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  Now, however, the little old-maidish piano began to sing a tinkling Victorian melody, and I fancied it must be some demure little woman, with curls like bunches of hops on either side of her face, who was touching it. The coy little tune teased me with old sensations, but my memory would give me no assistance. As I stood trying to fix my vague feelings, Rebecca came in to remove the cloth from the table.

  “Who is playing, Beck?” I asked.

  “Your mother, Cyril.”

  “But she never plays. I thought she couldn’t.”

  “Ah,” replied Rebecca, “you forget when you was a little thing sitting playing against her frock with the prayer-book, and she singing to you. You can’t remember her when her curls was long like a piece of brown silk. You can’t remember her when she used to play and sing, before Lettie came and your father was — ”

  Rebecca turned and left the room. I went and peeped in the drawing-room. Mother sat before the little brown piano, with her plump, rather stiff fingers moving across the keys, a faint smile on her lips. At that moment Lettie came flying past me, and flung her arms round mother’s neck, kissing her and saying:

  “Oh, my Dear, fancy my Dear playing the piano! Oh, Little Woman, we never knew you could!”

  “Nor can I,” replied Mother laughing, disengaging herself. “I only wondered if I could just strum out this old tune; I learned it when I was quite a girl, on this piano. It was a cracked one then; the only one I had.”

  “But play again, dearie, do play again. It was like the clinking of lustre glasses, and you look so quaint at the piano. Do play, my dear!” pleaded Lettie.

  “Nay,” said my mother, “the touch of the old keys on my fingers is making me sentimental — you wouldn’t like to see me reduced to the tears of old age?”

  “Old age!” scolded Lettie, kissing her again. “You are young enough to play little romances. Tell us about it, Mother.”

  “About what, child?”

  “When you used to play.”

  “Before my fingers were stiff with fifty-odd years? Where have you been, Cyril, that you weren’t in to dinner?”

  “Only down to Strelley Mill,” said I.

  “Of course,” said Mother coldly.

  “Why ‘of course’?” I asked.

  “And you came away as soon as Em went to school?” said Lettie.

  “I did,” said I.

  They were cross with me, these two women. After I had swallowed my little resentment I said:

  “They would have me stay to dinner.”

  My mother vouchsafed no reply.

  “And has the great George found a girl yet?” asked Lettie. “No,” I replied, “he never will at this rate. Nobody will ever be good enough for him.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you can find in any of them to take you there so much,” said my mother.

  “Don’t be so mean, Mater,” I answered, nettled. “You know I like them.”

  “I know you like her,” said my mother sarcastically. “As for him — he’s an unlicked cub. What can you expect when his mother has spoiled him as she has. But I wonder you are so interested in licking him.” My mother sniffed contemptuously.

  “He is rather good-looking,” said Lettie with a smile.

  “You could make a man of him, I am sure,” I said, bowing satirically to her.

  “I am not interested,” she replied, also satirical.

  Then she tossed her head, and all the fine hairs that were free from bonds made a mist of yellow light in the sun. “What frock shall I wear, Mater?” she asked.

  “Nay, don’t ask me,” replied her mother.

  “I think I’ll wear the heliotrope — though this sun will fade it,” she said pensively. She was tall, nearly six feet in height, but slenderly formed. Her hair was yellow, tending towards a dun brown. She had beautiful eyes and brows, but not a nice nose. Her hands were very beautiful.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  She did not answer me.

  “To Tempest’s!” I said. She did not reply.

  “Well, I don’t know what you can see in him,” I continued. “Indeed!” said she. “He’s as good as most folk — ” then we both began to laugh.

  “Not,” she continued blushing, “that I think anything about him. I’m merely going for a game of tennis. Are you coming?”

  “What shall you say if I agree?” I asked.

  “Oh!” she tossed her head. “We shall all be very pleased I’m sure.”

  “Ooray!” said I with fine irony.

  She laughed at me, blushed, and ran upstairs.

