Beyond the blue Mountains

Kitty Kennedy

It was hot in the coach. The June sunshine was merciless, and the dust raised by the horses' hoofs powdered the hedges, penetrated the coach, tickled the throats of the travellers, and set their eyes smarting.

They had dined adequately at Brentford off salt pork and malt liquor, but now they were crossing Staines Bridge and their thirst and peevishness more and more inclined them towards slumber. They were aware of the hardness of their seats, of the jolting of the coach, of the increasing tedium of a journey that with luck would go on for four days, and without luck longer; they were aware of the proximity of each other, not always pleasant; they thought, not without uneasiness, of Bag-shot Heath. They should get over it in daylight, but they sat fingers crossed, guarding against ill luck, lest some mishap should befall the coach on its way across the Heath.

The merchant in the corner began to snore, his wife to nod. The middle-aged matron kept an unnecessarily watchful eye on her two daughters who were both fast approaching thirty, mousy-haired, one pimpled, the other pock-marked, and who seemed to be holding themselves in readiness for an attack on their virtue. It amused the girl of seventeen in the big straw hat, and the young man of eighteen with the leather brief-case across his knees.

They had been watchful of each other, these two, since he had boarded the coach at Kensington. He had sat opposite her; his eyes had tried to catch hers, but whenever he looked her way her charming oval face would be hidden by the brim of her hat. Her clothes were elegant; she had a mingled air of simplicity and sophistication which he found enchanting. Who was she? Why was she travelling alone by stage? How could her family allow it! He was intrigued and excited.

Her hair was golden like the corn in August, and when the sun caught it, it turned to the gold one saw in the goldsmiths' shops. He had not seen her eyes; the ridiculous hat hid them every time he would look straight at them. There was a dimple in her chin; her mouth was lovely, frightened yet bold, full, a little sensuous just a little and childish too. She was a very attractive young person, and alone? He himself had thought it quite an adventure to leave the home he shared with his Uncle Gregory in the little town just beyond Exeter, and to visit his Uncle Simon in Lincoln's Inn. An adventure for a young and adventurous man; but for a beautiful young woman! He studied her from head to foot. Her long green cloak almost enveloped her, but it was possible to see the striped poplin dress beneath it which at her tiny waist fell away from the gaily coloured quilted petticoat. Who was she? He was determined to find out.

The merchant was awakened suddenly by one of his own snores which was more violent than those which had gone before. He glared at his wife as though accusing her of having made the sound which had disturbed his slumber. She was meek, almost apologetic; she gave the impression of having taken as her due over a number of years any blame he cared to lay upon her.

The merchant began to address his fellow passengers. He was a garrulous man, and abject meekness in his wife had led him to expect it in all.

"Wars! Wars!" he declaimed. There will be wars as long as there are men to make them!”

He glanced expectantly at Darrell Grey, the young man with the brief-case, and Barrel answered that indeed it looked as if there must always be these quarrels between nations; but his attention did not really stray from the young woman sitting opposite him.

"War with America!" went on the merchant.

"War with France! War with Spain!" Oratorically he began to enumerate the events of the past year.

"It is true Rodney put the French to flight, but what of the Americans and their independence ...?”

The knees of Darrell Grey touched the green cloak momentarily, and hot colour crept up the fair neck and was lost in the biscuit-coloured straw of the hat.

"War is indeed a terrible thing, sir" said the matron.

"Why, I can assure you, sir, that were it not for the wars my daughters would be married. Betrothed, both of them, to sailors and gentlemen of the quality at that! I will not mention names. Were I to, I should startle the company. Great names! Fine names! And both fallen in battle! Ah, sir! You cannot tell me anything I do not know of the horrors of war!" She turned to the merchant's wife.

"Have you any daughters?" she inquired, but the merchant's wife merely shook her head and glanced from her questioner to the merchant as though to say: "Do you not hear that he is talking? How can you interrupt!" The matron was, however, so sure of her own importance that she had little respect for that of the merchant.

"It is good to have daughters if they are a credit to you!" she said.

The coach lurched suddenly; the girl in the poplin dress was thrown forward and Darrell Grey stretched out to catch her. For a moment his hands touched her shoulders. She smiled and he saw that her eyes were blue, her lashes golden as her hair.

"I am sorry," she said.

"Please do not be," he answered.

"You are staying with the coach for its entire journey?”

"Yes.”

"And after?" he asked.

"I shall be met. My aunt perhaps, or her servants, will meet me.”

He leaned back in his seat. She travelled alone, but she was not easy to know. He could wait. She was travelling all the way to Exeter, and Exeter was quite four days off.

The coach stopped suddenly. The matron and her daughters moved closer to each other. The merchant looked out of the window and cursed.

"We are stuck in a rut!" he said.

"Confound it!" And his wife looked wretched, as though it were her fault.

"We shall not cross Bagshot before dark if we stay here long," said the elder of the daughters, and shivered.

"And they say," said the merchant's wife timidly, 'that there is a very good inn on the other side of the Heath.”

"I could not bear to cross the Heath at dusk!" said the second daughter.

"They say there is much boldness in those rogues nowadays.”

The girl in the poplin dress raised scared eyes to Darrell. He smiled reassuringly; he rather hoped they would cross the Heath in twilight.

He would look after her and she would be very grateful.

"I do hope..." she began.

He leaned towards her.

"They are desperate fellows, but you need have no fear of them.”

"Nonsense!" said the matron.

"Of what use are fine words when a man is armed! I tell you that Bagshot Heath is the most notorious hunting-ground for these men.”

"My good lady," said the merchant, 'it is obvious that you are unacquainted with my part of the country.”

"They say," put in an elderly woman from a cornet of the coach, ‘that they play odd tricks.”

"They well may. Madam," boomed the merchant, 'but they never forget to relieve one of one's purse, and they are always ready with their pistols.”

One of the daughters shrieked, and at that moment the coach began to move forward. There was a little laughter then, but it was uneasy laughter. There was silence for some little time. The sun was a red ball declining westwards as they came to the edge of Bagshot Heath.

Darrell leaned forward, and the straw hat lifted momentarily.

"It is fortunate that there are so many of us," she said softly.

"I confess I should be frightened were there less.”

Fear was unleashing her reserve. She lay back against the woodwork of the coach. The cloak opened slightly to show the tiniest of waists and a ripe young bosom under striped poplin.

Darrell said: "You are on a visit?”

"No.”

Then you are staying... near Exeter?" She nodded. The coquetry faded from her eyes; she had the tremulous mouth of a child. He found her enchanting.

He said: "That is good.”

"Why good?”

"Because I am returning to my home near Exeter. Perhaps you are staying near my home.”

"Perhaps." She turned her head now. He saw her girl's profile and her woman's throat; there were already signs of a voluptuousness to come.

Where was she going? He wondered. Who was she? She might be a young gentlewoman. Was she a lady's maid? He tried to think of someone in his neighbourhood who might be requiring a lady's maid. The only person who, to his knowledge, had ever had one, was the squire's lady, and she had been dead two years. Mystery surrounded the young woman.

Was she innocent or sophisticated? A gentlewoman or a serving woman dressed in her mistress's clothes? And why was she travelling alone?

He had to find out, and here on Bagshot Heath was the place for boldness.

He said: "My uncle is a lawyer. I work with him.”

"You have no parents?”

He shook his head. His mother had died of the smallpox when he was five, he told her; his father, of he knew not what.

"My father?" she said, and wrinkled her nose very prettily.

"He died long ago. I never knew him. My mother?" Again her mouth trembled.

"She has just died ... of what I know not." She added: "I go to my Aunt Harriet, five miles out of Exeter.”

"Your Aunt Harriet!" he cried excitedly.

"Can it be Miss Harriet Ramsdale who is your aunt?”

"The very same.”

He was laughing, not with amusement but with pleasure, and his pleasure changed suddenly to concern. Harriet Ramsdale the aunt of this charming creature! It was impossible to believe. And she was going to live with her. He was delighted and dismayed.

"Her house," he said, 'is but a few miles from my uncle's. We shall meet, I hope.”

"It is good," she said demurely, 'to have found a neighbour already.”

"It delights me," he told her, leaning forward. This explained everything. Harriet Ramsdale would rather let her young niece face the dangers of lonely travel than spend the money to go and get her. He was filled with tenderness. Poor little girl! To live with Harriet Ramsdale!

She said eagerly: "If you know my aunt, you can tell me something of the life that is before me.”

He answered with a question: "Will you tell me your name?”

"Kitty Kennedy.”

"Mine is Darrell Grey.”

The golden lashes shone against her pale skin for a moment. It fascinated him to see the way she could play coquette and frightened child at the same time.

"I... I am glad we know each other." he said.

"Shall you call on my aunt?”

He smiled, thinking of calling on Harriet Ramsdale.

"We shall meet be sure of that!”

They fell silent, not because they had nothing to say, but because there was so much to say. and they did not know how to begin to say it.

The Heath lay behind them; the passengers had ceased to talk of the terrors of the road; they talked of inns, inns they had heard of and inns they had stayed at. And then they talked of war... and uneasy peace.

The sun was setting as they drew into the yard of the inn.

Kitty was too excited to sleep much that night. The depression of the last weeks had left her suddenly; life was not going to be so dreary after all. She had some idea of what life in Aunt Harriet's house was going to be like. Her mother gay, attractive, clever, beautiful, laughter-loving had told her about her sister. How she had imitated Aunt Harriet! Though, as she said: "Bless you. Kit, it's nigh on twenty years since I last saw her. But I can imagine what twenty years have done to Harry, poor soul!" And she would purse her lips and frown, and her face would cease to be her own, becoming that of another woman, a woman who had not been blessed with her own gay spirit.

"She was good, Harriet was; she was Father's daughter. I was all Mother's.”

Kitty knew the story of her mother's flight from the country parsonage; how the atmosphere of piety had stifled her. Morning prayers. Sermons.

No laughter. No singing. No acting. And Mother had loved to act.

How vividly she had talked! It was possible to have a picture of the grey stone Devon house with the creeper climbing over its walls and the tower of the church looming over it, its graveyard just at the end of the garden, frightening Mother when she was a little girl. Years and years ago that had been. Why, Mother had not seen the place for twenty years, and that took one back to 1763 when another war had just ended. Kitty could picture her growing up, no longer afraid of the grey tombstones, playing in the graveyard with Squire Haredon's son who was wild and reckless and haughty as Mother herself. She could picture the parsonage dining-room with its big windows and air of cleanliness and the family gathered there for morning prayers, the serving maids at one end of the table in sprigged muslin and mob-caps, and at the other end of the table Grandmother Ramsdale, very pretty and restless like a brightly plumaged bird in a cage, and Grandfather Ramsdale. stern and pious. Jeffry the eldest and Mother the youngest had both taken after Grandmother Ramsdale, but Harriet the middle one took after her father.

Kitty thought of Mother and her brother always in mischief, helped by the squire's boy to tease poor Harriet who had not their gay spirit and attractive charm. Grandfather Ramsdale was of the quality and it was in a mad moment that he had made a most unsuitable match with Grandmother Ramsdale who was the daughter of a blacksmith; she had plagued and tormented him until he, being pious, must marry her. Kitty had seen a miniature of Grandmother Ramsdale, had seen the exquisite little face with its crown of fair hair; had seen the wilful eyes and passionate mouth so like her own and her mother's, and it was not so difficult then to understand how even a man such as Grandfather Ramsdale had been plagued into marriage. Extraordinary marriage it must have been. She had been unable to endure that country parsonage, and as soon as her youngest was able to walk and button her own clothes, like a bird which has taught her young to fly she no longer felt any ties held her to her nest; she flew off with a young lord who was passing through Exeter and saw her and was plagued by her, just as the parson had been. She was never heard of again. So the children grew in an atmosphere of pious gloom. They were beaten mercilessly by Their father, for he feared his son and younger daughter had inherited their mother's bad blood. There was no fear in his heart for his favourite, Harriet. She was his daughter. And he was right to fear too, for at the age of eighteen Jeffry went to Oxford and in a year had run himself so deeply into debt that it meant several years of cheeseparing to extricate him; in his last year there he was killed in a tavern fight. And Bess, Kitty's mother, had grown to look just like the blacksmith's daughter, with the same fair colouring, the same laughing eyes, the same wanton mouth. A match had been arranged for her with George Haredon, but when a party of players came to Exeter there was among them one Peter Kennedy, and when the players left, Bess went with them.

She often told the story, lying back on her couch with her fair hair flowing about her shoulders and her rich wrap falling open to disclose her over-luscious charms.

"Poor Peter! How I adored him, swaggering on the stage with his red cloak and his moustaches! But, Kit any dear, I was just a country wench then; I soon saw what a mistake I had made. Besides, was I to spend my life with a company of strolling players! But before I could do anything about it you were on the way; I wasn't sorry- I have never been sorry for anything. And, once I'd set eyes on you, I had a soft spot for Peter Kennedy for evermore. Well, my dear, that's the secret of life never stop to look back and sigh; go on and find something better. That's what I did. There was Toby after Peter, and after Toby my Lord James. It has been a good life and we've enjoyed it, eh?”

They had enjoyed it. There was always plenty to eat, good clothes to wear. No beggary for them. And Bess grew plumper and more luscious with the years, and Sir Harry took the place of Lord James, and it went on like that. A pleasant little house, a serving maid or two, and many fine gentlemen who always had a friendly pat for Bess's little girl.

There was the academy for young ladies where one learned to read a little and write a little, to speak French and do fine embroidery.

Occasionally there were slightly unpleasant incidents. A look, a gesture, a disparaging remark overheard about her mother. Kitty did not care; she was completely insensitive to these things. She was a modern replica of her own mother and the blacksmith's daughter; she was kindly, gentle, ready to be moulded by a stronger will, and these qualities, coupled with striking physical beauty, were at the root of her appeal to the egoistical male of all types and ages. In her firm, strong, flawless body and her pliable mind they saw perfection. She had her mother's gift for looking forward, stifling regrets for the past. The old life was done with; the new one, presided over by the stern Aunt Harriet, lay before her. The prospect was not pleasing, yet because she was herself she must always expect good things from life, and here already, on the journey westwards, she had met a young man whose admiration excited her, who was pleasant of countenance, charming of manners, and who was apparently to be a near neighbour.

