Lord of the Far Island

A Proposal of Marriage

The dream disturbed my sleep on the eve of Esmeralda's coming-out ball. It was not the first time I had had that dream. It had come to me periodically over my nineteen years. There is something vaguely alarming about these recurring dreams because it seems certain that they have a significance which one has to discover.

When I awoke from it I would be trembling with terror and I could never be entirely sure why. It was not exactly the dream itself, but the impression it brought of impending doom.

I would be in a room. I knew that room very well by now, for it was always the same each time I dreamed. It was an ordinary kind of room. There was a brick fireplace, on either side of which were chimney seats, a red carpet and heavy red curtains. Over the fireplace was a picture of a storm at sea. There were a few chairs and a gate-legged table. Voices came and went in the dream. I would have a feeling that something was being hidden from me; and suddenly there would come this overpowering sense of doom from which I would awake in horror.

That was all. Sometimes the dream would not come for a year and I would forget about it; then it would return. As time passed I would notice a little more in the room, for instance the thick cords which held back the red curtains, the rocking chair in one corner; and with these fresh details it seemed to me that the feeling of fear crept nearer.

After I had awakened and was lying in my bed I would ask myself what it could mean. Why should that room have become part of my sleeping life? Why should it be the same room every time? Why should I experience that creeping fear? My imagination had conjured up the room, but why should I have dreamed of it over the years? I had talked to no one of this. The whole matter seemed so foolish in the daytime, for dreams which are so vivid to the dreamer are almost always boring when retold. But somewhere deep in my thoughts was the conviction that this dream meant something, that a strange and as yet incomprehensible force was warning me of impending danger, and that perhaps someday I should discover what.

I was not given to wild fancies. Life had been too grim and earnest for that. Ever since I had been cast on the mercy of Cousin Agatha I had been encouraged to remember my place. That I sat at table with her daughter Esmeralda, that I shared the latter's governess, that I was allowed to walk in the park under the guidance of her nanny, were matters for which it appeared I should be eternally grateful. I must constantly remember that I was that most despised of creatures, a Poor Relation, whose only claim to have my existence abovestairs was that I belonged to the Family. Even my claim on that was a frail one, for Cousin Agatha was in fact my mother's second cousin, so the bond was very slender indeed.

Cousin Agatha was one of those women of immense proportions—everything about her was outsize—her body, her voice, her personality. She dominated her family, which consisted of her small husband—perhaps he was not so small but only seemed so compared with his wife—and her daughter Esmeralda. Cousin William, as I called him, was a man with wide business interests and wealthy; a power outside his home, I believed, though inside it he was completely subservient to his forceful wife. He was quiet, and always gave me an absentminded smile when he saw me, as though he couldn't quite remember who I was and what I was doing in his house; I think he would have been a kind man if he had the strength of will to oppose his wife. She was noted for her good works. There were days of the week which were devoted to her committees. Then ladies, not unlike herself, would be seated in the drawing room and often I had to help dispense tea and cakes. She liked me to be around at such times. "My second cousin's daughter, Ellen," she would explain. "Such a tragedy. There was nothing to be done but give the child a home." Sometimes Esmeralda helped me with the cakes. Poor Esmeralda! No one would have thought she was the daughter of the house. She would spill the tea in the saucers and once emptied a whole cupful into the lap of one of the charitable ladies.

Cousin Agatha would be very annoyed when people mistook Esmeralda for the Poor Relation and me for the Daughter of the House. I suppose Esmeralda's lot wasn't much better than mine. It would be: "Hold your shoulders back, Esmeralda. Don't slouch so." Or "Speak up, for heaven's sake. Don't mumble." Poor Esmeralda, with the splendid name which didn't fit her one little bit! She had pale blue eyes which watered frequently, as she was often on the verge of tears, and fine fair hair which always looked wispy. I did her sums for her and helped her with her essays. She was quite fond of me.

It was one of Cousin Agatha's regrets that she had only one daughter. She had wanted sons and daughters whom she could have commanded and moved about like pieces on a chessboard. The fact that she had only one rather fragile daughter she blamed entirely on her husband. The rule of the household was that good flowed from Cousin Agatha's actions and anything that was not desirable from other people's.

She had been received by the Queen and congratulated on the good work she did for the poor. She organized clubs where such people could be initiated into their duty towards their betters. She arranged the sewing of shirts and the making of calico garments. She was indefatigable; and she surrounded herself with a perpetual haze of virtue.

It was small wonder that both her husband and daughter felt at a disadvantage. Oddly enough, I did not. I had long made up my mind that Cousin Agatha's good works brought as much satisfaction to herself as to anyone else and I believed that when they failed to do that they would cease. She sensed this lack of appreciation in me and deplored it. She did not like me; not that she was greatly enamored of anyone but herself; yet somewhere at the back of her mind she must have appreciated the fact that her husband provided the money which made it possible for her to live as she did, and as for Esmeralda, she was her only child and therefore must be given a little consideration.

I, however, was the outsider, and not a humble one. She must have noticed the smile which I could not keep from my lips when she was talking of her newest schemes for the good of someone. There was no doubt that she sensed in me a reluctance to conform. She would convince herself, of course, that it was due to the bad blood which I had inherited from my father's side, though she protested that she knew nothing else of that connection.

Her attitude was apparent in my first few years in her household. I was about ten years old when she sent for me.

"I think it is time, Ellen," she said, "for you and me to have a talk."

There was I, a sturdy ten-year-old—with a mass of almost black hair, dark blue eyes, a short nose and a rather long stubborn chin.

I was made to stand before her on the great Persian rug in the room she called her study, where her social secretary wrote her letters and did most of the committee work for which she took the credit.

"Now, Ellen," she said to me, "we must come to an understanding. We want to make clear your position in the household, do we not?" She did not wait for an answer but went on. "I am sure you cannot fail to be grateful to me... and to Cousin William Loring [he was her husband] for keeping you in our household. We could, of course, on the death of your mother have put you into an orphanage, but because you are of the family... though the relationship could scarcely be said to be a close one... we have decided that you must be given our protection. Your mother, as you know, married a Charles Kellaway. You are a result of this marriage." Her large nose twitched a little, which showed the contempt in which she held both my parents and their ensuing offspring. "A rather unfortunate marriage. He was not the man who was chosen for her."

"It must have been a love match," I said, for I had heard about it from Nanny Grange, whose aunt had been Cousin Agatha's nanny and was therefore quite knowledgeable about past family affairs.

"Pray," went on Cousin Agatha, "do not interrupt. This is a very serious matter. Your mother, against her family's wishes, went off and married this man from some outlandish place of which we had never heard." She looked at me very severely. "In something less than a year you were born. Soon after, your mother left her new home irresponsibly and came back to her family, bringing you." "I was three years old," I said, quoting Nanny Grange.

She raised her eyebrows. "I did beg you not to interrupt. She had nothing... simply nothing. You and she became a burden to your grandmother. Your mother died two years later."

I had been five years old at the time. I remembered her vaguely: the suffocating embraces which I loved and the feeling of security which I did not recognize until she was gone. There was a hazy picture in my mind of sitting on cool grass, with her beside me, a sketchbook in her hand. She had always been sketching, and she used to hide the book from my grandmother. I sensed, of course, that she was in some sort of disgrace and it used to make me happy to think of myself as a kind of protector. "You love me, don't you, Ellen?" she would say. "No matter what I've done." Those words rang in my ears when I thought of her and I was always so impatient with myself for my five-year-old incompetence in not understanding what was going on.

"Your grandmother was scarcely of an age to bring up a child," went on Cousin Agatha.

No, I thought grimly. She had seemed incredibly old to me with her tight lips, her cold eyes and the little white cap without which I never saw her—a formidable old lady who struck terror into me when I realized that I was now alone and had lost that loving conspirator and companion and that in future I must extricate myself from the continual trouble which seemed to dog me. Fortunately I was naturally resilient and managed to cultivate a stoical indifference to reproaches and appeals to God as to what would become of me. I could not feel grief when my grandmother died and I made no attempt to pretend I did.

"When your grandmother died," added Cousin Agatha, "she asked me to care for you and so I gave her my solemn promise on her deathbed. I am determined to carry it out. You must realize that it is only because I have taken you into my house that you are not in an orphanage, training to give service in some household as a maid or, perhaps if you showed an aptitude for learning, a governess. However, I have brought you here and you share Esmeralda's lessons; you live as a member of my family. Pray remember it. I do not ask for gratitude but I expect it. Do not think that you will have advantages like those of my own daughter. That would not be good for your character. When you are of age it may well be that you will have to earn a living. I therefore advise you to take advantage now of the immense blessings which have come your way. You will have a governess to teach you so that by the time you reach your eighteenth birthday you will be an educated young woman. You will also learn the manners and customs of well-bred households. It is for you, Ellen, to profit from this. Learn all you can and always remember that it is due to my bounty that you are able to take advantage of these opportunities. That is all."

I was meant to go away and brood on these things, to marvel at my good fortune and to cultivate humility, that most desirable virtue of all for those in my position, and in which alas I seemed sadly lacking. I had at one time even thought briefly that Cousin Agatha regarded me with affection, for she would glow with satisfaction when her eyes rested on me, but I quickly realized that the satisfaction was in her own good deed in taking me into her household and had nothing to do with my progress. In fact she seemed to revel in the unsatisfactory defects in which I seemed to abound, and I came to understand that this was because the more of a burden I was, the greater her virtue in keeping me.

It will be seen that I had little love for Cousin Agatha. In character we were diametrically opposed, and I came to the conclusion that I was the only member of the household who ever contradicted her. When I was younger the threat of the orphanage hung over me; but I quickly learned that I should never be sent there because Cousin Agatha could never allow her friends to know that she had disposed of me in such a way. In fact my unsatisfactory character was a source of pleasure to her. I think she talked of me more often to her friends than she did of Esmeralda. Her own daughter was a nonentity. I was scarcely that. I often caught the comment after I was leaving a room: "Of course her mother ..." And "It is hard to believe that poor Frances was an Emdon." Poor Frances being my mother and Emdon the name of the noble family from which both she and Cousin Agatha had sprung.

Of course I grew shrewd, "artful as a wagonload of monkeys" as Nanny Grange put it. "If there's mischief about, Miss Ellen will be in it. As for Miss Esme, she's led there by her naughty cousin, that's what." I suppose in my way I was as much a force in that household as Cousin Agatha.

In the winter we lived in a tall house opposite Hyde Park. I loved the trees which would be growing bronzed and golden when we returned from summer in the country. Esme and I used to sit at one of the topmost windows and point out the famous buildings to each other. From the north we looked right across the Park, but from the east we could pick out the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and the Brompton Oratory. We used to listen for the muffin man's bell and watch the white-capped maids come running out with their dishes to buy his wares. Nanny Grange always sent for some and then we would sit by her fire toasting them and reveling in their soft buttery succulence. We used to watch the crossing sweepers—barefooted boys who made us unhappy because they looked so poor; and we both shed tears when we saw a man running behind a luggage-laden cab on its way to Paddington Station, where he hoped to earn a few pence by carrying the luggage. I made up a story of heartrending squalor which had Esmeralda weeping bitterly. She was very kind-hearted and so easily touched that I had to amend my story and tell it the way Cousin Agatha would have done. He had come from a good family and had' squandered his patrimony in gin and beer shops. He beat his wife, and his children went in terror of him. Poor sweet and simple Esme! She was so easily swayed.

In the afternoons after lessons we would walk in Kensington Gardens with Nanny Grange. She would sit on a seat in the flower walk while we gamboled around. "And not out of sight, Miss Ellen, or I'll have something to say to you." She rarely had to worry on that score because I liked to hang about and hear what she said to the other nannies.

"Esme's mother. My word, what a tartar. I'd not stay if it wasn't for the fact that my aunt was her nanny, and it's right and proper to keep these things in families. Sickly little thing, Miss Esme. As for that Miss Ellen, a real little madam. My patience, you'd think she was the daughter of the house instead of the poor relation. Mark my words, it will be brought home to her one day."

The other nannies would talk of their employers and their charges and I would make Esmeralda be quiet while we listened. Our companions shrieked, threw their balls to one another, spun their tops or cuddled their dolls and there would I be seated nonchalantly on the grass behind the seat on which the nannies sat, shamelessly listening.

I was obsessed with curiosity about my mother.

"My aunt says she was really pretty. Our young miss is the living image, I reckon. And we'll have trouble with her, I shouldn't wonder. But that's to come. Come home she did, said my aunt. She was in a state. Something went wrong—she never knew what, but back she came to her mother, bringing the child with her. My goodness me, it must have been jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. I heard they never let her forget what she had done. As for Miss Ellen's grandmother, she was another such as her cousin Agatha. Looking after the heathen and seeing he gets his soup and shirts and making her own daughter's life a misery... and the little 'un's too. Then Miss Frances goes and dies and leaves our Miss Ellen, who's never let forget that she's a burden. I mean to say an old lady like Mrs. Emdon and a lively young child ... it didn't work! And when she died she took her in. Couldn't do anything else really. She's not likely to let the child forget what she's doing for her either."

Thus at an early age I gleaned the hazy facts about my beginnings.

They intrigued me. I often wondered about my father, but he was never mentioned and I could discover nothing about him. Contemplating my past, I felt I had not been exactly precious to anyone. Perhaps Cousin Agatha wanted me in a way, though, but only because I was a little check mark on her calendar of virtue.

I was not the sort of child to brood. For some remarkable and fortunate reason—or so it then seemed—I had an infinite belief in my ability to get the best out of life, and Esmeralda at least was glad to have me as a surrogate sister. In fact she was lost without me. I could never be alone long because she would soon seek me out; she had no desire for her own company. She was afraid of her mother, afraid of the dark and afraid of life. In being sorry for Esmeralda I suppose I could be glad to be myself.

In the summer we went to Cousin William Loring's country house. What an upheaval that used to be. There would be packing for days and we would grow quite wild with excitement planning everything we would do in the country. We traveled in the brougham to the railway station and there followed the feverish bustle of getting into the train and debating whether we should face the engine or have our backs to it—an adventure in itself. We were accompanied by our governess, of course, who made sure that we sat erect on the plush seats and that I was not too noisy when I called Esmeralda's attention to the villages and countryside through which we passed. Some of the servants had gone on ahead and some would follow. Cousin Agatha usually arrived a week or so after we did, a blessed delay, and then she transferred her good works to the country instead of the town. The country estate was in Sussex—near enough to London to enable Cousin Agatha to go to town without too much effort when the worthy occasion demanded and Cousin William Loring could also attend to his vast business interests and not be altogether deprived of the fresh country air.

Esmeralda and I learned to ride, visit the poor, help at the church fete and indulge in the country activities of the gentry.

There was entertaining in the country as there was in town. Esmeralda and I were not as yet included in that, but I was vastly interested in it and I would sketch the dresses of the guests and imagine myself in them. I used to make Esmeralda hide with me on the staircase to see them arriving and watched with delight as they entered the great hall where Cousin Agatha, very stately, and Cousin William Loring, looking quite insignificant in comparison, received them.

I would drag Esmeralda out of bed and make her peer through the banisters at the brilliant array, sometimes darting to the head of the stairs so that had any looked up I should have been in full view of them. Esmeralda would tremble with fear and I would laugh at her, knowing that I should never be sent away because above all Cousin Agatha must boast of her goodness to me. I would caper round our bedroom and make Esmeralda dance with me.

It was in the country that I became really aware of the great importance of the Carringtons. Even Cousin Agatha spoke their names with a certain awe. They lived in Trentham Towers, a very grand house on a hill—a mansion—and Mr. Josiah Carrington was a sort of squire in the neighborhood. Like Cousin William Loring, he had big interests in the City and had a London residence—in Park Lane in fact. Nanny Grange had pointed it out to us on several occasions. "That's the Carringtons' Town Place," she said in hushed tones, as though it were paradise itself.

They owned most of the Sussex hamlet and the surrounding farms, and Mr. Josiah Carrington's wife was Lady Emily, which meant that she was the daughter of an earl. One of Cousin Agatha's great ambitions was to live on terms of familiarity with the Carringtons, and as she was a woman who only had to want something to get it, she did, after a fashion. Cousin William's Sussex house was pleasantly Georgian with gracious portico and elegant lines. The drawing room was on the first floor and as it was large and lofty with a beautiful molded ceiling it was ideal for entertaining. Here Cousin Agatha "received" every Thursday when she was "At Home" in the country, and the dinner parties and the balls she gave were very well attended. She would be most disconsolate if for some reason the Carringtons were not present.

She was very gracious to Lady Emily and claimed great interest in everything that lady did while Cousin William and Mr. Josiah Carrington discussed "the Market" with equal passion.

Then there was Philip Carrington, who was about a year older than I and some two years older than Esmeralda. Cousin Agatha was very anxious that he and Esmeralda should be good friends. I remember our going to the country in the early summer and meeting Philip for the first time. Esmeralda had been formally introduced to him in the drawing room; I had been excluded. Then Cousin Agatha had instructed Esmeralda to take Philip to the stables and show him her pony.

I waylaid them on the way and joined them.

Philip was fair, with freckles across his nose and very light blue eyes; he was about my height and I was tall for my age. He looked interested in me, for I could see he had already decided to despise Esmeralda and was put out because he had been sent off with a girl, and a puny one at that.

"I suppose you ride ponies," he said rather scornfully.

"Well, what do you ride?" I asked.

"A horse of course."

"We shall have horses later on," said Esmeralda.

He ignored her.

I said: "We could ride horses just as well. They're no different from ponies."

"What do you know about that?"

So we bickered all the way to the stables.

He scorned our ponies and I was angry with him because I loved my Brownie passionately, but it is true that I never felt quite the same about the poor creature after that. He showed us the horse he had ridden over on.

"A very small one," I pointed out.

"I bet you couldn't ride it."

"I bet I could."

It was a challenge. Esmeralda trembled with fear and kept murmuring, "No, Ellen, don't," as I mounted his horse barebacked and rode it recklessly round the paddock. I must admit I was a bit scared, but I wasn't going to let him score over me and I had the insult to poor Brownie to answer.

Philip mounted then and performed some tricks for us to admire. He showed off blatantly. He and I sparred all the time, but there was no doubt that we enjoyed the sparring. It used to upset Esmeralda because she thought we hated each other.

"Mama wouldn't like it," she told me. "Remember, he's a Carrington."

"Well, I'm a Kellaway," I said, "and that's as good as a Carrington."

Philip had a tutor that summer and we saw a great deal of him. It was then that I first heard of Rollo.

"What a silly name," I said, which made Philip flush with fury.

Rollo was his brother, who was ten years older than he was. Philip spoke of him with pride. He was about twelve then, so Rollo was twenty-two. He was at Oxford and according to Philip could do everything.

"A pity he can't change his name," I said just to plague him.

"It's a great name, you silly thing. It's a Viking name."

"They were pirates," I said scornfully.

"They ruled the seas. Everywhere they went they conquered. Rollo was the great one who went to France and the King there was so worried he gave him a great slice of his country and that became Normandy. We're Normans." He looked at us disparagingly. "We came over here and conquered you."

"You didn't," I cried. "Because we are Normans too, aren't we, Esmeralda?"

Esmeralda was not sure. I gave her a little push. She had no idea how to deal with Philip. Not that either of us took any notice of her opinion in any case.

