He walked on, not hurrying. The nights were getting colder. These woods were very old. There were oaks that must have stood five hundred years, yews that were older still. He had seen a map of the county dated 1469, and it showed forest right across this corner, and since then owner after owner had come and gone. Norman names, English names-tombs in the churchyard, brasses in the church. And in the end Lord Burlingham taking his name, as they all had done, from Burlingham village three miles away. He had been born Tom Thomson and had run barefoot and sold papers in the streets when he was a boy, and now he was Lord of the Manor like all the rest of them had been. The new trees grew up amongst the old, and they were strong and lusty.

He came out from among the trees into the track where it sloped towards the splash. The sound of the running water came to him. The stream was swollen still, but the stepping-stones should be clear of it if not too dry. He put on his torch, came over easily, and had before him the slope on the other side, with the church to the right, its shape just distinguishable against the sky, and the black smear running down from it which was the old yew way. He put out his torch as soon as he was over the splash, and where his eyes did not serve him memory did.

He was passing the lych gate, when something moved there. A voice said,

“Edward, is that you?” The words came on a hurried breath.

The voice shook a little.

It was Clarice Dean’s voice, and it annoyed him sharply. What did she think she was doing, waiting about for him like this? Because waiting for him she undoubtedly was. She could have no possible business up at the church, and since it was all of twenty past seven, the Vicarage would be hotting its soup or doing whatever you did do to fish or eggs preparatory to producing them at the evening meal. He spoke her name with an involuntary sharpness.

“Clarice!”

She came running over the grass verge to link her arm with his.

“Edward, you don’t know how glad I am to see you! Not that one can see anything in this horrid dark, but I saw your torch, and I didn’t think it could be anyone else, because Mrs. Deacon says you always come this way and hardly anyone else does-not now poor William Jackson-” She broke off, catching her breath. “Do you know, I thought of the horridest things waiting there in the dark! Your boots squelched when you came up from the splash!”

“I got them wet. There’s quite a lot of water in the stream.”

She dug her fingers into his arm.

“I know! But I thought how awful it would be if it wasn’t you at all-if it was-William Jackson-coming up all wet- out of the splash!”

Edward’s voice was quite odiously practical.

“I never heard of a ghost with a torch.”

She shivered up against him.

“Well, you don’t think of those sort of things when you are frightened, and I’m not used to the dark like all you country people.”

He laughed without amusement.

“Well, there’s an easy answer to that-you have only to stay at home.”

They had been walking, not because Clarice wanted to, but because Edward was being determined about it and Clarice had either to keep pace with him or let go of his arm.

“Edward, for goodness’ sake don’t go tearing along like this! Why do you suppose I came down that horrid place in the dark if it wasn’t the only way I could get hold of you? Either you are never in, or Susan is there, and-there’s something I want to talk to you about!”

“Well, let go of my arm, and you can talk as you go along. I suppose you know you’ve been pinching me black and blue?”

If anything, her clasp tightened.

“Edward, it’s important-it really is! I mean, it’s important for you-it’s something I think I ought to tell you!”

They were past the churchyard now, and the Vicarage gate. The cottage where old Mrs. Stone lived with her bedridden daughter was in sight. The light in Betsey Stone’s room shone cheerfully through the bright red curtains which had been a Christmas present from Emmeline. Other lights twinkled in the houses beyond. Edward considered that even Clarice could hardly do much confiding in the village street. The Miss Blakes’ house was in sight. He said,

“Well, do you know, I think it had better be some other time. We ought both to be getting along. I’m going to be late for supper as it is, and I should think you would have to watch your step with Miss Mildred, so if you don’t mind-”

He had quickened his step. They were almost level with the cottage now. Clarice felt her chance slipping away. And she had planned to be so careful. She hadn’t meant to hurry him. Why couldn’t he stand still for a bit, flirt with her a little, give her a chance of leading up to what she had to say? He wasn’t giving her any help at all. She had a feeling of urgency -as if this was to be her only chance, and if she let it go it wouldn’t come again. She said,

“You don’t understand! It isn’t about myself, it’s about you! It’s about your uncle’s will!”

She could not have said anything more fatal. The old defensive anger flared.

“I haven’t the slightest intention of discussing my uncle’s will! You will please leave the subject alone!”

“But, Edward-you don’t let me explain-”

“Haven’t I made myself clear? I don’t want any explanation, or any interference in my affairs! You will be good enough to mind your own business, and to leave mine alone! Is that sufficiently plain?”

They were level with the cottage now. The door was opening. Old Mrs. Stone stood there, bent and shapeless, with a candle in her hand showing a visitor out. The candlelight flickered on Susan Wayne.

Clarice must have seen them before he did. She was looking that way, whilst he was looking at her. Why hadn’t she stopped him? They must have heard the anger in his voice, if not his actual words. The thought sprang up in the dismay that filled his mind.

Then, before he could stop her, Clarice was clinging to him and sobbing.

“Edward-darling-don’t be so angry! I can’t bear it! It frightens me! Oh, Edward!”

Susan’s voice came clearly across the short, the very short, distance which separated them from the cottage door.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Stone-and don’t stand here in the cold.”

She came to them, running.

“Who is it? I can’t see… Oh, Clarice… What is it-have you sprained your ankle or something? How stupid! Here, I’ll come round on your other side, and you can lean on me as well. Hold up-we’ll get you home.” She raised her voice and called back over her shoulder, “It’s all right, Mrs. Stone. She’s only turned her ankle. You go back to Betsey.”

Mrs. Stone went in with slow reluctance and shut the door.

“There wasn’t nothing about her spraining her ankle, not before Miss Susan said it for them. You mark my words, Betsey, there’s been something going on between her and Mr. Edward, and seems like he hasn’t been treating her too well. Crying, that’s what she was, and saying he frightened her”

Betsey Stone turned a sharp fretful look on her mother.

“And I don’t wonder!” she said. “Why, I could hear him right in here, as angry as anything!”

Mrs. Stone shook her head.

“Mr. Edward always did have a temper.”

When the cottage door had shut Susan said,

“Well, we had better be getting along, don’t you think?”

If Edward was angry, she was angry too, with the cold anger which hurts. She couldn’t think of anything more to say, and beyond giving a small choked gasp or two Clarice appeared to have nothing to say either. She might be crying, or she might be putting on an act. Susan was angry enough to believe that she was putting on an act.

Edward simply didn’t utter. They had had enough publicity, and to stand and swear in the village street wasn’t going to explain any of it away.

The three of them walked on together without a spoken word. When they came to the Miss Blakes’ house Susan ended a silence which had come to breaking-point.