Kirkland Revels

Chapter 1

I met Gabriel and Friday on the same day, and strangely enough I lost them together; so that thereafter I was never able to think of one without the other. The fact that my life became a part of theirs is, in a way, an indication of my character, because they both began by arousing some protective instinct in me; all my life up to that time I had been protecting myself and I think I felt gratified to find others in need of protection. I had never before had a lover, never before had a dog; and, when these two appeared, it was natural enough that I should welcome them.

I remember the day perfectly. It was spring, and there was a fresh wind blowing over the moors. I had ridden away from Glen House after luncheon and I could not at this time leave the house without a feeling that I had escaped. This feeling had been with me since I returned home from my school in Dijon; perhaps it had always been there, but a young woman senses these emotions more readily than a child.

My home was a sombre place. How could it be otherwise when it was dominated by someone who was no longer there? I decided during the first days of my return that I would never live in the past. No matter what happened to me, when it was over I should not look back. Early in life—I was nineteen at this time—I had learned an important lesson.

I determined to live in the present—the past forgotten, the future left to unfold itself.

Looking back I realise now that I was a ready victim for the fate which was awaiting me.

Six weeks before it happened, I had come home from school, where I had been for the past four years. I had not returned home in all that time, for I lived in Yorkshire and it was a long and expensive journey half-way across France and England; my education was costly enough.

During my school years I had dramatised my home to some extent, so the picture in my imagination was different from the reality. Hence the shock when I arrived.

I had travelled from Dijon in the company of my friend, Dilys Heston-Browne and her mother; my father had arranged that this should be so, for it was unthinkable that a young lady should travel so far unchaperoned. Mrs. Heston-Browne had seen me safely to St.

Pancras Station, put me in a first-class carriage and I had travelled alone from London to Harrogate, where I was to be met.

I had expected my father would be there. I had hoped my uncle would be. But that was ridiculous of me, for if Uncle Dick had been in England he would have oome all the way to Dijon for me.

It was Jemmy Bell, my father’s stable-man, who was waiting for me with the trap. He looked different from the Jemmy I had known four years before, more wizened, yet younger. That was the first little shock, discovering that someone whom I thought I knew so well was not quite what I had been imagining him.

Jemmy whistled when he saw the size of my trunk. Then he grinned at me. ” By gow. Miss Cathy,” he said, ” looks like you’ve grown into a right grand young lady.”

That was another reminder. In Dijon I had been Catherine or Mademoiselle Corder. Miss Cathy sounded like a different person.

He looked incredulously at my bottle-green velvet traveling coat with the leg o’ mutton sleeves, and the straw hat which was tilted over my eyes and decorated with a wreath, of daisies. My appearance startled him; he did not often see such fashionable clothes in our village.

” How is my father?” I asked. ” I expected him to drive in to meet me.”

Jemmy thrust out his lower lip and shook his head. ” A martyr to gout,” he said.

“He can’t abide the jolting. Besides …”

” Besides what?” I asked sharply.

” Well …” Jemmy hesitated. ” He’s just coming out of one of his bad turns….”

I was conscious of a little tug of fear, remembering those bad turns which had been a feature of the old days.

“Be quiet. Miss Cathy, your father’s having one of his bad turns …”

They had descended upon the house, those bad turns, with a certain regularity, and when they were with us we tip toed about the place and spoke in whispers; as for my father, he disappeared from view, and when he reappeared he was paler than usual, with deep shadows under his eyes; he did not seem to hear when he was spoken to; he had frightened me. While I had been away from home I had allowed myself to forget the bad turns.

I said quickly: ” My uncle is not at home?” Jemmy shook his head.

” Tis more than six months since we’ve seen him.

Happen it’ll be eighteen more afore we do. “

I nodded. Uncle Dick was a sea captain and he had written to me that he was off to the other side of the world, where he would be engaged for several months.

I felt depressed; I should have felt so much happier if he had been at home to welcome me.

We were trotting along roads which stirred my memories, and I thought of the house where I had lived until Uncle Dick had decided it was time I went away to school. I had endowed my father with Uncle Dick’s personality; I had swept away the old cobwebs of time and let in the bright sunshine. The home I had talked of to my companions had been the home I wanted, not the one I knew.

But now the time for dreaming was over. I had to face what was not quite what I wished it to be.

” You’re quiet. Miss Cathy,” said Jemmy.

He was right. I was in no mood to talk. Questions were on my lips but I did not ask them because I knew that the answers Jemmy would give me were not what I wanted. I had to discover for myself.

We went on driving through lanes which were sometimes so narrow that the foliage threatened to snatch my hat from my head. Soon the scenery would change; the neat fields, the narrow lanes, would give way to the wilder country; the horse would steadily climb and I should smell the open moors.

I thought of them now with a burst of pleasure and I realised that I had been a little homesick for them ever since I had left them.

Jemmy must have noticed that my expression brightened for he said: “

Not long now. Miss Cathy.”

And there was our village it was little more. Glengreen a few houses clustered round the church, the inn, the green and the cottages. On we went past the church to the white gates, through the drive, and there was Glen House, smaller than I had imagined it, with the Venetian blinds drawn down, the lace curtains just visible behind them. I knew that there would be heavy velour curtains at the windows to shut out the light.

If Uncle Dick had been at home he would have drawn back the curtains, pulled up the blinds, and Fanny would have complained that the sun was fading the furniture, and my father . he would not even have heard the complaint. As I got out of the trap Fanny, who had heard us arrive. came out to greet me.

She was a round tub of a Yorkshire woman who should have been jolly, but was not. Perhaps years in our house had made her dour.

She looked at me critically and said in her flat-vowel led accent:

“You’ve got thin while you’ve been away.”

I smiled. It was an unusual greeting from someone who had not seen me for four years and who had been the only ” mother ” I could really remember. Yet it was what I expected Fanny had never petted me; she would have felt it ” daft,” as she would call it, to give any demonstration of affection It was only when she could be critical that she believed in giving vent to her feelings. Yet this woman had studied my creature comforts; she had made sure that I was adequately fed and clothed. I was never allowed any fancy frills and what she called falderals. She prided herself on plain speaking, on never disguising the truth, on always giving an honest opinion which often meant a brutal one. I was by no means blind to Fanny’s good points, but in the past I had yearned for a little show of affection however insincere. Now my memories of Fanny came rushing back to me. As she studied my clothes her mouth twitched in the way I well remembered.

She, who found it difficult to smile in pleasure, could readily smirk in contemptuous amusement.

” Yon’s what you wear over there, is it?” she said. Again there was that twitch of the lips.

I nodded coolly. ” Is my father at home?”

“Why, Cathy …” It was his voice and he was coming down the staircase to the hall. He looked pale and there were shadows under his eyes ; and I thought to myself, seeing him with the eyes of an adult for the first time: He looks bewildered as though he does not quite belong in this house, or to this time.

” Father!” We embraced but, although he endeavoured to show some warmth, I was aware that it did not come from the heart. I had a strange feeling then that he was not pleased that I had come home, that he had been happy to be rid of me, that he would have preferred me to stay in France.

And there in our gloomy hall, before I had been home five minutes, I was oppressed by the house and the longing to escape from it was with me.

If only Uncle Dick had been there to greet me, how different my homecoming would have been I

The house closed in on me. I went to my room, where the sun was shining through the slats of the blinds. I pulled them up and light flooded the room; then I opened the window. Because my room was at the top of the house I had a view of the moor, and as I looked I felt myself tingling with pleasure. It had not changed at all; it still delighted me; I remembered how I had exulted to ride out there on my pony even though I always had to be accompanied by someone from the stables. When Uncle Dick was at the house we would ride together; we would canter and gallop with the wind in our faces; I remembered that we often stopped at the blacksmith’s shop while one of the horses was shod—myself sitting there on a high stool, the smell of burning hoofs in my nostrils while I sipped a glass of Tom Entwhistle’s homemade wine. It had made me a little dizzy and that had seemed a great joke to Uncle Dick.