"We were better Normans than you were," said Philip. "We were the dukes and you were only the common people."

"Oh no, we weren't..."

And that was how it went on.

Once Esmeralda said to me: "Mama would be cross if she knew how you quarreled with Philip. You forget he's a Carrington."

I remember when Rollo came down from Oxford. I first saw him riding in the lanes with Philip. His horse was white and as I said to Esmeralda after he had passed he ought to have had one of those helmets with wings at the side, then he would have looked just like a Viking. We did not speak to him. Philip called a greeting to us as he passed, making it clear that he had no time to waste on two girls with such a magnificent creature about. Rollo himself scarcely looked at us.

He was invited to the house of course and a great fuss was made of him. Cousin Agatha practically fawned on him. Nanny Grange said afterwards that you'd think he was some sort of a god and that Madam had her claws out to pick him up for Miss Esmeralda. "He'll be the heir of all those millions, I suppose," she said. "Though I reckon Master Philip will have his little picking."

When we returned to London that year I saw more of Rollo. When he was on vacation he called on us with his parents. I used to love those occasions when the carriages lined the street and pulled up outside our door. There would be red-and-white-striped awning for the guests to pass under and people used to line up to see them arrive. I loved watching from the nursery window.

They were enjoyable days. I used to wake up every morning with a delicious sense of excitement. The servants would chatter about the guests and there was a great deal of talk about the Carringtons. Sometimes Cousin Agatha and Cousin William Loring went to Park Lane to dine. We would watch them go and greatly regret that the dinner party was not at our house.

As I have said, I lived a great deal of my life belowstairs, and when possible I would secret myself at the servants' table and listen. If Esmeralda were with me they would be self-conscious; they didn't mind me so much, perhaps because my fate would one day be similar to theirs.

I heard one of them say, "That Miss Ellen, she's neither the one nor the other. I reckon when she's older she'll be sent out governessing. I'd rather be a housemaid. You do know your place then."

Such a thought alarmed me only briefly. I was sure that when the time came I would be able to take care of myself; but at the moment my lack of status gave me the glorious opportunity to hover between stairs. They talked quite freely in front of me. I quickly learned that Her and Him were Cousin Agatha and Cousin William Loring and that She was parsimonious, saw the cook's housekeeping accounts every week and relentlessly queried every item and that He was frightened of Her and daren't raise his voice against Her. She was all for social climbing. Look how she ran after those Carringtons. Shameful! And they kept a good establishment, my word they did, both in Park Lane and in Sussex, and it had come to the cook's ears that She had made Him buy that Sussex house just because the Carringtons had their place there. Always plotting, She was, to move up the ladder.

I learned through a series of subtle winks and nods (which they thought I was not smart enough to interpret) that She was determined to link the family with that of the great Carringtons and them having boys and her having a girl, the method was as easy as pie to understand.

I was amazed. They believed they were going to marry Esmeralda to Philip or to the magnificent creature I had seen on his white horse! It made me want to laugh as I debated whether to tell Esmeralda. But there was no point in scaring her completely out of her wits. She was not always in full possession of them as it was.

Life was full of interest: Upstairs in our nursery quarters, where I could spy on what Cousin Agatha was constantly reminding me were my betters, and downstairs in the kitchen, where I could drink in secret information when they all grew rather sleepy after finishing the joint or the chicken pie washed down with cook's best elderberry or dandelion wine.

I was pleased too that my origins were mysterious. I would have hated to own Cousin Agatha for a mother, as I would tell Esmeralda when I was feeling mean. Perhaps Cousin William Loring would have been a kind sort of father, but his subservience to his wife did not make me admire him.

So there was the autumn and winter—roaring fires and chestnuts popping on the hearth; the muffin man; hansom cabs clopping by. Peering out to watch them and wondering about the people who were riding in them, I would invent all sorts of stories to which Esmeralda would listen enthralled and then she would say: "How can you know who are in them and where they are going?" I would narrow my eyes and whistle. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Esmeralda Loring, than you wot of in your philosophy." She would shiver and regard me with awe (which I very much enjoyed). I would quote to her often, and sometimes pretend I had made up the words I spoke. She believed me. She could not learn as quickly as I could. It was a pity that she was so ineffectual. It gave me an exaggerated idea of my own cleverness. However, Cousin Agatha did her best to rid me of that; and perhaps, as I gathered from the servants' gossip and Cousin Agatha's manner towards me that I was of not much account, it was not so unfortunate after all, for I needed something to keep up my confidence.

I was adventurous and this gave rise to the speculation that I had a streak of wickedness in me. I loved the markets particularly. There were none in our district, but some of the servants used to go to them and I would hear them talking. Once I prevailed on Rosie, one of the parlormaids, to take me with her. She was a flighty girl who had always had a lover and had at last found one who wanted to marry her. There was a great deal of talk about her "bottom drawer," and she was always collecting "bits and pieces" for it. She would bring them into the kitchen. "Look what I've found in the market," she would cry, her eyes sparkling. "Dirt cheap it was."

As I said, I persuaded her to take me to the market. She liked to act outside the law too. She was rather fond of me and used to talk to me about her lover. He was the Carringtons' coachman and she was going to live in a mews cottage with him.

I shall never forget that market with its naphtha flares and the raucous Cockney voices of men and women calling their goods. There were stalls on which mounds of apples, polished until they shone, were arranged side by side with oranges, pears and nuts. It was November when I first saw it, and already holly and mistletoe were being displayed among the goods. I admired the crockery, the ironmongery, the secondhand clothes, the stewed and jellied eels to be eaten on the spot or taken home, and I sniffed ecstatically at the cloud of appetizing steam which came from the fish-and-chip shop. Most of all I liked the people, who bargained at the stalls and jostled and laughed their way through the market. I thought it was one of the most exciting places I had ever visited. I returned with Rosie starry-eyed and wove stories around the market to impress Esmeralda.

I rashly promised that I would take her there. After that she kept asking about the market and I made up outrageous stories about it. These usually began: "When Rose and I went to the market ..." We had the most fantastic adventures there—all in my mind—but they had Esmeralda breathless with excitement.

Then the day came when we actually went there and what followed brought me to the notice of the great Rollo himself. It was about a week before Christmas, I remember—a darkish day with the mist enveloping the trees of the Park. I loved such days. I thought the Park looked like an enchanted forest bathed in that soft bluish light, and as I looked out on it I thought to myself: "I'll take Esmeralda to the market."

Of course this was the day. There was to be a dinner party that night. The household could think of nothing else. "She's got the wind in her tail, that's what," said the cook, referring to Cousin Agatha. I knew what she meant. Cousin Agatha's voice could be heard all over the house. "Miss Hamer" (that was her long-suffering social secretary), "have you the place names ready? Do make sure that Lady Emily is on the master's right hand; and Mr. Carrington on mine. Mr. Rollo should be in the center of the table on the master's right-hand side of course. And have the flowers come?" She swept through the house like a hurricane. "Wilton" (that was the butler), "make sure the red carpet is down and the awning in place and see to it in good time." Then to the lady's maid Yvonne, "Do not let me sleep after five o'clock. Then you may prepare my bath."

She was in the kitchen admonishing the cook ("As if I don't know my business," said Cook). She sent for Wilton three times in the morning to give him instructions to be passed on to the other servants.

It was that sort of day. I met her on the stairs and she walked past me without even seeing me. And I thought again: "This is surely the time to go to the market." Nanny Grange was pressed into service with the goffering iron; our governess was to help arrange the flowers. So there we were "sans governess, sans nanny, sans supervision, sans everything," as I misquoted to Esmeralda.

"It's the very day when we could get away and be back before they noticed." The market should be seen by the light of flares and it grows dark soon after half past four in December. "The flares are like erupting volcanoes," I exaggerated to Esmeralda, "and they don't light them until dark."

I told Nanny Grange that Esmeralda and I would look after ourselves, and soon after afternoon tea, taken at half past three that day to get it over quickly, we set out. I had carefully noted the number of the omnibus and the stop where we had got off and we reached the market without mishap. It was then about five o'clock.

I gleefully watched the wonder dawn in Esmeralda's eyes. She loved it: the shops with their imitation snow on the windows—cotton wool on string but most effective—the toys in the windows. I dragged her away from them to look in the butcher's with the pigs' carcasses hanging up, oranges in their mouths, and the great sides of beef and lamb and the butcher in blue-striped apron sharpening long knives and crying "Buy, buy, buy."

Then there were the stalls piled with fruit and nuts and the old-clothes man and the people eating jellied eels out of blue-and-white basins. From one shop came the appetizing odor of pea soup, and we looked inside and saw people sitting on benches drinking the hot steaming stuff; there was the organ grinder with his little monkey sitting on top of the organ and the cap on the ground into which people dropped money.

I was delighted to see that Esmeralda was of the opinion that I had not for once exaggerated the charms of the market.

When the organ grinder's wife began to sing in a rather shrill penetrating voice the people started to crowd round us and as we stood there listening a cart on which there was a considerable amount of rattling ironmongery came pushing its way through the crowds.

"Mind your backs," cried a cheerful voice. "Make way for Rag and Bone 'Arry. Stand aside please... ."

I leaped out of the way and was caught up in the press of people who carried me with them to the pavement. Several of them called out to Rag and Bone 'Arry as he passed, to which he answered in a good-natured and pert manner. I watched with interest and found myself wondering about Rag and Bone 'Arry and all the people around me when suddenly I realized that Esmeralda was not beside me.

I looked about me sharply. I fought my way through the crowd; I called her name, but there was no sign of her.

I didn't panic immediately. She must be somewhere in the market, I told myself, and she couldn't be far away. I had presumed that she would keep close to me; I had told her to and she was not of an adventurous nature. I scanned the crowds, but she was nowhere to be seen. After ten minutes of frantic searching I began to be really afraid. I had charge of the money, taken with a great deal of trouble from our money boxes, into which it was so easy to put coins and so hard to take them out (the operation must be performed by inserting the blade of a knife through the slit, letting the coin drop onto the knife and then drawing it out). Without money how could she get home by herself? After half an hour I began to be very frightened. I had brought Esmeralda to the market and lost her.

My imagination—so exciting at times when I was in control of it—now showed itself as a ruthless enemy. I saw Esmeralda snatched up by some evil characters like Fagin from Oliver Twist teaching her to pick pockets. Of course she would never learn, I promised myself, and would be arrested immediately and brought home to her family. Perhaps Gypsies would take her. There was a fortuneteller in the market. They would darken her skin with walnut juice and make her sell baskets. Someone might kidnap her and hold her to ransom; and I had done this. The market adventure was so daring that it could only have been undertaken when it was possible to sneak into the house as we had sneaked out. Only on such a day when there was to be an important dinner party had it been possible.

And now Esmeralda was lost. What could I do? I knew. I must go back to the house. Confess what I had done and search parties would be sent out to find her.

This was distasteful to me, for I knew it was something which would never be forgotten and might even result in my being sent into an orphanage. After I had committed such a sin Cousin Agatha would in her opinion be justified in sending me away. I suspected that she only needed such justification. I therefore found it difficult to leave the market. Just one more look, I promised myself, and I wended my way through the place keeping my eyes alert for Esmeralda.

Once I thought I caught a glimpse of her and gave chase, but it was a mistake.

It must be getting late. Coming here would have taken half an hour and I must have been here an hour and now there was the journey back.

I went to the omnibus stop and waited. What a long time I waited! I was getting frantic. Silly Esmeralda! I thought, finding some comfort in blaming her. Stupid little thing! Why couldn't she have stayed with me?

At last the omnibus arrived. What was I going to say? What trouble there would be! How could she have found her way home? Oh, what had happened to Esmeralda!

I descended from the omnibus and made my way to the house, intending to creep in by the servants' entrance. I saw with a shudder that the red awning was up and the red carpet down and that guests were arriving. I ran round to the back of the house. Rose was the one to find. She would be most sympathetic. She might well be in the mews, because the Carrington coachman would be there and she wouldn't want to miss a moment of his company.

I went to the mews. She was not there. Oh dear, the only thing for me to do was to go to the house and confess to the first person I saw. Cook? She would be blustering in the kitchen putting the last-minute touches to the dinner. Nanny Grange perhaps, because she knew that I had what she called reckless blood in me and wouldn't blame me so much for what I had done. "It's her blood," she would whisper knowledgeably.

I went in through the servants' entrance. No one seemed to be about. I made my way up the stairs to the hall and then I heard voices.

A policeman stood there, respectful, competent and reassuring, and beside him, looking very small in comparison, was a pale-faced Esmeralda.

"Found wandering," the policeman was saying. "Lost. We brought her home as soon as she told us where, Ma'am."

It was like a tableau and one I believed I should never forget.

Cousin Agatha, aglitter in a low-cut gown twinkling with emeralds and diamonds, and Cousin William Loring, immaculate in his evening clothes, had been brought down to the hall from the top of the staircase where they had been receiving their guests to receive instead their truant daughter brought home by a policeman.

Several guests stood on the stairs. The Carringtons were just arriving—Mr. Carrington, Lady Emily and the great Rollo.

I noticed the intense mortification in every line of Cousin Agatha's statuesque form; her emerald earrings quivered with passionate indignation. Esmeralda began to cry.

"It's all right now, Missy," said the policeman.

"My dear," said Lady Emily, "what on earth has happened?"

Cousin William began: "Our daughter was lost..." But he was immediately silenced by Cousin Agatha.

"Where is Nanny? What has she been doing? Esmeralda, go to your room."

Esmeralda saw me suddenly through her tears and cried: "Ellen."

Cousin Agatha turned and her basilisk gaze was directed straight at me.

"Ellen!" she said in a voice full of evil omen.

I came forward. "We only went to the market," I began.

"Wilton!" There he was, urbane, discreet in all his butlerian dignity.

"Yes, Madam," he said. "I will have the young ladies taken to the nursery." And to the policeman: "If you would care to follow me you will be refreshed and our appreciation shown to you. Ah, Madam, here is Nanny."

Nanny Grange appeared; she took me by one hand and Esmeralda by the other. Her anger was apparent in the grip of her fingers. I would have some explaining to do, I was sure, but at the moment I could only be relieved that Esmeralda was safe. There was one other thing that impressed itself on me. And that was the interested blue stare of the Great Rollo. His eyes were fixed temporarily on me. I wondered what he was thinking as Nanny hustled us up the stairs. Guests looked at us curiously. Some of them smiled. Then we were mounting the second stairs on up to the nursery.

"We only thought we'd like to see the market," I explained. "This could well cost me my job," muttered Nanny Grange venomously. "And I know who was at the bottom of this, Miss Ellen, and don't you go trying to put it on Miss Esmeralda. She was led." Esmeralda murmured: "I wanted to go, Nanny." "You were led," said Nanny. "Don't I know Miss Ellen?" "Well, it was my idea," I said. "And you shouldn't blame Esmeralda."

"What Madam is going to say to you, Miss, I don't know. But I wouldn't like to be in your shoes."

We were sent to bed without supper—not that we cared about that—and I lay in bed wondering what life was like in orphanages.

Rosie came in late that night just as the guests were leaving. She was bright-eyed—the way she looked when she had been enjoying the company of her coachman. She sat on the edge of the bed and giggled.

"You are a one. You didn't ought to have took Miss Esmeralda. She was sure to get lost or something."

"How was I to know she'd be so silly!"

"And to go off on your own like that. My word, you're in for trouble."

"I know," I said.

"Well, cheer up. Worse troubles at sea, as my first intended used to say. He was a sailor."

"What's an orphanage like?"

Rosie's face softened suddenly. "My cousin Alice was brought up in one. Quite the lady. Went governessing. No common housemaiding for her. Lots of company. There are a good many orphans in the world." She stooped down and kissed me. I knew she was trying to comfort me. She had been happy with her coachman and wanted all the world to be as happy as she was.

I supposed I'd be all right at the orphanage.

Cousin Agatha sent for me next morning. She looked as though she had had a sleepless night.

"Such conduct," she was saying. "Do you know I despair of you? I know that these inclinations come to you. It's in the blood, but as I said to Mr. Loring, what can we do with the child? Most people would send you away. After all we have our own daughter to consider. But blood is thicker than water and you are of our family. You try our patience sorely, Ellen—mine and Mr. Loring's. I must warn you that you will have to mend your ways if you wish to stay under our roof."

I said I hadn't known Esmeralda would get lost and if she hadn't no one would have known we had been to the market.

"Such deceit," she cried, "is intolerable. I am glad that Esmeralda did get lost—even though it ruined my evening. At least we know what a wicked child we have under our roof."

She had given Nanny instructions that I was to stay in my room until I had learned the Quality of Mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice. Perhaps that would teach me to be grateful for those who had—and let it be remembered that this could well be the last time—shown mercy towards me. I should have nothing but bread and water until I had perfected the piece, and while I was in seclusion I might well reflect on the havoc I had wrought. "What the Carringtons thought of you, I can't imagine. I shall not be surprised if you are not allowed to be with Philip again."

I was dismissed and learned my piece in a very short time. Later Cousin Agatha discovered that I loved poetry and it was no hardship to me to learn it; then I was given needlework to do, which was another matter. To read and reread beautiful arrangements of words delighted me; to cobble stitches was torture. But she had at that time to discover this.

Poor Esmeralda could not learn her piece half as quickly as I could and when she was obliged to say it before our governess I crept close to her and prompted her through it.

By Christmastime the affair of the market began to be forgotten. Philip appeared during school holidays and he was allowed to play with us in the Park. I told him about the market and how Esmeralda had got lost and in an excess of contempt he pushed her into the Serpentine. Esmeralda screamed and Philip stood on the bank laughing at her while I waded in and dragged her to the bank. Then Nanny Grange came along and we were all hustled back to the house to get our wet things off before we caught our deaths.

"I'll be blamed for that," I told Philip.

"Serve you right," he cried. He didn't care a bit if Esmeralda caught her death. He added to me: "You wouldn't. You're not so silly as she is."

When Esmeralda did catch a cold Nanny Grange reported the incident to some of the servants; I knew they were all of the opinion that I had pushed Esmeralda into the water.

Poor Esmeralda! I'm afraid we were very careless of her. It was not exactly that Philip and I banded together against her, but simply that she lacked our adventurous spirit and we were too young to respect the fact that she was different from ourselves. I remember how terrified she was of Dead Man's Leap. The very name was enough to strike terror into the timid and it certainly did to Esmeralda. This particular spot was not far from Trentham Towers. There was a climb up to it and at the peak the drop was considerable; it really was dangerous, for the narrow path was right on the edge of the steep drop and during wet weather was treacherously slippery. All along the path through the woods there were warning notices such as "At Own Risk" and "Road Unsafe"—just the sort of thing to spur on people like Philip and myself.

It was not only a dangerous spot, it was also uncanny, for it was said to be haunted because of the number of people who had committed suicide there. There was a saying in the neighborhood if anyone looked melancholy. "What's the matter with you? Thinking of jumping off Dead Man's Leap?"

This was therefore a favorite spot of ours and we jeered at Esmeralda if she showed any reluctance in accompanying us. Philip liked to stand on the very edge of this precipice to show how intrepid he was, and of course I had to do the same.

