i

  “’Where have you been all the day, Rendal, my son? 
    Where have you been all the day, my pretty one?...’”

Five years had passed.  It was August, nineteen ten.

Anne had come again.  She sat out on the terrace with Adeline, while
Colin’s song drifted out to them through the open window.

It was her first day, the first time for three years.  Anne’s calendar was blank from nineteen seven to nineteen ten.  When she was seventeen she had left Cheltenham and gone to live with Grandpapa Everitt at the Essex farm.  Grandpapa Everitt wanted her more than Grandmamma Severn, who had Aunt Emily; so Anne had stayed with him all that time.  She had spent it learning to farm and looking after Grandpapa on his bad days.  For the last year of his life all his days had been bad.  Now he was dead, dead three months ago, and Anne had the farm.  She was going to train for five years under the man who had worked it for Grandpapa; after that she meant to manage it herself.

She had been trying to tell Aunt Adeline all about it, but you could see she wasn’t interested.  She kept on saying “Yes” and “Oh” and “Really”? in the wrong places.  She never could listen to you for long together, and this afternoon she was evidently thinking of something else, perhaps of John Severn, who had been home on leave and gone again without coming to the Fieldings.

  “’I’ve been to my sweetheart, mother, make my bed soon,
  For I’m sick to my heart and I fain would lie down...’”

Mournful, and beautiful, Colin’s song came through the windows, and Anne thought of Jerrold who was not there.  He was staying in Yorkshire with some friends of his, the Durhams.  He would be back to-morrow.  He would have got away from the Durhams.

  ..."‘make my bed soon...’”

To-morrow.  To-morrow.

“Who are the Durhams, Auntie?”

“He’s Sir Charles Durham.  Something important in the Punjaub.  Some high government official.  He’ll be useful to Jerrold if he gets a job out there.  They’re going back in October.  I suppose I shall have to ask.  Maisie Durham before they sail.”

Maisie Durham.  Maisie Durham.  But to-morrow he would have got away.

  “’What will you leave your lover, Rendal, my son? 
  What will you leave your lover, my pretty one? 
  A rope to hang her, mother,
  A rope to hang her, mother, make my bed soon,
  For I’m sick to my heart and I fain would lie down.’”

“Sing something cheerful, Colin, for Goodness sake,” said his mother. 
But Colin sang it again.

  “‘A rope to hang her’”

“Bless him, you’d think he’d known all the wicked women that ever were.  My little Col-Col.”

“You like him the best, don’t you?”

“No.  Indeed I do not.  I like my laughing boy best.  You wouldn’t catch Jerry singing a dismal song like that.”

“Darling, you used to say Colin was your favourite.”

“No, my dear.  Never.  Never.  It was always Jerrold.  Ever since he was born.  He never cried when he was a baby.  Colin was always crying.”

“Poor Col-Col.”

“There you are.  Nobody’ll ever say, ‘Poor Jerrold’.  I like happy people, Anne.  In this tiresome world it’s people’s duty to be happy.”

“If it was, would they be?  Don’t look at me as if I wasn’t.”

“I wasn’t thinking of you, ducky...  You might tell Pinkney to take all those tea-things off the terrace and put them back into the lounge.”

ii

The beech-trees stood in a half ring at the top of the highest field.  Jerrold had come back.  He and Anne sat in the bay of the beeches, looking out over the hills.

Curve after curve of many-coloured hills, rolling together, flung off from each other, an endless undulation.  Rounded heads carrying a clump of trees like a comb; long steep groins packed with tree-tops; raking necks hog-maned with stiff plantations.  Slopes that spread out fan-wise, opened wide wings.  An immense stretching and flattening of arcs up to the straight blue wall on the horizon.  A band of trees stood up there like a hedge.

Calm, clean spaces emerging, the bright, sharp-cut pattern of the fields; squares and fans and pointed triangles, close fitted; emerald green of the turnips; yellow of the charlock lifted high and clear; red brown and pink and purple of ploughed land and fallows; red gold of the wheat and white green of the barley; shimmering in a wash of thin air.