Her mother had known death was coming to her; a certain breathlessness, a heightening of colour in her face, fainting fits; these were the forerunners of death. The doctors and apothecaries could not save her; perhaps she did not wish them to. She was thirty-eight years old. and that seemed to her no longer young. She had had her life and enjoyed it; she was ready to go. But what of Kitty, who was just on the threshold of life and had much to learn? She, who had never been afraid for herself, was suddenly fearful for her daughter. She thought constantly then, with a never-before-experienced respect, of the sheltered life in a country parsonage. Affectionately she remembered quiet fields and the glistening gold of buttercups in noon-day sunshine; she thought of lanes shaded by leafy trees, of homely fare and morning prayers and strict surveillance. There was safety in these things. She had not heard from her family since leaving it, in the company of Peter Kennedy, but it did not occur to her that her old home was not exactly as she had known it, so she dispatched a letter to her sister Harriet at the parsonage, and waited anxiously for a reply, while the fainting fits grew more frequent and the fight for breath a losing battle. It came at length, but not from the parsonage. There was a new parson now, Harriet wrote, for Their father had been dead ten years. Harriet had her own house; did Bess remember Oaklands? The little house just a stone's throw from the parsonage, and a mile or so from Hare-don? Harriet was far from rich, but however exacting her duty, she could be relied upon to perform it. That letter conjured up such a picture of Harriet that it made Bess laugh until she began to cough so violently that she thought her last moment had come. The same Harriet! Grim and virtuous, determined on duty. However much she disapproved of Bess, Bess's daughter ; was her niece, and while she, Harriet, lived, it would always be her duty to see that any member of her family did not starve. Bess would have preferred to live a few years longer, to have seen her daughter safely married and settled for life; but that was not to be, and who knew that, by returning to the place from which her mother had escaped, Kitty might not make a more brilliant marriage than her mother would ever have been able to arrange for her in London Town? Respectability counted; Harriet was all respectability, and sometimes some very fine gentlemen went down to Haredon. So Bess began to convince herself that this was probably the best thing possible for Kitty's welfare, and she died, as she had lived, happily.

And here was Kitty on her way to Aunt Harriet, a little alarmed at the prospect of her new life, but not so very alarmed, because she was so like her mother. And when she at last fell asleep her thought was not of the lost life in London, nor of the new life which lay before her, but of Darrell Grey.

The next day passed, and the next and the next. They crossed Salisbury Plain and entered the fine old town of Salisbury. They yawned and slept and laughed and chattered, were irritable and gay, taciturn and garrulous as they passed the milestones. The journey was a tedious business for all but Darrell and Kitty; to them there was pleasure in each moment as it passed. There was joy in the shaded lanes; there was excitement at dusk when a lonely stretch of road or plain had to be traversed; they were ; enthralled by each other. They loved the meals in the old inn I parlours; there was joy in getting out of the coach to stretch I cramped limbs, in settling in again to continue the journey.

It I was a voyage of discovery; to Kitty each town through which they passed was new; but there were more exciting discoveries to be made, and how exhilarating it was learning of Darrell's life, telling him about her own. He had heard of the parson's daughter, Bess, who had run away from home. He had heard how Squire Haredon had been in love with her; how half the neighbourhood had been in love with her; it did not surprise him, if she had been anything like her daughter. They wished, how they wished, the journey would never end. The weather was perfect; it was all blue skies and unclouded sunshine, wonderful sunsets. Even the garrulous merchant and the disapproving matron added to their enjoyment. To Darrell's amusement Kitty imitated them, for she had inherited her mother's talent for imitations. He had never known anyone like her. She was different from the country girls of his acquaintance, and even had she not possessed such startling and alluring beauty, her gaiety and her vivacity would have made her the most charming of all the females he had ever met. As to her, she was equally delighted with him. He was just a little naive, so adoring, so longing to play the bold philanderer, and yet so awestruck and a little shy. With each hour he plunged deeper and deeper in love with her; and she followed at a respectable distance. It was an enchanting idyll, charming, delightful, but when they reached Dorchester it changed subtly.

It was a comfortable inn. The landlord came out to receive them, his honest red face beaming a welcome. He had rooms for all and to spare.

A fire burned in the open grate of the parlour; throughout the inn was a delicious smell of roasting meat, appetizing to hungry travellers.

A serving maid showed Kitty her room, and when she was alone in it she flung herself down on the four-poster bed. She was tired after the day's journey; it had been even hotter than usual and the atmosphere inside the coach had made her sleepy. She was pensive too, thinking that tomorrow she would see her Aunt Harriet for herself. Already she had made plans for meeting Darrell again.

From below there was a sudden clatter of horses' hoofs and the sound of wheels on the cobbles. New arrivals? Curiosity sent Kitty flying from the bed to peep through the window. It was an elegant carriage and the horses which drew it were beautiful indeed. The landlord, the ostlers, even the potmen were hovering about the carriage. Some personage evidently. Then she saw him... a big man, possibly in his late thirties a red-faced man with powerful shoulders, well dressed though in a country fashion. He was scowling and was decidedly out of temper.

Now the reason was obvious; one of the horses had turned lame. He was cursing his postillion as though it were his fault; he waved aside the landlord, he was cursing the roads, cursing the fools who were his servants, cursing all of them who stood there gaping at him.

"Bring me a drink!" he shouted, and the landlord fled to do his bidding. He stood there, cursing. A most unpleasant personage, thought Kitty; a hateful creature, ugly too, with his red-purple face and his rough words. The serving maid who had shown Kitty her room came out with a glass of ale on a green tray. She stood before the man, curtsied awkwardly and waited with downcast eyes while he seized the glass. He drained it, complained that it was poor stuff and roughly commanded her to bring him another, and be quick about it unless she wanted a whip about her shoulders. She hastened to obey.

Kitty drew back disgusted. She had never seen such a man before; he behaved as though he were king in this small world; he lacked the manners which she had come to expect in men, because the men who had visited her mother had always possessed them. He stamped his way across the courtyard, and when he had reached the door of the inn the serving maid again appeared with another glass of ale on the tray. He drank it, not quickly as he had drunk the first; he stood back, smacking his lips. His face was still purple with rage, but now the very way he stood there showed that his rage was receding. His voice floated up to her.

"Ah! That's better, eh, Moll!" He gripped the girl's shoulder roughly, and with one hand drew her to him and kissed her loudly on the mouth. The ale spilled from the glass in his other , hand. Kitty heard the girl giggle. She turned away from the I window. She no longer felt in the mood to lie on her bed and ; dream. She called for hot water, and when it came she washed the dust of the day's journey from her hands and face and went downstairs. She was hungry, and the smell of roasting meat was indeed pleasant, but as she turned the handle of the dining-room door, the landlord's wife came running towards her.

"Ma'am," she said, 'if you will but go into the parlour, in a very short time...”

The woman looked harassed; Kitty hesitated.

"I thought," she began, 'that you said it would be ready...”

"Your fellow travellers, Ma'am, are in the parlour. The moment the dining-room is.disengaged I will let you know.”

There was the sound of a chair being pushed back. A voice cried: "God damn you, Shut that door!" The door was however pulled from Kitty's grasp, and the man whom she had seen in the courtyard was standing in the doorway; he did not see Kitty immediately; he glared at the landlord's wife, who stammered: "The passengers from the coach, your Honour...”

"Passengers from the coach! Let the scum wait. I tell you I won't sit down to eat with coach passengers." He stopped for he had seen Kitty now.

"Aha!" he continued, putting a hand to his mouth to wipe away the gravy dinging there.

"Who is the lady?”

The woman said: The lady arrived with the coach this evening... the Exeter coach, your Honour.”

"The Exeter coach." His eyes were large and brown; he had been an exceptionally handsome man less than ten years ago. He turned to the host's wife.

"Come, woman!" he said, and there was a hint of laughter in his voice.

"This lady will think me churlish." He bowed to Kitty.

"You will come in. Ma'am. I should deem it an honour if you would share my table.”

Kitty noticed his hands; they were large, and dark hair grew plentifully on the backs of them. She thought of the way in which one of them had seized the not-unwilling serving maid, and she drew back into the darkness of the corridor.

"Thank you," she said, 'but I am not travelling alone. I will call my fellow travellers; we are all very hungry.”

In the parlour the matron was holding forth angrily.

"I never heard the like! We must wait because some important person is to be served first and prefers to dine alone! I would like him to know that I have mixed with the quality. Is a lady to be insulted because, having fallen on evil times so that it was necessary to sell her carriage, she must take the coach...?”

Kitty went to Darrell.

"The food is ready," she said, and they all went into the dining-room.

The man did not look up as they entered. He went on stolidly eating his dinner. The serving man brought in the joint and put it on the sideboard; the landlord appeared, and began to carve nervously.

The roast lamb was excellent, and there was no sound in the room except that made by hungry eaters. The big man had finished his dinner; he had turned his chair, and every time Kitty raised her eyes he was looking in her direction. Colour mounted her cheeks; she kept her eyes downcast, but she felt his were on her. He frightened her in a way she had never been frightened before, and she felt suddenly that to go upon a long journey alone and unprotected was something of an undertaking.

She glanced at Darrell. How handsome he was, with his rather gentle scholar's face and the love for her in his grey eyes! He was very slender, and looked almost frail when compared with the arrogant, red-faced, alarming man sitting there in pompous state alone at his table. She stole another glance in his direction. He smiled and tried to hold her eyes. She lifted her head haughtily and turned away.

She said in a whisper to Darrell: "He seems a very coarse creature this man whom the host is so eager to please! Let us get out of here to the parlour; it will be better there.”

They went back to the parlour and sat down in the window seat. Darrell said: "This is Squire Haredon. He is in a vile temper tonight!”

"Haredon!" she said.

"George Haredon!" And she thought of her mother's playing in the graveyard with that red-faced man.

Darrell said: "You have seen him at his worst; he is in a bad temper.

His horse went lame and he has had to put up here instead of getting home as he intended. He is a good squire, but when he is in a rage he can be terrible; everyone avoids the squire when he is in a rage.”

"I should hate him, rage or no rage," she said.

The door opened and in he came.

"Bah!" he exclaimed. These inns are draughty places." His rage had left him now; he smiled at them benignly.

"Bless me, if it ain't young Grey! It is young Grey, ain't it? And the lady?”

Darrell got to his feet, but it was Kitty who spoke.

"My name is Kitty Kennedy.”

"Kitty Kennedy!" said the squire. He brought his black brows together.

"By God!" he went on.

"Is it to your Aunt Harriet that you are going?”

"It is to my Aunt Harriet.”

He slapped his thigh and laughed deeply.

"I thought I knew you. Why, my lady, you and I are not strangers.”

He towered over her, and she drew farther back in the window seat, pretending not to see the huge hand extended towards her.

"I do not think," she said with dignity, 'that you and I have met before." And she made an almost imperious sign for Darrell to take the seat beside her; there was not room for three on the window seat.

"The squire means." explained Darrell, sitting down, 'that he knows your aunt and knew your mother. That is why he does not feel you to be a stranger.”

Trust a lawyer for putting his finger right on the point!" cried George Haredon. That's right, I knew your family. Kitty. And you're Bess's girl! By God, I knew it! You've got Bess's looks.”

She resented his familiarity. She slipped her hand into Darrell's, and because of a certain fear that had come to her she held her head higher.

George Haredon leaned forward.

"I could almost believe it was Bessie herself sitting there." he murmured. He breathed heavily, excitedly, and his eyes glistened.

"I have always heard." said Kitty, coolly, 'that I much resembled my mother.”

"And, by God, whoever told you that was right!”

He was so close that she could feel the warmth of his body; a smell of spirits was on his breath, and that of horses on his clothes. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, and she did not care that he saw this.

She turned to Darrell and began to talk of the towns through which they had passed, and when George Hare-don joined in she turned the subject to that of Their fellow passengers of whom he could know nothing.

Darrell was embarrassed, for he was a good deal in awe of the squire.

She thought how beautiful, how cultured, how gentlemanly Darrell was, compared with this man, and because she sensed that he was a little afraid of him she wanted to put her arms round him to protect him; it was a new feeling, this tenderness, a new and wonderful feeling. She made up her mind in that moment that she was going to marry Darrell whatever obstacles had to be overcome. He needed her and she needed him.

George Haredon stood, watching them, his great hands hanging helplessly at his sides. She was aware of those hands; she could not forget the way in which one of them had seized the serving maid, and she knew that he longed to seize her in just that way. He was repulsive; he was hateful; he was arrogant too; he tried to force his way between her and Darrell.

"Why!" he said, coming so close that again she smelt the spirits on his breath.

"Bess made a fine lady of her girl. Trust Bessie for that, And I'll tell you something I like it. I like it very much.”

Here he was, the arrogant male, strutting in his plumage.

"I like it very much! Are you not flattered? For here I am cock of the walk!" But Kitty would show him she was not one of his country wenches to be cursed one moment and kissed the next. Her eyes kindled; they rested on his flowered waistcoat, spotted where he had spilled his gravy. She wanted him to know that she hated the smell of stables that clung to him, hated his big, hairy, not very clean hands, hated even more his crude manners.

"It does not greatly concern me whether you like it or not," she told him. I He laughed, but he was nevertheless disconcerted. He was fascinated by the proud set of the head on her shoulders, by that fearlessness, to be expected from Bess's daughter. The likeness to Bess moved him deeply. She thought him coarse, did she!

Bess, who had never minced her words, had found him so in the old days.

Bess's contempt had pierced the armour of his arrogance, filled him with the desire to beat the pride out of her. That was why Bess had attracted him so strongly. Now it was happening again, with Bess's daughter in the place of Bess, and this enforced stay at the Dorchester inn was changed from a tiresome incident to an exhilarating adventure.

"So you made the journey all alone, eh?" he said.

"Why, if Harriet had told me, Dammed, I would have travelled up to get you myself, that I would. You should not have been allowed to travel alone.”

She lifted her eyes to Darrell and smiled at him very sweetly.

"Mr. Grey looked after me very well, thank you!”

The devil he did! Trust a lawyer for getting the best out of a situation.”

The door was opened suddenly, and the matron came in with her two daughters.

She said in a loud voice: The lamb was mutton, but edible. Sit down, children ... just for a little while. Then we will go to our rooms. I do declare that travelling in this way can be a tiresome business. But there, doubtless we miss our carriage.”

George Haredon was studying the two daughters quizzically; they simpered, casting coy glances in his direction. Their mother was alert, while she made a pretence of great languor.

The squire went to them. Travelling in one's own carriage can be a tiresome business, Ma'am," he said.

"Here am I, stranded for the night because one of my horses has gone lame. A devilish business! May I introduce myself? Squire Haredon. at your service. Ma'am.”