Once we were seen there and when this was reported to the tutor who was coaching Philip at the time, we were forbidden to go; but this naturally only made the place more desirable, and it became a meeting place for us. "See you at Dead Man's Leap," Philip would say casually, half hoping I would be afraid to go there by myself. I always went when thus challenged, although I was a little scared, for the place did have an eerie atmosphere, particularly when one was there alone.

Time started to pass very quickly, but there was one other incident in our childhood which brought me notoriety and I think I did give Cousin Agatha the justification to be rid of me. I was fourteen—at an age when I should have known better. Philip was fifteen and this happened in the country.

Philip wanted to have tea out of doors. We would make a fire and boil a kettle on it and live like Indians or Gypsies—he wasn't sure which it would be—whatever seemed best at the time. The great thing was to make a fire. We needed a kettle, which I had to bring.

"There are lots in your kitchen," said Philip. "There must be. Bring some tea and water in a bottle, and cakes. And we'll make a fire."

I made Esmeralda get the cakes from the kitchen and I got the kettle. Philip was bringing paraffin, which he said was fine for making fires.

"We'd better be Gypsies," he said. "We've kidnapped Esmeralda. She has been spirited out of her house and we'll tie her up and ask a ransom for her."

Esmeralda wailed: "Can't I be a Gypsy?"

"No, you can't," said Philip tersely. Poor Esmeralda! She was always cast for the victim.

The outcome of that adventure was that we had reckoned without the paraffin. Philip had collected some bracken and poured the oil liberally over it. The blaze first delighted us and then alarmed us. We couldn't get near it, and Esmeralda, both her ankles tied together, a gag over her mouth, very uncomfortable and longing to be allowed to play another part, was very near to it.

We tried to beat out the flames but they spread. I had the foresight to untie Esmeralda and by that time it seemed as though the whole field was ablaze.

There was nothing to be done but call for help. All the servants were busy trying to beat it out and to prevent its spreading to the cornfields.

There was great trouble about that.

"And on the Carringtons' land," said Cousin Agatha, as though we had desecrated some sacred temple. It was fortunate that one of the Carringtons had been involved but Cousin Agatha laid most of the blame on me.

I heard her say to Cousin William: "It is quite clear that Ellen is unmanageable. Into what disaster she will lead Esmeralda next I tremble to think."

I was given another lecture.

"You are now fourteen years of age. An age when many girls without means have been earning a living for some years. We do not forget that there is a family connection and for that reason we have tried to be good to you. But the time is coming very near, Ellen, when you will have to think of your future. Neither Mr. Loring nor I would wish to turn you adrift, and we shall do all we can to help you in spite of the manner in which you have so often repaid us. Yet this last disastrous escapade makes me feel again that our efforts have been wasted. You show a deplorable lack of discipline. You must be punished. The rod would be desirable. I have told Mr. Loring that it is his duty to administer it and he will be coming to your room to perform this painful duty. In addition you will begin a new sampler, which I myself shall inspect every week. The verse you learn will be 'Blow, blow, thou winter wind! Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude.' "

What she went on to say was even more depressing.

"I have been discussing your future with Mr. Loring and we agree that you must now be prepared to earn your own living. After all, you cannot expect to live on our bounty forever. You have been allowed to be a companion for Esmeralda—not a very good influence alas and one which I have so often thought she would have been better without—but in a few years a husband will be found for her and she will have no further need of your companionship. Mr. Loring and I do not forget that you belong to the family and therefore we should not throw you out into the world indiscriminately. We shall find the right post for you at the right time, for it is inconceivable that any member of our family should take a menial position. Governess or companion is all we would consider. Our circle of acquaintances is large and we hope in due course to find the right post for you. It is not as simple as you might think, for we would not wish you to be in a household which we might visit. That could be most embarrassing. So you see we shall have to choose the place with the utmost care. Meanwhile, you should prepare yourself. Study hard. Work harder especially with your needlework. I'll speak to the governess about that. Then when Esmeralda comes out and marries we shall hope to have the post ready for you. Now I trust you are in a contrite mood. Take your punishment, for you richly deserve it, and go to your room. Mr. Loring will come to you there."

Poor Cousin William! I was sorry for him. He came gingerly holding a cane with which he was to chastise me. He hated the task. I had to lie face down on my bed while he lightly tapped the cane about my thighs, which made me want to laugh.

He was red in the face and uncomfortable. Then he said suddenly: "There, I trust that has taught you a lesson."

It was comforting to be able to laugh at Cousin William, for I was feeling very uneasy about the future.

That night was one of the occasions when I dreamed again about the room with the red carpet, from which I awoke with the feeling of doom.

The years sped away. My eighteenth birthday came and went. The time when I must go into the world and earn my own living was coming nearer and nearer. Esmeralda used to comfort me. She would say: "When I'm married, Ellen, you shall always have a home with me."

I didn't envy Esmeralda. It would have been impossible to do that. She was so mild; it was true she had grown a little pretty, but I couldn't help noticing that when we were out together it was at me that people glanced. My black hair and dark blue eyes were striking and my "inquiring" nose, as Philip called it, made it seem as though I was asking a question. But at least her future was secure. We saw it happening all around us: Girls coming out into society, marriages arranged for them, becoming matrons with young children. It was all most carefully planned.

It was different for those who had to fend for themselves, as I should have to.

There had been one or two minor incidents when I had aroused the indignation of Cousin Agatha, but nothing so startling as the visit to the market or setting fire to Carrington land. When we were in the country we had to do more social work. We visited the poor and took them what Cousin Agatha called "delicacies"—usually something which she would not consider worthy of her own table; we decorated the church for harvest festival just before we left for London; we went to the gymkhana and church bazaars, where we had our own stalls. We played the parts of helpers of Lady Bountiful and in town we rode in the Row and at Cousin Agatha's At Homes we helped pass round the refreshments; we sewed for the poor; we worked for the Tories; we walked sedately in the Park and lived the lives of genteel young ladies. But then there was a subtle change. It was nearing the time when Esmeralda should come out and we were beginning to be segregated. Esmeralda was taken to the theater with her parents, and I did not accompany them. Often she went visiting with her mother now and I was left behind. The dressmaker who over the years had taken up residence in the house for several weeks at a time when there were functions ahead now settled in for a spell and worked on lovely new clothes for Esmeralda. There was nothing extra for me—only one spring, summer, autumn and winter dress—one new one per year.

I could feel that vague doom coming nearer. It was as in the dream.

Esmeralda was a little bewildered; she disliked going anywhere without me, but I was rarely with her now except for those walks in the Park and the charity visits.

The Carringtons loomed large in our lives. They were Cousin Agatha's closest friends. Lady Emily's name was mentioned twenty times a day.

Philip was often a member of a family party and he, with Esmeralda, visited the theater with Cousin Agatha and Cousin Wil­liam. The play was Lady Windermere's Fan, which had been produced for the first time in February at the St. James's Theatre. I had heard that although it was a light comedy it sparkled with wit and amusing epigrams. I guessed that Esmeralda would not see the point of it.

I watched them leave in the carriage and I saw them come back. When Esmeralda came up I waylaid her and made her tell me about the play. She gave me a brief outline of the plot and she said that Philip had laughed the whole way through. They had had supper afterwards and it had been very jolly. She looked quite pretty in a powder-blue gown and her blue velvet cloak. I longed for such a cloak, but most of all to go to the theater and laugh with Philip.

The next day we walked in the Park with Nanny Grange, who was still with us. She would probably go with Esmeralda when she married to look after her children, for Cousin Agatha felt it was good to keep nannies in the family. One could then rely on their loyalty. Besides, all the best people did it.

Now that we were older Nanny Grange always walked a few sedate paces behind us like a watchdog and if any young men came near us she would quicken her pace and be there abreast of us. It always amused me.

That day we met Philip in the Park. He fell into stride beside us. This was quite legitimate and did not need Nanny's attention. He was after all a Carrington.

Philip said accusingly to me: "Why didn't you come to the play last night?"

"Nobody asked me," I replied.

"You mean to say ..." He stopped and looked at me. "No," he cried. "It can't be."

"But it is. Didn't you know I was the Poor Relation?"

"Oh, stop it, Ellen," wailed Esmeralda. "I can't bear you to talk like that."

"Whether you can bear it or not, my dear," I said, "it's true."

"When my parents return the visit to the theater I shall insist that you are included," Philip assured me.

"That's nice of you, Philip," I said, "but I wouldn't come where I wasn't wanted."

"Ass!" he said, and gave me a push just as he had when we were children.

I felt very pleased because at least Philip didn't see me as the Poor Relation.

There was going to be a grand dance. The folding doors of three rooms on the first floor were to be thrown open to make a fairly sizable ballroom which would be decorated with plants. It was in fact Esmeralda's coming-out ball. She was to have a very special gown in blue silk and lace. Tilly Parsons, the seamstress, thought it would take a week to make it. "All those tucks and frills, my word," she muttered.

I was to be allowed to go to the ball and for this I, too, was to have a new ball dress. I dreamed of deep blue chiffon which would heighten the color of my eyes; I saw myself floating round the ballroom and everyone calling me the belle of the ball. Esmeralda wouldn't mind that, being Esmeralda. She was very good-natured really and she had no desire for the role. She hated calling attention to herself.

Cousin Agatha sent for me. I might have known what it was about. After all, I was eighteen years old, and the threats which had haunted me all my childhood were not idle ones.

"Ah, Ellen. You may sit down."

I sat uneasily.

"You will realize of course that you are now of an age to go out into the world. Naturally I have done my best to place you and my efforts are now being rewarded. I have the post for you at last."

My heart started beating fast with apprehension.

"Mrs. Oman Lemming... the Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming ... is losing her governess in six months' time. I have spoken to her about you and she is willing to see you with the possibility of giving you the post."

"Mrs. Oman Lemming ..." I stammered.

"The Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming. She is the daughter of Lord Pillingsworth. I have known her well all my life. I had thought it would not be good for you to be in a house which we might visit, but these are very special circumstances. You will have to be discreet and keep out of the way if we should be there. Mrs. Oman Lemming will understand the delicacy of the situation, she is such a friend of mine. I have begged her to take tea with me, which she will do next week. While she is here she will have an opportunity of looking at you, and I trust you will, Ellen, be mindful of your duty, for if you should fail to please her it could be very difficult to place you. Such posts do not grow on trees, you know."

I was dumbfounded—quite unreasonably so. I had secretly never thought it would come to that. My absurd optimism would not let me believe it possible. But now here it was—my approaching doom. Six months away.

Cousin Agatha, who had clearly expected me to express my gratitude, sighed and lifted her shoulders.

"I should not wish you to go ill equipped and that brings me to the matter of your ball dress. I have chosen the material for you. Black is so serviceable and I am asking Tilly Parsons to make it in a style which will not date. There may be an occasion when you need such a dress. I should not like you to be without one."

I knew the sort of dress it would be. Suitable for a middle-aged woman. It was in any case a dress which was expected to last into my maturity. I felt uneasy.

When I met the Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming my worst fears were realized.

Like Cousin Agatha, she was a large woman with sweeping feathers in her hat and long tight gray kid gloves. A heavy gold chain descended the mountain of her bosom; a large brooch sparkled on her blouse. I could see a kindred spirit to Cousin Agatha, and my heart sank.

"This is Ellen Kellaway," said Cousin Agatha.

The Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming raised her lorgnette and studied me. I don't think she was very delighted with what she saw.

"She is very young," she commented. "But perhaps that is not a disadvantage."

"It is so much easier to mold the young to our ways, Letty," said Cousin Agatha, and I thought how incongruous the name sounded for such a militant-looking female.

"That's true, Agatha. But is she good with children?"

"I have to admit that she has had little experience of them, but she has been brought up with Esmeralda and shared her education."

The Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming bowed her head like some all-knowing oracle. I noticed that her eyes were too closely set together, and her mouth when she studied me was thin and cold. I disliked her on sight and the thought of becoming a member of her household in a certain menial capacity gave me no pleasure.

She turned to me then. "There are four children. Hester, the eldest, is fourteen; Claribel, eleven; James is eight and Henry, four. James will soon be going away to school and Henry will follow in due course. The girls will remain at home and it would be your duty—if I engage you—to teach them."

"I am sure," said Cousin Agatha, "that you will not find Ellen lacking in scholastic knowledge. Our governess told me that she was brighter than average."

Praise from Cousin Agatha for the first time in my life! But it only showed of course how eager she was to be rid of me.

It was arranged that in five months' time, one month before the present governess was due to leave, I should enter the Oman Lemming household and be instructed by the departing governess into my duties.

The thought depressed me more than I could say.

When we walked in the Park, Philip joined us. It was becoming a habit. The three of us walked together ahead of Nanny Grange.

"You look like thunder this morning," said Philip.

For once I found it difficult to speak and it was Esmeralda who got in first. "It's this wretched governessing."

"What?" cried Philip.

"Oh, you wouldn't know, but Mama is finding a place for Ellen. It's with the Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming."

"A place!" Philip stopped short to stare at me.

"You always knew I'd have to go someday. It's time I earned a living. It seems I've been living on charity too long. Even members of the Family can't expect that forever."

"You ... a governess!" Philip burst out laughing.

"If you find it amusing, I don't," I said tersely.

"The idea of your teaching! I could die of laughing."

"Very well, die! To me it is no laughing matter."

"Ellen really thinks something will turn up," said Esmeralda, "and so do I."

"Perhaps it will," I replied. "If I'm going to be a governess I'd rather find my own post and it wouldn't be with Mrs. Oman Lemming, I can tell you."

"Perhaps you'd find someone worse," soothed Esmeralda. "Do you remember old Miss Herron and that companion of hers?"

"I do and I can't believe she's any worse than the Honorable O.L."

"Never mind," said Philip, slipping his arm through mine, "I'll come and see you."

"That's kind of you, Philip," said Esmeralda softly.

"You'll forget all about me," I said angrily.

He didn't answer but he continued to hold my arm.

I became alarmed at the manner in which the days were flying past. There were sessions with Tilly Parsons while she fitted the ball dress. It was black, heavy velvet, and I had tussles with Tilly over the neckline. I wanted the dress low-cut and that was not according to Cousin Agatha's chosen pattern. By the time I had made Tilly pinch me in at the waist and recut the neckline the dress was slightly more presentable, but it was too old for me—as Cousin Agatha rightly said, it could be worn in twenty years' time and still be presentable because it had that one essential quality—it would never date. No, I had responded sharply, it had never had a date, that dress, and it never would have one, I imagined.

Nanny Grange was sad. This was breaking up with her charges, the fate she said which came to all of her kind. "They come to you as babies, you do everything for them and then they grow up."

"Well, Nanny," I said, "you don't expect them to stay children all their lives just so that you can carry out your duties."

"It's sad," she retorted. "Time passes though. And when Miss Esmeralda gets her babies I'll go with her. And that, if I know anything about it, won't be so very long. Poor Miss Esmeralda, she'll need someone to look after her."

It was through Rosie that I heard the gossip. She got it from her coachman.

"Oh, there's been some conferences going on over there as well as here. My word, they're planning an early wedding. Young people are impatient, they say. I laughed to my Harry. 'Impatient!' I said. 'Why, my Miss Esmeralda don't know what she's got to be impatient about!'"

"You mean they're planning Esmeralda's wedding?"

"To Philip," whispered Rosie. "Of course they would have liked the other one for her."

"You mean the elder brother."

"That's him. That Rollo."

"Why don't they try for him?"

Rosie pressed her lips together to indicate that she knew something which she was longing to tell me but was well aware she shouldn't. I calculated that a little persuasion was going to be necessary and that if I worked hard and long enough I would eventually discover what it was. I did.

"Well, it was about a year ago.... Such a to-do there was... in the family of course. Outside it was very secret. Oh, very."

"What, Rosie, what?"

"It was like this: Mr. Rollo got married... runaway match, they say. There was a lot of talk, all behind closed doors and the doors are thick oak in Park Lane, I can tell you."

I nodded sympathetically. "But you did find out..."

"Well, little things came out. They ran away together... elopement and all that... and the family not too pleased. Then Mr. Rollo persuaded them that it was all right and they all got reconciled. But we never saw her. That was what was odd. It was just said that Mr. Rollo was abroad with his wife.... Very funny it was, for she was never seen at the house. Then we found out why... ."

"Why, Rosie?"

"It seems there was something wrong with the marriage. Mr. Rollo had made a terrible mistake. She's somewhere but she don't come to the house."

"Then he's still married to her?"

"Of course he's still married to her and that's why they've got to have Mr. Philip for Miss Esmeralda."

I thought a great deal about Rollo. I had always considered there was something unusual about him and that nothing ordinary could happen to him. It seemed I had been right.

A week or so passed. There had been a visit to the theater with the Carringtons and to my delight I was a member of the party. Philip had kept his word but Cousin Agatha was most put out. "I cannot think why Lady Emily should have included Ellen," I heard her comment. "It's really quite unsuitable, considering that she will soon be working more or less in our own circle. It could give rise to embarrassment. I wonder whether I should speak to Lady Emily."

How I disliked her, far more than I ever had before, and that dislike was largely because of my fear of the future.

I tried not to think about it, but my habit of thrusting aside the unpleasant and deluding myself into the belief that it would never happen was not quite so successful as usual.

The play was the second of Oscar Wilde's productions—A Woman of No Importance—and we went to the Haymarket Theatre to see it. I was greatly excited by the performance of Mr. Tree and between the acts I discussed the play animatedly with Philip and Mr. Carrington, for I was sitting between them.

I noticed that Cousin Agatha was regarding me with intense disapproval, but I didn't care. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The mysterious Rollo was not present and Esmeralda on the other side of Philip said very little.

The next day Cousin Agatha took me to task.

"You talk far too much, Ellen," she told me. "It's a habit you will have to learn to repress. I think Mr. Carrington was a little put out."

"He didn't seem so at all," I couldn't help retorting. "He was most pleasant and appeared to be interested in what I had to say."

"My dear Ellen," said Cousin Agatha in a tone implying that I was anything but dear, "he is a gentleman, and therefore would not dream of expressing his disapproval. I really think Lady Emily was a little unwise to issue the invitation in view of your position. I must again ask you to remember to assume a more modest role in future."

Whatever she said she could not take the joy of that evening from me, and I was sure that Mr. Carrington had been rather amused by my comments and by the manner in which Philip and I disagreed with each other. As for Lady Emily, I had discovered that she was rather vague and she probably wasn't sure that I was the one who was having my last fling before I entered the gray world of governessing.

The night of the dance was fast approaching.

The three large rooms known as the drawing rooms on the first floor were opened up and made a rather fine ballroom. There were balconies in all rooms and these gave a view of the Park on one side and of gardens and some rather fine buildings on the other. Evergreen plants grew in elaborate containers on the balconies and when the rooms were decorated with flowers the effect was charming.

There was to be a buffet supper taken in the dining room, now equipped with little tables; and there was a group of six musicians who would play for the dancing and continue with soothing music during supper. There was to be no expense spared because this was after all Esmeralda's coming-out dance and Cousin Agatha wanted all to know, and in particular the Carringtons—as if they did not already—that Esmeralda's parents were very comfortably placed in life and a good dowry could be expected.

