the tall yew trees the path was a chasm of impenetrable gloom.
Somewhere there were steps down to the right, a gap in the yew hedge.
Denis, who headed the party, groped his way cautiously; in this darkness,
one had an irrational fear of yawning precipices, of horrible spiked
obstructions. Suddenly from behind him he heard a shrill, startled, "Oh!"
and then a sharp, dry concussion that might have been the sound of a slap.
After that, Jenny's voice was heard pronouncing, "I am going back to the
house." Her tone was decided, and even as she pronounced the words
she was melting away into the darkness. The incident, whatever it had
been, was closed. Denis resumed his forward groping. From
somewhere behind Ivor began to sing again, softly:
"Phillis plus avare que tendre Ne gagnant rien a refuser, Un jour
exigea a Silvandre Trente moutons pour un baiser."
The melody drooped and climbed again with a kind of easy languor;
the warm darkness seemed to pulse like blood about them.
"Le lendemain, nouvelle affaire: Pour le berger le troc fut bon..."
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"Here are the steps," cried Denis. He guided his companions over the
danger, and in a moment they had the turf of the yew-tree walk under their
feet. It was lighter here, or at least it was just perceptibly less dark; for
the yew walk was wider than the path that had led them under the lea of
the house. Looking up, they could see between the high black hedges a
strip of sky and a few stars.
"Car il obtint de la bergere..."
Went on Ivor, and then interrupted himself to shout, "I'm going to run
down," and he was off, full speed, down the invisible slope, singing
unevenly as he went:
"Trente baisers pour un mouton."
The others followed. Denis shambled in the rear, vainly exhorting
everyone to caution: the slope was steep, one might break one's neck.
What was wrong with these people, he wondered? They had become like
young kittens after a dose of cat-nip. He himself felt a certain
kittenishness sporting within him; but it was, like all his emotions, rather a
theoretical feeling; it did not overmasteringly seek to express itself in a
practical demonstration of kittenishness.
"Be careful," he shouted once more, and hardly were the words out of
his mouth when, thump! there was the sound of a heavy fall in front of
him, followed by the long "F-f-f-f-f" of a breath indrawn with pain and
afterwards by a very sincere, "Oo-ooh!" Denis was almost pleased; he had
told them so, the idiots, and they wouldn't listen. He trotted down the
slope towards the unseen sufferer.
Mary came down the hill like a runaway steam-engine. It was
tremendously exciting, this blind rush through the dark; she felt she would
never stop. But the ground grew level beneath her feet, her speed
insensibly slackened, and suddenly she was caught by an extended arm
and brought to an abrupt halt.
"Well," said Ivor as he tightened his embrace, "you're caught now,
Anne."
She made an effort to release herself. "It's not Anne. It's Mary."
Ivor burst into a peal of amused laughter. "So it is!" he exclaimed.
"I seem to be making nothing but floaters this evening. I've already
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made one with Jenny." He laughed again, and there was something so
jolly about his laughter that Mary could not help laughing too. He did
not remove his encircling arm, and somehow it was all so amusing and
natural that Mary made no further attempt to escape from it. They
walked along by the side of the pool, interlaced. Mary was too short for
him to be able, with any comfort, to lay his head on her shoulder. He
rubbed his cheek, caressed and caressing, against the thick, sleek mass of
her hair. In a little while he began to sing again; the night trembled
amorously to the sound of his voice. When he had finished he kissed her.
Anne or Mary: Mary or Anne. It didn't seem to make much difference
which it was. There were differences in detail, of course; but the general
effect was the same; and, after all, the general effect was the important
thing.
Denis made his way down the hill.
"Any damage done?" he called out.
"Is that you, Denis? I've hurt my ankle so--and my knee, and my
hand. I'm all in pieces."
"My poor Anne," he said. "But then," he couldn't help adding, "it
was silly to start running downhill in the dark."
"Ass!" she retorted in a tone of tearful irritation; "of course it was."