  Half an hour afterwards she popped her head in the study to bid me good-bye, wishing to see if I appreciated her. She was so charming in her fresh linen frock and flowered hat, that I could not but be proud of her. She expected me to follow her to the window, for from between the great purple rhododendrons she waved me a lace mitten, then glinted on like a flower moving brightly through the green hazels. Her path lay through the wood in the opposite direction from Strelley Mill, down the red drive across the tree-scattered space to the highroad. This road ran along the end of our lakelet, Nethermere, for about a quarter of a mile. Nethermere is the lowest in a chain of three ponds. The other two are the upper and lower millponds at Strelley; this is the largest and most charming piece of water, a mile long and about a quarter of a mile in width. Our wood runs down to the water’s edge. On the opposite side, on a hill beyond the farthest corner of the lake, stands Highclose. It looks across the water at us in Woodside with one eye as it were, while our cottage casts a sidelong glance back again at the proud house, and peeps coyly through the trees.

  I could see Lettie like a distant sail stealing along the water’s edge, her parasol flowing above. She turned through the wicket under the pine clump, climbed the steep field, and was enfolded again in the trees beside Highclose.

  Leslie was sprawled on a camp-chair, under a copper beech on the lawn, his cigar glowing. He watched the ash grow strange and grey in the warm daylight, and he felt sorry for poor Nell Wycherley, whom he had driven that morning to the station, for would she not be frightfully cut up as the train whirled her farther and farther away? These girls are so daft with a fellow! But she was a nice little thing — he’d get Marie to write to her.

  At this point he caught sight of a parasol fluttering along the drive, and immediately he fell in a deep sleep, with just a tiny slit in his slumber to allow him to see Lettie approach. She, finding her watchman ungallantly asleep, and his cigar, instead of his lamp, untrimmed, broke off a twig of syringa whose ivory buds had not yet burst with luscious scent. I know not how the end of his nose tickled in anticipation before she tickled him in reality, but he kept bravely still until the petals swept him. Then, starting from his sleep, he exclaimed:

  “Lettie! I was dreaming of kisses!”

  “On the bridge of your nose?” laughed she — ”But whose were the kisses?”

  “Who produced the sensation?” he smiled.

  “Since I only tapped your nose you should dream of — ”

  “Go on!” said he, expectantly.

  “Of Doctor Slop,” she replied, smiling to herself as she closed her parasol.

  “I do not know the gentleman,” he said, afraid that she was laughing at him.

  “No — your nose is quite classic,” she answered, giving him one of those brief intimate glances with which women flatter men so cleverly. He radiated with pleasure.

  CHAPTER II

  DANGLING THE APPLE

  The long-drawn booming of the wind in the wood, and the sobbing and moaning in the maples and oaks near the house, had made Lettie restless. She did not want to go anywhere, she did not want to do anything, so she insisted on my just going out with her as far as the edge of the water. We crossed the tangle of fern and bracken, bramble and wild-raspberry canes that spread in the open space before the house, and we went down the grassy slope to the edge of Nethermere. The wind whipped up noisy little wavelets, and the clu
ck and clatter of these among the pebbles, the swish of the rushes and the freshening of the breeze against our faces, roused us.

  The tall meadow-sweet was in bud along the tiny beach and we walked knee-deep among it, watching the foamy race of the ripples and the whitening of the willows on the far shore. At the place where Nethermere narrows to the upper end, and receives the brook from Strelley, the wood sweeps down and stands with its feet washed round with waters. We broke our way along the shore, crushing the sharp-scented wild mint, whose odour checks the breath, and examining here and there among the marshy places ragged nests of water-fowl, now deserted. Some slim young lapwings started at our approach, and sped lightly from us, their necks outstretched in straining fear of that which could not hurt them. One, two, fled cheeping into cover of the wood; almost instantly they coursed back again to where we stood, to dart off from us at an angle, in an ecstasy of bewilderment and terror.

  “What had frightened the crazy little things?” asked Lettie.

  “I don’t know. They’ve cheek enough sometimes; then they go whining, skelping off from a fancy as if they had a snake under their wings.”

