I

In the yard of the County Hotel in Wiltsbury two chauffeurs were busy with cars. George Green finished his work on the interior of the big Daimler, wiped his hands on a bit of oily rag and stood upright with a sigh of satisfaction. He was a cheerful young fellow and was smiling now because he was pleased with himself for locating the trouble and dealing with it. He strolled along to where his fellow chauffeur was completing the toilet of a Minerva.

The latter looked up.

“Hullo, George⁠—you through? Your boss is a Yank, isn’t he? What’s he like?”

“He’s all right. Fussy, though. Won’t go more than forty.”

“Well, thank your stars you don’t drive for a woman,” said the other. His name was Evans. “Always changing their minds. And no idea of the proper times for meals. Picnic lunches as often as not⁠—and you know what that means, a hard-boiled egg and a leaf of lettuce.”

Green sat down on an adjacent barrel.

“Why don’t you chuck it?”

“Not so easy to get another job, these days,” said Evans.

“No, that’s true,” said Green. He looked thoughtful.

“And I’ve got a missus and two kids,” went on the other. “What’s the rot that was talked about a country fit for heroes? No, if you’ve got a job⁠—any kind of a job⁠—it’s better to freeze on to it in 1920.”

He was silent for a minute, and then went on.

“Funny business⁠—the war. I was hit twice⁠—shrapnel. Makes you go a bit queer afterwards. My missus says I frighten her⁠—go quite batty sometimes. Wake up in the middle of the night hollering and not knowing where I am.”

“I know,” said Green. “I’m the same. When my guvnor picked me up⁠—in Holland that was⁠—I couldn’t remember a thing about myself except my name.”

“When was that? After the war?”

“Six months after the armistice. I was working in a garage there. Some chaps who were drunk ran me down one night in a lorry. Fairly scared ’em sober. They picked me up and took me along with them. I’d got a whacking great bash on the head. They looked after me and got me a job. Good chaps they were. I’d been working there two years when Mr. Bleibner came along. He hired a car from our place once or twice and I drove him. He talked to me a good bit and finally he offered to take me on as chauffeur.”

“Mean to say you never thought of getting back home before that?”

“No⁠—I didn’t want to somehow. I’d no folks there as far as I could remember and I’ve an idea I’d had a bit of trouble there of some kind.”

“I shouldn’t associate trouble with you, mate,” said Evans with a laugh.

George Green laughed too. He was indeed a most cheerful-looking young man, tall and dark with broad shoulders and an ever ready smile.

“Nothing much ever worries me,” he boasted. “I was born the happy-go-lucky kind, I guess.”

He moved away, smiling happily. A few minutes later he was reporting to his employer that the Daimler was ready for the road.

Mr. Bleibner was a tall thin dyspeptic-looking American with pure speech.

“Very good. Now, Green, I am going to Lord Datchet’s for luncheon. Abingworth Friars. It’s about six miles from here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After luncheon I am going to a place called Abbots Puissants. Abbotsford is the village. Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it, I think, sir. But I don’t know exactly where it is. I’ll look it up on the map.”

“Yes, please do so. It cannot, I think, be more than twenty miles⁠—in the direction of Ringwood, I fancy.”

“Very good, sir.”

Green touched his cap and withdrew.

II

Nell Chetwynd stepped through the French window of the drawing-room and came out upon the terrace at Abbots Puissants.

It was one of those still early autumn days when there seems no stirring of life anywhere, as though Nature herself feigned unconsciousness. The sky was a pale, not a deep, blue and there was a very faint haze in the atmosphere.

Nell leaned against a big stone urn and gazed out over the silent prospect. Everything was very beautiful and very English. The formal gardens were exquisitely kept. The house itself had been very judiciously and carefully repaired.

Not habitually given to emotion, as Nell looked up at the rose-red brick of the walls, she felt a sudden swelling of the heart. It was all so perfect. She wished that Vernon could know⁠—could see.

Four years of marriage had dealt kindly with Nell, but they had changed her. There was no suggestion of the nymph about her now. She was a beautiful woman instead of a lovely girl. She was poised, assured. Her beauty was a very definite kind of beauty⁠—it never varied or altered. Her movements were more deliberate than of old, she had filled out a little⁠—there was no suggestion of immaturity. She was the perfect full-blown rose.