I was caught up in the excitement although I was not entirely pleased with my dress. Black was not one of my colors and the dress was severe and only just managed to creep into the ball-dress category. When I saw Esmeralda's beautiful concoction of frills and lace in a lovely sea blue that was almost green I was filled with envy. It was just the dress I should have loved. But of course it wasn't serviceable and would not stand up to the years as my velvet would.

The night before the ball I had dreamed once more of the room with the red carpet. There I was standing near the fireplace, and I heard the whispering voices as I always did. On this occasion they seemed nearer and then suddenly that feeling of doom overtook me and I was staring at the door—and this was new—it started to open. A terrible fear possessed me then. I could not take my eyes from that door. Very slowly it moved and I knew that whatever it was I dreaded was behind it.

Then I woke up. I was trembling and sweating with fear. It had been a very vivid dream. It always was but on this occasion the overtaking doom had come a little nearer.

I sat up in bed. How silly to be so scared by a dream and a dream of nothing really... just a room.

I saw then that the door of my wardrobe had come open and I fancied a figure swayed there. I felt the horror come sweeping back over me. Then I saw that it was the black ball dress hanging there. I must have omitted to fasten the door securely.

I lay back and admonished myself. It was only a dream. But why did I go on dreaming this same frightened dream year after year?

I tried to shake off that feeling of approaching disaster. How could I? It was six weeks since I had been interviewed by Mrs. Oman Lemming; the time was approaching.

But this coming night would be that of the dance. True, I only had a black gown which I didn't like, but it was adequate. I loved to dance. I was so much more adept than Esmeralda, who had little sense of rhythm. I would put the thought of Mrs. Oman Lemming from my mind.

During that morning a little box arrived, and to my amazement it was addressed to me. Rose brought it up; she had taken it in at the servants' entrance.

"Look at this, Miss Ellen," she said. "It's for you. My word, admirers, is it!"

And there it was nestling into its protective box, a most beautiful and delicate orchid with a pinkish mauve merging tinge. It was just the decoration I needed to liven up my black dress.

I thought, It's from Esmeralda! and hurried to thank her.

She looked blank. "I wish I'd thought of it, Ellen. It is just right for your dress. I thought there'd be flowers for anyone who wanted them."

"But not for poor relations," I responded; I was not bitter with Esmeralda, who was always most kind, just happy because I had my orchid.

I enjoyed trying to think who had sent it to me. I thought it must be Cousin William Loring because I had fancied he was a little uneasy at my going away to work for Mrs. Oman Lemming and Rose told me that she had heard him say to the mistress that there was no need for me to go.

"He rather suggested that when Esmeralda married she might like to take you with her as a sort of companion and secretary perhaps because once Philip gets into his stride he is going to have a very busy life and his wife will have to do a great deal of entertaining. I don't think he liked the idea of your going but She was firm about it."

So it seemed very likely that the orchid had come from kind Cousin William.

It was beautiful and there was no doubt that it transformed my dress. I no longer felt dowdy. Esmeralda gave me a pin with a small solitary diamond with which to hold it in place. I dressed with special care, piling my hair high on my head. I thought I looked quite elegant.

Esmeralda looked pretty in her magnificent gown but she was nervous, very conscious that she was the reason for the ball's being given and she was apprehensive at the notion of receiving a proposal.

"I wish we didn't have to grow up, Ellen," she said. It was clear that the prospect of a grand marriage appalled her. "They all think I'm going to marry Philip, but I never thought he liked me very much. After all, he did push me into the Serpentine."

"That was when we were children. Men often fall in love with girls they've not noticed when they were children."

"But he did notice me... enough to push me into the water."

"Well, if you don't want to marry him you can always say no."

"But you see, Mama wants it and ..."

I nodded. What she wanted she usually got.

I comforted her. Her father would be on her side, so there was no reason why she should marry anyone if she didn't want to.

I had received instructions a few days before from Cousin Agatha. "You will make yourself useful, Ellen. In the supper room make sure that people are well served. Keep your eyes especially on Lady Emily, and see that she is well looked after. I shall find one or two gentlemen to whom I shall introduce you, and perhaps they may ask you to dance."

I could visualize the evening. Ellen the Poor Relation—in somber black to distinguish her from the real guests. "Ellen, do tell Wilton we need more salmon." Or "Ellen, poor old Mr. Something is sitting alone. Come and let me introduce you. He may ask you to dance." And there would be Ellen stumbling round with rheumaticky old Mr. Something when her feet longed to be gliding over the floor with a kindred spirit.

How different it was. Not at all what I had dreaded. Right from the first Philip was beside me.

"So you received my orchid," he said.

"Yours!"

"No one else would send you flowers, I hope."

I laughed, for he and I had always been special friends.

We danced together. I wondered if Cousin Agatha noticed and hoped so. How well our steps fitted! I knew they did because we used to dance together in the country—jigs we made up as we went along.

"Did you know I was here tonight as the Poor Relation?" I asked.

"What does that mean?"

"That I have to keep my eyes open for neglected guests."

"That's all right. You keep your eyes on me, for if you don't I shall feel very neglected."

"And you... one of the Carringtons!" I mocked.

"But only a younger son."

"Is Great Rollo here tonight?"

"Great Rollo is far away. He's hardly ever here."

"That makes you the catch of the season, I suppose."

"Listen," he said. "Let's talk. I've a good deal to say to you. Where can we get away to be quiet?"

"There are one or two smaller rooms on this floor. They have been set aside for private conversations."

"Let's go then."

"Ought you, or more important still, ought I? Cousin Agatha's eagle eyes will be searching for me soon if she has some aging gentleman who might care to amble round the floor with me."

"All the more reason why you should escape."

"Is this a game? We are not fourteen any more, remember."

"Thank heaven for that, and it's deadly serious."

"Is something wrong?"

"It could be quite the reverse, but I must talk to you, Ellen."

We sat in one of the small rooms in which were pots of plants, a settee and a few chairs. I sat on the settee and Philip was beside me.

"Ellen," he said, "I've been hearing things. Your servants talk to ours and ours to yours. These people know as much of our affairs as we do ourselves. More perhaps. The whispers indicate that you are indeed going away to be a governess to those odious Oman Lemming children."

"I've told you it's true."

"I didn't really believe it. You ... a governess!"

"The only occupation for a young lady of some gentility, education and no money."

"But why... after all these years?"

"Cousin Agatha was doing her duty to the defenseless child. Now the child has become a woman and must fend for herself, so she is being given a gentle but very firm push into the cruel world."

"We'll put a stop to that. We're not having you governessing to that woman. She's poisonous."

I turned to him abruptly and my fear of the future suddenly enveloped me in earnest.

He took me by the shoulders and, laughing, held me against him. "Ellen, you idiot, do you think I'd ever let you go?"

"What authority would you have to stop me?"

"The best of all authority. Of course you're not going to be governess to that woman's children! I happen to know they're terrors. I always meant it would be us two, Ellen. You and I are going to get married. That's the answer. I always meant we should."

"You... marry me! But you're going to marry Esmeralda. It's all arranged. That's what this dance is for."

"What nonsense!"

"That's where you're wrong. This dance is for Esmeralda, and I have it on good authority that during it or after it, they are hoping to announce your engagement to her."

"They say hope springs eternal in the human breast. But 'they,' by whom I presume you mean the Lorings, are going to find they have made a mistake. Engagement yes, but to Ellen not Esmeralda."

"You mean you'd announce your engagement to me tonight?"

"Of course. I always had a sense of the dramatic. You know that."

"What will your parents say?"

"They'll be delighted."

"To accept me! You're joking."

"I am not" He looked very serious. "My father likes you. He said you were amusing and he likes to be amused."

"And Lady Emily?"

"She'll like you too. She wants me to be happy above all else."

Perhaps, but they can't possibly want me as your wife."

"That's where you're wrong. I've hinted to them and they're full of approval. They think I ought to get married soon."

I just did not believe it. I was quite bewildered. Philip had always liked to joke. Of course Philip and I had always been the best of friends, to the exclusion of Esmeralda; he had always expressed disappointment when I did not appear at the social gatherings Cousin Agatha arranged. I should have known; I wasn't in love with him. I couldn't be, because I had imagined his marriage to Esmeralda without any great sorrow. The fact was that Cousin Agatha had so impressed on me my inferior status and the glory of the Carringtons that I could never imagine myself marrying into that family—even to Philip. Now it excited me, not, alas, so much because of Philip—whom I liked very much of course—but because marriage with him would mean that I did not have to take up the post of governess with the odious Mrs. Oman Lemming and her brood, who, I was sure, were as unpleasant as she was. Chiefly perhaps I was savoring the triumph of being the chosen one. The sight of Cousin Agatha's face if our engagement were announced would compensate me for years of humiliation, and I would have been inhuman not to relish the thought. As for Esmeralda, for whom I had an affection, she would not be in the least displeased. She had never wanted a Carrington marriage and she had insisted that Philip despised her ever since he had pushed her into the Serpentine.

"Well," said Philip. "You seem at a loss for words. It's the first time I've ever known you so."

"It's the first time I have ever had a proposal of marriage."

"We'll have fun together, Ellen."

I looked at him and believed we would.

"I hadn't thought of you as a husband," I said.

"Why ever not? I thought it was obvious."

"You never mentioned it."

"Well, I'm mentioning it now." He took my hands in his and kissed me. "Well," he said. "What now?"

"Give me time," I said. "I have to get used to the idea."

"You're not getting coy, are you? That's not like you."

"Look at it from my point of view. I came here expecting an announcement of Esmeralda's engagement."

"To me!"

"Of course to you. Cousin Agatha had set her heart on a Carrington son-in-law. And what she sets her heart on she usually gets."

"She'll have to put up with one as cousin-in-law."

"Second... several times removed."

"Well, who cares about her anyway?"

"I'm liking you more every minute."

He put his arm about me. "It's going to be fun, Ellen. There's going to be no more of this poor-relation stuff. When I heard about that governessing project I knew I had to take action. The family want me to marry. They've been on about it for some time. I think what they want is grandchildren and it doesn't seem as if Rollo is going to have any sons or even daughters."

"Why not?"

"Oh... it's a bit complicated. His wife's a bit... strange. I'll tell you sometime. But it means the family is very anxious for me to marry."

"You'll be a young husband."

"You'll be an even younger wife."

I was getting used to the idea and liking it more. I had to start thinking of my old friend Philip as a husband. It was not difficult. I was beginning to enjoy myself.

Philip was telling me how he had always loved me although when we were children he hadn't thought of it as love. He had merely enjoyed being with me. When he came to the country the first thing he thought of was whether I would be there. "They were good times we had together, Ellen," he said.

He went on to talk of what our life would be. We would travel a great deal. It would be necessary for his business. Rollo did most of it, but he was going to help him. It would be great fun, he told me. We would go out to India and Hong Kong and stay there for a while. He was learning about his father's business and I could help him in this because when we were in London we should have to entertain a good deal.

He was opening out a glittering vista to me. We would have an establishment of our own in London not far from the parental home. He would see that I was introduced to the most exclusive dressmaker. "You'll be stunning in the right clothes, Ellen," he told me. "You're a beauty, you know, only it's never shown to advantage."

"Cousin Agatha insists on hiding my light under a bushel," I said. "I'm the sort to let it shine forth."

"So it should do. My God, Ellen, it's going to be wonderful."

"Yes," I said. "I do believe it is."

Then he held me against him and we laughed together.

"Who'd have thought it?" I murmured. "After the way you used to bully me!"

"It was latent love," he told me.

"Was it really?"

"You know it was. I must have decided years ago that I was going to marry you."

"One of those secret decisions... secret even to yourself," I said. "You were terribly critical of me."

"That was a symbol of my feelings."

"What would your praise be?"

"Wait and see."

I was happy. It was the old bantering relationship and the prospects he was offering me were brilliant.

"You know I shall bring no dowry."

"I'll take you without."

"You'd get a good one, you know, with Esmeralda."

"I'm not tempted. It has to be Ellen or no one."

I put my arms about his neck and kissed him heartily; it had to be at that moment that Cousin Agatha appeared.

"Ellen!" Her voice was shrill with mingled disbelief and righteous anger.

I broke away from Philip and stood up uneasily.

"What are you doing here? This is disgraceful. I shall talk to you later. In the meantime guests are being neglected."

"Not all of them," said Philip cheekily. He had always liked to disconcert Cousin Agatha and he invariably did, because she wanted to be indignant with him but how could she be so with a Carrington?

I said: "I'll go and see what I can do."

I wanted to get away because I still could not believe that Philip was really serious. He tried to take my hand, but I was away too quickly. I wondered what he said to Cousin Agatha. Later he told me that she made a remark about the weather, which of course she would consider the very height of good taste and subtle diplomacy in changing the subject.

I was in a whirl. I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes brilliant. I decided that the black gown was not so unbecoming after all.

Then Mr. Carrington asked me to dance with him and I did. I found him courteous and charming. We talked about the play we had seen together and I sat out with him afterwards. It was not long before Philip joined us.

"She's said yes, Father," he told Mr. Carrington.

Mr. Carrington nodded, smiling. He took my hand and pressed it. "I am very happy," he said. "You seem to me a remarkable young woman."

"We'll announce it at supper," said Philip. "You can do it, Father. Better not let Mother. She'll forget who's to be the bride and before I know where I am I'll be partnered off with someone most unsuitable."

Philip and I danced together. It was the waltz and our steps fitted perfectly. Had we not gone to dancing classes together?

"Your Cousin Agatha is glaring like a gorgon," he informed me.

"Let her," I answered. "That particular gorgon has now no power to turn me to stone nor even into a governess."

"Ellen, I fancy you're rather pleased with life."

"I know just how Cinderella felt when she went to the ball."

"I must make a delightful Prince Charming."

"He rescued her from the ashes. You've rescued me from Cousin Agatha and the Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming, who are far more deadly."

"Remember it, Ellen. I shall remind you over the next fifty years."

"And after that?"

"I shall have brought you to such a state of gratitude that you will never need to be reminded. That'll take care of the next twenty years."

"How odd to think of us... old."

"A fate to which we all must come, even my divine Ellen."

"Oh, Philip, I'm happy. Life is going to be so... amusing, isn't it?"

"Just imagine us together with no Nanny Grange hovering to observe decorum and silly little Esmeralda trailing on."

"Don't be unkind to Esmeralda. You're fond of her really, and she is very dear to me. Don't forget she's lost a bridegroom tonight."

"They couldn't have been serious about that."

"Why not? They wanted her married. Your parents evidently wanted you married. Two families governed by financial wizards! What could be better than a merger? And you have spoilt it all by preferring the Poor Relation."

"You're the one who's spoilt it. Who could look at Esmeralda with you around?"

When the waltz was over he took me to my seat and Philip talked about the future, but I was too absorbed in the glorious present to think very much about it. And when we went in to supper, Mr. Carrington made the announcement to the company. He said how pleased he was to tell them all that this was a very special occasion for his family because his son Philip had confided in him that he had asked for the hand of a young lady who had promised to be his wife. He wanted everyone to drink to the health and future happiness of Miss Ellen Kellaway and his son Philip.

What a hush there was in the dining room, where the great table was so expertly dressed by Wilton and his minions, laden with cold salmon, meats of all descriptions, salads and desserts, and the black-gowned white-capped-and-aproned staff stood at intervals like sentries waiting to serve. All eyes were on me. I knew that some of the stern dowagers were thinking: But it was to be Esmeralda, and if not Esmeralda, were not their own daughters far more eligible than Agatha Loring's Poor Relation?

And there was I in my simple black gown made beautiful by Philip's orchid, just as I was made attractive because I was the chosen one. I knew my eyes were shining, my cheeks faintly flushed; and I sensed that Philip was proud of me. He gripped my hand firmly. Yes, I was happy as I had rarely been. It was a miracle. Mrs. Oman Lemming faded away as a nightmare does by day. She and her establishment were just an evil dream. No more humiliation. It was ironical. I, the despised, was to be one of the Carringtons. And there was Philip beside me, metaphorically fitting the glass slipper on my foot and proclaiming me as the one he had chosen.

Lady Emily wafted up to me and kissed me on the ear. I think she had meant it to be my cheek but she always missed the point; then Mr. Carrington took my hand and kissed it and his smile was warm and welcoming. Esmeralda came up and threw her arms about me. Dear Esmeralda! Even though she had not wanted to marry Philip she might have felt a little piqued to be passed over. Not she! She could see that I was happy, and she was contented too.

Philip and I sat together with his parents. Cousin Agatha and Cousin William Loring eventually joined us with Esmeralda. It was a kind of ritual—the two families together to celebrate the happy event. Cousin Agatha tried bravely to hide the fury in her heart and I had to admit she contrived to do so very well. But when I met her gaze once it was quite venomous.

Mr. Carrington said he thought there should be no unnecessary delay. Once two people had made up their minds and there was no reason why they should hesitate, they should marry.

When I said good night to Philip he said he would call next day. We had so many plans to make and he agreed with his father that there should be no delay.

I went to my room. I took off my serviceable ball gown. I would always keep it, I promised myself, even when I had magnificent Carrington ball gowns. I laughed to myself remembering the awe in which this household had always held that name. And now it was to be mine.

While combing my hair the door opened and Cousin Agatha came in. She was breathing deeply and was clearly holding her emotions in check.

She looked magnificent in her way—massive bosom heaving and her jewels glittering. She ought to have had a bowl of poison in one hand, a dagger in the other, and asked me to choose. It was her eyes which were daggers; her voice from which the poison dripped.

"Well," she said, "you have made a fine fool of us all."

I was in my petticoats, my hair about my shoulders.

"I?" I cried. I could not resist adding a little maliciously: "Why, I thought you would be pleased. It gets me off your hands!"

"You have suddenly grown innocent. I will admit you have done very well for yourself. You must have known all this time, and poor Esmeralda has been thinking that it would be her wedding which would be announced."

"I don't think she is disappointed."

"Ingratitude! Not that you have ever shown anything else. From the moment you entered this house you caused trouble. You are wicked and I am sorry for the Carringtons."

Why did I always want to incense her even further than I already had? But I did, and now I felt secure. I thought, I'll tell Philip about this. And then I was exultant because in the future I would have him to share things with. And I knew for the first time how very alone I had felt before.

"You have always led me to believe that the Carringtons are the most important family in London," I said. "I scarcely think they will want your pity."

"They do not seem to realize the... the ..."

"Viper you have been nursing in your bosom?" I suggested, rather insolently I'm afraid, but I was intoxicated with my success.

"Pray do not try me too far. You have betrayed our trust in you."

"I know such a marriage was not what you intended for me," I said. "And to be governess for the Oman Lemming children was not what I wanted for myself. Fate has intervened, and has raised me from the status of Poor Relation, which I can assure you, Cousin Agatha, has sometimes been hard to bear."

"When I think of all I did for you ... I took you into my home... ."

"Because you made a solemn promise to my grandmother."

"Because you were of the family."

"Though the connection was not strong," I added.

She clenched her fists. She knew she was beaten. I was too flushed with victory that night.

She turned and said: "You are a schemer. I might have known it with such a mother!"

And with that she went out, which was just as well, for if she had remained, heaven knew what I would have said to her.

