i

Eliot stood in the porch of the Manor Farm house.  There was nobody there to greet him.  Behind him on the oak table in the hall the wire he had sent lay unopened.

It was midday in June.

All round the place the air was sweet with the smell of the mown hay, and from the Broad Pasture there came the rattle and throb of the mowing-machines.

Eliot went down the road and through the gate into the hay-field.  Colin and Anne were there.  Anne at the top of the field drove the mower, mounted up on the shell-shaped iron seat, white against the blue sky.  Colin at the bottom, slender and tall above the big revolving wheel, drove the rake.  The tedding machine, driven by a farm hand, went between.  Its iron-toothed rack caught the new-mown hay, tossed it and scattered it on the field.  Beside the long glistening swaths the cut edge of the hay stood up clean and solid as a wall.  Above it the raised plane of the grass-tops, brushed by the wind, quivered and swayed, whitish green, greenish white, in a long shimmering undulation.

Eliot went on to meet Anne and Colin as they turned and came up the field again.

When they saw him they jumped down and came running.

“Eliot, you never told us.”

“I wired at nine this morning.”

“There’s nobody in the house and we’ve not been in since breakfast at seven,” Colin said.

“It’s twelve now.  Time you knocked off for lunch, isn’t it?”

“Are you all right, Eliot?” said Anne.

“Rather.”

He gave a long look at them, at their sun-burnt faces, at their clean, slender grace, Colin in his cricketing flannels, and Anne in her land-girl’s white-linen coat, knickerbockers, and grey wideawake.

“Colin doesn’t look as if there was much the matter with him.  He might have been farming all his life.”

“So I have,” said Colin; “considering that I haven’t lived till now.”

And they went back together towards the house.

ii

Colin’s and Anne’s work was done for the day.  The hay in the Broad Pasture was mown and dried.  Tomorrow it would be heaped into cocks and carried to the stackyard.

It was the evening of Eliot’s first day.  He and Anne sat out under the apple trees in the orchard.

“What on earth have you done to Colin?” he said.  “I expected to find him a perfect wreck.”

“He was pretty bad three months ago.  But it’s good for him being down here in the place he used to be happy in.  He knows he’s safe here.  It’s good for him doing jobs about the farm, too.”

“I imagine it’s good for him being with you.”

“Oh, well, he knows he’s safe with me.”

“Very safe.  He owes it to you that he’s sane now.  You must have been astonishingly wise with him.”

“It didn’t take much wisdom.  Not more than it used to take when he was a little frightened kid.  That’s all he was when he came back from the war, Eliot.”

“The point is that you haven’t treated him like a kid.  You’ve made a man of him again.  You’ve given him a man’s life and a man’s work.”

“That’s what I want to do.  When he’s trained he can look after Jerrold’s land.  You know poor Barker died last month of septic pneumonia.  The camp was full of it.”

“I know.”

“What do you think of my training Colin?”

“It’s all right for him, Anne.  But how about you?”

“Me?  Oh, I’m all right.  You needn’t worry about me.”

“I do worry about you.  And your father’s worrying.”

“Dear old Daddy.  It is silly of him.  As if anything mattered but Colin.”

“You matter.  You see, your father doesn’t like your being here alone with him.  He’s afraid of what people may think.”

“I’m not.  I don’t care what people think.  They’ve no business to.”

“No; but they will, and they do...You know what I mean, Anne, don’t you?”

“I suppose you mean they think I’m Colin’s mistress.  Is that it?”

“I’m afraid it is.  They can’t think anything else.  It’s beastly of them, I know, but this is a beastly world, dear, and it doesn’t do to go on behaving as if it wasn’t.”

“I don’t care.  If people are beastly it’s their look-out, not mine.  The beastlier they are the less I care.”

“I don’t suppose you care if the vicar’s wife won’t call or if Lady Corbett and the Hawtreys cut you.  But that’s why.”

“Is it?  I never thought about it.  I’m too busy to go and see them and I supposed they were too busy to come and see me.  I certainly don’t care.”

“If it was people you cared about?”

“Nobody I care about would think things like that of me.”

“Anne dear, I’m not so sure.”

“Then it shows how much they care about me.”

“But it’s because they care.”

“I can’t help it.  They may care, but they don’t know.  They can’t know anything about me if they think that.”

“And you honestly don’t mind?”

“I mind what you think.  But you don’t think it, Eliot, do you?”

