CHAPTER II THE LETTER THAT DID NOT COME

The door was wide open at Sparrow Hall, and a square of sunshine lay on the kitchen floor. In the little flower-stuffed garden bees were humming lazily, and a thrush was singing in the last of the laburnum. Tangles of roses trailed over the farm-house walls, they hung round the window-frames, darkening the rooms, and over the door, sending faint perfumes to Janey as she sat in the kitchen.

She looked pale and washed-out with the heat. The outlines of her splendid figure were drooping, and there was an ominous hollowing of the curves of her face and arms. She sat at the table, her cheek resting on her palm, reading from a pile of letters. They were long letters, closely written in a sharp, scrawling hand, on thin paper that crackled gently as she fingered it. Every now and then she looked up anxiously, and seemed to listen. Then her head would bow again, and the paper would crackle softly as before.

At last the garden gate clicked, and she saw the postman's cap coming up the path between the rows of sweet peas. She sprang to her feet, trembling and fighting for her self-command. She reached the door just as he lifted his hand to knock.

"A letter for you, miss," and old Winkworth smiled genially.

The colour rushed over Janey's cheeks like a wave, then as a wave ebbed out again. She[Pg 202] took the letter with a hand that shook piteously, her lips parted and a low laugh broke from them. Then suddenly her expression changed—in such a manner that Winkworth muttered anxiously—

"Fine afternoon, ain't it, miss?"

"Yes—a glorious afternoon. Good-day, Winkworth."

"Good-day, miss," and he shambled off.

Janey turned into the house, and dropping into her chair by the table, began to sob childishly. It was more from exhaustion than grief—the exhaustion of hopes strained to breaking-point, and then allowed to relax again into disappointment and frustration. She was so dreadfully tired—she so longed to sleep, quietly, deeply, at once. She laid her head on the table, and her shoulders heaved, straining and struggling as if the burden of her sorrow were physical.

Then suddenly she noticed the unopened letter, and her sobs broke out with even greater vehemence. Nigel! poor Nigel! She had not opened his letter—she had flung it aside and forgotten it, because it was not Quentin's. It was the day of his concert, too—what a beast she felt!

She tore open the envelope, and wiped away the tears that blinded her.

    "My own dear Janey,

    "This is just to keep myself from thinking of that damned concert. It's scaring me a bit—more than a bit, in fact. Who would have thought that any one with my past could suffer from stage[Pg 203] fright?—but that little thing of Scriabin's is the very devil. Old von G. has been ragging me no end over it—we nearly came to blows last practice. I hope you and the lad don't mind my not wanting you to come up for the show; I feel it would be the last straw for you two to see me make a fool of myself—not that I mean to, but you never know what may happen. Cheer up—you shall come and help me when I fill the Albert Hall.

    "By the way, I saw that little bounder Quentin Lowe at a concert at the Queen's last Sunday.

    "Now, good-bye; I'm turning into bed. This time to-morrow it'll all be over, and I'll send you a telegram. Greetings to the lad.

    "Ever yours, dear,
    "Nigel."

Janey folded the letter with trembling hands. It filled her with a kind of pitiful anguish, for she knew that the only thing in it that interested her was the reference to Quentin. Nigel's wonderful concert, about which she and Len had dreamed so many dreams, had faded into the background of her thoughts, driven out by her sleepless, bruising anxiety for her lover.

It was over a fortnight since he had written. She had before her his last letter, in which he said: "I will write again in a day or two, and tell you the exact date of my return." She had waited, but the letter had not come. She had written, but had had no answer. What could have happened?

[Pg 204]

There had been nothing in the past few weeks to make her expect this silence. His last bid for independence had met with more success than the others. He had fought hard against failure and discouragement, and had now found work on one or two good dailies. Their marriage was at last in sight. He was expected home for a couple of weeks' holiday, then he would work on through the autumn, and there was no reason why, if things prospered, they should not be married soon after Christmas.

Yes—at last their marriage was a thing to be reckoned with, talked about, and planned for. For the first time Janey could consider such things as home and outfit, breaking the news to her brothers, and leaving Sparrow Hall—all were now within the range of probability and expectation. But a terrible gloom had settled on these last days. It was not merely her sorrow at leaving the farm and the boys—it was something less accountable and more tempestuous than that. It had its source in Quentin's letters. She could see that he was not happy—their marriage, their longed-for, prayed-for, wept-for, worked-for marriage, was not bringing him happiness. On the contrary, his suffering seemed to have increased. His doubts and forebodings had been transferred from material circumstances to more subtle terrors of soul—he doubted the future more passionately, because more spiritually, than ever.

