During the week that followed Leonard\'s death, there was a succession of heavy storms. Chill sodden winds drove June from the fields, and substituted a bleak mock-autumn. Sparrow Hall was full of the moaning winds—they sped down the passages, and throbbed against the doors, they whistled through cracks and chinks, and rumbled in the chimneys.

Janey was in bed for the first few days; she had collapsed utterly. The two blows which had fallen on her almost together had smitten her into a kind of numbness, in which she lay, white and stiff and tearless, through the windy hours. Nigel scarcely ever left her, and he scarcely ever spoke to her—they just crouched together, she on the bed, he on a chair beside it, their fingers twined, both dumbly busy with the problems of death and anguish that had assaulted their lives.

Meantime the routine of the house and farm remained unbroken. The "man" looked after the latter, and through the former moved a figure that seemed strangely out of place. When "Tottie Coughdrop" arrived the morning after Len\'s death, she proved to be no more or less than a novice from St. Margaret\'s Convent, and finding her ministrations as truly needed as if her patient had been alive, she did not leave on finding him dead.

[Pg 281]

She nursed Janey—at least she did for her the little that Nigel could not do; she dusted and cooked; she made Furlonger eat, the stiffest duty of all. It used to hurt Nigel when he thought how Len would have enjoyed seeing him sit down to supper every night with a nun.

Novice Unity Agnes also undertook all the arrangements for the funeral—which had always been a nightmare to Nigel and Janey. Moreover, the day before, she went to East Grinstead and bought a black skirt and blouse and hat for Janey, who but for her would never have thought of going into mourning at all; and though her charity was not able to overcome her diffidence and buy a mourning suit for Nigel, she sewed black bands on all his coats.

That was how it happened that the funeral of Leonard Furlonger was such a surprise to the inhabitants of the Three Counties. The coffin was met at the church door by the choir headed by a crucifix, and the service was read by a priest in a black cope. There were hymns too—Novice Unity Agnes\'s favourites, all about as appropriate as "How doth the little busy bee"—and incense, and a little collection of nuns, persuaded by the kind-hearted novice to swell the scanty number of mourners. In fact, as Nigel remarked bitterly, the whole thing was a joke, and it was a shame Len had missed it.

He and Janey walked home alone, arm in arm, through the wet lanes. As usual, they did not speak, but they strained close together as the solitude of the fields crept round them. The rain had[Pg 282] cleared, but the wind was still romping in the hedges—little tearful spreads of sky showed among the clouds, very pale and rain-washed, soon swallowed up by moving shapes of storm.

Janet went to bed early. She had suddenly found that she could sleep, and her appetite for sleep became abnormal. She woke each morning greedily counting the hours till night. In the old careless days she had never set such store on sleep, because it had meant merely strengthening and resting and refreshing; now it meant what was more to her than anything else in life—forgetting.

Nigel could not sleep. In his heart the lights were not yet all put out. There were flashes of terror and sparks of desire, and dull flares of conjecture. He had sometimes hesitated whether he should tell Janey his secret, but had drawn back on each occasion, urged partly by the thought of adding to her burden, but principally by a feeling of shame. His wonderful dream, which had sustained him so triumphantly during six months of work and sacrifice, had now shrivelled into a poor little secret, such as school-girls nurture—a love which must always be hidden and silent and unconsummated.

His brain ached with regrets and revisualisations, quaked with apprehension and the knowledge of his own utter helplessness in the face of circumstances. The thought of Lowe\'s perfidy to Janet would rouse in him a sweat of rage from his poor attempts at sleep. Janey stood to Nigel for all that was noble, meek and understanding, and that she should be treated heartlessly and lightly by a[Pg 283] scoundrel not worthy to black her boots, was a thought that drove him nearly rabid with hate. What was he to do to save Tony from this swine? He knew perfectly well how she would look upon him if she heard his story. He remembered the hard, stiff little figure in the garden of Shovelstrode—"You won my friendship under false pretences." What would she say to the cad who had won by false pretences not only her friendship but her body, her heart and her soul? Yet he could never tell her the truth. He would not betray Janet even to this girl he loved, and a vague accusation could easily be denied by Lowe, and was not likely to be believed by Tony.