  Lettie, however, paid small attention to my eloquence. She pushed aside an elder bush, which graciously showered down upon her myriad crumbs from its flowers like slices of bread, and bathed her in a medicinal scent. I followed her, taking my dose, and was startled to hear her sudden, “Oh, Cyril!”

  On the bank before us lay a black cat, both hind paws torn and bloody in a trap. It had no doubt been bounding forward after its prey when it was caught. It was gaunt and wild; no wonder it frightened the poor lapwings into cheeping hysteria. It glared at us fiercely, growling low.

  “How cruel — oh, how cruel!” cried Lettie, shuddering.

  I wrapped my cap and Lettie’s scarf over my hands and bent to open the trap. The cat struck with her teeth, tearing the cloth convulsively. When it was free, it sprang away with one bound, and fell panting, watching us.

  I wrapped the creature in my jacket, and picked her up, murmuring:

  “Poor Mrs Nickie Ben — we always prophesied it of you.”

  “What will you do with it?” asked Lettie.

  “It is one of the Strelley Mill cats,” said I, “and so I’ll take her home.”

  The poor animal moved and murmured and I carried her, but we brought her home. They stared, on seeing me enter the kitchen coatless, carrying a strange bundle, while Lettie followed me.

  “I have brought poor Mrs Nickie Ben,” said I, unfolding my burden.

  “Oh, what a shame!” cried Emily, putting out her hand to touch the cat, but drawing quickly back, like the peewits. “This is how they all go,” said the mother.

  “I wish keepers had to sit two or three days with their bare ankles in a trap,” said Mollie in vindictive tones.

  We laid the poor brute on the rug, and gave it warm milk. It drank very little, being too feeble. Mollie, full of anger, fetched Mr Nickie Ben, another fine black cat, to survey his crippled mate. Mr Nickie Ben looked, shrugged his sleek shoulders, and walked away with high steps. There was a general feminine outcry on masculine callousness.

  George came in for hot water. He exclaimed in surprise on seeing us, and his eyes became animated.

  “Look at Mrs Nickie Ben,” cried Mollie. He dropped on his knees on the rug and lifted the wounded paws.

  “Broken,” said he.

  “How awful!” said Emily, shuddering violently, and leaving the room.

  “Both?” I asked.

  “Only one — look!”

  “You are hurting her!” cried Lettie.

  “It’s no good,” said he.

  Mollie and the mother hurried out of the kitchen into the parlour.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Lettie.

  “Put her out of her misery,” he replied, taking up the poor cat. We followed him into the barn.

  “The quickest way,” said he, “is to swing her round and knock her head against the wall.”

  “You make me sick,” exclaimed Lettie.

  “I’ll drown her then,” he said with a smile. We watched him morbidly, as he took a length of twine and fastened a noose round the animal’s neck, and near it an iron goose; he kept a long piece of cord attached to the goose.

  “You’re not coming, are you?” said he. Lettie looked at him; she had grown rather white.

  “It’ll make you sick,” he said. She did not answer, but followed him across the yard to the garden. On the bank of the lower millpond he turned again to us and said:

  “Now for it! — you are chief mourners.” As neither of us replied, he smiled, and dropped the poor writhing cat into the water, saying, “Good-bye, Mrs Nickie Ben.”

  We waited on the bank some time. He eyed us curiously. “Cyril,” said Lettie quietly, “isn’t it cruel? — isn’t it awful?” I had nothing to say.

  “Do you mean me?” asked George.

  “Not you in particular — everything! If we move the blood rises in our heel-prints.”

  He looked at her seriously, with dark eyes.

  “I had to drown her out of mercy,” said he, fastening the cord he held to an ash-pole. Then he went to get a spade, and with it, he dug a grave in the old black earth.

  “If,” said he, “the poor old cat had made a prettier corpse, you’d have thrown violets on her.”

  He had struck the spade into the ground, and hauled pup the iron goose.

  “Well,” he said, surveying the hideous object, “haven’t her good looks gone! She was a fine cat.”

  “Bury it and have done,” Lettie replied.

