The Shivering Sands

6

When I next went to the vicarage I found Mrs. Rendall in a state of great indignation. Jeremy Brown had gone and the vicar was more overworked than usual. She really did not see how he could manage to teach the girls and do justice to his parochial duties until he had a new curate to help him, and she wanted me to explain to Mrs. Lincroft that until that time the vicar could not be expected to teach the girls.

I told her that I would speak to Mrs. Lincroft without delay, and asked if she would like the girls to go back with me now so that the vicar could return at once to his church work. “I could give them their music lesson at Lovat Stacy,” I said.

She was a little mollified. “Come in and have a glass of my elderberry wine. I don’t think we will disturb them this morning…as long as you will speak to Mrs. Lincroft and some new arrangement is made without delay.”

I glanced at my watch. I was a little early and there was ten minutes to spare before the first piano lesson was due.

Mrs. Rendall took me into her sitting room, unlocked a cabinet and brought out the wine bottle labeled in her neat handwriting.

“One of the best brews I have produced,” she said with satisfaction, “though my sloe gin was superb…even better I think. However perhaps you would prefer the elderberry.”

I said I would and she poured wine into two glasses and handed me one while she told me how she had always made her wines herself for one could not trust servants nowadays. A glass now and then was so good for the vicar and she often insisted on his taking it when he had one of his chests.

“Better than any doctors’ medicine,” she said proudly, savoring the brew and watching me to see that I showed adequate appreciation, which I did.

“Yes,” she resumed satisfied, “some other arrangement will have to be made…temporarily.”

“You mean they will have to employ a temporary governess?”

“I hardly think that’s necessary. Governesses are so unsatisfactory nowadays. Mrs. Lincroft was a governess at one time, I believe. She could I am sure manage until we get settled here.”

“Mrs. Lincroft seems to be capable of doing anything.”

“A clever woman. Make no mistake about that. She ran that household…even when poor Lady Stacy was alive. There were some who said that Sir William was very fond of her…in fact more fond than he should have been.”

“No doubt he appreciated her talents.”

Mrs. Rendall’s laughter was explosive and unpleasant. “Talents indeed! However she went away for a while and came back with Alice, and she seemed to slip into her old place—running the house and being at hand for whatever was needed. And now of course she’s almost the mistress of the house with Alice living there like one of the family.”

“One could hardly stress the difference in the girls’ social standing.”

“And why not pray? Alice is the daughter of the housekeeper, and I for one think it a little odd that she should mix with Edith—Allegra is different, I know, but she is Sir William’s granddaughter. I have allowed Sylvia to be friendly with Alice. What else could I do?”

“You could do nothing else if you wish Sylvia to be educated with the others.”

“Exactly, but that does not alter the fact…By the way, how is Sylvia progressing with her lessons?”

“She has little talent for the piano I fear.”

Mrs. Rendall sighed. “In my day, if people didn’t show talent they were beaten till they did.”

“I’m afraid it is impossible to beat talent into a child where it does not exist.”

“I should punish her if I thought she was not working. And beating would not be necessary. A few days on bread and water, Mrs. Verlaine, and that child would play the piano. I never saw such an appetite. She’s always hungry.”

“She’s growing.”

“I hope you will report to me when she does not do the work you set her.”

“She tries very hard,” I said quickly.

I glanced at the watch pinned to my blouse. “It is really time for the first of the lessons.” I rose. “I shall speak to Mrs. Lincroft as soon as I return to Lovat Stacy.”

Mrs. Lincroft rose admirably to the occasion. She would set the girls tasks and keep an eye on the schoolroom until a new curate could be found.

“If you could give me a hand I’d be grateful, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said.

“I should be pleased to help,” I replied, but reminded her that I had not been trained as a teacher.

“Good gracious, Mrs. Verlaine,” she replied, “nor have I. How many governesses have been? They are usually impoverished gentlewomen forced to earn a living in some way. And I should say that you have had a better education than most. Wasn’t your father a professor?”

“Oh yes…yes.”

“And I daresay you and your sisters and brothers were better educated than most.”

“I only had one sister.”

She was quick to notice I had spoken in the past tense. “Had?” she queried.

“She is…no longer with us.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. And now I remember your mentioning it. As I was saying it’s obvious that you are well educated and you would be particularly useful with their French lessons. I should be so grateful if you could help me out until the next curate arrives.”

I said I would do my best.

Edith had not come for her lesson. I glanced at my watch. Five…ten minutes overdue.

Sylvia was in the schoolroom with Allegra and Alice.

I hesitated to go to Edith’s room. Since my encounter with Napier that night near the chapel I had avoided him and I was reluctant to go to the room he shared with Edith; but when another five minutes passed I decided I must overcome my objections.

I knocked at the door and received a rather feeble request to enter.

Under the domelike canopy, her face pale, her eyes anxious, Edith was lying. “Oh dear,” she cried when she saw me. “My lesson! I’d forgotten.”

“Edith,” I said, “what’s wrong?”

“It was the same yesterday morning. I feel so ill.”

“Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

She stared at me miserably. “I’m going to have a baby,” she said.

“That’s a matter for rejoicing.”

“Oh Mrs. Verlaine…you’ve been married, but you didn’t ever have any babies.”

“No,” I said.

She looked at me earnestly and said: “You seem sad about it.”

“I should have loved to have babies.”

“But it’s terrible, Mrs. Verlaine. I heard Cook talking about the time when her daughter was born. It was terrible.”

“You shouldn’t listen to such tales. Why, women are having babies every day.”

She closed her eyes. “I know,” she said.

“You should be so happy.”

She turned her face to the pillow and I saw from her heaving shoulders that she was crying.

“Edith,” I said. “Edith, is anything wrong…apart from this?”

She turned her head sharply to look at me.

“What else could be wrong?” she asked.

“I wondered whether I could do anything to help.”

She was silent and I was thinking of those words I had overheard in the chapel. I was thinking too of something else I had overheard, a chance remark which had led me to believe that she was being blackmailed.

How could that be? She was an heiress, it was true, but I doubted whether she had control of her money. It might by now have passed into her husband’s possession—an unpleasant reflection.

Poor little Edith, married for her money to Napier Stacy when she was in love with Jeremy Brown, who had gone away to provide the only possible solution to their sad little love story.

But before he had gone had they consummated their love, and was the child she was now carrying the result? I suspected this might be the case for she was so young, so incapable of managing her life. I was filled with a great desire to protect her, and I wanted her to know this.

“Edith,” I said, “if I could do anything to help…please let me…if you think that’s possible.”

“I don’t know what to say…what to do, Mrs. Verlaine. I feel so…bewildered.”