Often he envied Len—lost in cool sleep, free from responsibilities and problems, eased for ever from the soul-chafing burdens of hate and love.

It was the beginning of July. Sunshine baked on the fields, and drank the green out of the grass, so that the fields were brown, with splashes of yellow where the buttercups still grew. In the hedges the wild elder-rose sent out its sickening sweetness, while from the ditches came the even more cloying fragrance of the meadowsweet. The haze of a great heat veiled the distance from Nigel, as he tramped over the parched grass into Kent. He saw the roofs of Scarlets and Redpale shimmering in the valley of the hammer ponds, but beyond them was a fiery, thundering dusk, which swallowed up the hills of Cowden in the east.

He walked with bent head and arms slack. He[Pg 284] often took these lonely walks, undaunted by either storm or swelter. He knew that Janey missed him, but he could not keep his body still while his mind ran to and fro so desperately.

His walks were full of dark and furious planning of schemes that came to nothing. He roamed aimlessly through the country, without noticing where he went—except that he half unconsciously avoided the roads and wider lanes. He was desperate because his brain worked so slowly, a cloud seemed to lie on it, and he had a tendency to lose the thread of his ideas after he had followed them a little way.

This afternoon he was wandering towards the valley of the hammer ponds. It was nearly seven when he came to Furnace Wood. The sun was swimming to the west through whorls of heat. A sullen glow crawled over the sky, nearly brown in the west. The air hung heavy in the wood, laden with the pungency of midsummer flowers and grasses—scarcely a leaf stirred, though now and then an unaccountable rustling shudder passed through the thickets.

Weariness dropped on Nigel like a cloak—he was used to it. It was not really physical, only the deadly striving of his soul reaching out to his body and exhausting it. He flung himself down in a clump of bracken and tansy, sinking down in it, till everything was shut out by the tall, earth-smelling stalks. This was what he often found himself longing for with a desperate physical desire—a little corner, cool and quiet and green,[Pg 285] shut off from life, where he could drowse—and forget.

This evening only the first part of his desire was satisfied. He had his corner, but he could not drowse in it. His limbs lay inert, but his thoughts kicked painfully. His brain hammered with old impressions, which, instead of wearing away with time, each day bored and jarred with renewed power. He was the victim of an abnormally acute mentality—just as to a swollen limb the lightest touch is painful, so to Nigel\'s brain inflamed with grief and struggle, every impression was like a blow, an enduring source of agony.

He heard footsteps on the path. No one could see him—it was still quite light in the fields, but in the wood was dusk and a blurring of outlines; besides, he was deeply buried in the tall stalks. However, though he could not be seen, he could see, for on the path stood a golden pillar of sunshine into which the footsteps must pass. Nigel wondered if it could be Lowe, returning early for some reason from Shovelstrode. But the steps did not sound heavy enough, and the next minute he saw the white of a woman\'s dress through the trees. In an instant his limbs had shrunk together, for another of those sickening blows had smitten his brain. The figure had passed out of the pillar of sunset, but he had seen Tony Strife as she went by.

She was dressed in white, and wore no hat, only a muslin scarf over her hair. She carried a cloak on her arm, and Furlonger realised that she must be going to dine at Redpale. The sight of Tony—he[Pg 286] had not seen her since he lost her, or rather his dream of her—threw him into a fit of torment. He flung himself back among the stalks, and rolled there, biting them, suddenly mad with pain.

The next moment he started up. A thud and a low cry came from a few yards further on.

Nigel sprang to his feet. He remembered that not far off the path ran by the mouth of a disused chalk quarry, from which it was divided only by a very rickety fence. Suppose.... He crashed through the bushes to the path, and dashed along it to the chalk-pit. Something white lay only a few feet from the dreadful brink.