How life had changed for me! I had laughed in the past about the importance of the Carringtons and had imagined that Cousin Agatha had admired them so because they were more wealthy than she was and the leaders of a social set into which she wished to climb. It was more than that. Josiah Carrington was not only a banker and financier of great standing in the City, he was also adviser to the government and a power in diplomatic circles. His eldest son Rollo was following in his footsteps close behind and Philip was limping along in the right direction. Lady Emily, the daughter of an earl, was most highly connected and had before her marriage had a place at Court. Cousin William Loring, although comfortably off, was small fry in comparison; it was for this reason that marriage into the family had been considered such an advantage and even the younger son Philip a very ripe and desirable plum.

That I, the outcast, the Poor Relation, should have won the prize was almost comical. Rose told me that belowstairs the staff were "laughing their heads off." They were glad because they had never thought much of Cousin Agatha and they relished this "smack in the eye," as they called it, which Master Philip had administered.

I marveled at the knowledge of those belowstairs; there was little of what went on above that they missed, as I had reason to know. It was amusing to me to have Rose as a go-between.

Philip was a great favorite, Rose told me. He'd always been full of fun and mischief. Mr. Rollo was different. Very cold and aloof he was; and since that mysterious marriage of his had been very touchy, Rose reckoned. Mr. Carrington was a good master. He was always off here and there, always pulling off this and that big deal. And Lady Emily, she was well liked but seemed to be always in a dream. Never knew the housemaid from the parlormaid and the cook swore she didn't know the difference between her and the butler. Nevertheless, she was one of those mistresses who are not ill liked. You'd never find her poring over the household accounts or querying the price of this and that. Carringtons' was a good place to be in.

Philip and I would not be going into it, but we were going to have a house nearby and we would of course use the country mansion when we wanted it as all the family did.

There would be the fun of choosing the house and Philip said we would set about it right away. I had to keep assuring myself I hadn't imagined the whole thing. There was I, who had never been sure of my room, with a house all my own! The news had quickly come out and because Philip was a Carrington we were photographed for the society papers.

I felt as if I were indeed dreaming. There was a big picture of me in the Tatler. "Miss Ellen Kellaway, who is to marry Mr. Philip Carrington. Miss Kellaway lives with her guardians, Mr. and Mrs. Loring of Knightsbridge, and Mr. Carrington is, of course, the second son of Mr. Josiah Carrington."

I had taken on new status. Esmeralda was delighted. She embraced me and said how happy she was, for she could see I was in my element.

"Of course," she said, "it was obvious all the time. He always liked you. You two were always the allies. Philip thought I was silly."

"He always really liked you," I said to comfort her.

"He despises me," she retorted. "Of course I wasn't adventurous like you. You two went so well together. You liked the same things. It's right, I know, Ellen. You'll be ever so happy."

I kissed her. "You are a dear, Esmeralda. Are you sure you don't really love Philip?"

"Quite sure," she answered emphatically. "I was terrified that he would ask me to marry him and I'd have to say yes because that was what Mama wanted. And then it all turned out this way!"

"I don't think your mother is very pleased."

"Well, I am," she said. "Oh, Ellen, I was dreading it."

Cousin Agatha had got over the first shock and was swallowing her disappointment. I wondered whether she was consoling herself that even a Poor Relation's link was better than none.

"Of course," she said, "you will have to have some clothes. We can't have people saying that we kept you short."

I said: "Don't worry, Cousin Agatha. Philip is not concerned in the least with my clothes and perhaps when I'm married he'll buy some for me."

"You talk like an idiot. Don't you realize that from now on you are going to be the cynosure of all eyes? People are going to try to discover what he sees in you." Her nose twitched to imply she could clearly not provide the answer to this conundrum. "You will have to be suitably clad. There will be functions... dinner parties and then of course the bride dress."

"We don't want a lot of ceremony."

"You don't want it. You forget you will be marrying into the Carrington family." Again that twitch of the nose. "It's true, he is only a younger son. But, of course, a Carrington. When you are married you will be required to mix in certain circles. I doubt not you will wish Esmeralda, who has been your companion since childhood, to stay with you now and then."

I felt suddenly powerful. It was a marvelous feeling. I couldn't resist smiling benignly on Cousin Agatha and saying graciously that I hoped Esmeralda would be a frequent guest at my house.

I'm happy, I thought. I'm gloriously happy. Everything has changed. Talk about Cinderella! Fancy Philip's being my fairy godmother! I suppose this is being in love.

"I couldn't have people saying that we had not given you of the best," she went on. "This strange thing has happened and unless Philip changes his mind it seems that you will marry into the family. You will always remember of course your amazing good luck and whence it came. No doubt you will feel gratitude towards those who cared for you and but for whom you would never have been presented with this golden opportunity."

I let her talk on. Happiness had made me more generous, and it seemed a small compensation for her disappointment. Fortunately I was never of a vindictive nature and could quickly forget the slights and indignities of my childhood.

"I'm afraid Tilly will not be capable of coping with what we shall need. She could make a housedress or so perhaps. Lady Emily may wish you to go to her couturiere. You will need a very elegant going-away dress and of course there is the wedding dress. I was speaking to your cousin Mr. Loring about it only a short while ago. He is willing to foot the bills so that you may step into your new life with grace. After all, as I said to him, it will reflect on us, and we have Esmeralda's future to think of."

I was scarcely listening. So many exciting things were happening.

Philip was always calling at the house. We rode together in the Row. I had a new riding habit—a present from Mr. Loring, prodded no doubt by Cousin Agatha because riding in the Row made one very prominent. We were constantly being photographed.

"What a bore," said Philip. "Who wants all this? I just want us to get away together."

He was very happy and it was wonderful to know that he was so much in love with me. He teased me and bantered with me just as he always had; and we were constantly engaged, it seemed, in our verbal battle, which was a delight to us both. I was nineteen, he was nearly twenty-one, and life seemed good to us. I don't think he knew very much more of the world than I did, which was precious little. Sometimes, though, it is better to know little of what the future has in store.

It was pleasant to be welcomed by his family. Lady Emily's vagueness was rather charming and she confided in me once that she was looking forward to the little babies we would have. She liked to talk a great deal in a rambling fashion. There had always been boys in the Carrington family, she told me. She had had Rollo a year after her marriage and then there was a long gap before Philip arrived. Two very different boys they were. "Rollo used to frighten me sometimes, my dear. He was so clever. Philip was not like that."

It was a Carrington tradition to have boys, and in view of Rollo's misfortune in marriage Philip and I were to be the ones to produce the all-important male Carringtons. There was a certain implication that Philip and I should not delay too long before producing the first grandson.

The thought of having a baby thrilled me and there was not a cloud in my sky during those first weeks after the dance. I think I really believed it would go on like that forever.

We went down to the country for a week as the Carringtons wanted to celebrate our engagement among their friends there. I had always been attracted by the house from the first moment I had seen it, but now that I was to be a member of the family and it would occasionally be my home too, I was more than ever excited by it.

Trentham Towers was an old mansion dating back to Tudor times, although a great deal of reconstruction had been done on it during later periods. Built on a hill, it looked imperiously down on the countryside in what I had thought of as a true Carrington manner. But since I had been taken into the family I realized I had maligned them. It was Cousin Agatha who had given me my opinion of them. No family could have welcomed me more warmly, which was really very remarkable considering the circles in which they moved.

I told Philip I wanted to look over the house and, catching my excitement, as he often did about something which in the ordinary way would have been of little interest to him (it was one of his most endearing characteristics), he was delighted to show me. I was familiar with the gardens, which I had explored thoroughly during my childhood, and it was the house which interested me.

He took me through the great hall to the chapel, then to the dining room, where the portraits of his mother's family were displayed.

After that he led me down a stone spiral staircase and, throwing open a heavy oak door, he explained: "This is the old armory. It's now our gun room."

"What a lot of weapons!" I cried. "I hope they're just for ornament."

He laughed at me. "They're used now and then during the season. I'm a crack shot, I can tell you."

"I hate shooting things," I said vehemently.

"I don't suppose you mind partaking of a succulent pheasant now and then," he said. He had opened a case lined with red satin, in which was a silver-gray pistol and a place for another.

"Isn't that a beauty?" he demanded.

"I'd scarcely call it that."

"That's your ignorance, my darling."

"Where's the other one? There should be two, shouldn't there?"

"Oh, that's in a safe place."

"What do you mean by that?"

"What if I'm alone in a wing of the house? Stealthy footsteps creeping along the corridor. The door opens slowly and in comes a man in a mask. He's going to steal the silver, the pictures, the family treasure. What do I do? I feel under my pillow. I draw out my pistol. 'Hands up, villain,' I cry. And what happens? What can he do against me and my little beauty? The family treasure is saved and all because of this." He touched the pistol lovingly before he closed the case.

"You don't really keep a pistol under your pillow, do you, Philip?"

"Until we are married, yes. After that I shall have you to protect me."

"You are an idiot," I said. "And I don't like these guns and things. Let's continue exploring."

"Your wish is law," answered Philip. "Come on."

I loved the old butteries and storing houses. I was enchanted by the room in which Queen Elizabeth was reputed to have slept; there was even the four-poster bed which she was said to have used. The most delightful room was the solarium with its sunny aspect. It was here that I turned to Philip and said: "When shall I meet Rollo's wife?"

Philip looked uneasy. "We don't meet her. We don't even talk about her. It's the most unfortunate thing and so unlike Rollo. One couldn't imagine him involved in anything like that. He's always been so wrapped up in the business... finance and all that... every bit as much as my father... perhaps more. They're always dashing about the world, discussing the market. It seemed to me that they didn't think about anything else. And then to marry like that!"

"It was a hasty marriage then?"

"It must have been. I didn't hear anything about it until it was a fait accompli. Then after the honeymoon he found out."

"Found out what?"

"I never heard the details. I just knew she wasn't the sort who could mix in society ... his sort of society. She wasn't one of us. She would be a hindrance in his career. There was also a rumor that she drank too much."

"And this didn't come out until after?"

"I suppose so... or he wouldn't have married her."

"I should have thought some of it would have been obvious. Not being able to meet people, for instance."

"Well, he must have been infatuated with her. It's a common enough story. He married in haste and when all the excitement wore off he realized his mistake."

"It seems so odd that that should have happened to him. He seems the last person to be carried away by his emotions."

"People are often not what you think. You're sure you know someone and then you find they do the last thing you'd expect them to. That's how it was with Rollo. In any case it was a ghastly mistake and he keeps her out of the way. She lived in this house at one time. He engaged a companion for her. But it was difficult with the family coming down as they did. So now she's somewhere else."

"Where?"

"I don't know. We don't talk of it. It's Rollo's affair. He wants it that way."

"He must be very unhappy."

"You never know with Rollo. But don't speak of it to my mother. It upsets her. Everyone's upset by it ... most of all Rollo, of course, but he doesn't show it much. He never did show his feelings."

"I wonder what she feels like... being kept away from the family... knowing that they're ashamed of her."

"She probably doesn't care. People like that can be insensitive."

"You said she was once in this house."

"Yes, for a while Rollo kept her here. There was a very good woman who looked after her... and then when it seemed impossible ... they left here."

"I'd like to see the rooms she occupied."

"Whatever for?"

"I've just a feeling I'd like to."

"They're right at the top."

"Come on," I commanded. "Show me."

We mounted the oak staircase with its delicately carved banisters, and came almost to the top of the house. A spiral staircase took us right there. These lacked the lofty ceilings of the lower rooms and were much smaller. There were four of them together—a sort of apartment with connecting doors. Two of these were bedrooms. One for Rollo's wife, I thought. One for her companion.

I am sensitive about dwellings and as I stood savoring the atmosphere I fancied I could detect suffering in these. I shivered, and Philip said : "You're cold."

"No, just a shiver."

"Why are you shivering then?"

"Someone walked over my grave, as they say."

"Let's go down."

"Not just yet. I want to linger awhile. I wonder what she felt like up here. Perhaps she was trying to be different so that Rollo and his family wouldn't be ashamed of her."

"Come on. Let's go down. You're running on again. I can't tell you anything more about her. We don't talk of her. She's Rollo's affair."

"Hers too," I reminded him. I went to the bed and touched the quilt, then the back of a chair. She had lived with these things. I wanted to know about her, to see her. Perhaps I could talk to her, help her in some way.

We don't talk about these things, Philip had said. But that was the Carrington way of life. When something was unpleasant you pretended it didn't exist. I could never be like that and I couldn't stop thinking about Rollo's wife.

While we were in the country Philip insisted we go to Dead Man's Leap. We walked through the woods together and came to the spot near the path where there was a wooden seat. We sat down and Philip said: "It brings it all back, doesn't it? It'll always be one of my favorite places. You were a bit scared to come here alone, admit it, Ellen."

"Well, just a bit."

"I was a beast to make you."

"You were a horrid little beast quite often."

"But you were such a know-it-all that you had to be brought down a peg or two sometimes. It does seem a bit weird here, doesn't it?"

"I wonder how many people have sat on this seat and thought about jumping over."

"If rumor's true, quite a number."

Philip stood up to go to stand at the edge of the path as he used to.

"Come back," I shouted.

He obeyed, laughing. "Why, Ellen, you're really scared. You didn't think I was going to leap over, did you?"

"I thought you might show off once too often. There ought to be a rail of some sort up there."

"I'll speak about it. It's our land, you know."

I was surprised that he remembered to do so, and before we left London an iron rail was put up.

Back in London, Philip and I liked to walk in the Park and talk about our plans. There we could often escape from people who wanted to come up and congratulate us and be quite alone, so we made the most of it. We would wander along by the Serpentine into Kensington Gardens and right across to the other side of the Park. It was in the Park that I was aware of a man watching us. There was nothing very remarkable about him except his unusually bushy eyebrows. He had come along very quietly, it seemed, and seated himself on one of the benches not far from us.

I don't know why I was aware of him, but I was. He gave me an uneasy feeling.

"Do you see that man over there, Philip?" I asked.

He looked about him. "On the bench, you mean?"

"Yes, he seems to be watching us."

"Well, he must be thinking how pretty you look."

"He seems interested in us."

Philip squeezed my arm.

"Of course he's interested in us. We're rather special people."

The man got up and walked away; and we forgot him.

The House in Finlay Square

We went to see a house in a Knightsbridge square. I was so excited when Philip produced the key and we went in. It was a tall white Queen Anne house with a garden in front and four stories. There is something about empty houses which is almost personal. They can be welcoming or forbidding.

I don't think I have any special perception, merely an overcharged imagination perhaps, but this house affected me as the top rooms of the Carrington country house had done: It was the reverse of welcoming. There was something about it that was alien, and for the first time in my new-found happiness a coldness touched me. Was it because the house represented a reality and the rest had been dreams?

I was to spend my life with Philip—all the years ahead would be with him; we should grow old together, grow like each other. We should be the most important people in each other's lives. It was a sobering thought. I suddenly felt that I had been put into a cage—a pleasant gilded cage, it was true, but outside was the world which I had never yet explored.

I looked at Philip. He was saying eagerly: "Do you like it?"

"I haven't seen it yet. You can't judge a house by the hall."

"Come on then."

He took my hand and we went into the lower rooms; they were intimate—walls closing round me. No, I thought. No!

He ran up the stairs dragging me with him. The rooms on the first floor were light and airy. I liked them better.

"We'll give our parties here," he said. "Rather elegant eh?"

We went up again. There were more big rooms and on the top floor more, and above that attics.

"It's too big," I said, finding excuses.

He looked startled. By Carrington standards it was quite small.

"We shall need these rooms. There are the servants... to be accommodated, and we want a nursery. What's the matter? You want a nursery, don't you?"

"Yes, I do very much. But I just feel there is something... not quite right about it."

"What do you mean... ghosts or something?"

"Of course not. It looks so ..." I floundered. "Empty!"

He laughed at me. "What do you expect it to be, you goose? Let's look all round. Come on." He was enthusiastic. "The right house is not so easy to find these days," he went on. "The sooner we get a place, the sooner we can get married. Let's look downstairs again."

"I want to stay here... alone for a bit."

"Whatever for?"

"To feel what it's like to be here by myself."

"You ass," he said, like the Philip of our childhood. But he went downstairs.

I stood there in the center of the room. I looked out of the long narrow window. There was a garden, small of course, with two trees in it, and a round flower bed.

I tried to imagine myself alone in this house.

It was a strange feeling. I just knew that I didn't want to come here. It was the same feeling that I had in the dream. How very odd, I thought, and disturbing, because I knew this could never be the house for me.

I went down the stairs to the room below and was standing at the window and looking out on the garden when there was a movement behind me. Hands encircled my throat. I gasped out in terror.

"Fe fi fo fum!" cried Philip. "I am the ghost of the last tenant. I was found hanging from the rafters."

He swung me round to face him.

He kissed me: and we were both laughing.

He took my hands and we raced down the stairs.

I couldn't shake off my uneasy feeling about the house in Finlay Square. I knew that Philip was eager to acquire it. He said we didn't want to spend months looking for houses. Buying a house was a lengthy matter at the best of times.

"We can always sell it if we don't like it," he pointed out. "We shall be wanting something bigger in due course, I daresay."

The house was to be his father's wedding present and I hated to curb his enthusiasm. It was not even that I could find anything definite to dislike about the place; but it was a fact that from the time we looked over it my happiness became a little clouded. Oddly enough I had the dream again, which was surprising because I had so recently had it on the night before the dance.

I became so obsessed by the house that one day I went to the house agent and asked if I could have a key to look it over alone. When they knew who I was they reminded me that Mr. Carrington already had a key. I explained then that I wanted to look it over by myself. So I got another key.

It was afternoon, about three o'clock, when I arrived at Finlay Square. It was warm and there were few people about. I stood near the gardens which formed the center of the square and looked at the house from across the road. Again I felt the odd misgiving. My impulse was to turn away at once, take the key back to the house agent and tell him that we had decided against the house. Philip would be disappointed but I could make him understand, I was sure.

Then it was as though some force was propelling me across the road. I didn't want to go, and yet the overpowering urge to do so was forcing me to. I would let myself in and go carefully through the house. I would make myself see that it was just an ordinary house. There was nothing different there from thousands of other empty houses.

As I opened the gate it gave what I thought of as a protesting whine; I was looking for omens, I told myself severely. Determined not to give way to such fancies, I went up the short path to the front door and let myself in. I closed the door behind me and stood in the hall. Then it came to me again—that strange feeling of foreboding. It seemed as though the house was telling me to go. It had no welcome for me. It had nothing to offer me but disaster.

I looked up at the tall ornamented ceiling and at the really rather beautiful curving staircase. It seemed to me as though the house was rejecting me.

I suppose I was a fanciful person, despite my firm intentions. Only such a one would have that recurring dream surely and try to read something into it. I supposed lots of people dreamed and forgot their dreams the next day. I was being foolish really.

I mounted the stairs slowly and deliberately and studied the rooms on the first floor—the entertaining rooms. They were elegant—long windows to the floor—typical of their period; the fireplaces were exquisite in their simplicity. Adam perhaps. I furnished it in my mind and imagined myself as the hostess—moving gracefully among the guests—a Carrington hostess, I thought with a curl of the lips. "Oh, good evening, Cousin Agatha. How good of you to come. Philip and I are delighted." And "Why, Mrs. Oman Lemming, how nice to see you and your daughters." (There were two of them, weren't there?) They would all be so delighted to be received at a Carrington evening. I wanted to laugh at the thought of the imitation I would give of them later to Philip.