He was smiling at the two girls. Their mother presented them.

"My dear daughter, Emily my dear daughter, Grace.”

The squire was out to impress. He sat between the two girls.

"I could have taken another horse, but I'm fond of my horses. It's nothing much a little lameness. I'll leave her here tomorrow if she's not better, but I've a fancy that a night's rest is all she wants.”

The merchant and his wife came in, and the merchant began to talk of wars in general.

"It is so hot in here," said Kitty after a while. Darrell I shall go to my room now. I am tired; it has been a tiring day.”

She said goodnight to the company and went up to her room. She undressed quickly and got into bed. Her face was burning. She could not shut out of her mind the thought of those bold brown eyes and the strong hands with the down of black hair on them. From below came the murmur of voices. She pictured them all in the parlour George Haredon ogling Emily and Grace. She was grateful to Emily and Grace. How relieved she had been when those bold eyes had ceased to contemplate her.

There were footsteps on the stairs. They would be taking their candles from the table in the hall; they would be coming up the stairs. Sudden panic seized her: she leaped out of bed and turned the key in her door.

She leaned against the door, laughing at herself; absurd to be so frightened of him. He had turned his attentions to Grace or Emily. She got back into bed. Moonlight streamed into her room. She felt happier now that the door was locked. She dozed, and suddenly she was awakened again. She sat up, startled. Some noise had awakened her. She listened. There it was again. A light rattling, like the sound ghostly fingers might make on the windowpane.

She covered her face with the sheets; it came again. She uncovered herself and looked round the room; then she got out of bed and went to the window. She knelt on the seat and looked out.

Standing below her window was George Haredon. He had just picked up another handful of gravel to throw at her window.

For a second or two they stared at each other; then she stepped backwards. Hastily throwing a cloak about her shoulders, she went to the window and secured the bolt.

She did not look at him again, but she heard him laugh softly. She got into bed with her cloak still round her; she was trembling, not with cold but with rage.

Harriet Ramsdale was in bee still-room when she heard the carriage stop outside her gate. She hastily locked a cupboard door, untied the apron about her waist and smoothed the folds of her muslin dress. She was a large woman with fine dark hair which she wore simply; her eyes were grey under bushy eyebrows; her mouth was thin and straight. At the sound of the carriage on the road her mouth softened a little, for she guessed it was the squire's carriage, and peering out of the window she confirmed this. She saw him alight: she saw him push open her gate in that forthright way which she admired so much; she saw him coming up the path to the front door.

She was as excited as Harriet Ramsdale could be excited, but with a return of her primness of manner she went back to the jars of blackberry jelly on the table, and began writing on their lids in a very precise, neat handwriting, "June, 1783'.

"Don't be ridiculous, Harriet Ramsdale," she said under her breath, for when she was quite a small girl and Jeffry and Bess had not included her in their games she had formed the habit of talking to herself and had never lost it.

"You're turned forty, and don't forget it!”

She was essentially practical: she was dogmatic; she was just. She set a strict pattern for herself to follow Harriet, the daughter of a dearly beloved father, the only one in the entire family who had not disappointed him. Her house with its tasteful furniture, its polished floors where never a speck of dust was allowed to remain for long at a time, was a credit to her. For what would Peg and Dolly be doing, without Their mistress at their heels? A pair of sluts, if ever there was a pair of sluts! Workhouse girls, wasteful, indolent and Harriet suspected, immoral. But then, having lived in a family which contained her mother, her brother Jeffry and her sister Bess, she was apt to suspect everyone of immorality. She had borne the great shock of her father's death some ten years back with fortitude, for she was strong of mind and body, and her one great weakness was her unswerving affection for George Haredon; it was a romantic affection, and quite lacking in that common sense which she, no less than others, expected of herself. It had begun when she had just passed sixteen and Bess was nearly fourteen; George must have been about eighteen at the time, and so handsome, so dashing, such a man of the world, that Harriet had admired him fervently, even though he did occasionally join in with Jeffry and Bess to tease her cruelly. Bess, even at fourteen, had been a lovely creature, and George's interest had been all for her, for in spite of Harriet's boundless good sense, in spite of the fact that she had been endowed with all the qualities which go to the making of a sensible wife, George, in common with the rest of his sex, was foolish enough not to recognize these virtues. When men grow older they learn wisdom; that fact was in Harriet's mind hourly.

Poor George had been heartbroken when Bess ran away with her actor, and Harriet was sure that it was purely out of pique that he married his foolish little wife. She proved to be a very ; unsuitable mistress of Haredon, and had borne him four children, two of whom had survived. She had died soon after the birth of the last child, for she had caught a chill when she went to be churched.

George, so wayward, so in need of a guiding hand! If only he would ask her now! It was two years since his wife had died -quite long enough for his period of celibacy. She blushed a little. One heard such stories of the squire, but did not one always hear stories of persons in exalted positions? One heard rumours concerning the wild life of the young Prince of Wales, simply because he was the Prince of Wales.

Servants chatter; you can whip them, you can threaten them with dismissal, but they chatter. It was whispered that even before that silly woman had gone to be churched and caught her death ... but no matter she, Harriet, was not one to believe the worst of an old friend.

There was the sound of running footsteps, a timid knock.

"Come in!" said Harriet, and Peg entered; her hair was tousled, her face flushed.

"Ma'am, the squire is here.”

"Peg! Your hair! Your gown! Is that a fresh rent?" Peg's fingers pulled at the new rent in her gown.

"Whatever will the squire think to see such a slut in my house! You disgrace me. Go now. I shall be with the squire in a moment." She was disturbed. Even the sight of Peg disturbed her, with; her old dress, one of Harriet's throw-outs, pulled tightly over a bosom that seemed to long to show itself, so that one had a feeling that at any moment it would tear the stuff and peep out, inviting admiration.

Harriet smoothed her dress over her own flattish chest and went to the drawing-room. George was standing with his back to the door, facing the window. He swung round when he heard her.

"Harriet." he said, and came swiftly towards her. He took both her hands, and his large brown eyes twinkled; they always twinkled when they rested on Harriet. Her heart began to beat quickly, but her face remained unchanged; rarely did a vestige of colour appear beneath her thick white skin.

"George! How charming of you to call. A glass of wine? Shall it be my sloe wine which you used to like particularly? There's any cowslip too.”

He said: "Make it the sloe, Harry!”

She nodded her head, a little primly, but the corners of her mouth turned up. His tow, rather hoarse voice excited her. Bess had said, years ago when they had lain in bed together: "George is coarse; sometimes it's exciting, but at others it's horrible. I don't know whether I'll like being married to George or not." Harriet had been indignant then, and she could still feel indignant. Who was Bess, she would like to know, to talk of coarseness? Bess who had run away with an actor and heaven knew whether he had married her or not! Bess who, from all accounts, had not stayed with her actor, but had had many men friends and a carriage to ride in, and silks and satins and laces and ribbons to deck her wanton person. For Bess had written to Harriet regularly maliciously of course and those letters had been peppered with the names of men. Harriet had never replied; she remained aloof, the virtuous daughter of a good man, whose enthusiasms went into jars of preserves and whose great moments were when last year's sloe wine excelled that of the previous year. Who was Bess to talk of George's coarseness. And yet... well, when she was with him it was impossible to deny that coarseness; she began to believe, when she was with him, the stories she heard about him. There were two Georges in her mind, the one she thought of in his absence and the one he was when he stood before her. The good squire and the man. The good squire needed her help, for he was impetuous and his bouts of rage were a byword, and every intelligent, practical woman knows that bouts of rage are a drag on the energy and get one nowhere; there was the man who set wild thoughts running through her mind, thoughts which she was afraid of, yet, incomprehensible as it might seem, thoughts which she was not sure whether she liked having or not.

With dignity she crossed to the door and opened it. Peg had obviously been listening at the keyhole. The manners of these girls. It was not often that she used the whip on them, not because they did not deserve it, but because they were such lusty creatures and a whipping had scarcely any effect upon them at all. She could have whipped Peg gladly then because, she assured herself, it was atrociously bad manners to listen at keyholes -and if she had told them once, she had told them fifty times.

"Peg!" she said, her eyes straying to the bodice with the rent in it.

"Bring the sloe wine and two glasses. Bring the new seed-cake too ...

And Peg' she bent her head to whisper "see that the tray is clean." Peg departed; Harriet returned to George, who smiled at her in a secret kind of way.

She said apologetically: "One has to watch those girls all the time. I never saw such a pair.”

"You're a wonderful woman, Harriet," he said, and he rocked backwards and forwards on his heels.

She was in a sudden panic. She thought he was going to ask her to marry him, and she could not shut out the thought of him and some of the stories she had heard about him. That nurse-housekeeper person who, it was said, shared his bed besides looking after his children ... a small virago of a woman, with flashing black eyes and thin mouth which never seemed to close properly, a bad creature if Harriet knew anything about badness and, of course, being a parson's daughter, she knew a great deal.

"Your house is a credit to you, Harriet, upon my word it is. Ah! Here comes the sloe wine. Your sloe wine beats any other sloe wine in the country. I always say.”

To Harriet's practical mind such remarks were a direct approach to a proposal of marriage.

"It is good of you to say so, George.”

"Good? No I Only truthful, and you know it, Harriet." Peg stood before him with the tray; he did not look at her, but he knew she was smiling slyly, the consciously impudent smile of the underling who knows herself to be desired. Desire levels all social barriers... momentarily. Momentarily, he would have her know; still, she would never understand however he tried to explain. There would be no need to explain. You could thrash her one moment, abuse her, treat her as the workhouse brat she was, and the next minute she would be smiling at you like that. Impudent slut! He preferred the other one, though still he preferred this one any hour of the day or night to poor, old Harriet.

He took the glass, ignored Peg, and lifted it.

"To you, Harriet! Long life and happiness; you deserve it.”

"Thank you, George. I wish the same good things to you." He cleared his throat. He was enjoying this. Even Harriet, flat-chested, prim old Harriet, wanted him. This was how he liked it to be. He needed something like it. by God! That haughty girl in the inn had unnerved him. Not coquetry, either; not urging him on. Just flouting him as, years ago, her mother had flouted him.

He was not given to self-analysis, but he did know that Bess had done something to him years ago when she had teased him and tormented him and promised to marry him; and then gone off with a third-rate actor.

He had never forgotten Bess. Always he was trying for that satisfaction which he was sure Bess alone could have given him, and it never came ... not with any of them. That was why there were so many; that was why he was brutal with them sometimes, and sometimes incredibly soft. Always searching, and all because of Bess. He had often thought that if he had Bess alone with him at certain times he would have put his hand round that white neck of hers and strangled the life out of her. She deserved it. Mustn't think of Bess; it made the blood rush into his face, made the veins stand out; too much of that and he'd have to be bled again. But there was something in him. a little sentimental something that held an ideal. Squire! It was a grand title. He was proud of it, proud of his lands and his horses, proud of the position he held there. He liked to see : them curtsy on the road as he passed, their eyes full of reverence for him; but there were saucy sluts like these two from the workhouse who would smile a different smile and toss their heads; then he would be angry with himself for the dignity he I had lost; for. though he could thrash them and take them when he wished, he could not drive out of their eyes that look which showed so clearly that they understood that he was a man who could not do without women. Whatever their station, they knew it; they held it over him ... like Peg smirking there when her mistress wasn't looking. And it was all due to Bess. Bess alone could have satisfied him. He could see her now, never could forget her in fact, laughing as he chased her round the tombstones: long blue eyes with golden lashes, luring, tormenting him with the knowledge of him and of all men which she must have been born with and which was a gift from the blacksmith's! daughter. Married to Bess he would have sustained his dignity; there would have been no sly scuffling, no stolen moments with the kitchenmaids. no humiliations. What a family they would have been. They would have had children, plenty of them, for Bess was made to bear children and he was made to beget children. He would have had to keep a curbing hand on Bess, but he would have liked that, just as he liked his horses to have spirit; and by now she would be close on forty; he would be seeing some of the wildness go out of her, and he would be glad of it. They would be popular. The best squire and squire's lady ever known in these parts! He was a good squire now ... at times.; Often he was ready to take an interest in his people; a helping! hand here; a word of advice there. But if Bess had been with him; all these years it would have been different. He knew they said of him: "Squire ain't a bad squire, for all he can't keep his lecher's eyes off our daughters!" They would not have said that if Bess had been with him. But now regrets were tempered with! amusement. He drew himself up to his full height, which was: close on six feet. His clothes were those of a country squire,! sober in colour, useful rather than elegant, but today he was wearing fine lace at his throat and wrists. And Harriet, one of the few women who had never made him feel a spark of desire, was standing before him getting excited because he complimented her on her sloe wine.

Cruelty leaped up into his eyes. He was always most cruel when his pride was touched. Inwardly he laughed at Harriet, because Harriet's niece had scorned him. He foresaw fun; he was a man of his age, and fun to him meant laughing at someone in a weaker position than the one he enjoyed himself.

Life had been unkind to him. First offering Bess, then snatching her away; and then he had married Amelia. Poor long-suffering Amelia, whose mild submission to his passionate onslaughts infuriated him. She thought him coarse and vulgar; she had never said so; she was too deeply aware of her wifely duty to criticize her husband, but unspoken criticism had been more difficult to bear for a man of his temperament.

He had determined to put her out of countenance; perhaps that was why he had flaunted Jennifer before her.

He thought of Jennifer now, as he smiled at Harriet over the sloe wine.

Jennifer's fierce little body: Jennifer's parted lips. Jennifer was a devil, but she amused him more than anyone had amused him since Bess; she gave him something of that satisfaction which he had always believed he would have got from Bess. Passionate and calculating, she was clever, methodically clever; she wanted to step up from children's nurse and general housekeeper to mistress of the house. He knew it it made him laugh.

"What's the point of marrying you, Jennifer? What do I get out of it, eh? I mean what more do I get out of it?" He could be decidedly cruel and blunt. He liked to watch her rage; he liked to see her stalk to the door, threaten to leave his house; he liked all that. He had said: "Be reasonable, Jennifer. Why should I marry you? You want children?

All right have children!" What a rage she was in! But she wouldn't go; she hoped she would beat him in the end. Never, Jennifer! Never, my dear!

He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels, and looked at Harriet.

"How you manage this house so well, with just those two sluts. I don't know, Harry. I really do not. But soon you'll be having your niece to help you.”

Harriet tossed her head.

"I'm not hoping for much from that quarter, I can tell you, George Haredon.”