“I?  Good Lord no!  Do you mind what mother thinks?”

“Yes, I mind.  But it doesn’t matter very much.”

“It would matter if Jerrold thought it.”

“Oh Eliot ­does he?”

“I don’t suppose he thinks precisely that.  But I’m pretty sure he thought you and Colin cared for each other.”

“What makes you think so?”

“His marrying Maisie like that.”

“Why shouldn’t he marry her?”

“Because it’s you he cares about.”

Eliot’s voice was quiet and heavy.  She knew that what he said was true.  That quiet, heavy voice was the voice of her own innermost conviction.  Yet under the shock of it she sat silent, not looking at him, looking with wide, fixed eyes at the pattern the apple boughs made on the sky.

“How do you know?” she said, presently.

“Because of the way he talked to mother before he came to see you here. 
She says he was frightfully upset when she told him about you and
Colin.”

“She told him that?”

“Apparently.”

“What did she do it for, Eliot?”

“What does mother do anything for?  I imagine she wanted to put Jerrold off so that you could stick on with Colin.  You’ve taken him off her hands and she wants him kept off.”

“So she told him I was Colin’s mistress.”

“Mind you, she doesn’t think a bit the worse of you for that.  She admires you for it no end.”

“Do you suppose I care what she thinks?  It’s her making Jerrold think it...Eliot, how could she?”

“She could, because she only sees things as they affect herself.”

“Do you believe she really thinks it?”

“She’s made herself think it because she wanted to.”

“But why ­why should she want to?”

“I’ve told you why.  She’s afraid of having to look after Colin.  I’ve no illusions about mother.  She’s always been like that.  She wouldn’t see what she was doing to you.  Before she did it she’d persuaded herself that it was Colin and not Jerrold that you cared for.  And she wouldn’t do it deliberately at all.  I know it has all the effect of low cunning, but it isn’t.  It’s just one of her sudden movements.  She’d rush into it on a blind impulse.”

Anne saw it all, she saw that Adeline had slandered her to Jerrold and to Eliot, that she had made use of her love for Colin, which was her love for Jerrold, to betray her; that she had betrayed her to safeguard her own happy life, without pity and without remorse; she had done all of these things and none of them.  They were the instinctive movements of her funk.  Where Adeline’s ease and happiness were concerned she was one incarnate funk.  You couldn’t think of her as a reasonable and responsible being, to be forgiven or unforgiven.

“It doesn’t matter how she did it.  It’s done now,” she said.

“Really, Anne, it was too bad of Colin.  He oughtn’t to have let you.”

“He couldn’t help it, poor darling.  He wasn’t in a state.  Don’t put that into his head.  It just had to happen...  I don’t care, Eliot.  If it was to be done again to-morrow I’d do it.  Only, if I’d known, I could have told Jerrold the truth.  The others can think what they like.  It’ll only make me stick to Colin all the more.  I promised Jerrold I’d look after him and I shall as long as he wants me.  It serves them all right.  They all left him to me ­Daddy and Aunt Adeline and Queenie, I mean ­and they can’t stop me now.”

“Mother doesn’t want to stop you.  It’s your father.”

“I’ll write and tell Daddy.  Besides, it’s too late.  If I left Colin to-morrow it wouldn’t stop the scandal.  My reputation’s gone and I can’t get it back, can I?”

“Dear Anne, you don’t know how adorable you are without it.”

“Look here, Eliot, what did your mother tell you for?”

“Same reason.  To put me off, too.”

They looked at each other and smiled.  Across their memories, across the years of war, across Anne’s agony they smiled.  Besides its courage and its young, candid cynicism, Anne’s smile expressed her utter trust in him.

“As if,” Eliot said, “it would have made the smallest difference.”

“Wouldn’t it have?”

“No, Anne.  Nothing would.”

“That’s what Jerrold said.  And he thought it.  I wondered what he meant.”

“He meant what I mean.”

The moments passed, ticked off by the beating of his heart, time and his heart beating violently together.  Not one of them was his moment, not one would serve him for what he had to say, falling so close on their intolerable conversation.  He meant to ask Anne to marry him; but if he did it now she would suspect him of chivalry; it would look as if he wanted to make up to her for all she had lost through Colin; as if he wanted more than anything to save her.

