*       *       *       *       *

Her vision passed. She was leaning over Nicky now, Nicky so small in the
big bed. Nicky had moaned.

"Does it count if I make that little noise, Mummy? It sort of lets the
pain out."

"No, my lamb, it doesn't count. Is the pain very bad?"

"Yes, Mummy, awful. It's going faster and faster. And it bizzes. And
when it doesn't bizz, it thumps." He paused--"I think--p'raps--I could
bear it better if I sat on your knee."

Frances thought she could bear it better too. It would be good for Nicky
that he should grow into beautiful adolescence and a perfect manhood;
but it was better for her that he should be a baby still, that she
should have him on her knee and hold him close to her; that she should
feel his adorable body press quivering against her body, and the heat of
his earache penetrating her cool flesh. For now she was lost to herself
and utterly absorbed in Nicky. And her agony became a sort of ecstasy,
as if, actually, she bore his pain.

It was Anthony who could not stand it. Anthony had come in on his way to
his dressing-room. As he looked at Nicky his handsome, hawk-like face
was drawn with a dreadful, yearning, ineffectual pity. Frances had
discovered that her husband could both be and look pathetic. He had
wanted her to be sorry for him and she was sorry for him, because his
male pity was all agony; there was no ecstasy in it of any sort at all.
Nicky was far more her flesh and blood than he was Anthony's.

Nicky stirred in his mother's lap. He raised his head. And when he saw
that queer look on his father's face he smiled at it. He had to make the
smile himself, for it refused to come of its own accord. He made it
carefully, so that it shouldn't hurt him. But he made it so well that it
hurt Frances and Anthony.

"I never saw a child bear pain as Nicky does," Frances said in her
pride.

"If he can bear it, _I_ can't," said Anthony. And he stalked into his
dressing-room and shut the door on himself.

"Daddy minds more than you do," said Frances.

At that Nicky sat up. His eyes glittered and his cheeks burned with the
fever of his earache.

"I don't mind," he said. "Really and truly I don't mind. I don't care if
my ear _does_ ache.

"It's my eyes is crying, not me."

       *       *       *       *       *

At nine o'clock, when they were all sitting down to dinner, Nicky sent
for his father and mother. Something had happened.

Crackers, he said, had been going off in his ears, and they hurt most
awfully. And when it had done cracking his earache had gone away. And
Dorothy had brought him a trumpet from Rosalind's party and Michael a
tin train. And Michael had given him the train and he wouldn't take the
trumpet instead. Oughtn't Michael to have had the trumpet?

And when they left him, tucked up in his cot in the night nursery, he
called them back again.

"It was a jolly sell for me, wasn't it?" said Nicky. And he laughed.



IV

It seemed that Nicky would always be like that. Whatever happened, and
something was generally happening to him, he didn't care. When he scaled
the plaster flower-pot on the terrace, and it gave way under his assault
and threw him down the steps on to the gravel walk, he picked himself
up, displaying a forehead that was a red abrasion filled in with yellow
gravel and the grey dust of the smashed flower-pot, and said "I don't
care. I liked it," before anybody had time to pity him. When Mary-Nanna
stepped on his train and broke the tender, he said "It's all right. I
don't care. I shall make another." It was no use Grannie saying, "Don't
care came to a bad end"; Nicky made it evident that a bad end would be
life's last challenge not to care. No accident, however unforeseen,
would ever take him at a disadvantage.

Two years passed and he was just the same.

Frances and Anthony agreed behind his back that Nicky was adorable.

But his peculiar attitude to misfortune became embarrassing when you had
to punish him. Nicky could break the back of any punishment by first
admitting that it was a good idea and then thinking of a better one when
it was too late. It was a good idea not letting him have any cake for
tea after he had tested the resilience of the new tyres on his father's
bicycle with a penknife; but, Nicky said, it would have been more to
the purpose if they had taken his steam-engine from him for a week.

"You didn't think of that, did you, Mummy? I thought of it," said Nicky.

Once he ran away over the West Heath, and got into the Leg of Mutton
Pond, and would have been drowned if a total stranger hadn't gone in
after him and pulled him out. That time Nicky was sent to bed at four
o'clock in the afternoon. At seven, when his mother came to tuck him up
and say Good-night, she found him sitting up, smiling and ready.

"Mummy," he said, "I think I ought to tell you. It isn't a bit of good
sending me to bed."

"I should have thought it was, myself," said Frances. She almost
suspected Nicky of insincerity.

"So it would have been," he assented, "if I didn't 'vent things. You
see, I just lie still 'venting things all the time. I've 'vented three
things since tea: a thing to make Daddy's bikesickle stand still with
Daddy on it; a thing to squeeze corks out of bottles; and a thing to
make my steam-engine go faster. That isn't a punishment, is it, Mummy?"

       *       *       *       *       *

They said that Nicky would grow out of it. But two more years passed and
Nicky was still the same.

And yet he was not the same. And Dorothy, and Michael and John were not
the same.

For the awful thing about your children was that they were always dying.
Yes, dying. The baby Nicky was dead. The child Dorothy was dead and in
her place was a strange big girl. The child Michael was dead and in his
place was a strange big boy. And Frances mourned over the passing of
each age. You could no more bring back that unique loveliness of two
years old, of five years old, of seven, than you could bring back the
dead. Even John-John was not a baby any more; he spoke another language
and had other feelings; he had no particular affection for his mother's
knee. Frances knew that all this dying was to give place to a more
wonderful and a stronger life. But it was not the same life; and she
wanted to have all their lives about her, enduring, going on, at the
same time. She did not yet know that the mother of babies and the mother
of boys and girls must die if the mother of men and women is to be born.

Thoughts came to Frances now that troubled her tranquillity.

Supposing, after all, the children shouldn't grow up as she wanted them
to?