He smiled; then he thought of her sitting in the window seat, looking so like Bess that he wanted to kill or make love to her, or perhaps both. When he half-closed his eyes he could almost see the red blood in them. He opened them and saw Harriet, very proud of her neat and orderly home, straight from her still-room. She's got a body like a board! he thought, and tried to imagine himself married to her.

Different from marriage to Amelia, of course, for however similar, no two women were alike. More spirit than Amelia, this one had. Would it be possible to raise the blacksmith's daughter in her.

Harriet cast down her eyes. He is thinking of marriage, she sensed; and she was faintly alarmed. The marriage in her , thoughts would be very different from a marriage of reality. She took a step backwards.

"Ah!" he said.

"I got the idea that you were having the girl here to help you in the house.”

"Help me!" She was the outraged housewife.

"I can run my own house, thank you, George. I'm having her because it is my duty to have her. Could I let her stay in London with the company her mother doubtless kept!”

"Nevertheless," said the squire slowly, 'she has kept that company." A dull anger burned suddenly in him. Doubtless she had, and how haughty she had been with him!

"I shall be severe with her, if I find it necessary," said Harriet.

"She will lead a sheltered life here with me. meeting only my friends.”

"What a wise woman you are, Harriet!" He smacked his lips over the sloe wine.

"Another, George?”

Thank you, Harriet. I could not say no to wine like yours." When he took the glass from her his fingers touched hers. She was calm, though aware of that gesture, he thought. He wanted to laugh. Queer, how sane women like Harriet Ramsdale had their crazy moments! And she was crazy; he thought of the two of them together like mating a bull with a hinny!

"You're amused, George. May I ask you to share the joke?”

"No joke really just enjoying the wine and your company. But what I came for. Harriet, was this. She'll come to Exeter. I suppose?”

"Why, yes.”

"The coach is due in this evening. You're meeting her?”

"I thought of driving in the trap.”

"A long journey for you. Harry. How'd it be if I sent one of my coachmen with the carriage? Jennifer could go to bear her company on the way back.”

Her eyes glittered a little as she raised them to his.

"It's a very kind offer, George. But what trouble to put you to!”

He laid a hand on her shoulder. Boney, she was; bonier than Amelia.

Never did like thin women, thought the squire.

"I'd like to do it for you, Harriet.”

"Well, George! Well!”

Coy as a schoolgirl, and immensely gratified! He felt suddenly flat.

"I'll be getting along, Harriet. I'll send Jennifer in to meet the girl' She stood at the door, watching him go striding out to his waiting carriage. Why, she wondered, had he not spoken? She had been sure he was going to.

Leave-taking was difficult. They sat side by side in the coach now, their hands touching.

Darrell whispered: "I shall be thinking of you every minute until I see you again.”

"And that will be soon," she answered.

He knew her aunt's house. It stood back from the road, and near it was a little wood; if she came out of her aunt's house and turned right she would see the wood. It would shelter them for their first meeting, and .that should be tomorrow evening at eight o'clock. It would be better to wait for evening. He would come to her on his uncle's chestnut mare, and wait for her just inside the wood; he would tell her what his Uncle Gregory had said about their marrying, because that was a matter he would discuss with him at the earliest possible moment.

"It is not real parting," said Kitty, and smiled up at his clear-cut, handsome face and rather delicate features.

The coach rumbled on. The merchant and the matron were discussing Exeter, and every occupant of the coach was excited because they were nearing the end of the long journey. Under cover of such conversation it was possible to exchange vows of eternal affection.

"I thought you were wonderful, when I first saw you. I could just see your mouth; your hat hid the rest of your face." She laughed softly and pressed closer to him.

"You stared so!”

"How could I help that?" he murmured.

"And Kitty ... now I have got to know you I've learned that you are more wonderful than I ever thought anyone could be.”

He kissed her ear, and they laughed and laughed round the coach. Had anyone seen? Who cared if they had.

The coach rumbled into Exeter and pulled up in the inn yard. The door was flung open.

"Perhaps," whispered Kitty, "I had better not introduce you to-my aunt... yet. Perhaps it would be better to wait a while and see...”

There was bustling to and fro whilst the luggage was unloaded. Kitty stood with her bags beside her, looking around her for Aunt Harriet.

A woman was coming towards her a small woman in a dark cloak and hood.

She stood before her; she had sharp, darting black eyes.

"Are you Miss Kitty Kennedy, who is on her way to Miss Rams-dale?”

"Why, yes. Are you... my Aunt Harriet?”

Laughter shook the thin shoulders momentarily.

"No. But I have come to meet you. I have a carriage here to take you to your aunt's house." She looked round and beckoned; a man came and picked up Kitty's bags.

Kitty turned and smiled at Darrell who had stood by, watching. His face looked bleak, she thought, but there was no time to ponder on that, for her companion was hurrying her into a carriage.

The door slammed. The woman sat back, studying Kitty, and Kitty studied her.

She had thrown back the hood of her cape and disclosed dark, rather frizzy hair; her brows were dusky, her dark eyes large yet alert. Kitty felt them taking in every detail of her appearance. She wondered if she were a servant of her Aunt Harriet's; her manner was a little arrogant, hardly that of a servant.

The carriage rolled out of the yard.

"Do tell me your name," said Kitty.

"Jennifer Jay.”

"And my aunt...”

"I have come to meet you on Squire Haredon's behalf." She stopped, watching the colour flood into the girl's face.

"But," stammered Kitty, 'why? I was going to my Aunt Harriet...”

"So you are. But Squire Haredon thought it would be helpful ... to your aunt... to send his carriage.”

"I see. He is very friendly with my aunt?”

A scornful smile twisted the woman's mouth.

"He has known her for a number of years." Jennifer leaned forward.

"I expect you are very like your mother.”

"I am supposed to be. You knew my mother?”

"Hardly! She left this place years ago, did she not? I am twenty-one.

Besides, I did not live here as a child.”

"It was good of Squire Haredon to send his carriage.”

"He is a generous man... at times," said Jennifer.

Yes, she was thinking, why had he gone to all this trouble for Harriet Ramsdale? She wanted to marry him, the sly old virgin! And she thought no one knew it. She, Jennifer, knew it; even those half-witted sluts, who worked for her, knew it. The squire knew it; there were times when she could almost get him to laugh with her over it. There were times when it was possible to get almost anything out of the squire. But he was hot tempered; the last time she had mentioned Harriet's name he had shut her up roughly; she had thought he was going to strike her. It wouldn't have been the first time, brute that he was, Like a great bull sometimes, rushing at you angrily ... and then getting amorous. A smile lifted the side of her mouth.

And now this niece. Disdainful beauty! He would surely be impressed, but he wasn't the sort to press where he wasn't wanted. And who was the young man with the girl when she had got out of the coach, looking at her with those dove's eyes? This was going to be exciting, if a little dangerous.

It might be a good idea to find out all she could. Knowledge usually came in useful. She had a sharp tongue it was one of the things which amused the squire. It was an easy matter to get into his bed; any kitchenmaid could do that; the art lay in staying there.

"You had a pleasant journey?" she asked conversationally.

"Good companions?”

"Very.”

"I thought one of the young men who got out of the coach looked as if he might be a charming travelling companion." How easy it was to make her blush.

Did you?”

"Yes. I thought he had specially friendly glances for you.”

"I think," said Kitty slowly, 'that you must be referring to Mt. Grey.

His uncle, he was telling us, lives in Exeter.”

"Mr. Grey ... I do not know him. You see, I came here only four years ago. I don't know Mr. Grey, but as I said, he is a personable young man and, I should think, a pleasant travelling companion.”

She would garnish the story of this journey she would tell the squire with a description of the flushing young woman who had perhaps been a little indiscreet with a handsome Mr. Grey. She could always make Haredon laugh, and when she made him laugh she was the mistress of the situation ... always. She even thought at such times that he really was imagining her at his table, entertaining his guests; after all, it would soon be forgotten that she had come to his house as governess to his children and had been his mistress before she became Ms wife.

Kitty said quickly, to turn the conversation from Darrell: "And you... you are a friend of Squire Haredon's?”

Jennifer's head tilted proudly.

"I am in charge of his children.”

"That must be interesting. Tell me about the children.”

"There are two of them. Margaret is nearly two years old; Charles is five.”

Kitty smiled encouragingly. It was more pleasant to think of the squire as a family man.

"I am fond of children; and you must be too. since you have chosen the task of taking care of them.”

"I did not choose it it was thrust upon me. I was at a school for young ladies when my father died suddenly. It was a shock to me to learn that I was penniless. There was nothing to do but earn my living it had not been intended that I should so I acquired this post!

Margaret was not born then." Her eyes were sly, Kitty thought, and wondered what made them so. Jennifer was thinking of her arrival at Haredon, and of the interest she had aroused in the squire right from the beginning; hotly pursuing in those days; quite gallant; now he blew hot and cold. She had been sorry for poor Amelia, but that had not stopped her from thinking of Amelia's husband. Amusing! Great fun. keeping him at bay! He could be so angry when frustrated; he had no finesse, the great bull! But when Amelia had died that had seemed like fate. Good God, she needed luck. He would marry again. Weakly, but with an element of cunning, she gave in to him; she had thought that was the way. Perhaps it was; she wasn't sure. She had that in her which could enslave a man ... up to a point. She looked at the girl opposite with faint contempt. She was too sure of her beauty, that girl, to think of much else, and beauty was not all-sufficient; wit came into it; the power to make a man laugh, to find the vulnerable spot. Cleverness was every bit as important as beauty. When she thought of that she was stimulated.

"Oh..." said Kitty, 'the squire's wife...”

"She is dead.”

Now why did her eyes cloud suddenly like that, as though she were sorry Amelia had died? Soft, this girl! But those eyes, that skin and that mouth, He must be interested, if only momentarily. I "It was after the birth of Margaret; she went to be churched. It was in November, and November can be a damp, unhealthy month in this part of the world.”

"Poor lady!" said Kitty.

"And poor little children!”

"They are well looked after," said Jennifer almost tartly, and then the secret smile twisted her lips. And so is the squire, she said to herself. I "You know my aunt?" asked Kitty.

Jennifer tossed her head.

"I have not visited her," she said with scorn.

"A governess does not visit the gentry.”

The carriage rolled on. Kitty closed her eyes: she was not looking at the immediate future; she was looking beyond, to marriage with Darrell.

"You are doubtless tired," said Jennifer.

"Close your eyes and doze a little.”

Kitty smiled and kept her eyes closed: it removed the necessity of talking to Jennifer, for which she was rather pleased. There was something about the little woman, strange and unfathomable, that was almost anger, and Kitty never had any real desire to fathom. She thought of Darrell, of the fine down on his cheeks and the sudden hard pressure of his mouth on hers.

Harriet heard the carriage draw up, and went out to receive her niece.

She gasped at the sight of Kitty. A young woman, a sophisticated London young woman with clothes that were much too fine for the country, who appeared so startlingly like Bess that she felt the resentment she had always felt towards her pretty sister surging up in her. And with her, that creature from Haredon, looking demure enough in her sober cape; but whenever Harriet saw her she could not shut out of her mind the stories she had heard; imagination could be a mocking enemy ill forced pictures into your mind, and though you tried to ignore them and make your mind a blank, the pictures remained.

Kitty stepped out of the carriage, and the coachman brought in her baggage.

Most definitely, decided Harriet, that creature should not be asked in to drink a glass of cowslip wine. It was really very thoughtless of George to send her to meet a niece of Harriet Ramsdale. If the stories one heard of this woman were true, it was a wicked thing for George to have sent her. Unchastity in George himself was forgivable, because God had made men unchaste creatures; but the women, without whom of course the unchastity of men could not have been, were pariahs, to be despised, to be turned from, to be left to suffer the results of unbridled sin and wickedness. She hated to think of it; she would rather think of her cool still-room or garden laid out with her own hands. But when she was near women such as this one. pictures forced themselves into her mind and would not be ousted.

"Kitty!" she said, and took the girl's hand. Bess's eyes and Bess's mouth! Her skin was flushed and her dress was too low-cut and revealing. Harriet thought uneasily: Is this going to be Bess all over again?

She said: "I have a meal waiting for you." Then she looked through the carriage window.

"I shall convey my thanks to the squire." Jennifer's head was tilted higher and her eyes were really insolent. The first thing Harriet would do, if she married the squire, would be to dismiss that girl.

As Harriet led her through the door to the cool hall, Kitty heard a movement on the stairs, and saw two young excited faces peering down at her. She took off her hat and put it on the oak chest there. Harriet looked at it could not stop looking at it. It was such a ridiculous hat and, lying there, it spoiled the order of the orderly house.

"I do not like litter, my dear. Take up your hat; you can hang it in a cupboard I have cleared in your room.”

Kitty felt chilled by the neatness all around her. Tears suddenly stung her eyelids, and she thought of her mother's apartment with the cosmetics arrayed before her mirror, and the trail of powder across her dressing-table, and the fluffy garments flung down anywhere. Oh, to be back there! But then she would not have met Darrell, and loving and being loved by Darrell was going to be glorious. She smiled dazzlingly. Harriet was a little shocked by the smile; it expressed such confidence in life, and she, a good and virtuous woman whose future was secure, had never felt that confidence. Bess had had it though; here was Bess all over again.

"Come and eat," she said.

Everything was spotlessly clean. There was cold mutton on the table and fruit pie. Kitty put her hat on her head, since there seemed nowhere else to put it, and sat down at the table.

"Peg." called Harriet.

"Bring a glass of ale.”

"Peg?" said Kitty.

"Who is Peg?”

"My maid. A lazy, good-for-nothing piece if ever there was one. And the same applies to Dolly, my other maid. I hope you have brought some recipes from London.”

"Recipes?" Kitty found that so funny that she began to laugh, and because tears had been so neat it wasn't possible to stop laughing. Peg came in and stared at the newcomer, then she began to laugh.

"Please, please!" cried Harriet.

"I do not... I will not..." But they went on laughing, and Dolly came and peeped round the door.

Harriet's face was full of anger. Kitty saw this, and stopped.

"I am sorry. It was just the thought of my mother jam-making. She never did, you know; she never thought of things like that. If she wanted jam she just got it out of a pot; she would never think of how it got there.”

Peg and Dolly were staring in frank amazement at this young lady from another world. Dolly was even so bold as to come close and touch the stuff of her dress.

"Dolly. Peg! Leave this room at once," ordered Harriet, 'and don't dare enter it until I send for you, unless you wish to feel the whip about your shoulders.”