He sat down beside on the grass, and found himself breathing the faint,
delicious atmosphere of perfume that she carried always with her.
"Light a match," she commanded. "I want to look at my wounds."
He felt in his pockets for the match-box. The light spurted and then
grew steady. Magically, a little universe had been created, a world of
colours and forms--Anne's face, the shimmering orange of her dress, her
white, bare arms, a patch of green turf--and round about a darkness that
had become solid and utterly blind. Anne held out her hands; both were
green and earthy with her fall, and the left exhibited two or three red
abrasions.
"Not so bad," she said. But Denis was terribly distressed, and his
emotion was intensified when, looking up at her face, he saw that the trace
of tears, involuntary tears of pain, lingered on her eyelashes. He pulled
out his handkerchief and began to wipe away the dirt from the wounded
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hand. The match went out; it was not worth while to light another.
Anne allowed herself to be attended to, meekly and gratefully. "Thank
you," she said, when he had finished cleaning and bandaging her hand;
and there was something in her tone that made him feel that she had lost
her superiority over him, that she was younger than he, had become,
suddenly, almost a child. He felt tremendously large and protective.
The feeling was so strong that instinctively he put his arm about her. She
drew closer, leaned against him, and so they sat in silence. Then, from
below, soft but wonderfully clear through the still darkness, they heard the
sound of Ivor's singing. He was going on with his half-finished song:
"Le lendemain Phillis plus tendre, Ne voulant deplaire au berger, Fut
trop heureuse de lui rendre Trente moutons pour un baiser."
There was a rather prolonged pause. It was as though time were
being allowed for the giving and receiving of a few of those thirty kisses.
Then the voice sang on:
"Le lendemain Phillis peu sage Aurait donne moutons et chien Pour un
baiser que le volage A Lisette donnait pour rien."
The last note died away into an uninterrupted silence.
"Are you better?" Denis whispered. "Are you comfortable like this?"
She nodded a Yes to both questions.
"Trente moutons pour un baiser." The sheep, the woolly mutton-- baa,
baa, baa...? Or the shepherd? Yes, decidedly, he felt himself to be the
shepherd now. He was the master, the protector. A wave of courage
swelled through him, warm as wine. He turned his head, and began to kiss
her face, at first rather randomly, then, with more precision, on the mouth.
Anne averted her head; he kissed the ear, the smooth nape that this
movement presented him. "No," she protested; "no, Denis."
"Why not?"
"It spoils our friendship, and that was so jolly."
"Bosh!" said Denis.
She tried to explain. "Can't you see," she said, "it isn't...it isn't our
stunt at all." It was true. Somehow she had never thought of Denis in
the light of a man who might make love; she had never so much as
conceived the possibilities of an amorous relationship with him. He was
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so absurdly young, so...so...she couldn't find the adjective, but she knew
what she meant.
"Why isn't it our stunt?" asked Denis. "And, by the way, that's a
horrible and inappropriate expression."
"Because it isn't."
"But if I say it is?"
"It makes no difference. I say it isn't."
"I shall make you say it is."
"All right, Denis. But you must do it another time. I must go in and
get my ankle into hot water. It's beginning to swell."
Reasons of health could not be gainsaid. Denis got up reluctantly,
and helped his companion to her feet. She took a cautious step. "Ooh!"
She halted and leaned heavily on his arm.
"I'll carry you," Denis offered. He had never tried to carry a woman,
but on the cinema it always looked an easy piece of heroism.
"You couldn't," said Anne.
"Of course I can." He felt larger and more protective than ever. "Put
your arms round my neck," he ordered. She did so and, stooping, he
picked her up under the knees and lifted her from the ground. Good
heavens, what a weight! He took five staggering steps up the slope, then
almost lost his equilibrium, and had to deposit his burden suddenly, with
something of a bump.
Anne was shaking with laughter. "I said You couldn't, my poor
Denis."