“Captain Corder, you’re a caution, that’s what you are!” So said Tom Entwhistle many a time to Uncle Dick.

I had discovered that Uncle Dick wanted me to grow up exactly like himself; and as that was exactly what I wanted to do we were in accord.

My mind was wandering back to the old days. Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll ride out on to the moors . this time alone.

How long the first day seemed! I went round the house into all the rooms—the dark rooms with the sun shut out. We had two middle-aged servants, Janet and Mary, who were like pale shadows of Fanny. That was natural perhaps because she had chosen them and trained them.

Jemmy Bell had two lads to help him in the stables and they managed our garden too. My father had no profession. He was what was known as a gentleman. He had come down from Oxford with honours, had taught for a while, had had a keen interest in archaeology, which had taken him to Greece and Egypt; when he had married, my mother had travelled with him, but when I was about to be born they had settled in Yorkshire, he intending to write works on archaeology and philosophy; he was also something of an artist. Uncle Dick used to say that the trouble with my father was that he was too talented; whereas he. Uncle Dick, having no talents at all, had become a mere sailor.

How often had I wished that Uncle Dick had been my father!

My uncle lived with us in between voyages; it was Uncle Dick who had come to see me at school. I pictured him as he had looked, standing in the cool white-walled reception room whither he had been conducted by Madame la Directrice, legs apart, hands in pockets, looking as though everything belonged to him. We were much alike and I was sure that beneath that luxuriant beard was a chin as sharp as my own.

He had lifted me in his arms as he used to when I was a child. I believed he would do the same when I was an old woman. It was his way of telling me that I was his special person . as he. was mine. ” Are they treating you well?” he said, his eyes fierce suddenly, ready to do battle with any who were not doing so.

He had taken me out; we had clip-clopped through the town in the carriage he had hired; we had visited the shops and bought new clothes for me, because he had seen some of the girls who were being educated with me and had imagined they were more elegantly clad than I. Dear Uncle Dick! He had seen that I had a very good allowance after that, and it was for this reason that I had come home with a trunk full of clothes all of a style which, the Dijon couturiers had assured me, came straight from Paris.

But as I stood looking out on the moor I knew that clothes could have little effect on the character. I was myself, even in fine clothes from Paris, and that was somebody quite different from the girls with whom I had lived intimately during my years in Dijon. Dilys Heston-Browne would have a London season; Marie de Freece would be introduced into Paris Society. These two had been my special friends; and before we parted we had sworn that our friendship would last as long as we lived. Already I doubted that I should ever see them again.

That was the influence of Glen House and the moors. Here one faced stark truth, however unromantic, however unpleasant.

That first day seemed as though it would never end. The journey had been so eventful, and here in the brooding quietness of the house it was as though nothing had changed since I had left. If there appeared to be any change, that could only be due to the fact that I was looking at life here through the eyes of an adult instead of those of a child.

I could not sleep that night. I lay in bed thinking of Uncle Dick, my father. Fanny, everyone in this house. I thought how strange it was that my father should have married and had a daughter, and Uncle Dick should have remained a bachelor. Then I remembered the quirk of Fanny’s mouth when she mentioned Uncle Dick, and I knew that meant that she disapproved of his way of life and that she was secretly satisfied that one day he would come to a bad end. I understood now. Uncle Dick had had no wife, but that did not mean he had not had a host of mistresses. I thought of the sly gleam I had seen in his eyes when they rested on Tom Entwhistle’s daughter who, I had heard, was ” no better than she should be.” I thought of many glances I had intercepted between Uncle Dick and women.

But he had no children, so it was characteristic of him, greedy for life as he was, to cast his predatory eyes on his brother’s daughter and treat her as his own.

I had studied my reflection at the dressing-table before I got into bed that night. The light from the candles had softened my face so that it seemed—though not beautiful nor even pretty—arresting. My eyes were green, my hair black and straight; it felt heavy above my shoulders when I loosened it. If I could wear it so, instead of in two plaits wound about my head, how much more attractive I should be. My face was pale, my cheek-bones high, my chin sharp and aggressive. I thought then that what happens to us leaves its mark upon our faces.

Mine was the face of a person who had had to do battle. I had been fighting all my life. I looked back over my childhood to those days when Uncle Dick was not at home; and the greater part of the time he was away from me. I saw a sturdy child with two thick black plaits and defiant eyes. I knew now that I had taken an aggressive stand in that quiet household; subconsciously I had felt myself to be missing something, and because I had been away at school, because I had heard accounts of other people’s homes, I had learned what it was that young child had sought and that she had been angry and defiant because she could not find it. I had wanted love.

It came to me in a certain form only when Uncle Dick was home. Then I was treated to his possessive exuberant affection; but the gentle love of a parent was lacking.

Perhaps I did not know this on that first night; perhaps it came later; perhaps it was the explanation I gave myself for plunging as recklessly as I did into my relationship with Gabriel.

But I did learn something that night. Although it was long before I slept I eventually dozed to be wakened by a voice, If and I was not sure in that moment whether I had really heard that voice or whether it came to me from my dreams.

“Cathy!” said the voice, full of pleading, full of anguish. ” Cathy, come back.”

I was startled—not because I had heard my name, but because of all the sadness and yearning with which it was spoken.

My heart was pounding; it was the only sound in that silent house.

I sat up in bed, listening. Then I remembered a similar incident from the days before I had gone to France. The sudden waking in the night because I had thought I heard someone calling my name!

For some reason I was shivering; I did not believe I had been dreaming.

Someone had called my name.

I got out of bed and lighted one of the candles. I went to the window which I had opened wide at the bottom before going to bed. It was believed that the night air was dangerous and that windows should be tightly closed while one slept; but I had been so eager to take in that fresh moorland air that I had defied the old custom. I leaned out and glanced dowr at the window immediately below. It was still, as it had always been, that of my father’s room.

I felt sobered because I knew what I had heard this night, and on that other night of my childhood, was my father’s voice calling out in his sleep. And he called for Cathy.

My mother had been Catherine too. I remembered her vaguely—not as a person but a presence. Or did I imagine it?

I. seemed to remember being held tightly in her arms, so tightly that I cried out because I could not breathe. Then it was over, and I had a strange feeling that I never saw her again, that no one else ever cuddled me because when my mother did so I had cried out in protest.

Was that the reason for my father’s sadness? Did he, after all those years, still dream of the dead? Perhaps there was something about me which reminded him or her; that would be natural enough and was almost certainly the case. Perhaps my homecoming had revived old memories, old griefs which would have been best forgotten.

How long were the days; how silent the house! Ours was a household of old people, people whose lives belonged to the past. I felt the old rebellion stirring. / did not belong to this house.

I saw my father at meals; after that he retired into his study to write the book which would never be completed. Fanny went about the house giving orders with hands and eyes; she was a woman of few words but a click of her tongue, a puff of her lips, could be eloquent. The servants were in fear of her: she had the power to dismiss them; I knew that she held over them the threat of encroaching age to remind them that if she turned them out, there would be few ready to employ them.

There was never a spot of dust on the furniture; the kitchen was twice weekly filled with the fragrant smell of baking bread; the household was run smoothly. I almost longed for chaos.

I missed my school life which, in comparison with that in my father’s house, seemed to have been filled with exciting adventures. I thought of the room I had shared with Dilys Heston-Browne; the courtyard below from which came the continual sound of girls’ voices; the periodic ringing of bells which made one feel part of a lively community; the secrets, the laughter shared; the dramas and comedies of a way of life which in retrospect appeared desirably lighthearted.

There had been several occasions during those four years when I had been taken on holiday trips by people who pitied my loneliness. Once I went to Geneva with Dilys and her family, and at another time to Cannes. It was not the beauties of the Lake which I remembered, nor that bluest of seas with the background of Maritime Alps; it was the close family feeling between Dilys and her parents, which she took for granted and which filled me with envy.

Yet, looking back, I realised that it was only now and then that the feeling of loneliness had come to me; for the most part I walked, rode, bathed and played games with Dilys and her sister as though I were a member of the family.