A voice called her from the house.

“Nell!”

“I’m here, George, on the terrace.”

“Right. I’ll be out in a minute.”

What a dear George was! A little smile creased her lips. The perfect husband! Perhaps that was because he was an American. You always heard that Americans made perfect husbands. Certainly, George had been one to her. The marriage had been a complete success. It was true that she had never felt for George what she had felt for Vernon, but almost reluctantly she had admitted that perhaps that was a good thing. These tempestuous emotions that tore and rent one⁠—they couldn’t last. Every day you had evidence that they didn’t last.

All her old revolt was quelled now. She no longer questioned passionately the reason why Vernon should have been taken from her. God knew best. One rebelled at the time, but one came at last to realize that whatever happened was really for the best.

They had known supreme happiness, she and Vernon, and nothing could ever mar or take away from it. It was there forever⁠—a precious secret possession, a hidden jewel. She could think of him now without regret or longing. They had loved each other and had risked everything to be together. Then had come that awful pain of separation⁠—and then peace.

Yes, that was the predominant factor in her life now⁠—peace. George had given her that. He had wrapped her round with comfort, with luxury, with tenderness. She hoped that she was a good wife to him, even if she didn’t care like she had cared for Vernon. But she was fond of him⁠—of course she was! The quiet affectionate feeling she had for him was by far the safest emotion to go through life with.

Yes, that expressed exactly what she felt⁠—safe and happy. She wished that Vernon knew. He would be glad, she was sure.

George Chetwynd came out and joined her. He wore English country clothes and looked very much the country squire. He had not aged at all⁠—indeed he looked younger. In his hand he held some letters.

“I’ve agreed to share that shooting with Drummond. I think we’ll enjoy it.”

“I’m so glad.”

“We must decide who we want to ask.”

“Yes, we’ll talk about it tonight. I’m rather glad the Hays couldn’t come and dine. It will be nice to have an evening to ourselves.”

“I was afraid you were overdoing it in town, Nell.”

“We did rush about rather. But I think it’s good for one really. And anyway, it’s been splendidly peaceful down here.”

“It’s wonderful.” George threw an appreciative glance over the landscape. “I’d rather have Abbots Puissants than any place in England. It’s got an atmosphere.”

Nell nodded.

“I know what you mean.”

“I should hate to think of it in the hands of⁠—well, people like the Levinnes, for instance.”

“I know. One would resent it. And yet Sebastian is a dear⁠—and his taste at any rate is perfect.”

“He knows the taste of the public all right,” said George dryly. “One success after another⁠—with occasionally a succès d’estime just to show he’s not a mere money maker. He’s beginning to look the part though⁠—getting not exactly fat, but sleek. Adopting all sorts of mannerisms. There’s a caricature of him in Punch this week. Very clever.”

“Sebastian would lend himself to caricaturing,” said Nell, smiling. “Those enormous ears, and those funny high cheekbones. He was an extraordinary-looking boy.”

“It’s odd to think of you all playing together as children. By the way, I’ve got a surprise for you. A friend you haven’t seen for some time is coming to lunch today.”

“Not Josephine?”

“No. Jane Harding.”

“Jane Harding! But how on earth⁠—?”

“I ran into her at Wiltsbury yesterday. She’s on tour, acting in some company or other.”

“Jane! Why, George, I didn’t even realize you knew her?”

“I came across her when we were both doing relief work in Serbia. I saw a lot of her. I wrote to you about it.”

“Did you? I don’t remember.”

Something in her tone seemed to strike him and he said anxiously:

“It’s all right, isn’t it, dear? I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you. I always thought she was a great friend of yours. I can put her off in a minute if⁠—”

“No, no. Of course, I’ll be delighted to see her. I was only surprised.”

George was reassured.

“That’s all right then. By the way, she told me that a man called Bleibner, a man I knew very well in New York, is also in Wiltsbury. I’d like him to see the Abbey ruins⁠—that sort of thing is a speciality of his. Do you mind if I ask him to lunch, too?”