Janey had not been able to understand this at first, but in time his attitude had communicated itself to her, though whether her distrust was [Pg 205]independent or merely a reflection of his, it would be hard to say. Anyhow, she doubted—fiercely, miserably, despondingly. She had started, on his recommendation, to make herself some clothes, but the work lagged and depressed her. She found herself hungering for the early times of their courtship, when their marriage was a dream made golden by distance. She thought of the days when his name had rung like bells in her heart, without a horrid dissonance of fear, when his letters were pure joy, and the thought of meeting him pure anticipation. Would those days return?—And now, here was his silence, consuming her. Why didn't he write? He had been so eager in his last letter, though, as usual, eagerness had soon been throttled by despair.

    "I shall have you—I shall have you at last, my beautiful, tall Janey, for whom I hunger. But I am filled with doubts. There are some men in whose mouths manna turns to dust and the water of life to gall. Everything I touch is doomed. Either my soul or my body betrays me—my soul is so hot and my body so weak—so damnably weak. If only my hot soul had been given a stout body, or my weak body a weak soul ... then I should have been happy. But now it is the eternal fight between fire and water."

Janey pushed the letter aside, and picked up another. She had been trying to comfort herself with Quentin's letters, but they were not on the whole of a comforting nature. His restless misery was in them all. If his last letter had been happy,[Pg 206] she would not have worried nearly so much. She would have put down his silence to some trite external cause—pressure of work or indefiniteness of plans—he had always been an erratic correspondent. But his unhappiness opened a dozen roads to her morbid imaginings. It was dreadful to think that all she had given to Quentin had only made him more unhappy.

Perhaps he was too miserable to write—not likely, since he was one of those men whom despair makes voluble, but nevertheless a real terror to her unreason. Perhaps he had not received her last letter, and thought that she had played him false—he had always been jealous and inclined to suspicion. This last idea obtained a hold on her that would have been impossible had not her mind been weakened by anxiety. She had heard of letters going astray in the post, and probably Quentin had been expecting one from her, and not receiving it had been too proud to write himself. Or perhaps he had received it, but had thought it cold. He had often taken her to task for some fancied coldness which she had never meant.

In her desperation she resolved to write again. Hastily cramming his letters into the boot-box where she unromantically kept them, she seized paper and ink, and began to scrawl despairingly—

    "My Darling, Darling Boy,

    "Why don't you write? Didn't you get my last letter? I posted it on the 16th. Quentin, I[Pg 207] can't stand this suspense. Are you unhappy? Oh, my boy, my boy, my heart aches for you. I know you suffer—and I can't bear it——"

The pen fell from her shaking hand as footsteps sounded in the garden. The next minute Leonard came in—luckily for Janet he was not very observant.

"Well, Janey—I've sent off the wire."

"What wire?" she asked dully.

"To the old bounder, of course—to buck him up for to-night. I said 'Cheer up. You'll soon be dead.' That ought to encourage him."

Janey smiled wanly.

"Meantime I've got a piece of news for you. It'll make you laugh. But let's have a drink first—I'm dreadfully thirsty. This weather dries one up like blazes."

"There's beer in the cupboard."

"Right-O! Now we'll drink to Nigel's very good health. Have some, old girl. No? But I say, you look as if you needed it. You're as white as chalk."

"It's only the heat. What's your news, Len?"

"Nothing much, really—only that little misshapen monkey Quentin Lowe's engaged to be married."

"Quentin Lowe...."

Janey's voice seemed to her to come from very far away, as if some one in another part of the room were speaking. She grew sick and faint, but at the same time knew it was all ridiculous.

[Pg 208]

"Yes—I don't wonder you're surprised. Guess whom to."

"Are you sure—quite sure?"

"Yes, of course. I had it from his father. Guess whom to."

"I can't ... I—I can't believe it."

"Yes, it's no end of a joke, isn't it? You'd never think a woman would be fool enough to have him, when you can get the genuine article from any organ-grinder. But stop laughing, Janey, and guess who it is."

"I—I can't.... Did you really hear it from his father?... It can't be true. Quentin's in London."

"He's been there for the last three months, but he came home on Wednesday."

"Wednesday——"

"Yes—why not? But you haven't guessed who the girl is yet."

"I can't guess ... tell me, Len."

"Well, it's Strife's youngest daughter, the one that's just come out."

Janet made a grab at Leonard's half-emptied glass and drained it.

"That's it—drink her health. She'll need it."

"Len—did—did you really hear it from old Lowe?"