During one holiday when every other pupil had gone away. I was taken to Paris for a week by one of the mistresses. Very different this, from holidaying with the light-hearted Dilys and her indulgent family, for Mademoiselle Dupont was determined that my cultural education should not be neglected. I laughed now to think of that breathless week; the hours spent in the Louvre among the old masters; the trip out to Versailles for a history lesson. Mademoiselle had decided that not a moment was to be wasted. But what I remembered most vividly from that holiday was hearing her talk of me to her mother; I was “the poor little one who was left at school during the holidays because there was nowhere else for her to go.”

I was sad when I heard that said of me and deeply conscious of that desperate aloneness. The unwanted one! The one who had no mother and whose father did not want her to come home for the holiday. Yet I forgot quickly, as one does when a child, and was soon lost in the enchantment of the Latin Quarter, the magic of the Champs Elysees and the shop windows of the Rue de la Paix.

It was a letter from Dilys which made me recall those days with nostalgia. Life was wonderful for Dilys, being prepared for the London season.

” My dear Catherine, I have scarcely a moment. I’ve been meaning to write for ages, but there’s always something to prevent me. I seem to be for ever at the dressmakers being fitted for this and that. You should see some of the dresses! Madam would scream her dismay. But Mother’s determined that I shan’t go unnoticed. She’s making out lists of people who are to be asked to my first ball. Already, mind you! How I wish you could be here. Do tell me your news….”

I could imagine Dilys and her family in their house in Knightsbridge close to the Park with the mews at the back. How different her life must be from mine!

I tried to write to her, but there seemed nothing to say that was not grim and melancholy. How could Dilys under stand what it was like to have no mother to make plans for one’s future, and a father who was so preoccupied with his own affairs that he did not even know I was there.

So I abandoned my letter to Dilys.

As the days passed I was finding the house more and more intolerable and spent a good deal of time out of doors, riding every day. Fanny smirked at my riding-habit the latest from Paris by the bounty of Uncle Dick but I did not care.

One day Fanny said to me: ” Your father’s going off to-day.” Her face was tightly shut, completely without expression, and I knew she had deliberately made it so. I could not tell whether she disapproved of my father’s going away or not; all I knew was that she was holding in some secret which I was not allowed to share.

Then I remembered that there had always been those times when he went away and did not come home until the next day; and when he did come back we still did not see him because he shut himself away in his room and trays were taken up to him. When he emerged he looked ravaged and was more silent than ever.

” I remember,” I said to Fanny. ” So he still goes … away?”

” Regular,” Fanny answered. ” Once in t’month.”

“Fanny,” I asked earnestly, “where does he go?”

Fanny shrugged her shoulders as though to imply that it was no business of hers nor of mine; but I believe she knew.

I kept thinking about him all day, and wondering. Then it suddenly came to me. My father was not very old . perhaps forty, I was not sure. Women might still mean some thing to him although he had never married again. I thought I was worldly-wise. I had discussed life with my school friends, many of whom were French always so much more knowledgeable in such matters than we English and we thought ourselves very up-to-date. I decided that my father had a mistress whom he visited regularly but whom he would never marry because he could not replace my mother; and after visiting this woman he came back filled with remorse because, although she was long since dead, he still loved my mother and believed he had desecrated her memory.

He returned the following evening; the pattern was the same as I remembered it. I did not see him on his return; I only knew that he was in his room, that he did not appear for meals, and that trays were taken up to him.

When at length he did appear he looked so desolate that I longed to comfort him.

At dinner that evening I said to him: ” Father, you are not ill, are you?”

“Ill?” His brows were drawn together in dismay. Why should you think that? “

” Because you look so pale and tired and as though you have something on your mind. I wondered if there’s anything I can do to help. I’m not a child any more, you know.”

” I’m not ill,” he said, without looking at me.

“Then …”

I saw the expression of impatience cross his face, and hesitated. But I decided not to be thrust aside so easily. He was in need of comfort and it was the duty of his daughter to try to give it to him.

” Look here. Father,” I said boldly, ” I feel something is wrong. I might be able to help.”

He looked at me then and the impatience had given way to coolness.

I knew that he had deliberately put up a barrier between us and that he resented my persistence and construed it as inquisitiveness.

” My dear child,” he murmured, ” you are too imaginative.”

He picked up his knife and fork and began paying more attention to his food than he had before I had spoken. I understood. It was a curt dismissal.

I had rarely felt so alone as I did at that moment.

After that our conversation became even more stilted, and often when I addressed him he did not answer. They said in the house that he was suffering from one of his ” bad turns.”

Dilly wrote again, complaining that I never told her what was happening to me. Reading her letters was like listening to her talking; the short sentences, the underlining, the exclamation marks, gave the impression of breathless excitement. She was learning to curtsy; she was taking dancing lessons; the great day was approaching.

It was wonderful to have escaped from Madame and feel oneself no longer a schoolgirl, but a young lady of fashion.

I tried again to write to her, but what could I say? Only this: I’m desperately lonely. This house is a melancholy one. Oh, Dilys, you congratulate yourself because you have left your schooldays behind, and I am here in this sad house, wishing I were at school again.

I tore up that letter and went out to the stables to saddle my mare, Wanda, whom I had taken for my own on my return. I felt as though I were trapped in the web of my childhood, and that my life was going on in the same dismal way for ever.

And the day arrived when Gabriel Rockwell and Friday came into my life.

I had ridden out on to the moors that day as usual and had galloped over the peaty ground to the rough road when I saw the woman and the dog; it was the pitiful condition of the latter which made me slacken my speed. He was a thin pathetic-lo king creature, and about his neck was a rope which acted as a lead. I had always had a special feeling for animals, and the sight of any one of them in distress never failed to rouse my sympathy. The woman, I saw, was a gipsy; this did not surprise me for there were many wandering from encampment to encampment on the moors ; they came to the house selling clothes-pegs and baskets or offering us heather which we could have picked for ourselves. Fanny had no patience with them. ” They’ll get nowt from me,” she would say. ” They’re nob but lazy good-for-nothings, the lot of ‘em.”

I pulled up beside the woman and said: “Why don’t you carry him? He’s too weak to walk.”

“And what’s that to you?” she demanded, and I was aware of her sharp beady eyes beneath a tangle of greying black hair. Then her expression changed; she had noticed my smart riding-habit, my well-cared-for horse, and I saw the cupidity leap into her eyes. I was gentry, and gentry were for fleecing. ” It’s not a bite that’s passed me lips, lady, this day and last. And that’s the gospel truth, without the word of a lie.”

She did not, however, look as though she were starving, but the dog undoubtedly was. He was a little mongrel, with a touch of the terrier, and in spite of his sad condition his eyes were alert; the manner in which he looked at me touched me deeply because I fancied that he was imploring me to rescue him. I was drawn to him in those first moments and I knew that I could not abandon him.

” It’s the dog who looks hungry,” I commented.

” Lord love you, lady, I haven’t had a bite I could share with him these last two days.”

” The rope’s hurting him,” I pointed out. ” Can’t you see that?”

” It’s the only way I can get him along. I’d carry him, if I had the strength. With a little food in me I’d get back me strength.”

I said on impulse: “I’ll buy the dog. I’ll give you a shilling for him.”

” A shilling! Why, lady, I couldn’t bear to part with him. My little friend, that’s what he’s been.” She stooped to the dog, and the way in which he cowered betrayed the true state of affairs, so that I was doubly determined to get him.

“Times is hard, ain’t they, little ‘un?” she went on.

“But we’ve been together too long now for us to be parted for … a shilling.”

I felt in my pockets for money. I knew she would finally accept a shilling for him because she would have to sell a great many clothes-pegs to earn as much; but, being a gipsy, she was going to bargain first. Then to my dismay I discovered that I had come out without money. In the pocket of my habit was one of Fanny’s patties, stuffed with meat and onions, which I had brought with me in case I should not return for luncheon; but it was hardly likely that the gipsy would exchange the dog for that. It was money she wanted; and her eyes had already begun to glisten at the thought of it.