“No, of course not. Do ask him.”

“I’ll see if I can get him on the phone now. I meant to do it last night, but it slipped my memory.”

He went indoors again. Nell was left on the terrace frowning slightly.

George in this had been right. For some reason or other, she was not pleased at the thought of Jane’s coming to lunch. She felt very definitely that she didn’t want to see Jane. Already, the mere mention of Jane seemed to have disturbed the serenity of the morning. She thought: “I was so peaceful and now⁠—”

Annoying⁠—yes, it was annoying. She was, had always been, afraid of Jane. Jane was the kind of person you could never be sure about. She⁠—how could one put it?⁠—she upset things. She was disturbing, and Nell didn’t want to be disturbed.

She thought unreasonably: “Why on earth did George have to meet her in Serbia? How trying things are.”

But it was absurd to be afraid of Jane. Jane couldn’t hurt her⁠—now. Poor Jane, she must have made rather a mess of things to have come down to acting in a touring company.

One must be loyal to one’s old friends, Jane was an old friend. She should see how loyal Nell could be. And with a glow of self-approval she went upstairs and changed into a dress of dove-coloured georgette with which she wore one very beautifully matched string of pearls that George had given her on the last anniversary of their marriage. She took particular pains over her toilet, satisfying thereby some obscure female instinct.

“At any rate,” she thought, “the Bleibner man will be there and that will make things easier.”

Though why she expected things to be difficult she could not have explained.

George came up to fetch her just as she was applying a final dusting of powder.

“Jane’s arrived,” he said. “She’s in the drawing room.”

“And Mr. Bleibner?”

“He’s engaged for lunch, unfortunately. But he’s coming along this afternoon.”

“Oh!”

She went downstairs slowly. Absurd to feel so apprehensive. Poor Jane⁠—one simply must be nice to her. It was such terribly bad luck to have lost her voice and come down to this.

Jane, however, did not seem aware of bad luck. She was sprawling back on the sofa in an attitude of easy unconcern, looking round the room with keen appreciation.

“Hullo, Nell,” she said. “Well, you seem to have dug yourself in pretty comfortably.”

It was an outrageous remark. Nell stiffened. She couldn’t think for a moment of what to say. She met Jane’s eyes which were full of a mocking maliciousness. They shook hands and Nell said at the same time, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I meant all this. Palatial dwelling, well-proportioned footmen, highly paid cook, soft-footed servants, possibly a French maid, baths prepared for one with the latest unguents and bath salts, five or six gardeners, luxurious limousines, expensive clothes and, I perceive, genuine pearls! Are you enjoying it all frightfully? I am sure you are.”

“Tell me about yourself,” said Nell, seating herself beside Jane on the sofa.

Jane’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s a very clever answer. And I fully deserved it. Sorry, Nell. I was a beast. But you were being so queenly and so gracious. I never can stand people being gracious.”

She got up and began to stroll round the room.

“So this is Vernon’s home,” she said softly. “I’ve never seen it before⁠—only heard him talk about it.”

She was silent for a minute, then asked abruptly: “How much have you changed?”

Nell explained that everything had been left as it was as far as possible. Curtains, covers, carpets, and so forth, had all been renewed. The old ones were too shabby. And one or two priceless pieces of furniture had been added. Whenever George came across anything that was in keeping with the place he bought it.

Jane’s eyes were fixed on her while she made this explanation, and Nell felt uneasy because she couldn’t read the expression in them.

George came in before she had finished talking and they went in to lunch.

The talk was at first of Serbia, of a few mutual friends out there. Then they passed on to Jane’s affairs. George referred delicately to Jane’s voice⁠—the sorrow he had felt, that everyone must feel. Jane passed it off carelessly enough.

“My own fault,” she said. “I would sing a certain kind of music and my voice wasn’t made for it.”

Sebastian Levinne, she went on to say, had been a wonderful friend. He was willing now to star her in London, but she had wished to learn her trade first.

“Singing in opera is, of course, acting too. But there are all sorts of things to learn⁠—to manage one’s speaking voice, for instance. And then one’s effects are all different⁠—they must be more subtle, less broad.”