I took her hand and pressed it; her fingers clung to mine and I was certain that she drew some comfort from my presence.

Then she seemed to come to a decision for she closed her eyes and murmured: “I just want to rest for a while.”

I understood. She might confide in me sometime but as yet she could not bring herself to do so.

“If you want to talk to me at any time…” I began.

She said, “Thank you, Mrs. Verlaine,” and closed her eyes.

I did not want to force confidences. I was sorry for her, because if ever I saw a frightened girl that girl was Edith.

Sir William was jubilant. He sent for me to play for him and before I did so he asked me to sit beside him for a while.

“I’m sure you have heard the news,” he said. “We are all delighted.”

He looked younger, I thought, and a great deal better than I had seen him yet.

“Your performance was such a success,” he went on, “that we must have another. You are a very good pianist, Mrs. Verlaine, I should say a great one.”

“Oh no. That is going too far,” I protested. “But I’m delighted that I pleased you and your friends.”

“It is pleasant to have music in the house again. Mrs. Stacy will continue practicing now for a while yet, I daresay.”

“Perhaps she will not wish to continue with lessons after the child is born.”

“We shall have to ask you to teach him.”

I laughed and said a few years would have to elapse before then.

“Not so many…wasn’t it Handel who was discovered playing the piano in an attic at the age of four? Music is in the family, Mrs. Verlaine. The child’s grandmother would have been a great pianist, I believe. She was, as you would say, very good.”

Yes, I thought, the atmosphere of this house was changing. He could refer to his wife without embarrassment. And this was all due to the child Edith was going to bear, a child which might not be this man’s grandchild.

I had admitted the possibility of the doubts which had been niggling in my mind for some time. Poor Edith, what a dilemma for her. What if she confessed to her husband…My imagination was running away with me, and I could see a terrible tragedy looming up over Edith’s head. I heard her voice raised in fear when she talked to a blackmailer. She looked so innocent on the surface, and she was innocent, I was sure of it. It was life that was cruel.

Sir William was silent for a while and I asked him if he would like me to play for him now.

He said he would and the pieces were on the piano for he had already selected them.

They were light, gay pieces; among them I remember were some of Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words. I remember in particular the “Spring Song,” gay light music, full of the promise of gay young life.

I had played for an hour when Mrs. Lincroft appeared. She came into the room and quietly shut the door behind her.

“He’s asleep,” she whispered. “He is so contented.” She smiled as though Sir William’s contentment was hers; and I thought of what Mrs. Rendall had hinted about the relationship between them.

“It is really so satisfactory…so soon,” she went on speaking quietly. “Personally I didn’t think Edith was robust enough, but often those delicate-looking girls are the ones who have the children. Then Napier…he has shown quite clearly that he…Well, what I mean is he could scarcely be called a devoted husband. But he knows that Sir William expects him to provide the heir. He was brought home for that.”

I said rather indignantly: “Rather like a stud bull.”

Mrs. Lincroft looked very shocked at my indelicacy and I was a little ashamed of it myself. There was no need for me to be so vehement. Napier had come home of his own free will, knowing what it involved.

“At least he must do his duty,” said Mrs. Lincroft.

“And it seems he has.”

“This puts him on a firmer footing here.”

“But surely as Sir William’s son, his only son…”

“Sir William would have left the house and a considerable portion of his income elsewhere if he had not come home. But he came…naturally he came. He was always ambitious; he always wanted to be first. That was why he was jealous of Beau. Well, that’s all over now. He’s accepted his father’s terms and when the child is born Sir William will feel more kindly toward Napier, I am sure.”

“Sir William is a hard man.”

Mrs. Lincroft looked pained. I had again forgotten my place. It was the influence of Napier. Why did I want to defend that man?

“Circumstances have made him so,” she said coldly, and there was a note in her voice which told me that I was showing poor taste in passing adverse opinions on my employer. She was a strange woman, but I was deeply impressed by her absolute devotion to two people—Alice and Sir William. She seemed to regret her coldness toward me for she went on in a different tone of voice: “Sir William is delighted now with this news. Once the boy is born everything will start to go well in this house. I feel sure of it.”

“What if it should not be a boy?”

She looked a little startled. “It’s a trend in the family to have boys. Miss Sybil Stacy was the only daughter for several generations. Sir William will have the child named Beaumont—and then I think he will be quite contented.”

“What of the child’s parents? They might have different ideas about naming the baby.”

“Edith will be eager to give way to Sir William’s wishes.”

“And Napier?”

“My dear Mrs. Verlaine, he could raise no objection.”

“I don’t see why. He might want to forget that…painful incident.”

“He would never go against Sir William’s wishes. If he did it might mean that he were sent packing again.”

“You mean having done his duty in siring a child and bringing a Beaumont back to the family he might once more get his congé.”

“You are in a very strange mood today, Mrs. Verlaine. It is unlike you.”

“I am becoming too interested in the family affairs I expect. Please forgive me.”

She inclined her head. Then she said: “Napier’s staying here depends on Sir William. I think he knows that.”

I looked at my watch. The old excuse of work to prepare was on my lips. I did not want to hear any more. I had thought of him as bold, frank—at least that. I did not like to think of him knuckling under to his father for the sake of his inheritance.

On my way back to my room I met Sybil Stacy. I had the idea that she had been hanging about waiting to intercept me.

“Hello, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said, “how are you?”

“Very well, thank you, and you?”

She nodded. “It’s a long time since you’ve seen me, isn’t it? But it’s not a long time since I saw you. I saw you talking to Napier…In fact I’ve seen you several times. I saw you coming in one evening after dusk.”

I felt indignant. The woman was spying on me!

She seemed to sense this and be amused by it.

“You’re very interested in the family, aren’t you? Now I think that’s very kind of you. I’ve discovered you are a very kind person, Mrs. Verlaine. I have to observe you, don’t I, if I am going to paint you.”

“Do you paint everyone who comes to work here?”

She shook her head. “Not without reason. And only if they are interesting to paint. I believe you are going to be. Come along to my studio now. You said you would, didn’t you? After all you didn’t see very much when you came before.”

I hesitated, but she laid her hand on my arm with her little girl gesture. “Oh please, please…”

Then she clasped her hands together and as she was standing so close I saw her face in the harsh daylight and thought once more how grotesque the blue bows were on that white hair, how pathetically childish simpering was at odds with that wrinkled face.

But she fascinated me, as everyone in this house seemed to do and I allowed myself to be led to her studio.

The picture of the three girls was still on the easel. My eyes went to it immediately and she stood beside me wriggling a little in pleasure.