"I can," said Denis, without conviction. "I'll try again."
"It's perfectly sweet of you to offer, but I'd rather walk, thanks." She
laid her hand on his shoulder and, thus supported, began to limp slowly up
the hill.
"My poor Denis!" she repeated, and laughed again. Humiliated, he
was silent. It seemed incredible that, only two minutes ago, he should
have been holding her in his embrace, kissing her. Incredible. She was
helpless then, a child. Now she had regained all her superiority; she was
once more the far-off being, desired and unassailable. Why had he been
such a fool as to suggest that carrying stunt? He reached the house in a
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state of the profoundest depression.
He helped Anne upstairs, left her in the hands of a maid, and came
down again to the drawing-room. He was surprised to find them all
sitting just where he had left them. He had expected that, somehow,
everything would be quite different--it seemed such a prodigious time
since he went away. All silent and all damned, he reflected, as he looked
at them. Mr. Scogan's pipe still wheezed; that was the only sound.
Henry Wimbush was still deep in his account books; he had just made the
discovery that Sir Ferdinando was in the habit of eating oysters the whole
summer through, regardless of the absence of the justifying R. Gombauld,
in horn-rimmed spectacles, was reading. Jenny was mysteriously
scribbling in her red notebook. And, seated in her favourite arm-chair at
the corner of the hearth, Priscilla was looking through a pile of drawings.
One by one she held them out at arm's length and, throwing back her
mountainous orange head, looked long and attentively through half-closed
eyelids. She wore a pale sea-green dress; on the slope of her mauve-
powdered decolletage diamonds twinkled. An immensely long cigarette-
holder projected at an angle from her face. Diamonds were embedded in
her high-piled coiffure; they glittered every time she moved. It was a
batch of Ivor's drawings--sketches of Spirit Life, made in the course of
tranced tours through the other world. On the back of each sheet
descriptive titles were written: "Portrait of an Angel, 15th March '20;"
"Astral Beings at Play, 3rd December '19;" "A Party of Souls on their
Way to a Higher Sphere, 21st May '21." Before examining the drawing
on the obverse of each sheet, she turned it over to read the title. Try as she
could--and she tried hard--Priscilla had never seen a vision or succeeded
in establishing any communication with the Spirit World. She had to be
content with the reported experiences of others.
"What have you done with the rest of your party?" she asked, looking
up as Denis entered the room.
He explained. Anne had gone to bed, Ivor and Mary were still in the
garden. He selected a book and a comfortable chair, and tried, as far as
the disturbed state of his mind would permit him, to compose himself for
an evening's reading. The lamplight was utterly serene; there was no
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movement save the stir of Priscilla among her papers. All silent and all
damned, Denis repeated to himself, all silent and all damned...
It was nearly an hour later when Ivor and Mary made their appearance.
"We waited to see the moon rise," said Ivor.
"It was gibbous, you know," Mary explained, very technical and
scientific.
"It was so beautiful down in the garden! The trees, the scent of the
flowers, the stars..." Ivor waved his arms. "And when the moon came
up, it was really too much. It made me burst into tears." He sat down at
the piano and opened the lid.
"There were a great many meteorites," said Mary to anyone who
would listen. "The earth must just be coming into the summer shower of
them. In July and August..."
But Ivor had already begun to strike the keys. He played the garden,
the stars, the scent of flowers, the rising moon. He even put in a
nightingale that was not there. Mary looked on and listened with parted
lips. The others pursued their occupations, without appearing to be
seriously disturbed. On this very July day, exactly three hundred and
fifty years ago, Sir Ferdinando had eaten seven dozen oysters. The
discovery of this fact gave Henry Wimbush a peculiar pleasure. He had a
natural piety which made him delight in the celebration of memorial feasts.
The three hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the seven dozen oysters...He
wished he had known before dinner; he would have ordered champagne.
On her way to bed Mary paid a call. The light was out in Anne's