Then I went upstairs. Our bedrooms would be here, and there was a small room which had been made into a bathroom. "There wouldn't be a great deal to be done," Philip had said. "The house is ideal, Ellen."

"The house is ideal," I repeated aloud. Then I stood listening. I fancied I heard mocking laughter.

I went up to the rooms which would be nurseries and the attics where the servants would be housed. I pictured white walls and a blue frieze of animals, and a little cot of white wood with a blue coverlet.

I was looking very far into the future. But that after all is what marriage was for, wasn't it? That was why the Carringtons wanted it. Philip must marry young because it seemed as though Rollo would never have children. Odd to think of Philip and myself as parents.

Then I felt my heart leap in terror. In the silence of the house I heard something. I stood very still listening. All was quiet. Had I imagined it? It is strange really how sometimes without sound one can be conscious of a presence. I had the uncanny feeling that someone was in the house. Then as I stood very still in the center of the room, I heard a sound. I had not been mistaken. Someone was in the house.

My heart began to hammer painfully. Who? It couldn't be Philip. I knew where he was. He had told me he had to go to his father's London office that day.

I listened. There it was again. A muffled sound; the creak of an opening door.

Then I heard footsteps on the stairs.

I found it difficult to move. I was as though petrified. It was absurd. The house was for sale; we had not definitely bought it, so why should not some prospective buyer come to look at it?

The footsteps came nearer. I stared in fascination at the door. Someone was immediately outside.

As the door was slowly pushed open I gasped; Rollo Carrington stood there.

"Why," he said, "I thought there was no one here."

"So... did I."

"I'm afraid I startled you."

"I...I heard someone below and ..."

He looked so tall and I remembered what Philip had said a long time ago about his being a Viking; he even had the appropriate name.

I had had a glimpse of him before but I felt I was seeing him for the first time. He exuded power and a sort of magnetism. I felt that if Rollo Carrington entered a room everyone must be aware of him.

I went on: "You are Mr. Carrington, Philip's brother. I am Ellen Kellaway, his fiancee."

"Yes, I know. Congratulations."

"Thank you. I didn't know you were in London."

"I arrived home last night. I had heard the news of your engagement, of course."

I wondered whether he had come home because of it.

"Philip has told me about the house. I said I'd look it over, so he gave me the key."

"I wanted to look over it on my own," I explained.

He nodded. "Naturally you are eager to see that it is suitable."

"Shall you advise your father to buy it?"

"I think it's very likely a sound proposition. I'm not sure yet of course."

He kept his eyes on me and I felt uncomfortable because it seemed as though he was trying to assess me, to probe my innermost thoughts; and I was not at all sure what he was thinking of me. As for myself, I could not stop thinking of him with that poor wife of his—a shadowy figure in my imagination—in those top rooms at Trentham Towers, and the decision which must have come to him that she must have a companion to watch over her.

It was impossible to imagine this man caught up in a passionate love affair, which there must have been to make him marry so hastily. I thought I detected a certain bitterness about his mouth. He was no doubt reviling fate for making his beautiful wife unsuitable and allowing him to discover this after he had married her. So cool, he looked, so much in command of himself—and I imagined of everyone around him—that I could not reconcile the story of his romantic tragic marriage with this man at all.

"Have you been round again?" he asked.

"Not properly."

"Shall we look at it together?"

"Yes, please."

"Come then, we'll start from the top."

He talked about the snares to look for. I was hardly paying attention. I just wanted to hear his voice, which was deep and authoritative; I wanted to know so much about him—everything; he seemed so mature compared with Philip and me; he talked of Philip as though he were a mere boy and it was clear that he considered me very young too.

"I've had some experience of buying property," he said. "One has to be careful. Caveat emptor, you know."

We went through the house, then out into the garden. We stood beneath one of the trees.

I looked back at the house. It seemed more menacing than ever and I felt a great desire to run away from it even though Philip's brother was beside me to protect me from any evil that might befall me.

He started to walk back into the house and I followed. It seemed to close in on me like a prison, and I found it so hard to shake off this feeling of foreboding that I was afraid I would show it. Rollo looked at me rather intently as though he were about to say something, then he changed his mind, or appeared to. He opened the front door and as we stepped out of the house a great relief swept over me.

"I'll call a cab," he said, "and take you home."

I don't know how to describe Rollo. There was something enigmatic and completely baffling about him. He was not nearly as good-looking as Philip. His features were more rugged, but he emanated power and a kind of magnetism. He was the sort of man who could slip quietly into a room and yet everyone would be aware of him and he gave the impression that whatever he did would be successful.

I could not get him out of my mind. Perhaps the venue of our encounter had something to do with it. I had been so terrified—ridiculously so—when I had heard his footsteps, which was simply because I had worked myself up about a presence in the house. And then he had appeared.

Ever since I had heard the story of his marriage, I had been thinking about him, and seeing those top rooms at Trentham Towers had set my imagination working. I pictured the hasty courtship, and Rollo's being swept off his feet. That was certainly hard to imagine. But she must have been very beautiful and had tremendous appeal for the opposite sex; perhaps she was greatly sought after—so Rollo married her. Then when passion had subsided he made the alarming discovery that she was not the woman he needed and there followed the terrible discovery that she was a secret drinker. I could imagine how horrified he must have been. He was a man, though, who would conceal his true feelings.

Perhaps in the years to come I should get to know him very well. After all, he would be my brother-in-law.

When Philip and I met in the Park I told him about my meeting with Rollo. He was amused.

"He came home from Rome only last night," he said. "Quite unexpectedly. Our mother had written to him about the engagement."

"Was that what brought him home?"

"Oh yes, he had to come at such a time."

"To inspect the bride?"

"He'd met you before. He knows your family well."

"And he looked at the house."

"Yes, as soon as he heard we were contemplating getting this one he wanted to see it. He thinks it's quite a good bargain. He suggests we make an offer for it."

"He doesn't object to our marriage ..."

"Object! Why on earth should he?"

"Well, you're so rich and I have no money at all."

Philip burst out laughing. "What notions you get! As if they care about that. My mother was poor when she married my father and he was already a rich man then."

"She had a title."

"Well, look what you've got. You're beautiful and kind, and kind hearts are more than coronets. You should know that."

"And simple faith than Norman blood. Do I have simple faith?"

"You must have to love me."

He was so gay, jaunty, so sure that life was going to be good. I kept comparing him with his brother. How different they were.

"I think it's marvelous," I said, "the way your family have accepted me. Cousin Agatha is amazed."

"Cousin Agatha is a silly old woman. Forgive me, I know she's your cousin."

"Far removed, as I've told you before, and don't apologize. It gives me a certain gratification to hear this Carrington view."

"Why of course they're delighted. They want me married. They think it will be good for me. And they want some little Carringtons. As for Rollo, he's as pleased as he could be. It solves things, it makes it all so convenient."

"Very convenient," I said. "In fact, you could call this a marriage of convenience."

"It's most convenient for me."

"Still you might have chosen someone in your own set."

"Who could be more so? Whom did I tease and bully in my foolish youth?"

"I think you were teased and bullied by me as I ever was by you."

And so we talked; and I was fond of him; yet there was an uneasy feeling within me. I wasn't in love with him. He was kind; he was affectionate; and he was familiar. But I was suddenly afraid of the future.

I wanted to hear more of Rollo Carrington. Rosie was a good informant by way of her coachman. "Harry says we'll get married next year," she told me. "The head coachman's leaving and he's having his place and that means a nice little mews cottage. Mr. Carrington has promised him. It's a good house to be in. I'll work in the house—it's expected. Harry says it's the best house he's ever been in. Mr. Carrington's away so much and Lady Emily's not one to interfere; and I'll see you now and then, Miss, because you'll be there on and off, I reckon. I can't say I'm well suited here. She's always poking and prying and never satisfied. Cook said if she had the angel Gabriel in her kitchen she'd be finding fault. It's different there, Harry says. They don't interfere. They don't want to keep reminding you you're a servant. They don't think of it. Mr. Carrington's too busy with what the Government's doing and Lady Emily's not the kind."

"What about the son?"

"Mr. Philip. Why, Miss, you know more about him than anyone else."

"I mean Mr. Rollo."

"Him. Oh, he's another like his father. All business, so they say."

"He did marry though."

"Oh, that!"

"Rosie, did you ever see her?"

Rosie was silent for a few moments. Then she said: "Harry did. He drove them once or twice."

"What is she like?"

"Harry couldn't say. He never heard her speak. She was just in the carriage with him."

"Did he speak to her?"

"Harry never heard him. Like two deaf-mutes, they were. Not that Harry drove them much. Then she went away and Harry never drove her again."

"What did she look like?"

"I've asked Harry that, Miss Ellen, but you know what men are. They never notice. He couldn't say. Just that there was something sad about her. He did say she was like a gray ghost. She was always dressed in gray."

"A sad gray ghost," I echoed.

"You're getting your fancies again, Miss Ellen. Don't I remember what a one you used to be. Nose into everything and what you couldn't find out you made up. I know you, Miss Ellen."

One of the maids came into the room.

"Now, Bess," said Rosie, "what do you want?"

"I only came to tell you Janet's looking for you."

"Tell her I'll be along soon. I'm engaged with Miss Ellen."

When the girl had gone she said: "These youngsters... they listen. They hear more than's good for them."

I wondered then what I was doing gossiping with one of the servants in my old belowstairs manner. I must remember to mend my ways, now that I was to be a Carrington.

I said a little abruptly: "Well, I won't keep you, Rose."

Lady Emily was a good informant. Strangely enough, she liked me, which was very comforting, since she could hardly have been delighted by my poverty. She encouraged me to visit her frequently and I often called at the house. She did a kind of tatting quite expertly and it was fascinating to watch her fingers working in an efficient manner while her mind wandered on inconsequentially.

She liked me to sit beside her while she talked.

"I always wanted a daughter," she told me. "I hope you'll have some girls. Of course they want boys... and the first should be one, I suppose, but girls are very charming. I always wanted a girl or two."

From her conversation I learned far more about the Carringtons than I had known before.

The house in Sussex had come to her. She had been an only child and Trentham Towers had been the home of her family for five centuries.

"It was a pity there were no boys... the title went to a cousin, you know. But I kept the house. I was so glad. At one time it seemed... and then I had boys, two boys and no girls. Isn't that strange? My parents longed for a boy and got me ...I would have liked a daughter and had two boys. You are my new daughter, Ellen. I think we shall be fond of each other. You're a bright girl and you and Philip are so young... ."

"Perhaps you think we are too young," I said.

"I was seventeen when I married. It was a good match. We were so poor. Trentham was falling to pieces. Josiah has done so much for it. I used to shiver in my bedroom. So cold in the winter. Now we are in this house in the winter and we go there in the summer.

So pleasant; and of course the servants ... we had our faithful ones. Poor souls, they rarely were paid. So good; and the roof was a constant anxiety.... They were always talking of the fabric of the building. Such a strange term! And then there was Josiah. Of course it was not a family like ours... but so rich. He was ten years older than I. You wouldn't believe it, would you? The Carringtons wear well. It's all that energy. They are always doing something that's vital to something, some country, some business and of course to themselves. It keeps them alert and to be alert is to be young, they say. I was never very alert, but I did marry Josiah and that was the end of Trentham's troubles. I haven't heard the fabric mentioned for years. Josiah's people... builders and suchlike... take care of that. As soon as the fabric does what it shouldn't, it is rectified. Everything changed on the day I married Josiah. My parents were delighted with the match, and Rollo was born a year after our marriage. Perhaps this time next year, dear... ."

"I do hope I'm going to produce these babies," I said.

"You will, because you're in love. I believe that's very important. Philip adores you. He always did. He was always talking about you, you know."

"I thought it would be Esmeralda."

"Well, to tell the truth, my dear, so did I. You see, your cousin was certain of it but, as Josiah said, you are more vital and amusing and truthfully, my dear, much more good-looking and we are delighted that Philip and you chose each other."

I took her hand and kissed it suddenly. I was growing very fond of her.

"You are a dear girl. How I wish Rollo could have found someone like you. Ah, Rollo... !"

"You are not. happy about him?" I prompted.

"My dear, how could I be ...in the circumstances? He is his father all over again. He is going to be a power in the City... and of course with everything he touches. He needs a wife beside him though. Oh dear, it's so unfortunate. But of course we mustn't talk of it. It makes us all so unhappy and this should be a happy time. Tell me, have you and Philip decided on a date yet?"

"Philip thinks the end of June."

"That's a lovely month for a marriage. Josiah and I were married in June. Such a charming ceremony ... at Trentham church of course. You should be married there... but perhaps London will be more convenient. What does the place matter when two people are in love? London will certainly be more convenient because your cousin will want you to have a grand wedding, I'm sure."

"I don't know. I have no income of my own, you know, Lady Emily."

"So much the better," she said. "I had none. All I brought was the house with its dilapidated fabric. I think it as well. A husband likes to be the sole provider, you know."

So we talked and the affection between us deepened. I think Philip was her favorite although she was proud of Rollo. Rollo was too clever for her, she confided in me. He takes after his father. He and Josiah got on like a house on fire.

Philip used to come and sprawl in a chair and look from one of us to the other. I could see he was delighted with the friendship between us.

One day he took me down to the mews to show me a new horse he had acquired.

I immediately noticed one of the grooms because I had seen him somewhere before. Philip introduced me and chatted with him in the easy way he had and which I was sure endeared him to everyone.

"This is Hawley," he said. "He hasn't been with us very long."

Hawley said: "Good afternoon, Miss Kellaway," and I continued to be puzzled.

When we left the mews I said to Philip, "I've seen him before. I wonder where."

"It may have been at someone's house. I forget where he was before he came to us, though he's not really a stableman. He just wanted any job that was going, I think my father said, and as he seemed a good man and there was this vacancy at the mews he took him. ... I think we'll have the house in Finlay Square. It's the best we've seen. You must admit it."

"I'd like to look at it again, Philip."

"Oh come, Ellen, if we don't decide soon someone else might snap it up. Where are we going to live when we're married if we haven't a house? We'll have to be in my father's house for a while as it is, because I doubt everything will be ready by June."

I felt a little shiver of apprehension then. June. It was so near and I was very uneasy.

When I went to bed that night I remembered the man's face and where I had seen him before.

It was in the Park. He was the man I had thought was watching us.

We were going to a musical evening at the Carringtons'. Lady Emily had engaged a famous Italian pianist who would entertain us. Cousin Agatha was delighted to be going. "Half London will be there," she said. "At least anybody who is anybody will be."

"I suppose," I retorted, "everybody is somebody, and I doubt whether even Lady Emily's drawing room would accommodate more than seventy people in comfort."

I could never resist the temptation to be what she would have called "pert" in the old days. I shouldn't have been human if I could have resisted exploiting my situation a little. It was amusing how my stature grew daily, particularly since I had been such a frequent visitor to the house in Park Lane. In fact, my visits were quite informal.

This state of affairs I knew was a complete mystery to Cousin Agatha. Rose reported to me that she had heard her say to Cousin William Loring that I seemed to have bewitched not only Philip—which was understandable, for he was but a callow boy— but Lady Emily and Mr. Carrington too. Of course Lady Emily had always been oddly vague and Mr. Carrington was so immersed in affairs... .

Tilly was sewing all day long and far into the night making garments for both me and Esmeralda, because there was no doubt that Esmeralda was going to profit from the situation. I was determined that she should. I would give parties for her, I promised myself, and I would select the right sort of husband—someone kind and gentle and undemanding.

I said to her once: "All this fuss should really be for you." And she retorted: "How thankful I am that it is not. I couldn't do it half as well as you do. Mr. Carrington frightens me. He's so clever, isn't he? And I can never follow what Lady Emily's saying."

It was a relief to know she was not heartbroken.

I talked to her of the fun we should have in the country. She should come and stay and we'd have pleasant parties. We'd ride together just as we used to when we were children.

She said: "I'm so glad it's happened the way it has, Ellen. That Mrs. Oman Lemming is a dreadful person. Bessie told me that she is quite beastly to the servants there and particularly the governess. She can't wait to get away."

"What a miraculous escape I had!" I cried. "Thanks to Philip."

Somewhere at the back of my mind was the knowledge that I was trying to reassure myself. In the beginning it had all seemed so wonderful but now it occurred to me that everything had worked out too easily and that in itself was vaguely disturbing.

A few days later the Carringtons gave the musical soiree. I stood with Philip and people kept coming up to congratulate us. There was a photographer for the press. "Such a bore," said Philip, "but they catch my mother and she doesn't like to refuse them."

The recital was one of Chopin's pieces beautifully rendered by the Italian pianist. Dreamy, romantic, then militant and stirring.

"We're negotiating prices about the house," Philip told me. "They take their time, I can tell you. Lawyers and things. Rollo's most interested in concluding it all as soon as possible."

I nodded, scarcely listening.

"We'll go on the Continent. What do you think of Venice? Rome perhaps? Will you like that, Ellen?"

I said I thought it would be lovely.

"Perhaps the house will be ready by the time we come back. Rollo's taking over arrangements for it now he's in London for a spell. My father hasn't time. They seem to think I'm not capable of doing it, and they're probably right."

"It's good of Rollo."

"Oh, he likes doing that sort of thing."

The recital was over and there was a buffet supper to follow. Everyone was discussing the music, and Philip, having caught sight of an old friend, went over to have a word with him, leaving me temporarily alone.

A voice behind me said: "I've been wanting to meet you all the evening."

I turned sharply and looked up at one of the tallest men I have ever seen. I knew at once that I had not met him before at any of the Carrington gatherings because if I had I could not have forgotten him. It was not only his unusual height and broad shoulders, but there was something else about him—an aura of power. His eyes were dark, deep-set, heavy-lidded, but very bright and expressive, though what they expressed it was not easy to decide. His nose was longish and arrogant-looking; his mouth could be either cruel or gentle, I was not sure which. All I can say is that even in those first moments I thought his was one of the most interesting faces I had ever seen.

"I haven't met you before," I said.

"I arrived just before the recital started. I have seen your picture in the papers. May I say that none of them does you justice."

"That's kind of you rather than truthful," I replied. "They are most flattering."

"Ah, I see you are modest as well as attractive. It's a nice combination but a rare one."

"Are you a friend of the family?"

"A connection."

"I hope you enjoyed the recital."

"I am enjoying it very much, thank you. Have you a date for the wedding yet?"

"Not exactly. It's to be in June. The actual day is not decided."

"I shall be there. I'm determined to be at your wedding."

"Lady Emily is giving my cousin a list."

Philip was looking across at me. "Ellen," he said, "we'd better go and speak to old Sir Bevis over there."

My companion bowed and turned away.

"Old Bevis is getting peevish," said Philip. "He always does if we don't make a fuss of him. Who was that, by the way, the tall fellow you were talking to?"

"I don't know. He said he was a connection of yours."

Philip shrugged his shoulders. "Must be one of my father's or Rollo's business friends. He looked it, I must say."

"Did you think so? I thought he looked the outdoor type."

"Probably been pulling financial wires in the Middle East. They do, you know. What I meant was there was that look of power about him. They all have it. I don't know how I shall get on because in me it's conspicuous by its absence."

"Perhaps they weren't born with it and it's something you develop," I comforted. "It comes with experience."