There was Nicky. She could do nothing with him; she could make no
impression on him.

There was Michael. She couldn't make him out. He loved them, and showed
that he loved them; but it was by caresses, by beautiful words, by rare,
extravagant acts of renunciation, inconsistent with his self-will; not
by anything solid and continuous. There was a softness in Michael that
distressed and a hardness that perplexed her. You could make an
impression on Michael--far too easily--and the impression stayed. You
couldn't obliterate it. Michael's memory was terrible. And he had secret
ways. He was growing more and more sensitive, more and more wrapped up
in Himself. Supposing Michael became a morbid egoist, like Anthony's
brother, Bartholomew?

And there was Dorothy. She went her own way more than ever, with the
absolute conviction that it was the right way. Nothing could turn her.
At thirteen her body was no longer obedient. Dorothy was not going to be
her mother's companion, or her father's, either; she was Rosalind
Jervis's companion. She seemed to care more about little fat, fluffy
Rosalind than about any of them except Nicky. Dorothy was interested in
Michael; she respected his queer thoughts. It was as if she recognized
some power in him that could beat her somewhere some day, and was humble
before a thing her cleverness had failed to understand. But it was Nicky
that she adored, not Michael; and she was bad for Nicky. She encouraged
his naughtiness because it amused her.

Frances foresaw that a time would come, a little later, when Nicky and
Dorothy would be companions, not Nicky and his mother.

In the evenings, coming home from the golf-links, Frances and Anthony
discussed their children.

Frances said, "You can't make any impression on Nicky. There seems to be
no way that you can get at him."

Anthony thought there was a way. It was a way he had not tried yet, that
he did not want to try. But, if he could only bring himself to it, he
judged that he could make a distinct impression.

"What the young rascal wants is a thorough good spanking," said Anthony.

Nicky said so too.

The first time he got it Nicky's criticism was that it wasn't a bad idea
if his father could have pulled it off all right. But he said, "It's no
good if you do it through the cloth. And it's no good unless you _want_
to hurt me, Daddy. And you don't want. And even if you did want, badly
enough to try and hurt, supposing you spanked ever so hard, you couldn't
hurt as much as my earache. And I can bear that."

"He's top dog again, you see," said Frances, not without a secret
satisfaction.

"Oh, is he?" said Anthony. "I don't propose to be downed by Nicky."

Every instinct in him revolted against spanking Nicky. But when
Williams, the groom, showed him a graze on each knee of the pony he had
bought for Frances and the children, Anthony determined that, this time,
Nicky should have a serious spanking.

"Which of them took Roger out?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said Williams.

But Anthony knew. He lay in wait for Nicky by the door that led from the
stable yard into the kitchen garden.

Nicky was in the strawberry bed.

"Was it you who took Roger out this afternoon?"

Nicky did not answer promptly. His mouth was still full of strawberries.

"What if I did?" he said at last, after manifest reflection.

"If you did? Why, you let him down on Golders Hill and cut his knees."

"Holly Mount," said Nicky.

"Holly Mount or Golders Hill, it's all the same to you, you young
monkey."

"It isn't, Daddy. Holly Mount's much the worst. It's an awful hill."

"That," said Anthony, "is why you're forbidden to ride down it. You've
_got_ to be spanked for this, Nicky."

"Have I? All right. Don't look so unhappy, Daddy."

Anthony did much better this time. Nicky (though he shook with laughter)
owned it very handsomely. And Anthony had handicapped himself again by
doing it through the cloth. He drew the line at shaming Nicky.
(Yet--_could_ you have shamed his indomitable impudence?)

But he had done it. He had done it ruthlessly, while the strawberries
were still wet on Nicky's mouth.

And when it was all over Michael, looking for his father, came into the
school-room where these things happened. He said he was awfully sorry,
but he'd taken Roger out, and Roger had gone down on his knees and
cut himself.

No, it wasn't on Holly Mount, it was at the turn of the road on the hill
past the "Spaniards."

Anthony paid no attention to Michael. He turned on Michael's brother.

"Nicky, what did you do it for?"

"For a rag, of course. I knew you'd feel such a jolly fool when you
found it wasn't me."

"You see, Daddy," he explained later, "you might have known I wouldn't
have let Roger down. But wasn't it a ripping sell?"

"What are you to do," said Anthony, "with a boy like that?"

Frances had an inspiration. "Do nothing," she said. Her tranquillity
refused to be troubled for long together.

"Nicky's right. It's no good trying to punish him. After all, _why_
punish Nicky? It isn't as if he was really naughty. He never does unkind
things, or mean things. And he's truthful."

"Horribly truthful. They all are," said Anthony.

"Well, then, what does Nicky do?"

"He does dangerous things."

"He forgets."

"Nothing more dangerous than forgetting. We must punish him to make him
remember."

"But it doesn't make him remember. It only makes him think us fools."

"You know what it means?" said Anthony. "We shall have to send him to
school."

"Not yet," said Frances.

School was the thing in the future that she dreaded. Nicky was only
nine, and they were all getting on well with Mt. Parsons. Anthony knew
that to send Nicky to school now would be punishing Frances, not Nicky.
The little fiend would only grin in their faces if they told him he was
going to school.

It was no use trying to make impressions on Nicky. He was as hard as
nails. He would never feel things.

Perhaps, Frances thought, it was just as well.



V

"I do think it was nice of Jane," said Nicky, "to have Jerry."

"And I do think it was nice of me," said Dorothy, "to give him to you."

Jane was Dorothy's cat; therefore her kittens were Dorothy's.

"I wouldn't have given him to just anybody."

"I know," said Nicky.

"I might have kept him. He's the nicest kitten Jane ever had."

"I know," said Nicky. "It _was_ nice of you."

