — and you 
 never used to be exag'gerated, Katie, my dear — ^no, you never 
 used to be. I often used to say what a comfort and help I 
 always found you, because you saw things as they were — ^not 
 like Millie and Henry, who would get excited sometimes over 
 very little. But your engagement's changed you, Katie dear 
 — it really has — more than I should have expected." 
 
 Katherine, during this speech, had summoned her control. 
 She spoke now with a voice low and quiet — ridiculously like 
 her mother's an observer might have thought. 
 
 "Mother, I don't want to be exaggerated — I don't indeed. 
 But, all these last six months, we've never said to one another 
 what we've thought, have never spoken openly about any- 
 thing — and now we must. It can't go on like this." 
 
 "Like what, Katie dear ?" 
 
 "Never knowing what we're really thinking. We've be- 
 come a dreadful family — even father's noticed it." 
 
KATHEKINE ALONE 317 
 
 "Certainly," said Mrs. Trenchard slowly. "We were all 
 l^appier before Philip came." 
 
 Katherine's cheeks flushed. "That's unkind, Mother!" she 
 cried. Her voice grew harder. "Please don't say anything 
 about Philip unless you must. It makes everything very 
 difficult. I know that you don't like him. You see him 
 strangely, you put him in the wrong whatever he does. But, 
 Mother," her voice softened again. "It isn't that. We can't 
 alter that. Phil will never be at his best at Garth — ^not as 
 things are now. But if we were married. Oh! you would 
 see how fine things would be !" Her voice was eager, excited 
 now. "He would be happy and quite, quite different with 
 everyone. I know him. He depends so much — ^too much — 
 on what people think of him. He knows that you don't like 
 him, and that makes him embarrassed and cross — at his worst. 
 But he's splendid, really, he is, indeed, and you'd see it if we 
 were married and this horrid engagement were over. He's 
 fine in every way, but he's different from us — ^he's seen so 
 much more, knows life that we can't know, has other stand- 
 ards and judgments. Everyone can't be like us. Mother. 
 There must be people who want different things and think 
 different things. Why should he be made into something like 
 us, forced to think as we do ? . . . Mother, let us be married 
 soon, at once, perhaps, and then everything will be right — " 
 She stopped, breathless then, in her eagerness, bent down and 
 kissed her mother's cheek. 
 
 But Mrs. Trenchard's cheek was very cold. 
 
 "Tour father said a year," she answered, counting her 
 stitches, "four, five, six — Yes, a year. And you agreed to 
 that, you know." 
 
 Katherine turned, with a sharp movement, away, clenching 
 her hands. At that moment she hated her mother, hated with 
 a hot, fiery impulse that urged her to leave the room, the 
 house, the family at that very instant, fiinging out, banging 
 the door, and so settle the whole affair for ever. 
 
318 THE GEEEN MIEKOR 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard made no sound. Her needles clicked. 
 Then she said, as though she had been looking things over : 
 
 "Do you think it's good of you, Katherine, considering 
 how much all these years we've all been to one another, to 
 persist in marrying a man whom, after really doing our best, 
 we all of us — ^yes, all of us — dislike? You're of age, my 
 dear — ^you can do as you please. It was your father who con- 
 sented to this engagement, I was not asked. And now, after 
 all these months, it is hardly a success, is it ? You are losing 
 us all — and I believe we still mean something to you. And 
 Philip. How can you know about him, my dear? You are 
 in love now, but that — that first illusion goes very quickly 
 after marriage. And then — ^when it has gone — do you think 
 that he will be a good companion for you, so different from 
 us all, with such strange ideas picked up in foreign coun- 
 tries? You don't know what he may have done before he 
 met you. ... I don't appeal to your love for us, as once I 
 might have done, but to your common-sense — ^your common- 
 sense. Is it worth while to lose us, whom you know, in ex- 
 change for a man of whom you can know nothing at all ? . . . 
 Just give me those scissors off the dressing-table. The little 
 ones, dear." 
 
 Katherine turned at the dressing-table. "(But," she cried, 
 her voice full of passionate entreaty, "why must I give you 
 up because I marry him ? Why can't I have you — all of you 
 — and him as well ? Why must I choose ?" Then she added 
 defiantly: "Millie doesn't dislike him — ^nor Aunt Betty." 
 
 "Millie's very young," answered her mother. "Thank you, 
 my dear, and as you a/re there, just that thimble. Thank 
 you . . . and your Aunt Betty likes everyone." 
 
 "And then," Katherine went on, "why do you see it from 
 everyone's point of view except mine ? It's my life, my fu- 
 ture. You're settled — all of you, you, father. Aunt Aggie, 
 Aunt Betty — ^but with Millie and Henry and I everything's 
 to come. And yet you expect us to do all the things, think all 
 the things that you've done and thought. We're different, 
 
KATHERINE ALONE 319 
 
 we're another generation. If we weren't behind everyone else 
 there wouldn't be anything to talk about at all. All parents 
 now," Katherine ended, with an air of profound knowledge, 
 "think of their children. Life isn't what it was fifty years 
 ago." 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard smiled a grim little smile. "These are the 
 things, my dear, I suppose, that Philip's been telling you. 
 You must remember that he's been living for years in a coun- 
 try where one can apparently do anything one pleases without 
 being thought wicked, and where you're put in prison a great 
 deal, but only for rather innocent crimes. I don't pretend 
 to understand all that. We may be — perhaps we are — an 
 old-fashioned family, but the fact remains that we were all 
 happy enough a year ago." 
 
 She picked up the long trailing serpent, then concluded: 
 "But you're free, Katie dear. Perfectly free." 
 
 "If I were to go," said Katie, staring at her mother's face, 
 so like that of an uneloquent baby, "if I were to go off now. 
 If we were to be married at once — would you — ^would you — 
 turn us out — have no more to do with us ?" 
 
 She waited as though her whole life hung on her mother's 
 answer. 
 
 "I really don't know what's happened to you, Katie," Mrs. 
 Trenchard answered very quietly. "You're like a young 
 woman in a play — and you used to be so sensible. Just give 
 me those scissors again, dear. Certainly if you were to marry 
 Philip to-morrow, without waiting until the end of the year, 
 as you promised, I should feel — ^we should all feel — ^that you 
 had given us up. It would be difficult not to feel that." 
 
 "And if we wait until the end of the year and then marry 
 and don't live in Glebeshire but somewhere else — ^will you 
 give us up then?" 
 
 "My dear, isn't it quite simple ? We've given Philip every 
 opportunity of knowing us — ^we're now just going to give him 
 another. If he loves you he will not want to take you away 
 
320 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 from all of us who love you also. He'll do Ms best to like ua 
 —to settle—" 
 
 "To settle!" Katherine cried. "Don't you see that that's 
 what he's tried to do — and he can't — ^he can't ! It's killing 
 him — and you want hiin to be killed ! . . . You'd like him 
 to leave me, and if he v-on't do that you'll break his will, keep 
 him under you, ruin his spirit. . . . Mother, let him alone— 
 If we marry, after six months, let us lead our own lives. 
 You'll see I shall be as much yours as ever, more than ever. 
 It will be all right. It must be !" 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard said then her final word. 
 
 "If you leave us for Philip that is your affair, I do my 
 best to keep you both. You've talked much, Katie dear, about 
 our dislike of Philip — ^what of his dislike of us? Is that 
 nothing ? Doesn't he show it every moment of the day ? Un- 
 less he hates us less you'U have to choose. You'll have to 
 choose — let him come down to Garth then — ^we'U do every- 
 thing for him." 
 
 Katherine would have answered, but a sudden catch in her 
 mother's voice, a sudden, involuntary closing of the eyes, 
 made her dart forward. 
 
 "Mother, you're tired." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, very." 
 
 They sat down on the old sofa together. Mrs. Trenchard, 
 her arms folded, leant back against her daughter's shoulder. 
 
 "Just a moment, Katie dear," she murmured, "before I 
 imdress." 
 
 Suddenly she was asleep. 
 
 Katherine sat stiffly, staring before her into the room. Her 
 arm was round her mother, and with the pressure of her hand 
 she felt the soft firmness of the shoulder beneath the dressing- 
 gown. Often in the old days her mother had thus leant 
 against her. The brushing of her hair against Katherine's 
 cheek brought back to the girl thronging memories of happy, 
 tranquil hours. Those memories flung before her, like re- 
 proaching, haunting ghosts, her present unhappiness. Her 
 
KATHEEINE ALONE 321 
 
 love for her mother filled her heart; her body thrilled with 
 the sense of it. And so, there in the clnmsy, familiar room, 
 the loneliest hour of all life came to her. 
 
 She was separated from them all. She seemed to know 
 that she was holding her mother thus for the last time. . . . 
 Then as her hands tightened, in very protest, about the slum- 
 bering body, she was conscious of the presence, behind her, 
 just then where she could not see, of the taunting, laughing 
 figure. She could catch the eyes, the scornful lips, the thin, 
 defiant attitude. 
 
 "I'll take him back ! I'll take him back !" the laughing 
 figure cried. 
 
 But Katherine had her bravery. She summoned it all. 
 
 "I'll beat you!" she answered, her arms tight around her 
 mother. "I've made my choice. He's mine now whatever 
 you try!" 
 
CHAPTEE II 
 
 THE MIBBOB 
 
 PHILIP had never had any conceit of himself — ^that is, 
 he could not rememher the time when he had been satis- 
 fied with what he had done, or pleased with the figure that he 
 presented. The selfish actions in his life had always arisen 
 from unselfish motives, because he had been afraid of hurting 
 or vexing other people, because he thought other people finer, 
 than himself. Even when, as in the case of Seymour, he 
 burst out in indignation at something that he felt to be pre- 
 tentious and false, he, afterwards, on thinking it over, won- 
 dered whether the man hadn't after all been right 'from his 
 point of view.' It was this ability to see the other person's 
 point of view that had been, and would always be, the curse 
 of his life. 
 
 Such men as Philip are not among the fine creatures of the 
 world. Very rightly they are despised for their weakness, 
 their lack of resistance, their inability to stand up for them- 
 selves. It is possible, nevertheless, that in heaven they will 
 find that they, too, have their fine side. And this possibility 
 of an ultimate divine comprehension irritates, very naturally, 
 their fellow human beings who resent any defence of weak- 
 ness. Philip himself would have been the first to resent it. 
 He never consoled himself with thought of heaven, but took, 
 now and then, a half-humorous, half-despairing glance at him- 
 self, swore, as he had in those long-ago days sworn about his 
 mother, 'how this shall never happen again', and then once 
 more was defeated by his imagination. 
 
 In this matter of the Trenchards he saw only too plainly 
 
THE MIEEOK 323 
 
 everyone's point of view ; even witli Aunt Aggie he saw that 
 she was an old disappointed woman who disliked change and 
 loved power so long as she need not struggle for it. Mrs. 
 Trenchard he did not understand, heeause he was afraid of 
 her. His fear of her had grown and grown and grown, and 
 in that fear was fascination, hatred, and admiration. He 
 felt now quite definitely that he was heaten by her. He had 
 felt that, after she had taken no notice whatever of his public 
 scene with Aunt Aggie. She would now, he believed, take no 
 notice of anything. He knew also, now, of her hold over 
 Katherine. He must stay with Katherine because he loved 
 her. Therefore he must submit to Mrs. Trenchard ... it 
 was all quite simple. — ^Meanwhile to submit to Mrs. Tren- 
 chard meant, he knew, to such a character as, his, extinction. 
 He knew. Oh ! . . . better than anyone else in the world — 
 the kind of creature that, under her influence, he would be- 
 come. He saw the others under her influence, the men and 
 women of the village, the very chickens and pigs in the neigh- 
 bouring farms. He knew what he had been under his mother, 
 he knew what he had been under Anna, he knew what now he 
 would be under Mrs. Trenchard. Well, extinction was a sim- 
 ple thing enough if you made up your mind to it — ^why 
 struggle any further ? 
 
 Eut day and night, increasingly, as the weeks passed, he 
 was being urged to escape. All this summer, Anna, no longer 
 a suggestion, no longer a memory, but now a vital, bodily 
 presence, was urging him. Her power over him was not in 
 the least because he was still in love with her — ^he loved only 
 Katherine in all the world — ^but because of the damnable 
 common-sense of what she said. What she said was this : 
 
 "Here you are amongst all these funny people. You are 
 too much in the middle of them to see it plainly for yourself, 
 but I'm a ghost and can see everything quite clearly ; I know 
 you — ^better than you know yourself. This Mrs. Trenchard 'is 
 determined never to let her daughter go. You say that you 
 love this young woman, although what you can see in her 
 
324 THE GEEEF MIKROK 
 
 stupid English solidity I can't imagine. However, you were 
 always a fool. . . . All the same, if you love her it's for her 
 sake that you must escape. You know the kind of creature 
 you're going to be if you stay. What does she want with 
 such a man ? When she wakes up, about a week after mar- 
 riage, and finds you under the thumb of her mother, what will 
 happen to her love ? She may continue to love you — ^English 
 women are so stupid — ^but she'll certainly despise you. Come 
 back to Russia. It isn't that I want you, or will take you 
 back into my life, but she'll find out what you're worth then. 
 If she really loves you she'll have to come after you. Then 
 you'll have broken with the family and will be free^ Run 
 away, I tell you. It's the only thing to do." 
 
 All this he heard during a terribly heavy three weeks with 
 relatives in the l*J"orth, during a hot and glittering July in 
 London when the world seemed to gyrate with the flashing 
 cabs, the seething crowds, the glass and flowers and scents of 
 a London season. Katherine seemed dreadfully far away 
 from him. He was aware very vividly how bad it was for a 
 healthy young man of his age to have no definite occupation. 
 The nien whom he knew in town seemed to him both uninter- 
 esting and preoccupied. A day in England seemed of so vast 
 a length. In Russia time had been of no importance at all, 
 and one day had vanished into another without any sound or 
 sign. Here every clock in the town seemed to scream to him 
 that he must take care to make the most of every second. 
 This practical English world, moreover, could offer no 
 friendly solution for the troubles that beset him. 
 
 He knew very well that if he asked any man at the club 
 for advice he would be frankly dismissed for a fool. "What ! 
 You like the girl but can't bear the Mother-in-law ! My dear 
 boy, any music hall will tell you how common that is. Wait 
 till you're married, then you can clear off all right — let the 
 old woman scream as much as you like. What ! the girl wants 
 to stay with the mother ? Well, again, wait till you're mar- 
 ried. The girl will follow you fast enough then !" 
 
THE MIKROK 325 
 
 How could he expect that any ordinary healthy English- 
 man would understand the soft, billowy, strangling web that 
 the Trenchard family had, by this time, wound about him ? 
 Yes, another six months would complete the business. . . . 
 
 One hope remained to him — that when they knew of his 
 immoral life in Moscow they would definitely insist on Kath- 
 erine's leaving him — and, if it came to that, she would stand 
 by him. He knew that she would stand by him. He would 
 himself long ago have told Trenchard had he not been sure 
 that someone else would do that for him, and that then the 
 sense of his own subterfuge and concealment would add to 
 their horror and disgust. 
 
 The stronger their disgust the better for him. 
 
 The day of that disclosure seemed now his only hope. Let 
 them fling him off and he knew what Katherine would do ! . . . 
 
 Upon a torrid afternoon, two days after the Trenchard- 
 Faunder wedding, an irresistible desire to see Katherine 
 drove him to the Westminster house. He rang the bell, and 
 was told by Rocket, who always treated him with an air of 
 polite distrust, that the ladies wera out, but might be in at 
 any time. 
 
 "I will wait," said Philip. 
 
 "Very good, sir," said Rocket reluctantly, and showed him 
 into the drawing-room, cool and damp like a green cave. To 
 Rocket's own restrained surprise, old Mr. Trenchard was 
 there sitting quite alone, with a shawl covering his knees, in 
 a large arm-chair near the empty fireplace. 
 
 The old gentleman showed no interest whatever in the 
 opening of the door, and continued to stare in front of him 
 through his gold-rimmed eyeglasses, his hands pressed fiercely 
 into his knees. Rocket hesitated a moment, then withdrew, 
 closing the door behind him. 
 
 Philip advanced slowly into the room. One of his diffi- 
 culties with old Mr. Trenchard had always been that he was 
 not sure whether he were truly deaf or no. On certain oc- 
 casions there had been no question old Mr. Trenchard was not 
 
326 THE GREEN MIEKOR 
 
 at all deaf, and then again on others deaf as a crab ! He had 
 never shown any marked signs of being aware of Philip's 
 existence. There were many weeks that he spent in his own 
 room, and he could not be said to show a very active conscious- 
 ness of anyone except Katherine, whom he adored, and Aunt 
 Aggie, whom he hated. 
 
 But, altogether, he was to Philip a terrible old man. Like 
 a silver-grey shadow, beautiful perhaps, with the silver 
 buckles on his shoes, his delicate hands and his snow-white 
 hair, but emphatically terrible to Philip, v/ho throve and blos- 
 somed under warm human intercourse, and shrivelled into 
 nothing at all under a silent and ghostly disapproval. 
 
 But to-day Philip was desperate and defiant. This old 
 man would never die any more than this old drawing-room, 
 reflected in the green mirror, would ever change. 
 
 "I'd like to smash that mirror," thought Philip, "smash it 
 into pieces. That would change the room if anything would. 
 Why, I believe the whole family would tumble like a pack of 
 cards if I smashed that mirror. I believe the old man himself 
 would vanish into thin air." 
 
 "Good afternoon, sir," Philip said — and then thought to 
 himself : "Why should I be afraid of the old image ? He 
 can't eat me !" 
 
 He walked over, close to him, and shouted : 
 
 "Good afternoon, sir." 
 
 The old man never stirred, not an eyelid quivered, but he 
 replied in his clear, silvery voice, "Good afternoon to you." 
 
 He might indeed have been an Idol in his old particular 
 temple — the old green room waited around him with the 
 patient austerity that a shrine pays to its deity. The lamp 
 on a distant table flung a mild and decent glow. 
 
 "I'm damned if I'm going to be afraid of him," thought 
 Philip, and, taking a chair, he dragged it very close to the 
 other's throne. Sitting there, near to him, it seemed to him 
 that the light, mild though it was, really did go right through 
 the old fellow, his cheeks, like the finest egg-diell china. 
 
THE MIEKOE 327 
 
 seemed to catch the glow, store it for an instant in some fine 
 inner receptacle and then pass it out on the other side. It 
 was only the eyes that were not fine. They were true Tren- 
 chard eyes, and now, in old age, they were dull and almost 
 dead. 
 
 They, ever so faintly, hinted that the beauty, fine as the 
 present glass, was of the surface only, and had, behind it, 
 no soul. 
 
 "It's a very hot day," said Philip, in a voice that was in- 
 tended for a shout if the old man were really deaf and pleas- 
 ant cheerfulness if he were not, "really very hot indeed. But 
 this room's so very cool. Delightful." 
 
 Mr. Trenchard did then very slowly raise his head and look 
 at Philip through his glasses. Then very slowly lowered his 
 eyes again. 
 
 "My daughter will be here very shortly to receive you," 
 he said. 
 
 "I'd like to talk to you" Philip said, still very cheerfully. 
 "We've not had many talks together, have we ? and that really 
 isn't right, considering that I'm engaged to your grand- 
 daughter." 
 
 The old man picked up a magazine that lay on the little 
 table that was in front of him. "Do you ever see Black- 
 wood ?" he said, as though he were very politely making con- 
 versation for a complete stranger. "It's a magazine for 
 which I have a great liking. It seems to me to keep up its 
 character wonderfully — ^most agreeable reading — ^most agree- 
 able reading." 
 
 It was then that Philip, looking up, caught a reflection of 
 Mr. Trenchard's face in the Mirror. It may have been imag- 
 ination or it may have been the effect of shadow, or again it 
 may have been nothing but truth — in any case it seemed to 
 Philip that the old man's expression was an amazing mixture 
 of pathos and wickedness — a quite intolerable expression. 
 Philip made a movement with his hands as though he were 
 brushing away a confusion of cobwebs, then burst out : "Look 
 
328 THE GREEN MIREOE 
 
 here, I don't know whether you're deaf or not — if yoU are it 
 won't matter, and if you aren't we'll have a straight talk at 
 last. You can't move until someone comes in to move you, 
 and that may be a long while yet. You aren't strong enough 
 to knock me dovra, so that I'm afraid you'll just have to stay 
 here for a while and listen. ... Of course you know by this 
 time who I am. It's no use your pretending." 
 
 Philip paused and looked, but the old man had not stirred 
 at all. His hands were still pressed into his knees, his eyes 
 staring through his glasses, and, as his delicate breathing rose 
 and fell, one black button shone in the lamplight and faded 
 again. This immobility seemed to stir more profoundly 
 Philip's anger. 
 
 "I'm going to marry your granddaughter Katherine, and 
 of course you hate it and me too. You're just as selfish as all 
 the others, and more too, I daresay. And you think you can 
 frighten me by just doing nothing except showing you dislike 
 me. But you won't frighten me — no, never — so you needn't 
 expect it. I'm going to marry Katherine and take her right 
 away from you all, so you may as well make up your mind 
 to it." 
 
 Philip, flushed in the face and half expecting that the walls 
 of the house would fall in upon him, paused — ^but there was 
 no change at all in Mr. Trenchard's attitude, unless possibly 
 one shining hand was driven a little more deeply into the 
 knee. There was perhaps some unexpected pathos in the in- 
 tensity of those pressing fingers, or, perhaps, Philip's des- 
 perate challenge was, already, forsaking him. At any rate 
 he went on. 
 
 "Why can't you like me ? I'm ready enough to like you. 
 I'm not a bad kind of man, and I'll be very good to Kather- 
 ine, no one could ever be better to anyone than I'll be to her. 
 But why can't we lead our own life ? You're an old man — 
 you must have seen a lot in your time — you must know how 
 times alter and one way of thinking gives way to another. 
 You can't keep a family together by just refusing to listen to 
 
THE MIRROE 329 
 
 anything or anybody. I know that you love Katherine, and 
 if yon love her really, surely you'll want her to lead her own 
 life. Your life's nearly over — ^why should you spoil hers 
 for her?" 
 
 He paused again, but now he could not tell whether the 
 eyes were closed or no. Was the old man sleeping? or was 
 he fiercely indignant ? or was he satirical and smiling ? or was 
 he suddenly going to cry aloud for Rocket ? 
 