"Well, I heard it first of all in the Wheatsheaf. I've been as thirsty as hell all the afternoon, so on my way back from the post-office I turned in at the old pub for a pint. Dunk told me, Dunk of Golden Compasses. Then no sooner had I got outside than I saw the old devil-dodger prancing[Pg 209] along, and I couldn't resist howling to him—'Hear your son's engaged—wish him victory in the strife.' He looked poisonous, so I just said, 'You'll be letting strife into your household.' To which he deigned reply, 'I am—ah—um—completely—ah—satisfied with my—ah—son's—um—matrimonial choice."

Janey managed to reach the window.

"He met her a lot in town, I believe. Of course, he'd known her father down here, but had never met the girl herself. I believe it all happened pretty quick. Dunk says so. I don't see how he knows, but every one always seems to know everything about engaged couples."

"Is that all?"

"What more do you want?—I'm off now to Cherrygarden Farm—I promised Wilsher I'd be round to look at those chicks of his."

"Don't be long...."

"What time's supper?"

"Any time you like."

"Well, make it half-past eight. It's a good peg over to Cherrygarden, and if I come back by Dormans I can send another wire to Nigel."

"Oh, don't, Len!"

"Why ever not?"

"I don't see that it's so ... so very important that he should know."

"About what?"

"The—the engagement."

"You silly old girl! I wasn't going to wire him about that—waste of a good sixpence that would be! But don't you realise that at eight [Pg 210]to-night the concert begins? I telegraphed to him an hour ago, just to buck him up beforehand—next time I want to catch him in full squeak."

"Very well—but, Len ... don't be late."

She was still standing by the window, but something in her words made him go across to her.

"You're feeling seedy, Janey?"

"Just a bit washed-out."

"It's the heat, I expect. It's made me feel a little queer too."

"Then ought you to go to Cherrygarden?"

"I must—and it's getting cooler now. Take care of yourself, old sister, and don't sit too much in this hot kitchen."

He squeezed her hand, and went out. She watched him go, blessing his obtuseness, even though it was leaving her to fight through her awful hour alone. He went down the path, and out at the gate—then she staggered back into the room, and fell in a heap against the table.

She had not fainted, though she longed to faint—to win the respite of forgetfulness at whatever cost, if only for a minute. She lay an inert, huddled mass against the table-leg, motionless except for a long shudder now and then. All power had left her limbs—they indeed might be in a swoon—but her brain throbbed with a dazzling consciousness; it seemed as if it had drawn into itself all the consciousness of her body, leaving senses dull, nerves dumb, and muscles slack, in order to prime itself with the whole range of feeling.

[Pg 211]

Strange to say, pain was not the paramount emotion, and despair was scarcely present. Rather, she was consumed by a passionate sense of doubt—of Quentin, of herself, of the whole world. It was like the sudden removal of a prop which one had thought could not be shaken—it was like a sudden precipitation into a world where the ordinary cosmic laws did not hold—she seemed almost to doubt her own identity in that first gasp of revelation.

It could not be true. Quentin could not have failed her like this. Leonard must be mistaken. If one were to see the sun setting in the east or the sea on fire one would doubt one's senses, one would not doubt the universal laws. Neither would she doubt Quentin—she rather would doubt Leonard's senses, doubt her own.

She had not in the whole course of her love doubted Quentin. It was he who had doubted her, who had tormented her with his distrusts and jealousies. "I'm only a misshapen little bounder, Janey—the first decent man who comes along will snatch you from me. But he will never love you as I do—Janey, Janey, little Janey" ... the words seemed to come from outside her, from the shadowy corners of the room. She sat up and listened. They came again—"Janey, my own little love, my little heart—our love wounds, but it is the wound of immortality, the wound which must always be when the Infinitely Great lifts up and gathers to itself the infinitely little." ... "Stand by me, stand by me—I have nothing but my sword. I threw away my shield long ago. If you do not[Pg 212] stand by me I shall fall." ... "Janey, love, dear little love, with eyes like September."...

She crouched back in terror. Was she going mad? No, these were only words from Quentin's letters—the letters she had just read—ringing in her strung and distracted brain.

"Love, my little sweet love, do you think of me sometimes in the long evenings when I think of you?—sometimes when I am thinking of you, I tremble lest you should not be thinking of me...." "Do you know how often I dream of you, Janey? You come to me so often in sleep—once you stood between me and the window, and I saw the stars through your hair. Oh, God!—when I dream I hold you in my arms, and wake with them empty."...

She could stand it no longer. She sprang to her feet—the strength of desperation had come at last. There was one only who could tell her which she was to doubt—her own senses or, as it seemed to her, the cosmic laws of his love.

She would go over to Redpale Farm—she would see Quentin, she would have an explanation. There would be one—and she would take her stand boldly beside him, against his father, against the whole world—though she, like him, had thrown away her shield long ago.