"I might want him back again."

"I--know."

Nicky was quiet and serious, almost humble, as if he went in the fear of
losing Jerry. Nobody but Jerry and Dorothy saw Nicky in that mood.

Not that he was really afraid. Nothing could take Jerry from him. If
Dorothy could have taken him back again she wouldn't have, not even if
she had really wanted him. Dorothy wasn't cruel, and she was
only ragging.

But certainly he was Jane's nicest kitten. Jane was half-Persian, white
with untidy tabby patterns on her. Jerry was black all over. Whatever
attitude he took, his tight, short fur kept the outlines of his figure
firm and clear, whether he arched his back and jumped sideways, or
rolled himself into a cushion, or squatted with haunches spread and
paws doubled in under his breast, or sat bolt upright with his four legs
straight like pillars, and his tail curled about his feet. Jerry's coat
shone like black looking-glass, and the top of his head smelt sweet,
like a dove's breast.

And he had yellow eyes. Mary-Nanna said they would turn green some day.
But Nicky didn't believe it. Mary-Nanna was only ragging. Jerry's eyes
would always be yellow.

Mr. Parsons declared that Nicky sat for whole hours meditating on Jerry,
as if in this way he could make him last longer.

Jerry's life was wonderful to Nicky. Once he was so small that his body
covered hardly the palm of your hand; you could see his skin; it felt
soft and weak through the thin fur, sleeked flat and wet where Jane had
licked it. His eyes were buttoned up tight. Then they opened. He crawled
feebly on the floor after Jane, or hung on to her little breasts,
pressing out the milk with his clever paws. Then Jerry got older.
Sometimes he went mad and became a bat or a bird, and flew up the
drawing-room curtains as if his legs were wings.

Nicky said that Jerry could turn himself into anything he pleased; a
hawk, an owl, a dove, a Himalayan bear, a snake, a flying squirrel, a
monkey, a rabbit, a panther, and a little black lamb of God.

Jerry was a cat now; he was two years old.

Jerry's fixed idea seemed to be that he was a very young cat, and that
he must be nursed continually, and that nobody but Nicky must nurse him.
Mr. Parsons found that Nicky made surprising progress in his Latin and
Greek that year. What had baffled Mr. Parsons up till now had been
Nicky's incapacity for sitting still. But he would sit still enough when
Jerry was on his knee, pressed tight between the edge of the desk and
Nicky's stomach, so that knowledge entered into Nicky through Jerry when
there was no other way.

Nicky would even sit still in the open air to watch Jerry as he stalked
bees in the grass, or played by himself, over and over again, his own
enchanted game. He always played it in the same way. He started from the
same clump in the border, to run in one long careening curve across the
grass; at the same spot in the lawn he bounded sideways and gave the
same little barking grunt and dashed off into the bushes. When you tried
to catch him midway he stood on his hind legs and bowed to you
slantwise, waving his forepaws, or rushed like lightning up the tree of
Heaven, and climbed into the highest branches and clung there, looking
down at you. His yellow eyes shone through the green leaves; they
quivered; they played; they mocked you with some challenge, some charm,
secret and divine and savage.

"The soul of Nicky is in that cat," Frances said.

Jerry knew that he was Nicky's cat. When other people caught him he
scrabbled over their shoulders with his claws and got away from them.
When Nicky caught him he lay quiet and heavy in his arms, pressing down
and spreading his soft body. Nicky's sense of touch had been hardened by
violent impacts and collisions, by experiments with jack-knives and saws
and chisels and gouges, and by struggling with the material of his
everlasting inventions. Through communion with Jerry it became tender
and sensitive again. It delighted in the cat's throbbing purr and the
thrill of his feet, as Jerry, serious and earnest, padded down his bed
on Nicky's knee.

"I like him best, though," said Nicky, "when he's sleepy and at the same
time bitesome."

"You mustn't let him bite you," Frances said.

"I don't mind," said Nicky. "He wouldn't do it if he didn't like me."

Jerry had dropped off to sleep with his jaws closing drowsily on Nicky's
arm. When it moved his hind legs kicked at it and tore.

"He's dreaming when he does that," said Nicky. "He thinks he's a panther
and I'm buffaloes."

Mr. Parsons laughed at him. "Nicky and his cat!" he said. Nicky didn't
care. Mr. Parsons was always ragging him.

The tutor preferred dogs himself. He couldn't afford any of the
expensive breeds; but that summer he was taking care of a Russian
wolfhound for a friend of his. When Mr. Parsons ran with Michael and
Nicky round the Heath, the great borzoi ran before them with long leaps,
head downwards, setting an impossible pace. Michael and Dorothy adored
Boris openly. Nicky, out of loyalty to Jerry, stifled a secret
admiration. For Mr. Parsons held that a devotion to a cat was
incompatible with a proper feeling for a dog, whence Nicky had inferred
that any feeling for a dog must do violence to the nobler passion.

Mr. Parsons tried to wean Nicky from what he pretended to regard as his
unmanly weakness. "Wait, Nicky," he said, "till you've got a dog of
your own."

"I don't want a dog of my own," said Nicky. "I don't want anything but
Jerry." Boris, he said, was not clever, like Jerry. He had a silly face.

"Think so?" said Mr. Parsons. "Look at his jaws. They could break
Jerry's back with one snap."

"_Could_ he, Daddy?"

They were at tea on the lawn, and Boris had gone to sleep under Mr.
Parsons' legs with his long muzzle on his forepaws.

"He could," said Anthony, "if he caught him."

"But he couldn't catch him. Jerry'd be up a tree before Boris could look
at him."

"If you want Jerry to shin up trees you must keep his weight down."