Where Anne and Jerrold sat, green pastures, bitten smooth by the sheep, flowed down below them in long ridges like waves.  On the right the bright canary coloured charlock brimmed the field.  Its flat, vanilla and almond scent came to them.

“What’s Yorkshire like?”

“Not a patch on this place.  I can’t think what there is about it that makes you feel so jolly happy.”

“But you’d always be happy, Jerrold, anywhere.”

“Not like that.  I mean a queer, uncanny feeling that you sort of can’t make out.”

“I know.  I know...  There’s nothing on earth that gets you like the smell of charlock.”

Anne tilted up her nose and sniffed delicately.

“Fancy seeing this country suddenly for the first time,” he said.

“There’s such a lot of it.  You wouldn’t see it properly.  It takes ages just to tell one hill from another.”

He looked at her.  She could feel him meditating, considering.

“I say, I wonder what it would feel like seeing each other for the first time.”

“Not half so nice as seeing each other now.  Why, we shouldn’t remember any of the jolly things we’ve done:  together.”

He had seen Maisie Durham for the first time.  She wondered whether that had made him think of it.

“No, but the effect might be rather stunning ­I mean of seeing you.”

“It wouldn’t.  And you’d be nothing but a big man with a face I rather liked.  I suppose I should like your face.  We shouldn’t know each other, Jerrold.”

“No more we should.  It would be like not knowing Dad or Mummy or Colin.  A thing you can’t conceive.”

“It would be like not knowing anything at all ...  Of course, the best thing would be both.”

“Both?”

“Knowing each other and not knowing.”

“You can’t have it both ways,” he said.

“Oh, can’t you!  You don’t half know me as it is, and I don’t half know you.  We might both do anything any day.  Things that would make each other jump.”

“What sort of things?”

“That’s the exciting part of it ­we wouldn’t know.”

“I believe you could, Anne ­make me jump.”

“Wait till I get out to India.”

“You’re really going?”

“Really going.  Daddy may send for me any day.”

“I may be sent there.  Then we’ll go out together.”

“Will Maisie Durham be going too?”

“O Lord no.  Not with us.  At least I hope not ...  Poor little Maisie, I was a beast to say that.”

“Is she little?”

“No, rather big.  But you think of her as little.  Only I don’t think of her.”

They stood up; they stood close; looking at each other, laughing.  As he laughed his eyes took her in, from head to feet, wondering, admiring.

Anne’s face and body had the same forward springing look.  In their very stillness they somehow suggested movement.  Her young breasts sprang forwards, sharp pointed.  Her eyes had no sliding corner glances.  He was for ever aware of Anne’s face turning on its white neck to look at him straight and full, her black-brown eyes shining and darkening and shining under the long black brushes of her eyebrows.  Even her nose expressed movement, a sort of rhythm.  It rose in a slender arch, raked straight forward, dipped delicately and rose again in a delicately questing tilt.  This tilt had the delightful air of catching up and shortening the curl of her upper lip.  The exquisite lower one sprang forward, sharp and salient from the little dent above her innocent, rounded chin.  Its edge curled slightly forward in a line firm as ivory and fine as the edge of a flower.  As long as he lived he would remember the way of it.

And she, she was aware of his body, slender and tense under his white flannels.  It seemed to throb with the power it held in, prisoned in the smooth, tight muscles.  His eyes showed the colour of dark hyacinths, set in his clear, sun-browned skin.  He smiled down at her, and his mouth and little fawn brown moustache followed the tilted shadow of his nostrils.

Suddenly her whole body quivered as if his had touched it.  And when she looked at him she had the queer feeling that she saw him for the first time.  Never before like that.  Never before.

But to him she was the same Anne.  He knew her face as he knew his mother’s face or Colin’s.  He knew, he remembered all her ways.