She was watching me intently; so was the dog. Her eyes had grown crafty and suspicious, and the dog’s were more appealing than ever.

I began: ” Look here, I’ve come out without money …”

But even as I spoke her lips curled in disbelief. She gave a vicious jerk at the rope round the dog’s neck and he gave a piteous yelp. “

Quiet!” she snapped; and he cowered again, with his eyes on me.

I wondered whether I could ask the woman to wait at this spot while I rode home to get the money, or whether she would allow me to take the dog and she could call at Glen House for it. I knew that was useless, for she would not trust me any more than I would trust her.

And it was then, as if by chance, that Gabriel appeared. He was galloping across the moor towards the road, and at the sound of a horse’s hoofs the woman and I turned to see who was coming. He was on a black horse which made him seem fairer than he actually was, but his fairness made an immediate impression; so did his elegance. His dark brown coat and breeches were of the finest material and cut; but as he came nearer it was his face which attracted my attention and made it possible for me to do what I did. Looking back afterwards it seemed a strange thing to do to stop a stranger and ask him to lend me a shilling to buy a dog. But there he was, I told him afterwards, like a knight in shining armour, a Perseus or St. George.

There was a brooding melancholy about his delicate features which immediately interested me, although’ this was not so apparent on our first meeting as it was to become later.

I called to him as he came on to the road: ” Stop a moment, please.”

And even as I said it, I marvelled at my temerity.

” Is anything wrong?” he asked.

“Yes. This dog is starving.”

He pulled up and looked from me to the dog and the gipsy woman, summing up the situation as he did so.

” Poor little fellow,” he said. ” He’s in a bad way.”

His voice was gentle, and I was immediately exhilarated because I knew that I should not ask for help in vain.

” I want to buy him,” I explained, ” and I’ve come out without money.

It’s most annoying and distressing. Will you please lend me a shilling? “

” Look here,” whined the woman. ” I ain’t selling him. Not for no shilling, I ain’t. He’s my little dog, he is. Why should I sell him?”

” You were ready to for a shilling,” I retorted.

She shook her head and pulled the dog towards her; and I again felt that twinge of compassion as I saw the little animal’s reluctance. I looked pleadingly at the young man, who smiled as he dismounted, put his hand in his pocket and said:

” Here’s two shillings for the dog. You can take it or leave it.”

The woman could not hide her delight at so large a sum. She held out a dirty hand for the money which, with a fastidious gesture, he dropped into her palm. Then he took the rope from her, and she moved away quickly as though she were afraid he would change his mind.

” Thank you,” I cried. ” Oh, thank you.”

The dog made a little whimpering sound which I felt to be pleasure. “

The first thing to be done is feed him,” I said, dismounting. “

Fortunately I have a meat patty in my pocket.”

He nodded and, taking the reins from my hands, led our horses off the road while I picked up the dog, who made a feeble attempt to wag his tail. I sat down on the grass and took the patty from my pocket; I fed the dog, who ate ravenously while the young man stood by holding the horses.

” Poor little dog,” he said. ” He’s had a bad time.”

“I don’t know how to begin to thank you,” I told him.

“What would have happened if you hadn’t come along is unthinkable. She would never have given him to me.”

” Don’t let’s brood on that,” he said. ” We have him now.”

I was drawn towards him because I knew that he cared as much about the dog’s fate as I did; and the dog, from that moment, became a bond between us.

” I shall take him home and look after him,” I said. ” Do you think he’ll recover?”

” I am sure he will. He’s a tough little mongrel, I imagine, but hardly the dog to spend his days on a lady’s velvet cushion.”

” He’s my sort of dog,” I replied.

” You should feed him regularly and often.”

” It is what I intend to do. When I get him home I shall give him some warm milk a little at a time.

The dog knew we were talking about him, but the effort of eating, together with the excitement, had been exhausting, and he lay very still. I wanted to get home as quickly as possible and begin looking after him; but at the same time I was loath to say good-bye to the man. His melancholy expression, which I believed might well be habitual with him, had lifted when he had bargained for the dog and had presented him to me, and I was anxious to know what could have happened to a young man, who was clearly blessed with a goodly share of the comforts of life, to have produced that melancholy. I was curious about him, and it was stimulating to discover this curiosity in myself at the very time that I had acquired my interest in the dog. I was torn between two desires: I wanted to stay and learn more about the man, and at the same time I wanted to take the dog home and feed him.

I knew, of course, that there must be no question what I did, for the dog was dangerously near death by starvation.

” I must be going,” I said.

He nodded.

“I’ll carry him, shall I?” he replied; and without waiting for my reply, he helped me to mount. He gave me the dog to hold while he mounted; then he took the little creature from me and, tucking him under his arm, said:

“Which way?”

I showed him and we set out. In twenty minutes we had reached Glengreen, scarcely speaking on the way there. At the gates of Glen House we paused.

” He’s really yours,” I said. ” You paid for him.”

” Then I make a gift of him to you.” His eyes smiled into mine. ” But I shall retain rights in him. I shall want to know whether he lives or not. May I call and ask?”

” Of course.”

“Tomorrow?”

” If you wish.”

” And for whom shall I ask?”

“For Miss Corder … Catherine Corder.”

“Thank you. Miss Corder. Gabriel Rockwell will call on you tomorrow.”

Fanny was horrified by the presence of the dog. ” Happen there’ll be dog’s hairs all over t’place. Happen we’ll be finding whiskers in t’soup and fleas in our beds.”

I said nothing. I fed the dog myself . on bread and milk in small quantities, at intervals, all through the rest of the day and once in the night. I found a basket and I took him to my bedroom. It was the happiest night since my return, and I wondered why I never thought of asking for a dog when I was a child. Perhaps it was because I knew that Fanny would never have allowed me to have one. What did it matter I had him now.

He knew I was his friend right from the start. He lay in the basket too weak to move, but his eyes told me that he understood what I was doing was for his good. Those eyes, already loving, patiently followed me as I moved. I knew that he would be my friend as long as he lived.

I wondered what to call him; he must have a name. I could not go on thinking of him as the gipsy’s dog. Then I remembered that I had found him on a Friday and I thought: Hell be my Dog Friday. And from then he had his name.

By the morning he was on the way to recovery. I waited for the coming of Gabriel for, now that my anxieties about the dog were over, I began to think more of the man who had shared the adventure. I was a little disappointed because he did not come in the morning, and I felt sad because I was afraid he might have forgotten us by now. I did want to say thank you to him, because I was sure Friday owed his life to his timely arrival.

He came in the afternoon. It was three o’clock, and I was in my room with the dog when I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs below. Friday’s ears twitched and his tail moved as though he knew that the other one to whom he would be for ever grateful was near.

I looked out of my window, standing well back so that he could not see me if he should chance to look up. He was certainly handsome but in a somewhat delicate way, not as we expected our men to be in Yorkshire.

He had an aristocratic air. I had noticed this on the previous day but I had wondered whether I had imagined it because of the contrast he made with Friday’s previous mistress.

I went downstairs hastily because I did not want him to be ungraciously received.

I was wearing a dark blue velvet afternoon dress my best because I was expecting him, and I had wound my plaits to form a coronet on the top of my head.

I went out into the drive just as he came up. He swept off his hat in a manner which I knew would be called ” daft” by Fanny, but I thought it elegant and the height of courtesy.

” So you came!” I said. ” Dog Friday will recover. I’ve christened him after the day on which he was found.”

He had dismounted and at that moment Mary appeared. I made her call one of the stable-boys to lead his horse round to the stable, and water and feed him. ” Come in,” I said, and when Gabriel came into the hall, the house seemed brighter for his presence.

” Let me take you up to the drawing-room,” I said, ” and I will ring for tea.”

He followed me up the stairs while I told him how I was treating Friday. ” I shall bring him down to show you. You will see a great improvement.”