Next autumn, she explained, she was to appear in London in a dramatized version of Tosca.

Then, dismissing her own affairs, she began to talk of Abbots Puissants. She led George on to discuss his plans, his ideas about the estate. He was made to display himself the complete country squire.

There was, apparently, no mockery in Jane’s eyes or her voice, but nevertheless Nell felt acutely uncomfortable. She wished George would stop talking. It was a little ridiculous the way he spoke as though he and his forefathers before him had lived for centuries at Abbots Puissants.

After coffee, they went out on the terrace again, and here George was summoned to the telephone and left them with a word of excuse. Nell suggested a tour through the gardens and Jane acquiesced.

“I’d like to see everything,” she said.

Nell thought: “It’s Vernon’s home she wants to see. That’s why she’s come. But Vernon never meant to her what he meant to me!”

She had a passionate desire to vindicate herself, to make Jane see⁠—See what? She didn’t quite know herself, but she felt that Jane was judging her⁠—condemning her, even.

She stopped suddenly as they were walking down a long herbaceous border, gay with Michaelmas daisies against the old rose-coloured brick wall behind it.

“Jane. I want to tell you⁠—to explain⁠—”

She paused, gathering herself together. Jane merely looked at her inquiringly.

“You must think it⁠—very dreadful of me⁠—marrying again so soon.”

“Not at all,” said Jane. “It was very sensible.”

Nell didn’t want that. That wasn’t the point of view at all.

“I adored Vernon⁠—adored him. When he was killed it nearly broke my heart. I mean it. But I knew so well that he himself wouldn’t wish me to grieve. The dead don’t want us to grieve⁠—”

“Don’t they?”

Nell stared at her.

“Oh, I know you’re voicing the popular idea,” said Jane. “The dead want us to be brave and bear up and carry on as usual. They hate us being unhappy about them. That’s what everybody goes about saying⁠—but I never have seen that they’ve any foundation for that cheering belief. I think they’ve invented it themselves to make things easier for them. The living don’t all want exactly the same thing, so I don’t see why the dead should either. There must be heaps of selfish dead. If they exist at all, they must be very much the same as they were in life. They can’t be full of beautiful and unselfish feelings all at once. It always makes me laugh when I see a bereaved widower tucking into his breakfast the day after the funeral and saying solemnly: ‘Mary wouldn’t wish me to grieve!’ How does he know? Mary may be simply weeping and gnashing her teeth (astral teeth, of course) at seeing him going on as usual just as though she had never existed. Heaps of women like a fuss being made over them. Why should they change their characters when they’re dead?”

Nell was silent. She couldn’t for the moment collect her thoughts.

“Not that I mean Vernon was like that,” went on Jane. “He may really have wished you not to grieve. You’d know best about that, because you knew him better than anyone else.”

“Yes,” said Nell eagerly. “That’s just it. I know he would want me to be happy. And he wanted me to have Abbots Puissants. I know he’d love to think of my being here.”

“He wanted to live here with you. That’s not quite the same thing.”

“No, but it isn’t as though I were living here with George like⁠—like it would have been with him. Oh! Jane, I want to make you understand. George is a dear, but he isn’t⁠—he can never be⁠—what⁠—what Vernon was to me.”

There was a long pause and then Jane said: “You’re lucky, Nell.”

“If you think I really love all this luxury! Why, for Vernon I’d give it up in a minute!”

“I wonder.”

“Jane! You⁠—”

“You think you would, but⁠—I wonder.”

“I did before.”

“No⁠—you only gave up the prospect of it. That’s different. It hadn’t eaten into you like it has now.”

“Jane!”

Nell’s eyes filled with tears. She turned away.

“My dear⁠—I’m being a beast. There’s no harm in what you’ve done. I dare say you’re right⁠—about Vernon wishing it. You need kindness and protection⁠—but all the same soft living does eat into one. You’ll know what I mean some day. By the way, I didn’t mean what you thought when I said just now that you were lucky. By lucky, I meant that you’d had the best of both worlds. If you’d married your George when you originally intended, you’d have gone through life with a secret regret, a longing for Vernon, a feeling that you’d been cheated out of life through your own cowardice. And if Vernon had lived you might have grown away from each other, quarrelled, come to hate each other. But as it is, you’ve had Vernon, made your sacrifice. You’ve got him where nothing can ever touch him. Love will be a thing of beauty to you forever. And you’ve got all the other things as well. This!”