 The uncertainty and the silence of the room worked ter- 
 ribly upon Philip's nerves. He had begun courageously, but 
 the sound of his voice in all that damp stillness was most un- 
 pleasant. Moreover, he was a poor kind of fellow, because he 
 always, even in the heat of anger, thought a friend better than 
 an enemy. He was too soft to carry things through. 
 
 "He really does look very old," he thought now, looking 
 at the thin legs, the bones in the neck, the lines on the fore- 
 head of the poor gentleman, "and after all it can't be pleasant 
 to lose Katherine." 
 
 "If you'd only," he went on in a milder voice, "give me a 
 chance. Katherine's much too fond of all of you to give you 
 up simply because she's married. She isn't that sort at all. 
 You knew that she'd marry some day. All the trouble has 
 come because you don't like me. But have you ever tried to ? 
 I'm the sort of man that you've got to like if you're to see the 
 best of me. I know that's my fault, but everyone has to have 
 allowances made for them." 
 
 Philip paused. There was a most deadly stillness in the 
 room. Philip felt that even the calf -bound Thackeray and the 
 calf-bound Waverley novels behind the glass screens in the 
 large book-case near the door were listening with all their 
 covers. 
 
 l^ot a movement came from the old man. Philip felt as 
 though he were addressing the whole house — 
 
 He went on. "When you were young you wanted to go 
 on with your generation just as we do now. You believed 
 that there was a splendid time coming, and that none of the 
 
330 THE GKEEN MIRROR 
 
 times that had ever been would be so fine as the new one. You 
 didn't want to think the same as your grandfather and be 
 tied to the same things. Can't you remember? Can't you 
 remember ? Don't you see that it's just the same for us ?" 
 
 Still no movement, no sound, no quiver of a shadow in the 
 Mirror. 
 
 "I'll be good to her, I swear to you, I don't want to do 
 anyone any harm. And after all, what have I done ? I was 
 rude one Sunday night, Henry drank too much once, I don't 
 always go to church, I don't like the same books — ^but what's 
 all that? isn't everyone different, and isn't it a good thing 
 that they are?" 
 
 He bent forward — "I know that you can do a lot with them 
 all. Just persuade them to help, and be agreeable about 
 it. That's all that's wanted — just for everyone to be agree- 
 able. It's such a simple thing, really." 
 
 He had touched Mr. Trenchard's knee. With that touch 
 the whole room seemed to leap into hostile activity. He 'had, 
 (Juite definitely, the impression of having with one step 
 plunged into a country that bristled with foes behind every 
 bush and tree. The warmth of the old man's knees seemed 
 to fling him off and cast him out. 
 
 Old Mr. Trenchard raised his head with a fierce, furious 
 gesture like the action pf a snake striking. 
 
 In a voice that was not silvery nor clear, but shaking and 
 thick with emotion, he said: 
 
 "I warn you, young man — if you dare to take my grand- 
 daughter away — ^you'll kill me!" 
 
 Before Philip could do more than start back with a gesture 
 of dismay, the door had opened and Mrs. Trenchard and 
 Aunt Aggie had entered. 
 
 Meanwhile there was Henry. 
 
 Important events had occurred in Henry's life since that 
 Sunday when he had told Millie about Philip's terrible past 
 
THE MIRROR 331 
 
 and had shared in that disastrous supper. He was to go to 
 Cambridge. 
 
 This important decision had apparently followed on Aunt 
 Aggie's disclosure of his evil courses, therefore it may be 
 considered that Philip was, in this as in the other recent 
 events in the Trenchard history, responsible. Quite suddenly 
 George Trenchard had lifted up his head and said : "Henry, 
 you're to go to Cambridge next October. I think that Jesus 
 College shall bear the burden of your company. I believe 
 that there are examinations of a kind that you must pass 
 before they will admit you. I have written for papers." 
 
 This declaration should, of course, have been enough to 
 fling Henry into a wild ecstasy. Before the arrival of 
 Philip it would undoubtedly have done so. Now, however, 
 he seemed to himself to have progressed already so far 
 beyond Jesus College, Cambridge. To have troubles and 
 experiences so deep and weighty as compared with anything 
 that anyone at Cambridge could possibly have known, and 
 that to propose that he should go there was very little less 
 than an insult. . . . And for this he blamed Philip. 
 
 Nevertheless the papers arrived. He was, in reality, no 
 fool, and the Cambridge 'Little Go' is not the most diiScult 
 examination under the sun. At the end of May he went up 
 to Cambridge. If one may judge by certain picturesque 
 romances concerned with University Ijfe and recently popular 
 amongst us, one is to understand that that first vision of a 
 University thrills with all the passion of one's first pipe, 
 one's first beer and one's first bedmaker or scout, as the case 
 may be. The weather was chill and damp. He was placed 
 in a tiny room, where he knocked his head against the fine 
 old rafters and listened to mice behind the wainscot. His 
 food was horrible, his bedmaker a repulsive old woman, and 
 the streets were filled with young men, who knew not Henry 
 and pushed him into the gutter. He hated everyone whom 
 he saw at the examination, from the large, red-faced gentle- 
 man who watched him as he wrote, down to the thin and 
 
ii<i'^ XJiJi UJttJiJiiN Ml±tJtiU±C 
 
 uncleanly youth who bit his nails at the seat next to his own. 
 He walked down Petty Cury and hated it; he strolled up 
 the King's Parade and hated that too. He went to King's 
 College Chapel and heard a dull anthem, was spoken to by 
 an enormous porter for walking on the grass and fell over 
 the raised step in the gateway. He was conceited and lonely 
 and hungry. He despised all the world, and would have given 
 his eyes for a friend. He looked forward to his three years 
 in this city ("The best time of your life, my boy. What I 
 would give to have those dear old days over again") with in- 
 expressible loathing. 
 
 He knew, however, three hours of happiness and exul- 
 tation. This joy came to him during the English Essay — 
 the last paper of the examination. There were four subjects 
 from which he might choose, and he selected something that 
 had to do with 'The Connection between English History 
 and English Literature.' Of facts he had really the vaguest 
 notion. He seemed to know, through hearsay rather than per- 
 sonal examination, that Oliver Cromwell was something 
 responsible for 'The Pilgrim's Progress', that that dissolute 
 monarch Charles II. had to do with the brillance and audacity 
 of Mr. Congreve and Mr. Wycherley, that Queen Anne in 
 some way produced Pope and Eobespierre, Wordsworth, and 
 Queen Victoria, Charlotte Mary Yonge (he had cared very 
 deeply for 'The Daisy Chain'), and our Indian Empire Mr. 
 Eudyard Kipling. He knew it all as vaguely as this, but he 
 wrote — ^he wrote divinely, gloriously ecstatically, so that the 
 three hours were but as one moment and the grim nudity of 
 the examination-room as the marbled palaces of his own fan- 
 tastic dreams. Such ecstasy had he known when he began 
 that story about the man who climbed the ricketty stairs. 
 Such ecstasy had been born on that day when he had read the 
 first page of the novel about Forests — such ecstasy had, he 
 knew in spite of itself, received true nourishment from that 
 enemy of their house, Philip. 
 
 His spirits fell when he came to himself, saw how many 
 
THE MIEEOE 333 
 
 other gentlemen had also written essays and with what in- 
 difference and languor the red-faced gentleman hustled his 
 pages in amongst all the others. Nevertheless, he did come 
 out of that examination-room with some conviction as to the 
 course that his future life would take, and with a kindness, 
 almost a tenderness, towards this grey tovm that was going 
 to allow him, even to command him, to write essays for the 
 next three years. With Henry one mood succeeded another 
 as rapidly as, in his country, wet weather succeeds fine. 
 
 He returned to Garth in an outrageous temper. His main 
 feeling now was that Philip had spoiled Cambridge for him. 
 Philip and his immoral life 'got in' between all that he saw 
 and dropped a misty veil, so that he could think of nothing 
 in the way that tradition had taught him. He had always 
 had a great respect for tradition. 
 
 Then as the weeks passed by he was made increasingly 
 unhappy by the strange condition in which he found the 
 family. He was, at heart, the crudest sentimentalist, and his 
 sentimentalism had been fed by nothing so richly as by the 
 cherished conviction that the George Trenchards were the 
 most united family in England. He had always believed this, 
 and had never, until now, considered the possibility of any 
 division. But what now did he find? His mother stem, 
 remote, silent, Millie irritable, uneasy and critical, Aunt 
 Aggie always out of temper. Aunt Betty bevfildered and tact- 
 less, even his father disturbed and unlike himself. And 
 Katie? . . . He could not have believed that six months 
 would change anyone so utterly. 
 
 Instead of the reliable, affectionate and stolid sister who 
 had shared with him all her intimacies, her plans, her regrets, 
 her anticipations, he beheld now a stranger who gave him 
 no intimacies at all, avoided him and hid from him her un- 
 doubted unhappiness. It was true of him now as it had ever 
 been that 'he would give his life to make Katherine happy,' 
 but how was he to do anything for her when she would tell 
 
834 THE GREEN MIRROB 
 
 him nothing, when she treated him like a stranger, and then 
 blamed him for his hostilities. 
 
 If it had been clear that now, after these months of her 
 engagement, she no longer loved Philip, the matter would 
 have been simple. He would have proceeded at once to his 
 father and told him all that he knew about Philip's Moscow 
 life. But she did love Philip — ^more, yes, far more, than 
 ever — nothing could be clearer than that. This love of 
 Katherine's burned, unceasingly, in Henry's brain. With 
 no other human being could he have felt, so urgently, the 
 flame of it but Katherine, whom he had known as he had 
 known himself, so sure, so undramatic, so happily sexless, as 
 she had always seemed to him, that it should be she whom 
 this passion had transformed ! From that moment when he 
 had seen her embrace of Philip, his imagination had harried 
 him as a dog harries a rabbit, over the whole scale of the 
 world. . . . Love, too, that he had believed was calm, 
 domestic, friendly, reassuring, was in truth unhappy, rebel- 
 lious, devastating. In the very heart of her unhappiness 
 seemed to be the fire of her love. This removed her from 
 him as though he had been flung by it into a distant world. 
 And, on every side, he was attacked by this same thing. 
 There were the women whom he had seen that night with 
 Philip, there was the woman who had given Philip a son 
 in Russia, there was here a life, dancing before him, now near 
 him, now far away from him, intriguing him, shaming him, 
 stirring him, revolting him, removing him from all his 
 family, isolating him and yet besetting him with the company 
 of wild, fantastic figures. 
 
 He walked the Glebeshire roads, spoke to no one, hated 
 himself, loathed Philip, was lashed by his imagination, 
 aroused at last to stinging vitality, until he did not know 
 whither to turn for safety. 
 
 He came up to London for the Faunder-Trenchard wed- 
 ding. Late in the afternoon that had seen Philip's conver- 
 
THE MIREOK 335 
 
 sation with old Mr. Trenchard Henry came into the drawing- 
 room to discover that tea was over and no one was there. 
 He looked into the tea-pot and saw that there was nothing 
 there to cheer him. For a moment he thought of Eussia, in 
 which country there were apparently perpetual samovars boil- 
 ing upon ever-ready tables. This made him think of Philip — 
 then, turning at some sudden sound, there was Aunt Aggie 
 in the doorway. 
 
 Aunt Aggie looked cold in spite of the warm weather, and 
 she held her knitting-needles in her hand defiantly, as though 
 she were carrying them to reassure a world that had unjustly 
 accused her of riotous living. 
 
 "It's simply rotten," said Henry, crossly. "One comes in 
 expecting tea and it's all over. Why can't they have tea at 
 the ordinary time ?" 
 
 "That's it," said Aunt Aggie, settling herself comfortably 
 into the large arm-chair near the fireplace. "Thinking of 
 yourself, Henry, of course. Learn to be unselfish or you'll 
 never be happy in this world. I remember when I was a 
 girl—" 
 
 "Look here !" Henry interrupted. "Has Philip been here 
 this afternoon?" 
 
 "Mr. Mark? Yes, he has." 
 
 "Did he come to tea V 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She dug her needles viciously into an innocent ball of 
 wool. 
 
 "Yes," said Henry fiercely, ^'that's why they had it early, 
 I suppose — and why I don't get any — of course." 
 
 "All I know is," continued Aunt Aggie, "that he's put your 
 grandfather into the most dreadful state. He was alone in 
 here with him it seems, and I'm sure I don't know what he's 
 said to him, but it upset him dreadfully. I've not been well 
 myself to-day, and to have your grandfather — " 
 
 But Henry again interrupted. 
 
836 THE GEEEN MIEEOK 
 
 "What did he want coming to-day at all for? He might 
 have waited." 
 
 Aunt Aggie, however, did not like to be interrupted when 
 she was discussing her health, so she said now sharply : "Just 
 look at your hands, Henry — ^Why can't you keep them clean. 
 I should have thought going up to Cambridge — " 
 
 "Oh ! I'm all right," he answered, impatiently. "Anyway, 
 I wonder what he told grandfather." 
 
 "Why, what could he have told him ?" said Aimt Aggie, 
 eagerly, looking up. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know — nothing — Only . . . Oh, Eocket, ask 
 them to make some fresh tea. Let me have it in here." 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Henry," said Eocket, removing the tea-pot 
 with an air of strong disapproval. 
 
 "Eeally, Henry!" Aunt Aggie exclaimed. "And simply 
 for yourself! Why, even though I've had the most trying 
 headache all day, I'd never venture to give so much trouble 
 simply for myself." 
 
 "Oh, I daresay you'll have some when it comes," Henry an- 
 swered, carelessly — ^then, pursuing his thoughts, he continued : 
 "Well, he won't be coming back to Garth with us — ^that's one 
 comfort." 
 
 "Oh, but he is!" cried Aunt Aggie, excitedly. "He is! 
 Your mother's asked him to come back with us, and he's ac- 
 cepted. I simply don't understand it. Your mother dislikes 
 him as much as the rest of us do, and why she should ask 
 him! It can't be for poor Katie's sake. She's miserable 
 enough when he's at Garth. I'm sure if things go on like this 
 much longer I shall go and take a little house by myself and 
 live alone. I'd really rather than all this unpleasantness." 
 
 This threat did not apparently alarm Henry very greatly, 
 for, bursting out suddenly, he cried : "It's beastly I perfectly 
 beastly ! There we've all got to sit watching him make Katie 
 miserable. I won't stand it! I won't stand it !" 
 
 "Why you !" said Aunt Aggie, scornfully. "How can you 
 prevent it ? You're only a boy !" 
 
THE MIEEOE 337 
 
 This epithet stung Henry to madness. Ah, if Aunt Aggie 
 only knew all, she'd see that he was very far from being 'only 
 a boy' — if she only knew the burden of secret responsibility 
 that he'd been bearing during all these weeks. He'd keep 
 secret no longer — it was time that everyone should know the 
 kind of man to whom Katherine was being sacrificed. He 
 turned round to his aunt, trembling with anger and excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "You talk like that !" he cried, "but you don't know what I 
 know !" 
 
 "What don't I know ?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 "About Philip — this man Mark — He's wicked, he's awful, 
 he's — abominable !" 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Aggie, dropping her needles. "What's 
 he done ?" 
 
 "Done!" Henry exclaimed, sinking his voice into a horri- 
 fied and confidential whisper. "He's been a dreadful man. 
 Before, in Russia, there's nothing he didn't do. I know, be- 
 cause there's a friend of mine who knew him very well out 
 there. He lived a terribly immoral life. He was notorious. 
 He lived with a woman for years who wasn't his wife, and 
 they had a baby. There's nothing he didn't do — and he never 
 told father a word." Henry paused for breath. 
 
 Aunt Aggie's cheeks flushed crimson, as they always did 
 when anyone spoke, before her, of sexual matters. 
 
 At last she said, as though to herself: "I always knew it — 
 I always knew it. You could see it in his face. I warned 
 them, but they wouldn't listen." 
 
 Henry meanwhile had recovered himself. He stood there 
 lookmg into the Mirror. It was a tragic moment. He had 
 done, after all, what, all these months, he had determined to 
 prevent himself from doing. He saw now, in a flash of ac- 
 cusing anger, what would most certainly follow. Aunt Aggie 
 would tell everyone. Philip would be dismissed — Katherine's 
 heart would be broken. 
 
 He saw nothing but Katherine, Katherine whom he loved 
 
338 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 with all the ardour of his strange undiseiplined quixotic soul. 
 He saw Katherine turning to him,. reproaching him, then, hid- 
 ing her grief, pursuing her old life, unhappy for ever and 
 ever. (At this stage in his development, he saw everything 
 in terms of 'for ever and for ever'.) It never occurred to him 
 that if Philip were expelled out of the Trenchard Eden Kath- 
 erine might accompany him. No, she would remain, a heart- 
 broken monument to Henry's lack of character. 
 
 He scowled at his aunt, who sat there thrilled and indig- 
 nant and happy. 
 
 "I say !" he burst out. "Of course you mustn't tell any- 
 body!" 
 
 Aunt Aggie nodded her head and her needles clicked. 
 
 "It must remain with wiser and older heads than yours, 
 Henry, as to what ought to be done ..." then to herself 
 again : "Ah, they'll wish they'd listened to me now." 
 
 "But I say," repeated Henry, red in the face, standing in 
 front of her, "you really mustn't. I told it you as a secret." 
 
 "A secret! When everyone in London knows! A nice 
 thing they'll all think — ^letting Katherine marry a man with 
 such a reputation !" 
 
 "'No, but look here — you wouldn't have known anything if 
 I hadn't told you — and you mustn't do anything — you mustn't 
 really. Katie loves him — ^more than ever — and if she were to 
 lose him — " 
 
 "Much better for her to lose him," said Aunt Aggie firmly, 
 "than for her to be miserable for life — ^much better. Besides, 
 think of the abominable way the man's deceived us ! Why, 
 he's no better than a common thief ! He — " 
 
 "Perhaps he hasn't deceived her," interrupted Henry. 
 "Perhaps he's told her — " 
 
 "Told her!" cried his aunt. "And do you really suppose 
 that Katherine would stay for one moment with a man whose 
 life — My dear Henry, how little you know your sister. She 
 certainly has changed lately under that dreadful man's in- 
 
THE MIEEOR' 339 
 
 fluence, but she's not changed so fundamentally as to forget 
 all principles of right and wrong, all delicate feeling." 
 
 "I don't know," said Henry slowly, "I don't helieve we do 
 know Katie a bit. Girls are so queer. Tou think they don't 
 know a thing about anything, and really they know more than 
 you do. . . . Anyway," he went on eagerly, "you mustn't 
 say a word. You mustn't really. You must give me your 
 promise." 
 
 But before Aunt Aggie could do more than shake her head 
 there was an interruption. The door opened and Philip en- 
 tered. Aunt Aggie at once rose from her chair, and, with a 
 rustle and a quiver, without looking at the young man, with- 
 out speaking left the room. 
 
 Henry remained, staring at Philip, confused and be- 
 wildered, furious with himself, furious with Aunt Aggie, 
 furious with Philip. Yes, now he had ruined Katherine's 
 life — ^he and Philip between them. That he should not con- 
 sider it possible that Katherine should have her life in her 
 own hands to make or mar was characteristic of the Trenchard 
 point of view. 
 
 Philip, conscious of Aunt Aggie's exit, said : "I was just 
 going — I came back to fetch a book that I left here — one that 
 Katherine lent me." 
 
 Henry made his usual lurching movement, as though he 
 would like to move across the room and behave naturally, but 
 was afraid to trust himself. 
 
 "That it?" he asked, pointing gloomily to a novel on the 
 table near him. 
 
 "That's it," said Philip. 
 
 "Hullo !" cried Henry, looking at it more closely. "That's 
 ,min6!" It was indeed the novel that had to do with forests 
 and the sea and the liberty of the human soul, the novel that 
 had been to Henry the first true gospel of his life and that 
 had bred in him all the troubles, distrusts and fears that a 
 true gospel is sure to breed. Henry, when the original book 
 
340 THE GEEEN MIKKOE 
 
 had been delivered back to Mudie's had with ceremony and 
 worship bought a copy for himself. This was his copy. 
 
 "It's my book," Henry repeated, picking it up and holding 
 it defiantly. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," said Philip stiffly. "Of course I didn't 
 know. Katherine spoke as though it were hers." 
 
 "Oh, you can take it," Henry said, frowning and throwing 
 it back on the table. 
 
 Philip looked at him, then suddenly, laughing, walked over 
 to him, "What's the matter, Henry?" he said catching his 
 arm. "I'll have it out with the lot of you, I swear I will. 
 You, none of you, say anything — ^you all just look as though 
 you didn't know me. You yourself, these last months, have 
 looked as though you'd like to stick a dagger into my back. 
 Now, really, upon my word, I don't know what I've done. 
 I'm engaged to Katherine, but I've behaved as decently about 
 it as I can. I'm not going to take her away from you all if I 
 can help it. I've made up my mind to that, now that I see 
 how much she cares for you all. I've done my best ... I 
 really have, l^ow, what is it ?" 
 
 Henry was, in spite of himself, touched by this appeal. He 
 glanced at Philip's face and thought, again in spite of him- 
 self, what a nice one it was. A horrible suspicion came to 
 him that he liked Philip, had always liked him, and this 
 abominable whisper, revealing treachery to all his principles, 
 to all his traditions, to all his moral code, above all to Kath- 
 erine, infuriated him. He tore his arm away. 
 
 "If you want to know," he cried, "it's because I think 
 you're a beast, because you're not fit to touch Katie — ^because 
 — ^because — I know all about you !" 
 
 Philip stood there ; for a moment a smile trembled to his 
 lips, then was dismissed. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" he said, sternly. 
 
 "Mean ?" cried Henry, allowing himself to be carried along 
 on a tide of indignation that seemed, in some way, in spite of 
 itself, to be quite genuine. "Mean ? I mean that I've known 
 
THE MIEKOE 341 
 
 for weeks and weeks the kind of man you are ! I know what 
 you did in Moscow for years and years, although you may 
 look so quiet. Do you think you're the sort of man to marry 
 Katharine ? Why, you aren't fit to touch her hand." 
 
 "Would you mind," said Philip quietly, "just telling me 
 exactly to what you are referring ?" 
 