Nicky laughed. He knew that Boris could never catch Jerry. His father
was only ragging him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nicky was in the schoolroom, bowed over his desk. He was doing an
imposition, the second aorist of the abominable verb [Greek: erchomai],
written out five and twenty times. (Luckily he could do the last fifteen
times from memory.)

Nicky had been arguing with Mr. Parsons. Mr. Parsons had said that the
second aorist of [Greek: erchomai] was not [Greek: ГЄrchon].

Nicky had said, "I can't help it. If it's not [Greek: ГЄrchon] it ought
to be."

Mr. Parsons had replied: "The verb [Greek: erchomai] is irregular." And
Nicky had retorted, in effect, that no verb had any business to be as
irregular as all that. Mr. Parsons had then suggested that Nicky might
know more about the business of irregular verbs if he wrote out the
second aorist of [Greek: erchomai] five and twenty times after tea. As
it was a particularly fine afternoon, an imposition was, Nicky admitted,
a score for Mr. Parsons and a jolly good sell for _him_.

Mr. Parsons had not allowed him to have Jerry on his knee, or even in
the room; and this, Nicky owned further, was but just. It wouldn't have
been nearly so good a punishment if he had had Jerry with him.

Nicky, bowed over his desk, struggled for the perfect legibility which
Mr. Parsons had insisted on, as otherwise the imposition would do him
more harm than good. He was in for it, and the thing must be done
honourably if it was done at all. He had only looked out of the windows
twice to make sure that Boris was asleep under Mr. Parsons' legs. And
once he had left the room to see where Jerry was. He had found him in
the kitchen garden, sitting on a bed of fresh-grown mustard and cress,
ruining it. He sat like a lamb, his forepaws crossed, his head tilted
slightly backwards. His yellow eyes gazed at Nicky with a sweet and
mournful innocence.

Nicky did not hear the voices in the garden.

"I'm awfully sorry, sir," Mr. Parsons was saying. "I can't think how it
could have happened." Mr. Parsons' voice was thick and his face was very
red. "I could have sworn the door was shut."

"Johnnie opened it," said Anthony. He seemed to have caught, suddenly,
one of his bad colds and to be giving it to Mr. Parsons. They were both
in their shirtsleeves, and Anthony carried something in his arms which
he had covered with his coat.

The borzoi stood in front of them. His face had a look of foolish
ecstasy. He stared at Mr. Parsons, and as he stared he panted. There was
a red smear on his white breast; his open jaws still dripped a pink
slaver. It sprayed the ground in front of them, jerked out with
his panting.

"Get away, you damned brute," said Mr. Parsons.

Boris abashed himself; he stretched out his fore legs towards Mr.
Parsons, shook his raised haunches, lifted up his great saw-like muzzle,
and rolled into one monstrous cry a bark, a howl, a yawn.

Nicky heard it, and he looked out of the schoolroom window. He saw the
red smear on the white curly breast. He saw his father in his shirt
sleeves, carrying something in his arms that he had covered with
his coat.

Under the tree of Heaven Dorothy and Michael, crouching close against
their mother, cried quietly. Frances was crying, too; for it was she who
would have to tell Nicky.

Dorothy tried to console him.

"Jerry's eyes would have turned green, if he had lived, Nicky. They
would, really."

"I wouldn't have minded. They'd have been Jerry's eyes."

"But he wouldn't have looked like Jerry."

"I wouldn't have cared what he looked like. He'd have _been_ Jerry."

"I'll give you Jane, Nicky, and all the kittens she ever has, if that
would make up."

"It wouldn't. You don't seem to understand that it's Jerry I want. I
wish you wouldn't talk about him."

"Very well," said Dorothy, "I won't."

Then Grannie tried. She recommended a holy resignation. God, she said,
had given Jerry to Nicky, and God had taken him away.

"He didn't give him me, and he'd no right to take him. Dorothy wouldn't
have done it. She was only ragging. But when God does things," said
Nicky savagely, "it isn't a rag."

He hated Grannie, and he hated Mr. Parsons, and he hated God. But he
loved Dorothy who had given him Jerry.

Night after night Frances held him in her arms at bed-time while Nicky
said the same thing. "If--if I could stop seeing him. But I keep on
seeing him. When he sat on the mustard and cress. And when he bit me
with his sleep-bites. And when he looked at me out of the tree of
Heaven. Then I hear that little barking grunt he used to make when he
was playing with himself--when he dashed off into the bushes.

"And I can't _bear_ it."

Night after night Nicky cried himself to sleep.

For the awful thing was that it had been all his fault. If he had kept
Jerry's weight down Boris couldn't have caught him.

"Daddy said so, Mummy."

Over and over again Frances said, "It wasn't your fault. It was
Don-Don's. He left the door open. Surely you can forgive Don-Don?" Over
and over again Nicky said, "I do forgive him."

But it was no good. Nicky became first supernaturally subdued and
gentle, then ill. They had to take him away from home, away from the
sight of the garden, and away from Mr. Parsons, forestalling the
midsummer holidays by two months.

Nicky at the seaside was troublesome and happy, and they thought he had
forgotten. But on the first evening at Hampstead, as Frances kissed him
Good-night, he said: "Shall I have to see Mr. Parsons to-morrow?"

Frances said: "Yes. Of course."

"I'd rather not."

"Nonsense, you must get over that."

"I--can't, Mummy."

"Oh, Nicky, can't you forgive poor Mr. Parsons? When he was so unhappy?"

Nicky meditated.

"Do you think," he said at last, "he really minded?"

"I'm sure he did."

"As much as you and Daddy?"

"Quite as much."

"Then," said Nicky, "I'll forgive him."

But, though he forgave John and Mr. Parsons and even God, who, to do him
justice, did not seem to have been able to help it, Nicky did not
forgive himself.