“It’s a good likeness,” she said.

“It’s very good.”

“But time hasn’t drawn anything on their faces…yet.” She pouted as though she had a grievance against time. “It makes it very difficult for the artist. You can’t read anything in those faces, can you?”

I agreed. “They look so young and innocent.”

“Yet we are all born in sin.”

“Some people manage to live good lives in spite of it.”

“Oh, you’re one of those optimists, Mrs. Verlaine. You always believe the best of everyone.”

“Isn’t that better than believing the worst?”

“Not if the worst is there.” Her face puckered. “I used to be like you. I believed…I believed in Harry. You look puzzled. You don’t know who Harry is. Harry is the man I was going to marry. I’ll show you a picture of him…two pictures of him, shall I? At the moment I am working on Edith.”

I looked at her steadily. She had tripped over to a pile of canvases; and I was aware that her footsteps were soundless. I pictured her silently watching the comings and goings of the people in this house…myself included. Why did she watch? Merely so that she could learn of our secret motives, so that she could come up to this room and record them on canvas? The thought made me uneasy; and she was aware of it and amused. Beneath the little girl attitude was a character she wished to hide.

“Edith!” she mused. “You see her on the picture with the girls. How charming they look there. Now look at this one…” She whipped out a canvas and put it on the easel covering up the one of the trio.

There was a figure hardly recognizable. It was picture of a heavily pregnant Edith, her face twisted in an expression of something between fear and cunning. It was horrible.

“You don’t like it.”

“No,” I said. “It’s…unpleasant.”

“Do you know who it is?”

I shook my head.

“Oh Mrs. Verlaine, I thought you were honest.”

“It has a look of Edith…but I am convinced she never looked like that.”

“She will though. She is very frightened now. And each day she will grow more frightened. She will never stop being frightened until the day she dies.”

“I hope no one has seen that picture.”

“No. I will show it later…perhaps.”

“Yet you have shown it to me.”

“That is because you are as interested as I am. You are an artist too. You hear music where others do not. Is that not so? You hear it in the sighing of the wind, in the trees and the rippling water of a stream. I find what I want in the faces of people. I never wanted to paint landscapes. I never cared for them. It was always people. When I was in the nursery I would take a pencil and sketch our governesses. William said it was uncanny. But I didn’t have the same gift then. It was only after Harry…” Her face puckered and I thought she would burst into tears. “I sometimes feel an urge to paint one person. I haven’t that urge to paint you yet, Mrs. Verlaine, but I know it will come…so I’m stalking you…like a lion stalks his prey. But lions never eat until they’re hungry, do they?” She came close to me and laughed up into my face. “I’m not hungry for you yet, but I’m in touch.” She lifted a hand and her face broke into a seraphic smile. “I’m in touch…with…powers. People don’t understand.” She touched her head. “Do you know what they say in the village? People are three halfpence short—not all there. That’s what they say of me. I know it. The servants say it. William says it, and so does that Mrs. Lincroft of his. Let them. I’m far more here than they are because I’m in touch…in touch with powers they know nothing about.”

A feeling of claustrophobia came to me; she would keep grasping my arm, putting her grotesque little girl face close to mine…and I was in agreement with those who said she was not all there.

I glanced at my watch and said: “The time…I’m forgetting…”

She had a little enameled watch pinned to her frilly pink blouse and she looked at it and then shook her finger at me.

“You haven’t to take Sylvia until half past. So you have twenty minutes.”

I was startled that she knew so much about my schedule.

“And,” she went on, “you were all last afternoon preparing their lessons.”

I felt very uneasy.

“Now that there is no curate at the vicarage—” I began.

“They are all working on the tasks Mrs. Lincroft has set them. What a clever woman she is.” She began to laugh. “I know how clever. And getting her child brought up here too. That would be one of her conditions. She thinks the world of Alice.”

“It’s natural that she should think a great deal of her own daughter.”

“Oh, very very natural; and there we have Miss Alice brought up in Lovat Stacy, for all the world as though she were a daughter of the house.”

“She is a good child and works very hard.”

Sybil nodded gravely. “But it is Edith I’m interested in now.”

“Well, I never expect to see her looking like that.”

“Shocked, shocked, shocked!” She pointed at me and chanted mischievously, the little girl again. Then her face stiffened. “They will call the child Beaumont,” she went on. “They think they can replace my Beau merely by calling a child by his name. They never will. Nothing will ever bring Beaumont back. My darling boy…he is lost to us.”

“Sir William is delighted at the prospect of having a grandchild.”

“A grandchild.” She began to titter. “And to call him Beaumont!”

“Everyone is a little premature. The child is not born yet and it seems to be presumed that it will be a boy.”

“They can never replace Beaumont,” she said fiercely. “What’s done is done.”

“It’s a pity it cannot be forgotten,” I said.

“Napier thinks that. And you take his view, of course,” she was accusing, mocking.

“I have been here such a short time, and as I am not connected with the family, it is not for me to take views.”

“But you take them all the same. Oh yes, I shall most certainly paint you, Mrs. Verlaine. But not yet…I’ll wait a while. Has anyone ever told you about Harry?”

“No.”

“You should know. You like to know everything about us, don’t you? So of course you should know about Harry.”

“He was the man you were going to marry.”

She nodded and her face puckered. “I thought he loved me…and he did. Everything would have been all right, but they stopped it. They took Harry away from me.”

“Who?”

She waved her arms vaguely. “William stopped it. My brother. He was my guardian because our parents were dead. He said, ‘No. Wait. No wedding until you are twenty-one. You are too young.’ I was nineteen. Nineteen was not too young to be in love. You should have seen Harry, Mrs. Verlaine. He was so handsome, so clever, so witty. He used to make me laugh with his quips. It was wonderful. He was very aristocratic, but he had no money and that was really why William said I was too young. William thinks too much about money. He thinks it is the most important thing in the world. He punished Napier through money, you know. Go away…you are banished. You shan’t have my worldly goods. And then he wanted a grandson so Napier is summoned to return and meekly Napier comes. The bait is…money!”

“It might be something else.”

“Now what else could it be, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“The desire to please a father, the desire to make amends, to forget old enmities.”

“You are sentimental. No one would believe it to look at you…except me of course. You look so coolly on the world…so it seems. But I could see that underneath it all you’re as sentimental as—as—Edith.”

“There’s no harm in sentiment.”

“As long as you don’t smother the truth with it. It’s like pouring treacle over a suet pudding. You can’t see anything but the treacle.”

“You were telling me about Harry.”