"Don't you believe it. These people were born wizards. Still, I've done better than they have in one way. I've got you."

"Oh, Philip, you say the nicest things. You make me feel more precious than a fortune, and that love is more important than the Stock Market."

"For a moderately intelligent young woman you are surprisingly foolish at times if you needed contact with the financial jugglers of the Carrington circle to bring that to your notice."

We talked to old Sir Bevis, who congratulated Philip on our coming marriage, but I could see that I was the one he was really congratulating. Like a lot of people, he just could not understand why the Carringtons were accepting a girl without money. The logical explanation seemed to be that they were so rich that another fortune wouldn't make much difference.

When we had left Sir Bevis I noticed the man Hawley, whom I had seen in the Park and later in the Carrington stables.

Philip noticed my interest in him and laughed.

"Oh, your man of the Park. Old Hawley. He's been pressed into service in the house. He seems to have a talent for most things. He's valeting now."

"For whom?" I asked.

"For us all really. My father's valet left recently and it seems Hawley knew the job. He valets for us all, as we have always shared. My father and Rollo are away so much that there is not much for a valet to do."

"I suppose you'll go away a great deal when you're older, and I shall see the world with you."

"That's how it will be," he answered; and I thought then how lucky I was. It was this sudden turnabout provided by the Carringtons and banishing the specter of poverty forever which had set my mind nagging over the suspicion that it was all too good to be true. It was all very well for people to say that the love of money was the root of all evil, but I had to admit that it would certainly be good to have enough so that I need not worry about the future any more.

During the rest of the evening I looked for the tall man who had spoken to me but I couldn't see him. I was sure that if he had been present it would not have been difficult to spot him, for he was not the sort who could be lost in a crowd. I wished I had had the presence of mind to ask his name.

"It seems," said Esmeralda, "that one of the Carrington servants is courting Bessie."

"Really?" I replied. "Well, I suppose she's quite attractive."

"There's Rose and her coachman and now Bessie and Hawley."

"Did you say Hawley?"

"Yes, I'm sure that was the name. There seem to be several bonds between us and the Carringtons."

"Isn't that what your mother always wanted?" I asked, and I was thinking: Hawley! The man in the Park, the valet who looks after them all. Philip might laugh at me because of my interest in him, but ever since I had fancied he had watched us, I had been aware of him.

The time was passing and we were halfway through May. The horse chestnuts in the Park were proudly displaying their candles, ready to burst into beautiful flower, and I should have been joyous, but I would often wake in the mornings and it was as though I were emerging from an uneasy world of dreams which left nothing coherent behind but a vague sense of uneasiness.

The Carrington offer for the house in Finlay Square had been accepted and the contracts were in the process of being drawn up. We still had a key apiece, Philip and I. I didn't want to give mine up because I still had the urge to go there, and I did so now and then, trying to reconcile myself to the place. I would stand in the rooms and try to discover what it was I disliked about it.

Once when I was coming out I met Bessie. It was her half day off and she must have been walking near the square. She knew I went there because she had been talking with me when I took the key out of the drawer.

She looked at me shyly. "This is going to be your new home, isn't it, Miss Ellen?"

"Yes," I said.

"It's a beautiful house. I hope Hawley and me will be together one day. It's what he's said shall be."

"I daresay it will," I said brightly. "And Rose is going to marry the coachman. You'll all be together."

"You come here often, don't you, Miss Ellen? I would. To plan how things will be. I wouldn't be able to tear myself away."

Bessie went back to the house and I followed more leisurely.

Two days later I visited the house again. As I let myself in I was telling myself: It will look so different when it is finished. I mounted the stairs. I was getting used to the place. I couldn't think what had possessed me to have the fancies I had. Was it really misgiving about the house or was it apprehension for the future and the life we would lead, Philip and I, in these four walls?

Did I want to marry Philip? Of course I did. I thought of the alternative. During the last few weeks I had forgotten how humiliating my position had been. I had ceased to think of Mrs. Oman Lemming waiting for her governess. What had the future held out for me before Philip had asked me to marry him? I had forgotten all that just because I had seen Philip's brother and realized suddenly that one does not necessarily want an old playmate—whatever the affection you have for him—for a husband.

I was marrying Philip to escape—and that was not really a good reason for marriage, I knew, yet how was it possible to back out now? But it's not too late. It was almost as though the house was telling me that. You could stop it now, negotiations are not complete and there has been no signing on the dotted line. You could escape now.

Escape? Where to? To Mrs. Oman Lemming?

Maybe. But to escape from her is no reason for marriage.

Then, I reproached myself, why didn't you think of this before? Why do you have to start plaguing yourself with it now?

It was just because I was afraid of the future. Mrs. Oman Lemming was looming up before me and there seemed no escape from the dreary life which I knew I was going to hate. And then Philip's proposal had been so unexpected and promised such fun; it was only at this eleventh hour that I realized I was plunging into marriage without much experience of life.

What nonsense! What experience of life do girls have? What has Esmeralda had? What does she know of life? She was once lost in a market. That was the nearest she came to knowing there was a world outside her tight little circle.

Yet there was this strange feeling creeping over me. The house was rejecting me. We don't want you here, it seemed to be saying.

These rooms are not for you. We will never accept you. That was the message of the house.

I clenched my fists. Metaphorically I shook them at the house. If I want to live here, I will. It is my life and how could I possibly be a governess to that old tyrant and her loathsome brood now? Philip would never allow it.

It was comforting to think of Philip, his gaiety, his comradeship, his kindness. I did love him—in a way.

Then I heard it—or perhaps sensed it—the sudden awareness that I was not alone in the house.

The house was so quiet. One could imagine anything else. Then it was there again. The step on the stairs. The creak of feet on wood. Now it was distinct. Footsteps were coming up the stairs. I immediately thought of that other occasion when Rollo had come into the house. It's Rollo again, I reassured myself. As he is making the arrangements, he has naturally come to have another look at it.

The door opened slowly. I almost cried out: "Rollo!" Then my flesh started to creep, for it was not Rollo. It was a man who stood there smiling at me in an odd sort of way. I put my hands behind my back for fear he should see that they were trembling.

I knew this man. He was the tall dark one who had spoken to me at the Chopin recital.

I stammered: "How... how did you get in?"

He held up a door key.

"Where did you get it?" I demanded.

He laughed and answered: "The house is for sale, I believe."

"No, it's sold. I can't understand. I suppose the agent gave it to you. He shouldn't have done so. The house is sold ... or all but sold."

"Oh, they can never be sure until everything is signed and sealed. They must go on trying to sell it."

As he spoke he kept his eyes fixed on me and I felt an uneasiness creeping over me. The fact that the house was empty and I was alone in it with this man struck me forcibly.

"So," I went on, feeling the need to say something even though it was obvious, "you came to look at the house."

He nodded and advanced into the room. I desperately wanted to get out through the door but I did not see how I could without passing him.

"This house is definitely off the market," I added.

"That's a pity because I quite like it."

"So you are wasting your time."

His hooded eyes regarded me intently. I wished I knew what he was thinking because I was sure there was something more in this than what he would have it appear.

"Perhaps," he said. "But while I am here I shall look round. You never know ... if the sale fell through and I liked it particularly well, I could then jump into the breach."

I was nearly at the door but he had taken a step towards me. I said hurriedly: "I'll leave you to look round."

"Couldn't we look together? I know so little about houses. I should welcome your comments."

"I must remind you again that it is sold."

I thought cunningly that I would pretend to go round with him and when I reached the ground floor I would remember an appointment and before he had time to stop me I would open the front door and walk out.

"All the same," I went on, "if you want to look round, do. Let's start at the bottom."

"You are kind." He stood aside for me to pass and as I started to walk downstairs I was aware of him very close behind me. Why did I feel so scared? What was it about him? He seemed so large, so powerfully built that he made me feel helpless. Moreover, somehow I didn't quite believe he had come to see the house, and why should the house agent have given him the key when he knew the Carringtons were buying the house? It was all rather mystifying.

"A pleasant house," he was saying.

"My fiance thinks so," I replied.

"And you don't?"

"I think it's adequate."

"Just look at this banister. It's rather elegant, don't you think?"

"Yes, it's well carved."

I took a few steps down. I had rarely been so frightened in my life.

Is he mad? I asked myself. Why is he here? I know it is not to see the house. Why did he follow me upstairs?

I prayed as I stood there on the stairs. Oh God, let me get away.

I'll never want to come to this house again. But let me get away from this man.

"Did you say something?" he asked.

"Pleasant carving," I repeated.

"Oh yes, yes. And you are appreciative of that. Like you, I am appreciative of beautiful things."

I wondered whether I would dash down the stairs now. If I did he would follow me. Perhaps I could make it sound normal, something like: "Good gracious, look at the time. I had no idea. I have to hurry away. To meet my fiance."

Why had he come here? He must have seen me come in. Had he been lurking in the square? The agent had no right to give him a key. He had some motive for coming here and I could not think what.

Get down the stairs, I told myself. When you are in the hall make a dash for it. They say that when you are in danger you conjure up extra powers. You can run faster than you ever did before. It's nature's provision.

Could I open the door quickly enough? I tried to remember what the catch was like. Some doors were difficult... they had their little idiosyncrasies.

How frightened I was, and he sensed my fear I was sure. It amused him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the curl of his lips, the glitter of his eyes.

I prayed again: Oh God, please help me.

And then my prayer was answered. We were on the stairs looking down onto the hall when I saw a dark shadow before the glass panel of the door. He saw it too. I heard his quick intake of breath as the door opened and Rollo stepped into the hall.

He could not have been more surprised to see us than we were to see him. He gazed at us in astonishment; then I saw his expression change as his eyes went from me to the dark man.

I had stood as though rooted to the stair. I heard myself explaining: "There's been a misunderstanding. This gentleman didn't know the house was sold. He came to look over it."

Rollo frowned. "Didn't the agent explain?"

"I think he wasn't completely sure," said the dark man. "There didn't seem to be any reason why I shouldn't look it over."

"He had no right to give you a false impression," said Rollo.

The dark man smiled. "I suppose he thought there was no harm in having a second string to his bow in case the first one broke. I shall have a word withhim. I didn't realize negotiations had gone so far. There seems to be no point in my continuing my investigations."

He bowed to me and went to the door. There he turned and looked straight at me before the door shut on him.

"What an extraordinary thing!" cried Rollo. "I can't understand the agent's allowing him to have a key when things have gone as far as they have, with the deal on the verge of completion."

"Who is he?" I asked. "He said he was some connection of yours."

"Of mine! I don't know him. A connection, he said?"

"Yes, he was at the recital. He told me then."

"So you'd met him before. I've no notion who he is. My father may know him. What's his name?"

"I never heard it. We weren't introduced at the recital. He was just beside me and addressed a few words to me. The next time I saw him was here."

"How very strange, and you seem a little upset."

"It was finding someone here... looking at the house."

Rollo nodded. "Oh well, we'll find out who he is. I am a little concerned about the dining-room ceiling. There's a certain amount of damp there. The surveyor pointed it out. I thought I'd come and take a look at it."

I was still feeling dazed as I followed him into the dining room. Rollo looked at the ceiling and said he would consult the builders and after that we went into the garden. He was very precise. "You should employ a professional gardener although it's small," he said. "Philip will be no good at it. Are you?"

"I doubt it," I said.

"Then a good gardener is definitely the answer. Get someone to plan it for you and keep it trim. It could be quite charming then."

We went through the house and out into the square.

"It's good of you to take so much trouble," I told him.

"For my own brother and his wife!" He turned to look at me, his eyes were appraising but warm. "I want you to know, Ellen, how very much we welcome you into the family."

I still felt uneasy. I just could not shake off the feeling.

Rollo called a cab. Clop-clop went the horse's hoofs, and Rollo sat beside me upright, looking satisfied as though something he had undertaken had succeeded very well.

As we turned into the square my heart gave a leap of terror, for standing on the pavement looking straight into the cab was the dark man.

He lifted his hat and bowed to me.

I glanced at Rollo. He had not noticed.

I could not get that morning's events out of my mind. I did not go into the house in Finlay Square again. I couldn't bring myself to. I did walk past it once or twice looking up at those long windows. I said to myself: Nothing would induce me to go there again.

The wedding was three weeks away. My dress was being made by Lady Emily's own dressmaker. Cousin William Loring was happy to pay for it. Mine was going to be one of the weddings of the year and even Cousin Agatha was growing excited about it, bustling about as if she had arranged it. Although it was the marriage of a Poor Relation everything must be perfect, because society must see the kind of reception the Lorings gave to their family. Her great sorrow was that all this fuss was for me, but when she convinced herself that it was a kind of rehearsal for Esmeralda's wedding she was reconciled. And of course Esmeralda was to be a bridesmaid.

"What a fuss getting married is," said Esmeralda. "I'm so glad I'm not the bride."

We had chosen a good many furnishings for the house and much would be done while we were away on our honeymoon, which would be for four weeks. Italy was the chosen place. Philip was delighted that I had never been and looked forward to showing me. Venice was to be our first call and there we should stay until we felt the urge to move on.

I should have been excited and happy, and yet I couldn't dismiss the feeling that I was on the edge of some disaster.

It's marriage, I thought. I'm not ready for it. I want to wait a while.

But how could I say to Philip: 'Let's postpone our marriage. Let's get to know each other'? He would burst into laughter and say that if we did not know each other by now we never would.

It wasn't exactly what I meant. We didn't know each other because we scarcely knew anything of the world, either of us. If the genie of the lamp could rise before me and ask me what I wished I would have no hesitation in saying: Time.

I was frightened by the speed with which the time was flying past. Two more weeks, ten more days...

I wanted to stop time, to say: "Wait. I must think." I was not sleeping very well and would lie awake during the night and my problem would niggle away at me. I fancied Rollo had changed towards me since that last encounter in the house. He seemed to avoid me.

Philip was exuberant. It was clear that he did not suffer from my doubts. I saw Philip afresh now. He was all enthusiasms for whatever obsessed him at the moment, and I thought again and again: He's very young. So was I for that matter, but it seemed to me that I had grown up since my engagement. Grown up, yes, and left Philip behind.

It was the Sunday before our wedding day. There were six more days to go. We were to be married at St. George's Hanover Square and then go back to the Lorings' house for the reception. In the late afternoon we should leave for Venice.

I should have been congratulating myself on my good fortune and at times I did, but not for long. Into my thoughts would creep an insidious notion that I was making a mistake, a mistake fraught with danger, and that I would never again be the old Ellen who, even as a Poor Relation, had enjoyed life wholeheartedly and had often been able to laugh at her own misfortunes.

In the afternoon Philip and I walked through the Park to Kensington Gardens. We skirted the Palace and watched the ducks on the Round Pond; then we walked back across the grass and sat by the Serpentine and talked. Philip was gay. At least he had no doubts, capable as he was of complete absorption in the moment. I remembered that even as children when we would be doing something which would assuredly bring us some punishment, he had never thought ahead. I have never known anyone who had such a capacity for living in and enjoying the moment. It is a great gift. Darling Philip, I was to be grateful later that he possessed it.

"Six whole days," he was saying. "It seems a lifetime. I'll be glad when all the fuss is over. It won't be long, Ellen, before we're sailing down the Grand Canal with our gondolier soothing us with his beautiful song. Aren't you pleased?"

"Of course. It'll be wonderful."

"It was always us, wasn't it? As soon as I came home from school I'd ask if you were there. Of course we always had to have Esmeralda trailing on, but I wanted to be with you in spite of that."

"You're cruel to Esmeralda. In the first place you should have been kinder to her in your youth and in the second place you should have married her."

"As we're not allowed two wives in this country and I'd already decided on you, how could I?"

"You were always obstinate."

"And what of you? Ours will be a nice explosive union, Ellen. We shall argue and fight and make it up and love each other until the end of our days."

"Let's try to do that, Philip," I said.

He took my hand and held it firmly.

"I've no qualms," he told me seriously.

"It's not too late to get out of it even now. If you'd like more time..."

"More time! I want less time. A week's a hell of a long way off."

And so we chatted on that seat in the Park and afterwards I tried to remember every word that was said in case in that conversation there might have been some clue to what followed. Try as I might, I could remember nothing. It seemed to be the sort of conversation Philip and I had had a thousand times.

In the evening we went to church and afterwards I walked home with Cousin Agatha, Cousin William and Esmeralda. We retired early, for there was never entertaining on Sundays, and I sat by my window for some time looking out on the gardens and thinking that this time next week I should be married. Philip and I would be on our way to Venice.

I rose as usual without an inkling of what might have happened. Then Rollo rode over in the midmorning.

Rose, her face the color of chalk, came into my bedroom, where I was sorting out my clothes. Bessie was with her, peering from behind her back.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"There's been some accident. I don't know rightly what, but Mr. Rollo Carrington's here and he's asking to see you."

I went down to the drawing room. Rollo was standing by the fireplace.

"Is anything wrong?" I cried.

I saw his face then—pale, drawn and anxious. He didn't look like the Rollo I had known.

"Something terrible has happened," he said. "You must try to be calm."

"It's Philip," I said.

"Yes," he nodded. "Philip."

"He's ill... ."

"He's dead."

"Philip...dead! Oh no, that can't be. How could it... ?"

"Philip was found dead this morning."

"But he wasn't ill."

"He was found shot."

"Shot! But who... ?"

Rollo shook his head slowly and sadly.

"It appears the wound was self-inflicted," said Rollo.

I felt myself growing dizzy. Rollo caught me and held me for some moments until I regained my strength.

"There's a mistake," I said shrilly. "I don't believe it."

"No, alas. There is no mistake."

Everything was collapsing about me. It was like a bad dream. I'd wake up. I must. The world had become a strange place full of distorted nightmares. And the greatest of these was that with Rollo standing before me saying in a low tragic voice: "Philip is dead. He took his own life."

What did it mean?

Dead Man's Leap

I lay on my bed. I did not want to move. I couldn't believe it. Philip dead! Philip who had been so full of life! It was impossible. And to take his own life. He, who had been so happy! Only the day before he had talked exuberantly of our future. What could have happened so suddenly to make him do such a thing?

Esmeralda came and sat by my bed. I wanted no one but I could just bear her. She was so quiet. She took a handkerchief soaked with eau de cologne and laid it on my forehead. I knew I should never smell that scent again without remembering this day.

I kept seeing Philip in scenes from the past. The day we set the fields on fire—that mischief in his eyes! He had wanted to let it blaze for a while before we gave the alarm. How his eyes had shone! How they had danced! We'd be punished for this but let us enjoy it while it lasted. Philip at the dance, proposing to me, serious suddenly, assuring me that he would always look after me.

And now he had done this.

"I don't believe it," I said. "It's not true. It can't be."

Esmeralda said nothing. What was there to say?

A great deal would be said of course and they would soon start saying it.

That very day it was there in the newspaper, the great headlines: "Suicide of Bridegroom-to-Be. Six days before he was to have married Miss Ellen Kellaway, Philip, son of Josiah Carrington, took his own life. What is the story behind the tragedy?"

Everyone believed that there was a story and that I was the one who held the vital clue.

Why should a young man who had every blessing shoot himself a few days before his wedding? It could only be that life had become too much for him to endure, so he had taken this way out. That he was to have been married in six days' time was the theme of the story.