In the drawing-room I pulled back the curtains and drew up the Venetian blinds. Now it seemed more cheerful or perhaps that was due to Gabriel. When he sat in one of the arm-chairs, and smiled at me, I was conscious that in my blue velvet with my neatly plaited hair I looked very different from the girl in the riding-habit.

” I’m glad you were able to save him,” he said.

” You did that.”

He looked pleased and I rang the bell, which was’ almost immediately answered by Janet.

She-stared at my visitor and, when I told her to bring tea, she looked as though I were asking for the moon.

Five minutes later Fanny came in; she had an indignant air and I felt angry with her. She would have to realise that I was now mistress of the house.

” So it’s visitors,” said Fanny ungraciously.

” Yes, Fanny, we have a visitor. Pray see that tea is not long delayed.”

Fanny pursed her lips; I could see that she was trying to make some retort, but I turned my back on her and said to Gabriel: ” I trust you did not have to ride far.”

” From the Black Hart Inn in Tomblersbury.”

I knew Tomblersbury. It was a small village, rather like our own, some five or six miles away. ‘” You are staying at the Black Hart?”

” Yes, for a short while.”

” You must be on holiday.”

” You could call it that.”

“Your home is in Yorkshire, Mr. Rockwell? But I am asking too many questions.”

I was aware that Fanny had left the room. I could imagine her going to the kitchen or perhaps to my father’s study. She would consider it most unseemly for me to entertain a gentle man alone. Let heri It was time she and my father under stood that the life I was called upon to live was not only exceedingly lonely but one unsuitable for a young lady of my education.

“No,” he replied, “please ask me as many questions a& you like. If I cannot answer them, I shall say so.”

” Where is your home, Mr. Rockwell?”

” The house is called Kirkland Revels, and it is situated in the village or rather on the outskirts of the village of Kirkland Moorside.”

” Kirkland Revels! That sounds joyous.”

The expression which flitted across his face was enough to tell me that my remark made him uncomfortable. It had told me something else; he was not happy in his home life. Was that the reason for that moodiness of his? I ought to have curbed my curiosity regarding his private affairs but I found it exceedingly difficult to do so.

I said quickly: ” Kirkland Moorside … is that far from here?”

” Some thirty miles perhaps.”

“And you are on holiday in this district, and you were taking a ride on the moors when …”

” When our little adventure occurred. You cannot be more glad than I am that it happened.”

I felt reassured that the temporary awkwardness was past and I said: “

If you will excuse me, I will bring Friday down to show you.”

When I returned with the dog, my father was in the room. I guessed Fanny had insisted on his joining us and that even he had ‘been conscious of the proprieties. Gabriel was telling how we had acquired the dog and my father was being charming ; he listened attentively and I was pleased that he manifested an interest even though I did not believe h& really felt it.

Friday in his basket, too weak to rise, made an effort to do so ; his pleasure was obvious at the sight of Gabriel, whose long, elegant fingers gently stroked the dog’s ear.

” He’s fond of you,” I said.

” But you’ll have first place in. his heart.”

” I saw him first,” I reminded him. ” I shall keep him with me always.

Will you let me pay you what you gave the woman? “

” I wouldn’t hear of it,” he told me.

“I should like to feel that he is all mine.”

” So he is. A gift. But I admit to an interest. If I may. I shall call again to inquire after his health.”

” It is not a bad idea to have a dog in the house,” said my father, as he came to stand beside us and took down into the basket.

We were standing thus when Mary brought in the tea wagon. There were hot crumpets as well as bread and butter and cakes; and as I sat ‘behind the silver teapot, I thought this was my happiest afternoon since I had returned from France; I was as contented as I had been when Uncle Dick came home.

I did not realise until later that this was because I now had something in the house which I could love. I had Friday. I did not think at this stage that I had Gabriel too. That came later.

During the next two weeks Gabriel called regularly at Glen House; and at the end of that first week Friday was fully restored to health. His wounds had healed and good food regularly taken had done the rest.

He slept in his basket in my room and followed me where- ever he could.

I talked to him continuously. The house had changed; my life had changed because of him.

He wanted to ‘be not only my companion but my defender. There was adoration in those limpid eyes when they looked into mine. He remembered that he owed his life to me; and because he was the faithful sort, that was something he would never forget.

We went for walks together—he and I. Only when I rode did I leave him behind, and when I returned he would fling himself at me in the sort of welcome I had only ever had from Uncle Dick.

Then there was Gabriel.

He continued to stay at the Black Hart. I wondered why. There was a lot I could not quite understand about Gabriel. There were times when he talked freely about himself, but even at such times I always had the impression that there was something he was holding back. I felt that he was on the verge of telling me, that he longed to tell me, and could never quite bring himself to do so; and that which he held back was some dark secret, perhaps something which he did not entirely understand himself.

We had become great friends. My father seemed to like him—at least he made no protests about his constant visits, The servants had grown used to him, and even Fanny, as long as we were properly chaperoned, made no complaints. At the end of the first week he had said that soon he would be going home; but at the end of the second he was still with us.

I had a feeling that he was deceiving himself in some way, that he was promising himself that he would go home, and then making excuses not to.

I did not ask him questions about his home even though I longed to learn more about him. This was something else I had learned. At school I had often been made uneasy by searching questions about my home; I had determined not to inflict the same discomfort on others. I would never probe, but always wait to be told.

So we talked about me, for Gabriel had no such reticence where I was concerned, and strangely enough, with him I did not mind. I told him about Uncle Dick who had always been a kind of hero to me, and I made him see Uncle Dick with his sparkling greenish eyes and black ‘beard.

Gabriel said once when I had talked of my uncle: ” You and he must be somewhat alike.”

” There is a strong resemblance, I believe.”

” He sounds like the sort of person who is determined to get the most out of life. I mean, he would act without first weighing up the consequences. Tell me, are you like that?”

” Perhaps I am.”

He smiled. ” I believe you are,” he said; and there came into his eyes what I can only describe as a far-away look, by which I mean that he was seeing me, not as we were together at that moment, ‘but in some other place, in some other situation.

I thought he was about to speak, but he remained silent and I did not press him, for I was already beginning to feel that too much probing, too many questions, disturbed him. I must wait, I knew intuitively, for him to tell me without prompting.

But I had discovered that there was something unusual about Gabriel, and that should have warned me not to allow myself to become too deeply involved. I had been so lonely;

I found the atmosphere of my home so depressing; I longed for a friend of my own age; and the strangeness of Gabriel enthralled me.

So I refused to see any danger signals and we continued to meet.

We liked to ride on to the moors, tether our horses and stretch ourselves out in the shelter of a boulder, looking up an the sky, our arms behind our heads, talking in a dreamy, desultory way.

Fanny would have considered this the height of impropriety, but I was determined to adhere to no conventions ; I knew this attitude delighted Gabriel and I learned later why it did so.

Each day I would ride out and meet him at some agreed spot because I could not bear the sly glances Fanny gave him when he called at the house. In our small and sheltered community it was not possible to meet a young man daily without causing a certain amount of speculation.

I often wondered, during the early period of our acquaintance, whether Gabriel was aware of this; I also wondered whether he felt as embarrassed about it as I did.

I had not heard from Dilys for some weeks, so I supposed she was too immersed in her own affairs to have time to write. I did feel, however, that now I could write to her because I had something to tell her. I explained about our finding the dog, and how fond I had become of him; but what I really wanted to talk about was Gabriel. My affection for Friday was uncomplicated, but I could not quite understand my feelings for Gabriel.

He interested me, and I looked forward to our meetings with something more than the pleasure of a lonely girl who has at last found a friend;

I realised that this was because I was constantly expecting some revelation which would startle me. There was certainly an air of mystery about Gabriel and I believed that again and again he was on the verge of con ding some secret which he longed to share with me and could not quite bring himself to do so. I had a conviction that he, like my father, was in need of comfort ; and while my father repulsed me, Gabriel, when the time came, would welcome my desire to share whatever it was that was troubling him.