She swept her arm round in a sudden embracing gesture.

Nell had hardly paid any attention to the end part of the speech. Her eyes had grown soft and melting.

“I know. Everything turns out for the best. They tell you so when you’re a child and later you find it out for yourself. God does know best.”

“What do you know about God, Nell Chetwynd?”

There was savagery in the question that brought Nell’s eyes to Jane in astonishment. She looked menacing⁠—fiercely accusing. The gentleness of a minute ago was gone.

“The will of God! Would you be able to say that, if God’s will didn’t happen to coincide with Nell Chetwynd’s comfort, I wonder? You don’t know anything about God or you couldn’t have spoken like that, gently patting God on the back for making life comfortable and easy for you. Do you know a text that used to frighten me in the Bible? This night shall thy soul be required of thee. When God requires your soul of you, be sure you’ve got a soul to give Him!”

She paused and then said quietly: “I’ll go now. I shouldn’t have come. But I wanted to see Vernon’s home. I apologize for what I’ve said. But you’re so damned smug, Nell. You don’t know it, but you are. Smug⁠—that’s the word. Life to you means yourself and yourself only. What about Vernon? Was it best for him? Do you think he wanted to die right at the beginning of everything he cared for?”

Nell flung her head back defiantly.

“I made him happy.”

“I wasn’t thinking of his happiness. I was thinking of his music. You and Abbots Puissants⁠—what do you matter? Vernon had genius. That’s the wrong way of putting it⁠—he belonged to his genius. And genius is the hardest master there is⁠—everything has got to be sacrificed to it. Your trumpery happiness, even, would have had to go if it stood in the way. Genius has got to be served. Music wanted Vernon⁠—and he’s dead. That’s the crying shame, the thing that matters, the thing you never even consider. I know why⁠—because you were afraid of it, Nell. It doesn’t make for peace and happiness and security. But I tell you, it’s got to be served.”

Suddenly her face relaxed, the old mocking light that Nell hated came back to her eyes. She said:

“Don’t worry, Nell. You’re much the strongest of us all. Protective colouring! I told Sebastian so long ago, and I was right. You’ll endure when we’ve all perished. Goodbye. I’m sorry I’ve been a devil, but I’m made that way.”

Nell stood staring after her retreating figure. She clenched her hands and said under her breath:

“I hate you. I’ve always hated you.”

III

The day had begun so peacefully⁠—and now it was spoilt. Tears came into Nell’s eyes. Why couldn’t people let her alone? Jane and her horrid sneering. Jane was a beast⁠—an uncanny beast. She knew where things hurt you most.

Why, even Joe had said that she, Nell, was quite right to marry George! Joe had understood perfectly. Nell felt aggrieved and hurt. Why should Jane be so horrid? And saying things like that about the dead⁠—irreligious things⁠—when everyone knew that the dead liked one to be brave and cheerful.

The impertinence of Jane to hurl a text at her head. A woman like Jane, who had lived with people and done all kinds of immoral things. Nell felt a glow of superior virtue. In spite of everything that was said nowadays, there were two different kinds of women. She belonged to one kind and Jane to the other. Jane was attractive⁠—that kind of woman always was attractive. That was why in the past she had felt afraid of Jane. Jane had some queer power over men⁠—she was bad through and through.

Thinking these thoughts, Nell paced restlessly up and down. She felt disinclined to go back to the house. In any case, there was nothing particular to do this afternoon. There were some letters that must be written some time but she really couldn’t settle to them at present.

She had forgotten about her husband’s American friend, and was quite surprised when George joined her with Mr. Bleibner in tow. The American was a tall thin man, very precise. He paid her grave compliments on the house. They were now, he explained, going to view the ruins of the Abbey. George suggested she should come with them.

“You go on,” said Nell. “I’ll follow you presently. I must get a hat. The sun is so hot.”