“Oh…Harry! He had debts. Blue blood doesn’t pay debts, does it? But money does. I had the money. Perhaps William didn’t want it to go out of the family. Did you think that was the reason? But you couldn’t know that, could you? William said wait, and he wouldn’t give his consent until I was twenty-one. Two years to wait. So we were betrothed. We had a dinner party to celebrate it. Isabella was there. She wasn’t married to William then. There was an orchestra on the dais where the piano is now. We danced, Harry and I, and he said: ‘Two years will soon pass, my darling.’ It did pass and at the end of it I’d lost Harry because he’d met a girl with more money than I had, who could pay his debts without delay and it seemed the need was pressing. She wasn’t as pretty as I was, but she had so much more money.”

“Perhaps then it was all for the best.”

“What do you mean…all for the best?”

“Since it was the money he wanted, he might not have been a good husband.”

“That’s what they tried to tell me.” She stamped her foot “It’s not true. I would have married him. He would have loved me most then. Harry just wanted life to be easy. He would have been happy with me if they’d let him marry me in the beginning. I’d have had my babies…” Her face puckered; she was like a child crying for a coveted toy. “But no,” she cried fiercely, “they stopped me. William stopped me. How dared he! Do you know what he said? ‘He’s a fortune hunter. You’re better without him.’ And he looked prim and virtuous, as though Harry was bad and he was so good. He—why, I could tell you…”

I was looking at her so sadly that she smiled and her vehemence was stemmed. “You have a kind heart, Mrs. Verlaine,” she said, “and you know what it means to lose a lover, don’t you? You suffered too, didn’t you? That’s why I talk to you. I had a ring…a beautiful opal ring. But opals are unlucky, they say. Harry couldn’t bring himself to tell me, and I was nearly twenty-one and I fixed the wedding day and the presents started to come in. And then…one day…I had the letter. He couldn’t face me, he could only write it. He’d been married for months. I ought to have defied my brother and run away with him when he first asked me. William broke my heart, Mrs. Verlaine. I hated him. I hated Harry too for a while. I took the opal ring and I threw it out to sea…and then I took my paints and painted Harry’s face on the walls. Harry’s face…horrible…horrible…horrible…but it comforted me.”

“I’m sorry,” was all I could say.

“You’re truly so.” She smiled at me sadly. “But don’t you say things are forgotten. They are never forgotten. I shall never forget Harry. And I shall never forget Beaumont. My darling Beau…I felt happier when he was born. He took to me right away. He always wanted Auntie Sib. I let him use my paints and he liked that. He was always with me, he was sunny natured and so beautiful. Beau! We naturally called him that because his name was Beaumont. But it meant something too. It meant that he was beautiful.”

“So you had your consolation.”

“Until that day…the day he was murdered.”

“It was an accident. It could have happened to any two boys.”

She shook her head angrily. “But this was Beau…my lovely, beautiful Beau.” She turned to me suddenly: “There’s something in this house…something bad. I know.”

“A house can’t be bad,” I said.

“It can if the people who live there make it so. There are bad wicked people in this house. Be careful.”

I said I would and because I felt she was going to begin an attack on Napier and that if she did I should be forced to defend him, I said I must go.

She consulted her watch and nodded.

“Come again,” she said. “Come and talk to me. I like talking to you. And don’t forget…one day I have to paint a picture of you.”

Alice walked beside me in the gardens where I had come for a little exercise. It had been raining all the morning and now the sun had come out; the flowers smelled all the more delicious and the bees were already busy in the lavender bushes.

Alice was talking to me about the Chopin prelude which she was having some difficulty in mastering, and I was trying to explain to her that the effect of simplicity was often the hardest to obtain.

“How I should love to sit at the piano and play as you do, Mrs. Verlaine. It always looks so easy for you.”

“It’s due to years and years of practice,” I told her. “You haven’t been practicing for years and years, and you have improved tremendously.”

“Does Sir William ever ask about our lessons?” she asked.

“Yes, he has done so.”

“Does he mention me?”

“He mentions you all.”

She was pink with pleasure. She said suddenly, her face grave: “Edith was ill again this morning.”

“I believe it sometimes happens that expectant mothers are ill in the morning; as the time passes she will feel better.”

“What a good thing it is. Everyone is very happy about the baby. They say this is going to make everything right.”

“What is going to make everything right?” It was Allegra who had fallen into step beside me.

“We were talking about the baby,” Alice explained.

“Everybody is talking about the baby. Anyone would think no one had ever had a baby before. After all, they are married, aren’t they? Why shouldn’t they have a baby…People do. That’s what they marry for…or part of it.”

Allegra was looking at me slyly as though to provoke me into some reproof.

“Have you done your practice?” I asked coolly.

“Not yet, Mrs. Verlaine. I will though…later. Only it has been such a horrid morning and now the sun is out, and it’s going to rain again soon. Look at those clouds.” She was smiling at me mischievously, but almost immediately her face darkened. “I’m sick of hearing about this baby. My grandfather is a changed man. That’s what one of the footmen told me this morning. He said: ‘Miss Allegra, this baby will make all the difference to your grandfather. It’ll be like having Mr. Beau back again!’”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Alice. “It will be like having Mr. Beau back again. I wonder whether there’ll be no more lights in the chapel then.”

“There’s a perfectly logical explanation to the light in the chapel,” I said; and as they looked at me expectantly I added: “I’m sure.”

Allegra stood still, expressing her exasperation by facial contortions. “All this fuss. It nauseates me. Why should there be all this fuss about a baby? Perhaps it will be a girl and then serve them right. They seem to forget that I’m here. They never make this fuss about me. I’m Napier’s daughter and Sir William is my grandfather. Yet he scarcely looks at me and when he does his face shows…distaste.”

“Oh no, Allegra,” I said.

“Oh yes, Mrs. Verlaine. So what’s the use of pretending. I used to think it was because Napier was my father and grandfather hated my father. But it’s not that because this new baby will be Napier’s, and they are all making such a fuss before it is born.”

She ran ahead of us and started pulling a rose to pieces.

“Allegra,” warned Alice, “that’s one of your grandfather’s favorites.”

“I know,” spat out Allegra. “That’s why I’m doing it.”

“That’s not the best way to relieve your feelings,” I said.

Allegra grinned at me. “It’s one way, Mrs. Verlaine. The best available at the moment.”

Allegra had plucked another of the precious blooms and was bent on destruction.

I knew it was no use protesting and that once she had no audience she would stop, so I stepped off the path and started to walk across the lawn.

Some time before this Mrs. Lincroft had suggested that I accompany the girls when they went out riding, and I had ordered a riding habit from London as I hated borrowing clothes and Edith’s certainly did not fit me well. I admitted to myself that this was an extravagance but having acquired it I rode more frequently than I had previously.

