lucy moon was the daughter of the reverend stephen moon, rector of little hawkesworth in north yorkshire. she was twenty-one years of age, and pretty. she was so pretty indeed that she reminded one young man in hawkesworth of "a cornfield under a red moon," and the reverend simon laud, to whom she was engaged, thought of her privately as his "golden goddess," from which it will be seen that she had yellow hair and a peach-like complexion.

she had lived always a very quiet and retired life, the nearest to adventure being two or three expeditions to scarborough. she did not know, however, that her life was retired. she was never dull. she had two younger brothers, and was devoted to her father and mother. she never questioned their authority. she read the books that they advised, and wished to read no others. the life that ebbed and flowed around the rectory seemed to her a very exciting one, and it was not until the reverend simon laud, rector of a neighbouring parish, proposed to her, and she found that she accepted him, although she did not love him, that she began to wonder, a little uncertainly, with a little bewilderment, about herself. she had accepted him because everyone had agreed that it was so obviously[pg 108] the right thing for her to do. she had known him ever since she could remember. he was older than she, and kindly, although he had asthma and his knees cracked. he had been rector of his parish for twenty years, and everyone said that he was a very good man indeed. he had a sense of humour too, and his penny readings were the best in all north yorkshire. it was not until simon had kissed her that lucy wondered whether she were doing right. she did not like him to kiss her. his nose seemed so large when near to her, and his lips tried to catch hers and hold them with a kind of sucking motion that was quite distressing to her. she looked ridiculously young when mr. laud proposed to her, with her fair gold hair piled up in coils on the top of her head, her cheeks crimsoned with her natural agitation, and her young, childish body, like a boy's, slender and strong under her pink cotton gown.

"my little girl!" mr. laud said, and kissed her again. she went up to her room and cried for quite a long time. then, when she saw how happy her mother was, she was happy too. perhaps he would not want to kiss her after they were married.

then came the marvellous event. her aunt harriet, mrs. comstock, her mother's sister, and a rich widow, asked her to come and stay with her for a month in london. mrs. comstock was a good-natured, chattering widow, fond of food and bright attire; mrs. moon hesitated about committing lucy to her care, but she felt perhaps it would do the child no harm to give her a peep at worldly ways, before the long black arms of simon laud closed her in for ever. lucy was terrified[pg 109] and delighted both at once. it meant that she would see london, where she had never in all her life been. even the war had not altered her. she had worked in the village institute, knitted and sewed, helped in the village concerts. the war had seemed very remote to her. she had lost no one whom she loved. she was vaguely distressed by it, as she might have been by the news of an earthquake at naples. the moon household believed in tranquillity. mr. moon was engaged in a series of village addresses on "the nativity." the war, after all, he felt, "is probably a blessing in disguise!"

so lucy saw it. i think, as the day of her departure drew near, that she had some slight premonition of future events. the village, the fields, the lanes, the church, were touched suddenly by some new and pathetic splendour. the spring came late to yorkshire that year, and the lanes were coloured with a faint shadow of purple behind the green, so light and shining that it seemed to be glass in its texture. the bright spaces of the moon were uncertain in their dim shadows, and there were soft spongy marshes where the frost had released the underground streams, and long stretches of upland grass, grey-white beneath the pale spring skies. space was infinite. the village, tucked under the rim of the moor with its grey church, its wild, shaggy, tiny graveyard, its spreading village street, was like a rough yorkshire child huddling for protection beneath its father's shoulder. this had pathos and an appeal for love, and a cry of motherhood. the clouds, carried by the fresh spring wind, raced[pg 110] above the church steeple, swinging the young birds in their flight, throwing joyfully, contemptuously, shadows across the long street, shadows coloured and trembling like banners.

lucy had known these beauties all her life; now they appealed to her with a new urgency. "when you come back," they seemed to say to her, "we shall not be the same. now you are free as we. when you come back you will be a prisoner."