“Shall I get it for you, dear?”

“No, thanks. You and Mr. Bleibner go on. You’ll be ages pottering about there, I know.”

“Why, I should say that is very certain to be the case, Mrs. Chetwynd. I understand your husband has some idea of restoring the Abbey. That is very interesting.”

“It’s one of our many projects, Mr. Bleibner.”

“You are fortunate to own this place. By the way, I hope you’ve no objection, I told my chauffeur (with your husband’s assent, naturally) that he might stroll round the grounds. He is a most intelligent young man of quite a superior class.”

“That’s quite all right. And if he’d like to see the house the butler can take him over it later.”

“Now I call that very kind of you, Mrs. Chetwynd. What I feel is that we want beauty appreciated by all classes. The idea that’s going to weld together the League of Nations⁠—”

Nell felt suddenly that she couldn’t bear to hear Mr. Bleibner’s views on the League of Nations. They were sure to be ponderous and lengthy. She excused herself on the plea of the hot sun.

Some Americans could be very boring. What a mercy George was not like that! Dear George⁠—really, he was very nearly perfect. She experienced again that warm happy feeling that had surged over her earlier in the day.

What an idiot she was to have let herself be upset by Jane! Jane of all people! What did it matter what Jane said or thought? It didn’t, of course⁠—but there was something about Jane⁠—she had the power of⁠—well⁠—upsetting one.

But that was all over now. The old tide of reassurance and safety welled up again. Abbots Puissants, George, the tender memory of Vernon. Everything was all right.

She ran down the stairs happily, hat in hand. She paused a minute to adjust it in front of the mirror. She would go now and join them at the Abbey. She would make herself absolutely charming to Mr. Bleibner.

She went down the steps of the terrace and along the garden walk. It was later than she thought. The sun was not far from setting⁠—a beautiful sunset with a crimson sky.

By the goldfish pond a young man in chauffeur’s livery was standing with his back to her. He turned at her approach and civilly raised a finger to his cap.

She stood stock still and slowly an unconscious hand crept up to her heart as she stood there staring.

IV

George Green stared.

Then he ejaculated to himself: “Well, that’s a rum go.”

On arrival at their destination, his master had said to him: “This is one of the oldest and most interesting places in England, Green. I shall be here at least an hour⁠—perhaps longer. I will ask Mr. Chetwynd if you may stroll about the grounds.”

A kind old buffer, Green had thought indulgently, but terribly keen on what was called “uplift.” Couldn’t let one alone. And he had that extraordinary American reverence for anything that was hallowed by antiquity.

Certainly, this was a nice old place, though. He had looked up at it appreciatively. He’d seen pictures of it somewhere, he was sure. He wouldn’t mind having a stroll round as he’d been told to do.

It was well kept up, he noticed that. Who owned it? Some American chap? These Americans, they had all the money. He wondered who had owned it originally. Whoever it was must have been sick having to let it go.

He thought wistfully: “I wish I’d been born a toff. I’d like to own a place like this.”

He had wandered some way through the gardens. In the distance he had noticed a heap of ruins and amongst them two figures, one of which he recognized as being that of his employer. Funny old josser⁠—always poking about ruins.

The sun was setting, there was a wonderful lurid sky, and against it Abbots Puissants stood out in all its beauty.

Funny, the way you thought of things as having happened before! Just for a minute Green could have sworn that he had once stood just where he was standing now and seen the house outlined against a red sky. Could swear, too, that he had felt just that same keen pang as of something that hurt. But it wanted something else⁠—a woman with red hair like the sunset.

There had been a step behind him and he had started and turned. For a minute he had felt a vague pang of disappointment. For standing there was a young slender woman and her hair, escaping each side from under her hat, was golden, not red.

He had touched his cap respectfully.

A queer sort of lady, he thought. She had stared at him with every bit of colour draining slowly from her face. She looked absolutely terrified.

Then, with a sudden gasp, she turned and almost ran down the path.

It was then that he ejaculated: “Well, that’s a rum go.”

She must, he decided, be a bit queer in the head.

He resumed his aimless strolling.