So Eliot, who had waited so long, waited a little longer, till the evening of his last day.

iii

Anne had gone up with him to Wyck Manor, to see the soldiers.  Ever since they had come there she had taken cream and fruit to them twice a week from the Farm.  Unaware of what was thought of her, she never knew that the scandal of young Fielding and Miss Severn had penetrated the Convalescent Home with the fruit and cream.  And if she had known it she would not have stayed away.  People’s beastliness was no reason why she shouldn’t go where she wanted, where she had always gone.  The Convalescent Home belonged to the Fieldings, and the Fieldings were her dearest friends who had been turned into relations by her father’s marriage.  So this evening, absorbed in the convalescents, she never saw the matron’s queer look at her or her pointed way of talking only to Eliot.

Eliot saw it.

He thought:  “It doesn’t matter.  She’s so utterly good that nothing can touch her.  All the same, if she marries me she’ll be safe from this sort of thing.”

They had come to the dip of the valley and the Manor Farm water.

“Let’s go up the beech walk,” he said.

They went up and sat in the beech ring where Anne had sat with Jerrold three months ago.  Eliot never realised how repeatedly Jerrold had been before him.

“Anne,” he said, “it’s more than five years since I asked you to marry me.”

“Is it, Eliot?”

“Do you remember I said then I’d never give you up?”

“I remember.  Unless Jerrold got me, you said.  Well, he hasn’t got me.”

“I wouldn’t want you to tie yourself up with me if there was the remotest chance of Jerrold; but, as there isn’t, don’t you think ­”

“No, Eliot, I don’t.”

“But you do care for me, Anne, a little.  I know you do.”

“I care for you a great deal; but not in that sort of way.”

“I’m not asking you to care for me in the way you care for Jerrold.  You may care for me any way you please if you’ll only marry me.  You don’t know how awfully little I’d be content to take.”

“I shouldn’t be content to give it, though.  You oughtn’t to have anything but the best.”

“It would be the best for me, you see.”

“Oh no, Eliot, it wouldn’t.  You only think it would because you’re an angel.  It would be awful of me to give so little when I take such a lot.  I know what your loving would be.”

“If you know you must have thought of it.  And if you’ve thought of it ­”

“I’ve only thought of it to see how impossible it is.  It mightn’t be if I could leave off loving Jerrold.  But I can’t...Eliot, I’ve got the queerest feeling about him.  I know you’ll think me mad, when he’s gone and married somebody else, but I feel all the time as if he hadn’t, as if he belonged to me and always had; and I to him.  Whoever Maisie’s married it isn’t Jerrold.  Not the real Jerrold.”

“The fact remains that she’s married him.”

“No.  Not him.  Only a bit of him.  Some bit that doesn’t matter.”

“Anne darling, I’d try not to think that.”

“I don’t think it.  I feel it.  Down there, deep inside me.  I’ve always felt that Jerrold would come back to me and he came back.  Then there was Colin.  He’ll come back again.”

“Then there’ll be Maisie.”

“No, then there won’t be Maisie.  There won’t be anything if he really comes...Now you see how mad I am.  Now you see how awful it would be to marry me.”

“No, Anne.  I see it’s the only way to keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?  Safe from Jerrold?  I don’t want to be safe from him.  Eliot, I’m telling you this because you trust me.  I want you to see me as I really am, so that you won’t want to marry me any more.”

“Ah, that’s not the way to make me.  Nothing you say makes any difference.  Nothing you could do would make any difference.”

“Supposing it had been true what your mother said, wouldn’t that?”

“No.  If you’d given yourself to Colin I should only have thought it was your goodness.  It would have been good because you did it.”

“How queer.  That’s what Jerrold said.  Then he did love me.”

“I told you he loved you.”

“Then I don’t care.  Nothing else matters.”

“That’s all you have to say to me?”

“Yes.  Unless I lie.”

“You’d lie for Jerrold.”

“For him.  Not to him.  I should never need to.”

“You’ve no need to lie to me, dear.  I know you better than he does.  You forget that I didn’t think what he thought.”

“That only shows that he knew.”

“Knew what?”

“What I am.  What I might do if I really cared.”

“There are things you’d never do.  You’d never do anything mean or dishonourable or cruel.”

“Oh, you don’t know what I’d do...Don’t worry, Eliot.  I shall be too busy with the land and with Colin to do very much.”

“I’m not worrying.”

All the same he wondered which of them knew Anne best, he or Anne herself, or Jerrold.