And this was not what he wanted.  He wanted some strange wonder and excitement; he wanted to find it in Anne and in nobody but Anne, and he couldn’t find it.  He wanted to be in love with Anne and he wasn’t.  She was too near him, too much a part of him, too well-known, too well-remembered.  She made him restless and impatient, looking, looking for the strangeness, the mystery he wanted and couldn’t find.

If only he could have seen her suddenly for the first time.

iii

It was extraordinary how happy it made her to be with Aunt Adeline, walking slowly, slowly, with her round the garden, stretched out beside her on the terrace, following her abrupt moves from the sun into the shade and back again; or sitting for hours with her in the big darkened bedroom when Adeline had one of the bad headaches that attacked her now, brushing her hair, and putting handkerchiefs soaked in eau-de-cologne on her hot forehead.

Extraordinary, because this inactivity did violence to Anne’s nature; besides, Auntie Adeline behaved as if you were uninteresting and unimportant, not attending to a word you said.  Yet her strength lay in her inconsistency.  One minute her arrogance ignored you and the next she came humbly and begged for your caresses; she was dependent, like a child, on your affection.  Anne thought that pathetic.  And there was always her fascination.  That was absolute; above logic and morality, irrefutable as the sweetness of a flower.  Everybody felt it, even the servants whom she tormented with her incalculable wants.  Jerrold and Colin, even Eliot, now that he was grown-up, felt it.  As for Uncle Robert he was like a young man in the beginning of first love.

Adeline judged people by their attitude to her.  Anne, whether she listened to her or not, was her own darling.  Her husband and John Severn were adorable, Major Markham of Wyck Wold and Mr. Hawtrey of Medlicote, who admired her, were perfect dears, Sir John Corbett of Underwoods, who didn’t, was that silly old thing.  Resist her and she felt no mean resentment; you simply dropped out of her scene.  Thus her world was peopled with her adorers.

Anne couldn’t have told you whether she felt the charm on its own account, or whether the pleasure of being with her was simply part of the blessed state of being at Wyck-on-the-Hill.  Enough that Auntie Adeline was there where Uncle Robert and Eliot and Colin and Jerrold were; she belonged to them; she belonged to the house and garden; she stood with the flowers.

Anne was walking with her now, gathering roses for the house.  The garden was like a room shut in by the clipped yew walls, and open to the sky.  The sunshine poured into it; the flagged walks were pale with heat.

Anne’s cat, Nicky, was there, the black Persian that Jerrold had given her last birthday.  He sat in the middle of the path, on his haunches, his forelegs straight and stiff, planted together.  His face had a look of sweet and solemn meditation.

“Oh Nicky, oh you darling!” she said.

When she stroked him he got up, arching his back and carrying his tail in a flourishing curve, like one side of a lyre; he rubbed against her ankles.  A white butterfly flickered among the blue larkspurs; when Nicky saw it he danced on his hind legs, clapping his forepaws as he tried to catch it.  But the butterfly was too quick for him.  Anne picked him up and he flattened himself against her breast, butting under her chin with his smooth round head in his loving way.

And as Adeline wouldn’t listen to her Anne talked to the cat.

“Clever little thing, he sees everything, all the butterflies and the dicky-birds and the daddy-long-legs.  Don’t you, my pretty one?”

“What’s the good of talking to the cat?” said Adeline.  “He doesn’t understand a word you say.”

“He doesn’t understand the words, he says, but he feels the feeling ...  He was the most beautiful of all the pussies, he was, he was.”

“Nonsense.  You’re throwing yourself away on that absurd animal, for all the affection you’ll get out of him.”

“I shall get out just what I put in.  He expects to be talked to.”

“So do I.”

“I’ve been trying to talk to you all afternoon and you won’t listen.  And you don’t know how you can hurt Nicky’s feelings.  He’s miserable if I don’t tell him he’s a beautiful pussy the minute he comes into my room.  He creeps away under the washstand and broods.  We take these darling things and give them little souls and hearts, and we’ve no business to hurt them.  And they’ve such a tiny time to live, too...  Look at him, sitting up to be carried, like a child.”