 "Why," said Henry, dropping his voice and beginning to 
 numhle, "you had — ^you had a mistress — in Moscow for years, 
 and everyone knew it — and you had a baby — and it died. 
 Everyone knows it." 
 
 "Well," said Philip quietly, "and what then ?" 
 
 "Oh, you're going to deny it, I suppose," said Henry, "but 
 I tell you—" 
 
 "No," said Philip, "I'm not going to think of denying it. 
 I don't know where you got your information from, but it's 
 perfectly true. At the same time I can't see that it's your 
 particular business or, indeed, anyone's. The affair's abso- 
 lutely done with — old history." 
 
 "1^0, I suppose," cried Henry, "it doesn't seem to be any- 
 thing to you. You don't know what a decent family thinks 
 of such things. It's nothing to you, of course. But we hap- 
 pen to care for Katherine more than — ^more than — ^you seem 
 to know. And — and she's everything to us. And we're not 
 going to let her — ^to let her marry someone who's notoriously 
 a — a bad man. No, we're not. It may seem odd to you, but 
 we're not." 
 
 Philip was standing now beneath the Mirror, in front of 
 the fireplace, his hands behind his back. 
 
 "My dear Henry," he said, "it's extremely pleasant to me 
 to hear that you're so fond of Katherine — but has it ever oc- 
 curred to any of you that she may possibly have a life of her 
 own, that she isn't going to be dependent on all of you for 
 ever? . . . And as for you, Henry, my boy, you're a nice 
 character, with charming possibilities in it, but I'm afraid 
 that it can't be denied that you're a bit of a prig — and I don't 
 
 & 
 
342 THE GEEEN MIEEOR 
 
 know that Cambridge is exactly the place to improve that 
 defect." 
 
 Philip could have said nothing more insulting. Henry's 
 face grew white and his hands trembled. 
 
 His voice shaking, he answered: "You can say what you 
 like. All I can tell you is that if you don't give up Katherine 
 I'll tell Eather at once the sort of man you are — ^tell them all. 
 And then you'll have to go." 
 
 At Philip's heart there was triumph. At last the crisis 
 was threatened for which he had, all this time, been longing. 
 He did not for an instant doubt what Katherine would do. 
 Ah ! if they drove him away she was his, his for ever ! and, 
 please God, they would never see Glebeshire again ! 
 
 He was triumphant, but he did not give Henry his mood. 
 
 "You can do what you please, my son," he answered, scorn- 
 fully. "Tell 'em all. But brush your hair next time you 
 come down to the drawing-room for tea. Even in Eussia we 
 do that. You don't know how wild it looks. . . . Now, just 
 hand me that book and I'll clear out. Meanwhile don't be so 
 childish. You're going to Cambridge, and really must grow 
 up. Take my advice. Brush your hair, put on a clean collar, 
 and don't be a prig." 
 
 Henry, white with passion, saw nothing but Philip's face. 
 Philip the enemy and scorn of the house, Philip the ravisher 
 of Katherine, Philip author of all evil and instigator of all 
 wickedness. 
 
 He picked up the book and flung it at Philip's head. 
 
 "There's your book !" he screamed. "Take it ! . . . You 
 — you cad !" 
 
 The book crashed into the centre of the mirror. 
 
 There was a tinkle of falling glass, and instantly the whole 
 room seemed to tumble into pieces, the old walls, the old 
 prints and water-colours, the green carpet, the solemn book- 
 cases, the large arm-chairs — and with the room, the house, and 
 with the house Westminster, Garth, Glebeshire, Trenchard 
 and Trenchard tradition — all represented now by splinters 
 
THE MIEEOE 343 
 
 and fragments of glass, by broken reflections of squares and 
 stars of green light, old faded colours, deep retreating 
 shadows. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Henry! "Oh!" 
 
 "Thank Heaven !" laughed Philip triumphantly, "One of 
 you've done something at last !" 
 
CHAPTEE III 
 
 ANNA AND MKS. TE.ENCHABD 
 
 THAT return to Garth was, for everyone concerned, a 
 miserable affair. It happened that the fine summer 
 weather broke into torrents of rain. As they drove up to the 
 old house they could hear the dripping of water from every 
 nook and corner. As Henry lay awake that first night the 
 hiss and spatter of the rain against his window seemed to have 
 a personal grudge against him. "Ah — ^you fool — s-s-s — ^you 
 s-s-s-illy a-s-s-s. Put your pride in your pocket — s^s-s^illy 
 a-s-s." 
 
 When he slept he dreamt that a deluge had descended upon 
 the earth, that all were drowned save he, and that he was sup- 
 ported against the flood only by the floor of the house that 
 swayed and swayed. Suddenly with a crash in it fell — ^he 
 awoke to find that he had tumbled out of bed on to the carpet. 
 
 For days a steaming, clammy mist, with a weight and a 
 melancholy peculiar to Glebeshire, hung over the world. 
 
 They lived in hot steam, their hair was damp and their 
 hands chill. It was poor days for the beginning of August. 
 Eebekah was in a bad temper ; no one knew what it was that 
 had displeased her, but she had a wicked nephew who wrote, 
 at certain times, to plead for money, and always for many 
 days after receiving a letter from him she was displeased with 
 everyone. She walked now like a tragedy queen in her tall 
 white cap and stiff white apron; only Mrs. Trenchard could 
 be expected to deal with her, and Mrs. Trenchard had other 
 things that occupied her mind. 
 
 Henry's eye was now forever on his mother. He waited 
 
 344 
 
ANNA AND MKS. TKENOHAED 345 
 
 for the moment when Aunt Aggie would speak, that quite 
 inevitable moment. 
 
 He thought that he had never truly seen his mother before. 
 In old days, in that strange, dim world before Philip's 
 arrival, she had seemed to him someone to be cherished, to be 
 protected, someone growing a little old, a little cheerless, a 
 little lonely. Now she was full of vigour and dominion. 
 When she said to him: "Did you put on that clean under- 
 clothing this morning, Henry?" instead of sulking and an- 
 swering her question with an obvious disgust, he assured her 
 earnestly that he had done so. He admired now her strong 
 figure, her pouring of tea at breakfast, her sharp rebukes to 
 the gardener, and her chiding of Uncle Tim when he entered 
 the drawing-room wearing muddy boots. Yes, he admired his 
 mother. So he trembled at the thought of her cold, ironic 
 anger when she heard of Philip's past. 
 
 On the day after their arrival at Garth he told Millie what 
 he had done. He had long ago realised that, since her re- 
 turn from Paris, Millie had been a quite unaccountable 
 creature. It was not only her French education. He at- 
 tributed this change also to the dire influence of Philip. He 
 noticed with disgust that she behaved now as though she were 
 a woman of the world, implying, at the same time, that he 
 was still an uncleanly and ignorant schoolboy. He knew that 
 she would be indignant and scornful at his indiscretion, 
 nevertheless he was driven by loneliness to confide in her. 
 
 They walked together to the village that they might fetch 
 the afternoon post, otherwise unrescued until the following 
 morning. 
 
 Millie was in a bad temper. 
 
 "I never knew anyone walk in the mud as you do, Henry. 
 Your boots are filthy in a minute. You walk into every pud- 
 dle you can see. You always did." 
 
 The trees hung ghostly out of the mist like mocking 
 scarecrows. Every once and again moisture from somewhere 
 trickled down between Henry's neck and collar. 
 
346 THE GEEEN MIKKOK 
 
 "Look here, Millie," he said gloomily, "I want your 
 advice." 
 
 "You've done something silly again, I suppose," she an- 
 swered loftily. 
 
 Glancing shyly at her, he thought that she was looking very 
 pretty. Strange, the number of new things that he was no- 
 ticing now about the family. But she was pretty — a great 
 deal prettier than Katherine; in fact, the only pretty one of 
 the family. He liked her soft hair, so charming under her 
 large flopping garden-hat, her little nose, her eyes black and 
 sparkling, the colour of her cheeks, her tall and slim body 
 that carried her old cotton dress so gracefully. Everything 
 about her was right and beautiful in a way that no other 
 members of the family could achieve. Katherine was always 
 a little clumsy, although since her engagement to Philip 
 she had taken more care. . . . There was something light 
 and lovely about Millie that no care would produce if you 
 had not got it. He was proud of her, and would have 
 liked that she should be nice to him. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I've been an awful fool. . . . I've told 
 Aunt Aggie about Philip." 
 
 Millie stopped and stood, staring at him. 
 
 "You've told Aunt Aggie ?" she cried furiously. 
 
 "Yes," he repeated, blushing, as he always did when he 
 was scolded. 
 
 "Oh ! you silly ass !" She was so deeply exasperated that 
 she could scarcely speak. 
 
 "You SILLY ass! I might have guessed it — And yet all 
 the time I'd hoped that at least. , . . And Aunt Aggie of all 
 people! . . . and now Katherine and mother! 
 
 "Oh, you chattering, blundering idiot !" 
 
 She walked forward at a furious pace; he plunged after 
 her. 
 
 "That's all right," he said, "when you've done cursing 
 you'll be cooler. I know I'm an ass, but Aunt Aggie irri- 
 tated me and got it all out of me. Aunt Aggie's the devil !" 
 
ANNA AND MKS. TEENCHAED 347 
 
 "Of course she is, and of course you'll choose her out of 
 everyone, when she hates Philip and would wring his neck 
 to-morrow if her hands were strong enough." 
 
 "Well, I hate him too," said Henry. 
 
 "Oh, no you don't," answered Millie, "you think you do. 
 You're proud of thinking you hate him, and you lose your 
 temper because he laughs at you, and then you throw books 
 p.t his head, but you don't really hate him." 
 
 "How do you know I throw books at his head ?" 
 
 "Oh, you don't suppose we, any of us, believed that story 
 abc't you and Philip having a kind of game in the drawing- 
 room just for fun. . • . Father was furious about it, and said 
 the mirror was unreplaceable, and the sooner you went to 
 Cambridge and stopped there the better — and I think so 
 too. Oh ! you've just spoilt everything !" 
 
 "It's only about Katie I'm thinking," he answered dog- 
 gedly. "It may, after all, be true what Aunt Aggie said, 
 that it will be much better for her in the end for the thing 
 to be broken off, even though it hurts her now." 
 
 "Better for her!" cried Millie scornfully. "Don't you 
 know that, however deeply she loved Philip when it all be- 
 gan, it's nothing to the way that she loves him now? . . . 
 Of course now there'll be a scene. Philip will be turned off 
 for ever and — " She broke off, then said, staring at Henry: 
 "Supposing, after all, Katie were to go with him!" 
 
 Henry shook his head. "She'd never do that, however 
 much Philip is to her. Why, it would mean giving up Grarth 
 and us for ever ! Mother would never forgive her ! After 
 all, she's only known Philip six months, and I heard her say 
 the other day in London she loves Garth more than ever. 
 And even if Mother did forgive her, in the end she'd never 
 be able to come back here as one of us again. You and I 
 will love her whatever she does, but Mother and Father and 
 the aunts ... I believe it would simply kill them — " 
 
 "I'm not so sure," said Millie slowly, "that Mother thinks 
 that. I believe she's half afraid of Philip running off and 
 
348 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 then Katie following him. That's why she's been so nice to 
 him lately, although she can't bear him. Of course if she 
 knew all this that we know he'd have to go — she wouldn't 
 have him in the house five minutes, and Father would do 
 what Mother told him of course. And now that you've been 
 an idiot enough to tell Aunt Aggie, it's all up. . . . The 
 only hope i that Katie will chuck it all and follow him !" 
 
 "What !" cried Henry aghast. "You'd like her to !" 
 
 "Why, of course," said Millie, "there isn't anything com- 
 pared with the sort of thing Katie feels for Philip — ^Home 
 and the family ? Why, they've all got to go in these days ! 
 That's what people like the aunts and fathers and the rest 
 of the old fogeys round here don't see. But they'll have to 
 see soon. . . . But mother's cleverer than they are. At 
 least she is about Katie, because she loves her so much." 
 
 "My word!" said Henry, in the husky voice that always 
 came when he admired anybody. "You've changed an awful 
 lot lately, Millie." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I have," she answered, complacently. 
 
 They talked very little after that, for the reason that in 
 the village Henry bought Millie some bulls-eyes, because he 
 felt in a confused kind of way that he admired her more than 
 he had ever done. 
 
 Millie had also another reason for silence ; she was thinking 
 very hard. During those few days in London she had lived 
 in a world of thrilling expectation. She hoped that every 
 moment would announce the elopement of Katherine and 
 Philip. After her conversation with her sister, it had 
 seemed to her that this elopement was inevitable. On every 
 occasion of the opening of a door in the London house her 
 heart had leapt in her breast. She had watched the lovers 
 with eyes that were absorbed. Ah ! if only they would take 
 her more thoroughly into their confidence, would put them- 
 selves into her hands. She'd manage for them — she'd ar- 
 range everything most beautifully. This was the most ro- 
 mantic hour of her life. . . . 
 
ANNA AND MES. TEENOHAED 349 
 
 But now, after Henry's revelation, Millie's thonglits were 
 turned upon her mother. Of course her mother would expel 
 Philip — then there was a danger that Philip would return 
 to that living, fascinating creature in Eussia, the mysterious, 
 smiling Anna. Millie had created that figure for herself 
 now, had thought and wondered and dreamed of her so 
 often that she saw her bright and vivid and desperately dan- 
 gerous, thin and dark and beautiful against a background 
 cf eternal snow. 
 
 There they were — her mother and Anna and Katherine, 
 with Philip, poor Philip, in between them all. It was truly 
 a wonderful time for Millie, who regarded all this as a pro- 
 logue to her own later dazzling history. She did not know 
 that, after all, she blamed Henry very desperately for his 
 foolishness. The thrilling crisis was biit brought the nearer. 
 
 Meanwhile the first thing that she did was to inform Kath- 
 erine of Henry's treachery. 
 
 Katherine received the news very quietly. 
 
 "And now," said Millie eagerly, "what will you do, Katie 
 darling ?" 
 
 "Wait and see what Mother does," said Katie. 
 
 "She'll be simply horrified," said Millie. "If she sends 
 Philip away and forbids you ever to see him again, what wiU 
 you do?" 
 
 But Katherine would not answer that. 
 
 "Let's wait, Millie dear," she said gently. 
 
 "But you wouldn't let him go ?" Millie pursued, "not back 
 to Eussia and that awful woman." 
 
 "I trust Philip," Katherine said. 
 
 "You can never trust a man," Millie said gravely. "I 
 know. One of our girls in Paris was let in terribly. She — " 
 
 Katherine interrupted her. 
 
 "Philip isn't like anyone else," she said. 
 
 And Millie was dismissed. 
 
 But when Katherine was alone she sat down and wrote a 
 letter. This was it; 
 
350 THE CREEN MIRROE 
 
 "My daeling Rachel, 
 
 Do you remember that a long time ago, one day when 
 I came to see you in London, you said that if I were ever in 
 trouble I was to tell you and you'd understand anything? 
 Well, I'm in trouble now — ^bad trouble. Things are grow- 
 ing worse and worse, and it seems now that whichever way I 
 act, something's got to be hopelessly spoiled. To any or- 
 dinary outsider it would mean such a small business, but 
 really it's the whole of my life and of other people's too. 
 You're not an outsider, and so I know that you'll under- 
 stand. I can't tell you more now — I don't know what 
 win happen, how I'll act, or anything. But I shall know 
 soon, and then I shall want your help, dreadfully. I'm 
 sure you'll help me when I ask you to. 
 
 You do like Philip better now, don't you ? I know that 
 you didn't at first, but that was because you didn't really 
 know him. I didn't really know him either then, but I 
 know him now, and I love him twice as much as ever I 
 did. 
 
 This will seem a silly letter to you, but I want to feel 
 that I've got someone behind me. Millie's a dear, but she 
 isn't old enough to understand. Don't be frightened by 
 this. If anything happens I'll write at once. 
 
 Your loving 
 
 K." 
 Meanwhile the family life proceeded, outwardly, on its 
 normal way. August was always a month of incident — ^pic- 
 nics to Rafiel and St. Lowe and Damen Head, sometimes long 
 expeditions to Borhaze or Pelynt, sometimes afternoons in 
 Pendennis or Rothin Woods. There were expeditions in 
 which relations from Polchester or Clinton, or friends from 
 Liskane and Polewint shared, and, in the cover of them, the 
 family supported quite successfully the Trenchard tradition 
 of good manners, unruffled composure, and abundant leisure. 
 As members of a clan so ancient and self-reliant that no 
 enemy, however strong, however confident, could touch them, 
 
ANNA AND MKS. TKENCHAED 351 
 
 they sat about their luncheon baskets on the burning sand, 
 whilst the fat pony cropped in the dark hedges above the 
 beach and the gulls wheeled and hovered close at hand. 
 
 This was well enough, but the long summer evenings be- 
 trayed them. In earlier days, when relationships were so sure 
 and so pleasant that the world swept by in a happy silence, 
 those summer evenings had been lazy, intimate prologues to 
 long nights of undisturbed sleep. They would sit in the 
 drawing-room, the windows open to the garden scents and the 
 salt twang of the sea, moths would flutter round the lamps, 
 Millie would play and sing a little at a piano that was never 
 quite in tune. Aunt Betty would struggle happily with her 
 "Demon Patience," George Trenchard would laugh at them 
 for half-an-hour, and then slip away to his study. Mrs. 
 Trenchard and Aunt Aggie would knit and discuss the vil- 
 lage, Henry would lie back in an arm-chair, his nose deep 
 in a book, Katherine would be at anybody's service — ^the min- 
 utes would fly, then would come Eebekah with hot milk 
 for some and toast-and-water for others, there would be 
 prayers, and then "good-night, ma'am". "Good-night, sir", 
 from the three maids, the cook and Eebekah, then candles 
 lighted in the hall, then climbing slowly up the stairs, with 
 clumsy jokes from Henry and last words from Mrs. Tren- 
 chard, such as "Don't forget the Williams' coming over to- 
 morrow, Katie dear," or "Some of that quinine for your cold, 
 Aggie, I suggest," or "I've put the new collars on your bed, 
 Henry," then the closing of doors, then a happy silence, ut- 
 terly secure. That had been the old way. 
 
 Outwardly the August nights of this year resembled the old 
 ones — ^but the heart of them beat with panic and dismay. 
 Philip had thought at first that it was perhaps his presence 
 that caused the uneasiness, and one evening he complained of 
 a headache and went up to his room after dinner. But he 
 learnt from Katherine that his absence had merely empha- 
 sised everything. They must be all there — it would never 
 do to show that there was anything the matter, Millie played 
 
352 THE GEEEN MIKEOE 
 
 the piano, Aunt Betty attempted her "Patience" with her 
 usual little "Tut-tut's" and "Dear me's." Mrs, Trenchard 
 and Aunt Aggie sewed or knitted, but now the minutes 
 dragged in endless procession across the floor, suddenly some- 
 one would raise a head and listen, Henry, pretending to read 
 a book, would stare desperately in front of him, then noticing 
 that Aunt Aggie watched him, would blush and hold his book 
 before his face ; with relief, as though they had escaped some 
 threatening danger, they would greet the milk, the 'toast-and- 
 water', the maids and the family prayers. 
 
 There was now no lingering on the staircase. 
 
 There are many families, of course, to whom the rebellion 
 or disgrace of one of its members would mean but little, so 
 slightly had been felt before the dependence of one soul 
 upon another. But with the Trenchards that dependence 
 had been everything, the outside world had been a fantastic 
 show, unreal and unneeded : as the pieces of a pictured puzzle 
 fit one into another, so had the Trenchards been interwoven 
 and dependent . . . only in England, perhaps, had such a 
 blind and superior insularity been possible . . . and it may 
 be that this was to be, in all the records of history, the last 
 of such a kind — "Nil nisi bonum". . . . 
 
 To Philip these summer days were darkened by his con- 
 sciousness of Mrs. Trenchard. When he looked back over 
 the months since he had known her, he could remember no 
 very dramatic conversation that he had had with her, nothing 
 tangible anywhere. She had been always pleasant and agree- 
 able to him, and, at times, he had tried to tell himself that, 
 after all, he might ultimately be happy 'eaten up by her,' as 
 Jonah was by the whale. Then, with a little shiver, he knew 
 the truth — that increasingly, as the days passed, he both hated 
 and feared her. She had caught his will in her strong hands 
 and was crushing it into pulp. 
 
 He made one last effort to assert himself, even as he had 
 tried his strength against Katherine, against Henry, against 
 Aunt Aggie, against old Mr. Trenchard. This little conver- 
 
ANNA AND MES. TRENCHAED 353 
 
 sation that lie had in the Garth garden with Mrs. Trenchard 
 upon one of those lovely summer evenings was of the simplest 
 and most undramatic fashion. Nevertheless it marked the 
 end of his struggle; he always afterwards looked back upon 
 those ten minutes as the most frightening experience of his 
 life. Mrs. Trenchard, in a large loose hat and gauntleted 
 gardening gloves, made a fine cheerful, reposeful figure as she 
 walked slowly up and down the long lawn ; she asked Philip 
 to walk with her ; the sun flung her broad flat shadow like a 
 stain upon the bright grass. 
 
 They had talked a little, and then he had suddenly, with a 
 tug of alarm at his heart, determined that he would break 
 his chains. He looked up at her placid eyes. 
 
 "I think," he said — his voice was not quite steady — "that 
 Katherine and I will live somewhere in the North after our 
 marriage. Quite frankly I don't think Glebeshire suits me." 
 
 "And Katie," said Mrs. Trenchard, smiling. 
 
 "Katie . . . she — she'll like the North when she's tried 
 it for a little." 
 
 "You'll rob us of her?" 
 
 "Not altogether, of course." 
 
 "She'll be very miserable away from Glebeshire . . . very 
 miserable. I've seen such a nice little house — Colve Hall — 
 only two miles from here — on the Eafiel road. I don't think 
 you must take Katie from Glebeshire, Philip." 
 
 That was a challenge. Their eyes met. His dropped. 
 
 "I think it will be better for her to be away after we are 
 married." 
 
 "Why? Do you hate us all?" 
 
 He coloured. "I'm not myself with you. I don't know 
 what to do with your kind of life. I've tried — I have indeed 
 — I'm not happy here." 
 
 "Aren't you selfish? If you rob Katie of everything — 
 will you be happy then ?" 
 
 Yes, that was it. He could see their future life, Kather- 
 ine, longing, longing to return, excited, homesick! 
 