Yet Frances never could think why the sight of mustard and cress made
Nicky sick. Neither did Mr. Parsons, nor any schoolmaster who came after
him understand why, when Nicky knew all the rest of the verb [Greek:
erchomai] by heart he was unable to remember the second aorist.

He excellent memory, but there was always a gap in it just there.



VI

In that peace and tranquillity where nothing ever happened, Jerry's
violent death would have counted as an event, a date to reckon by; but
for three memorable things that happened, one after another, in the
summer and autumn of 'ninety-nine: the return of Frances's brother,
Maurice Fleming, from Australia where Anthony had sent him two years
ago, on the express understanding that he was to stay there; the
simultaneous arrival of Anthony's brother, Bartholomew, and his family;
and the outbreak of the Boer War.

The return of Morrie was not altogether unforeseen, and Bartholomew had
announced his coming well beforehand, but who could have dreamed that at
the end of the nineteenth century England would be engaged in a War that
really _was_ a War? Frances, with the _Times_ in her hands, supposed
that that meant more meddling and muddling of stupid politicians, and
that it would mean more silly speeches in Parliament, and copy, at last,
for foolish violent, pathetic and desperate editors, and breach of
promise cases, divorces and fires in paraffin shops reduced to momentary
insignificance.

But as yet there was no war, nor any appearance that sensible people
interpreted as a sign of war at the time of Morrie's return. It stood
alone, as other past returns, the return from Bombay, the return from
Canada, the return from Cape Colony, had stood, in its sheer awfulness.
To Frances it represented the extremity of disaster.

They might have known what was coming by Grannie's behaviour. One day,
the day when the Australian mail arrived, she had subsided suddenly into
a state of softness and gentleness. She approached her son-in-law with
an air of sorrowful deprecation; she showed a certain deference to her
daughter Louie; she was soft and gentle even with Emmeline and Edith.

Mrs. Fleming broke the news to Louie who broke it to Frances who in her
turn broke it to Anthony. That was the procedure they invariably
adopted.

"I wonder," Grannie said, "what he can be coming back for!" Each time
she affected astonishment and incredulity, as if Morrie's coming back
were, not a recurrence that crushed you with its flatness and staleness,
but a thing that must interest Louie because of its utter un-likeliness.

"I wonder," said Louie, "why he hasn't come before. What else did you
expect?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Grannie helplessly. "Go and tell Frances."

Louie went. And because she knew that the burden of Morrie would fall
again on Frances's husband she was disagreeable with Frances.

"It's all very well for you," she said. "You haven't got to live with
him. You haven't got to sleep in the room next him. You don't know what
it's like."

"I do know," said Frances. "I remember. You'll have to bear it."

"You haven't had to bear it for fourteen years."

"You'll have to bear it," Frances repeated, "till Anthony sends him out
again. That's all it amounts to."

She waited till the children were in bed and she was alone with Anthony.

"Something awful's happened," she said, and paused hoping he would
guess.

"I don't know how to tell you."

"Don't tell me if it's that Nicky's been taking my new bike to pieces."

"It isn't Nicky--It's Maurice."

Anthony got up and cleared his pipe, thoroughly and deliberately. She
wondered whether he had heard.

"I'd no business to have married you--to have let you in for him."

"Why? What's he been up to now?"

"He's coming home."

"So," said Anthony, "is Bartholomew. I'd no business to have let you in
for _him_."

"Don't worry, Frances. If Morrie comes home he'll be sent out again,
that's all."

"At your expense."

"I don't grudge any expense in sending Morrie out. Nor in keeping him
out."

"Yes. But this time it's different. It's worse."

"Why worse?"

"Because of the children. They're older now than they were last time.
They'll understand."

"What if they do? They must learn," Anthony said, "to realize facts."

They realized them rather sooner than he had expected. Nobody but Louie
had allowed for the possibility of Morrie's sailing by the same steamer
as his letter; and Louie had argued that, if he had done so, he was
bound either to have arrived before the letter or to have sent a wire.
Therefore they had at least a clear five days of peace before them.
Anthony thought he had shown wisdom when, the next morning which was a
Wednesday, he sent Grannie and the Aunties to Eastbourne for a week, so
that they shouldn't worry Frances, and when on Thursday he made her go
with him for a long day in the country, to take her mind off Morrie.

They came back at nine in the evening and found Dorothy, Michael and
Nicholas sitting up for them. Michael and Nicky were excited, but
Dorothy looked grown-up and important.

"Uncle Morrie's come," they said.

"Dorothy saw him first--"

"Nicky let him in--"

"He hadn't got a hat on."

"We kept him in the schoolroom till Nanna could come and put him to
bed."

"He was crying because he'd been to Grannie's house and there wasn't
anybody there--"

"And because he'd lost the love-birds he'd brought for Auntie Emmy--"

"And because he couldn't remember which of us was dead."

"No, Mummy, nobody's seen him but us and Nanna."

"Nanna's with him now."

Uncle Morrie never accounted, even to himself, for the time he had spent
between the arrival of his ship at Tilbury on Sunday morning and that
Saturday afternoon. Neither could he remember what had become of his
luggage or whether he had ever had any. Only the County Council man,
going his last rounds in the farthest places of the Heath, came upon a
small bundle tied in a blue handkerchief, a cap belonging to E.D.
Boulger, of the S.S. _Arizona_, a cage of love-birds, and a distinct
impression of a recumbent human form, on the grass together, under a
young birch tree.

In the stuffy little house behind the Judge's Walk the four women lived
now under male protection. When they crossed the Heath they had no
longer any need to borrow Anthony from Frances; they had a man of their
own. To make room for him Auntie Louie and her type-writer were turned
out of their own place, and Auntie Louie had to sleep in Grannie's bed,
a thing she hated. To make room for the type-writer the grey parrot was
turned out of the dining-room into the drawing-room. And as Maurice
couldn't stand either the noise of the type-writer or the noises of the
parrot he found both the dining-room and the drawing-room uninhabitable.