When they had gone, Kitty said: "I am sorry. I expect that was my fault only the thought of my mother making jam was so runny.”

"You are evidently amused very easily!”

Kitty began to eat. Poor old Aunt Harriet, she thought; she didn't look as if she had a very happy time. It must be wearying living in this place, with only recipes and clean floors to think of. How gloomy the prospect, if she had not met Darrell. But, of course, meeting Darrell had changed everything. Perhaps, if she hadn't met him, she wouldn't be saying poor Aunt Harriet, but would just be disliking her.

You couldn't dislike anyone when you were in love; you were only sorry for people like Aunt Harriet.

She ate the fruit pie and drank the ale. and all the time Aunt Harriet talked. She talked of what she would expect Kitty to do; there was the garden; there was the house, so many tasks to be performed, as Kitty could imagine, and it was Aunt Harriet's pride and joy to keep her house clean and shining, and her garden beautiful. Was Kitty fond of fine needlework? No? That could be improved. Did she play the spinet? Dear! Dear! Her education had been neglected. Aunt Harriet confessed that she had been prepared for that, and she added, almost indulgently, she was not sure that she would not rather work on virgin soil.

Kitty watched a harassed bee buzzing and banging himself ineffectually against the window-pane. Her thoughts were on the bee, not on what Aunt Harriet was saying. And from the bee they went to Darrell... A whole day to be lived through before she saw him. She wondered how she would slip out of the house; she had an idea that Aunt Harriet would be a watchful person, not easy to deceive. The thought stimulated her rather than anything else. Perhaps she would run away with Darrell.

She was sure Aunt Harriet was the sort of person who would never approve of their marriage.

"If you would care to see your room," Aunt Harriet was saying, "I will show it to you. You could unpack your things and then come down and take a walk in the garden. I could show you what I hope you will make your duties there. What a lovely thing is a garden! Do you not think so? I always consider it a privilege to be allowed to work in my garden...”

They went up the stairs: everything smelt of soap.

"Your room!" said Aunt Harriet. It was a pleasant enough room, rather bare it seemed after her room in her mother's apartment, but good since it was to be hers, and she would enjoy privacy in it.

"I shall expect you to keep it clean yourself. I cannot lay extra burdens on the shoulders of those two stupid girls. Heaven knows they drive me to distraction now with their follies.”

Kitty unlocked her trunk. Aunt Harriet was kneeling beside it, thrusting her hands into the folds of gowns and mantles.

"What elegance!" She was both grim and prim.

"You will not have need of it here in the country. We can alter these things though; are you handy with your needle?" She made a little clicking noise with her tongue.

"Your mother was most unsuited for motherhood; it seems she neglected you badly.”

"She never did!" cried Kitty in revolt.

"I loved being with her. She was a lovely person. She was the best mother in the world!" Her hands were buried beneath silk and fine merino. She took out the miniature and looked into the lovely, laughing face portrayed there. Harriet, full of curiosity she could not understand, peered over her shoulder and gazed at the magnificent bosom and the bare white shoulders.

"It was done," said Kitty, 'by an artist who loved her." Harriet drew a sharp breath, and the jealousy she had felt for Bess was there in that room as strong as it had been twenty years before.

"It is ... immodest! A man who ... loved her! Oh! I can well imagine the life she led, I can imagine it. She was born wicked. A wanton creature!" Pictures crowded into Harriet's mind. The squire and the hard-faced woman who looked after his children, Bess and men ... vague men. She put her hands to her face, covered her eyes, but the pictures remained. And when she uncovered them, a girl with blazing eyes faced her.

"How dare you!" cried Kitty, and tears spilled from her wonderful eyes and ran down her cheeks.

"How dare you say those things about my mother! She was good ... good ... better than anyone else in the world, and I loved her...”

Kitty threw herself on to the bed and began to sob now as she I had been unable to sob since her mother's death. Harriet stared in dismay, first at the girl's shaking shoulders, then at her feet on the clean counterpane. She wanted to protest; she wanted to whip the girl; but she did neither; she just turned on her heel and hurried out of the room. In the corridor she paused. What a handful! Bess all over again! She would subdue the girl, though. She would force the wickedness out of her. just as she would have forced it out of Bess had she been old enough.

Kitty was stifled in that house. It seemed that everything she did was contrary to her aunt's wishes. At first she tried hard to please; she sat stitching with Harriet in the drawing-room until her head ached; she bent over the garden beds until her back ached; she worked in the still-room but hated the stains of fruit juice on her fingers, and she had no aptitude for the work.

How can she be so stupid! thought Harriet.

How can she care so much for all these things that do not matter, wondered Kitty. And she dreamed of Darrell, and thought of meetings in the wood, and of the day they would go to London together, for his Uncle Gregory had said he was too young to marry, and Darrell was hoping for support from his Uncle Simon in London.

"Wool gathering!" Harriet would snap.

"Head in the clouds! I do declare I've got an idiot for a niece.”

Kitty would merely smile and hug her secret to herself.

Insolent! Harriet would tell herself. Not a bit contrite! I believe she's laughing at me! But Kitty was not laughing at Aunt Harriet; she was only sorry for her. because she had no lover to meet in the wood and must spend all her enthusiasm on preserves and her kitchen garden.

Every evening at dusk she slipped out of the house. Darrell would be waiting for her in the wood. He would kiss her and fondle her. and she would look up into his face and think how good to look upon he was and how much older he seemed than the very young man she had first seen in the coach.

"Why!" he cried impatiently, 'do they put obstacles before us?

"Wait!" says my Uncle Gregory. How can we wait! Kitty, how can we?”

It was difficult. There she was before him. very young, desirable and desirous, Bess's daughter. Very soft and so ready to yield; he dreamed of the way she quivered when he put his hands on her shoulders. He loved her tenderly as well as passionately. He had written to his Uncle Simon in London, and Uncle Simon was more human, more understanding than Uncle Gregory. A large, red-faced man, Uncle Simon, whereas Uncle Gregory was tall and thin. Uncle Simon was a free thinker; he Meed to foregather with his cronies in coffee and chocolate I houses, and listen to the talk; he liked a carousal in a tavern; he liked women. Besides, he was ready to approve of anything of which Uncle Gregory did not. So Darrell had written a letter to Uncle Simon.

"She is beautiful," he had written, 'and we want to marry. Uncle Simon, we must marry At the moment we meet in a wood. She has a strict old aunt, and I have Uncle Gregory ..." He had tried to word it so as to make Uncle Simon laugh as well as to arouse his sympathy. He had great hopes of Uncle Simon." Still, he did not let his hands rest too long upon her shoulders, nor look too much at her red, soft lips; he tried not to notice how green was the grass and how soft and beautiful the bank, with the violets growing there. It seemed to him too that the birds were urging him to love, mocking him a little. There was a song of Shakespeare's that kept running through his head: And therefore take the present time.

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino... For himself he would take all the present had to offer, but he! loved her very tenderly, and outside the wood with its soft; carpet of grass, its sheltering trees and mocking birds, the world! was a cruel place. ; The two girls, Peg and Dolly, knew of the meetings with Darrell, but there was nothing to fear from this. Kitty had given Peg a girdle of silk and Dolly a lace handkerchief, and no one had ever given them anything but advice and blows before. The clothes they had worn in the workhouse were payment for hard work; their board and lodging with Harriet were payment foil more hard work. But the girdle and the handkerchief were simply gifts, for she had given them, asking nothing in return. But even without the gifts they would have been on her side. She was beautiful and she was kind; they had no learning, but they did know it was natural to love. So they would carry messages for her. and whisper together about her, and try to be a little like her.

They had made constant use of the pump in the yard since the arrival of Kitty; they washed their garments. Peg wore the girdle on her quilted petticoat of flannel; Dolly carried the handkerchief tucked inside her bodice.

Two weeks passed in this way. The squire was a frequent caller. He sat in the garden and complimented Harriet on her flowers, and he studied her vegetables with what seemed like real interest. It could mean only one thing, thought Harriet, and she lay awake at night thinking of it.

She thought it was a pity that Bess had had to die just at this time and force on her the duty of looking after her daughter. For she did not understand Bess's daughter; she was almost rude to the squire, and he never seemed resentful, never even seemed to notice it. Sometimes he would look at her from under his bushy brows as though he were puzzled and interested but then, if you planned to marry a lady, you would be interested in her relations I Now and then, when Kitty was offhand with the squire and made Harriet cold with indignation and humiliation, he would turn to her, Harriet, and be so charming, almost like an accepted lover, as though he would teach the girl a lesson in good manners. It was gratifying, intensely so. Once she said to Kitty: "I do not understand you; you are positively unmannerly towards Squire Haredon!" And Kitty turned on her with flashing eyes, and cried out: "I hate that man!" Hate! What a word for a lady to use! And what had the squire ever been towards Kitty but indulgent, ready to overlook her rudeness?

"You will never find a husband if you persist in those manners, my girl!" she had said severely, for the girl was as vain as a peacock, and she thought that the best way of piercing her armour. And Kitty angrily turned on her with: "Your excellent manners did little to help you in that respect!" And then, just like Bess, all fury one moment and full of ridiculous demonstrations the next: "I'm sorry. Aunt Harriet. I didn't mean that, of course. I know ... there must have been people who would have liked to marry you ... if you had wanted them... but... I do hate Squire Haredon. I can't explain, but I do.”

And Harriet had said: "Indeed, you foolish girl, you cannot explain; but I will thank you to be more civil to my guests.”

It went on like that for three weeks, with the squire a constant visitor, until one hot afternoon, a lovely afternoon when the roses were at their best and the lavender was full of fragrance with the bees dancing a wild delight about it.

Harriet, from her sewing-room on the first floor, thought she heard the sound of carriage wheels on the road; she looked from her window, but the trees were too thick with leaves for her to see the road clearly now. She returned to her sewing. At any moment now Peg or Dolly would come to announce the arrivals of the squire, and perhaps this very afternoon he would ask the question which must have been on his lips for weeks now] perhaps for years.

But the expected tap on her door did not come, so, she told herself, it must have been someone else's carriage she had heard on the road. Feeling restive, she remembered how dry the dahlias had looked that morning. Poor things, they got little sun, tucked away near the summer-house. If she wanted a good crop, when the more spectacular flowers had faded she must give them a little care. She went downstairs and took her watering can. She heard voices as she approached the summerhouse.

Kitty's voice! The squire's voice! Then it had been the squire carriage she had heard. She hastened forward, for she knew how unmannerly Kitty could be. She hoped ... She stopped suddenly and leaned against the laburnum tree, which in spring time showered its yellow blossoms over the roof of the summerhouse. Their voices floated out to her; the squire's was thick!

Kitty's shrill. ' "Look here," said the squire, 'be reasonable, Kitty.

God knows I've been patient. Why do you think I've been coming here life this ... nigh on every day? To see you! And you know it, your little she-devil! Think I haven't seen that look in your eyes? No. listen, Kitty, I'll marry you...”

Kitty cried: "Don't dare touch me! I tell you I hate you!”

Nothing would make me marry you. I think ... I think...”

Harriet realized that the rough bark of the tree trunk, pressed against her forehead, was hurting her. She stooped to pick up the watering-can which had fallen from her limp fingers.

"I hated you," Kitty was saying, That first evening at the inn at Dorchester. I tell you, I hate the way you talk, and I hate the way you eat, and most of all I hate the way you look at me. Don't dare to touch me! I'll scream ... I'll call my aunt...”

He laughed, coarsely, horribly; Harriet could bear to hear no more. She sped past the dahlia bed, across the lawn; she shut herself in her bedroom, feeling numb, and as the pictures crowded into her mind she made no attempt to shut them out. He was a beast! Why had she ever thought...? And all the time he had been laughing at her! Letting her believe that he contemplated marriage with her. Thank God she had never betrayed her own thoughts! Thank God her father's training had taught her restraint!

"Little she-devil..." The slur in his voice when he said that... you could hear frightful things in his voice, lascivious things. Oh, this was relief. She would never sit at his table now; she would never be the squire's lady; but now she could look straight at the ordeal of sharing his bed and not be afraid, because it would never happen to her. She must suppress anger; she must nourish relief. That evening in Dorchester! Now she knew why he had sent the carriage. And Kitty, the sly creature, was her mother all over again, with wantonness in her eyes. It was a duty now to prevent the girl from following in her mother's footsteps. She should be guarded with vigilance.

Up and down her room paced Harriet. She took her keys and went to the still-room; here was comfort. So clean, so neat -what joy in regarding those labelled bottles! Here was her life. All thoughts of George Haredon were to be thrust out of it for ever. Never again should she be so deceived!

Someone was knocking on the door.

"Come in!" she said calmly, and Peg came in and told her that the squire had arrived and was downstairs in the garden.

She went out to greet him. How grateful she was to her father! She had inherited no luscious charm from her mother, but she must be grateful for her father's serene spirit.

"How do you do?”

His face was red and angry; he looked bewildered and younger than he had for a long time, almost as though he could not understand why the world was so unkind to him.

"How good of you to call, George.”

He sprawled on the wooden seat under the chestnut tree, sullen, trying to pretend nothing unusual had happened.

"You will drink a dish of tea, George? Peg will be bringing it -I told her to, when I knew you were here.”

"You're too good to me, Harriet!”

"Stuff and nonsense! Because I offer you a dish of tea?" She noticed how thick his legs were; she shivered. He had coarsened since the days of her youth when she had built an ideal and called it George Haredon.

She believed the stories about him now; yes, she did, and she would admit it. She was angry;! she was hurt; but the feeling of relief was there all the same. I will send for my niece. Where does the girl get to? A lazier, more good-for-nothing creature I never set eyes on, unless it's Peg or Dolly. Curling her hair, no doubt Of all the empty-headed girls...”

In a way she was trying to comfort him. She was quite sorry for him almost as sorry for him as she was for herself. It was Kitty she blamed; just as she had blamed Bess. You didn't blame men for being what they were; you blamed women for helping to make them so.

She left him sitting, and went indoors.

"Tell my niece to come down to the garden," she instructed Peg.

"Tell her I particularly wish her to come.”

Kitty came. On her lovely hair she wore a hat which shaded her eyes and shielded her face. She greeted the squire coldly. Harriet was amazed to see that there was a certain humility if the manner of his greeting to her; she had never seen George Haredon humble before, except perhaps when he was very young and so much in love with Bess.