it was strange to her, and horrible, that the thought of her approaching marriage should haunt her as it did. there were things about it that she had not realised. she had not understood that her parents, the village, her relations would all make so momentous an affair of it. when mr. laud had proposed to her, and she had accepted him, it had seemed to her a matter simply between themselves. now everyone had a concern in it; everyone accepted it as so absolutely settled. did lucy for a single instant contemplate the breaking of an engagement she saw with an almost agonised terror the whole village tumbling upon her head. the very church steeple would fall down and crush her. she was beginning too, to see her father and mother now in a new light. they had always been very sweet to her, and she had loved them dearly, but they had been sweet to her, she could not help but see, very largely because she had shown so absolute an obedience. her mind now would persistently return to certain occasions in her young history when she had hinted ever so slightly at having an opinion of her own.[pg 111] had that opinion been given a moment's opportunity? never. never once.

of her two parents, her father was perhaps the more resolute. his mild, determined surprise at the expression of an individual opinion was a terrible thing to witness. he did wish not to be dogmatic with her, but, after all, things were as they were. how could bad be good or good bad? there you were. a thing was either right, or it wasn't.... there you were.

and so around lucy and her simon a huge temple was erected by the willing hands of her parents, relations, and friends. there she was right inside with the doors locked and the windows closed, and simon with his long black arms, his large nose, and his damp red mouth waiting for her.

it was her own fault. there was nothing to be done.

it must not be supposed, however, that she was unhappy when she set off on her london visit. she was entirely resigned to the future; she loved her mother and father and the village, and mr. laud had been assigned to her by god. she would enjoy her month, and then make the best of it. after all, he would not want always to kiss her. she knew enough about married life to be sure of that.

she went up to london with a neat black trunk, a new hat with roses on it, and a little umbrella, green and white, that her mother gave her.

mrs. comstock had a flat at hortons, in duke street.

to lucy duke street meant nothing. jermyn street meant nothing. even piccadilly did not mean very much. st. james's palace, however, did mean a good[pg 112] deal, and the first sight of that pearl-grey dignity and beauty, with the round friendly clock, little clouds like white pillows in the blue sky above, the sentry in his box, the grace and courtesy of the mall, these brought a sob into her throat, and made her eyes dry and hot.

that sight of the palace gave her the setting for the rest of the wonderful new world. had mrs. comstock allowed her, she would have spent the whole of her time in those fascinating streets. piccadilly frightened her a little. the motor-omnibuses and cars rushed so fiercely along, like pirates on a buccaneering expedition, and everyone was so haughty, and the shops so grand.

but it never ceased to be marvellously romantic to her that you could so swiftly slip through an alley and be hushed at once with a lovely tranquillity, no sound reaching you but the cry of the flower-man, the distant honk of a taxicab, the bells of st. james's church, the distant boom of westminster. all the shops in these streets round hortons seemed to her romantic fancy to be coloured a rich old walnut. and against this background there was every kind of treasure—prints of coaches stuck deep in snowdrifts, of huntsmen leaping over hedges, of fishermen wading deep in tranquil rivers, of oxford colleges and westminster abbey—all these, printed in deep old rich colours, blue and red and orange, colours so deep and rich that they seemed to sink far down into the page. there were also the jewels and china and boxes—old toby jugs and delicate cups and saucers, and amber-bead necklaces, and chinese gods, and cabinets of rich red lacquer. she had a permanent picture of these treasures in the old[pg 113] dark shops, and from the house's bachelors, young and old, plain and handsome, but all beautifully dressed, stepping in and out, going, she supposed, to their clubs and dinners and games, carrying with them everywhere that atmosphere of expensive cigars and perfectly-pressed clothes and innumerable baths.

she gathered all this in the first day or two of her stay, and it was as delightful and personal to her, as though she herself had been god, and had created it all.

hortons, in its own turn, was delighted with her. it had never seen anything so fresh and charming in all its long life. it had often received beautiful women into its capacious heart, and it had known some very handsome men, but lucy was lovely. mr. nix, who could be on occasions a poet, said of her that she made him think of "strawberries and junket and his own self at twenty." he did not say this to mrs. nix.

to lucy, the only thing that was wrong with hortons was her aunt. she disliked mrs. comstock from the very first moment. she did not like the way that she was over-dressed, the way that she talked without looking at you, the way that she spoke so crossly to her maid, the way that she loved her food, the way that she at once implied that it was wonderfully fortunate for lucy to have her to come to.

she discovered at once that her aunt was on the side of her parents with regard to mr. simon laud. mrs. comstock's opinion was that lucy might consider herself very fortunate to have been selected by so good a man, that she must do her best to deserve her good fortune,[pg 114] because girls nowadays don't find it easy to pick up men. men know too much!