It was impossible, of course, to confide all this to the lighthearted Dilys, particularly when I was not at all sure of it myself. So I wrote a chatty, superficial letter, and felt pleased become something had happened to me which was worthy to be written about.

It was three weeks after we met when Gabriel seemed to come to a decision; and the day he began to talk to me about his home marked a change in our relationship.

We were lying stretched out on the moor and he pulled up handfuls of grass as he talked to me.

” I am sure I should find it attractive. It’s very old, is it not? Old houses have always been absorbingly interesting to me.”

He nodded, and again there was that far-away look in his eyes.

” Revels,” I murmured. ” It’s such a lovely name. It sounds as though the people who named it were determined to have a great deal of fun there.”

He laughed mirthlessly, and there was a brief silence before he began to speak; then it was as though he were reciting a piece he had learned by heart.

” It was built in the middle of the sixteenth century. When Kirkland Abbey was dissolved, it was given to my ancestors. They took stones from the Abbey and with them built a house. Because it was used as a house in which to make merry … I must have had very merry ancestors it was called Kirk- land Revels in contrast to Kirkland Abbey.”

” So the stones which built your house were once those of an ancient abbey?”

” Tons and tons of stone,” he murmured. ” There’s still much of the old Abbey in existence. When I stand on my balcony I can look across to those grey and ancient arches. In certain lights you can imagine that they are not merely ruins … in fact it is difficult to believe they are. Then you can almost see the monks in their habits moving silently among the stones.”

” How attractive it must be. You love it, do you not?”

” It has a fascination for all who see it. Don’t all things as old as that? Imagine, although the house is a mere three hundred years old, the stones of which it is built date back to the twelfth century.

Naturally everyone’s impressed. You will be when . “

He stopped and I saw the slow smile curve his delicate lips.

I am forthright and had never been able to hedge, so I said: ” Are you suggesting that I shall see it?”

The smile about his lips expanded. ” I have been a guest in your home.

I should like you to be one in mine. “

Then it came bursting out: ” Miss Corder, I shall nave to go home soon.”

” You don’t want to, do you, Mr. Rockwell?”

“We are great friends, I believe.” he said.

“At least I feel we are.”

” We have known each other but three weeks,” I reminded him.

” But the circumstances were exceptional. Please call me Gabriel.”

I hesitated, then I laughed.

“What’s in a name?” I asked. ” Our friendship cannot be greater or less, whether I call you by your Christian or surname. What were you going to say to me, Gabriel?”

” Catherine!” he almost whispered my name as he turned on his side and leaned on his elbow to look at me. ” You are right, I don’t want to go back.”

I did not look at him because I feared my next question was impertinent, but I could not prevent myself from asking it. ” Why are you afraid to go back?”

He had turned away. ” Afraid?” His voice sounded high pitched. ” Who said I was afraid?”

” Then I imagined it.”

Silence fell between us for a few seconds, then he said:

“I wish I could make you see the Revels … the Abbey. I wish …”

” Tell me about it,” I said and added: ” If you want to … but only if you want to.”

” It’s about myself I want to tell you, Catherine.”

” Then please do.”

” These have been the most interesting and happiest weeks of my life, and it is because of you. The reason I do not want to go back to the Revels is because it would mean saying good-bye to you.”

” Perhaps we should meet again.”

He turned to me. ” When?” he asked almost angrily.

” Some time perhaps.”

“Some time! How do we know what time is left to us?”

” How strangely you talk … as though you thought that one … or both of us … might die tomorrow.”

There was a faint flush in his cheeks which seemed to make his eyes burn brightly.

“Who can say when death shall come?”

” How morbid you have grown. I am nineteen. You have told me that you are twenty-three. People of our ages do not talk of dying.”

” One evidently does. Catherine, will you marry me?”

I must have looked shocked by this unexpected outburst because he laughed and said: “You are looking at me as though I am crazy. Is it so strange that someone should want to marry you.”

” But I cannot take this seriously.”

” You must, Catherine. I ask with the utmost seriousness.”

” But how can you speak of marriage after such a short acquaintance?”

” It does not seem short. We have met every day. I know that you are all I want, and that is enough for me.”

I was silent. In spite of Fanny’s attitude I had not considered marriage with Gabriel. We were the best of friends and I should be desolate if he went away ; but when I thought of marriage he seemed almost like a stranger. He aroused my curiosity and interest; he was unlike anyone I had ever known and, because of that certain mystery which shrouded his personality, he attracted me very much; but until this moment I had thought of him mainly as a person whom good fortune had sent my way at an important moment. There was so little I knew about him; I had never met any of his people. Indeed when they, or his home, briefly intruded into our conversation I was immediately conscious of Gabriel’s withdrawing from me, as though there were secrets in his life which he was not prepared to share with me. In view of all this I thought it very strange that he should suddenly suggest marriage.

He went on: ” Catherine, what is your answer?”

” It is No, Gabriel. There is so much we do not know about each other.”

” You mean there is so much you do not know about me.”

” Perhaps that is what I mean.”

“But what do you want to know? We love horses; we love dogs; we find pleasure in each other’s company; I can laugh and be happy with you.

What more could I ask than to laugh and be happy for the rest of my life? “

” And with others … in your home … you cannot laugh and be happy?”

” I could never be completely happy with anyone else but you; I could never laugh so freely.”

” It seems a flimsy structure on which to base a marriage.”

“You are being cautious, Catherine. You feel I have spoken too soon.”

I knew then how desolate I should be if he went away, and I said quickly: ” Yes, that is it. This is too soon….”

” At least,” he said, ” I do not have to fear a rival. Do not say No, Catherine. Think of how much I want this to be … and try to want it a little yourself.”

I stood up. I was no longer in the mood to stay on the moors. He made no protest and we rode to the village, where he said good-bye to me.

When I reached the stables Friday was waiting there for me, He always knew when I had gone out riding and never failed to be in the stableyard watching for my return.

He waited patiently until I had given Wanda to one of the lads, then he flung himself at me, making sure that I was fully aware of his pleasure in my return. Many dogs have that lovable quality, but in Friday it was stronger than usual because it was touched by an extreme humility.

He stood aside while my attention was given to others, waiting patiently until it was his turn. I believed that the memory of early wretchedness always remained with Friday, and that was why in all his exuberant affection there was that touch of deep humility and gratitude.

I lifted him in my arms and he sniffed my jacket with ecstacy.

I hugged him. I was growing more and more fond of him with every day, and my affection for him enhanced my feelings for Gabriel.

Even as I turned into the house I was wondering what marriage with Gabriel would be like. I was already beginning to believe that it was a state which I could contemplate without abhorrence.

What would my life in Glen House be like when Gabriel went away? I should ride Wanda, walk with Friday, but one could not be out of doors for ever. The winter would come. Winters were harsh in the moorland country ; there were days at a stretch when it was impossible to venture out unless one wanted to risk death in the blizzards. I thought of long dark days in the house—the weary monotonous round. It was true that Uncle Dick might come home ; but his visits could not be of very long duration and I could remember from the past how life seemed doubly dull after he had left.

It occurred to me then that I needed to escape from Glen House. A way was being offered to me. If I refused to take it, might I not be regretful for the rest of my life?

Gabriel came to dine with us occasionally. My father always roused himself on such occasions and was a tolerable host. I could see that he did not dislike Gabriel. Fanny’s lips would curl in a sardonic smile when Gabriel was in the house. I knew that she was thinking that he was making use of our hospitality while he was in the neighbourhood, and that when the time came for him to leave he would do so and promptly forget us. Fanny, who was determined to give nothing, was always afraid that people were going to take something away from her.

There were sly references to my ” hopes” regarding Gabriel. She had never married and believed that it was the woman who desired that state in cold blood because it meant that she must be fed and clothed for the rest of her life. As for the man who had to provide the food-and clothing, he would naturally seek to “get what he wanted ” Fanny’s expression without giving more than he could help. Fanny’s values were material. I longed to escape from them, and I knew ‘that with each day I was withdrawing myself farther and farther from Glen House and feeling closer and closer to Gabriel.