354 THE GKEEN MIRROK 
 
 Although he did not look up, he knew that she was smiling 
 at him. 
 
 "You are very young, Philip," she said. "You want life 
 to be perfect. It can't be that. You must adapt yourself. 
 I think that you will both be happier here in Glebeshire — 
 near us." 
 
 He would have broken out, crying that Katherine was his, 
 not theirs, that he wanted her for himself, that they must be 
 free. ... Of what use ? That impassivity took his courage 
 and flattened it all out as though he were a child of ten, still 
 ruled by his mother. 
 
 "Shall we go in?" said Mrs. Trenohard. "It's a little 
 cold." 
 
 It was after this conversation that he began to place his 
 hope upon the day when his Moscow misdeeds would be de- 
 clared — ^that seemed now his only road to freedom. 
 
 Upon one lovely summer evening they sat there and had, 
 some of them, the same thought. 
 
 Millie, slim and white, standing before the long open win- 
 dow, stared into the purple night, splashed with stars and 
 mysterious with tier-like clouds. She was thinking of Anna, 
 of all that life that Philip had, of what a world it must be 
 where there are no laws, no conventions, no restraints. That 
 woman now had some other lover, she thought no more, per- 
 haps, of Philip — and no one held her the worse. She could 
 do what she would — ^how full her life must be, how adventur- 
 ous, packed with colour, excitement, battle and victory. And, 
 after all, it might be, to that woman, that this adventure 
 meant so little that she did not realise it as an adventure. 
 Millie's heart rose and fell; her heart hurt her so that she 
 pressed her hand against her frock. She wanted her own life 
 to begin — at once, at once. Other girls had found the begin- 
 ning of it during those days in Paris, but some English re- 
 straint and pride — she was intensely proud — had held her 
 back. But now she was on fire with impatience, with long- 
 
ANNA AND MRS. TEENCHAED 355 
 
 ing, -with courage. ... As she stared into the night she 
 seemed to see the whole world open, like a shining silver plate, 
 held by some dark figure for her acceptance. She stretched 
 out her hands. 
 
 "Take care you don't catch cold by that open window, 
 Millie dear," said her mother. 
 
 Henry also was thinking of Anna. Erom where he sat 
 he could, behind his book, raising his eyes a little, see Philip. 
 Philip was sitting, very straight and solid, with his short 
 thick legs crossed in front of him, reading a book. He never 
 moved. He made no sound. Henry had, since the day when 
 he had broken the mirror, avoided Philip entirely. He did 
 not want to consider the man at all ; of course he hated the 
 man because it was he who had made them all miserable, 
 and yet, had the fellow never loved Katherine, had he re- 
 mained outside the family, Henry knew now that he could 
 have loved him. 
 
 This discovery he had made exactly at the moment when 
 that book had fallen crashing into the miiTor — it had been 
 so silly, so humiliating a discovery that he had banished it 
 from his mind, had refused to look into it at all. 
 
 But that did not mean that he did not contemplate Philip's 
 amazing life. He contemplated it more intensely every day. 
 The woman had all the mystery of invisibility, and yet Henry 
 thought that he would know her if he saw her. He coloured 
 her according to his fancy, a laughing, tender figure who 
 would recognize him, did she meet him, as the one man in the 
 world for whom she had been searching. 
 
 He imagined to himself ridiculous conversations that he 
 should have with her. He would propose to marry her, 
 would declare, with a splendid nobility, that he knew of her 
 earlier life, but that "that meant nothing to him." He would 
 even give up his country for her, would live in Eussia, 
 would . . . Then he caught Philip's eye,, blushed, bent to 
 pull up his sock, said, in a husky, unconcerned voice : 
 
 "Do play something, Millie. Something of Mendelssohn." 
 
356 THE GEEEN MIEKOE 
 
 Philip also was thinking of Anna. Through the pages of 
 his stupid novel, as though they had been of glass, he saw her 
 as she had last appeared to him on the platform of the Mos- 
 cow station. She had been wearing a little round black fur 
 hat and a long black fur coat, her cheeks were pale, her eyes 
 mocking, but somewhere, as though in spite of herself, there 
 had been tenderness. She had laughed at him, but she had, 
 for only a moment perhaps, wished that he were not going. 
 It was that tenderness that held him now. The evening, 
 through which he was now passing, had been terrible — one of 
 the worst that he had ever spent — and he had wondered 
 whether he really would be able to discipline himself to that 
 course on which he had determined, to marry Katherine un- 
 der the Trenchard shadow, to deliver himself to Mrs. Tren- 
 chard, even as the lobster is delivered to the cook. And so, 
 with this desperation, had come, with increasing force, that 
 memory of Anna's tenderness. 
 
 He did not want to live with her again, to renew that old 
 life — ^his love for Katherine had, most truly, blotted out all 
 the fire and colour of that earlier passion, but he wanted — 
 yes, he wanted most passionately, to save his own soul. 
 
 Might it not, after all, be true, as that ghostly figure had 
 urged to him, that it would be better for him to escape and so 
 carry Katherine after him — ^but what if she did not come? 
 
 He heard Mrs. Trenchard's voice as she spoke to Millie, 
 and, at that sound, he resigned himself . . . but the figure 
 still smiled at him behind that glassy barrier. 
 
 Katherine also thought of Anna. She was sitting just 
 behind Aunt Betty watching, over the old lady's shoulder, 
 the 'Patience'. 
 
 "There," said Aunt Betty, "there's the ten, the nine, the 
 eight. Oh ! if I only had the seven !" 
 
 "You can get it," said Katherine, "if you move that six 
 and five." 
 
 "How stupid I am I" said Aimt Betty, "thank you, my dear, 
 I didn't see." 
 
AEI^A AND MKS. TKENOHAED 357 
 
 Katherine saw dancing in and out between the little cards 
 a tiny figure that was yet tall and strong, moving there a teas- 
 ing, taunting puppet, standing also, a motionless figure, away 
 there, by the wall, watching, with a cynical smile, the room. 
 Beneath the thin hands of the old lady the cards fluttered, 
 shifted, lay with their painted colours on the shining table, 
 and, in accompaniment with their movement, Katherine's 
 thoughts also danced, in and out, round and round, chasing 
 the same old hopeless riddle. Sometimes she glanced across 
 at her mother. Perhaps already Aunt Aggie had told 
 her. . . . No, she had not. Her mother's calm showed that 
 she, as yet, knew nothing. Katherine, like the others, did 
 not doubt what her mother would do. She would demand 
 that the engagement should be broken off; they would all, 
 ranged behind her broad back, present their ultimatum — ^And 
 then what would Katherine do ? . . . Simply, sitting there, 
 with her fingers fiercely interlaced, her hands pressed against 
 her knee, she did not know. She was exhausted with the 
 struggle that had continued now for so many weeks, and 
 behind her exhaustion, waiting there, triumphant in the ex- 
 pectation of her success, was her rival. 
 
 Then, suddenly, as they waited there came to them all the 
 idea that the hall door had been opened and gently closed. 
 They all, Mrs. Trenchard, Aunt Aggie, Millie, Henry, Kath- 
 erine, started, looked up. 
 
 "Did someone come in ?" said Mrs. Trenchard, in her mild 
 voice. "I thought I heard the hall door — Just go and see, 
 Henry." 
 
 "I'll go," said Katherine quickly. 
 
 They all waited, their heads raised. Katherine crossed 
 the room, went into the hall that glimmered faintly under a 
 dim lamp, paused a moment, then turned back the heavy han- 
 dle of the door. The door swung back, and the lovely sum- 
 mer night swept into the house. The stars were a pattern of 
 quivering light between the branches of the heavy trees that 
 trembled ever so gently with the thrilling sense of their happi- 
 
358 THE GEEEN MIEROE 
 
 neas. The roses, the rich soil soaked with dew, and the dis- 
 tant murmur of the stream that ran below the garden wall 
 entered the house. 
 
 Katherine waited, in the open door, looking forward. Then 
 she came in, shutting the door softly behind her. 
 
 Had someone entered? Was someone there with her, in 
 the half-light, whispering to her: "I'm in the house now — 
 and I shall stay, so long as I please — ^unless you can turn 
 me out." 
 
 She went back into the drawing-room. 
 
 "There was no one," she said. "Perhaps it was Rebekah." 
 
 "There's rather a draught, dear," said Aunt Aggie, "my 
 neuralgia . . . thank you, my dear." 
 
 "I've done it!" cried Aunt Betty, flushed with pleasure. 
 "It's come out ! If you hadn't shown me that seven, Katie, 
 it never would have come!" 
 
 Upon the very next afternoon Aunt Aggie made up her 
 mind. After luncheon she went, alone, for a walk; she 
 climbed the fields above the house, threaded little lanes sunk 
 between high hedges, crossed an open common, dropped into 
 another lane, was lost for awhile, finally emerged on the hill 
 above that tiny Cove known as Smuggler's Button. Smug- 
 gler's Button is the tiniest cove in Glebeshire, the sand of it 
 is the whitest, and it has in the very middle a high jagged 
 rock known as the Pin. Aunt Aggie, holding an umbrella, 
 a black bonnet on her head and an old shabby rain-coat flap- 
 ping behind her, sat on the Pin. It was a long way for her 
 to have come — five miles from Garth — and the day was 
 windy, with high white clouds that raced above her head like 
 angry birds ready to devour her. Aunt Aggie sat there and 
 looked at the sea, which approached her in little bowing and 
 beckoning white waves, as though she were a shrivelled and 
 pouting Queen Victoria holding a drawing-room. Once and 
 again her head trembled, as though it were fastened insecurely 
 to her body, and her little fat, swollen cheeks shook like jelly. 
 
ANNA AND MES. TRENOHARD 359 
 
 Sometimes she raised a finger, encased in a black glove, and 
 •waved it in the air, as though she were admonishing the uni- 
 verse. 
 
 She clutched vigorously in one hand her umbrella. 
 
 She gazed at the sea with passion- This love for the sea 
 had been a dominant power in her ever since she could remem- 
 ber, and had come she knew not whence. It had been, in 
 earlier days, one of the deep, unspoken bonds between herself 
 and Katherine, and it had been one of her most active criti- 
 cisms of Millie that 'the girl cared nothing about the sea 
 whatever'. But she. Aunt Aggie, could not say why she 
 loved it. She was no poet, and she knew not the meaning of 
 the word 'Enthusiasm'. She was ashamed a little of her 
 passion, and, when she had walked five miles to Smuggler's 
 Button or seven miles to Lingard Sand 'just to look at it', 
 she would walk stiffly home again, would give no answer to 
 those who asked questions, and, if driven into a corner would 
 say she had been 'just for a walk.' But she loved it in all 
 its moods, grave, gay and terrible, loved it even when it 
 was like a grey cotton garment designed for the poor or when 
 it slipped into empty space under a blind and soaking mist. 
 She loved the rhythm of it, the indifference of it, above all, 
 the strength of it. Here at last, thank God, was something 
 that she could admire more than herself. 
 
 She had, nevertheless, always at the back of her mind the 
 thought that it would be bad for it if it knew how much she 
 thought of it ; she was always ready to be disappointed in it, 
 although she knew that it would never disappoint her — she 
 was grim and unbending in her attitude to it lest, in a moment 
 of ecstasy, she should make cheap of her one devotion. To-day 
 she did not actively consider it. She sat on the rock and 
 made up her mind that she would take steps 'that very day.' 
 Harriet, her sister-in-law, had, during these last months, often 
 surprised her, but there would be no question of her action 
 in this climax of the whole unfortunate business. 
 
 "The young m»n," ^s she always called Philip, would never 
 
360 THE GKEEN MIEEOE 
 
 show his face in Trenchard circles again. Harriet might 
 forgive, because of her love for Katherine, his impertinence, 
 his conceit, his irreligion, his leading Henry into profligacy 
 and drunkenness, she would not — could not — forgive his 
 flagrant and open immorality, an immorality that had ex- 
 tended over many years. As she thought of this vicious life 
 she gave a little shiver — a shiver of indignation, of resolu- 
 tion, of superiority, and of loneliness. The world — ^the gay, 
 vital, alluring world, had left her high and dry upon that 
 rock on which she was sitting, and, rebuke and disapprove 
 of it as she might, it cared little for her words. 
 
 It was, perhaps, for this reason that she felt strangely 
 little pleasure in her approaching triumph. She had hated 
 "the young man" since her first meeting with him, and at 
 last, after many months of patient waiting, the means had 
 been placed in her hands for his destruction, . . . Well, she 
 did not know that she cared to-day very greatly about it. 
 She was old, she was tired, she had neuralgia in one side of 
 her face, there was a coming headache in the air. Why was 
 it that she, who had always held so steadily for right, whose 
 life had been one long struggle after unselfishness, who had 
 served others from early morning until late at night, should 
 now find no reward, but only emptiness and old age and frus- 
 tration? She had not now even the pleasure of her bitter- 
 nesses. They were dust and ashes in her mouthi 
 
 She resolved that at once, upon that very afternoon, she 
 would tell Harriet about Philip — and then suddenly, for no 
 reason, with a strange surprise to herself, she did a thing 
 that was quite foreign to her; she began to cry, a desolate 
 trickling of tears that tasted salt in her mouth, that were shed, 
 apparently, by some quite other person. 
 
 It seemed to her as she turned slowly and went home that 
 that same Woman who had encountered life, had taken it all 
 and tasted every danger, now, watching her, laughed at her 
 for her wasted, barren days. . . . 
 
 By the time, however, that she reached Garth she had 
 
ANl^A AND MRS. TEENCHAED 361 
 
 recovered her spirits ; it was the sea that had made her melan- 
 choly. She walked into the house with the firm step of 
 anticipated triumph. She went up to her bedroom, took off 
 her bonnet, washed her face and hands, peeped out on to the 
 drive as though she expected to see someone watching there, 
 then came down into the drawing-room. 
 
 She had intended to speak to her sister-in-law in private. 
 It happened, however, that, on going to the tea-table, she 
 discovered that the tea had been standing for a considerable 
 period, and nobody apparently intended to order any more — 
 at the same time a twinge in her left jaw told her that it had 
 been foolish of her to sit on that rock so long. 
 
 Then Philip, who had the unfortunate habit of trying to 
 be friendly at the precisely wrong moment, said, cheerfully: 
 
 "Been for a walk all alone. Aunt Aggie?" 
 
 She always hated that he should call her Aunt Aggie. 
 To-day it seemed a most aggravated insult. 
 
 "Tes," she said. "You've had tea very early." 
 
 "George wanted it," said Mrs. Trenchard, who was writing 
 at a little table near a window that opened into the sunlit 
 garden. "One never can tell with you, Aggie, what time 
 you'll like it — ^never can tell, surely." 
 
 There ! as though that weren't directly charging her with 
 being a trouble to the household. Because they'd happened 
 to have it early ! 
 
 "I call it very unfair — " she began nibbling a piece of 
 bread and butter. 
 
 But the unfortunate Philip gaily continued: "When we 
 are married, Aunt Aggie, and you come to stay with us, you 
 shall have tea just when you like." 
 
 He was laughing at her, he patronised her ! He dared — ! 
 She trembled with anger. 
 
 "I shall never come and stay with you," she said. 
 
 "Aunt Aggie !" cried Katheriiae, who was sitting near her 
 mother by the window. 
 
 "No, never!" Aunt Aggie answered, her little eyes flash- 
 
362 THE GEEEN MIRKOR 
 
 ing and her cheeks shaking. "And if I had my way you 
 should never be married !" 
 
 They all knew then that at last the moment had come. 
 Henry started to his feet as though he would escape, Kather- 
 ine turned towards her mother, Philip fixed his eyes gravely 
 upon his enemy — only Mrs. Trenchard did not pause in her 
 writing. Aunt Aggie knew then that she was committed. She 
 did not care, she was glad if only she could hurt Philip, that 
 hateful and intolerable young man. 
 
 Her hands trembled, her rings making a tiny clatter against 
 the china ; she saw only her sister-in-law and Philip. 
 
 Philip quietly said : 
 
 "Why do you hope that Katherine and I will never marry, 
 Aunt Aggie ?" 
 
 "Because I love Katherine — ^because I — ^we want her to 
 make a happy marriage. Because if she — ^knew what I 
 know she would not marry you." 
 
 "My dear Aggie!" said Mrs. Trenchard, softly, from the 
 writing-table — but she stayed her pen and waited, with her 
 head turned a little, as though she would watch Katherine's 
 face without appearing to do so. 
 
 "And what do you know," pursued Philip quietly, "that 
 would prevent Katherine from marrying me ?" 
 
 "I know," she answered fiercely, the little gold cross that 
 hung round her throat jumping against the agitation of her 
 breast, "that you — that you are not the man to marry my 
 niece. You have concealed things from her father which, 
 if he had known, would have caused him to forbid you the 
 house." 
 
 "Oh! I say!" cried Henry, suddenly jumping to his 
 feet. 
 , "Well," pursued Philip, "what are these things?" 
 
 She paused for a moment, wondering whether Henry had 
 had sufficient authority for his statements. Philip of course 
 would deny everything — but she had now proceeded too far 
 to withdraw. 
 
ANNA AND MES. TEENCHAKD 36<J 
 
 "I understand," she said, "ttat you lived in Eussia with 
 a woman to whom you were not married — ^lived for some 
 years, and had a child. This is, I am ashamed to say, com- 
 mon talk. I need scarcely add that I had not intended to 
 bring this disgraceful matter up in this public fashion. But 
 perhaps after all it is better. You have only yourself to 
 blame, Mr. Mark," she continued, "for your policy of secrecy. 
 To allow us all to remain in ignorance of these things, to 
 allow Katherine — ^but perhaps," she asked, "you intend to 
 deny everything? In that case — " 
 
 "I deny nothing," he answered. "This seems to me a very 
 silly manner of discussing such a business." He addressed 
 his words then to Mrs. Trenchard. "I said nothing about 
 these things," he continued, "because, quite honestly, I could 
 not see that it was anyone's affair but my own and Kather- 
 ine's. I told Katherine everything directly after we were 
 engaged." 
 
 At that Aunt Aggie turned upon her niece. 
 
 "You knew, Katherine? You knew — all these disgrace- 
 ful — these — " Her voice broke. "You knew and you con- 
 tinued your engagement ?" 
 
 "Certainly," answered Katherine quietly. "Whatever life 
 Philip led before he knew me, was no business of mine. It 
 was good of him to tell me as he did, but it- was not my affair. 
 And really. Aunt Aggie," she continued, "that you could 
 think it right to speak like this before us all — ^to interfere — " 
 
 Her voice was cold with anger. They had none of them 
 ever before known this Katherine. 
 
 Aunt Aggie appealed to her sister-in-law. 
 
 "Harriet, if I've been wrong in mentioning this now, I'm 
 sorry. Katherine seems to have lost her senses. I would 
 not wish to condemn anyone, but to sit still and watch whilst 
 my niece, whom I have loved, is given to a profligate — " 
 
 Katherine stood, with the sunlight behind her; she looked 
 at her aunt, then moved across the room to Philip and put 
 her hand on his shoulder. 
 
364 THE GKEEN MIEROR 
 
 They all waited then for Mrs. Trenchard; they did not 
 doubt what she would say. Katharine, strangely, at tbat 
 moment felt that she loved her mother as she had never loved 
 her before. In the very fury of the indignation that would 
 be directed against Philip would be the force of her love for 
 her daughter. 
 
 This pause, as they all waited for Mrs. Trenchard to speak, 
 was weighted with the indignation that they expected from 
 her. 
 
 But Mrs. Trenchard laughed: "My dear Aggie: what a 
 scene ! really too stupid. As you have mentioned this, I may 
 say that I have known — these things — about Philip for a long 
 time. But I said nothing because — ^well, because it is really 
 not my business what life Philip led before he met us. Per- 
 haps I know more about young men and their lives, Aggie, 
 than you do." 
 
 "Tou knew !" Henry gasped. 
 
 "You've known!" Aggie cried. 
 
 Katherine had, at the sound of her mother's voice, given her 
 one flash of amazement : then she had turned to Philip, while 
 she felt a cold shudder at her heart as though she were some 
 prisoner suddenly clapt into a cage and the doors bolted. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Trenchard, "Mr. Seymour came a long 
 time ago and told me things that he thought I ought to know. 
 I said to Mr. Seymour that he must not do such things, and 
 that if I ever spoke of it to Philip I should give him his name. 
 I disapprove of such things. Yes, it was Mr. Seymour — I 
 think he never liked you, Philip, because you contradicted 
 him about Russia. He's a nice, clever boy, but I daresay he's 
 wrong in his facts. . . ." Then, as they still waited in si- 
 lence, "I really think that's all, Aggie. You must forgive 
 me, dear, but I don't think it was quite your business. Kath- 
 erine is over age, you know, and in any case it isn't quite nice 
 in the drawing-room — and really only because your tea was 
 cold, Aggie dear." 
 
ANITA AND MRS, TEENOHAED 365 
 
 "You've known . . . you'll do nothing, Harriet ?" Aggie 
 gasped. 
 
 Mrs. Trendbard looked at them before she turned back 
 to her writing-table. 
 
 "You can ring for some fresh tea if you like," she said. 
 
 But for a moment her eyes had caught Philip's eyes. They 
 exchanged the strangest look. Hers of triumph, sarcastic, 
 ironic, amazingly triumphant, his of a dull, hopeless aban- 
 donment and submission. 
 
 Her attack at last, after long months of struggle, had suc- 
 ceeded. He was beaten. She Continued her letter. 
 
CHAPTEE IV 
 
 THE WILD NIGHT 
 
 T'EN mimites later Katherine and Philip were alone in 
 the garden. There were signs that the gorgeous sum- 
 mer afternoon was to be caught into thunder. Beyond the gar- 
 den-wall a black cloud crept toward the trees, and the sunlight 
 that flooded the lawn seemed garish now, as though it had 
 been painted in shrill colours on to the green; the air was 
 intensely hot; the walls of the house glittered like metal. 
 
 They stood under the great oak bobbing in front of them. 
 
 "Well," said Philip at last, "that's the end, Katie dear — 
 your mother's a wonderful woman." 
 