"to pick up men!" what a horrible phrase! and lucy had not picked up simon laud. she had been picked up—really against her will. lucy then discovered that her aunt harriet—that is, mrs. comstock—had invited her to london for this month in order to have a companion. she had a paid companion—miss flagstaff—but that unfortunate woman had at last been allowed a holiday. here was a whole month, then, and what was poor mrs. comstock to do? why, of course, there was that niece up in yorkshire. the very thing. she would do admirably.

lucy found that her first duty was to read every morning the society papers. there was the tatler with eve's letter. there was the queen and the lady's pictorial, and several other smaller ones. these papers appeared once a week, and it was lucy's duty to see that they stretched out, two hours every morning, from saturday to saturday.

aunt harriet had society at her fingers' ends, and the swiftly succeeding marriages of miss elizabeth asquith, miss violet keppel, and lady diana manners just about this time gave her a great deal to do. she had a scrap-book into which she pasted photographs and society clippings. she labelled this "our leaders," and lucy's morning labours were firmly linked to this scrap-book. once she pasted an impressionist portrait of miss keppel upside-down into the book, and saw for a full five minutes what aunt harriet was like when she was really angry.

[pg 115]

"i'd better go back to hawkesworth!" lucy cried, more defiant than she would ever have suspected she could be. however, this was not at all what aunt harriet wanted; lucy was making herself extremely useful. lucy did not want it either. so peace was made. one result of this snipping up of society was that lucy began to be strangely conscious of the world that was beating up around her.

a strange, queer, confused, dramatic world! for positively the first time she was aware of some of the things that the war had done, of what it had meant to many people, of the chasms that it had made in relationships, the ruins in homes, and also of the heroisms that it had emphasised—and, beyond all these individual things, she had a sense of a new world rising painfully and slowly from the chaos of the old—but rising! yes, even through these ridiculous papers of her aunt's, she could feel the first stirrings, the first trumpetings to battle, voices sounding, only a little distance from her, wonderful new messages of hope and ambition.

this affected her; she began to wonder how she could, through all these four years of war, have stayed so quietly in her remote hawkesworth. she began to despise herself because she had stayed.

this excitement developed quickly into the same kind of premonition that she had had before leaving hawkesworth. something was about to happen to her! what would it be? she awoke every morning with a strange, burning excitement in her throat, a confused, thick beating of the heart.

[pg 116]

meanwhile, her month was drawing to its close, the days speeding on through a glittering pageant of wonderful may weather, when the town sparkled and quivered like a heap of quartz.

simon laud wrote that he was coming up to london to fetch her, to take her back with him to hawkesworth—"that he could not wait any longer without seeing his pet."

when lucy read those words she was strangely tranquillised. she did not know what it was that, during these days, she had been wanting. what so strangely had she been expecting? whom?...

her inexperience cried out to simon laud to come and defend her. she had a time of true terror, frightened by aunt harriet, by london, by strikes and wars and turbulences, above all, by her own self, and by the discontents and longings and desires to which some influence seemed to be urging her.

she wrote her first loving letter to simon. she told him that she hoped that they would be married very soon, and that indeed he was to come and fetch her. it would be lovely to go back to hawkesworth with him. and when she had posted her letter, she sat on her bed in her little room in hortons with her face in her hands and cried bitterly, desperately—why, she did not know. mrs. comstock saw that she had been crying, and was moved by the child-like simplicity and innocence of "poor stupid lucy," as she called her to herself. she was moved to unusual generosity, and suggested that they should go that night to a symphony concert at the queen's hall—"although they are going[pg 117] to play brahms, which i can't say that i approve of, because he was surely a german, if anyone ever was, and haven't we got plenty of good music of our own, i wonder? anyway, you needn't listen to the brahms, lucy, if you don't want to. you won't understand him, anyway. i expect he's one of the most difficult of the composers, although he is dead."

lucy paid small attention. she had been out only twice with her aunt in the evening during her london stay, once to a lecture on "y.m.c.a. work at the front," and once to a musical play, monsieur beaucaire. she had liked the lecture, but she had adored beaucaire, and she thought that perhaps the queen's hall would be something of the same kind.

she had never in all her life been to a "symphony concert."

aunt harriet, armour-plated with jewellery, made an exciting contrast with lucy, whose blazing red-gold hair, large, rather puzzled eyes, and plain white dress, needed exotic surroundings to emphasise their true colour.