  He did so asking: “Shall you have bad dreams after it?”

  “Dreams do not trouble me,” she answered, turning away.

  We went indoors, into the parlour, where Emily sat by a window, biting her finger. The room was long and not very high; there was a great rough beam across the ceiling. On the mantelpiece, and in the fireplace, and over the piano were wild flowers and fresh leaves plentifully scattered; the room was cool with the scent of the woods.

  “Has he done it?” asked Emily — ”and did you watch him? If I had seen it I should have hated the sight of him, and I’d rather have touched a maggot than him.”

  “I shouldn’t be particularly pleased if he touched me,” said Lettie.

  “There is something so loathsome about callousness and brutality,” said Emily. “He fills me with disgust.”

  “Does he?” said Lettie, smiling coldly. She went across to the old piano. “He’s only healthy. He’s never been sick, not anyway, yet.” She sat down and played at random, letting the numbed notes fall like dead leaves from the haughty, ancient piano.

  Emily and I talked oh by the widow, about books and people. She was intensely serious, and generally succeeded in reducing me to the same state.

  After a while, when the milking and feeding were finished, George came in. Lettie was still playing the piano. He asked her why she didn’t play something with a tune in it, and this caused her to turn round in her chair to give him a withering answer. His appearance, however, scattered her words like startled birds. He had come straight from washing in the scullery, to the parlour, and he stood behind Lettie’s chair, unconcernedly wiping the moisture from his arms. His sleeves were rolled up to the shoulder, and his shirt was opened wide at the breast. Lettie was somewhat taken aback by the sight of him standing with legs apart, dressed in dirty leggings and boots, and breeches torn at the knee, naked at the breast and arms.

  “Why don’t you play something with a tune in it?” he repeated, rubbing the towel over his shoulders beneath the shirt.

  “A tune!” she echoed, watching the swelling of his arms as he moved them, and the rise and fall of his breasts, wonderfully solid and white. Then having curiously examined the sudden meeting of the sun-hot skin with the white flesh in his throat, her eyes met his, and she turned again to the piano, while the colour grew in her ears, mercifully sheltered by a profusion of bright curls. />
  “What shall I play?” she asked, fingering the keys somewhat confusedly.

  He dragged out a book of songs from a little heap of music, and set it before her.

  “Which do you want to sing?” she asked, thrilling a little as she felt his arms so near her.

  “Anything you like.”

  “A love song?” she said.

  “If you like — yes, a love song — ” he laughed with clumsy insinuation that made the girl writhe.

  She did not answer, but began to play Sullivan’s “Tit Willow”. He had a passable bass voice, not of any great depth, and he sang with gusto. Then she gave him “Drink to me only with thine eyes”. At the end she turned and asked him if he liked the words. He replied that he thought them rather daft. But he looked at her with glowing brown eyes, as if in hesitating challenge.

  “That’s because you have no wine in your eyes to pledge with,” she replied, answering his challenge with a blue blaze of her eyes. Then her eyelashes drooped on to her cheek. He laughed with a faint ring of consciousness, and asked her how could she know.

  “Because,” she said slowly, looking up at him with pretended scorn, “because there’s no change in your eyes when I look at you. I always think people who are worth much talk with their eyes. That’s why you are forced to respect many quite uneducated people. Their eyes are so eloquent, and full of knowledge.” She had continued to look at him as she spoke — watching his faint appreciation of her upturned face, and her hair, where the light was always tangled, watching his brief self-examination to see if he could feel any truth in her words, watching till he broke into a little laugh which was rather more awkward and less satisfied than usual. Then she turned away, smiling also.

  “There’s nothing in this book nice to sing,” she said, turning over the leaves discontentedly. I found her a volume, and she sang “Should he upbraid”. She had a fine soprano voice, and the song delighted him. He moved nearer to her, and when at the finish she looked round with a flashing, mischievous air, she found him pledging her with wonderful eyes.

  “You like that,” said she with the air of superior knowledge, as if, dear me, all one had to do was to turn over to the right page of the vast volume of one’s soul to suit these people.