My habit was in a becoming shade of dark blue—not quite navy; it was beautifully cut and as soon as I saw it I did not regret the money I had spent on it. The girls all assured me that I looked very elegant in it and they were constantly admiring it.

When she made the suggestion Mrs. Lincroft went on: “I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you are here, Mrs. Verlaine. It’s a great help to us all now that we have this extra burden. I shall be very pleased when the new curate arrives. But then I suppose we shall have to wait until Mrs. Rendall considers he is ready to help with the teaching.”

I said that I had contributed very little and in fact enjoyed what I had done, for what I dreaded most was to have too little to do.

I was in fact delighted with the turn of events because not only did it keep me fully occupied and make me feel I was earning my salary, but I was with the girls more often and was beginning to know them better…Allegra, Alice, and Sylvia, that was. I saw less of Edith—she had given up riding now—though occasionally she would ask for a lesson at the piano; but even at such times she seemed to be shutting herself away from me as though she regretted the impulse which had almost made her confide in me.

One early afternoon when I was riding with the three younger girls, we saw Napier coming toward us.

He said: “Hello, enjoying a ride?”

I noticed how he avoided looking at Allegra—and she at him—and that her mouth formed into the sullen lines with which I was growing familiar. Why did he dislike her? Was he thinking of her mother, for whom he must have had some affection at some time. What had she been like? Exactly what had he felt for her? And what business was it of mine? Except of course that I was here to teach Allegra and I should have liked to help her if possible. A girl who bore so much resentment was storing up trouble for herself.

“It’s a lovely day,” I said. And I thought, What a trite statement of the obvious that was! And I had said it as though I was just discovering it.

I was aware of three pairs of eyes watching Napier and me rather too intently for my comfort.

“I’ll ride with you,” said Napier, and he turned his horse and we rode on, he a little ahead of us in the narrow road. As I studied his straight back and the proud set of his head, I was thinking that Allegra would be aware of everything he said, every inflection of his voice. Poor Allegra! All she needed I thought was affection—and she had none at all. Sylvia’s father would be tender and loving however much a martinet her mother might be and there was no doubt of Mrs. Lincroft’s devotion to Alice; yes, poor Allegra was the unfortunate one. I must try to do something for her.

I turned to speak to her and saw that she was trying to push Sylvia out of her saddle.

“Allegra,” I said sharply, “pray don’t do that.”

“Sylvia was teasing me,” retorted Allegra.

Napier ignored the girls and said to me: “I’m glad to see how you’ve taken to riding, Mrs. Verlaine.” We had emerged from the narrow lane and he had brought his horse neck to neck with mine.

“I never thought I could enjoy outdoor exercise so much.”

“And everything you undertake you do well.” His eyes belied the respect in his voice.

“I wish I could be sure of that.”

“But you are sure. That is why you succeed. You must have faith in yourself before you expect anyone else to…even horses. That horse knows he has a very determined rider on his back.”

“You make it sound very simple.”

“Theory always is. It’s practice that is less so.”

“That sounds profound. Do you apply it to your mode of life?”

“Ah, now you have me, Mrs. Verlaine, of course I don’t. Like most people I’m very good at giving advice…to others. But it’s true. You must admit it. I know what you’re thinking. You dreamed of becoming the greatest pianist in the world, and here you are teaching music to four very indifferent pupils—that’s so, I believe?”

“My little affairs are scarcely worthy of such a detailed analysis.”

“On the contrary they make a very good example.”

“Hardly of interest to you.”

“You are willfully obtuse today, Mrs. Verlaine.”

The impulse to fall back and wait for the girls seemed to me a wise move; but I had no intention of making it.

“You are fully aware,” he went on, glancing at me intently, “that your…past is of the utmost interest to me?”

“I can’t think why.”

“You are deceiving yourself but you don’t deceive me.”

We were looking across the land to sea. The castle showed clearly its Tudor rose outline; below us was the shingle with the waves gently rising and falling over it with a low, almost contented murmur.

There were the houses, almost at the water’s edge. Fishing boats were drawn up on the shingle; the smell of fish was in the air, mingling with the odor of seaweed.

I said hastily: “One would imagine that row of houses was actually in the sea.”

“The sea is encroaching…rapidly. In a hundred years they’ll be washed away. They are continually being flooded. One could draw a parallel. You and I are like those houses; the past is like the sea…threatening to envelop us…and prevent our living free and full lives.”

“I had no idea that you would indulge in such fanciful observations.”

“Ah, but there is a great deal you don’t know about me, Mrs. Verlaine.”

“I never doubted it.”

“And you show no great curiosity to learn.”

“If you wished me to know you would no doubt tell me.”

“But that would deprive you of the pleasure of finding out. To revert to my poetic fancies. I was thinking that a strong sea wall now would save those houses.”

“Then why don’t they build it?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It would cost a great deal; people don’t like changes. It is so much easier to go on in the old way until something has to be done. I know that one day people will stand here looking on the town and they will no longer see that row of houses because the sea will have taken them. But a sea wall would have saved them. Mrs. Verlaine, you and I have to build that sea wall…metaphorically, I mean. We have to protect ourselves against the encroaching sea of the past.”

I turned to him and said: “How?”

“That is what we have to find out. We have to fight…we have to throw off those clinging hands…we have to snap the chains…”

“Your metaphors are becoming a little mixed,” I said, feeling the need to bring a little lightness into the conversation which I knew well was full of innuendos.

He laughed aloud.

“All right,” he said. “All right. Plain straightforward…frank English. I think you and I could help each other to forget.”

Oh, I thought, how dare he! Did he think he could seduce me as he had Allegra’s mother? A widow, I ruminated. Easy game. Could this possibly be his intention? Perhaps I should go away. I shuddered inwardly to contemplate returning to my room in Kensington, advertising for pupils. No, I was not an innocent young girl. I could take care of myself.

But I would have to show him that if he thought he could amuse himself with me he was mistaken.

I looked over my shoulder. The girls, with Allegra a little ahead, were walking their horses, keeping a distance between Napier and me.

I pulled up and the girls came riding up. I sniffed the exhilarating air and gazed at the sea which was sending frothy frills against the glistening shingle.

“We were wondering what Julius Caesar said when he first saw it,” said Allegra.

“Those poor ancient Britons!” whispered Alice. “Imagine them.” Her eyes were round with horror and even the presence of Napier could not quell her. “They would see the boats coming in, and they hurried to put on their woad and paint themselves blue to make themselves look frightening. They were the ones who were frightened. And the Romans came and saw and conquered.”