Day after day Dorothy and Michael and Nicky, on the terrace, looked out
for his coming. (Only extreme distance made Uncle Morrie's figure small
and harmless and pathetic.) Day after day he presented himself with an
air of distinction and assurance, flushed, and a little battered, but
still handsome, wearing a spruce grey suit and a panama hat bought with
Anthony's money. Sheep-farming in Australia--he had infinitely preferred
the Cape Mounted Police--had ruined Maurice's nerves. He was good for
nothing but to lounge in Anthony's garden, to ride his horses--it was
his riding that had got him into the Cape Mounted Police--to sit at his
table and drink his wines, and, when there was no more wine for him, to
turn into Jack Straw's Castle for a pick-me-up on his way home.

And before July was out three others were added to the garden group:
Bartholomew and Vera and Veronica. And after them a fourth, Vera's
friend, Captain Ferdinand Cameron, home on sick leave before anybody
expected him.

Frances's tree of Heaven sheltered them all.



VII

Bartholomew, Anthony's brother, lived in Bombay and looked after his
business for him in the East. He had something the matter with him, and
he had come home to look after his own health. At least, Bartholomew's
health was what he was supposed to be looking after; but Dorothy had
heard her father say that Bartie had come home to look after Vera.

Vera was Bartie's wife and Veronica's mother. Before she became Mrs.
Bartholomew Harrison she had been Frances's schoolfellow and her dearest
friend. Frances Fleming had been her bridesmaid and had met Anthony for
the first time at Vera's wedding, when he had fallen in love with her;
and she had fallen in love with him when they stayed together in
Bartholomew's house, before Bartholomew took Vera to Bombay.

Bartie had not been married ten months before he wanted to get Vera out
of England; and Vera had not been in India for ten weeks before he
wanted her to go back. They were always coming backwards and forwards,
but they never came together. Vera would be sent home first, and then
Bartie would come over in a great hurry and take her out again.

Twelve years after their marriage Veronica was born at Simla, and the
coming and going ceased for three years. Then Bartie sent them both
home. That time Vera had refused to travel farther westward than
Marseilles. She was afraid of damp and cold, and she had got the ship's
doctor to order her to the Riviera. She and Veronica had been living for
two years in a small villa at Agaye.

This summer she had come to England. She was no longer afraid of damp
and cold. And Bartie followed her.

Dorothy and Michael had no difficulty in remembering Vera, though it was
more than six years since they had seen her; for Vera looked the same.
Her hair still shone like copper-beech leaves; her face had still the
same colour and the same sweet, powdery smell. And if these things had
changed Frances would still have known her by her forehead that looked
so broad because her eyebrows and her eyes were so long, and by her
fine, unfinished, passionate mouth, by her pointed chin and by her ways.

But though her brother-in-law's ways had always been more or less
disagreeable, Frances was not prepared for the shock of the renewed
encounter with Bartholomew. Bartie was long and grey, and lean even when
you allowed for the thickness of his cholera belt. He wore a white scarf
about his throat, for his idea was that he had cancer in it. Cancer made
you look grey. He, too, had the face of a hawk, of a tired and irritable
hawk. It drooped between his hunched shoulders, his chin hanging above
the scarf as if he were too tired or too irritable to hold it up. He
behaved to Vera and Veronica as if it was they who had worried him into
cancer of the throat, they who tired and irritated him.

Vera talked to him as you might talk to a sick child whose peevishness
prolongs, unreasonably, its pain. Bartie's manner almost amounted to a
public repudiation of her. The whole house vibrated to the shutting of
his door at Good-night time. Yet when Bartie came down in the morning,
late, and more morose than ever, Vera's mouth made as if it kissed some
visionary image of the poor thing's absurdity. She didn't believe for
one minute in his cancer. It was an excuse for the shutting of his door.

She kept out of his way as much as possible; yet, when they were
together they watched each other. They watched; Bartie openly with
sudden dartings and swoopings of his hawk's eyes; Vera furtively. Her
eyes were so large and long that, without turning her head, or any
visible movement, they could hold his image.

But for Captain Cameron Vera's eyes had a full, open gaze. Spread wide
apart under her wide forehead they were like dark moth's wings; they
hovered, rested, flickering, vibrating to the fine tips of
their corners.

Whatever had been the matter with him in India, Captain Cameron had
recovered. His keen, fair, Highland face made Bartie's face look
terrible. Ferdie was charming; not more charming to Bartie's wife than
he was to Frances; not more charming to Frances than to her sisters; so
that even Louie unbent, and Emmeline and Edith fell in love with him. He
flirted with Frances under Anthony's nose; and with the Aunties under
Grannie's nose. The corners of Vera's mouth followed the tilt of her
long eyes' corners as she saw him do it.

You could not think of Vera as the children's Auntie, or as Bartie's
wife, or as Veronica's mother.

Veronica was a very little girl who sang songs and was afraid of
ghosts.

She slept in her mother's room, and so never could be put to bed till
half-past seven, or till her mother was dressed to the last hook of her
gown, the last hairpin, the last touch of powder (adhesive without
bismuth), and the last shadow drawn fine about her eyelashes. When Vera
beautiful in a beautiful gown, came trailing into the room where
everybody waited for her, Veronica hid herself behind Uncle Anthony's
big chair. When her father told her to come out of that and say
good-night and be quick about it, she came slowly (she was not in the
least afraid of Bartie), showing herself bit by bit, honey-coloured
hair, eyebrows dark under her gold, very dark against her white;
sorrowful, transparent, lucid eyes. A little girl with a straight white
face. A little, slender girl in a straight white frock. She stood by
Anthony's chair, spinning out the time, smiling at him with her childish
wavering mouth, a smile that would not spread, that never went higher
than the tip of her white nose, that left her lucid, transparent eyes
still sorrowful.