Kitty was almost haughty ridiculous creature, giving herself airs! How she would like to beat Kitty until the blood ran! Once, before the days of Peg an Dolly, she had almost beaten one of her maids to death; a chili of fifteen, a trollop if ever there was one! Got herself with chili by one of Squire Haredon's grooms. And Harriet had beaten her and beaten her and when she grew big had turned her out. No one knew what had become of her after she left the Bridewell She was probably leading the life most suited to her nature. Well, that was how Harriet would have liked to beat Kitty ... only Kitty was no child of fifteen; she was a strong young woman, and probably would not allow herself to be beaten almost to death.

The squire scarcely touched his tea, and he forgot to compliment her on the excellence of her seedcake. He was discomfited, and all because of his carnal desire for a girl who would be a disgrace to his house; why, she had no idea even how to make raspberry jam.

The squire took his leave. Kitty carried in the tea tray and, in her agitation, broke one of the cups.

Harriet screamed at her: "You lazy, careless creature! I wish I had never clapped eyes on you. A pity you did not stay in London where you belonged. Doubtless you would have found the protection of some fine gentleman, as your mother did so admirably for herself!”

Once Kitty would have laughed at that; the words would not have hurt her at all. But now she was jealous of her virtue; Darrell was involved. Her aunt was suggesting that this love she was so willing, so eager to give to Darrell, could have been any fine gentleman's in exchange for his protection. She turned on her aunt with fury.

"You wicked woman!" she cried.

"And more wicked because you think you are so good. I will not stay here; I shall go away.”

"And where will you go, Miss?”

Kitty faltered. She was ready to blurt out: "I am going to be married.

I shall go with my husband." But even at that moment, hot tempered as she was, she realized what folly that would be.

"I ... shall go one day!”

Harriet laughed. And for one moment she knew that her place in the squire's bed had occupied her imagination more than her place at the head of his table; and she knew that she was a disappointed woman, and felt an insane desire to go to the still-room and smash every one of those neat bottles. She tried to calm herself; but she could not. In a moment she would be sobbing out her disappointment. Angrily she strode to the wall where hung that whip with which she had beaten the fifteen-year-old trollop who had been so free with one of George's grooms; she seized it. and her fingers were white with the tension of their grip upon it.

"You ... you ..." she cried, and there was almost a sob in her voice.

"Do you think ... I don't know ... your kind! Do you think I haven't seen the way you led George Haredon on? I believe you let him into your room at night... perhaps others. I believe ...”

The pictures were now forming into words, and she must stop herself for shame she must! But Kitty stopped her. Kitty's eyes were blazing. She walked straight towards her, raised her hand as though to strike her. then dropped it and said in a cold low voice: "You wicked, foul-minded woman! You and George Haredon would make a good pair, that you would.”

And she threw back her head so that the fine white voluptuousness of her throat could be seen to advantage. Then she laughed and went swiftly from the room.

Kitty stayed in her room until close on eight o'clock; then silently she left her Aunt Harriet's house and went to the wood. Darrell was waiting for her in that spot where the trees were thickest. She clung to him, crying.

He said: "My dearest, what has happened?”

She cried out: "I cannot stay here; it is hateful! My aunt thinks hateful things of me. Darrell, she is a cruel woman, for all her piety. How I wish that we were in London and that my mother was alive; she would have helped us.”

He said: "Listen, my lovely one, my darling Kitty, listen! You will not have to stay. Today I have heard from my Uncle Simon.”

Her smile was more brilliant for the tears that still shone in her eyes; her joy the greater for the fear it displaced.

"You have heard... He has said ...?”

"He says we must marry. He says we must leave this place and go to London.”

"When... oh, when?”

Darrell hesitated.

"There must be preparations, dear one. In a month, say. Kitty, can you endure this for just one month longer?”

"A month! It is a long time. I have not yet been in my aunt's house three weeks, and it seems three years. Cannot we go now ...this minute?”

He laughed at her impatience. They sat on a bank, and the grass was soft and cool, and the trees made a roof and shut them in in.

"If we could ... oh, if we could! But no, dearest, we must do what Uncle Simon says. He is going to make preparations for us. He is going to take me into his business. He is going to find a house for us, and that will take a little time. Then, my darling, we shall take the coach and go to London, and when we get there a priest will marry us and we shall be happy, and all this will seem like a nightmare.”

"Darrell! It is wonderful. How I love your Uncle Simon!”

"You must love no one but me!”

"I should not, of course, except our children, Darrell.”

"Our children!" he said.

How the birds mocked overhead! He thought of their love-making on the branches of the trees, building their nests and bringing up their young. It was like a miracle it was the miracle of living. And how much more wonderful to be a man and love a woman, a woman such as Kitty!

She had lain back on the grass now, and her eyes made the sky he could see through the branches look grey. Lovely she was, with her white bosom and fair neck and her hair a little tousled now, and her hands that seemed to be reaching to him.

She was seductive and irresistible: and because she knew it, and because she, Eke the birds, was' mocking that cautious streak in him, he could no longer bear it. He threw himself down beside her and buried his face in the whiteness of her shoulder.

She said: "What a lovely end to a horrible day! Darrell, that hateful Squire Haredon asked me to marry him today." Darrell drew himself up and looked at her with horror.

"Yes," she went on.

"Oh, darling, don't look so frightened! I told him I hated him. He came upon me when I was in the summer-house, and tried to keep me there and force his horrible lovemaking on me. What a beast he is, Scarcely a man, I think -and how I hate the noisy way he breathes! You should hear him drink his tea. and it is as bad with coffee or chocolate.

Hateful! Hateful! And I told him so.”

He leaned on his elbows. Here in the woods was perfect peace and happiness, but outside terrible things could happen. He would write again to Uncle Simon; he would say a month was too long or perhaps they would go to London without saying anything.

"He is powerful hereabouts," he said.

"If he knew you loved me, he could rake up some minor charge against me.”

"That would be wrong... that would be cruel...”

"It is a cruel world we live in, Kitty.”

"But how gentle you are, Darrell, Perhaps that is why I love you. All the time you think of me; not what you want, but what is best for me. I see it, Darrell, and I love you for it. You would die for me, I know; I would for you too.”

"I do not want us to die, but to live for each other," he said.

"You are clever with words and how I love you! Let us not think of Squire Haredon and my Aunt Harriet and your Uncle Gregory, nor of the cruel world we live in. How lovely it is here! How quiet. We might be alone in the world; do you feel that, Darrell?”

Her lips were parted. She was her mother and the blacksmith's daughter. She loved; she loved passionately and recklessly; she was the perfect lover because love to her was all-important. There was no room in her mind for tomorrow; let others think of that.

He heard her laugh a little mockingly, as he thought the birds laughed invitingly, irresistibly. He felt the blood run hot through his veins.

He was aware of the letter he had had from his Uncle Simon, crackling in his pocket when he moved.

He put his mouth on hers; her arms were about him. Only a month, he thought desperately; everything was really settled.

Inside the wood it was heaven. Outside was the cruel world. But did one think of the cruel world when one was in heaven?

Meetings in the wood took on a new joy. Kitty lived for them, scarcely aware of the days. Harriet watched her slyly, watched the rapture in her eyes, and thought, I believe she will marry the squire after all. I believe all that talk of hating him was coquetry. Was that how Bess did it?

And because the greatest terror of her life was that it might be discovered that she herself had contemplated marriage with the squire, she talked to him of Kitty.

"I felt, George, that right from the time you set eyes on her she reminded you so much of Bess that you had quite an affection for her.”

What a keen glance he had shot at her from under those bushy eyebrows of his!

"You're a fanciful woman, Harry!”

"I'm a woman with my eyes open. Why, sometimes I could almost feel it was Bess herself smirking before her mirror, curling her hair and making herself a hindrance rather than a help about the house!”

He laughed at that.

"So that's how it is, Harriet.”

"Mind you, if that is what was in your mind, and she was to know it and make a pretence of flouting you, I wouldn't take her seriously. She's a coquette; a born one, and made one by that mother of hers. She's the sort who would want to lead a man a dance...”

There! That had him. He was puzzled. He was beginning to think that Harriet had turned matchmaker. And how excited those words of hers made him! He was ready to grasp any shred of hope, so badly did he desire the girl.

His visits to the house did not diminish. Kitty, though, hardly =seemed aware of him. She passed through the days like a person in a dream, the passion in her making her long for the evenings. Meetings took place earlier now, for the days were getting shorter; so they had longer together. What good allies she had in Peg and Dolly! Sometimes she stayed in the wood until close on midnight, but Peg and Dolly never failed to watch for her return and creep down from the attic to let her in. The days passed. Darrell heard from his Uncle Simon again. Uncle Simon was enthusiastic; he longed to see the beautiful girl whom Darrell described so eulogistically; he longed to score off old Gregory. He was getting ready for them; he would be ready for them very soon.

"Next Monday," said Darrell, 'we will take the coach. We will meet here at midnight on Sunday: we shall have to walk into Exeter. We shall catch the very first coach, and we must take care not to be seen.”

"Monday!" cried Kitty gaily.

"Oh ... in no time it will be Monday!”

Darrell was excited, making plans.

"One day this week I shall go to Exeter for my uncle; then I shall book our places on the Monday coach.”

"It's wonderful! Wonderful!”

"And," cautioned Darrell, 'a great secret, to be told to no one.”

"You can trust me for that, though I should have liked to say goodbye to Peg and Dolly.”

"You must say goodbye to no one. If this went wrong, Kitty She laughed at him.

"How could it go wrong?”

She was so full of joy that she wanted everyone to share it. She worked hard in the garden; she tried to please Aunt Harriet; she even had a brief smile for the squire. She gave Peg a scarf and Dolly a petticoat. She just wanted everyone around her to be happy.

She met Darrell as usual on Wednesday evening. What a glorious evening it was! The air soft and balmy, and no breeze to stir the branches of the trees.

Darrell said: "I shall be thinking,of this all the way to Exeter tomorrow. When our places are booked it will seem as though we are already there. Kitty! You must not go back looking as happy as you look, or someone will guess!”

And she laughed, and they embraced; and then they lay there, " talking of London and the future.

It was past midnight when Kitty returned to her aunt's house, but Peg, wearing her scarf, let her in.

All next day she was absent-minded. Harriet noticed.

"What has come over you, girl?" she demanded.

"You are not even as bright as usual!”

Kitty smiled very sweetly; she could afford to be patient with Aunt Harriet. Her thoughts were all with Darrel, riding to Exeter on his uncle's chestnut mare.

She went to the wood that evening. He did not come. She returned home a little subdued. Why, of course he had not got home from Exeter; that was the reason he had not come. He had said he might have to stay the night if he could not conclude his uncle's business, but would certainly be home on Saturday.

On Saturday she was waiting for him. How quiet was the wood! She had never noticed that so much before. There were few birds now and the leaves were thick, some already beginning to turn brown at the edges. A gloomy place, the wood, when you waited for a love who did not come.

She was anxious now: she was frightened. What could have happened to detain him? Business? Suppose he did not return by Monday; they had made no plans for such an occurrence. What should she do? Go to Exeter alone? But how could she take the London coach alone? She would not know where to go when she arrived. She had not the money to pay her fare.

She ran through the trees; she gazed up and down the road. Once she heard the clop, clop, of horses' hoofs, and when the sound died away, the disappointment was intense. Lonely and desolate, she returned to the meeting place; he was not there. It grew dark.

Why had he not come? Here was Saturday, and he had not come.

Sunday was like a bad dream from which she was trying desperately to escape. Perhaps he would send a message; he would know how frightened she must be, and he had ever been mindful of her comfort and her peace of mind.

On Sunday evening she went to the wood, and still he did not come.

Peg and Dolly crept into her room and found her sobbing on the bed.

They eyed each other sadly. Perhaps they thought it was unwise to trust a lover too far. They cried with her. It was a cruel world, they said.

Monday, which was to have been a day of great joy, set in with teeming rain, and Kitty's heart was mote leaden than the skies.

It was Peg who got the news. She kept it to herself for a while: then she told Dolly. They cried together: they did not know what to do. But if they did not tell her she would discover in some other way. So in the evening of that black Monday they told her. They tapped at her door and went in to find her sitting at her window, her lovely face distorted by grief, her beautiful hair in disorder.

"A terrible thing has happened." said Peg.

"... to Lawyer Grey's nephew who went to Exeter," added Dolly.

"Though.” put in Peg quickly, 'it may be a story. Such stories are.”

Dolly shook her head sadly.

"He was seen to be took!”

Kitty stared in bewilderment from one to the other.

"And his horse was left there for hours, pawing the ground," said Peg sadly.

' Twas in a tavern... in broad daylight. The wicked devils, to take a man!”

Kitty looked at them wildly. The unreality of the day had faded, and stark tragedy was all that was left.

"What!" she cried.

"What is it you are saying?”

"He went in for a glass of ale and maybe a sandwich.”

"He was not the only one that was took.”

"Tell me ... tell me everything you know," pleaded Kitty, suddenly calm with a deadly calm.

"Such news gets round," said Peg wretchedly, shaking the tears out of her eyes.

"There were them that saw it. The villains burst in... he was not the only one that was took.”

Kitty stood up and gripped the rail of her chair.

"Peg ..." she said.

"Dolly ..." And her mouth quivered like a child's.

Dolly threw herself down on the floor and put her arms round Kitty's knees, burying her face, in her gown.

"It was the devils as folks call the press gang. Lurking everywhere, they be, to take our men to the ships.”

Kitty stared blankly before her.

Peg said again, and then again, as though there was a grain of comfort in the words: "He were not the only one they took.”

Kitty was numb with misery; listless, without spirit.

Harriet said: "Are you sickening for the pox, girl?" And she examined her body for some sign.

She went about the house, doing just what she was told. Harriet thought, I'm shaping her: she's improving. And when she knelt on the coconut matting beside her bed at night, she offered thanks for the change which had come over her wayward niece.

The squire was a more frequent visitor than ever. Kitty did not move away when he sat beside her on the garden seat. She listened to what he had to say, and gave him a listless yes or no.

The squire said: "It is quiet for you here, Kitty. Day after day going about the house and the gardens with your aunt it is no life for a young girl. Now look here, we do a bit of entertaining now and then up at Haredon; why, sometimes I've got a houseful. Would you come, some time like that, eh, Kitty?”

She said: "I am all right here, thanks. I do not wish for a lot of people round me.”

"Then a small party. Just you and your aunt... I'd like you to get to know my children.”

She smiled.

They are very charming," she said.

"I have seen them driving with their governess.”