“And built houses here,” shouted Allegra, determined not to be left out. “And if they hadn’t Miss Brandon would never have come here and disappeared.”

“How that woman’s memory is kept alive,” murmured Napier.

Alice went on as though hypnotized: “And they built a town here and their villas and their baths.”

“Fortunately not under Lovat Stacy,” went on Allegra. “Because if they had she would have wanted to pull our house down to find their remains.”

“I very much doubt whether that would have been permitted,” said Napier.

Sylvia, who had remained aloof, murmured: “Perhaps she wouldn’t have asked permission. Those people don’t, my mother says. Perhaps that was what she was trying to do when…”

Napier sighed as though he were bored and started to move on; we all followed and in a very short time he was beside me again.

“You’re still thinking about the missing lady,” he accused me. “You are very interested in her. Admit it.”

“The mystery intrigues me.”

“You like everything to be neatly rounded off with Finis written at the end.”

“If that were possible. But is it ever so?”

“Of course not. Nothing is ever finished. What happened a hundred years ago is still having its effect on today. Even if we built that sea wall we should still hear the sea thundering away behind it.”

“But without the power to creep into the houses and in time wash them away.”

“Ah, Mrs. Verlaine…Caroline…”

I turned to look for the girls; they were still keeping their distance.

I said: “The masts are clear today.”

“And,” he went on, “there is another analogy for you. Perhaps better than the sea wall.”

“Pray spare me,” I said with a trace of his own mockery.

“To spare the rod they say is to spoil the child.”

“You are forgetting that I am not a child.”

“We are all children in some respects. Yes, this is much better than the sea wall. I am in fact trying to tell you that I am not such a Philistine as you imagine me. I have my flights of fancy. You and I are like those ships. We are caught in the shivering sands of the past. We shall never escape because we are held fast, held by our memories and other people’s opinions of us.”

“This is too fanciful.”

“Do you look at them at night? Do you see the intermittent flash from the lightship, a warning to mariners? Keep off. Here are the shivering sands. Do not venture near…”

“Mr. Stacy,” I said, “I refuse to consider what has happened to me as having any connection with the Goodwin Sands.”

“Because you are an optimist, and those sands defeat optimism. They are malevolent…so golden and beautiful…so treacherous. Have you ever seen them close? You must let me take you out there one day.”

I shivered.

“It would be perfectly safe. I should make sure of that.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Which means precisely ‘No thank you.’” He laughed aloud. “But perhaps I shall prevail on you to change your mind…about this and other things. Do you change your mind easily, Mrs. Verlaine? I am sure you do. You are far too sensible to make up your mind and cling to an opinion in face of all arguments.”

“I hope that if I had made a wrong decision and was confronted by the truth, I should be eager to admit it.”

“I knew it.”

I said: “I think we have ridden far enough. We should now make our way back.” I turned my horse and went to meet the girls.

“It’s time we returned,” I said; and they obediently turned their horses and we rode along together for a while. Napier was silent; and in a short time the girls had dropped behind again and he was talking about the outlying estate which we had reached and which was the property of the Stacy family.

I quickly realized that this was something he cared about. How he must have longed for it when he was out of the country! I wondered how he felt about it when he was young and knew that Beaumont would inherit. He must have been envious of his brother. Envy—the deadly sin which led to many of the others…perhaps murder.

“We’re making improvements on the estate now,” he said. “Until recently money was difficult.”

Until the marriage with Edith when the Cowan fortune came into the possession of the Stacys, I thought. Poor Edith, perhaps if she had not been an heiress she might have married Jeremy Brown and been a parson’s wife—and she would have been a good one in time—and lived happily ever after.

And now…what sort of future would she have with Napier? What sort of future would any woman have with such a man? Some would be able to deal with it. Some might find it exhilarating in a repellent sort of way.

I shut off that line of thought promptly.

“Many of the cottages are in need of repair,” he went on. “We are putting that to rights gradually. And about time too. I could show you, if you would care to ride round with me one day.”

“I am the music teacher.”

“That’s no reason why you should not look at the estate, is it? You might find some budding genius tucked away in one of our farmhouses.”

“Is Mrs. Stacy interested in the estate?”

His smile was a little sad. “I have never been able to discover what she is interested in.”

“After all…” I was going to say that it was her fortune which was going to be used to improve the estate, but that seemed to be going too far. Perhaps, I implied this, for he was frowning slightly and I summoned the girls again. I did not want them to think that I was taking a ride with Napier. We were a party and I wanted this stressed.

“Come on,” I called.

“Yes, Mrs. Verlaine,” answered Alice and they came up with us.

“Aren’t the wrecks clear?” she said, as though making polite conversation.

“Very,” I replied. I signed for Allegra to take her place beside Napier, but she hung back sullenly and I did not want to force it, so I turned my horse and we went on and in a short time we came to a cottage with a long front garden in which the weeds were growing.

I heard Sylvia’s shrill voice: “That’s the Brancots. Their garden’s a disgrace. The weeds blow to other people’s and spoil their flowers and vegetables. There have been complaints.”

“Poor Mr. Brancot,” said Alice gently. “He’s so old. How can he do his garden? It’s not fair to expect it.”

“Still, it’s a rule that tenants look after their gardens, my mother said.”

The only time Sylvia was bold was when she was quoting her mother.

We passed on and in a short time I noticed that the girls had fallen behind again. They were keeping their distance because they thought we wished them to, and what this implied made me uneasy.

A few days later an even more disturbing incident occurred.

As I came out of the house I found Mrs. Lincroft with Alice about to get into the dog cart.

“We’re just going to the little shop to get a few things,” she said. “Is there anything you need?”

I thought awhile and remembered that I needed a reel of blue cotton.

“Why not come along with us?” she suggested. “Then you can choose the exact color you need.”

As we rode along I remembered the little shop which Roma and her friends had used and which I had once visited with my sister. It was in fact a house—little more than a cottage—and in the window of the parlor, goods were displayed, the idea seeming to be to cram in as much as possible. Roma had said that the shop was a godsend and saved them going into Lovat Mill whenever they wanted any little thing. It was run by a large woman and all I remembered about her was that she talked a great deal and was shaped rather like a figure eight.

One stepped down into the interior of the shop, where bundles of firewood were stacked against a wall beside a great tin of paraffin oil, the smell of which permeated the gloom. There were biscuits, cheeses, fruit, cake and bread as well as haberdashery. I guessed it prospered largely because many of the people of the neighborhood were saved, as Roma and her friends had been, from making the journey into Lovat Mill.