 Katherine was silent. He went on : 
 
 "That was my last hope. I suppose I'd been counting on 
 it more than I ought. You'd have come with me, I know, 
 if they'd turned me out ? itfot a bit of it. Your mother's a 
 wonderful woman, I repeat." He paused, looked into her 
 eyes, seemed to be startled by the pain in them. "My dear, 
 don't mind. She only wants to keep you because she can't 
 get on without you — and I shall settle down all right in a bit. 
 What a fuss, after all, we've been making." 
 
 Katherine said: "Tell me, Phil, have there been times, 
 lately, in the last week, when you've thought of running 
 away, going back to Russia ? Tell me honestly." 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "there have — many times. But I 
 always waited to see how things turned out. And then to- 
 day when the moment did come at last, I saw quite clearly 
 that I couldn't leave you ever — ^that anything was better 
 than being without you — anything — So that's settled." 
 
 366 
 
THE WILD NIGHT 367 
 
 "And you've thought," Katherine pursued steadily, "of 
 what it will be after we're married. Mother always wanting 
 me. Your having to be in a place that you hate. And even 
 if we went to live somewhere else, of Mother always keeping 
 her hand on us, never letting go, never allowing you to be 
 free, knowing about Anna — their all knowing — you've faced 
 it all ?" 
 
 "I've faced it all," he answered, trying to laugh. "I can't 
 leave you, Katie, and that's the truth. And if I've got to 
 have your mother and the family as well, why, then, I've got 
 to have them. . . . But, oh ! my dear, how your mother de- 
 spises me ! Well, I suppose I am a weak young man ! And 
 I shall forget Eussia in time. . • . I've got to!" he ended, 
 almost under his breath. 
 
 She looked at him queerly. 
 
 "All right," she said, "I know now what we've got to do." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" he asked. 
 
 "Wait. I must go and speak to Uncle Tim. I shall be 
 an hour. Be ready for me out here under this tree in an 
 hour's time. It will be seven o'clock." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked her again, but she had 
 gone. 
 
 She had picked up an old garden hat in the hall, and now 
 very swiftly hurried up the village road. She walked, the 
 dust rising about her and the black cloud gaining in size and 
 strength behind her. Uncle Tim's house stood by itself at 
 the farther end of the village. She looked neither to right 
 nor left, did not answer the greeting of the villagers, passed 
 quickly through the little garden, over the public path and 
 rang the rusty, creaking bell. An old woman, who had been 
 Uncle Tim's housekeeper for an infinite number of years, 
 opened the door. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Kathie," she said, smiling. "Do ee come in. 
 'E's gardenin', poor soul. All of a sweat. Terrible 'ot 'tis, 
 tu. Makin' up thunder I'm thinkin'." 
 
 Katherine went into the untidy, dusty hall, then into her 
 
368 THE GKEEN MIEKOE 
 
 uncle's study. This had, ever since her childhood, heen the 
 same, a litter of bats, fishing-rods, specimens of plants and 
 flowers drying on blotting paper, books lying in piles on the 
 floor, and a pair of trousers hanging by a nail on to the back 
 of the door. 
 
 She waited, seeing none of these familiar things. She 
 did not, at first, see her uncle when he came in from the gar- 
 den, perspiration dripping down his face, his old cricket shirt 
 open at the neck, his grey flannel trousers grimed with dust. 
 
 "Hullo, Katie!" he cried, "what do you want? And if 
 it's an invitation to dinner tell 'em I can't come." Then, 
 taking another look at her, he said gravely, "What's up, my 
 dear?" 
 
 She sat down in an old arm-chair which boasted a large 
 hole and only three legs; he drew up a chair close to her, 
 then suddenly, as though he saw that she needed comfort, 
 put his arms round her. 
 
 "What's the matter, my dear ?" he repeated. 
 
 "Uncle Tim," she said, speaking rapidly but quietly and 
 firmly, "you've got to help me. You've always said that 
 you would if I wanted you." 
 "Why, of course," he answered simply. "What's happened ?" 
 
 "Everything. Things, as you know, have been getting 
 worse and worse at home ever since — ^well, ever since Phil 
 and I were engaged." 
 
 "Yes, I know," he said. 
 
 "It hasn't been Phil's fault," she broke out with sudden 
 fierceness. "He's done everything. It's been my fault. 
 I've been blind and stupid from the beginning. I don't want 
 to be long, Uncle Tim, because there's not much time, but 
 I must explain everything so that you shall understand me 
 and not think it wrong. We've got nearly two hours." 
 
 "Two hours ?" he repeated, bewildered. 
 
 "From the beginning Mother hated Phil. I always saw 
 it of course, but I used to think that it would pass when she 
 knew Phil better — that no one could help knowing him with- 
 
THE WILD NIGHT 369 
 
 out loving him — -and that was silly, of course. But I waited, 
 and always hoped that things would be better. Then in the 
 spring down here there was one awful Sunday, when Aunt 
 Aggie at supper made a scene and accused Philip of leading 
 Henry astray or something equally ridiculous. After that 
 Philip wanted me to run away with him, and I — I don't 
 know — ^but I felt that he ought to insist on it, to make me go. 
 He didn't insist, and then I saw suddenly that he wasn't 
 strong enough to insist on anything, and that instead of being 
 the great character that I'd once thought him, he was really 
 weak and under anyone's influence, Well, that made me 
 love him in a different way, but more — ^much mOre — ^than I 
 ever had before. I saw that he wanted looking after and pro- 
 tecting. I suppose you'll think that foolish of me," she said 
 fiercely. 
 
 "E^ot at all, my dear," said Uncle Tim, "go on-" 
 "Well, there was something else," Katherine went on. 
 "One day some time before, when we first came to Garth, he 
 told me that when he was in Russia he had loved another 
 woman. They had a child, a boy, who died. He was afraid 
 to tell me, because he thought that I'd think terribly of him. 
 
 "But what did it matter, when he'd given her up and left 
 her? Only this mattered — that I couldn't forget her. I 
 wasn't jealous, but I was curious — terribly. I asked him 
 questions, I wanted to see her as she was — 'it was so strange 
 to me that there should be that woman, still living somewhere, 
 who knew more, much more, about Phil than I did. Then 
 the more questions I asked him about her the more he thought 
 of her and of Russia, so that at last he asked me not to speak 
 of her. But then she seemed to come between us, because we 
 both thought of her, and I used to wonder whether he wanted 
 to go back to her, and he wondered whether, after all, I was 
 jealous about her. Then things got worse with everyone. I 
 felt as though everyone was against us. After the Faunder 
 wedding Henry and Phil had a quarrel, and Henry behaved 
 like a baby. 
 
370 THE GEEEN MIEEOK 
 
 "I've had a dreadful time lately. I've imagined anything. 
 I've been expecting Phil to run away. Millie said he would 
 — Mother's been so strange. She hated Phil, but she asked 
 him to Garth, and seemed to want to have him with her. 
 She's grown so different that I simply haven't known her 
 lately. And Phil too — it's had a dreadful effect on him. He 
 seems to have lost all his happiness — ^he hates Garth and 
 everything in it, but he's wanted to be near me, and so he's 
 come. So there we've all been." She paused for a moment, 
 then went on quickly. "Just now — ^this afternoon — it all 
 came to a climax. Aunt Aggie had found out from Henry 
 about the Eussian woman. She lost her temper at tea, and 
 told Mother before us all. Phil has been expecting this to 
 happen for weeks, and had been almost hoping for it, because 
 then he thought that Mother and Father would say that he 
 must give me up, and that then I would refuse to leave him. 
 In that way he'd escape. 
 
 "But it seemed" — here Katherine, dropping her voice, 
 spoke more slowly — "that Mother had known all the time. 
 That horrid Mr. Seymour in London had told her. She'd 
 known for months, and had never said anything — Mother, 
 who would have been horrified a year ago. But no — She 
 said nothing. She only told Aunt Aggie that she oughtn't to 
 make scenes in the drawing-room, and that it wasn't her busi- 
 ness. 
 
 "Philip saw then that his last chance was gone, that she 
 meant never to let me go, and that if she must have him as 
 well she'd have him. He's sure now that I'll never give 
 Mother up unless she makes me choose between him and her 
 — and so he's just resigned himself." 
 
 Uncle Tim would have spoken, but she stopped him. 
 
 "And there's more than that. Perhaps it's foolish of me, 
 but I've felt as though that woman — that Eussian woman — 
 had been coming nearer and nearer and nearer. There was 
 an evening the other night when I felt that she'd come right 
 inside the house. I went into the hall and listened. That 
 
THE WILD NIGHT 371 
 
 must seem ridiculous to anyone outside the family, but it may 
 be that thinking of anyone continually does bring them — 
 does do something. ... At least for me now she's here, and 
 she's going to try and take Phil back again. Mother wants 
 her, it's Mother, perhaps, who has made her come. Mother 
 can make Phil miserable in a thousand ways by reminding 
 him of her, by suggesting, by . . ." With a great cry 
 Katherine broke off: "Oh, Mother, Mother, I did love you 
 so !" and bursting into a passion of tears, clung to her uncle 
 as though she were still a little child. 
 
 Then how he soothed her ! stroking her hair, telling her that 
 he loved her, that he would help her, that he would do any- 
 thing for her. He held her in his arms, murmuring to her 
 as he had done so many years ago: 
 
 "There, Katie, Katie . . . it's all right, it's all right. 
 Nobody will touch you. It's all right, it's all right." 
 
 At last, with a sudden movement, as though she had 
 realised that there was little time to waste, she broke from 
 him and stood up, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief; 
 then, with that strange note of fierceness, so foreign to the 
 old mild Katherine, she said: 
 
 "But now I see — I see everything. What Millie said is 
 true — I can't have it both ways, I've got to choose. Mother 
 doesn't care for anything so much as for beating Philip, for 
 humiliating him, for making him do everything that she says. 
 That other woman too — she'd like to see him humiliated, 
 laughed at— I hnow that she's like that, cruel and hard. 
 
 "And he's only got me in all the world. I can beat that 
 other woman only by showing her that I'm stronger than she 
 is. I thought once that it was Phil who would take me and 
 look after me, but now it is I that must look after him. 
 
 "If we stay, if we do as Mother wishes, we shall never es- 
 cape. I love everything here, I love them all, I can't leave 
 them unless I do it now, now ! Even to-morrow I shall be 
 weak again. Mother's stronger than we are. She's stronger, 
 
•an THE GREEN MIEEOE 
 
 I do believe, than anyone. Uncle Tim, we must go to-night !" 
 
 "To-night !" he repeated, staring at her. 
 
 "Now, at once, in an hour's time. We can drive to Eaa- 
 selas. There's the London Express at eight o'clock. It's in 
 London by midnight. I can wire to Eachel. She'll have 
 me. We can be married, by special licence, to-morrow!" 
 
 Lie did not seem astonished by her impetuosity. He gol 
 up slowly from his chair, knocked over with his elbow the 
 blotting-paper upon which were the dried flowers, swore, bent 
 down and picked them up slowly one by one, rose at last and, 
 very red in the face with his exertions, looked at her. Then 
 he smiled gently, stroking his fingers through his beard. 
 
 "My dear, how you've changed !" he said. 
 
 "You understand. Uncle Tim," she urged. "I couldn't 
 tell Millie. They'd make it bad for her afterwards, and it 
 would hurt Mother too. I don't want Mother to be left 
 alone. It's the only thing to do. I saw it all in a flash this 
 evening when Mother was speaking. Even to-morrow may 
 be too late, when I see the garden again and the village and 
 when they're all kind to me. And perhaps after all it will 
 be all right. Only I must show them that Phil comes first, 
 that if I must choose, I choose Phil," 
 
 She paused, breathlessly. He was grave again when he 
 spoke: 
 
 "You know, my dear, what you are doing, don't you ? I 
 won't say whether I think you right or wrong. It's for you 
 to decide, and only you. But just think. It's a tremendous 
 thing. It's more than just marrying Philip. It's giving 
 up, perhaps, everything here — ^giving up Garth and Glebe- 
 shire and the house. Giving up your Mother may be for 
 ever. I know your Mother, It is possible that she will 
 never forgive you." 
 
 Katherine's under lip quivered. She nodded her head. 
 
 "And it's hurting her," he went on, "hurting her more than 
 ever anything has done. It's her own fault in a way. I 
 
THE WILD NIGHT 373 
 
 warned her long ago. But never mind that. You must rieal- 
 ise what you're doing." 
 
 "I do realise it," Katherine answered firmly. "It needn't 
 hurt her really, if her love for me is stronger than her hatred 
 of Philip. I've thought it all out. If she loves me she'll 
 see that my love for her isn't changed at all, — that it's there 
 just as it always was; that it's only that she has made me 
 choose, either Phil's happiness or unhappiness. I can only 
 choose one way. He's ready to give up everything, surrender 
 all the splendid things he was going to do, give up half of me, 
 perhaps more, to the family — perhaps more. He hates the 
 life here, but he'll live it, under Mother and grandfather and 
 the rest, for my sake. It isn't fair that he should. Mother, 
 if she loves me, will see that. But I don't believe," here 
 Katherine's voice trembled again, "that she cares for anything 
 so much as beating Philip. He's the first person in the world 
 who ever opposed her. . . . She knows that I'll love her al- 
 ways, always, but Phil's life shan't be spoilt. IsTothing mat- 
 ters beside that." 
 
 She stopped, her breast heaving, her eyes flashing; he 
 looked at her and was amazed, as in his queer, isolated life 
 he had never been before, at what love can do to the soul. 
 
 "Life's for the young," he said, "you're right, Katherine. 
 Your Mother will never forgive me, but I'll help you." 
 
 "No," Katherine said, "you're not to be involved. Uncle 
 Tim. Mother mustn't lose anyone afterwards. You're to 
 know nothing about it. I shall leave a note with someone to 
 be taken up to the house at half-past nine. I've told you be- 
 cause I wanted you to know, but you're not to have anything 
 to do with it. But you'll love me just the same, won't you ? 
 You won't be any different, will you ? I had to know that. 
 With you and Millie and Aunt Betty and Father caring for 
 me afterwards, it won't be quite like breaking with the fam- 
 ily. Only, Uncle Tim, I want you to do for me what you 
 can with Mother. I've explained everything to you, so that 
 you can tell het — show her." 
 
374 THE GHEEN MlUHOE 
 
 "I'll do my best," lie said. Then he caught her and 
 hugged her. 
 
 "Good luck," he said — and she was gone. 
 
 Although she had been less than her hour with her uncle, 
 she knew that she had no time to spare. She was haunted, as 
 she hurried back again down the village road by alarms, re- 
 grets, agonising reproaches that she refused to admit. She 
 fortified her consciousness against everything save the imme- 
 diate business to which she had bound herself, but every tree 
 upon the road, every hideous cottage, every stone and flower 
 besieged her with memories. "You are leaving us for ever. 
 Why ? For Panic ? . . . Tor Panic ?" . . . She could hear 
 the voices that would follow the retreat. "But why did she 
 run away like that ? It wasn't even as though their engage- 
 ment had been forbidden. To be married all in a hurry and 
 in secret — I don't like the look of it. . . . She was always 
 such a quiet, sensible girl." 
 
 And she knew — it had not needed Uncle Tim's words to 
 show her — that this act of hers was uprooting her for ever 
 from everything that had made life for her. She would 
 never go back. More deeply than that, she would never be- 
 long again, she, who only six months ago had been the bond 
 that had held them all together. . . . 
 
 And behind these thoughts were two figures so strangely, so 
 impossibly like one another — the first that woman, suddenly 
 old, leaning back on to Katherine's breast, fast asleep, tired 
 out, her mother — the second that woman who, only that after- 
 noon, had turned and given both Katherine and Philip that 
 look of triumph. . . . "I've got you both — ^You see that I 
 shall never let you go. You cannot, cannot, cannot, escape." 
 That also was her mother. 
 
 She stopped at the village inn, 'The Three Pilchards', saw 
 Dick Penhaligan, the landlord, and an old friend of hers. 
 
 "Dick, in half-an-hour I want a jingle. I've got to go to 
 Easselas to meet the eight train. I'll drive myself." 
 
 "All right, Miss Katherine," he said, looking at her with 
 
THE WILD NIGHT 375 
 
 affection. " 'Twill be a wild night, I'm thinldn'. Workin' 
 up wild." 
 
 "Twenty minutes, Dick," she nodded to him, and was off 
 again. She crossed the road, opened the little wicket gate 
 that broke into the shrubbery, found her way on to the lawn, 
 and there, under the oak, was Philip, waiting for her. As 
 she came up to him she felt the first spurt of rain upon her 
 cheek. The long lighted windows of the house were watch- 
 ing them ; she drew under the shadow of the tree. 
 
 "Phil," she whispered, her hand on his arm, "there isn't a 
 moment to lose. I've arranged everything. We must catch 
 the eight o'clock train at Easselas. We shall be in London 
 by twelve. I shall go to Kachel Seddon's. We can be mar- 
 ried by Special Licence to-morrow." 
 
 She had thought of it so resolutely that she did not realise 
 that it was new to him. He gasped, stepping back from her. 
 
 "My dear Katie ! What are you talking about ?" 
 
 "Oh, there isn't any time," she went on impatiently. "If 
 you don't come I go alone. It will be the same thing in the 
 end. I saw it all this afternoon. Things can't go on. I 
 understood Mother. I know what she's determined to do. 
 We must escape or it will be too late. Even to-morrow it 
 may be. I won't trust myself if I stay ; I'm afraid even to 
 see Mother again, but I know I'm right. We have only a 
 quarter of an hour. That suit will do, and of course you 
 mustn't have a bag or anything. There's that cousin of yours 
 in the Adelphi somewhere. You can go to him. We must 
 be at the 'Three Pilchards' in a quarter of an hour, and go 
 separately, of course, or someone may stop us. . . . " 
 
 But he drew back. "No, no, no," he said. "Katie, you're 
 mad! Do you think I'm going to let you do a thing like 
 this ? What do you suppose I'm made of ? Why. if we were 
 to go off now they'd never forgive you, they'd uuiow you 
 off—" 
 
 "Why, of course," she broke in impatiently, "that's exactly 
 why we've got to do it. You proposed it to me yourself 
 
376 THE GKEEN MIEEOK 
 
 once, and I refused because I didn't understand what our 
 staying here meant. But I do now — it's all settled^ I tell 
 you, Phil, and there's only ten minutes. It's the last chance. 
 If we miss that train we shall never escape from Mother, from 
 Anna, from anyone. Oh ! I know it ! I know it !" 
 
 She scarcely realised her words; she was tugging at his 
 sleeve, trying to drag him with her. 
 
 But he shook her off. "!N^o, Katie, I tell you I'm not such 
 a cad. I know what all this means to you, the place, the 
 people, everything. It's true that I asked you once to go 
 off, but I didn't love you then as I do now. I was thinking 
 more of myself then — ^but now I'm ready for anything hei-e. 
 You know that I am. I don't care if only they let me stay 
 with you." 
 
 "But they won't," Katherine urged. "You know what 
 they'll do. They'll marry us, they'll make you take a house 
 near at hand, and if you refuse they'll persuade you that 
 you're making me miserable. Oh ! Phil ! don't you see — if 
 I were sure of myself I'd never run off like this, but it's from 
 myself that I'm running. That's the whole point of every- 
 thing. I can't trust myself with Mother. She has as much 
 influence over me as ever she had. I felt it to-day more than 
 I've ever felt it. There she is over both of us. You know that 
 you're weaker with her than I am. It isn't that she does 
 anything much except sit quiet, but I love her, and it's 
 through that she gets at both of us. 'Eo, Phil, we've got to 
 go — and now. If not now, then never. I shan't be strong 
 enough to-morrow. Don't you see what she can do in the 
 future, now that she knows about Anna. ..." Then, al- 
 most in a whisper, she brought out: "Don't you see what 
 Anna can do ?" 
 
 "No." he said, "I won't go. It's not fair. It's not—" 
 
 ""Weil, she answered him, "it doesn't matter what you do, 
 whether you go or not. I shall go. And what are you to do 
 then?" 
 
 She had vanished across the lawn, leaving him standing 
 
THE WILD MQMT 877 
 
 there. Behind all his perplexity and a certain shame at his 
 inaction, a fire of exultation inflamed him, making him heed- 
 less of the rain oi the low muttering thunder far away. She 
 loved him ! She was freeing him ! His glory in her stretigth, 
 her courage, flew like a burning arrow to his heart, killing the 
 old man in him, striking him to the ground, that old lumber- 
 ing body giving way before a new creature to whom the whole 
 world was a plain of victory. He stood there trembling with 
 his love for her. . . . 
 
 Then he realised that, whatever he did, there was no time 
 to be lost. And after all what was he to do ? Did he enter 
 and alarm the family, tell them that Katherine was flying to 
 London, what would he gain but her scorn? How much 
 would he lose to save nothing ? Even as he argued with him- 
 self some stronger power was dragging him to the house. He 
 was in his room ; he had his coat and hat from the hall ; he 
 saw no one ; he was in the dark garden again, stepping softly 
 through the wicket-gate on to the high road — Then the wind 
 of the approaching storm met him with a scurry of rain that 
 slashed his face. He did not know that now, for the first mo- 
 ment since his leaving Eussia, Anna was less to him than 
 nothing. He did not know that he was leaving behind him 
 in that dark rain-swept garden an indignant, a defeated 
 ghost. . . . 
 
 Meanwhile Katherine had gone, rapidly, without pause, to 
 her bedroom. She was conscious of nothing until she reached 
 it, and then she stood in the middle of the floor, struck by a 
 sudden, poignant agony of reproach that took, for the mo- 
 ment, all life from her. Her knees were trembling, her 
 heart pounding in her breast,' her eyes veiled by some mist 
 that yet allowed her to see with a fiery clarity every detail of 
 the room. They rose and besieged her, the chairs, the photo- 
 graphs, the carpet, the bed, the wash-hand-stand, the pictures, 
 the window with the old, old view of the wall, the chureh- 
 tower, the crooked apple-tree clustered in, a comer, the bed. 
 
378 THE GREEN MIRROE 
 
 of roses, the flash of the nook beyond the lawn. She covered 
 her eyes with her hand. Everything was still there, crying 
 to her "Don't leave us! Is our old devotion nothing, our 
 faithful service ? Are you, whom we have trusted, false like 
 the rest?" 
 
 She swayed then; tears that would never fall burnt her 
 eyes. The first rain lashed her window, and from the trees 
 around the chureh some flurry of rooks rose, protesting against 
 the coming storm. She drove it all down with a strong hand. 
 She wovM not listen. . . . 
 