"you look very pretty, dear," said aunt harriet, who had made that evening a little money on the stock exchange, and was happy accordingly, "and quite excited, just as though you were expecting to see your simon."

"i wish he could have arrived to-night instead of to-morrow," said lucy.

but did she? as they drove through the streets scattered with star-dust, watched by a crimson moon, she sighed with that strange confusion of happiness[pg 118] and unhappiness that seemed always to be hers now. what was going to happen? who was coming?... only simon?

she felt a return of her earlier breathless excitement as they pushed their way through the crowd in the lobby. "stalls this way.... downstairs to the stalls." "to your right, madam. second on your right!" "tickets, please ... tickets, please!"

mrs. comstock was a redoubtable general on these occasions, and pushed people aside with her sharp elbows, and flashed indignant glances with her fine eyes, and spread back her shoulders, and sparkled her rings....

lucy wished that her aunt would not figure so prominently. she had perhaps never before disliked her so thoroughly as she did to-night. then, out of the confusion and noise, there came peace. they were settling down into their seats, and on every side of them were space and light and colour, and a whispering murmur like the distant echo of the sea on scarborough beach. lucy was suddenly happy. her eyes sparkled, her heart beat high. she looked about her and was pleasantly stirred by the size of the building. "not so large as the albert hall," she had heard someone say. why, then, how truly enormous the albert hall must be—and she thought suddenly, with a little kindly contempt, of simon, and how very small he would seem placed in the middle of the stalls all by himself.

the musicians began to file into their seats; the lights turned up; the strangest discordances, like the voices of spirits in a lost world, filled the air; everywhere[pg 119] clumps of empty seats vanished ... people, people from the ceiling to the floor.... a little man stepped forward, stood upon his platform, bowed to the applause, held with uplifted baton a moment's silence, then released upon the air the accustomed harmonies of ruy blas.

to lucy, who knew so little of life, that flooding melody of sound was the loveliest discovery. she sat back very straight, eyes staring, drinking it in, forgetting at once the lighted hall, her aunt, everything. only simon laud persisted with her. it seemed as though to-night his figure refused to leave her.

he did not—oh! how instantly she knew it—fit in at all with the music. it was as though he were trying to draw her away from it, trying to persuade her that she did not really like it. he was interfering with her happiness, buzzing at her ear like an insect. she shook her head as though to drive this something away, and, even as she did so, she was aware that something else was happening to her.

someone was looking at her. she felt a truly desperate impatience at this second interruption. someone was trying to force her to turn her head—yes, to the right. she was looking straight in front of her, down to where the hard, thick back of the little conductor seemed to centralise into itself, and again to distribute all the separate streams of the music. lucy was staring at that back as though her maintaining her connection with it was her only link with the music. how tiresome that she should not be allowed to concentrate on her happiness! she violently dismissed the shadowy[pg 120] simon; but he was there, just behind her left shoulder. then, with another effort of will, she forced away from her that attraction on the right. she would not look! in all probability, it was imagination. she had known in hawkesworth, in church, at the penny readings, that sensation that people were staring at her; simply her self-consciousness. she drove it off; it came closer to her. it was as though a voice were saying in her ear: "you shall look to the right.... you shall look to the right...."

"i won't!... i won't!" she replied, setting her teeth. then, to her own pain and distress, she began to blush. she had always detested her inevitable blushing, despised herself for her weakness; she could not fight it; it was stronger than she. surely all the hall was looking at her. she felt as though soon she would be forced to run away and hide in the comforting darkness of the street.

the music ceased; the little man was bowing; the tension was lifted; everywhere a buzz of talk rose, as though everyone for the last ten minutes had been hidden beneath a glass cover that was suddenly raised. late comers, with anxious glances, peered about for their seats. lucy turned around.