“Oh wait, my dear, till you have a child.  You ridiculous baby.”

“Oh come, Jerrold’s every bit as gone on him.”

“You’re a ridiculous pair,” said Adeline.

“If Nicky purred round your legs, you’d love him, too,” said Anne.

iv

Uncle Robert was not well.  He couldn’t eat the things he used to eat; he had to have fish or chicken and milk and beef-tea and Benger’s food.  Jerrold said it was only indigestion and he’d be all right in a day or two.  But you could see by the way he walked now that there was something quite dreadfully wrong.  He went slowly, slowly, as if every step tired him out.

“Sorry, Jerrold, to be so slow.”

But Jerrold wouldn’t see it.

They had gone down to the Manor Farm, he and Jerrold and Anne.  He wanted to show Jerrold the prize stock and what heifers they could breed from next year.  “I should keep on with the short horns.  You can’t do better,” he said.

Then they had gone up the fields to see if the wheat was ready for cutting yet.  And he had kept on telling Jerrold what crops were to be sown after the wheat, swedes to come first, and vetch after the swedes, to crowd out the charlock.

“You’ll have to keep the charlock down, Jerrold, or it’ll kill the crops.  You’ll have the devil of a job.”  He spoke as though Jerrold had the land already and he was telling him the things he wanted him to remember.

They came back up the steep pasture, very slowly, Uncle Robert leaning on Jerrold’s arm.  They sat down to rest under the beech-trees at the top.  They looked at the landscape, the many-coloured hills, rolling together, flung off from each other, an endless undulation.

“Beautiful country.  Beautiful country,” said Uncle Robert as if he had never seen it before.

“You should see my farm,” Anne said.  “It’s as flat as a chess-board and all squeezed up by the horrid town.  Grandpapa sold a lot of it for building.  I wish I could sell the rest and buy a farm in the Cotswolds.  Do you ever have farms to sell, Uncle Robert?”

“Well, not to sell.  To let, perhaps, if a tenant goes.  You can have the Barrow Farm when old Sutton dies.  He can’t last long.  But,” he went on, “you’ll find it very different farming here.”

“How different?”

“Well, in some of those fields you’ll have to fight the charlock all the time.  And in some the soil’s hard.  And in some you’ve got to plough across the sun because of the slope of the land...  Remember, Jerrold, Anne’s to have the Barrow Farm, if she wants it, when Sutton dies.”

Jerrold laughed.  “My dear father, I shall be in India.”

“I’ll remind you, Uncle Robert.”

Uncle Robert smiled.  “I’ll tell Barker to remember,” he said.  Barker was his agent.

It was as if he were thinking that when Sutton died he might not be there.  And he had said that Sutton wouldn’t last long.  Anne looked at Jerrold.  But Jerrold’s face was happy.  He didn’t see it.

They left Uncle Robert in the library, drinking hot water for tea.

“Jerrold,” Anne said, “I’m sure Uncle Robert’s ill.”

“Oh no.  It’s only indigestion.  He’ll be as right as rain in a day or two.”

v

Anne’s cat Nicky was dying.

Jerrold struggled with his sleep, pushing it back and back before him, trying to remember.

There was something; something that had hung over him the night before.  He had been afraid to wake and find it there.  Something .

Now he remembered.

Nicky was dying and Anne was unhappy.  That was what it was; that was what he had hated to wake to, Anne’s unhappiness and the little cat.

There was nothing else.  Nothing wrong with Daddy ­only indigestion.  He had had it before.

The room was still dark, but the leaded squares of the window lattices barred a sky pale with dawn.  In her room across the passage Anne would be sitting up with Nicky.  He remembered now that he had to get up early to make her some tea.

He lit a candle and went to her door to see if she were still awake.  Her voice answered his gentle tapping, “Who’s there?”