 Then, as she found her coat and hat, a figure rose before 
 her, the one figure that, just then, could most easily defeat 
 her. Her Mother she would not see, Millie, Henry, the 
 Aunts could not then touch her. It was her Father. 
 
 They were breaking their word to him, they who were 
 standing now upon their honour. His laughing, friendly 
 spirit, that had never touched her very closely, now seemed 
 to cling to her more nearly than them all. He had kept out- 
 side all their family trouble, as he had kept outside all trou- 
 ble since his birth. He had laughed at them, patted them on 
 the shoulder, determined that if he did not look too closely at 
 things they must be well, refused to see the rifts and divi- 
 sions and unhappiness. Nevertheless he must have seen 
 something; he had sent Henry to Cambridge, had looked at 
 Millie and Katherine sometimes with a gravity that" was not 
 his old manner. 
 
 Seeing him suddenly now, it was as though he knew what 
 she was about to do, and was appealing to her with a new 
 gravity: "Katie, my dear, I may have seemed not to have 
 cared, to have noticed nothing, but now — don't give us up. 
 Wait. Things will be happier. Wait. Trust us." 
 
 She beat him down ; stayed for another moment beside the 
 window, her hands pressed close against her eyes. 
 
 Then she went to her little writing-table, and scribbled 
 very rapidly this note: 
 
THE WILD NIGHT 379 
 
 "Daeling Mothee, 
 
 I have gone with Philip by the eight train to London. 
 We shall be married as soon as possible. I shall stay with 
 Kachel until then. You know that things could not go on 
 as they were. 
 
 Will you understand, dear Mother, that if I did not 
 love you so deeply I would not have done this ? But be- 
 cause you would not let Phil go I have had to choose. If 
 only you will understand that I do not love you less for 
 this, but that it is for Phil's sake that I do it, you will 
 love me as before. And you know that I will love you 
 always. 
 
 Youil devoted daughter, 
 
 Kathebiite." 
 
 She laid this against the looking-glass on her dressing-table, 
 glanced once more at the room, then went. 
 
 Upon the stairs she met Henry. 
 
 "Hullo!" he cried, "going out? There's a lot of rain 
 coming." 
 
 "I know," she answered quietly. "I have to see Penhali- 
 gan. It's important." 
 
 He looked at her little black hat; her black coat. These 
 were not the things that one put on for a hurried excursion 
 into the village. 
 
 "You'll be late for dinner," he said. 
 
 "No, I shan't," she answered, "I must hurry." She 
 brushed past him ; she had an impulse to put her arms round 
 his neck and kiss him, but she did not look back. 
 
 She went through the hall; he turned on the stairs and 
 watched her, then went slowly to his room. 
 
 When she came out on to the high road the wind had fallen 
 and the rain was coming in slow heavy drops. The sky was 
 all black, except that at its very heart there burnt a brilliant 
 star; just above the horizon there was a bar of sharp-edged 
 gold. When she came to the 'Three Pilchards' the world was 
 
380 THE GREEN MIEROR 
 
 lit with a strange half-liglit so that, although one could see 
 all things distinctly, there was yet the suggestion that noth- 
 ing was what it seemed. The 'jingle' was there, and Philip 
 standing in conversation with Dick Penhaligan. 
 
 "Nasty night 'twill he. Miss Katherine. Whisht sort o' 
 weather. Shouldn't like for 'ee to get properly wet. Open 
 jingle tu." 
 
 "That's all right, Dick," she answered. "We've got to 
 meet the train. I've been wet before now, you know." 
 
 She jumped into the trap and took the reins. Philip fol- 
 lowed her. If Mr. Penhaligan thought there was anything 
 strange in the proceeding he did not say so. He watched 
 them out of the yard, gave a look at the sky, then went whis- 
 tling into the house. 
 
 They did not speak until they had left the village behind 
 them, then, as they came up to Pelynt Cross, the whole beauty 
 of the sweep of stormy sky burst upon them. The storm 
 seemed to be gathering itself together before it made its 
 spring, bunched up heavy and black on the horizon, whilst the 
 bar of gold seemed to waver and hesitate beneath the weight 
 of it. Above their heads the van of the storm, twisted and 
 furious, leaned forward, as though with avaricious fingers, 
 to take the whole world into its grasp. 
 
 At its heart still shone that strange glittering star. Be- 
 neath the sky the grey expanse of Ihe moon quivered with an- 
 ticipation like a quaking bog ; some high grass, bright against 
 the sky, gave little windy tugs, as though it would release 
 itself arid escape before the fury beat it down. Once and 
 again, very far away, the rumble of the thunder rose and fell, 
 the heavy raindrops were still slow and measured, as though 
 they told the seconds left to the world before it was devas- 
 tated. 
 
 Up there, on the moor, Phiilp put his arm round Kather- 
 ine. His heart was beating with tumultuous love for her, so 
 that be choked and his face was on fire; his hand trembled 
 against her dress. This was surely the most wonderful thing 
 
THE WILD NIGHT 381 
 
 that had ever happened to him. He had se&ed so utterly 
 lost, and, although he had known that she loved him, he had 
 resigned himself to the belief that her love stayed short of sac- 
 rifice. He had said to himself that he was not enough of a 
 fellow for it to be otherwise. And now he did not care for 
 any of them ! Wo one, he realised, had ever, in all his life, 
 made any great sacrifice for him — even Anna had let him go 
 when he made life tiresome for her. 
 
 Surging up in him now was the fine vigour of reassurance 
 that Katherine's love gave to him. It was during that drive 
 to Easselas station that he began, for the first time, to believe 
 in himself. He did not speak, but held Katherine with his 
 arm close to him, and once, for a moment, he put Ms cheek 
 against hers. 
 
 But she was not, then, thinking of Philip, she was scarcely 
 aware that he was with her. Her whole will and purpose 
 was concentrated on reaching the station in time. She 
 thought: "If we missed that train we're finished. We'll 
 have to come back. They'll have found my note. Mother 
 won't be angry outwardly, but she'll hate Phil twice as much 
 as ever, and she'll never loose her hold again. She'll show 
 him how ashamed he should be, and she'll show me how deeply 
 I've hurt her. We shall neither of us have the courage to 
 try a 'second time'." 
 
 How was it that she saw all this so clearly ? Never before 
 these last months had she thought of anything save what was 
 straight in front of her. . . . The world was suddenly un- 
 rolled before her like a map of a strange country. 
 
 Meanwhile, although she did not know it, she was wildly 
 excited. Her imagination, liberated after those long years 
 of captivity, fiamed now before her eyes. She felt the storm 
 behind her, and she thought that at the head of it, urging it 
 forward, was that figure who had pursued her, so remorse- 
 lessly, ever since that day at Eafiel when Philip had con- 
 fessed to her. 
 
382 THE GEEEN MIREOR 
 
 Anna would keep them if she could, she would drag them 
 back, miserable fugitives, to face the family — and then how 
 she would punish Philip ! 
 
 "Oh, go on ! Go on !" Katheiine cried, whipping the pony ; 
 they began to climb a long hill. Suddenly the thunder broke 
 overhead, crashing amongst the trees of a dark little wood on 
 their right. Then the rain came down in slanting, stinging 
 sheets. With that clap of thunder the storm caught them, 
 whirled up to them, beat them in the face, buffeted in their 
 eyes and ears, shot lightning across their path, and then 
 plunged them on into yet more impenetrable darkness. The 
 world was abysmal, was on fire, was rocking, was springing 
 with a thousand gestures to stop them on their way. Kath- 
 erine fancied that in front of her path figures rose and fell, 
 the very hedges riding in a circle round about her. 
 
 "Oh ! go on ! Go on !" she whispered, swaying in her seat, 
 then feeling Philip's arm about her. They rose, as though 
 borne on a wave of wild weather, to the top of the hill. They 
 had now only the straight road; they could see the station 
 lights. Then the thunder, as though enraged at their per- 
 sistence, broke into a shattering clatter — the soil, the hedges, 
 the fields, the sky crumbled into rain; a, great lash of storm 
 whipped them in the face, and the pony, frightened by the 
 thunder, broke from Katherine's hand, ran wildly through 
 the dark, crashed with a shuddering jar 'ia|p the hedge. 
 Their lamps fell; the 'jingle', after a moHi^^s hesitation, 
 slipped over and gently dropped them on to rate rain-soaked 
 ground. 
 
 Katherine was on her feet in an instant. She saw that 
 by a happy miracle one of the lamps still burned- She went 
 to the pony, and found that, although he was trembling, he 
 was unhurt. Philip was trying to turn the 'jingle' upright 
 again. 
 
 "Quick!" she cried. "Hang the lamp on the cart. We 
 must run for it — ^the shaft's broken or something. There's 
 
THE WILD NIGHT 383 
 
 no time at all if we're to catch that train. Eun ! Eun ! Phil ! 
 There's sure to be someone coming in by the train who'll see 
 the jingle'." 
 
 They ran; they were lifted by the wind, beaten by the 
 rain, deafened by the thunder, and Katherine as she ran 
 knew that by her side was her enemy : 
 
 "You shan't go! You shan't go! I've got you still!" 
 She could hear, through the storm, some voice crying, 
 "Phil! Phil! Comeback! Comeback!" 
 
 Her heart was breaking, her eyes saw flame, her knees 
 trembled, she stumbled, staggered, slipped. They had 
 reached the white gates, had passed the level crossing, were 
 up the station steps. 
 
 "It's in ! It's in !" gasped Philip. "Only a second !" 
 She was aware of astonished eyes, of the stout station- 
 master, of someone who shouted, of a last and strangely dis^ 
 tant peal of thunder, of an open door, of tumbling forward, 
 of a whistle and a jerk, and then a slow Glebeshire voice : 
 "Kind o' near shave that was. Miss, I'm thinkin'." 
 And through it all her voice was crying exultantly : "I've 
 beaten you — ^you've done your worst, but I've beaten you. 
 He's mine now for ever" — and her eyes were fastened on a 
 baffled, stormy figure left on the dark road, abandoned, and, 
 at last, at last, defeated. . . . 
 
CHAPTEE V 
 
 THE TBENCHAEDS 
 
 HENEY waited, for a moment, on the stairs. He heard 
 the door close behind Katherine, heard the approach- 
 ing storm invade the house, heard the cuckoo-clock in the 
 passage'* above him proclaim seven o'clock, then went slowly 
 up to his room. Why had Katherine gone out to see Penhali- 
 gan in those clothes, in such weather, at such an hour? . . . 
 Very strange. . . . And her face too. She was excited, she 
 had almost kissed him> • • • Her eyes. . . • 
 
 He entered his familiar room, looked with disgust at his 
 dinner-jacket and trousers lying upon the bed (he hated dress- 
 ing for dinner), and then wandered up and down, dragging a 
 book from the bookcase and pushing it impatiently back again, 
 stumbling over his evening slippers, pulling his coat off and 
 allowing it to fall, unregarded, on to the floor. 
 
 Katherine! . . . Katherine? . . . What was 'up' with 
 Katherine ? 
 
 He had, in any case, been greatly upset by the events of 
 the day. The crisis for which he had so long been waiting 
 had at length arrived, and, behold, it had been no crisis at 
 all. Superficially it had been nothing ... in its reality it 
 had shaken, finally, destructively, the foundations of every- 
 thing upon which his life had been built. He remembered, 
 very clearly, the family's comments upon the case of a young 
 man known to them all, who, engaged to a girl in Polchester, 
 had confessed, just before the marriage, that he had had a 
 mistress for several years in London, who was however now 
 happily married to a gentleman of means and had no further 
 
 384 
 
THE TRENCHAEDS 385 
 
 i 
 claim on him. The engagement had heen broken off, with the 
 approval of all the best families in Gleheshire. Henry re- 
 membered that his mother had said that it was not only the 
 immorality of the young man but also his continued secrecy 
 concerning the affair that was so abominable, that, of course, 
 "young men must be young men, but you couldn't expect a. 
 nice girl" — and so on. 
 
 He remembered all this very clearly, and he had decided 
 at the time that if he ever had a mistress he would take very 
 good care that no one knew about her. That had been a year 
 ago . . . and now! He was bewildered, almost breathless 
 with a kind of dismayed terror as to what the world might 
 possibly be coming to. His mother! of whom at least one 
 thing had surely been unalterable — that she, herself, would 
 never change. And now she had taken this thing without 
 horror, without anger, almost with complacency. 
 
 She had known of it for months ! 
 
 It was as though he had cherished a pet with the happy 
 conviction that it was a kitten and had suddenly discovered 
 it to be a cub. And out of this confusion of a wrecked and 
 devastated world there emerged the conviction "that there was 
 something more behind all this", that "his mother had some 
 plan." He did not see at all what her plan could possibly 
 be, but she appeared before him now as a sinister and menac- 
 ing figure, someone who had been close to him for so many 
 years, but whose true inmiensity he had never even remotely 
 perceived. 
 
 He, Henry, had, from other points of view, risen out of 
 the affair with considerable good fortune. He had not, as far 
 as he could perceive, earned Katherine's undying hatred ; he 
 had not even made a fool of himself, as might naturally be 
 expected. It was plain enough now that Philip was to be 
 with them for ever and ever, and that therefore Henry must 
 make the best of him. Now indeed that it had come to this, 
 Henry was not at all sure that he might not like Philip very 
 much indeed. That night at the 'Empire' had been the be- 
 
386 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 ginning of life for Henry, and the indifference of his mother 
 to Philip's past and the knowledge that Katharine had long 
 been aware of it made him not a little ashamed of his indig- 
 nation and tempers. Nevertheless Philip had that effect 
 upon him, and would have it many times again no doubt. 
 For a clear and steady moment Henry, looking at himself in 
 his looking-glass, wondered whether he were not truly the 
 most terrible of asses. 
 
 However, all this was of the past. It was with a sense 
 of advancing to meet a new world that he went down to din- 
 ner. 
 
 In the drawing-room he found his mother alone. She 
 was wearing an evening dress of black silk, and Henry, whose 
 suspicion of the world made him observant, noticed that 
 she was wearing a brooch of old silver set with pearls. This 
 was a family brooch, and Henry knew that his mother wore 
 Kt^only 'on occasions'; his mother's idea of what made an 
 'occasion' was not always that of the outside world. He won- 
 dered what the occasion might be to-night. 
 
 He had, for long, been unconsciously in the habit of divid- 
 ing his mother into two persons, the figure of domination and 
 power who kept the household in awe and was mysterious in 
 her dignity and aloof reserve, and the figure of maternal 
 homeliness who spoke to one about underclothes, was subject 
 to human agitations and pleasures; of the first he was 
 afraid, and would be afraid until he died. The second he 
 loved. His mother to-night was the first of these. She 
 looked, in his eyes, amazingly young. Her fair grey hair, 
 her broad shoulders, her straight back, these things showed 
 Henry's mother to be younger than ever Henry would be. 
 The pearl brooch gleamed against the black silk that covered 
 her strong bosom ; her head was carried high ; her eyes feared 
 no man nor woman alive. 
 
 Therefore Henry, as was his manner on such an occasion, 
 did his best to slip quietly into a chair and hide his dimin- 
 
THE TRENCHAEDS 387 
 
 ished personality in a book. This, however, was not per- 
 mitted him. 
 
 "Henry," his mother said softly, "why did you not tell me 
 earlier the things that you had heard about Philip?" 
 
 Henry blushed so intensely that there was a thin white line 
 just below the roots of his hair. 
 
 "I didn't want to make Katie unhappy," he muttered. 
 
 "I should have thought your duty to your parents came 
 before your duty to Katherine," his mother replied. 
 
 "It wasn't you who was going to marry Philip," he an- 
 swered, not looking at his mother. 
 
 "Nevertheless it's possible that older heads — ^yes, older 
 heads — " 
 
 "Oh! well! it's all right," he burst out, "I'm sick of the 
 thing, and you and father don't seem to mind anything about 
 it—" 
 
 "I haven't told your father," she interrupted. 
 
 "Haven't told Eather ?" Henry repeated. 
 
 "]^o. Eather doesn't think of such things. If every- 
 thing goes well, as I am sure that everything will, Eather vsill 
 want to know nothing further. I have every confidence in 
 Philip." 
 
 "Why!" Henry burst out, "I always thought you hated 
 Philip, Mother. I simply don't understand." 
 
 "There are quite a number of things you don't understand, 
 Henry dear," his mother answered. "Yes, quite a number. 
 Philip was perhaps not at home with us at first — ^but I'm sure 
 that in time he will become quite one of the family — almost 
 as though he had been born a Trenchard. I have great 
 hopes. . . . Tour tie is as usual, Henry, dear, above your 
 collar. Let me put it down for you." 
 
 Henry waited whilst his mother's cool, solid fingers rubbed 
 against his neck and sent a little shiver down his spine as 
 though they would remind him that he was a Trenchard too 
 and had better not try to forget it. But the great, over- 
 whelming impression that now dominated him was of his 
 
388 THE GEEEN MIKKOE 
 
 mother's happiness. He knew very well when his mother was 
 happy. There was a note in her voice as sure and melodious 
 as the rhythm of a stream that runs, somewhere hidden, be- 
 tween the rocks. He had known, on many days, that deep joy 
 of his mother's — often it had been for no reason that he could 
 discover. 
 
 To-night she was triumphant; her triumph sang through 
 every note of her voice. 
 
 The others come in. George Trenchard entered, rubbing 
 his hands and laughing. He seemed, every week, redder in 
 the face and stouter all over ; in physical reality he added but 
 little to his girth. It was the stoutness of moral self-satis- 
 faction and cheerful complaisance. His doctrine of pleasant 
 aloofness from contact with other human beings had acted so 
 admirably ; he would like to have recommended it to everyone 
 had not such recommendation been too great a trouble. 
 
 He was never, after this evening, to be aloof again, but 
 he did not know that. 
 
 "Well, well," he cried. "Punctual for once, Henry. 
 Very nice, indeed. Dear me, Mother, why this gaudiness? 
 People coming to dinner ?" 
 
 She looked down at her brooch. 
 
 "No, dear. . , . No one. I just thought I'd put it on. 
 I haven't worn it for quite a time. Not for a year at least." 
 
 "Very pretty, very pretty," he cried. "Dear me, what a 
 day I've had ! So busy, scarcely able to breathe !" 
 
 "What have you been doing, Father ?" asked Henry. 
 
 "One thing and another. One thing and another," Said 
 George airily. "Day simply flown." 
 
 He stood there in front of the fire, his legs spread, his huge 
 chest flung out, his face flaming like the sun. 
 
 "Yes, it's been a very pleasant day," said Mrs. Trenchard, 
 "very pleasant." 
 
 "Where's Katie?" asked her father. "She's generally 
 down before anyone," 
 
THE TKENCHAKDS 389 
 
 Henry, who, in the contemplation of his mother, had for- 
 gotten, for the moment, his sister's strange behaviour, said: 
 
 "Oh! she'll be late, I expect, I saw her go out about 
 seven. Had to see Penhaligan about something important, 
 she told me. Went out into all that storm." 
 
 As he spoke eight o'clock struck, 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard looked up. 
 
 "Went out to see Penhaligan ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, Mother. She didn't tell me why." 
 
 Aunt Betty came in. Her little body, her cheerful smile, 
 her air as of one who was ready to be pleased with anything, 
 might lead a careless observer into the error of supposing that 
 she was a quite ordinary old maid with a fancy for knitting, 
 the Church of England, and hot water with her meals. He 
 would be wrong in his judgment; her sharp little eyes, the 
 comers of her mouth betrayed a sense of humour that, al- 
 though it had never been encouraged by the family, provided 
 much wise penetration and knowledge. Any casual acquain- 
 tance in half an hour's talk would have discovered in Aunt 
 Betty wisdom and judgment to which her ovra. family would, 
 until the day of its decent and honourable death, be entirely 
 blind. 
 
 Just now she had lost her spectacles. 
 
 "My spectacles," she said. "Hum-hum — Yery odd. I 
 had them just before tea. I was working over in that cor- 
 ner — I never moved from there except once when — ^when — 
 Oh ! there they are ! ITo, they are not. And I played 'Pa- 
 tience' there, too, in the same corner. Very odd." 
 
 "Perhaps, dear," said Mrs. Trenchard, "you left them in 
 you bedroom." 
 
 "No, Harriet, I looked there. Hum-hum-hum, Very 
 odd it is, because — " 
 
 Millie came in and then Aunt Aggie, 
 
 "Is Father coming down to-night ?" said George, 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Trenchard, "He said that he felt better. 
 Thought it would be nice to come down. Yes, that it would 
 
390 THE GKEEN MIEKOR 
 
 be rather nice. . . . Aggie, dear, that's your sewing, isn't it? 
 You left it here this morning. Rocket put it between the 
 pages of my novel to mark the place. I knew it was yours — " 
 
 "Yes, it's mine," said Aunt Aggie, shortly. 
 
 Meanwhile Henry, looking at the door, waited for Kath- 
 erine. A strange premonition was growing in him that all 
 was not welL Katherine and Philip, they had not appeared 
 — Katherine and Philip. ... As he thought of it, it oc- 
 curred to him that he had not heard Philip moving as he 
 dressed. Philip's room was next to Henry's, and the division 
 was thin ; you could always hear coughs, steps, the pouring of 
 water, the opening and shutting of drawers. 
 
 There had been no sounds to-night. Henry's heart began 
 to beat very fast. He listened to the wind that, now that the 
 storm had swung away, was creeping around the house, try- 
 ing the doors and windows, rattling something here, tugging 
 at something there, all the pipes gurgled and spluttered with 
 the waters of the storm. 
 
 •"Ah ! there they are !" cried Aunt Betty. 
 
 Henry started, thinking that she must herald the entry of 
 Katherine and Philip; but no, it was only the gold-rimmed 
 spectacles lying miraculously beneath the sofa. 
 
 "Now, Jiow," cried Aunt Betty, "did they get there ? Very 
 odd, because I remember distinctly that I never moved from 
 my corner." 
 
 "Well," said George Trenchard, who, now that his back 
 was warmed by the fire, wanted his front warmed too, "how 
 much longer are we to wait for dinner ? Katie and Philip. 
 Playing about upstairs, I suppose." 
 
 Quarter-past eight struck, and Rocket, opening the door, 
 announced that dinner was ready. 
 
 "Suppose you just go up and see what Katie's doing, Millie 
 dear," said Mrs. Trenchard. 
 