From under his bushy eyebrows he looked shrewdly at her. What did she mean by that? Was she telling him she knew about his relationship with Jennifer? She was clever of course, this girl; clever as Bess had been. And he had never been sure what Bess might be thinking; why right up to the end he had believed she was going to marry him, and all the time she must have had it in her head to run away with that actor fellow.

Women knew a lot about each other though. Harriet had said the girl was coquetting with him, leading him on. He liked to think that. He liked being led on. Cool and virtuous, holding him off, telling him she couldn't bear him, just to get him hot enough to offer marriage. He had offered marriage; and she was still holding him off. She had been brought up in London Town where they were devilishly sly, and clever too and, by God, he liked them for it! There were plenty of country wenches ready to fall into his lap; but Kitty was apart from that. Kitty was Bess, and Bess had haunted his life. Now here was compensation he couldn't have Bess so he would have Kitty.

Sitting beside her, it was all he could do to hold himself in check.

She had changed now; not the spitfire any more; calm, sad. wistful... womanly, you might say. She appealed now to something sentimental in him, as well as to his senses.

"I'll get rid of the woman!" he said, just in case she was jealous of Jennifer.

"She was never much good as a governess.”

"Oh! She looks capable enough.”

Disdainful! It is nothing to me if she is your mistress! That was what she meant, confound her! He wanted to slap his thighs with delight. He knew the signs; he was like a small boy looking up at luscious fruit just out of reach, with the knowledge that sooner or later its very ripeness would make it fall right down into his hands.

"Capable__oh, yes. But why bother ourselves with servants on an afternoon like this!”

"Now, Kitty ..." His arm slid along the seat, but immediately she stiffened. He let his arm drop. No sense in rushing things; after all, he was not wholly sure that Harriet was right.

"Well, what about this visit of yours to Haredon?”

"You would have to arrange that with my aunt, would you not?”

"Why, of course, Kitty, of course!" His face was screwed up with delight.

Harriet came across the lawn. Her lips were pursed; they were always like that in repose. Peg followed her with the tea tray.

"A lovely day, George!”

"A perfect day," said George.

Daintily Harriet poured the tea. George took his and pressed his back against the seat. He was amused at himself, sitting here drinking tea with two women. He could have done with a pint of good ale. Still, here he was, doing the polite, and pretending to like it. He looked at the stiff figure of Harriet poor woman! From her his gaze turned to Kitty and his eyes were glazed with desire. But soon the fruit would fall into his hands; so much of the rebellion had gone out of her that it seemed as though the branch was already bending down to him. But he must go cautiously; he would say nothing now about this visit she would pay to Haredon. She was full of whims and fancies; she might refuse yet!

He sought for a topic of conversation.

"Lawyer Grey is in a fine to-do about that nephew of his!”

Kitty sat up straighter, but neither Harriet nor the squire noticed that.

"So I heard," said Harriet.

"A few years at sea will do the boy good. Roughing it never hurt anyone.”

"I do agree," said she; 'but will not Lawyer, Grey try to do something about it?”

The squire laughed.

"What can he do? Fight the press gang? No! Mark my words, the young man's well out at sea by this time.”

"He'll come back a man," said Harriet.

"If he comes back at all," said the squire.

"There are dangers enough to be met with on the high seas.”

Kitty lay in her bed and stared helplessly up at the ceiling. She was not thinking of Barrel] now; she could think of nothing but the girl whom Aunt Harriet had whipped almost to death.

This could not be... not in addition to everything else! When she had heard them talking so callously down there in the garden, she had said to herself: I will wait for him! I will wait! And she had meant that if there were to be years and years of waiting, still she would wait.

But those years had to be lived through, and how could she live through them, penniless, with a baby to care for?

How cruel was life! Darrell had been so anxious that no harm should befall her and it was only because they both believed so fervently that they would ride to London together that he had released his passion; and once he had done that he had been unable to stem it. She was shivering, but when Peg and Dolly peeped in to see how she was, they found her unnaturally flushed.

"Why, bless you, Miss Kitty, you have a fever." said Peg. She cried in panic: "Do not mention to my aunt that I am not well.”

She got up and bathed her face. It was a good thing that Harriet, who had never been ill in her life, did not believe in illness. Unless it was a leg that was broken or a wound that she could see, she thought it was sham.

Kitty went about her tasks outwardly calm, inwardly in a tumult. She was forgetting her love for Darrell in her fear for herself. A terrible thing had happened to Darrell; but a still more terrible thing had happened to her.

If only her mother were here, she would know what to do. Nothing would ever turn her mother from her. She talked to her mother in her thoughts. You see, Mother, we loved each other so much, and we were going to London to be married. If only he hadn't gone to Exeter! If only he had stayed here, I should be married to him; we should be with his Uncle Simon in London, and we should be so happy because we should be going to have a child. But now there is no one to help me, Mother.

Aunt Harriet is cold and distant, just as you said. She would never have done this thing which I have done; therefore she would think me wicked to have done it. There was a poor little girl from the workhouse, and she almost beat her to death. But what happened to her afterwards ... when Aunt Harriet turned her out! That is what I think, Mother; that is what I cannot stop thinking.

And the very thought of her mother's face, lovely though ageing, and full of lazy kindness, soothed her. She would have understood; but she would have been practical too. She would surely have said: "We must find a husband for you, darling.”

"Mother! Mother!" prayed Kitty.

"Do something for me. Help me! Give me some sign that you know what has happened to me, and tell me what I can do.”

She asked Peg and Dolly about the girl who had loved a groom. They had not known her but they had heard of her.

"Tis a terrible thing to happen to a girl," said Peg; and she and Dolly were silent for a long time thinking what a terrible thing it was to happen to a girl.

Kitty wanted to shout: "It has happened to me!" Something restrained her; she thought it was her mother, watching over her, restraining her.

No one must know__yet... no one at all.

She and her aunt went to Haredon for a few days; the squire had sent the carriage for them.

A lovely house, Haredon; it had been built by a Haredon in the reign of Queen Anne. Harriet sat, lips pursed, as the carriage turned in at the drive. The gracious elms, the grey walls of the house had always filled her with pleasure. She thought of the land round Haredon, and especially the orchards; she thought of the staff of servants and the joy of running the place.

The squire came out to meet them, and from a window Jennifer Jay watched them.

Colour burned in Kitty's cheeks; her eyes were brilliant. Never, thought Squire Haredon, had she looked as beautiful as she did here in the setting which would soon be hers. She liked the house; perhaps she liked it so much that she was ready to take him, since he went with the house.

You wait! he thought. You wait, my beauty! And his fingers itched to seize her; and as they walked into the house he put his hand on her shoulder and gripped it hard; she turned her head and smiled at him, with her lips parted and a look of promise in her eyes. His hand slipped to her waist and touched the warmth of her bosom. She did not move away from him, and as they entered the house she was still smiling.

Dolman, the butler, brought drinks into the library. The squire touched her glass with his; she could see the veins standing out on his forehead knotted they were, and blue, as if ready to burst. She felt more comforted than she had since she had lost Darrell, and it seemed to her then that this visit was her mother's answer to her prayers.

"I want to show Kitty round the place," said the squire, smiling into his glass.

"I am proud of Haredon, Kitty.”

"And rightly so, George," said Harriet with no trace in her voice of the wistfulness she felt; 'it is a place to be proud of.”

"Thank you, Harry. Now, Kitty!" He smacked his lips and licked the wine from them, and his eyes never left her.

"Come now.”

They left Harriet in the library with the squire's eldest cousin who had come to play hostess, and went over the house alone. It was indeed a beautiful place, so big that Kitty felt it would be easy to lose oneself in it. There were tall windows, ornate ceilings and deep window seats. Now and then Kitty heard the sound of footsteps hastily scurrying away; once a mob-capped serving maid, unable to escape in time, blushed hotly and dropped a deep curtsy; and in his free and easy way the squire made her stand before them, and he introduced Kitty as though she had already agreed to share his home. He seemed younger then, and she liked him better than she had ever liked him before. This was his castle and he was the king; he was a showman watching the effect on her of his treasures.

"Do you like it, Kitty?”

"It is very grand!”

"Big though. Big for one man to live in... all alone.”

She could laugh at that.

"As far as I can see, you are far from alone ... here.”

"You pick me up sharp, Kitty!" And he looked as if he liked being picked up sharp.

They were in the galleries, looking at portraits of the Haredon family.

"Do you think I take after them, Kitty?" he wanted to know, thrusting his face close to hers.

"I can see you better, not so close," she said, and he laughed and drew back. Wasn't that just the sort of thing Bess would have said! It was like having Bess here again. He thought of gripping the girl's shoulders and kissing her, and hurting her hurting her for all the years he had been unable to forget Bess.

"Yes," she went on, 'there is a resemblance.”

"Ah!" he said.

"That's how it is with families; you are the spit of your mother, Kitty. There was a time, you know, when I was very fond of your mother.”

"Most people were fond of her!”

That was the trouble, Kitty! That was the trouble." He narrowed his eyes. He thought, by God, if you try any tricks with me, I'll well nigh kill you! Bess fooled me I'll not stand for that treatment twice in a lifetime.

She said: "I want to see the children.”

Jennifer stood up as they entered. She had been by the window, stitching something. He could see how violently her heart was beating under her tight bodice: she must learn to behave; more tantrums and out she would go; she gave herself airs because once he had found her amusing.

"Where are the children?" he asked curtly, and he wanted to give her a slap on the side of her face for her insolence.

She jerked her head towards the playroom, and his eyes looked straight into hers, cold and contemptuous. Kitty went forward. Jennifer almost barred his way; he pushed her aside without looking at her.

The children sat side by side on a window seat. The boy had a book of pictures on his lap, and the little girl was looking over his shoulder.

She was a sweet little thing, thought Kitty; not yet three, she had large eyes not unlike the squire's but hers were blue and lovely and innocent. She smiled up at Kitty through dark lashes, and Kitty stooped and kissed her, feeling a sudden rush of tears to her eyes; for the first time she was not afraid of this thing which had happened to her; she thought only of how wonderful it would be to have a daughter of her own.

The squire looked on, surprised. Real tears in her eyes, and all for little Margaret! He put out a hand and touched the child's shoulder; he felt suddenly happy. Now, after years of dissatisfaction, everything was going to be right for him. He had lost Bess, but he could laugh at Bess now. She would be getting old if she were here too fat, the bloom all gone. In her place. Bess's daughter! Bess again, only young, just as Bess would have been had he married her all those years ago. They would have children; he would no longer be troubled by his desire for any attractive woman who came near him: he was convinced that he could find complete satisfaction with 'this girl, just as he would have found it with her mother. Now he would marry her, and he would grow into that squire he had always wanted to be. They would respect him hereabouts; they would love him. That was what he wanted; he wanted to be loved; to be a father to them all. Had he not often seen to it that deserving people in his domain did not starve so long as they were deserving? He could be relied upon to give a man work and food, even if he did seduce his wife or daughter at the same time. Oh, yes, in the hard times, he had been a good squire! It was just that waywardness in him that he had been unable to control, but here was Kitty to subdue that... just as he had meant Bess to do. He had not been so near complete happiness since the day when Bess had said she would marry him. They left the children and went on with their tour of the house.

The next day he asked Kitty to marry him, and she accepted.

Throughout the great house serving men and maids hurried here and there; there were so many preparations to be made, for the wedding must take place at Haredon. The squire was not a man to stick to conventions and the bride's home was not a grand enough setting for his wedding. Where would the guests be lodged? Where would the food be prepared? He was determined on a great feast. The neighbours should remember his wedding to the end of their days. It was the greatest day in his life; it should be a red letter one in theirs. He himself planned meals with the cook; he discussed beef and lamb and venison, cakes and pies, and wine and mead and ale. He was in a rare humour those days before his wedding. He felt his servants warm to him; he entered into an easy familiarity with them; already he was becoming their squire, their father and their friend. Only Jennifer did not come within the range of his friendship; he avoided her, and she had the good sense to keep out of his way. The servants said she brooded in her room, planning evil, for there was something of the witch in Jennifer Jay.

She did sit alone in her room, cursing her fate, looking into her mirror at the lines round her eyes and the thickening of her neck. She cursed the squire, cursed herself for her folly, cursed Kitty, and longed for the power to wreck this marriage. It was ironical that her best loved dream had been the marriage of the squire. This was like a nightmare, for he was marrying the wrong bride. As soon as he had seen that girl Kitty he had wanted her; she reminded him of her mother, sentimental fool that he was. Once she, Jennifer, thought of trading on that sentimentality, turning it to her own advantage, but now it had defeated her and here she was, living under his roof, the nursery maid who had been elevated to mistress and then reduced again to nursery maid. And possibly worse to come; because it was very likely that malicious people would whisper to the squire's bride of the place Jennifer had once occupied, and she, naturally enough, would send the nursery-maid-mistress packing very quickly. That was obvious; obvious to the squire, obvious to Jennifer, obvious to the lowliest serving maid in the place. They were laughing at her now, she knew, and she was fearful for herself and sick with envy of Kitty whose future seemed now so secure.

She need not have felt envious, for Kitty was far from happy. The day before the wedding she and Aunt Harriet, with Dolly and Peg, had set out for Haredon, and as Kitty went up the avenue in the carriage the squire had sent for them, as she entered the big house and was greeted by the squire and his elderly cousin, she felt as though she were entering a prison from which she would never escape. The exhilaration she had experienced when she had accepted the squire's proposal of marriage as a way out of her trouble was giving place to melancholy.

For what would happen when he discovered the truth? The squire would never turn his wife out of his house, whatever her misdemeanour; but his wrath would be terrible. She thought continually of her mother.

She was superstitious, and she fervently believed that her mother had shown her this way out of her trouble, for the-suggestion that marriage with the squire would help her out of her difficulty had come to her suddenly, just as though it had been whispered into her ear by someone watching over her.

The wedding-day came a hot September day with an early mist that promised more heat. Peg and Dolly dressed her. They squealed with delight over her beauty, and they wiped surreptitious tears from their eyes, for they knew that she did not love the squire; because she was beautiful as a princess and had shown them the first real kindness they had ever known, they wished everything to be perfect for her. And when, just before it was time to go downstairs and leave for the church, Peg threw herself on to the bed and began to sob bitterly, Kitty was very distressed.

She must not do this, she said. It was an evil omen. And why, she asked anxiously, did Peg cry? Peg murmured incoherently that there was something sad about weddings, beautiful though they were. But when Kitty put her hands on the girl's shoulders and looked into her eyes, she knew that Peg was not crying because of all weddings, but only because of this wedding. And Kitty who had gone out each evening to meet her lover in that knowledge of the fearful things that could happen to women, and though she said nothing she was thinking of the who had loved the groom; and perhaps too she was thinking Kitty who had gone out each evening to meet her lover in wood.