I lay in my room, the Venetian blinds drawn to keep out the sun. The sun that could not warm the coldness that invaded me. I could not eat; I could not sleep. I could only lie on my bed in shocked stillness and ask myself: Why? Why?

Esmeralda told me what had happened. I commanded her to and in the same way that she had obeyed my orders when she was young she did now: "He was shot with one of the guns from Trentham Towers. He must have brought it from there."

"It's not possible. That would mean that he had planned it."

She was silent and my mind went back to that occasion when I had been with him in the gun room at Trentham Towers. I remembered the satin-lined case and the silver-gray pistol which he had taken out and touched so lovingly. There had been an empty compartment in the case and he had talked, jokingly I had thought, about keeping a pistol under his pillow. What could he have meant? Was it really true that he had done this? Had he then been serious when he had talked of burglars? Even so, what could have possessed him to turn the pistol on himself? Was it possible that I, who had thought I knew him so well, had been mistaken? Was there a darker side to his nature which he had never allowed me to see? I could not believe it.

"He couldn't have killed himself!" I cried out. "He was talking to me only the day before. Imagine, Esmeralda, the despair a man must be in to take his own life! Can you imagine Philip ever in despair? I never saw him so. Did you? He wasn't the sort of man who could hide his feelings. He never attempted to. I knew Philip. Nobody knew him better, and I say it's impossible. I shall never believe it."

But it had happened.

Esmeralda said: "The newspaper people have been here. They want to see you. There'll be an inquest. You'll have to go."

I roused myself. "I want to go," I said. "I want to discover the reason for this."

It was like a dream. I saw their faces... Mr. Josiah Carrington looking unlike himself; his face pale and distorted with grief, Lady Emily more bewildered than ever with a tragic look in her eyes. And Rollo grown cold and stern; his eyes like ice; they looked searchingly at me, making me shiver.

There could only be one verdict. Suicide. I wanted to cry out my protest.

Not Philip! He never could. Anyone who knew him must be aware of that. But that was the court's verdict.

There followed the funeral. I begged not to go. I just lay on my bed, weak from my emotions, lack of food and sleep.

"Mother thinks you should go to the country," Esmeralda said. "I'm to go with you. The press keep calling. She says it's better to go away for a while."

So we went and what a comfort Esmeralda was! I think in her mind was the belief that I had saved her from this ordeal and that she might so easily have been in my position if Philip had asked her to marry him as everyone had expected him to.

I felt a little better in the country, but I still could not sleep well. When I dozed I dreamed of Philip, the pistol in his hand and the blood on his bed. I dreamed too that other dream. I was in the room with the red carpet and the painting and Philip was with me.

He said to me: "You always felt the doom, didn't you, Ellen? Well, now here it is. I'm dead... I killed myself. I had to because I could not marry you."

I woke up calling out to him.

They were nightmare days.

I was in the country for two weeks and then Rollo came to Trentham Towers.

He walked over to see me. Esmeralda came to tell me he was there, and I went down into the small sitting room, and as he stood before me and bowed stiffly I thought how he had changed, as I must have done.

He insisted that we be alone that we might talk. He came straight to the point: "I want you to tell me why Philip killed himself," he said.

"If only I knew."

"Don't you know?" he asked harshly.

"How could I? If I had known what he was going to do I would have found some way of stopping him."

"There must have been something... ."

"I knew of nothing."

"Who else would?"

"It must have been something he kept to himself."

"He was not that sort of person." Rollo kept his eyes on me. "There was simply no obvious reason. He had no anxieties. It must have been something in his private life, for he was never deeply involved in our business affairs. Are you absolutely sure that there were no differences between you? Because there appears to be no other reason why he could have taken his life."

His eyes were cold and I believed he hated me because he actually suspected that I was somehow involved in Philip's death. It was more than I could bear.

I cried out: "It was a greater shock to me than to you. I was to be his wife."

He came close to me, his lips tight, and I noticed that he clenched his hands tightly together as though he were suppressing an impulse to do me an injury, so much did he blame me for his brother's death.

"I think you know something," he said.

"I have told you I have no idea how he could possibly have done such a thing."

"It must have been something to do with you. Perhaps you had deceived him and he had discovered this. You betrayed him and this shattered him. He was very inexperienced of the world and he killed himself rather than face the consequences of what you had done."

"You can't believe such nonsense. It's lies... wicked cruel lies."

"Who was the man I found with you in the house in Finlay Square?"

"How should I know who he is? He said he was a connection of yours."

"You know that's untrue."

"Then who was he?"

"He was a friend of yours presumably."

"I tell you, I don't know who he is. He was at the recital at your home... and then he came to the house to look at it. That's all I know of him."

Rollo looked skeptical. "How did he get into the house?"

"He told you. He got the key from the house agent."

"I know too much, Ellen. I have made it my business to find out. He met you there by appointment and I came in and surprised you."

"That's monstrous."

"I can only draw the obvious conclusions. You had one key, Philip had the other, which I used. There was no third key. I spoke to the agent and asked him why he had given that man a key and he said he had given a key to no one but ourselves. There was only one way that man could have got into the house. You let him in. Don't lie to me any more, but don't be surprised if when you refuse to tell me the truth I draw my own conclusions."

"This is nonsense," I cried. "I did not let him into the house. I was as surprised to see him as you were. He did have a key and the agent is lying."

Rollo rose. "I would have respected you more had you confessed the truth. You were obviously very friendly with this man. I believe that this is at the root of the mystery and you know the answer. Philip died because of something you had done to him and you are responsible for his death."

"How can you! How dare you! It's such lies... ."

"So many lies have been told, I can see. But Philip is dead now. I wish to God he had never seen you."

Then he went and I think that was the most unhappy time I had ever lived through.

I was desolate. I had lost Philip and with him everything. I could have borne this better if it were not for the fact that Rollo despised me and suspected me so cruelly and unfairly of knowing something, of doing something, of being something I was not. He would not believe that Philip's death was as much a mystery to me as it was to him.

I went for long walks but there was no comfort. There I had been with Philip. There was hardly any spot in the neighborhood which had not been one of our haunts. I rode out alone although Esmeralda always tried to accompany me, but then I would come to the inn where Philip and I—or perhaps the three of us but I suppose neither of us gave much thought to Esmeralda—had stopped for cider and a sandwich. There was the old smithy who had shoed our horses. He called a greeting to me as I passed, but his eyes were downcast and he did not know what to say. It was the same in the village where they had known us as children. They looked at me covertly and I knew the question which was in all their minds: Why had Philip killed himself? It was something to do with me. He would rather die than marry me. That was the inference everyone was putting on it.

I couldn't resist going to Dead Man's Leap. There I would sit on the old wooden seat and brood over the many times when Philip and I had played in the woods from which we had emerged with a reluctant Esmeralda and forced her to witness our bravery in standing on the edge.

. Dead Man's Leap! I thought a great deal about people who had found life so intolerable that they wanted to end it and I wondered what their tragedies had been to bring them to such a pass. One thing I was certain of. Philip had never been in that state. He could not have killed himself. But that had been the verdict. Why?Had Ireally known that boy with whom I had shared my childhood? Does one person ever really know another. I had always thought Philip was easy to understand. He said what was in his mind and rarely paused to think what effect his words might have. He was easygoing, good-tempered, a little lazy perhaps, eager for the good things of life but not liable to make any effort to get them, the son of a rich family who had never really lacked anything he wanted. That was how I had thought of Philip, but how much had I known of what lurked in the dark recesses of his mind?

A great melancholy would descend upon me as I sat on that seat. Esmeralda asked me where I had been and when I told her she was horrified. "You shouldn't go there," she said, "it's morbid."

"It suits my mood," I replied. "I can think of Philip there and in a strange way it comforts me."

"I'll come with you," she would say, but I always protested: "No, no. I want to be alone."

She was worried about me.

One morning when I was in the woods I had the strange feeling thatI was not alone. I wasn't sure quite what made me think so. Perhaps I heard an unexpected noise—the dislodging of a stone, the rustle of leaves, the sudden scuttling of some disturbed animal. But as I sat on the wooden seat I sensed a presence. I thought: Is it true that the spirits of those poor souls who ended their lives abruptly cannot rest and come back to the last place they knew on earth? That was what was generally believed by those who said the place was haunted.

Oddly enough, instead of repelling me, this feeling attracted me. Perhaps I felt that I might be in touch with Philip and he would come back and tell me why he had died.

So every morning my footsteps led me almost involuntarily to Dead Man's Leap, and often I had the feeling that I was observed.

It was a hot sultry morning and I was glad to be in the cool woods. It was one of those still silent mornings when people say there is thunder in the air. More than ever I had the feeling that I was being watched as I sat on the seat and thought of Philip, wishing fervently that I could hear him whisper my name. I wished that I were young and carefree again when my chief desire had been to score over Philip and prove to him that girls were just as good as boys. I should have liked to go back to the time of our engagement that I might take less for granted and try to understand more about the man I was to marry. No matter what the evidence, no matter what the verdict, I could never accept the idea that he had killed himself. There must be another explanation.

I went to the path as I always did before returning. I liked to look down into the bushes far below and remember the thrill it used to give me as a child.

I gripped the rail and leaned forward and then suddenly it swung forward, taking me with it, so that I was clinging to it and hanging in mid-air. A startled bird flew up, brushing my face as it went past me. I had time to think: This is the end! before I fell.

I opened my eyes. I could scarcely breathe so fast was my heart beating. I looked down; far below were the tops of trees. I felt my feet slipping and I clutched at the bushes into which I had fallen.

Then I saw what had happened. By incredible good luck I had only fallen, a few feet before my skirts had been caught in one of the thick clumps of bushes which grew on the steep hillside.

For some minutes I was unable to do anything but hang on with all my might. Then my heartbeats began to slow down and I was able to take stock of the situation. I looked up and saw that the rail on which I had been leaning had come away on one side and that I had had a miraculous escape from certain death.

And now what must I do? One false move and I could go hurtling down. I must remain where I was and hope to attract someone's attention. Few people came to Dead Man's Leap and even if they did they would not know I was here clinging to the hillside bush.

I shouted but my voice echoed back to me. I could feel pains in my legs and arms. My hands were badly grazed and I knew I should certainly be bruised all over. I felt faint but that was the last thing I must do. I must concentrate on clinging to the bush.

I shall never forget that terrible ordeal and how Esmeralda was my savior. But it was several hours before she missed me and then she immediately thought of Dead Man's Leap. What else she thought I was aware of, although she didn't mention it. She sent two of the grooms to look for me there and when they could not find me and noticed the broken rail they approached the place from below and that was how I was discovered clinging to the bush.

To bring me down was not an easy matter. Two expert climbers from the nearby town came with special equipment; there were quite a lot of spectators and my rescue was reported in the press. There was a piece about the danger of Dead Man's Leap and how the rail had apparently been faulty although it had been put up not very long before. Greater protection was needed and something would have to be done about it.

Esmeralda nursed me for three days. That was all I needed to get over the shock and my bruises and abrasions.

The fact that Philip was reputed to have killed himself raised certain speculation as to what had happened to me. No one stressed this, but it was there.

We could not stay in the country forever and Cousin Agatha recalled us.

I felt a quiver of alarm when I entered the house and was confronted by her. Her expression was one of mingled exasperation and veiled triumph: exasperation because I had managed to get myself "talked about," as she put it, through this unfortunate affair on the hill, veiled triumph because although she did deplore the fact that a member of her family had failed to climb into the Carrington oligarchy, yet at the same time she was gratified because after all the "tumult and the shouting" I had failed and had had to come back to the old familiar position of Poor Relation to be victimized at her will.

I went to Finlay Square and looked at the house. It was up for sale again but nothing would have induced me to go in. I wondered whether what had happened would affect its sale, because it had been mentioned as the future home of Philip and me. People might think it unlucky. That was, after all, how legends became attached to places.

As I stood in the square looking at it, it seemed as though the house mocked me. I had had the fanciful notion that it had never wanted me and had warned me to keep away; and I had failed to heed that warning while, without doubt, being aware of it.

I did not go out very much. The Carringtons avoided me. I supposed the very sight of me would be painful to them, and moreover, they were in mourning and did not entertain. When people came to the house Cousin Agatha, who was as completely indifferent to my feelings as she had ever been, suggested I keep out of the way. "We don't want all that gossip starting up again," she said with an unpleasant laugh. "It's most embarrassing."

Frustrated and unhappy, I lived from day to day, but I knew that the state of affairs would not go on.

I was right. Cousin Agatha summoned me to her sitting room.

As I stood before her she looked at me with distaste. My brief glory was over and I had sunk back into the role of Poor Relation.

"I suppose," she said, "it will take us a long time to live down this very unfortunate affair. Of course I never really believed that marriage would take place. I always thought something would happen to prevent it. If I had had my way ..." She shook her head, implying that she would never have given her consent to the marriage; perhaps she would have forced Philip to take Esmeralda.

She sighed. I had lost my spirit and made no comment. I no longer felt the irresistible desire to defy her.

"However, every cloud has a silver lining, they say, and it seems that in your case this may be so." I looked at her in astonishment and she gave me a wintry smile. I might have known her pleasure would be my pain.

"Mrs. Oman Lemming had decided to employ someone else but had not completed her search for the right person. Now that you are in need of a post she has decided in her kindness that she will ignore convention and give you a chance."

"Oh no," I protested.

"Yes. I know it is generous of her. All that fuss in the papers. Why, one might say you are a marked woman. However, she is of the opinion that in due course this will be forgotten and that it may have had a salutory effect upon you. I had to be honest with her and therefore considered it my duty to inform her that you could at times be pert and that your position in this family—and your connection with us—had given you certain ideas. Mr. Loring being absurdly tolerant—in fact, I have so often to restrain him—did not wish you to be made aware of your position... ."

"So you disobeyed him," I could not resist saying.

"I do not understand. I trust you are not being pert again, Ellen. One in your position should be especially contrite."

"Why? What have I done?"

"My dear Ellen," she said in a voice that showed I was far from dear to her, "when a man commits suicide rather than marry, people will always look askance at the woman who was to have been his wife."

"It had nothing to do with our marriage. Philip was in love with me. He wanted our marriage more than anything. And he did not kill himself. I am sure of it. Only the day before he died..."

"No hysterics, please. You must remember your place."

"Are hysterics reserved then for rich relations only?"

"I don't know what you are talking about. You are distraught and the best thing for you is to go to your new life as quickly as possible. There is nothing like work to help you over an unfortunate spell. Work, work, and then more work. So, as Mrs. Oman Lemming is prepared to take you, I have said that you will go to her at the end of the month."

I felt as though I were drowning in my misery. Philip was gone and there was no one to help me now.

I must prepare my trunk. I needed good serviceable clothes, said Cousin Agatha. I looked at my dateless black evening gown. There was a slight stain on it where the orchid had rested. I wished I had kept that orchid. It would always have reminded me of Philip on that night when he had astounded me and Cousin Agatha by asking me to marry him.

What I did have was a wardrobe of beautiful garments which were to have been my trousseau. I was sure Cousin Agatha would have liked to confiscate them but she could scarcely do that. They wouldn't fit Esmeralda, as I was much taller and thinner than she was. But what comfort were clothes when one was lost in a cruel world! My little craft—once so jaunty, once sailing with full honors beside the Carrington galleon of plenty—was now soon to be wrecked on the rocks of misery presided over by the Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming, compared with whom Cousin Agatha might be considered quite charming.

There were times when I felt indifferent to my future. What was my misery compared with Philip's death? I had lost my champion and I felt even more sad because I had not appreciated him when he lived. It sometimes seemed of small moment that I was drifting towards the colorless existence of a governess in a household of which the servants spoke in distaste.

I awoke the next morning to the feeling of depression which had overwhelmed me so often since Philip's death, to find that there was a letter waiting for me. I did not know the writing on the envelope. It was big and bold in thick black ink.

The letter was headed Far Island, Polcrag, Cornwall.

"Dear Miss Kellaway," it ran.

When you read this letter you will be wondering why I have not written before. The truth is that I only recently discovered your whereabouts. You will see that I live in this remote spot which was your father's home. When he died, about a year ago, he appointed me your guardian until you should reach the age of twenty-one. I know that you have not yet reached that age but will do so on your next birthday. It would give me great pleasure if you would visit the Island. I believe you have been kept in ignorance of your father's family and I am sure would like to know more. Do please come and visit us here. It would give me great pleasure if you would.

Jago Kellaway

I read the letter through several times. The Far Island. No one had ever mentioned it to me. My father's home! What had I heard of my father? Only that my mother had left him when I was three years old, taking me with her. I found a map and turned up the appropriate page. The Island must be off the Cornish coast but Pol-crag was not marked on the map.

My first impulse was to find Cousin Agatha and ask her what she knew of my father, but I hesitated. She was so set on my becoming a governess in the household of the Honorable Mrs. Oman Lemming that she would be capable of doing anything to prevent my going away. I was beginning to feel excited. There was something fateful about receiving a letter so fortuitously. The Far Island sounded romantic; and my father had been dead only a year. How tragic that he should have been living and I had never known him!

I said nothing about the letter, not even to Esmeralda, until by good luck I found an opportunity of speaking to Cousin William Loring. I showed him the letter and asked what he knew about it.

"Why, yes," he said, "your mother did marry and go off to this island. Something went wrong with the marriage and she ran away, taking you with her. Your father made no provision for her, which is not surprising, since she left him. When she ran away she forfeited everything—for herself and for you—apparently."

"Who is this Jago Kellaway?"

"He must be some sort of relation." He looked at me quizzically and I saw the compassion in his eyes. "Unfortunately I can tell you very little, Ellen, but I do remember that was the name of the island where your father lived. And if he is now dead and these people are asking you to visit them, perhaps they will make amends for his not bothering with you all these years." He laid a hand on my arm. "It is not my wish that you should take this post, Ellen. As far as I am concerned, you are welcome... ."

"I know. Thank you, Cousin William." I felt I wanted to stop his saying something disloyal about his wife which he might regret later. "What I wanted to be sure about," I went on, "is that this is truly my father's family. And you think I ought to go and see them?".

He nodded and I could see that he thought it might be a fortunate way out of my present difficulties.

That afternoon Mrs. Oman Lemming called. From my window I saw her arrive. I hated the angle at which she wore her overflowered hat as much as I hated the arrogant manner in which she ignored her footman as he handed her out of her carriage.

Soon I should be sent for and expected to go down and stand before them, eyes downcast, the Poor Relation to whom they were being so generous: Cousin Agatha, who had resented me all these years I had spent under her roof, and Mrs. Oman Lemming, who was so graciously forgetting the part they had decided I must have played in the recent tragedy and was giving me the unique opportunity to be bullied and humiliated under her roof!

And so I sat down without further delay and wrote to Jago Kellaway, telling him that I should be delighted to come to the Far Island and must indeed join members of my family and bridge the gap of years.

I had completed the letter when the summons came and the envelope lay sealed in front of me.

It was Bessie, knocking faintly as though she were sorry to have to bring such an order.

"Miss Ellen, the mistress wants you in her sitting room. That Mrs. Oman Lemming's there."

Defiantly I went down, my old spirits briefly reviving. I was not going to Mrs. Oman Lemming to be humiliated and treated with disdain. I was going to visit my relations in the Far Island off the coast of Cornwall.