As soon as I entered memories came back to me of Roma and I thought of her standing there asking in that brisk voice of hers for glue or brushes or bread and cheeses.

Mrs. Lincroft made her purchases and I asked for my cotton; and as the plump lady, whom Mrs. Lincroft addressed as Mrs. Bury, brought out her tray of cottons, she peered at me and said: “Oh, you people are back then, are you?”

In dismay I understood at once. She recognized me.

Mrs. Lincroft said: “This is Mrs. Verlaine, who teaches the girls music.”

“Oh…” A long-drawn-out sigh of astonishment. “Well, fancy that. I could have sworn…I thought you were one of them…They were here for quite a time…always coming in for this and that.”

“Mrs. Bury means the people who were working on the Roman remains,” explained Alice.

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Bury. “Why you’re the spitting image of this one. I could have sworn…she didn’t come in much…once or twice…but I’m not one to forget a face. I thought for a minute: Hello, they’re back. This is a nice blue. It depends of course—”

As she brought out a little brown paper bag and put in the cotton I had selected, she was chuckling to herself. “My word…For a minute I thought…I could have sworn you were one of them.”

She took my money and gave me my change.

“Mind you,” she said, “I wouldn’t be the one to say no if they wanted to come back and do some more. There’s some that don’t like it. But they were always in here. Some didn’t like ’em cutting up the countryside but it’s good for business, I say. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world. It was funny that one who disappeared. We never heard what became of her. I expect it was in the papers and I missed it. Though if it had been murder—”

“We shall never know now,” said Mrs. Lincroft finalizing the conversation. “Thank you, Mrs. Bury.”

“Thank you, I’m sure.” Her warm brown eyes followed me out; and I knew she was trying to cast back her mind to a certain afternoon when Roma had gone into her shop taking a companion with her.

“I had to cut her short,” said Mrs. Lincroft as we climbed into the trap. “Otherwise she’d go on forever.”

I had been rather shaken by Mrs. Bury’s recognizing me and I wondered what effect it would have on the Stacys if they discovered that I was Roma’s sister. At best it seemed to make me appear rather sly. My only excuse would be that I thought her disappearance might be in some way connected with the house and its inhabitants, which could scarcely be expected to please them.

Perhaps I should do well to confess now. I could imagine myself telling Napier.

I wanted to be alone, away from the house to think of these things and what better solitude than riding through the country lanes.

I went to the stables and as I was about to ride out Napier came in. As he dismounted he threw a bag onto the ground where it fell with a clatter. I looked at it in some surprise and he said: “It’s only a spade and shovel and few gardening things.”

“You’ve been working with them?”

“You look surprised. There are many things I can do. I turned my hands to all sorts of jobs on the Station.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Now you are putting on that ‘It’s no concern of mine’ look. Please don’t. I like to think that what I do is a concern of yours.”

“That,” I said coolly, “is more baffling than ever.”

“You say that but you know there is a perfectly simple explanation. I am eager for your approval, so I shall tell you what I’ve been doing.”

“It’s not necessary and I’m sorry if I implied that I should like to know.”

“You implied it…most clearly. That’s what I find so stimulating about you. You always want to know. There is one thing I cannot endure, and that is indifference. Now be prepared for a great surprise. I’ve been to the Brancots’ helping with the garden. Ah, that has shaken you.”

“I—I think it’s extremely kind of you.”

He bowed. “It’s pleasant to bask in the warmth of your approval.”

“You could of course have sent one of the gardeners.”

“So I could.”

“Your tenants will think you a most unusual landlord, working in their gardens.”

“One tenant—one garden—and I didn’t do it as a landlord.” He leaped back into the saddle. “This is too good an opportunity to miss. We’re going for a ride together.”

“I have only an hour to spare.”

He laughed again and as I could do nothing else but move away, he followed me out into the sunshine.

While we walked our horses through the narrow lanes he said seriously: “About Brancots…yes I could have sent one of the gardeners, but old Brancot didn’t want that. There are some malicious people around here. So self-righteous they are. There’s our dear vicar’s wife for one. She believes in justice. No matter how uncomfortable everyone is, justice must be done. She would say that if old Brancot cannot manage the garden he should move to a cottage without one; but he’s lived in that cottage all his life.”

“I understand.”

“And your opinion of me has improved a little?”

“Of course.”

He looked at me quizzically. “Who is to say that I did it to win your approval and not for old Brancot.”

“I’m sure there is no question of it.”

“You do not know me. I have mean, ulterior motives. My ways are devious. You should beware of me.”

“That could very likely be true.”

“I’m so glad you realize it, because you will be much more interested in me for that very reason.”

I thought then: There is no doubt to what he is leading. I must show him quite clearly that he is making a mistake. I was not going to run away simply because the master of the house—well, he was not quite that while Sir William lived—but because he was trying to force his attentions on me. I would show him that he could make no headway with me, nor could he drive me away. For the first time the thought struck me that he might want to drive me away.

We had come to an open stretch of country and he broke into a gallop. I followed, and when he finally pulled up I was not far behind him.

I brought my horse to a standstill and we looked down on the sea together. Ahead lay Dover Castle, gray, impregnable and magnificent, standing like a sentinel guarding the white cliffs as it had for hundreds of years. Dubris—as Roma would have called it—the gateway to England; and there was the remains of the Pharos—Roma again—which had so delighted her, on what was known as the Devil’s Drop, built in green sandstone and Roman brick and cemented together by Roman mortar, which my sister had told me had stood up to the weather for nearly two thousand years. Away to the west was that wonderful formation known as Caesar’s Camp. Invisible now, but I remembered my sister’s taking me along this coast and gloating over the evidence of Roman occupation.

Napier’s thoughts were clearly not with the Romans for he turned to me and said: “Shouldn’t we speak frankly?”

I was brought back to the present. “It would depend on what that would entail.”

“Isn’t frankness always desirable?”

“No, not always.”

“Your husband would not wish you to go on mourning him.”

“How can you know?” I fiercely demanded.

“If he did wish it, it should be easier for you to forget. That would show clearly that he was not worth remembering.”

I was angry—unfairly so perhaps, because he was making me look at what I did not want to see. Of course Pietro would want me to go on remembering him for the rest of my life.

I remembered something else then. There had been at the Paris pension a girl student who had been smitten with an incurable disease. She had had a lover and a sudden vision of their two melancholy faces came to me. They were in my room in the pension and we drank coffee together and talked of love and she quoted the poem which she said she had given to her lover to read when she was dead if he should remember her and be sad.

“No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled…”

And it went on:

“…for I love you so,

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

If thinking on me then should make you woe.”