She knows! thought Kitty in panic. How long before others know?

The heat in the church was stifling, and the smell of September flowers seemed to overpower her with their sweetness, During the ceremony she was aware of the squire as a pair of hands powerful hands that frightened her, for their strength was great indeed. She thought of Darrell's hands, long and slender ... clever, kindly hands, and wondered if they were roughened now after weeks at sea. What was happening to Barrel!? Terrible things? Cruel things? But not more terrible, Darrell, she thought, than this cruel thing which has happened to me. And if he returned, what then?

"Wherever you are, Darrell," she murmured to herself, 'whatever happens, if you need me I will come to you.”

The ceremony was over. People crowded about them. The squire was blustering, full of good humour, exuberantly slapping people on the back; having a joke here, a laugh there. His hands longed to caress her, but there was in him a newly born tenderness which subdued his roughness just a little; it was an attempt to please her which was somehow pathetic, because obviously he had rarely thought of pleasing, but chiefly of being pleased.

She wondered then, if she confessed everything to him, whether he would be kind and tender and promise to look after her until Darrell came back. She laughed at herself. The gentleness in him was a frail plant soon to be hidden and stifled, by the thick growth of other more natural emotions.

He whispered into her ear: "Cheer up, my dear. You're not going to the scaffold I Did you think you were?”

She forced herself to laugh.

"No! Why should I? Is it a custom in Devon to hang one's bride?”

He guffawed with pleasure; laughter came easily to him when he was happy as easily as rage came when he was irritated.

"Maybe," he said.

"But I promise, if you please me, you shall be allowed to live.”

"Thank you kindly, sir! You are indeed a bounteous squire and husband.”

His great hand well-nigh crushed hers.

"A squire I have been for years. Kitty, but I feel I have never been a husband until now.”

His face was close; there was moisture on his lips. She laughed; laughed at herself for imagining she could hold him off, could explain that he was not to touch her but to let her live in his house until Darrell came to her.

She sat beside him at the table. The smell of the food sickened her, and the warmth of his body as he bent close to her nauseated her. He drank a good deal; he filled her glass. He kissed her ear. and she could feel his teeth against her skin.

And the day passed into evening. The squire led her in the dance, and the musicians played gaily in the gallery round the hall. There was more drinking and singing and dancing, but the squire never left her side the whole evening. But the evening could not last for ever; she felt as though she were holding back the night with frantic hands while the squire beckoned it impatiently.

"The bride looks weary!" murmured the guests, and they whispered together and tittered, making references to the nuptial bed. The squire laughed with them, but the tenderness stayed in his eyes.

Peg and Dolly helped her out of her gown, and prepared her for her bridegroom. She noticed that Peg's eyes were still red from weeping.

They soothed her and patted her but they did not know how to comfort her.

She lay in the big bed and shivered, and called to Darrell, and prayed to her mother. She waited for a miracle, but all that came was the squire's step outside her door, and then his heavy breathing as he stood close to the bed.

Strange days followed for Kitty, warm days with evenings drawing in and autumn showing itself in the changing leaves and morning mists. It was a period of waiting.

Her feeling for George was not easy to define, nor did it occur to her to define it. His embraces could fill her with repulsion and yet excite her; his sudden change from an almost brutal passion to a gentleness which was pathetic because it sat so uneasily upon him, fostered in her a certain affection for him. Her need to be desired and possessed was satisfied, though her need to love was not; but she found it difficult to differentiate between desire and love, and did not understand herself.

As for George, he was delighted with his marriage. He thought her very desirable; shrinking at times, afraid of him -but then, he liked his women to be afraid of him; at other times there was a hint of passion in her that seemed reluctant to show itself but could not remain entirely hidden. It fascinated him; he longed to rouse it; it made him feel that, possessing her, he was still the hunter, and there was great zest in the chase. He played a game of make-believe with himself, pretending she was Bessa Bess who had miraculously remained young for him. He was pleased with life. She was a wonderful toy, and, because he did I not understand entirely how she worked, his passion did not I diminish; it was nurtured on the mystery of her. He was happy. He liked to be soft with her, indulge her, show her how truly gentle he could be when he loved; but there were times when he must show his strength; then he would catch her unexpectedly and crush her and force her and feel her resentful and wait for the sudden rising of passion in her. Sometimes when he was in a complacent mood, he imagined she feigned reluctance to please him; then he let himself believe he was the centre of her life and that her thoughts were occupied in his pleasure.

The days slipped into weeks. Kitty felt a fondness for the house growing in her; it was so big that she could hide herself in it; sometimes, when she heard George calling her, she would hide in one of the attics and feel completely shut away and safe; but one could not remain hidden for long, any more than one could keep a secret for ever.

But she had her mother's gift of living in the present; something might happen, she told herself, so that her secret would never be discovered, and, wishing it, she began to believe it.

It was pleasant to be mistress of such a place as Haredon. The servants took to her; the housekeeper would discuss the running of the house with her in an indulgent way.

"The dear little thing!" said the housekeeper.

"She is not one to poke and pry." And indeed she was not; she could offer interest without interference. Peg and Dolly, whom she had brought with her, gave her an excellent reference in the servants' hall.

"A dearer, sweeter creature never lived!" Dolly declared, and she and Peg showed the gifts Kitty had bestowed upon them, and never thought of whispering a word of those secret meetings with Darrell. There was one, of course, who was not pleased with her presence in the house; that was Jennifer Jay. Kitty heard whisperings of the squire's relations with Jennifer; that was inevitable. She was sorry for Jennifer. Jennifer's trouble was just another of those which beset the stormy lives of women. She tried to be friendly, but the glittering eyes of the woman alarmed her a little, and she had a feeling that Jennifer beat little Margaret for being so ready with kisses for her new mamma.

The time came when she must tell of the baby. It would be better to tell, she thought, than to be discovered. She decided that she must explain everything to her husband.

It was October. He had been hunting all day. and she had stayed in her room rehearsing what she would say to him. She had planned it all, beginning with the meeting in the coach; she had to make him understand how deeply she and Darrell had loved.

"I should have told you before I married you," she would say, for indeed that was what she should have done, 'but I was frightened, George, so terribly frightened...”

She knew just how she would appeal to him. She felt exalted, almost unafraid ... until she heard his voice downstairs. Then she thought of his anger, and how terrible that could be; and she thought of being turned out of his house, and what had happened to the girl who had loved one of his grooms.

He came hastily up the stairs.

"Kitty!" he called in his lusty voice, and she trembled.

As he came in she stood up, her back to the window, so that he might not see her face.

"Ah!" he said. There you are. Why the devil didn't you come down to welcome me home?”

He was laughing, not ill-pleased; his face was flushed with exercise and ale. It had been a good day, she saw.

He strode over to her and took her into his amis; he bent her backwards roughly and kissed her.

"Why, what's the matter?" he said.

"You're white as a ghost.”

She was still trembling, and she could not hide it.

He said: "Why, Kitty?" and the tenderness was in his eyes again, and she felt her resistance weakening.

"George! There is something I must tell you... I do not know what you will say ... I have been meaning to tell you for so long..." His hands were on her shoulders, hurting her; he was always so rough with his great hands. The words came out weakly: "George ... there is going to bea baby!”

Fearfully she looked up at him. Now was the moment. Now. His lips were moving, though no sound came from them. She stared. Was that a glaze of tears in his eyes? It was incredible.

She had expected some crude remark: then she could have compared him with Darrell, have hated him, have said what she had prepared herself to say.

He murmured: "Kitty! It is the grandest news. We are going to have a family, Kitty!”

He threw off his sentimental mood. He was exuberant. He lifted her off her feet and gave her a great smacking kiss on the mouth.

Downstairs in the hall under the portraits of his ancestors he made the servants drink to the health of the child that was coming.

The children called her into the nursery.

"Jennifer is out for the afternoon!" whispered Charles.

"So you must come and tell us a story," added Margaret.

They climbed over her and touched the brooch at her throat. George had given her that only the other day; he delighted in giving her things.

He had changed in the last weeks, since he had known of the coming of the child. He gave her little glimpses into his inner nature, told her of how he had felt about Bess, and how he had suffered when she had left him. It was unlike the squire to talk of weakness in himself, but he was so pleased with his life, so enchanted by the prospect of their both being parents of the same child, that he let her peer now and then behind his defences. He was not a monster, after all; just a man, very human, full of hopes and desires and aspirations.

"You are our new mamma." announced Margaret; and she and Charles laughed because it seemed so amusing to them that they should suddenly be presented with a new mamma.

"You see," explained Charles, 'until now Margaret never had a mamma at all. and I only had one for a very little time.”

"Jennifer says you're not a real mamma.”

"She says you're a stepmamma!”

They watched her from under their eyelashes. Jennifer had said stepmammas hated their stepchildren, beat them and made faces at them in the dark.

They could not talk of these things, but they were there between them and their desire to love Kitty. For minutes at a time they forgot them though. They showed her their picture books and toys. They had opened Jennifer's cupboard, when Jennifer came in. Kitty actually had the love potion in her hand when the door opened.

Jennifer stiffened, and her face went dark red with hatred.

"Good afternoon, Jennifer,"said Kitty.

Jennifer said: "Good afternoon. Madam.”

It was Kitty who apologized.

"The children so wanted to show me round...”

"And you so wanted to see. Madam. I quite understand that." She was staring at the bottle and her rage got the better of her.

"And you wanted to see what was in my private cupboard, so you...”

"Not at all," said Kitty with dignity.

"I did not know this was your cupboard. The children showed me ...”

The children stood awestruck, aware that this was a battle between two powerful grownups.

"My own possessions are private. Madam; I will thank you not to pry into them." Kitty's temper flared up.

"You are insolent," she said, 'and I will not tolerate that. You shall go at once!" Jennifer retorted: "Perhaps you will speak to the squire about that... I myself will speak to him.”

Kitty was really angry now. She had not sought this opportunity, but now that it had come she would take it.

"You may pack and go at once." she said.

"I shall myself tell the squire that I have dismissed you." How insolently the woman stared. Knowledgeably? What did she mean...?

Could she know...?

Kitty began to feel very frightened. She was dizzy with fear; the room swayed; she clutched at the bureau. One of the children began to cry.

Kitty saw Jennifer's face close to hers, and Jennifer was smiling; her cunning black eyes were like monkeys' eyes. Jennifer's arms were strong about.

When Kitty opened her eyes, she was lying on the sofa and Jennifer was kneeling beside her, holding hartshorn under her nose. The children were not there.

Jennifer said: "Madam should be more careful ... her condition... I had not thought that it would be possible for Madam to be so far gone in pregnancy! The greatest care must be taken Kitty managed to get to her feet.

"I am all right now.”

"Oh, yes, Madam, you are all right now. It was just a little faint ... so natural really. But Madam must take care...”

That will do," said Kitty.

"And do not forget you are to pack your bags and go at once!”

Jennifer's eyes were downcast, but her mouth mocked. Kitty went unsteadily to the door. In her bedroom she bathed her face; her hands were hot and clammy, for she knew now that the moment had come. She prayed silently to her mother: "Mother, what shall I do now? What can I do now?”

She thought of the new tenderness which had sprung up in the squire.

Words came into her mind.

"We loved each other; we were going to marry. It seemed so safe, so right. He was always so careful of me, so eager that I should not suffer any hardship. Do not be cruel to me now. If you will only help me I will try to love you.”

It seemed to her that she stayed in her room for hours ... waiting.

She heard his horse's hoofs in the courtyard. It was some time before he came into the room, and she knew, as soon as she saw him, that Jennifer had waylaid him, had spoken to him. His big eyes bulged and there was a knotted vein on his forehead. Fearful as she was, it occurred to her that he was both like a dog that had received a whipping and an enraged bull.

His eyes searched her face, and his hands moved as though they would tear her secret from her.

There was no need; she would tell him now.

He stood before her, and she was aware of his hands again; now they were hanging limply at his sides.

He said: "What's this I am hearing? What's this that girl is saying?

By God...”

And he wanted her to deny it, and he wanted to send Jennifer from his house; he wanted her to lie to him... anything so that he need not believe these suggestions of Jennifer's. He could still hear her voice, soft and insinuating: "I think I should tell you... Madam fainted clean away in the nursery this afternoon. She must take greater care of herself. I feel and I am no fool in these matters that she is farther advanced in pregnancy than it seems possible to believe ..." The fury that had surged up in him! He had gripped the girl's shoulder and glared down into her impudent face.

"Do not be angry with me. Is it my fault that she should use you so cunningly because her lover has deserted her?" Jennifer's eyes were full of the light of battle. She had been told by the mistress of the house to pack her bags, and if she did that and went away she would have lost everything she had fought for; but here was a chance of regaining a good deal. She was bold therefore; and she even laughed when he brought up his great hand and hit her on the side of her head so that she fell to the floor.

And well she might laugh, for he was a fool indeed. He had only to look into Kitty's eyes to see what a fool, for her guilt was there and she made no attempt to hide it. What was this she was saying? He could not hear properly because his blood was pounding on his eardrums, but he grasped its import.

"We loved each other. It was so right... And then the press gang took him from me ... We should have been so happy ..." He shrieked at her: "I'll kill you for this!" And he would have killed her if he had not felt so miserably brokenhearted.

She said: "Please, George ... I was wrong ... I was wicked. But I will try, if only... There is the little baby to think of...”

He pushed her from him, and she fell onto the bed and lay there staring up at the terrible line of his mouth and the red tinge in what should have been the whites of his eyes.

He said: "So that was why you agreed to marry me, Madam!" He laughed and his laughter was horrible to her ears.

She hated him; and she hated herself for not hating more violently the last weeks during which he had been her lover. She answered with spirit, just as Bess would have answered: "Why else should I have married you!”

He had his riding-whip in his hand now; he thought of beating the life out of her for what she had done to him. He would take her life, for she and Bess between them had taken all that mattered in his.

He saw himself as a complacent fool; and later, people would know, and they would whisper together and laugh at him.

"Poor Squire! Caught proper, he were!" His own people laughing at him! He was going to kill her; he would beat the life out of her.

He let out a string of epithets, but his voice broke suddenly. He was afraid that he was going to blubber just as though he were a schoolboy; there was nothing to be done but get out quickly.

He strode from the room.