 Millie left them and ran quickly upstairs. She pushed 
 back Katie's door, then, stepping inside, the darkness and si- 
 lence and a strange murmurous chill caught her, as though 
 
THE TEENCHAEDS 391 
 
 someone had leapt, out of the dusk, at her throat. She knew 
 then instantly what had occurred. She only said once, very 
 softly, "Katie!" then gently closed the door behind her, as 
 though she did not want anyone else to see the room. 
 
 She stayed there; there, beside the door, for quite a long 
 time. The room was very dark, but the looking-glass glim- 
 mered like a white, flickering shadow blown by the wet wind 
 that came in through the open window. Something flapped 
 monotonously. 
 
 Millie, standing quite motionless by the door, thought to 
 herself "Katherine and Philip! They've done it! ... at 
 last, they've done it !" At first, because she was very young 
 and still believed in freedom and adventure as the things best 
 worth having in life, she felt nothing but a glad, triumphant 
 excitement ; an excitement springing not only from her pleas- 
 use in any brave movement, but also from her reassurance in 
 her beloved sister, her knowledge that after all Katherine did 
 believe in Love beyond every other power, was ready to ven- 
 ture all for it. Her own impulse was to run after them, as 
 fast as she could, and declare her fidelity to them. 
 
 At last she moved away from the door to the dressing-table 
 and lit a candle. It's soft white flame for a moment blinded 
 her. She had an instant of hesitation ; perhaps after all she 
 had flown too rapidly to her desired conclusions, the two of 
 them were waiting now in the drawing-room for her. . . . 
 Then she saw Katherine's note propped against the looking- 
 glass. 
 
 She took it up, saw that it was addressed to her mother, and 
 realised, for the first time, what this would mean to them all. 
 She saw then — the old ones — Grandfather, Mother, Father, 
 Aunt Sarah, Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty. She was sorry for them, 
 but she knew, as she stood there, that she did not care, really, 
 whether they were hurt or no. She felt her own freedom de- 
 scend upon her, there in Katie's room, like a golden, flaming 
 cloud. This was the moment for which, all her life, she had 
 been waiting. The Old Ones had tried to keep them and tie 
 
892 THE GEEEN MIKKOE 
 
 them down, but the day of the Old Ones was past, their 
 power was broken. It was the New Generation that mattered 
 — Katharine and Philip, Millie and Henry, and all their 
 kind ; it was their world and their dominion — 
 
 She suddenly, alone there, with the note in her hand, 
 danced a little dance, the candle-flame flickering in the breeze 
 and Katherine's white, neat bed so cold and tidy. 
 
 She was not hard, she was not cruel — ^her own time would 
 come when she would cry for sympathy and would not find it, 
 and must set her teeth because her day was past . . . now 
 was her day — She seized it fiercely. 
 
 Very quietly she went downstairs. . . . 
 
 She opened the drawing-room door : as she entered all their 
 eyes met her and she knew at once, as she saw Henry's, that 
 he was expecting her announcement. 
 
 She looked across at her mother. 
 
 "Katherine's room's empty," she said. "There's no one 
 there at all." She hesitated a moment, then added: "There 
 was this note for you. Mother, on her dressing-table." 
 
 She went across the room and gave it to her mother. Her 
 mother took it ; no one spoke. 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard read it ; for a dreadful moment she thought 
 that she was going to give way bpfore them all, was going to 
 cry out, to scream, to rush wildly into the road to stop the 
 fugitives, or slap Aunt Aggie's face. For a dreadful moment 
 the battle of her whole life to obtain the mastery of herself 
 was almost defeated — ^then, blindly, obeying some impulse 
 with which she could not reason, of which she was scarcely 
 conscious, some strong call from a far country, she won a 
 triumphant victory. 
 
 "It's from Katherine!" she said. "The child's mad. She's 
 gone up to London." 
 
 "London !" George Trenchard cried. 
 
 "London!" cried Aunt Aggie. 
 
 "Yes, With Philip. They have caught the eight train. 
 
THE TRENCHAEDS 393 
 
 Ttey are to be married to-morrow. 'Because I would not 
 let Philip go,' she says. But she's mad — " 
 
 For an instant she gripped the mantelpiece behind her. 
 She could hear them, only from a distance, as though their 
 voices were muffled by the roar of sea or wind, their exclama- 
 tions. 
 
 Her husband was, of course, useless. She despised him. 
 He cried: 
 
 "They must be stopped! They must be stopped. This 
 is impossible ! That fellow Mark — one might have guessed ! 
 They must be stopped. At once ! At once !" 
 
 "They can't be." She heard her voice far away with the 
 others. "They can't be stopped. The train left at eight 
 o'clock, nearly half an hour ago. There's nothing to be done." 
 
 "But, of course," cried George, "there's something to be 
 done. They must be stopped at once. I'll go up by the 
 next train." 
 
 "There's no train Tintil six to-morrow morning — and what 
 good would you do ? They're engaged. You gave your per- 
 mission. Katherine's of age. It is her own affair." 
 
 They all cried out together. Their voices sounded to Mrs. 
 Trenchard like the screams of children. 
 
 Through the confusion there came the sound of an opening 
 door. They all turned, and saw that it was old Mr. Tren- 
 chard, assisted by Rocket. 
 
 "Why don't you come in to dinner ?" he said, in his clear, 
 thin voice. "I went straight into the dining-room because I 
 was late, and here you all are, and it's nearly half-past eight." 
 
 The same thought instantly strudc them all. Grandfather 
 must know nothing about it; a very slight shock, they were 
 all aware, would kill Grandfather, and there could not pos- 
 sibly be any shock to him like this amazing revolt of Kath- 
 erine's. Therefore he must know nothing. Like bathers 
 asserting themselves after the first quiver of an icy plunge, 
 they fought their way to the surface. 
 
 Until Grandfather was safely once more alone in his room 
 
394 THE GKEEN MIKROK 
 
 the situation must be suspended. After all, there was noth- 
 ing to be done ! He, because he was feeling well that evening, 
 was intent upon his dinner. 
 
 "What! Waiting for Katherine?" he said. 
 
 "Katherine isn't coming down to dinner, Father," Mrs. 
 Trenchard said. 
 
 "What, my dear?" 
 
 "Katherine isn't coming down to dinner." 
 
 "Not ill, I hope." 
 
 "No— a little tired." 
 
 George Trenchard was the only one who did not support 
 his part. When the old man had passed through the door, 
 George caught his wife's arm. 
 
 "But, I say," he whispered, "something — " 
 
 She turned for an instant, looking at him with scorn. 
 
 "Nothing !" she said. "It's too late." 
 
 They went in to dinner. 
 
 It was fortunate that Grandfather was hungry; he did 
 not, it seems, notice Philip's absence. 
 
 "Very nice to see you down. Father," Mrs. Trenchard 
 said pleasantly. ' "Very nice for us all." 
 
 "Thank ye, my dear. Very agreeable — ^very agreeable. 
 Quite myself this evening. That rheumatism passed away, 
 so I said to Eocket, 'Well, 'pon my word. Rocket, I think 
 I'll come down to-night.' Livelier for us all to be together. 
 Hope Katie isn't ill, though ?" 
 
 "No — ^no — nothing at all." 
 
 "I saw her this morning. She seemed quite well." 
 
 "A little headache. Father dear. She thought she was 
 better by herself." 
 
 "Dear Katie — never do to have her ill. Well, George. 
 What's the matter with 'ee? Looking quite hipped. Dig 
 your father in the ribs, Millie, my dear, and cheer him up a 
 bit." 
 
 So seldom was old Mr. Trenchard in his merry mood, and 
 so difficult of him to be in it now. So often he was con- 
 
THE TEENCHAEDS 395 
 
 sumed with his own thoughts, his death, perhaps, the present 
 degradation of the world, the tyranny of aches and pains, 
 impatience with the monotonous unvariety of relations, past 
 Trenchard glories, old scenes and days and hours ... he, 
 thus caught up into his own life, would be blind to them all. 
 But to-night, pleased with his food because he was hungry, 
 and because his body was not paining him anywhere just 
 now, he was interested in them. His bright little eyes darted 
 all about the table. 
 
 There came at last the question that they dreaded : 
 "Why, where's the young man ? Katie's young man V 
 A moment's silence, and then Mrs. Trenchard said qui- 
 etly, and with her eyes upon the new "girl," introduced into 
 the house only last week and fresh to the mysteries of a din- 
 ner-table : 
 
 "He's dining with Timothy to-night. Father." 
 Eocket could be heard whispering to Lucy, the 'girl' : 
 "Potatoes first — then the sauce." 
 
 Of them all, it was George Trenchard who covered with 
 least success the yawning chasm, even Aunt Betty, although 
 her hands shook as she crumbled her bread, had not sur- 
 rendered her control. 
 
 But for George this was the first blow, in all his life, to 
 reach his heart. Nothing really had ever touched him before. 
 And he could not understand it — ^he simply could not under- 
 stand it. It had been as sudden as an earthquake, and then, 
 after all, there had been nothing to be done. That was the aw- 
 ful thing. There had been nothing to be done. ... It was also 
 so mysterious. Nothing had ever been mysterious to him be- 
 fore. He had been dimly aware that during these last months 
 all had not been well, but he had pursued his old safe plan, 
 namely, that if you didn't mention things and just smiled 
 upon life without inviting it to approach you closely, all 
 would, in the end, be well. 
 
 But now he could no longer hold aloof — ^he was in the mid- 
 dle of something, as surely as though he had been plunged 
 
396 THE GEEEN MIRROE 
 
 into a deep tub of tossing, foaming water. Katherine . . . 
 Katie . . . dear, devoted Katie . . . who had always loved 
 him and don© as he wished ; Katie, nearest of all human be- 
 ings to his heart, and nearest because he had always known 
 that she cared for him more than for any other human being. 
 And now it was obvious that that was not so, it was obvious 
 that she cared more for that young man, that abominable 
 young man. . . . O, damn it! damn it! damn it! Kather^ 
 ine was gone, and for no reason, for nothing at all except 
 pride and impatience. Already, as he sat there, he was won- 
 dering how soon, by any means whatever, he could establish 
 pleasant relations with her, and so make his life comfort- 
 able once more. But, beyond Katherine, there was his wife. 
 What was he to do about Harriet ? For so many years now 
 he had decided that the only way to deal comfortably with 
 Harriet was not to deal with her, and this had seemed to work 
 so well . . . but now . . . now ... he must deal with her. 
 He saw that she was in terrible distress; he knew her well 
 enough to be sure of that. He would have liked to have 
 helped and comforted her; it really distressed him to see 
 anyone in pain, but he discovered now, with a sharp surprise, 
 that she was a complete stranger, that he did not know any 
 more about the real Harriet Trenchard than he did about 
 Lucy, the maid-servant. There was approaching him that 
 awful moment when he would be compelled to draw close to 
 her ... he was truly terrified of this. 
 
 It was a terrible dinner for all of them ; once Lucy dropped 
 a knife, and they started, all of them, as though a bomb had 
 screamed through the ceiling. And perhaps, to the older 
 ones, there was nothing in it more alarming than the eyes, 
 the startled, absorbed and challenging eyes, of Millie and 
 Henry. . . . 
 
 Slowly, as the dinner progressed, old Mr. Trenchard dis- 
 covered that something was the matter. He discovered it as 
 surely by the nervous laughter and chatter of Aunt Betty as 
 by the disconcerted discomfort of his son George. His merri- 
 
THE TKENCHAEDS 397 
 
 metit fell away from him ; he loved 'Angels on Horseback' — 
 to-night there were 'Angels on Horseback', and he ate 
 them with a peevish irritation. Whatever was the matter 
 now? He felt lost without Sarah; she knew when and why 
 things were the matter more quickly than anyone, aware of 
 her deafness, would consider possible. But before he was 
 assisted from the table he was sure that the "something" was 
 connected with his dear Katherine. . . . The men did not 
 stay behind to-night. In the hall they were grouped together, 
 on the way to the drawing-room, waiting for the old man's 
 slow progress. 
 
 He paused suddenly beside the staircase. 
 
 "George," he said, "George, just run up and see how 
 Katie is. Give her my love, will 'ee ?" 
 
 George turned, his face white. Mrs. Trenchard said : 
 
 "She's probably asleep. Father. With her headache^^it 
 would be a pity to wake her." 
 
 At that moment the hall door pushed slowly open, and 
 there, the wind eddying behind him, his ulster up over his 
 neck, his hair and beard wet with the rain, stood Uncle 
 Timothy. 
 
 "Hullo !" he cried, seeing them all grouped together. But 
 old Mr. Trenchard called to him in a voice that trembled 
 now with some troubled anticipation: 
 
 "Why, your dinner's soon done ? Where's the young man ?" 
 
 Uncle Timothy stared at them; he looked round at them, 
 then, at a loss for the first time in his life, stammered : "Why, 
 don't you know . . . ?" 
 
 The old man turned, his stick shaking in his hand: 
 "Where's Katherine? Katie. . . . What's happened to 
 Katie ? What's this mean ?" 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard looked at him, then said: 
 
 "It's all right, Father — really. It's quite all right." 
 
 "It's not all right." Fright like the terror of a child alOne 
 in the dark was in his eyes. "What have you done with her ?" 
 
 Her voice cold, without taoving, she answered: 
 
398 THE GKEEN MIRROR 
 
 "Katherine went up by the eight o'clock train to London 
 with Philip. She has gone to Rachel Seddon." 
 
 "With Philip ? . . . What do you say ? I can't hear you." 
 
 "Yes. She is to stay with Rachel Seddon." 
 
 "But why ? What have you done ? Why did you tell me 
 lies?" 
 
 "We have done nothing. We did not know that she was 
 going." 
 
 "You didn't know? , . . then she's left us ?" 
 
 Mrs. Trenchard said nothing. 
 
 He cried: "I told him — what it would be — if he took 
 her . . . Katie!" 
 
 Then, his stick dropping with a rattle on to the stone floor, 
 he fell back. Rocket caught him. 
 
 There was a movement forward, but Mrs. Trenchard, say- 
 ing swiftly, "George . . . Rocket," had swept them all out- 
 side the figure — the figure of an old, broken, tumbled-to-pieces 
 man, held now by his son and Rocket, huddled, with his white, 
 waxen hand trailing across George Trenchard's strong arm. 
 
 Harriet Trenchard said to her brother: 
 
 "You knew !" then turned up the stairs. 
 
 In the drawing-room Aunt Aggie, Aunt Betty, Millie and 
 Henry faced Uncle Timothy. 
 
 "Well t" said Aunt Aggie, "so you know all about it. . . . 
 You've killed Father!" she ended with a grim, malignant 
 triumph. 
 
 He answered fiercely: "Yes, I knew. That's why I 
 came. She said that she would send up a note from the vil- 
 lage. I thought that you wouldn't have heard it yet. I 
 came up to explain." 
 
 They all burst upon him then with questions : 
 
 "What?" "Did you see her?" "What did she say?" 
 "Where was she ?" 
 
 "Of course I saw her. She came to me before she went 
 off." 
 
 "She came and you didn't stop her!" This from Aunt 
 
THE TKENCHAEDS 399 
 
 Aggie. He turned then and addressed himself solely to her. 
 
 "No. I didn't stop her. I gave her my blessing." 
 
 Aunt Aggie would have spoken, but he veent on: "Yes, 
 and it's you — ^you and Harriet and the others — v?ho are 
 responsible. I warned Harriet months ago, but she wouldn't 
 listen. What did you expect? Do you think the world's 
 always going on made for you and you alone? The more 
 life's behind you the more important you think you are, 
 whereas it doesn't matter a damn to anybody what you've 
 done compared with what others are going to do. You 
 thought you could tie Katherine and Philip down, take away 
 their freedom ? Well, you couldn't, that's all." 
 
 "Yes," cried Aunt Aggie, who was shaking with anger, 
 'it's such doctrines as yours, Timothy, that lead to Katherine 
 and others doing the dreadful things they do. It's all free- 
 dom now and such words, and young men like Mr. Mark, who 
 don't fear God and have no morals and make reprobates of 
 themselves and all around them, can do what they please, I 
 suppose. You talk about common-sense, but what about 
 God? What about the Commandments and duty to your 
 parents? They may think what they like abroad, but. 
 Heaven be praised, there are some of us still in England who 
 know our duty." 
 
 He had recovered his control before she ended her speech. 
 He smiled at her. 
 
 "The time will come," he answered, "and I daresay it isn't 
 so distant as you think, when you and you fellow-patriots, 
 Aggie, will learn that England isn't all alone, on her fine 
 moral pedestal, any longer. There won't be any pedestal, 
 and you and your friends will have to wake up and realise 
 that the world's pushed a bit closer together now-a-days, that 
 you've got to use your eyes a bit, or you'll get jostled out of 
 existence. The world's going to be for the young and the 
 independent and the unprejudiced, not the old and narrow- 
 minded. 
 
 "Philip Mark's woken you all up, and thank God he has !" 
 
400 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 "Heaven forgive you," Aunt Aggie answered, "for taking 
 His name. You've got terrible things to answer to Him for, 
 Timothy, when the time comes." 
 
 "I'm not afraid, Aggie," he said. 
 
 But it was Millie who spoke the final word. 
 
 "Oh, what are you all talking about !" she broke in. "What 
 does it matter who's good or bad or right or wrong. It's 
 Katie's happiness that matters, nothing else. Of course, 
 she's gone. She ought to have gone months ago. You all 
 wanted to make her and Phil live your life just as you wished 
 it, and Phil, because he loved Katie so much, was ready to, 
 but why should they? You say you all loved her, but I 
 think it was just selfishness. I've been as bad as the rest 
 of you. I've been thinking of myself more than Katie, but 
 at heart now I'm glad, and I hope they'll be happy, happy for 
 ever." 
 
 "And your Mother?" said Aunt Aggie. "Did Katherine 
 owe her nothing ?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Millie, stoutly, "but she didn't owe her 
 all her life. Mother's still got her if she wants her. Katie 
 will never change — she isn't that kind. It's mother's pride 
 that's hurt, not her love." 
 
 Aunt Betty, who had been quite silent, said : 
 
 "I do indeed hope that she will be very happy . . . but 
 life will never be the same again. We mustn't be selfish, of 
 course, but we shall miss her — ^terribly." 
 
 At a later hour George Trenchard, in pyjamas and a dress- 
 ing gown, knocked on his wife's door. She opened it, and 
 he found her fully clothed ; she had, it seemed to him, been 
 reading. 
 
 He looked at her ; he felt very wretched and uncomfortable. 
 
 "Father's asleep," he said. * 
 
 "I'm glad of that," she answered. 
 
 "I think he'll be none the worse in the morning." 
 
 "I hope not. Dr. Pierson seemed reassured." 
 
THE TRENOHAEDS 401 
 
 There was a pause; in spite of his hedroom slippers, his 
 feet were cold. 
 
 "Harriet." 
 
 "Yes, George." 
 
 "I only wanted to say — ^well, I don't know — only that — 
 I'm sotry if this — ^this business of Katharine's — ^has been a 
 great blow to you." 
 
 Her mind returned to that day, now so long ago, when, 
 after her visit to the Stores, she had gone to his study. Their 
 position now was reversed. But she was tired; she did not 
 care. George did not exist for her. 
 
 "It has surprised me, of course," she answered, in her 
 even, level voice. "I thought Katherine cared more for us 
 all than she has shovim that she does. I certainly thought so. 
 Perhaps my pride is hurt." 
 
 By making this statement — ^not especially to George, but 
 to the world in general — she could say to herself: "You see 
 how honest you are. You are hiding nothing." 
 
 He meanwhile hated his position, but was driven on by a 
 vague sense that she needed comfort, and that he ought to 
 give it her. 
 
 "See here, Harriet," he said, awkwardly, "perhaps it needn't 
 be so bad. Nothing very terrible's happened, I mean. After 
 all, they were going to marry anyway. They've only done it 
 a bit sooner. They might have told us, it's true — ^they ought 
 to have told us — ^but, after all, young people will be young 
 people, won't they? We can't be very angry with them. 
 And young Mark isn't quite an Englishman, you know. Been 
 abroad so long." 
 
 As he spoke he dwindled and dwindled before her until his 
 huge, healthy body seemed like a little speck, a fly, crawling 
 upon the distant wall. 
 
 "Nothing very terrible's happened" . . . "Nothing very 
 terrible's happened" . . . "wothiitg veey tebeible's hap- 
 pened." 
 
 George, who, during these many years had been very little 
 
402 THE GEEEW MIEEOK 
 
 in her life, disappeared, as he made that speech, utterly and 
 entirely out of it. He was never to figure in it again, but 
 he did not know that. 
 
 He suddenly sat down beside her on the old sofa and put 
 his arm round her. She did not move. 
 
 They sat there in utter silence. At last desperately, as 
 though he were committing the crime of his life, he kissed 
 her. She patted his hand. 
 
 "You look tired," he said, feeling an immense relief, now 
 that he had done his duty. "You go to bed." 
 
 "Good night, George dear," she said. 
 
 He raised his big body from the sofa, smiled at her and 
 padded away. . . . 
 
 When he had gone and she was alone, for a terrible time 
 she fought her defeat. She knew now quite clearly that her 
 ruling passion during all these months had not been, as she 
 had supposed, her love'of Katherine, but her hatred of Philip. 
 
 Erom the first moment of seeing him she had known him 
 for her enemy. He had been, although at the time she had 
 not realised it, the very figure whose appearance, all her life, 
 she had dreaded ; that figure, from outside, of whose coming 
 Timothy had long ago prophesied. How she had hated him ! 
 From the very first she had made her plans, influencing the 
 others against him, watching how she might herself most se- 
 curely influence him against himself, breaking in his will, 
 using Katherine against him ; finally, when Seymour had told 
 her the scandal, how she had treasured it up for the moment 
 when he, because of his love for Katherine, should be com- 
 pletely delivered over to her! 
 
 And the moment had come. She had had her triumph! 
 She had seen his despair in his eyes ! She had got him, she 
 thought, securely for ever and ever. 
 
 Then how she had known what she would do in the future, 
 the slave that she would make of him, the ways that she would 
 
THE TEENCHAEDS 403 
 
 trouble him with Katherine, with that Eussian woman, with 
 Aggie, with all of them! 
 
 Ah ! it had been so perfect ! and — at the very moment of 
 her triumph — ^he had escaped ! 
 