My eyes filled with tears which I tried to blink away but he had seen them.

“He was an extremely selfish man,” he said brutally.

“He was an artist.”

“Weren’t you?”

“I lacked something. Otherwise I should never have been deterred.”

He leaned toward me: “Caro…no not Caro…that was his name for you. Caroline, you have forgotten sometimes…since you’ve been here.”

“No,” I said firmly. “I never forget.”

“You are not telling the truth. You forget now and then, and the times of forgetting grow more frequent.”

“No, no,” I insisted.

“Yes, Caroline, yes,” he went on. “There is someone here who makes you forget. Why were you not here when I came back. Before…”

I looked at him coldly and prodding my horse, moved away from him.

He was beside me.

“You are afraid,” he said accusingly.

“You are mistaken,” I replied. I was horrified to find that my hands were shaking. I should never ride alone with him again.

“You know I am not. What sense is there is pretending things are what they are not.”

“Sometimes it is necessary, to…accept.”

“I never would.” His voice rang out clearly. “Nor should you, Caroline.”

He cut at some nearby bushes with his riding crop. “There must be a way,” he said.

At that moment I heard a shout from the bushes and Allegra was calling to us. I turned and saw the three girls.

“We’ve come rather a long way,” said Alice almost apologetically. “Then Allegra thought she saw you.”

“Shouldn’t you have a groom with you?” I asked.

Alice looked at Allegra who said: “I dared them.”

Napier had not spoken. He seemed scarcely aware of the girls.

“It’s time we started back,” I said.

And we rode home, Napier and myself ahead; the girls keeping that discreet distance behind us which was so disturbing.

“It’s a beautiful story.” said Alice. “I felt I knew all the people…especially Jane.”

They had been reading Jane Eyre—a task set them by Mrs. Lincroft and they had been commanded to write an essay commenting on the book and comparing it with others.

Mrs. Lincroft had said to me: “Sir William has had a bad night and he’s a little fretful this morning. I feel I should hover over him. Could you go to the schoolroom for an hour or so?”

I had readily agreed, thankful to have something to do. I was disturbed by my conversation with Napier. He was very interested in me, I did not doubt that; what I did doubt was the depth of his emotion. I knew so little of him. But I had to admit that had he been free I might have been eager to discover more; that but for Edith I would have been willing to allow him to show me whether it was possible to forget the past.

“Have you completed your essays?” I asked.

Alice laid hers before me, three neat pages. Allegra had done half a page and Sylvia barely one.

“I shall leave these for Mrs. Lincroft to see,” I said, “since she set the lesson.”

“We were to discuss the book together and the characters,” Alice explained.

“I liked it,” said Allegra.

“Allegra liked the part about the fire, didn’t you?” said Alice, and Allegra nodded, suddenly sullen.

“What else did you like?” I asked the girl.

She shrugged her shoulders and said: “I did like the fire. It served them all right. He shouldn’t have shut her up should he…and he went blind.”

“Jane was very good,” said Alice. “She ran away when she knew he was married.”

“He was very upset then,” said Sylvia, “but it served him right, didn’t it? He didn’t tell her he was married to someone else.”

“I wonder whether she really knew and pretended not to,” suggested Allegra.

“The author would have told us if she had,” I pointed out.

“But she is the author,” put in Alice. “Jane is writing the book. She says I…I…She might have wanted to pretend.”

“And she might not have told us,” added Sylvia triumphantly.

“Still, she did go away when it all came out that he had a mad wife.” Allegra’s dark eyes were on my face.

“Which,” said Alice, “was the right thing to do, wasn’t it, Mrs. Verlaine?”

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on my face. Questioningly? Accusingly? Warningly?

A few days later I was having dinner with Mrs. Lincroft and Alice when the bell in Mrs. Lincroft’s sitting room began to ring violently.

She looked startled. “Oh dear, what can be wrong?” she said. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “They should be halfway through dinner. Do go on, Mrs. Verlaine. Omelets should be eaten immediately.”

She left me with Alice, who continued to eat her food I did the same.

“He doesn’t usually send during dinner,” said Alice after a short pause. “I wonder why he has today. Sometimes I wonder what he would do without my mother.”

“I am sure he relies on her.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Alice in her most old-fashioned manner. “He would be quite lost without her.” She looked at me anxiously: “Do you think he appreciates that, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Yes, so do I.” She seemed satisfied and returned to her omelet.

After a while she said: “And Sir William is very good to me too. He takes quite an interest. But although my mother is a good housekeeper, she is still only a housekeeper. Some people remember that. Mrs. Rendall for one.”

“I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“No, you wouldn’t because you’re wise and sensible.” She sighed. “I think my mother is as much of a lady as Mrs. Rendall. No, I think she is more.”

“I’m glad you appreciate her, Alice,” I said.

The door opened and Mrs. Lincroft came in, looking distinctly worried.

“Have either of you seen Edith?”

Alice and I looked at each other blankly.

“She’s late for dinner.” Mrs. Lincroft glanced at the clock. “Twenty minutes late. They’ve held up serving. It’s so unlike her. Where could she be?”

“She’s in her room, I expect,” said Alice. “Shall I go and see, Mamma?”

“Someone has been there, child. She’s not in her room. No one remembers seeing her since luncheon. One of the maids took tea up to her at four o’clock. She always has it at that time…and she wasn’t there.”

Alice had risen. “Shall I go and look for her, Mamma?”

“No, finish your dinner. Oh dear, this is alarming.”

“She’s probably gone for a walk and forgotten the time,” I suggested.

“That must be the case,” agreed Mrs. Lincroft. “But I must say it is unlike her. Sir William is really annoyed. He so dislikes unpunctuality as Edith knows.”

“Your dinner is getting cold, Mamma,” said Alice anxiously.

“I know, but I must see if I can find her.”

“Perhaps she’s taken the trap and gone visiting someone,” I suggested.

“Not alone,” said Alice. “She was frightened of horses.”

We were startled, both Mrs. Lincroft and I. It was the use of that word “was.”

Mrs. Lincroft said hastily: “Yes, she is scared of the horses and always was. I wish I knew where to look for her.”

It seemed rather a fuss, I thought, just because she was late for dinner. But it appeared she never had been before. But why shouldn’t she have gone off visiting a friend and forgotten the time? I suggested.

“She doesn’t go visiting friends. Whom would she visit? I expect she’s gone out for a walk…sat down somewhere and dropped asleep. She’s been acting a little absentminded lately. That’s what it is. She’ll turn up soon and be in such a state because she has offended Sir William.”

But she did not turn up, and it was borne home to us that Edith, like Roma, had disappeared.