She knew that Anthony would take her on his knee, and that she could sit
there with her head tucked under his chin, smiling at him, prolonging
her caresses, till Vera told him to put her down and let her go.

Bartie growled: "Did you hear your mother telling you to say
Good-night?"

"Yes. But I must kiss Uncle Anthony first. Properly. Once on his mouth.
Once--on his nose. And once--on--his--eyes. And--once--on--his dear
little--ears."

After that, Veronica went slowly from chair to chair, lingering at each,
sitting first on Frances's lap, then on Vera's, spinning out her
caresses, that spun out the time and stretched it farther and farther
between her and the unearthly hour ahead of her.

But at her father's chair she did not linger for a single instant. She
slipped her hand into his hand that dropped it as if it had hurt him;
she touched his forehead with her small mouth, pushed out, absurdly, to
keep her face as far as possible from his. For, though she was not
afraid of Bartie, he was not nice either to sit on or to kiss.

Half-way across the room she lingered.

"I haven't sung 'London Bridge is broken down.' Don't you want me to
sing it?"

"No, darling. We want you to go to bed."

"I'm going, Mummy."

And at the door she turned and looked at them with her sorrowful, lucid,
transparent eyes.

Then she went, leaving the door open behind her. She left it open on
purpose, so that she might hear their voices, and look down into the
room on her way upstairs. Besides, she always hoped that somebody would
call her back again.

She lingered at the foot of the stairs till Bartie got up and shut the
door on her. She lingered at the turn of the stairs and on the landing.
But nobody ever called her back again.

And nobody but Nicky knew what she was afraid of.

Veronica was sitting up in the cot that used to be Nicky's when he was
little. Nicky, rather cold in his pyjamas, sat on the edge of it beside
her. A big, yellow, tremendous moon hung in the sky outside the window,
behind a branch of the tree of Heaven, and looked at them.

Veronica crouched sideways on her pillow in a corner of the cot, her
legs doubled up tight under her tiny body, her shoulders hunched
together, and her thin arms hanging before her straight to her lap. Her
honey coloured hair was parted and gathered into two funny plaits, that
stuck out behind her ear. Her head was tilted slightly backwards to rest
against the rail of the cot. She looked at Nicky and her look reminded
him of something, he couldn't remember what.

"Were you ever afraid, Nicky?" she said.

Nicky searched his memory for some image encircled by an atmosphere of
terror, and found there a white hound with red smears on his breast and
a muzzle like two saws.

"Yes," he said, "I was once."

A lamb--a white lamb--was what Veronica looked like. And Jerry bad
looked at him like that when he found him sitting on the mustard and
cress the day Boris killed him.

"Afraid--what of?"

"I don't know that it was 'of' exactly."

"Would you be afraid of a ghost, now, if you saw one?"

"I expect I jolly well should, if I _really_ saw one."

"Being afraid of ghosts doesn't count, does it?"

"No, of course it doesn't. You aren't afraid as long as I'm here, are
you?"

"No."

"I shall stay, then, till you go to sleep."

Night after night he heard her calling to him, "Nicky, I'm frightened."
Nobody but Veronica and Nicky were ever in bed on that floor before
midnight. Night after night he got up and came to her and stayed beside
her till she went to sleep.

Once he said, "If it was Michael he could tell you stories."

"I don't _want_ Michael. I want you."

In the day-time she went about looking for him. "Where's Nicky?" she
said. "I want him."

"Nicky's in the schoolroom. You can't have him."

"But--I _want_ him."

"Can't be helped. You must do without him."

"Will he be very long?"

"Yes, ever so long. Run away like a good little girl and play with
Don-Don."

She knew that they told her to play with Don-Don, because she was a
little girl. If only she could grow big quick and be the same age
as Nicky.

Instead of running away and playing with Don-Don, Ronny went away by
herself into the apple-tree house, to wait for Nicky.

The apple-tree house stood on the grass-plot at the far end of the
kitchen garden. The apple-tree had had no apples on it for years. It was
so old that it leaned over at a slant; it stretched out two great boughs
like twisted arms, and was propped up by a wooden post under each
armpit. The breast of its trunk rested on a cross-beam. The posts and
the cross-beam were the doorway of the house, and the branches were its
roof and walls. Anthony had given it to Veronica to live in, and
Veronica had given it to Nicky. It was Nicky's and Ronny's house. The
others were only visitors who were not expected to stay. There was room
enough for them both to stand up inside the doorway, to sit down in the
middle, and to lie flat at the far end.

"What more," said Nicky, "do you want?"

He thought that everybody would be sure to laugh at him when he played
with Bonny in the apple-tree house.

"I don't care a ram if they do," he said. But nobody ever did, not even
Mr. Parsons.

Only Frances, when she passed by that way and saw Nicky and Bonny
sitting cramped and close under their roof-tree, smiled unwillingly. But
her smile had in it no sort of mockery at all. Nicky wondered why.

"Is it," said Dorothy one morning, "that Ronny doesn't look as if she
was Uncle Bartie's daughter, or that Uncle Bartie looks as if he wasn't
Ronny's father?"

However suddenly and wantonly an idea struck Dorothy, she brought it out
as if it had been the result of long and mature consideration.

"Or is it," said Vera, "that I don't look as if I were Ronny's mother?"

Her eyes had opened all their length to take in Dorothy.

"No. I think it is that Uncle Bartie looks--"

Frances rushed in. "It doesn't matter, my dear, what you think."

"It will some day," said Dorothy.

It was perhaps the best thing she could have said, as showing that she
was more interested in the effect she would produce some day than in the
sensation she had created there and then.