Just here the path was in darkness—hazel bushes and a dense thicket of alder shut out the sun. For a moment he could not make out clearly what had happened, but was immediately reassured by seeing Tony sit up, and try to struggle to her feet.

"What is it?" she cried, hearing his steps behind her. "Who\'s there?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Oh, Mr. Furlonger...."

She made another struggle to rise, but could not without his hand.

"Are you hurt?" he repeated.

"No-o-o."

"I think you are a little."

He was trembling all over, and hoped she did not notice it.

"I fell over some wire, just here, where the path[Pg 287] is so dark. I might have gone over the edge," she added with a shudder.

"You had a lucky escape—but I\'m afraid you\'re hurt."

"It isn\'t much. I may have twisted my ankle a bit, that\'s all."

She stood there in the shadows, her white dress gleaming like a moth, her face mysterious in the disarray of her wrap. Nigel\'s eyes devoured her, while his heart filled itself with inexpressible pain.

"Take my arm," he said huskily, "and I\'ll help you back to Shovelstrode."

"Oh, no!—I\'ll go on to Redpale. It\'s much nearer—if you\'ll be so kind as to help me."

"But how about getting home?"

"My fiancé, Mr. Lowe, will drive me home. He was to have fetched me too, but at the last moment he had to go up to town, and couldn\'t be back in time."

"Are you sure you\'re well enough to go out to dinner?" He hated the idea of taking her to Redpale.

"Oh, quite—this is nothing. Besides, dining at Redpale is just like dining at home—I don\'t call it going \'out\' to dinner."

Furlonger winced, and gave her his arm, hoping she would not notice how it shook.

They walked slowly out of Furnace Wood, towards the leaden east. Tony limped slightly, and Nigel wanted to carry her, but he dared not risk his patched self-control too far.

"You should never have come all this way[Pg 288] alone," he said gruffly, "these woods by the quarries are dangerous."

"I expect my father will be furious when he finds out what I\'ve done. But I hoped that if I walked across the fields, instead of driving round by the road, I—I might meet my fiancé on his way home from the station."

A tremulous archness crept into her voice. Nigel shuddered.

"I\'m pleased I met you," she said gently, after a pause, "because I wanted to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am about your brother."

"Thank you."

"And I want to tell you that I\'m so glad about your success in London. I saw in the papers how you distinguished yourself at Herr von Gleichroeder\'s concert."

Nigel did not speak.

"I suppose you\'ll soon be going back to town?" she went on timidly.

"I don\'t know. I can\'t leave my sister."

"But you can take her with you. It would be a pity to throw up your career just when everything looks so promising."

They were not far from Redpale now. The sunset was creeping over the sky—only the east before them was dark, banked high with thundery vapour. Nigel could still hear Tony speaking, as if in a kind of dream. His thoughts were busy elsewhere.

"Won\'t you?" repeated Tony for the second time.

"Won\'t I what?"

[Pg 289]

"Go back to London, and make yourself famous."

"I don\'t see much chance of that."

"But I do—and so will you when you\'re not so unhappy. Now, to please me, won\'t you promise to go back to London and make yourself a great career? You and I used to be friends once—I hope we\'re friends still—and I shall always be interested in everything you do. I expect to see your name in a very high place some day. Now, for my sake, promise to go back."

"For your sake...."

"Yes—since you won\'t go for your own."

They had stopped a moment to rest her foot. Nigel lifted his eyes from the grass and looked into hers—wondering. Was it true, was it even possible, that she had never seen his love? She could not, or she would not speak like this—"For my sake." After all, she would never expect him to dare ... that would blind her to much that might have betrayed him had he been worthier. No, she had not seen his love, and she had never loved him. She had never loved any man but Quentin Lowe—he was her first love, he had lit the first flame in her heart, and that heart was his, in all its purity and burning.

Standing there beside her in the sunset, her weight resting deliciously on him as she raised her injured foot from the gr............