she saw at once that indeed it was true that someone had been staring at her. someone was staring at her now. she stared in return. she knew that she should not. her mother had always taught her that to stare at a stranger was almost the worst thing that you could do. nevertheless, lucy glanced. she could not help herself. he was looking at her as though he knew her.[pg 121] when she looked in her turn the start that he gave, the way that a half-smile hovered about his lips, was almost an acknowledgment of recognition. and had she not known him before? he seemed so familiar to her—and yet, of course, he could not be. the conviction that she had been staring suddenly overwhelmed her with shame, and she turned away. but now he was impressed upon her brain as though she were looking at a picture of him—his large, rather ugly, but extremely good-humoured face, his fair, rather untidy hair, his fair eyebrows, his short, closely-clipped moustache, his black dinner-jacket, and black bow tie—above all, that charming, doubtful, half-questioning smile.

but why, if they had never met before, did he stare like that? why did ...?

the applause had broken out again. a tall man holding a violin was bowing. the brahms violin concerto began.

she sat there in a puzzled and bewildered state. what had happened to her? who had come to her, lifting her, it seemed, out of her own body, transforming her into some other creature? was she feeling this merely because a man had stared at her? she felt, as she sat there, the blush still tingling in her cheeks, as though some precious part of her that had left her many years ago had now suddenly returned to her.

she was lucy moon, the whole, complete lucy moon, for the first time....

the first movement of the symphony ended. she looked at once to her right. his eyes were resting on her. she smiled.

[pg 122]

how could she? did she not know, had she not been told ever since she could remember, that the most terrible thing that a girl could do was to smile at a stranger? but he was not a stranger. she knew everything about him. she knew, although she had never heard him speak, just what the tone of his voice would be, rough, a little scotch, and north country mixed ... not many words; he would be shy and would stammer a little. at the end of the second movement she smiled again. he smiled back and raised his eyebrows in a laughing question.

at the end of the symphony the air crackled with applause. the violinist returned again and again, bowing. he seemed so small, and his magnificent evening dress did not suit him. evening dress, did not suit simon either. the applause died away. the orchestra disappeared through the back of the hall.

"so hot," said aunt comstock, whom, until now, lucy had utterly forgotten. "a breath of air outside...."

they went into the passage. people were walking up and down. they halted beside a swaying door. mrs. comstock stood there, her purple bosom heaving up and down. "no air.... can't think why they don't...."

her fine eyes flashed. she had seen mrs. norris. are not those things arranged by god? mrs. norris, whom she had not seen for so many months. are not these things arranged by god? lucy's friend was at her elbow. he was as she had known that he would be; kind-eyed, clumsy perhaps, his voice rough and hesitating.... he[pg 123] was alone. he stood turned a little away from her, and she, as though she had been practising these arts all her life, looked at the pea-green mrs. norris, and the pearls that danced on her bony neck. the voices crept towards one another. no one would have known that lucy's mouth moved at all.

"can't we get away somewhere?"

"i'm with my aunt."

"i must see you."

"yes."

"i must."

"i'm with my——"

"i know."

"perhaps at the end——"

"no, give me somewhere to write to."

"it's——"

aunt comstock's voice came sailing like a pirate's ship.

"amy, this is my niece, lucy."

"how do you do? are you enjoying london, dear?"

he was gone. oh, he was gone! and no address.

she could have slain those two women, one so fat, and one so thin—willingly, stabbed them. perhaps she would lose him now.

they returned. "something of bizet's. he was french, lucy. french or a spaniard.... fancy amy norris—lost her looks, poor dear. ah! i shall like this. better than that german."

lucy heard no more music. her heart beat in her throat, choking it. life had rushed towards her and filled her, or was it that she had entered into life? she[pg 124] did not know. she only felt intensely proud, like a queen entering her capital for the first time.... the concert was over. her aunt was a long time putting on her cloak; people stood in their way, stupid, heavy, idiotic people. when they came into the hall he was not there.... yes ... he was close to them. for a moment, in the thick crowd, he caught her hand. at the touch of his fingers, rough and strong, upon hers, she seemed to soar above the crowd and to look down upon them all with scornful happiness. he said something that she could not catch, and then aunt comstock had hatefully enveloped her. they were in a taxi, and all the world that had been roaring around her was suddenly hushed. they reached hortons. lucy drank her hot milk. her aunt said:

"i do hope you enjoyed your concert, darling.... the bizet was best."

she had undressed, and was lying on her bed, flat on her back, staring up at the white ceiling, upon whose surface circles, flung from the lights beyond the window, ran and quivered. she watched the circles, but she was not thinking at all. she seemed to be lapped about by a sea of warm happiness. she floated on this; she neither slept nor thought. early in the morning she sank into dreamless slumber.