May was with us and the days were warm and sunny; it was a joy to escape to the moors. Now we talked of ourselves and there was a certain feverishness about Gabriel. He always seemed to me like a man who was looking over his shoulder at some pursuer, while he was desperately conscious of passing time.

I made him tell me about his home, and he was willing enough to do so now. I felt this to be because he had already convinced himself that I would marry him and that it would not be only his home but mine.

In my imagination it was a hazy, grey edifice comprised of ancient stones. I knew there was a balcony because Gabriel talked of it often ; I pictured the scene from that balcony, for Gabriel had described it to me many times. The balcony was evidently a favourite spot of his.

I knew that from it it was possible to see the river winding its way through the meadows ; the woods, which in some places went down to the river’s edge, and a quarter of a mile from the house those ancient piles of stone, those magnificent arches which the years had not been able to destroy; and across the wooden bridge, away beyond the river, the wild moorland country.

But what were houses compared with the people who lived in them? I learned by degrees that Gabriel, like myself, had no mother, she had been advanced in years when he was conceived, and when he came into the world she went out of it. Our motherless ness was a further bond between us.

He had a sister, fifteen years older than himself a widow with a seventeen-year-old son; he also had a father who was very old.

” He was nearly sixty when I was born,” Gabriel told me. ” My mother was forty. Some of the servants used to say I was the afterthought’; others used to say I killed my mother. “

I was immediately angry because I knew how such careless comments could hurt a sensitive child. ” How ridiculous!” I cried, my eyes flashing with anger as they always did over what I considered injustice.

Gabriel laughed, took my hand and held it very tightly.

Then he said seriously: ” You see I cannot do without you. I need you to protect me against the cruel things that are said of me.”

” You are no longer a child,” I replied somewhat impatiently ; and when I analysed my impatience I found it grew out of my desire to protect him. I wanted to make him strong enough not to be afraid.

” Some of us remain children until we die.”

” Death!” I cried. “Why do you harp continually on death?”

” It’s true that I do,” he said. ” It’s because I am so anxious to live every minute of my life to the full.”

I did not understand what he meant then; and I asked to hear more of the family.

” Ruth, my sister, rules the household and will do so until I marry.

Then of course my wife will do that, because I am the only son and the Revels will one day be mine. “

” When you speak of the Revels you do so in a tone of reverence.”

” It is my home.”

” And yet …” I was going to say, I believe you are glad to have escaped from it. ” You are not eager to return.”

He did not notice my interruption. He murmured as though to himself: “

It ought to have been Simon …”

” Who is Simon?”

” Simon Redvers. A sort of cousin. A Rockwell through his grandmother, who is my father’s sister. You won’t like him very much.

But then you’ll rarely meet. There isn’t much communication between Kelly Grange and the Revels.”

He was talking as though there was no doubt that I would marry him and that one day his house would be my home.

Sometimes I wondered whether there was not some subtlety in Gabriel.

He gradually built up pictures in my mind, so that his home and family somehow came alive for me, and as the picture grew clearer in my mind it brought with it a fascination which was not altogether pleasant and yet no less impelling because of that—but rather more so.

I wanted to see that pile of grey stones which had been made into a house three hundred years ago; I wanted to see those ruins which from a balcony of the house would have the appearance, not of a ruin but an ancient abbey because so much of the outer structure remained.

I was caught up in Gabriel’s life. I knew that if he went away I should be desperately lonely and dissatisfied with my life. I should be continually regretful.

And one sunny day, when I had walked out of the house with Friday at my heels, I met Gabriel on the moor; and we sat with our backs against a boulder while Friday crouched before us on the grass, his eyes going from one to the other, his head slightly cocked as though he listened to our conversation. This was complete happiness for him and we knew it was because we were together.

” There’s something I haven’t told you, Catherine,” said Gabriel.

I felt relieved, because I knew that he was going to tell me something now which he had been trying to for a long time.

” I want you to say you’ll marry me,” he went on, ” but so far you haven’t said that. You don’t dislike me ; you’re happy in my company.

That’s true, Catherine? “

I looked at him and saw again those lines between his brows ; I saw the puzzled frustration there and I remembered those occasions when he had seemed to forget what it was that made him so melancholy, when he threw off his moodiness and became gay. I felt a great desire then to chase the gloom out of his life, to make him happy as I had made Friday healthy.

” Of course I don’t dislike you,” I said, ” and we’re happy together.

If you go away . “

” You’d miss me, Catherine, but not as much as I should miss you. I want you to come back with me. I don’t want to go without you.”

” Why are you so eager for me to go back with you?”

” Why? Surely you know. It’s because I love you—because I never want to leave you again.”

” Yes, but … is there another reason?”

“What other reason should there be?” he asked; but he did not meet my eyes as he said that, and I knew that there was a great deal about him and his home that I had to learn.

” You should tell me everything, Gabriel,” I said on impulse. He mewed closer to me and put his arm about me. ” You are right, Catherine. There are things you should know. I cannot be happy without you and … there cannot be long left to me.”

I drew away from him. ” What do you mean?” I demanded sharply.

He sat up and looking straight ahead said: ” I cannot live more than a few years. I have received my sentence of death.”

I was angry with him because I could not bear to hear his talk of dying. ” Stop being dramatic,” I commanded, ” and tell me exactly what all this means.”

” It’s perfectly simple. I have a weak heart—a family complaint. I had an elder brother who died young. My mother died at my birth, but it was due to the same heart condition, aggravated by the strain of bringing me into the world. I could die to-morrow … next year … or in five years’ time. It would apparently be extraordinary if I lived longer than that.”

I yearned to comfort him and he knew how his words had affected me for he went on wistfully: ” It would not be a great many years, Catherine.”

” Don’t talk like that,” I said harshly; and I stood up, so overcome by my emotions that I could say no more. I started to walk quickly and Gabriel fell into step beside me. We were both silent, and Friday kept running ahead of us to look back at us anxiously, head on one side, while his eyes implored us to be gay.

That night I scarcely slept at all. I could think of nothing but Gabriel and his need for me. This was what had made him seem so different from any other person I had ever known, for I had never before known a person who was under a sentence of death. I kept hearing his voice saying: ” I could die to-morrow … next year … or in five years’ time. It would be extraordinary if I lived longer than that.” I kept seeing those melancholy eyes and remembering how at times he could be happy. And I could make him happy for what was left to him—I alone. How could I forget that? How could I turn away from someone who needed me so much?

At this time I was so inexperienced that I did not know how to analyse my emotions. But I was sure that if Gabriel went away I should miss him. He had brought a new interest into my life, making me forget the gloominess of my home; it was so pleasant to be with someone who was really interested in me after my father’s indifference, someone who admired me, after Fanny’s criticism.

Perhaps I was not in love; perhaps pity was at the very root of my feelings for Gabriel; but by the morning I had made up my mind.

The banns were read in the village church and Gabriel went back to Kirkland Revels, I presumed to inform his family, while I began preparing for my wedding.

Before leaving, Gabriel had formally asked my father for- my hand, and Father had been rather bewildered by the proceedings. He had hesitated, reminding Gabriel of my youth and the short time we had known each other; but I, who had been expecting he might do this, burst in on them and assured my father that I had quite made up my mind to marry.

Father looked worried and I knew that he was wishing that Uncle Dick were at home so that he could consult him ; however, I had no real fear of opposition, and after a while Father said that as I seemed determined, he supposed I must have my way. Then he asked the conventional questions about Gabriel’s standing which Gabriel was able to answer to his satisfaction; and it occurred to me for the first time that I must be marrying into a wealthy family.

I longed for the presence of Uncle Dick, because it seemed unthinkable that he should not be at my wedding. I believed that I could have talked to him of my feelings and that he would have helped me to come to a better understanding of them.

I told Gabriel how much I wanted Uncle Dick to come to the wedding, but he was so full of despair the thought of postponement that I gave way.

