CHAPTER 9

All over Tilling Green there were houses where people were going to bed or were already there and asleep. At the Manor Roger Repton gave something between a yawn and a sigh of relief as he laid down keys and money on his dressing-table and took off his white tie. By this time tomorrow the whole damned fuss would be over. What was the good of worrying? Pity you couldn’t always help it. Valentine was bound to marry some time, and how could you tell how any marriage would turn out? Take his own-He shied away from that. No good thinking about things that didn’t bear thinking about-Get back to Valentine. There was no reason why it shouldn’t turn out all right for her. Gilbert wasn’t the first young fellow to play about a bit before he settled down. And the money was tied up all right-no playing ducks and drakes with it. There had been enough of that with poor Eleanor and that fellow Grey. Pretty, fragile creature Eleanor. The going had been too tough for her, and she had just given up. He wondered how it would have been if they had married. Everyone said it wouldn’t do, so he went off to the East and she married Grey. But not at once, not for quite a long time. And Grey was a rotter. Stupid affair the whole thing. But Valentine would be all right with Gilbert. They were going to miss her, and-they were going to miss the money. He began to think about how badly they were going to miss the money.

His sister Maggie thought the evening hadn’t gone so badly after all. Mrs. Glazier was a really good cook, and everything had been very nice. Of course they would probably not be able to go on having her after this-or would they? Roger always did talk as if they were all going to the workhouse next week. Papa did too. They didn’t call them workhouses now, but the principle remained the same. If you hadn’t enough money you had to keep on thinking about it, and that was so very tiresome. It was a pity that Valentine was getting married. Marriages didn’t always turn out the way you thought they would. She might be very unhappy, as her mother had been. She might have wished she had stayed as she was. Gilbert was a very goodlooking young man, and some day he would have a title, because poor Lady Brangston had gone on having daughters, so he would be Lord Brangston when his old cousin died. There wouldn’t be any money, but Valentine had enough for two. Charming young men didn’t always make the best husbands. She would have liked to get married when she was a girl, but nobody asked her. And perhaps it was safer not to have a husband at all than to have one who turned out badly like Valentine’s father who had broken poor Eleanor’s heart and spent quite a lot of her money.

She took off the amethyst necklace which had been her mother’s and put it away. The stones were a lovely colour and it was a handsome necklace. She could remember her mother wearing it with a dress of lilac satin cut low upon the shoulders and trimmed with a lace bertha. Women had good shoulders then. Mamma’s had been very smooth and white. The necklace had looked very well. Her own neck was too thin for it. She put it away with a sigh, lifting the three trays of an old-fashioned jewel-case and laying it out carefully on the padded satin at the bottom. The folded piece of paper was on the next tray. Only a little piece of it showed under a heavy bracelet set with carbuncles. She put out her hand to the torn edge of the paper and drew it back again, but in the end she lifted the bracelet and unfolded the crumpled sheet. Someone had written on it, the letters clumsily formed, the lines slanting awry.

After a time she folded it again and put it back with the bracelet to hold it down. Then she replaced the other two trays and locked the box and put away the key.

Valentine Grey slipped out of her pale green dress. Mettie Eccles had said to her, “You shouldn’t be wearing green, you know. It’s unlucky.” She stood with the pale floating cloud of it in her hand and thought from what long, long, long-ago ages these superstitions came down. Green was the colour of the Little People-the fairies. They couldn’t bear you to wear it, especially on a Friday, because Friday was the day of the Redemption and they had no part in it-

She hung up the dress and went to the dressing-table to take off her pearls and lay them down. Her hand went up to the clasp and dropped again. There was a letter fastened to the pin-cushion with the brooch she had worn that afternoon, a little diamond feather, very light and sparkling. The envelope was the sort they sell with Christmas cards. It was very tightly stuck. The writing was large, and thick, and awkward. She didn’t know it at all. She picked it up, tore it open, and discovered another envelope inside, a small grey one. There was no writing on it.

There was nothing to frighten her, but a pulse beat in her throat. There was nothing to be afraid of, but her hand had begun to shake. Out of the grey envelope there came a scrap of paper. Words had been pencilled on it in a hand she knew:

“The old place. I’ll wait till twelve. If you don’t come, I’ll be ringing the front door bell at nine o’clock.”

There was no signature, but she did not need one. The least scrawled word that Jason ever wrote was signature enough. Sense, memory, feeling, shut her in with the sole thought, “He’s here.”

It was at its first impact pure release and joy. It was as if she had grown wings and could fly to her own place of heart’s desire. And then she was jerked back without escape, because it was all too late. He had gone away, and she had not known whether he was dead or alive. There are a thousand deaths for the one you love, and in every hour one of those deaths could fall. You could not go on like that, never knowing, never hearing. It wasn’t possible. She was marrying Gilbert Earle tomorrow. Anger flowed in where the joy had been. Did Jason really think he could throw her down and pick her up again just as he chose? Did he think that his world would stand still while he left it to go adventuring? The word came to her with the very sound of his voice. She let herself listen for a moment. A small flame of anger came up in her. “He that will not when he may-” She had been willing enough, and he had gone away without a word. She found that she was holding the paper so tightly that it hurt.

And then suddenly she was tearing it into shreds and scattering them from the window. The anger in her burned for an outlet. Since he had set time and place for them to meet, she would go, and for once, just for once, everything should be clear between them. Let him look at what he had done, let him watch the smoke of the burning and see the utter destruction. And then nothing more.

She took off the long, full petticoat which she had worn under her green dress and put on a dark skirt and jumper. She took off her pale green shoes with the crystal buckles and put on low-heeled shoes with a strap. She tied a dark scarf over her head and slipped into a short, loose coat.

When she opened her door, the passage was empty before her. She came out upon the landing. The hall lay shadowy below. A small low-powered bulb burned there. There is always something dreamlike about being alone in a sleeping house. The daily maids had gone home hours ago. Mrs. Glazier, who was the gardener’s wife, had gone back to their cottage. Somewhere on the floor from which she had come Scilla and Roger and Maggie would be sleeping-they were all tired enough. Scilla had hardly waited to say good-night before she went yawning to her room.

As Valentine crossed the hall, the feeling of emptiness and silence came up about her. It was like going down into a swimming-pool and feeling the water rise about your waist, your throat, your chin. Now it had closed over her. She walked in it, leaving the light farther and farther behind until she came to the drawing-room door.