she came down to breakfast tired with happy weariness. she found simon laud waiting for her. she stared at him at first as though she had never seen him before. he was not looking his best. he explained that he had caught the night train at york. he was afraid that he had not shaved nor washed, but that[pg 125] mrs. comstock had kindly said: "have your breakfast first ... with us. lucy has just been longing for you."

lucy took all this in at last. she saw the bright little room with the sun pouring in, the breakfast things with the silver tea-pot and the porridge, and aunt comstock in her pink tea-gown. she saw these things, and then simon laud took a step towards her.

"dear lucy!" he said. that step showed her that there was no time to be lost. simon laud must never touch her again. never!

"simon, i wasn't expecting you. but it's just as well, really. it will get it over more quickly. i must tell you at once that i can't marry you!"

her first feeling after her little speech, which seemed in a strange way not to have been made by herself at all, was that it was a great shame to say such a thing to him when he was looking so dirty and so unwashed. she broke out with a little cry:

"oh, simon, i'm sorry!"

"lucy!" she heard aunt comstock exclaim.

mr. laud had no words. he looked truly pitiful as his long, rather dirty fingers sought the tablecloth. then he laughed.

"why, lucy, dear," he said. "what do you mean?"

"i mean just what i've said," she answered. "we mustn't marry. it would be wicked, because i don't love you. i knew from the first that i didn't, but i had had no experience. i thought you must all know better. i don't love you, and i never, never will."

"lucy!" aunt comstock had risen. lucy had the[pg 126] odd feeling that her aunt had known that this moment would come, and had been waiting with eager anticipation for it. "do you know what you've said? but you can't know. you're out of your mind, you wicked girl. here's mr. laud come all the way from yorkshire, by night too, just to be with you for a day or two, and you receive him like this. why, it was only last night that you told me that you wished he would come—and now! you must be out of your mind!"

"i'm not out of my mind," said lucy, "and i'm sure simon wouldn't wish me to marry him if i didn't love him."

"did she really say that last night, mrs. comstock?" said mr. laud.

"indeed she did."

"only last night?"

"only last night."

"ah well, then," he heaved a sigh of relief, "it's all right! i surprised her this morning. i was too sudden. i frightened you, lucy darling. have some breakfast, and you'll feel quite differently."

"she'd better feel differently," said mrs. comstock, now trembling with happy temper. "i don't know what she's said this mad thing for, i'm sure, mr. laud, considering how she's been talking about you and wanting you all this month; but a little consideration will soon teach her."

"do you know, lucy, what they say of girls who try to behave as you're behaving? do you know the name the world has for what you're doing? have you thought[pg 127] for a moment of your father and mother, and what they'll say?"

"no, i haven't," said lucy. "but no thinking will make any difference. nothing will."

nevertheless, there did flash through her mind then a picture of what would happen at hawkesworth. she had not thought of hawkesworth; she saw now the straggling street, the church, the high downs; she saw the people who had known her since she was a baby, she saw her parents and relations. yes, there would be a bad time to go through. and for what? because for a moment a man whom she did not know, a man whom she would never see again, had taken her hand in his! perhaps she was mad. she did not know. she only knew that she would never marry simon laud.

"oh, simon, i'm so sorry! i know i'm behaving very badly. but it's better to behave like that now than for us to be unhappy always."

he smiled at her with confidence.

"it's quite all right, lucy, dear. i understand perfectly. you'll feel quite differently very soon. i surprised you. i shouldn't have done it, but i was so anxious to see you—a lover's privilege."

"now," he ended with that happy optimistic air that he had developed so happily in the pulpit, "let us all have breakfast, shall we?"

lucy shook her head, and then turned and went back to her room.

a strange day followed. she sat there until luncheon, alone, hearing the soft buzz of the traffic below her window, interrupted once by the maid, who, after her[pg 128] permission had been given, moved softly about the room, setting it to rights. it was not quite true, that she was thinking during that time—it could scarcely be called thought—it was rather that a succession of pictures passed before her brain—her parents in every attitude of alarm and remonstrance and command, the village and its gossips, long long imprisonment beneath those high downs, and finally her parents again. how strange it was that last night's little incident should have illuminated everything in her life, and nothing more surely than her father and mother! how queer that a strange young man, with whom in all her life she had exchanged only one or two words, should have told her more of her own people than all her living with them could!