That desire in Gabriel to make the most of every hour touched me so deeply that I would let nothing stand in the way of the comfort he was sure I could bring him. Besides, although it was possible to write to Uncle Dick, one could never be sure when letters would reach him; and when I heard from him—he was not a good letter-writer and this was rarely—his letters never seemed to answer mine and I always wondered whether he had received them.

I could not resist writing to Dilys.

“The most extraordinary thing has happened. I am going to be married!

How strange that this should happen to me before you. It is the man I wrote to you about—the man who helped with the dog. He lives in Yorkshire in a wonderful old house near an abbey, and it has all happened so quickly that I don’t quite understand how it has come about. I don’t know whether I’m in love with him. I only know that I couldn’t bear it if he went away and I never saw him again. Oh, Dilys, it’s so exciting, because before it happened I was so wretched here.

You’ve no idea what my home is like. I myself had forgotten during all those years I was away. It’s a dark house … and I don’t mean that there’s just an absence of sunshine…. I mean the people in it live dark lives….” I tore that up. Was I crazy, trying to make Dilys under stand what I did not myself? How could I explain to Dilys that I was going to marry Gabriel because, for some reason which I could not fully understand, I was sorry for him and I knew he needed my help; because I wanted desperately to love someone who belonged to me; because my father had repulsed me when I had tried to show affection and had mutely asked for a little in return; because I wanted to escape from the house which was now my home.

Instead of that letter I sent a conventional little note inviting Dilys to my wedding.

Fanny was still sceptical. She thought it was a queer way to go about getting married. There were references to proverbs such as ” Marry in haste, repent at leisure ” ; and she talked about ” supping sorrow with a long spoon.” Still, the thought of future disaster seemed to cheer her considerably and she was determined that my grand in-laws, if they came to the wedding, should have no complaints about the wedding feast.

Gabriel wrote regularly and his letters were ardent, but they spoke only of his devotion to me and his desire for our union; he did not let me know anything about his family’s reactions.

I heard from Dilys that I had not given her enough notice of my wedding. She was so full of engagements that she could not possibly leave London. I realised then that our lives had taken such entirely different turnings that the intimacy which had once been ours was over.

Three days before our marriage was to take place, Gabriel came back and put up at the King’s Head less than half a mile from Glen House.

When Mary came to my room to tell me that he was in the first-floor sitting-room waiting to see me, eagerly I went down. He was standing with his back to the fireplace watching the door, and as soon as I opened it he strode towards me and we embraced.

He looked excited, younger than he had when tie had left, because some of the strain had gone from him.

I took his face in my hands and kissed it.

” Like a mother with a precious child,” he murmured.

He had summed up my feelings. I wanted to look after him; I wanted to make what life was left to him completely happy ; I was not passionately in love with him, but I did not attach great importance to this because passion was something I knew nothing about at that time.

Yet I loved him nonetheless ; and when he held me tightly against him, I knew that the kind of love I had for him was what he wanted.

I withdrew myself from his arms and made him sit down on the horsehair couch. I wanted to hear what his family’s reactions were to the news of our engagement and how many were coming to the wedding.

” Well, you see,” he said slowly, ” my father is too infirm to make the journey. As for the others …” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Gabriel!” I cried aghast.

“Do you mean that none of them is coming?”

” Well, you see, there’s my Aunt Sarah. Like my father, she’s too old to travel. And …”

” But there’s your sister and her son.”

He looked uneasy and I saw the frown between his eyes. ” Oh, darling,” he said, ” what does it matter? It’s not their wedding is it?”

” But not to come! Does that mean they don’t approve of our marriage?”

” Of course they’ll approve. But the ceremony itself is not all that important, is it? Look, Catherine, I’m back with you. I want to be happy.”

I could not bear to see the moody expression returning to his face, so I tried to hide my uneasiness. It was very strange. No members of his family at the wedding! This was most unusual; but when I looked back, everything that had led up to this wedding of ours was somewhat unusual.

I heard a scratching at the door. Friday knew that Gabriel had come, and was impatient to see him. I opened the door and he bounded straight into Gabriel’s arms. I watched them together; Gabriel was laughing as Friday tried to lick his face.

I told myself that I must not expect Gabriel’s family to behave conventionally, any more than Gabriel himself did; and I was relieved that Dilys had declined my invitation.

“Happen they think you’re not good enough for ‘em.” That was Fanny’s verdict.

I was not going to let Fanny see how the behaviour of Gabriel’s family disturbed me, so I merely shrugged my shoulders.

After the wedding Gabriel and I were going to have a week’s holiday at Scarborough, and then we were going to Kirkland Revels. All in good time I should discover for myself what his family thought of the marriage; I must be patient until then.

My father gave me away, and I was married to Gabriel in our village church on a day in June about two months after we first met. I wore a white dress which had been made rather hurriedly by our village seamstress, and I had a white veil and a wreath of orange blossom.

There were very few guests at the reception, which was held in the drawing-room at Glen House: the Vicar and his wife, the doctor and his, and that was all.

Gabriel and I left immediately after our health had been drunk. It was a quiet wedding; and we were both glad to leave our few guests and be driven to the station, where we took the train for the coast.

I felt that when we were alone together in that first-class compartment that we were like any bride and groom. Previously the unconventional manner of our marrying—at such short notice, so few guests and none of the bridegroom’s family being present—had given the entire proceedings an unreality for me; but now that we were alone together I felt relaxed.

Gabriel held my hand, a smile of contentment on his face, which was gratifying. I had never seen him look so peaceful before and I knew then that that was what he had always lacked: peace. Friday was with us, for it was unthinkable that we could go away without him. I had procured a basket for him, for I was not sure how he would travel; I had chosen a loosely woven one so that he could see us, and I talked to him explaining that it would only be for a short time that he was thus confined. I had taken to talking to him, explaining everything, which had set Fanny’s lips twitching She thought I was ” real daft” talking to a dog.

And so we reached our hotel. During those first days of our honeymoon, I felt my love for Gabriel growing because he needed me so desperately to lift him out of those dark moods of melancholy which could quickly descend upon him; there was a wonderful gratification in being so important to another human being, which I think at that time I mistook for being in love.

The weather was glorious, the days full of sunshine. We walked a good deal; the three of us for Friday was always with us. We explored the glorious coast from Robin Hood’s Bay to Flamborough Head; we marvelled at those delightful little bays, the grandeur of the cliffs, the coves and glimpses of moorland beyond; we both enjoyed walking and did so frequently, and we hired horses and rode inland to explore the moors and compare them with our own of the West Riding. On that coastline there are occasionally to be found the crumbling walls of an ancient castle, and one day we found the remains of an old abbey.

Gabriel was attracted by the ruins; indeed I soon discovered that the fascination they had for him was morbid, and for the first time since our marriage I saw a return to that moodiness which I had determined to abolish. Friday was quick to notice that Gabriel was losing some of his honeymoon happiness. I saw him, on one occasion when we were exploring the abbey ruins, rub his head against Gabriel’s leg, while he looked up appealingly, as though to implore him to remember that the three of us were together and therefore should be happy.

It was then that I felt little pin-pricks of alarm stabbing my pleasure. I said to him: ” Gabriel, does this abbey remind you of Kirkland Abbey?”

” There’s always a similarity in old ruins,” was the non committal reply.

I wanted to ask more questions. I was certain that there was something which disturbed him, and it was in Kirkland Abbey and the Revels.

I blundered on: ” But, Gabriel, you would rather not have been reminded.”

He put his arm about me and I could see that he was desperately trying to break out of the mood which had fallen on him.

Rapidly I changed the subject.

“It looks as though it might rain,” I said. ” Do you think we should be getting back to the hotel?”

He was relieved that I was not going to ask questions to which he would want to give evasive replies. Soon, I told myself, I should be in my new home. There I might discover the reason for this strangeness in my husband. I would wait until then; and when I had made my discovery I would eliminate whatever it was that troubled him;

I would let nothing stand in the way of his happiness for all the years that were left to us.