 That love for Katherine that had been a true motive in 
 her earlier life, a true motive even until six months ago, was 
 now converted into a cold, implacable resentment, because it 
 was Katherine who had opened the door of Philip's cage. 
 Strange the complexities of the human heart! That very 
 day, as she won her triumph she had loved her daughter. 
 She had thought : "ITow that I have beaten him I can take 
 you back to my heart. We can be, my dear, as we used 
 to be" — ^but now, had Katherine entered the room, she would 
 have been spurned, dismissed for ever. 
 
 In the lust of love there is embedded, as the pearl is em- 
 bedded in its shell, a lust of hate. Very closely they are 
 pressed together. Mrs. Trenchard was beaten — beaten by 
 her daughter, by a new generation, by a new world, by a new 
 age — ^beaten in the very moment of her victory. 
 
 She would never forgive. 
 
 What was left to her ? 
 
 Her heart was suddenly empty of love, of hatred, of tri- 
 umph, of defeat. She was tired and lonely. Somewhere, 
 dimly, from the passage, the cuckoo-clock proclaimed the 
 hour. 
 
 The house ! That at least was left to her. These rooms, 
 these roofs, the garden, the village, the fields, the hedges the 
 roads to the sea. The Place had' not deceived her, had not 
 shared in the victory over her ; it had, rather, shared in her 
 defeat. 
 
 It seemed, as she stood there, to come up to her, to wel- 
 come her, to console her. 
 
 She put a shawl over her shoulders, went softly through 
 the dark passages, down into the drawing-room. 
 
 There, feeling her way, she found candles and lit them. 
 She went to her cabinet, opened drawers, produced papers, 
 
404 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 plans, rows of figures; Here was a plan of a new bam 
 behind the house, here the addition of a conservatory to the 
 drawing-room. Before her was a map of South Grlebeshire, 
 with the roads, the fields, the farms. She began to work, 
 adding figures, following the plans, writing. . . . 
 
 The light of the summer morning found her working there 
 in the thin candle-light. 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 THE CEEEMOHT 
 
 AT about half-past four upon the afternoon of Novem- 
 ber 8th, 1903, the drawing-room of Wo. 5 Bundle 
 Square Westminster, was empty. November 8th was, of 
 course, Grandfather Trenchard's birthday ; a year ago on that 
 day Philip Mark had made his first entrance into the Tren- 
 chard fastnesses. This Eighth of November, 1903, did not, 
 in the manner of weather, repeat the Eighth of November, 
 1902. There had been, a year ago, the thickest of fogs, now 
 there was a clear, mildly blue November evening, with the 
 lamps like faint blurs of light against a sky in which tiny 
 stars sparkled on a background that was almost white. It 
 was cold enough to be jolly, and there was a thin wafer-like 
 frost over the pools and gutters. 
 
 A large fire roared in the fireplace; the yoom seemed 
 strangely altered since that day when Henry had read his 
 novel and thought of his forests. In what lay the alteration ? 
 The old gTeen carpet was still there ; in front of the fireplace 
 was a deep red Turkey rug — ^but it was not the rug that 
 changed the room. The deep glass-fronted bookcases were 
 still there, with the chilly and stately classics inside them; 
 on the round table there were two novels with gaudy red and 
 blue covers. One novel was entitled "The Lovely Mrs. Tem- 
 pest", the other "The Mystery of Dovecote Mill" — ^but it 
 was not the novels that changed the room. The portraits 
 of deceased Trenchards, weighted with heavy gold, still hung 
 upon the walls ; there was also, near the fireplace, a gay water- 
 colour of some place on the Kiviera, with a bright parasol 
 
 405 
 
406 THE GEEEN MiEROE 
 
 in the foreground and the bluest of all blue seas in the back- 
 ground — but it was not the water-colour that changed the 
 room. 
 
 No, the change lay here — the Mirror was gone. 
 
 After Henry had broken it, there was much discussion 
 as to whether it should be mended. Of course it would be 
 mended — but when? — ^Well, soon. Meanwhile it had bet- 
 ter be out of the way somewhere ... it had remained out of 
 the way. Until it should be restored, Sir George Trenchard, 
 K.C.B., 1834-1896, a stout gentleman with side whiskers, 
 hung in its place. 
 
 Meanwhile it would never be restored. People would for- 
 get it ; people wanted to forget it . . . the Mirror's day was 
 over. 
 
 It was, of course, impossible for Sir George Trenchard to 
 reflect the room in his countenance or in his splendid suit of 
 clothes, and the result of this was that the old room that had 
 gathered itself so comfortably, with its faded and mossy 
 green, into the shining embrace of the Mirror, had now no- 
 where for its repose; it seemed now an ordinary room, and 
 the spots of colour — ^the Turkey rug, the novels, the water- 
 colour, broke up the walls and the carpet, flung light here 
 and light there, shattered that earlier composed remoteness, 
 proclaimed the room a comfortable place that had lost its 
 tradition. 
 
 The Eoom was broken up — ^the Mirror was in the cellar. 
 
 Henry came in. He had had permission to abandon — ^for 
 one night — ^his labours at Cambridge to assist in the celebra- 
 tion of his grandfather's birthday, the last, perhaps, that 
 there would be, because the old man now was very broken 
 and ill. He had never recovered from the blow of Katherine's 
 desertion. 
 
 The first thing that Henry had done on his arrival in Lon- 
 don had been to pay a visit to Mrs. Philip Mark. Katherine 
 and Philip lived in a little flat in Kiiightsbridge — Park 
 Place — and a delightful little flat it was. This was not the 
 
THE CEEEMONY 407 
 
 first visit that Henry had paid there; George Trenchard, 
 Millie, Aunt Betty had also been there — ^there had been sev- 
 eral merry tea-parties. 
 
 The marriage had been a great success; the only thing 
 that marred it for Katherine was her division from her 
 mother. Mrs. Trenchard was relentless. She would not 
 see Katherine, she would not read her letters, she would not 
 allow her name to be mentioned in her presence. Secretly, 
 one by one, the others had crept off to the Knightsbridge 
 flat. . . . They gave no sign of their desertion. Did she 
 know ? She also gave no sign. 
 
 But Katherine would not abandon hope. The time must 
 come when her mother needed her. She did not ask ques- 
 tions of the others, but she saw her mother lonely, aged, mis- 
 erable; she saw this from no conceit of herself, but simply 
 because she knew that she had, for so many years, been the 
 centre of her mother's life. Her heart ached ; she lay awake, 
 crying, at night, and Philip would strive to console her but 
 could not. JSTevertheless, through all her tears, she did not 
 regret what she had done. She would do it again did the 
 problem again arise. Philip was a new man, strong, happy, 
 reliant, wise . . . she had laid the ghosts for him. He was 
 hers, as though he had been her child. 
 
 Henry, upon this afternoon, was clearly under the influ- 
 ence of great excitement. He entered the drawing-room as 
 though he were eager to deliver important news, and then, 
 seeing that no one was there, he uttered a little exclamation 
 and flung himself into a chair. Anyone might see that a 
 few weeks of Cambridge life had worked a very happy change 
 in Henry; much of his crudity was gone. One need not 
 now be afraid of what he would do next, and because he was 
 himself aware of this development much of his awkwardness 
 had left him. 
 
 His clothes were neat; his hair was brushed. He might 
 still yield at any moment to his old impetuosities, his despairs 
 and his unjustified triumphs, but there would now be some 
 
408 THE GEEEN MIREOE 
 
 further purpose beyond them ; he would know now that there 
 were more mportant things in life than his moods. / 
 
 He looked at the place where the Mirror had been and 
 blushed ; then he frowned. Yes, he had lost his temper badly 
 that day, but Philip had had such an abominable way of 
 showing him how young he was, how little of life he knew. 
 All the same, Philip wasn't a bad sort, — and he did love 
 Katie — 'like anything !' 
 
 Henry himself thrilled with the consciousness of the things 
 that he intended to do in life. He had attended a debate 
 at the Cambridge Union, and himself, driven by what des- 
 perate impulse he did not know, had spoken a few words. 
 From that moment he had realised what life held in store 
 for him. He had discovered other eager spirits; they met 
 at night and drank cocoa together. They intended nothing 
 less lian the redemption of the world; their Utopian City 
 shone upon no distant hill. They called themselves the 
 Crusaders, and some time before the end of the term the 
 first number of a periodical written by them was to startle 
 the world. Henry was the Editor. His first Editorial was 
 entitled : "Freedom : What it is". 
 
 And only a year ago he had sat in this very room reading 
 that novel and wondering whether life would ever open be- 
 fore him. It had opened — it was opening before them all. 
 He did not know that it had been opening thus for many thou- 
 sands of years. He knew nothing of the past ; he knew noth- 
 ing of the future ; but he saw his City rising, so pure and of 
 marvellous promise, before his eyes. . . . 
 
 As he looked back over the past year and surveyed the fam- 
 ily, it was to him as though an earthquake had blown them 
 all sky-high. A year ago they had been united, as though 
 no power could ever divide them. Well, the division had 
 come. There was now not one member of the family who 
 had not his, or her, secret ambitions and desires. Aunt 
 Aggie intended to live in a little fiat by herself. She found 
 "the younger ones impossible." George Trenchard bought 
 
THE CEEEMONY ft09 
 
 land at Garth. Mrs. Trenchard intended to pull down some 
 of the Garth house and build a new wing. 
 
 She was immersed all day in plans and maps and figures ; 
 even her father-in-law's illness had not interfered with her 
 determination. 
 
 Millie had made friends with a number of independent 
 London ladies, who thought Women's Suffrage far beyond 
 either cleanliness or Godliness. She talked to Henry about 
 her companions, who hoped for a new City in no very dis- 
 tant future, very much as Henry's friends at Cambridge did. 
 Only, the two Cities were very different. Even Katherine 
 and Philip were concerned in some Society for teaching poor 
 women how to manage their children, and Philip was also 
 interested in a new Art, in which young painters produced 
 medical charts showing the internal arrangements of the 
 stomach, and called them "Spring on the Heath" or "Konae — 
 Midday." 
 
 And through all the middle-class families in England these 
 things were occurring. "Something is coming. ..." 
 "Something is coming. ..." "Look out. ..." "Look 
 out. ..." 
 
 This was in 1903. Henry, Millie, Katherine had still 
 eleven years to wait for their revolution, but in at least one 
 corner of happy England the work of preparation had been 
 begun. 
 
 The door opened, and Henry's reveries were interrupted 
 by the entrance of Millie. He started, and then jumped up 
 on seeing her ; for a moment, under the power of his thoughts, 
 he had forgotten his news; now he stammered with the im- 
 portance of it. 
 
 "Millie !" he cried. 
 
 "Hullo, Henry," she said, smiling. "We expected you 
 hours ago." 
 
 He dropped his voice. "I've been round to see Katie. 
 Look here, Millie, it's most important She's coming here 
 to see Mother." 
 
410 THE GEEEN MIRKOR 
 
 Millie glanced behind. They carried on then the rest of 
 tiieir conversation in whispers. 
 
 "To see Mother?" 
 
 "Yes. She can't bear waiting any longer. She felt that 
 she miist be here on Grandfather's birthday." 
 
 "But— bul^" 
 
 "Yes, I know. But she thinks that if she sees Mother 
 alone and she can show her that nothing's changed — " 
 
 "But everything's changed. She doesn't know how differ- 
 ent Mother is." 
 
 "No, but she thinks if they both see one another — ^at any 
 rate she's going to try." 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 "Yes. In a few minutes. I'll go up and just tell Mother 
 that there's a caller in the drawing-room. Then leave them 
 alone together — " 
 
 Millie sighed. "It would be too lovely for anything if it 
 really happened. But it won't — it can't. Mother's extraor- 
 dinary. I don't believe she ever loved Katie at all, at least 
 only as an idea. She'll never forgive her — never — and she'll 
 always hate Philip." 
 
 "How's Grandfather?" 
 
 "Very bad. He says he will come down to-night, although 
 it'll probably kill him. However, now they've arranged that 
 his presents shall be in the little drawing-room upstairs. 
 Then he won't have so far to go. He's awfully bad, really, 
 and he's as hard about Katie as Mother is. He won't have 
 her name mentioned. It's simply, I believe, that it's terrible 
 to him to think that she could love Philip better than him !" 
 
 "And how's everyone else ?" 
 
 "Oh, well, it's all right, I suppose. But it isn't very nice. 
 I'm going off to live with Miss Emberley as soon as they'll 
 let me. Aunt Aggie's been awfvl. And then one day she 
 went suddenly to see Katie, and Mother found out somehow. 
 Mother never said anything, but Aunt Aggie's going to take 
 a flat by herself somewhere. And since that she's been nicer 
 
THE OEEEMONY 411 
 
 than I've ever known her. Quite soft and good-tempered." 
 
 "Does Mother know that we all go to see Katie ?" 
 
 "Sometimes I think she does — sometimes that she doesn't. 
 She never says a word. She seems to think of nothing but 
 improving the place now. She must be very lonely, but she 
 doesn't show anyone anything. All the same it's impossible 
 without Katie — I — " 
 
 At that moment the bell of the hall-door rang. They stood 
 silently there listening. 
 
 Eor a moment they stared at one another, like conspirators 
 caught in the act of their conspiracy. The colour flooded 
 their cheeks ; their hearts beat furiously. Here and now was 
 Drama. 
 
 They heard Eocket's footstep, the opening door, Kather- 
 ine's voice. They fled from the room before they could be 
 seen. 
 
 Katherine, when she stood alone in the room in whose life 
 and intimacy she had shared for so many years, stared about 
 her as though she had been a stranger. There was a change ; 
 in the first place there was now her own room, made for her 
 and for Philip, that absorbed her mind ; in comparison with 
 it this room, that had always appeared to her comfortable, con- 
 soling, protective, was now old-fashioned and a little shabby. 
 There were too many things scattered about, old things, 
 neither beautiful nor useful. Then the place itself did not 
 seem to care for her as it had once done. She was a visitor 
 now, and the house knew it. Their mutual intimacy had 
 ceased. 
 
 But she could not waste many thoughts upon the room. 
 This approaching interview with her mother seemed to her 
 the supreme moment of her life. There had been other su- 
 preme moments during the past year, and she did not realise 
 that she was now better able to deal with them than she had 
 once been. E'evertheless her mother must forgive her. She 
 would not leave the house until she had been forgiven. She 
 was hojwful. The success of her marriage had given her 
 
413 THE GEEEN MIEEOE 
 
 much self-confidence. The way that the family had, one 
 after another, come to see her (yes, even Aunt Aggie) had im- 
 mensely reassured her. Her mother was proud ; she needed 
 that submission should be made to her^ 
 
 Katherine was here to make it. Her heart beat thickly 
 with love and the anticipated reconciliation. 
 
 She went, as she had done so many, many times, to the 
 Mirror over the fireplace to tidy herself. Why ! the Mirror 
 was not there! Of course not — ^that was why the room 
 seemed so changed. She looked around her, smiled a little. 
 A fine girl, anyone seeing her there would have thought her; 
 Marriage had given her an assurance, a self-reliance. She 
 had shrunk back before because she had been afraid of what 
 life would be. !N^ow, when it seemed to her that she had 
 penetrated into the very darkest fastnesses of its secrets, when 
 she felt that nothing in the future could surprise her ever 
 again, she shrank back no longer. 
 
 Her clothes were better than in the old days, but even now 
 they did not fit her very perfectly. She was still, in her 
 heart, exactly the same rather grave, rather slow, very loving 
 Katherine. She would be stout in later years; there were 
 already little dimples in her cheeks. Her eyes were soft and 
 mild, as they had ever been. 
 
 The door opened, and Mrs. Trenchard entered. 
 
 She had expected some caller, and she came forward a few 
 steps with the smile of the hostess upon het lips. Then she 
 saw her daughter, and stopped. 
 
 Katherine had risen, and stood facing her mother. With 
 a swift consternation, as though someone had shouted some 
 terrifying news into her ear, she realised that her mother 
 was a stranger to her. She had imagined many, many times 
 what this interview would be. She had often considered the 
 things that she would say and the very words in which she 
 would arrange her sentences. But always in her thoughts 
 she had had a certain picture of her mother before her. She 
 had seen an old woman, old as she had been on that night 
 
THE CEEEMONY 413 
 
 when she had slept in Katherine's arms, old as she had been 
 at that moment when Katherine had first told her of her en- 
 gagement to Philip. And now she thought this old woman 
 would face her, maintaining her pride but nevertheless ready, 
 after the separation of these weeks, to break down before the 
 vision of Katherine's own submission. 
 
 Katherine had always thought: "Dear Mother. 'We must 
 have one another. She'll feel that now. She'll see that I'm 
 exactly the same. ..." 
 
 How different from her dreams was this figure. Her 
 mother seemed to-day younger than Katherine had ever 
 known her. She stood there, tall, stern, straight, the solidity 
 of her body impenetrable, inaccessible to all tenderness, 
 scornful of all embraces. She was young, yes, and stronger. 
 
 At the first sight of Katherine she had moved back as 
 though she would leave the room. Then she stayed by the 
 door. She was perfectly composed. 
 
 "Why have you come ?" she said. 
 
 At the cold indifference of that voice Katherine felt a little 
 pulse of anger beat, far away, in the very heart of her tender- 
 ness. 
 
 She moved forward with a little gesture. 
 
 "Mother, I had to come. It's Grandfather's birthday. I 
 couldn't believe that after all these weeks you wouldn't be 
 willing to see me." 
 
 She stopped. Her mother said nothipg. 
 
 Katherine came nearer. "I'm sorry — ^terribly sorry — ^if I 
 did what hurt you. I felt at the time that it was the only 
 thing to do. Phil was so miserable, and I know that it was 
 all for my sake. It wasn't fair to let him go on like that 
 when I could prevent it. You didn't understand him. He 
 didn't understand you. But never, for a single instant, did 
 my love for you change. It never has. It never will. 
 Mother dear, you believe that — ^you mitst believe that." 
 
 Did Mrs. Trenehard have then for a moment a vision of 
 the things that she might still do with life ? With her eyes, 
 
414 THE GREEN MIEROR 
 
 during these weeks, she had seen not Katherine but her own 
 determination to vindicate her stability, the stability of all 
 her standards, against every attack. They said that the 
 world was changing. She at least could show them that she 
 would not change. Even though, in her own house, that revo- 
 lution had occurred about which she had been warned, she 
 would show them that she remained, through it all, stable, 
 unconquered. 
 
 Katherine had gone over to the enemy. Well, she would 
 fasten her life to some other anchor then. It should be as 
 though Katherine and Katherine's love had never existed. 
 There was offered her now her last chance. One word and 
 she would be part of the new world. One word . . . 
 
 She may for an instant have had her vision. The mo- 
 ment passed. She saw only her own determined invinci- 
 bility. 
 
 "You had your choice, Katherine," she said. "You made 
 it. You broke your word to us. You left us without justi- 
 fication. You have killed your Grandfather. You have 
 shown that our love and care for you during all these years 
 has gone for nothing at all." 
 
 Katherine flushed. "I have not shown that — ^I. . . ." 
 She looked as though she would cry. Her lips trembled. 
 She struggled to compose her voice — then at last went on 
 firmly : 
 
 "Mother — perhaps I was wrong. I didn't know what I 
 did. It wasn't for myself — it was for Philip. It isn't true 
 that I didn't think of you all. Mother, let me see Grand- 
 falier — only for a moment. He will forgive me. I know 
 — I know." 
 
 "He has forbidden us to mention your name to him." 
 
 "But if he sees me — " 
 ' "He is resolved never to see you again." 
 
 "But what did I do ? If I speak to him, if I kiss him — ^I 
 must go to him- It's his birthday. I've got a present — " 
 
 "He is too ill to see you." This perhaps had moved her, 
 
THE CEEEMONY 415 
 
 because she went on swiftly : "Katherine, what is the use of 
 this ? It hurts both of us. It can do no good. You acted 
 as you thought right. It seemed to show me that you had 
 no care for me after all these years. It shook all my. confi- 
 dence. That can never be between us again, and I could 
 not, I think, in any way follow your new life. I could never 
 forget, and you have now friends and interests that must 
 exclude me. If we meet what can we have now in common ? 
 If I had loved you less, perhaps it would be possible, but as it 
 is — ^no." 
 
 Katherine had dried her tears. 
 
 They looked at one another. Katherine bowed her head. 
 She had still to bite her lips that she might not cry, but she 
 looked very proud. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, very softly, "that one day you will 
 want — you will feel — At least I shall not change. I will 
 come whenever you want me. I will always care the same. 
 One day I will come back, Mother dear." 
 
 Her mother said only: 
 
 "It is better that we should not meet." 
 
 Katherine walked to the door. As she passed her mother 
 she looked at her. Her eyes made one last prayer — ^then 
 they were veiled. 
 
 She left the house. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later Henry came into the room, and 
 found his Mother seated at her desk, plans and papers in 
 front of her. He could hear her saying to herself : 
 
 "Fifteen — by fourteen. . , . The rockery there — Five 
 steps, then the door. . . . Fifteen pounds four shillings and 
 sixpence. ..." 
 
 Katherine was not there. He knew that she had been re- 
 jected. His mother showed no signs of discomposure. 
 Their interview must have been very short. 
 
 He went to the window and stood there, looking out. In 
 
416 THE GKEEN MIRKOE 
 
 a moment Eocket would come and draw the blinds. Eiindle 
 Square swam in the last golden light. 
 
 Tiny flakes of colour spun across the pale blue that was 
 almost white. They seemed to whirl before Henry's eyes. 
 
 He Was sorry, terribly sorry, that Katherine had failed, 
 but he was filled to-day with a triumphant sense of the glory 
 and promise of life. He had been liberated, and Katherine 
 had been liberated. Freedom, with its assurances for all 
 the world, flamed across the darkening skies. Life seemed 
 endless : its beckoning drama called to him. The anticipa- 
 tion of the glory of life caught him by the throat so that he 
 could scarcely breathe. . . . 
 
 At that moment in the upstairs room old Mr. Trenchard, 
 suddenly struggling for breath, tried to call out, failed, fell 
 back, on to his pillow, dead. 
 
 THE K9D 
 
PR6045.A45G7""'™""'"-"'™^ 
 
 ^jjje Sreen mirror; a quiet story. 
 
 3 1924 013 235 134