“Me.  Jerrold.  May I come in?”

“Yes.  But don’t bring the light in.  He’s sleeping.”

He put out the candle and made his way to her.  Against the window panes he could see the outline of her body sitting upright in a chair.  She glimmered there in her white wrapper and he made out something black stretched straight and still in her lap.  He sat down in the window-seat and watched.

The room was mysterious, full of dusk air that thinned as the dawn stirred in it palpably, waking first Anne’s white bed, a strip of white cornice and a sheet of watery looking-glass.  Nicky’s saucer of milk gleamed white on the dark floor at Anne’s feet.  The pale ceiling lightened; and with a sliding shimmer of polished curves the furniture rose up from the walls.  Presently it stood clear, wine-coloured, shining in the strange, pure light.

And in the strange, pure light he saw Anne, in her white wrapper with the great rope of her black hair, plaited, hanging down her back.  The little black cat lay in her white lap, supported by her arm.

She smiled at Jerrold strangely.  She spoke and her voice was low and strange.

“He’s asleep, Jerry.  He kept on looking at me and mewing.  Then he tried to climb into my lap and couldn’t.  And I took him up and he was quiet then.  I think he was pleased that I took him ...  I’ve given him the morphia pill and I don’t think he’s in pain.  He’ll die in his sleep.”

“Yes.  He’ll die in his sleep.”

He hardly knew what he was saying.  He was looking at Anne, and it was as if now, at last, he saw her for the first time.  This, this was what he wanted, this mysterious, strangely smiling Anne, this white Anne with the great plaited rope of black hair, who belonged to the night and the dawn.

“I’m going to get you some tea,” he said.

He went down to the kitchen where everything had been left ready for him over-night.  He lit the gas-ring and made the tea and brought it to her with cake and bread and butter on a little tray.  He set it down beside her on the window-seat.  But Anne could neither eat nor drink.  She cried out to him.

“Oh, Jerry, look at him.  Do you think he’s dying now?”

He knelt down and looked.  Nicky’s eyes were two slits of glaze between half-shut lids.  His fur stood up on his bulging, frowning forehead.  His little, flat cat’s face was drawn to a point with a look of helpless innocence and anguish.  His rose-leaf tongue showed between his teeth as he panted.

“Yes.  I’m awfully afraid he’s dying.”

They waited half an hour, an hour.  They never knew how long.  Once he said to her, “Would you rather I went or stayed?” And she said, “Stayed, if you don’t mind.”

Through the open window, from the fields of charlock warm in the risen sun, the faint, smooth scent came to them.

Then Nicky began to cough with a queer quacking sound.  Jerrold went to her, upsetting the saucer as he came.

“It’s his milk,” she said.  “He couldn’t drink it.”  And with that she burst into tears.

“Oh, Anne, don’t cry.  Don’t cry, Anne darling.”

He put his arm round her.  He laid his hand on her hair and stroked it.  He stooped suddenly and kissed her face; gently, quietly, because of the dead thing in her lap.

It was as if he had kissed her for the first time.

For one instant she had her arm round his neck and clung to him, hiding her face on his shoulder.  Then suddenly she loosed herself and stood up before him, holding out the body of the little cat.

“Take him away, please, Jerry, so that I don’t see him.”

He took him away.

All day the sense of kissing her remained with him, and all night, with the scent of her hair, the sweet rose-scent of her flesh, the touch of her smooth rose-leaf skin.  That was Anne, that strangeness, that beauty of the clear, cold dawn, that scent, that warm sweet smoothness, that clinging of passionate arms.  And he had kissed her gently, quietly, as you kiss a child, as you kiss a young, small animal.

He wanted to kiss her close, pressing down on her mouth, deep into her sweet flesh; to hold her body tight, tight, crushed in his arms.  If it hadn’t been for Nicky that was the way he would have kissed her.

To-morrow, to-morrow, he would kiss Anne that way.