"May I go round to Rosalind's after lessons?"

"You may."

"And may I stay to lunch if they ask me?"

"You may stay as long as they care to have you. Stay to tea, stay to
dinner, if you like."

Dorothy knew by the behaviour of her mother's face that she had scored
somewhere, somehow. She also knew that she was in disgrace and yet not
in disgrace; which, if you came to think of it, was a funny thing.

About this time Frances began to notice a symptom in herself. She was
apt to resent it when Vera discussed her children with her. One late
afternoon she and Anthony were alone with Vera. Captain Cameron had not
come round that day, and Bartie had gone into town to consult either his
solicitor or a specialist. He was always consulting one or the other.

"You're wrong, you two," said Vera. "You think Michael's tender and
Nicky's hard and unimpressionable. Michael's hard. You won't have to
bother about Michael's feelings."

"Michael's feelings," said Frances, "are probably what I shall have to
bother about more than anything."

"You needn't. For one thing, they'll be so unlike your feelings that you
won't know whether they're feelings at all. You won't even know whether
he's having them or not. Nicky's the one you'll have to look out for.
He'll go all the howlers."

"I don't think that Nicky'll be very susceptible. He hasn't shown any
great signs so far."

"Hasn't he! Nicky's susceptibility is something awful."

"My dear Vera, you say yourself you don't care about children and that
you don't understand them."

"No more I do," said Vera. "But I understand men."

"Do you understand Veronica?"

"Of course I don't. I said men. Veronica's a girl. Besides, I'm
Veronica's mother."

"Nicky," said Anthony, "is not much more than nine."

"You keep on thinking of him as a child--a child--nothing but a child.
Wait till Nicky has children of his own. Then you'll know."

"They would be rather darlings, Nicky's children," Frances said.

"So would Veronica's."

"Ver-onica?"

You needn't be frightened. Nicky's affection for Ronny is purely
paternal."

"I'm not frightened," said Frances. But she left the room. She did not
care for the turn the talk had taken. Besides, she wanted Vera to see
that she was not afraid to leave her alone with Anthony.

"I'm glad Frances has gone," said Vera, "because I want to talk to you.
You'd never have known each other if it hadn't been for me. She couldn't
have married you. It was I who saw you both through."

He assented.

"And you said if there was ever anything you could do for me--You
haven't by any chance forgotten?"

"I have not."

"Well, if anything should happen to me--"

"But, my dear girl, what _should_ happen to you?"

"Things _do_ happen, Anthony."

"Yes, but how about Bartie?"

"That's it. Supposing we separated."

"Good Heavens, you're not contemplating _that_, are you?"

"I'm not contemplating anything. But Bartie isn't very easy to live
with, is he?"

"No, he's not. He never was. All the same--"

Bartie was impossible. Between the diseases he had and thought he hadn't
and the diseases he hadn't and thought he had, he made life miserable
for himself and other people. He was a jealous egoist; he had the morbid
coldness of the neurotic, and Vera was passionate. She ought never to
have married him. All the same--"

"All the same I shall stick to Bartie as long as it's possible. And as
long as it's possible Bartie'll stick to me. But, if anything happens I
want you to promise that you'll take Ronny."

"You must get Frances to promise."

"She'll do anything you ask her to, Anthony."

When Frances came into the room again Vera was crying.

And so Frances promised.

     "'London Bridge is broken down
     (_Ride over My Lady Leigh_!)

       *       *       *       *       *

     "'Build it up with stones so strong--

       *       *       *       *       *

     "'Build it up with gold so fine'"--

It was twenty to eight and Ronny had not so much as begun to say Good
night. She was singing her sons to spin out the time.

     "'London Bridge--'"

"That'll do, Ronny, it's time you were in bed."

There was no need for her to linger and draw out her caresses, no need
to be afraid of going to bed alone. Frances, at Vera's request, had had
her cot moved up into the night nursery.



VIII

Anthony had begun to wonder where on earth he should send Morrie out to
this time, when the Boer War came and solved his problem.

Maurice, joyous and adventurous again, sent himself to South Africa, to
enlist in the Imperial Light Horse.

Ferdie Cameron went out also with the Second Gordon Highlanders,
solving, perhaps, another problem.

"It's no use trying to be sorry, Mummy," Dorothy said.

Frances knew what Anthony was thinking, and Anthony knew it was what
Frances thought herself: Supposing this time Morrie didn't come back?
Then that problem would be solved for ever. Frances hated problems when
they worried Anthony. Anthony detested problems when they
bothered Frances.

And the children knew what they were thinking. Dorothy went on.

"It's all rot pretending that we want him to come back."

"It was jolly decent of him to enlist," said Nicky.

Dorothy admitted that it was jolly decent. "But," she said, "what else
could he do? His only chance was to go away and do something so jolly
plucky that _we_'re ashamed of ourselves, and never to come back again
to spoil it. You don't want him to spoil it, Mummy ducky, do you?"

Anthony and Frances tried, conscientiously and patriotically, to
realize the Boer War. They said it was terrible to have it hanging over
them, morning, noon and night. But it didn't really hang over them. It
hung over a country that, except once when it had conveniently swallowed
up Morrie, they had never thought about and could not care for, a
landscape that they could not see. The war was not even part of that
landscape; it refused to move over it in any traceable course. It simply
hung, or lay as one photographic film might lie upon another. It was not
their fault. They tried to see it. They bought the special editions of
the evening papers; they read the military dispatches and the stories of
the war correspondents from beginning to end; they stared blankly at the
printed columns that recorded the disasters of Nicholson's Nek, and
Colenso and Spion Kop. But the forms were grey and insubstantial; it was
all fiat and grey like the pictures in the illustrated papers; the very
blood of it ran grey.