she faced her people for the first time—she knew them to be hard, narrow, provincial, selfish, intolerant. she loved them just as she had done before, because with those other qualities, they were also tender, compassionate, loving, unselfish.

but she saw now quite clearly what living with them would be.

she intended to ruin the peace and prosperity of her future life because she had met a stranger (for a second) whom she would never see again! that was the truth.... she accepted it without a tremor.

it was also true that that stranger, by meeting her, had made her live for the first time.

better live uncomfortably than merely pretend to live, or to think you loved when you did not. why,[pg 129] now she thought of it, nearly everyone in the world was dead!

she was summoned to luncheon. it amused, and at the same time touched her, to see how aunt comstock and simon covered up the morning's mistake with a cheerful pretence that it had never occurred.

luncheon was all chatter—musical chatter, clerical chatter ... hearty laughter. lucy submitted to everything. she submitted to an afternoon drive.

it was during the drive that she learned that on the very next morning, by the 10:15 train, simon would lead her back to hawkesworth. when she heard that her heart gave a wild leap of rebellion. she looked desperately about her. could she not escape from the carriage, run and run until the distant streets hid her? she had no money; she had nothing. if only she could remain a few days longer in london she felt that she would be sure to meet her friend again. maddening to be so near and then to miss! she thought of bursting out into some wild protest—one glance at their faces showed her how hopeless that would be! hawkesworth! prison!

then she felt her new life and vitality glow and sparkle in her veins. after all, hawkesworth was not the end. the end! no, the beginning....

that night they were, oh! so kind to her!—laughing, granting her anything that she might ask—oh! so tactful!

"poor lucy," she could hear them say, "she had a fit of hysteria this morning. this london has been bad for her. she mustn't come here again—never again!"

[pg 130]

in the morning the taxi was there, the bags were packed.

in the pretty green and white hall with the grandfather's clock, when lucy tipped fanny, the portress, she whispered to her, "i'm coming back. they don't think i am—but i know i am. and if anyone—anyone—should ask for me, describe me, you know, so that you are sure it's me, write to me at this address."

fanny smiled and nodded. "now, lucy, dear," cried aunt comstock, "the cab's waiting."

she was sitting in it opposite to simon, who looked clean, but ridiculous on one of these uncomfortable third-party seats. they started up duke street, and turned into piccadilly.

"i do hope you'll have a nice journey, lucy. it's a fine day, and i've got some chocolate...."

are not these things arranged by god?

the cab was stopped by traffic just close to st. james's church. lucy, truly captured now like a mouse in a trap, glanced with a last wild look through the windows. a moment later she had tumbled over simon's knees and burst open the door. she was in the street. as she ran she was conscious of whistles sounding, boys calling, the green trees of st. james's blowing. she had touched him on the arm.

"i saw you.... i couldn't help it.... i had to speak...." she was out of breath. when he turned and the light of recognition flamed into his eyes, she could have died with happiness. he caught her hand. he stammered with joy.

"everywhere," he said, "i've been looking ...[pg 131] hoping ... i've walked about.... i've never thought of anything else...."

"quick," she said. "i've no time. they're in the cab there. it's our last chance. can you remember this without writing it down?"

"yes."

"well—lucy moon, the rectory, hawkesworth, n. yorkshire. kes ... yes.... write at once...."

even in her agitation she noticed the strength and confidence of his smile.

"i'll write to-day," he assured her. "you're not married?"

"no. it's miss."

"i'm not either." he caught her hand. "i'll find you before the week's out."

she fled. she was in the cab. aunt comstock and simon regarded her with terrified eyes.

"lucy, dear—how could you? what were you about? the train...."

"oh, it was a friend! i had to say good-bye. he didn't know i was going so soon."

she felt that her happiness would stifle her. she flung open the other window. she looked at them both and felt the tenderest pity because they seemed so old, so cross, so dead.

she bent over and kissed her aunt.

"here we are," said that lady, with an air of intense relief. "now you'll be all right, lucy darling. you'll just have mr. laud to look after you."

"yes!" cried lucy. "now i'm all right.... come along, simon, or we'll miss the train."